The Horseman's Bride

Home > Other > The Horseman's Bride > Page 16
The Horseman's Bride Page 16

by Marilyn Pappano


  She eased onto a bar stool and ordered a beer before swiveling around to look over the crowd. It wasn’t too shabby for a Thursday evening, and most of the men in the place, whether alone or with someone, were looking at her. Instead of getting an ego boost from the obvious interest, though, she just felt empty. She’d spent too many evenings in places like this. For eight years she’d always left with Easy. In the next six years, she’d been far less discriminating, and what had she proven? That other men wanted her even if Easy didn’t. And what did that matter when she wanted only him?

  The bartender brought her beer, and she turned back to pay him, then stayed in the same position, her back to the crowd. She shouldn’t have come here. It was an old habit—a bad habit—that could only make her feel worse. She should forget the beer and go home and—

  “Shay Stephens is back on the prowl. I thought I felt something different in the air tonight.” Reese Barnett, still in uniform, slid onto the stool beside her. “I would ask how things are going with Easy, but the fact that you’re here dressed like that is answer enough.”

  Though there was no censure in his voice—Reese had an appreciation for her look-at-me! clothes that Easy had never developed—she suddenly felt cheap, even vulgar, in the tight green dress. She wished for a jacket—or better yet, a heavy blanket—to hide under.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “I was just leaving.”

  He smirked. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  It felt as if every eye in the room was on her when she slid to her feet. She resisted the urge to tug the dress’s hem one inch lower, knowing it wouldn’t go one inch lower, as she led the way out of the bar. Outside, the chilly air made her shiver and cross her arms over her too-exposed chest.

  “You want to talk?”

  Not really, but Reese could offer something she was lacking—a male perspective—and so she accepted his offer none too graciously, along with a suggestion that they talk inside her car. There she started the engine, lowered the volume on the radio, then stared at the lighted gauges on the dash without really seeing them.

  After a few moments Reese chuckled. “Okay, darlin’, let me explain this concept of talking to you. You tell me what’s wrong, and I give you my brilliant advice, and you say, ‘Oh, Reese, you’re so wonderful. Thank you for saving my life.’”

  She leaned her head back and listened as a melancholy George Strait tune ended and a melancholy Garth Brooks began, then exhaled loudly. “Is looking the way you do really important to you?”

  “Looking the way I do?” he repeated.

  “The face, the body, the great hair.” She made a sweeping head-to-toe gesture with one hand. “The package.”

  He was silent for a moment before responding. “I take it Rafferty’s having a little trouble adjusting.”

  “He won’t—” She sighed wearily, then blurted out, “He won’t make love to me because he’s not perfect. Because he’s got all these scars and I don’t. Because I’ve got all my fingers and he doesn’t. Because I don’t need a cane and my hip’s not held together with pins and my hand’s not ugly and his is. As if any of that matters! It’s just so damned ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  His disagreement startled her, made her turn her head to stare at him.

  He offered her a faint smile in the night. “It’s pretty easy to reveal your imperfections to a stranger whose opinion means nothing to you, Shay, but it’s damn hard with someone you care about. If a stranger’s turned off by your injuries, so what? But if the person you love is turned off by them—Hell, where do you go from there?”

  Did Easy think that was what had happened? Take a good look at what you’re asking for, he’d demanded, and then tell me you still want it. Tell me the scars don’t bother you now. And she hadn’t told him. Instead she’d acted sanctimonious and hurt and stormed out. Why hadn’t she simply done as he wanted—looked, and then said, Yes, I want you. No, they don’t bother me.

  Because her feelings had been hurt. Because he’d thought she was shallow enough to care whether his hand, when it caressed her, had five fingers or only two. Because he’d thought she could look at him and see only the scars and not the man she’d loved damn near half her life.

  Because he’d made her wonder what he saw when he looked at her. Did he see the woman he’d once loved...or simply someone he found attractive? And if it was the latter, how would that look change, how would those feelings change, if she gained weight? When her hair started turning gray? When wrinkles began forming around her eyes?

  “He’s lost a lot, Shay,” Reese said quietly. “I’m surprised he’s dealt with it as well as he has. Cut him some slack. Give him some time to realize that you’re accepting him the way he is. Give him some time to accept himself the way he is.”

  “He’s just so damn stubborn.”

  “Good. In his situation, that’s got to be a major plus.”

  It probably had been, she reflected. Granted, he’d been too stubborn to stay in the rehab hospital as long as they’d wanted, but he’d also been too stubborn to die when his injuries would have made it so easy. He’d been too stubborn to accept the doctors’ prognosis that he would probably never walk again. He’d been stubborn enough to survive this whole horror.

