“I’ll call her and tell her you’re alive. Barely.” She moved to the window, opened it, then circled the bed and opened the other one. When she came back, she picked up the beer bottle where he’d left it. “It’s customary to drink it, not soak in it. But if you’re going to pickle yourself in this stuff, I guess it’s best to do it from the outside in.”
She went into the kitchen, tossed the bottle in the trash with a clang, then came back. “Rough trip?”
“Rough life.” From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her nod. She understood about rough lives.
“I brought dinner. Feel like sitting at the table?” Without waiting for an answer, she returned to the kitchen.
He pulled off his damp shirt and left it on the bed, then eased to his feet. By the time he made it to the kitchen, she’d already set two places and was dishing up a Mexican casserole of some sort. He sat down, waited for her to fill two glasses with milk, to get sour cream from the refrigerator and take her own seat, then he laid his hands on the table. “Well?”
Joelle’s gaze moved over him, from the scar that slashed across his temple and down along his cheek, over the thicker scar that sliced the length of his neck and the neat, thin surgical ones that crossed his chest, to his mangled right hand. She didn’t flinch, didn’t show any revulsion, didn’t, he’d swear, even blink. “You’re not such a pretty boy anymore, are you?” she asked before turning her attention to her dinner.
For the first time in five months he felt the urge to smile, but it was gone in a heartbeat. “Oh, the scars are hardly noticeable,” he said, his sarcasm barely controlled, the anger strong and hot beneath it. “Before long they’ll fade altogether and no one will ever know to look at me that anything had happened.”
“Sounds like Betsey,” Joelle said with that unshakable quiet. “She must have been appalled.”
Appalled. Yes. By the sight of her own son. If he closed his eyes, he could recall her expression exactly.
He didn’t.
“You may be too busy feeling sorry for yourself to want to hear this, but even with all that, you’re still better looking than most men could ever hope to be. And if the people you meet care that much about the way you look, then you’re meeting the wrong people.”
Nice sentiments... and worth about as much as the air it had taken to give voice to them. People cared about looks—maybe not Joelle, but damn near everybody else. He’d known that before the accident, because he’d traded on them. It was all he’d had to offer anyone—no friendship, no trust, no commitment, no loyalty, no affection. Just his physical self, and because that had been a better-than-decent package, it had been enough. The lesson had been reinforced after the accident, by every person who’d looked at him with revulsion, who’d avoided a second look or had taken a second and third to be sure they’d seen it all.
“Why’d you come back here, Easy? To hide out? Just to be home? To make things right?”
If she thought there was any way he could make things right, then she clearly didn’t understand all he’d done wrong. Betraying his best friend. Stealing his fiancee only three days before the wedding. Letting down his parents, disappointing Shay’s folks and Guthrie’s mother. Running off like a coward. Hurting Shay over and over again. Betraying her over and over again. Damn near everything he’d done in fourteen years had been wrong. There was nothing he could do to make it right.
So why had he come back?
He didn’t know.
Rather than admit that, he picked up his fork with his left hand and started eating. He was less than adept, but he managed...barely. She let him eat in silence, and he let her clean up afterward in silence. When that was done, though, she sat down across from him again.
“Are you sure you don’t want a telephone?”
“There’s no one to call.”
“Your mother.”
He shook his head.
“What if something happens? If you get sick or hurt or you fall?”
Then maybe he’d get lucky and die. The last thing he’d want to do, though, was call for help. Wouldn’t that do wonders for his pride to call a stranger and say, Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up? Like a helpless baby or a useless old man.
He was so damned useless.
He gave another stubborn shake of his head, and Joelle dropped the subject. “I’ll let your folks know that you’re all right. Do you need anything the next time I come out?”
One more headshake.
“I’ll remake the bed and take the covers home to wash.”
He started to protest, but she was already on her way out of the room. Besides, what argument could he offer? That he would do it himself? He could make the bed—though it would take him a good while—but he couldn’t do laundry here, and he didn’t care enough about clean sheets to make a trip into town.
He couldn’t do a lot of things and wasn’t good at a lot of others. He hadn’t stayed in the rehab hospital long enough to learn, and once he’d moved to his parents’ home, there’d been no reason to do anything. They would have fed him, bathed him and dressed him if he’d let them. He hadn’t—a man had to have some dignity—but he’d relied on them for too much.
He wouldn’t rely on Joelle so much. He would never rely on anyone again—not even himself.
While Joelle worked in the bedroom, he stood up and hobbled to the sink. He rinsed his glass, then filled it from the tap and took a deep swig. The water came from a well and tasted of iron, and it brought back memories. Drawing a grim breath, he shut them out.
“I’ll be going now. Think of anything you need?”
“No.”
“All right. Good night.”
He continued to stare out the window. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were knotted, and his good hand clenched the bull-nosed edge of the countertop as he listened to Joelle’s leaving. The screen door closed behind her with a bump. A moment later a car door closed, followed by an engine that revved, then faded into the distance.