  Now he just needed to be stubborn enough to start living.

  “Patience is a virtue, Shay. For once, be virtuous,” Reese said, then added with a grin, “And when it finally pays off, remember that there are definite advantages to being on top.”

  Especially with a man whose hip was held together with hardware not normally found in the human body. And was that another part of Easy’s rejection? she wondered. Uncertainty over how well his battered body would function at that particular activity?

  Easy Rafferty suffering performance anxiety? her little voice gasped. But why not? As ludicrous as it seemed—after all, he was the best lover she’d ever had—it was possible. If the man could think that a few scars and handicaps could make her not want him, then anything was possible.

  Including dealing with those insecurities.

  Straightening in the seat, she then batted her lashes. “Oh, Reese, you’re so wonderful. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “That’s what the county pays me for.” He climbed out of the car, then bent low to look at her. “Stay out of places like this, would you? It won’t help, and it does nothing for your self-esteem.”

  “I won’t be back.” She waited until he closed the door and stepped clear, then backed out of the parking space and headed back toward Heartbreak. She took her time, giving up the highway for back roads that meandered through woods and pastures and circled Buffalo Lake. By the time she reached Heartbreak, she was calmer, not much happier but a little more hopeful.

  Make that a lot more hopeful, she thought as she turned onto her block. The black pickup in her driveway was impossible to mistake, even in the night. She pulled into the driveway, then eased onto the grass beside the truck.

  He wasn’t inside the truck or waiting on the porch. There were no lights on in the house—besides, no one had a key but her and her mother. She went around back, the dew soaking her heels, and found him on the tiny square of patio that opened off the kitchen, hands in his pockets, staring at the horses in the pasture out back. The moonlight showed them clearly—three quarter horses, three paints. It also showed the longing on his face as he watched them.

  Hugging herself against the cold, she stepped onto the patio, and he immediately turned toward her. The longing didn’t disappear. If anything, it grew stronger, deeper, ever more wistful.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice little more than a husky whisper.

  Reclaiming the cane from the lawn chair beside him, he took a step toward her. “You were right. I did know where to find you...sort of. You’ve—” he indicated her clothes with a gesture “—been out.”

  “Yes. I needed—”

  “Someone who—who makes you feel wanted.” He swal
lowed hard, but it didn’t change the unsteadiness of his voice. “You don’t have to explain.” He moved as if he intended to leave. She quickly stepped to the side to block his path.

  “I went to a bar in Buffalo Plains. I ordered a beer and didn’t drink it. I didn’t speak to anyone in there except Reese, who escorted me to my car and told me to stay away from such places.” Among other things.

  He accepted her explanation with a nod, then his gaze slowly moved down all the way to her feet before coming back to rest on her face. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  She didn’t respond. She’d been fortunate enough to hear the words before, but the only time they’d really mattered the only time they’d made her feel beautiful, had been with him.

  He gestured toward the steps leading to the back door “Can we sit down?”

  “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “I—I’d rather talk out here. Why don’t you get a coat?”

  She found the back door key on her ring, let herself into the kitchen and walked through the darkness to her bedroom. Instead of a coat, though, she took the comforter from her bed, wrapped it around her and returned He was already seated on the steps, his left leg stretched out. There was just enough room for her and the comforter to join him.

  As warmth seeped through her, she waited for him to speak. Of course, the words didn’t come easily. Important words didn’t, she’d discovered in their years together. Words like I’m sorry, I love you, I need you, please forgive me. Words like, Forget Guthrie and come away with me. And Goodbye must have been extraordinarily hard for him, because he hadn’t said it at all. He’d simply let his leaving speak for him.

  Finally, his gaze still on the horses, he broke his silence. “Do you remember when you first started traveling with me?”

  Though he paused, an answer wasn’t necessary. How could she possibly forget the most incredible time of her life—the happiest, the saddest, the most promising.

  “One night I’d won a hefty payout—somewhere in Idaho, I think—and we’d gone to a party with friends to celebrate. After watching me with ihem for a couple of hours, you made the comment that I was all surface and no substance.”

  The memory brought a faint smile that she tried to hide by dipping her chin deeper into the covers, but he saw it. “What? You didn’t remember that?”

  “I did. I’m surprised you did. After all, at the time, you were, ah, otherwise occupied.” They’d both been occupied—parked on a side street, too eager to wait the ten minutes it would take to reach the motel. She’d been sitting astride his hips, riding him as surely, as easily, as any cowboy had ever been ridden, and he...he had been enjoying it. Tremendously.