Slowly he blew out his breath, let his shoulders round. He was alone again, free to do whatever he wanted. He could go back to bed or head outside for a look around the dilapidated buildings. He could wander off across the pasture and into the timber and never come back. He could even spend the rest of the evening standing there, holding on to the counter for support and doing nothing. He could do whatever he damn well pleased. He was alone. And free.
And miserable.
Chapter 2
The news of Easy’s return spread through Heartbreak like a hot summer wind. Because of it, business had never been better at the café—though Shay wished her customers would show more interest in their food and less in her private business. For two days she’d been asked the same questions—for two days had given the same answer.
“Why’d he come back? Is he planning to stay? How is he doing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
And everyone’s favorite: “Are you going to see him?” Olivia had asked. So had her mother. Her father. Geraldine. Reese. Every damn customer to walk through the door.
“So what’s the answer, Shay?” she muttered as she wiped the counter after closing Thursday evening. “Are you going to see him?”
“Well, are you?”
Startled, she knocked a saltshaker off the counter. It sprinkled salt across the floor she’d just swept, before rolling to a stop between Guthrie’s feet. He returned it to the counter, then slid onto a stool across from her.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said crossly.
“Because you were talking to yourself.”
“What are you doing in town so late?” It wasn’t really late, only a little past eight, but for a rancher whose day started before sunrise, it was late enough. For that matter, for a café owner whose day started at 5:00 a.m., it was late.
“Teacher-parent conferences.”
“Don’t those take place at school and require the presence of the parent?”
&n
bsp; “We’re finished. Liv’s buying the kids a treat for having good reports, more or less.”
For the first time since Olivia’s Tuesday morning phone call, Shay felt like smiling. “Good, more or less?” she repeated. “Let me guess. Emma’s the more, Elly’s the less.”
Guthrie grinned. “Elly doesn’t quite grasp why the teacher gets to talk whenever she wants while she has to wait for permission.”
“I seem to recall having a little trouble with that concept myself. Tell Olivia to volunteer one day a week. It buys the teacher’s tolerance—at least, it did for me.”
Slowly the lighter moment faded. Guthrie neatly arranged the salt and pepper shakers next to the napkin dispenser, then rearranged them before finally asking again, “Are you going to see Easy?”
She crumpled the damp cloth, then tossed it through the pass-through into the kitchen with enough force to make it splat on the floor. “What’s the point? He’s made it clear how he feels about me.” Every birthday he’d missed, every holiday he’d stayed away—hell, every single day, special or not, that he’d spent someplace besides with her—proved how little he cared.
“How he feels isn’t important. How you feel is.”
And how did she feel?
Sick. Sad. Sorry.
And angry. Angry that after she’d waited so long, after she’d given up hope, he’d finally come back. That he hadn’t come back for her. That he’d disrupted the life she’d made for herself. That he’d stirred up old emotions, old hurts best left unstirred. That he hadn’t been able to resist snubbing her one more time.
Coming by the café or her house—that would have been the adult thing to do. Saying, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want you to be part of my life, but I’m back and I’m staying. Acknowledging her existence and her right to know that he’d returned.
But, no, not Easy. He’d had to put her in a position where everyone would know that he hadn’t cared enough to even let her know he was in town.
“Are you going to see him?” she asked with a scowl.
Guthrie’s answer came swiftly, certainly. “Nope.”
“Then why should I?”
“Because you’ve been in love with him half your life.”
His words touched her more than she wanted to admit. For so long he’d hated her for choosing Easy over him. He’d never understood that she’d had no choice. Easy had been such an integral part of her that she couldn’t have not run away with him. Now he understood, because now he felt the same sort of destined-for-each-other love for Olivia.
“You loved him, too,” she pointed out gently. “He was your best friend.”
“Was being the operative word.”
“How can you forgive me but still blame him?”
Guthrie sat silent for so long that she thought he had no answer. Finally, though, he sighed and gave her a sidelong look. “Maybe because I loved him more.”
She was surprised, even stunned, by the admission—and amused, too. “So you could forgive me because I wasn’t as important to you. Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, fiancees are easy to find. Best friends are harder to come by.” He grew serious again and asked the hated question one more time. “So...are you going to see him?”
Torn between a definite, for-her-own-good no and a wistful true-love-of-her-life maybe, she gave him the only answer she had, then quickly changed the subject. “I don’t know. But right now I see two critters outside my windows making faces at us. I think they belong to you.”
The smile that spread across Guthrie’s face when he saw the twins was painful to watch. She’d always dreamed of a family of her own—just her and Easy and however many babies they could afford. She’d waited patiently for him to make enough money, to retire from the rodeo, to come back here and settle down, and while she waited, she’d watched their relationship deteriorate until they had no future—not even a present, and certainly no babies
Now she would probably never have a child of her own. One more failure to add to her long list.
Olivia stuck her head inside the door. “Hey, Shay. How are you?”
Shay put on her best phony smile. “I’m pretty damn good, Magnolia.”
“Have you—”
“Don’t ask”
“Sorry. Guthrie, we need to get the kids home. It’s past their bedtime. Shay, if you need to talk—”
“I won’t.” She softened the bluntness of her response. “But thanks for offering. See you guys.” She made a face at the twins, sending them into giggles, then watched them leave. Guthrie wrapped his arm around Olivia and held tightly to Emma’s hand while Elly claimed her mother’s free hand. They looked so damn...familial, as they crossed the street to their truck, that it raised a lump in her throat.
She could never begrudge Guthrie and Olivia their happiness. God knows, they’d both been through a lot. They deserved to be happy.
But didn’t she deserve it, too? Had she really committed such sins that she deserved to be punished forever? All she’d ever done was fall in love. With the wrong guy. Live with him. Lose him. Try to get over him. And fail. Again.
Heaving a forlorn sigh, she switched off most of the lights, locked up and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. It was a beautiful September night, with a breeze stirring out of the west, the temperatures short-sleeve comfortable. Maybe when she got home, she would fix herself a drink, lie on the chaise longue in the backyard and search the sky for shooting stars.
Or maybe she wouldn’t go home at all. Maybe she would go to the bar on the edge of town or, better yet, drive over to Buffalo Plains and hit her favorite club. Maybe she’d get lucky and meet a gorgeous man and spend the night with him at a shabby motel, where she would wake up alone, well-used and paid for her services—
Been there. Done that. Got a broken heart and would never do it again.
Shoving her hands into her pockets, she started walking toward her car, a block away in the feed store parking lot. There was little traffic on the street, and the few cars that did pass were driven by people she’d known all her life. Knowing everybody was one of the benefits of small-town living—and one of the disadvantages, too. She had no secrets. Everyone knew her good times and bad, and they felt they had a right to stay up to date on both. There was no such thing as personal business in Heartbreak. Whether she caved in and drove the nine and a half miles to see Easy was very definitely personal, but every soul in town would make it their business.
So was she going to cave?
There was a part of her that didn’t want to see him ever again as long as she lived—the part that had been betrayed, lied to, hurt and abandoned. The other part—the part that had loved him—did want to see him. The choice was obvious—a dozen reasons to stay away versus only one to drive the nine and a half miles.
And the one was going to win. She had no doubts. She was going to get in her car—tonight, tomorrow, maybe the next day or next week—and drive to the Rafferty ranch, and she was going to see him. She might not talk to him, certainly wouldn’t resolve anything, but she would see him. Look at him. Show herself that he was all right. Please, God, let him be all right.
So why delay the inevitable? Why subject herself to more questions, more prying, more stupid “I don’t know” answers?
She climbed into her car, told herself to head for home and merely grimaced when she turned onto Cody Street. She followed the road she’d driven thousands of times in her thirty-four years, drove at a reasonable speed as if this were the most reasonable of trips. She passed the Rocking S, her folks’ place, and the Harrises’ ranch, and she came to the broken-down board fence that marked the beginning of the Rafferty ranch.
At the entrance, she slowed, her car bumping over the cattle guard. Her headlights shone straight down the overgrown lane that ran between two pastures, bounced off the barn and the corrals as she turned right, then illuminated the darkened house as she pulled to a stop out front. There was a pickup parked there—brand-new under a light coat of
dust, with Texas tags. It was black, of course Easy had always liked black—had worn black shirts and a black Resistol, had even trained himself a black gelding, and when he’d strayed, it had usually been with a black-haired woman.
There wasn’t a single piece of black clothing anywhere in her closet.
She shut off the headlights, then the engine, then simply sat there. This was a mistake. If he’d wanted to see her, he would have come to her She had nothing to say to him He had no use for her. It was only going to hurt.
But it was going to hurt whether she did it today or next week. The sooner she suffered the hurt, the sooner the healing could begin.
The sound of the car door closing reverberated around her. She’d grown up on a ranch, had spent most of her free time until adulthood on other people’s ranches, but she’d never known one that was cloaked in such eerie silence. There was no stock, no activity. No life.
Negotiating the weed-choked yard took more attention than it should, but it still went faster than climbing the steps. She forced herself to place one foot ahead of the other, to cross the rough boards to the screen door.
The door was open, and the sounds of a television show drifted through the screen. The TV provided the only light in the living room, but she could see through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the overhead light gleamed. A muted sound came from that direction—the refrigerator closing, she thought—and then he stepped into view.
His back was to her, but she recognized him as easily as if she’d seen his face. She knew from the trembling spreading from the inside out, knew from the ache that swept over her, from the fear, the rush of anger.
He wore jeans and a T-shirt. His black hair curled over the collar—he was always forgetting to get it trimmed—and his feet were bare. When he finished whatever he was doing, he reached out of sight, then slowly turned and started toward her with a bottle of beer in his right hand, a cane in his left.
The Horseman's Bride Page 3