  For the first six months they’d been like that all the time—greedy, impatient, tearing off each other’s clothes whenever they’d had the slightest chance of privacy. At first she’d mistaken their constant craving for passion, for proof of how deeply they loved and needed each other. Later she’d realized it had been something darker that drove Easy—the need to assure himself that they’d done the right thing in running off, the effort to keep the guilt and the doubts at bay.

  He smiled faintly, too, no doubt remembering exactly what he’d been occupied with. But his smile faded more quickly than hers when he returned to the subject. “You were right. With me, what you saw was all you got. No commitment, no friendship, no loyalty, no affection beyond the most superficial. Men liked me because I was damn good at what I did. Women liked me because I was handsome and charming and looked like I could show them a good tune. It was all surface.”

  His voice quavered, and he broke off to steady it with a couple of deep breaths. Before he started again, he turned to look at her. The bright moon showed the scarred side of his face in exquisite relief and cast the handsomely perfect side in shadow. “I’m not good at anything anymore, Shay. I’m not handsome, I’ve forgotten how to be charming, and I don’t know if I can show anyone a good time. The surface is destroyed, and you were right. That’s all there was. There is no substance.”

  She shifted to the right so she could gaze at him. “For the record, Easy, I said you were all surface with them. You wanted to be that way with them, because if they didn’t get close, then they couldn’t hurt you, and you’d already been hurt too much.”

  After a moment’s silence she asked, “Do you know when I realized how incredibly handsome you were? It was my birthday—when you kissed me in my mother’s kitchen. Until that moment, you were just Easy—my buddy, my partner in crime, the kid I used to take baths with when we were little. If I’d given it any thought, I would have said you were cute—not my type, but cute. It wasn’t until I realized that I had feelings for you that you became not only my type, but downright handsome. The more I loved you, the more gorgeous you got.”

  The look on his face was thoughtful, as if she’d scored a few points, but also wary, as if he still had plenty of doubts.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “Do you know why I loved you?”

  “Because you were young and foolish, and I made you promises I couldn’t keep.”

  She elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Because when I walked into a room, you got this look as if my simply being there made your life better. Because we could drive two hundred miles without saying a word and it was a sweeter, more satisfying way of passing the time than anything I’d ever done before. Because every time we made love, you acted as if I’d given you something you’d always, always wanted, something so precious you couldn’t put a price on it. Because you treated your horses with gentleness and respect, and because you treated the people you came across just as well.”

  She leaned against his shoulder, and he automatically raised his arm to wrap around her. That single act did more to raise her temperature than all the comforters in the world. “People didn’t like you because you were handsome and charming and good at what you did, Easy. They liked you for the same reason I loved you—you were a good man. You are a good man.”

  Easy silently coaxed her head onto his shoulder, then rested his cheek against her hair. Gleaming with moonlight, it felt like cold silk and smelled of fond memories and old sorrows.

  He felt awed that she could speak so well of him after all his mistakes, and blessed that he could hold her like this after all the times he’d pushed her away. He wished she was right, though, wished he really was a good man, one who deserved a woman like her.

  He wished he wasn’t greedy enough, needy enough, to take her anyway.

  “I drove past Buffalo Lake tonight,” she murmured. “You know what? I wouldn’t change a thing. Even knowing how it would end, even knowing that we were both going to get our hearts broken, I wouldn’t change it at all.”

  She was more generous than he was. If he could, he would change a lot of it—every harsh word he’d ever spoken, every time he’d hurt her, every time he’d made her cry. He sure as hell would have changed the way it ended. Given the opportunity to live it again, he would never let it end. Not until—as the wedding vows he’d refused to take had promised—death do us part.

  Swallowing hard, he lifted his hand—his ugly, disfigured hand—and raised her chin. She didn’t flinch when it—when he—touched her. She didn’t pull away or startle or even seem to notice anything except that he was touching her.

  “Shay...” He stroked her jaw with his thumb, brushed it across her full bottom lip, watched her lashes flutter. “I want to make love to you, but I don’t—I don’t know—my hip—”

  She rubbed her cheek against his palm, reminding him of a cat seeking pleasure. “Remember Custer?”

  “The general, the town or the bull?” He remembered—sweet hell, yes. That one night had given him a whole new appreciation for the state of Oregon. When it was over, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find scorch marks on the sheet and singed places on their bodies.

  Wearing a smug smile, she rubbed again. “You were so banged up that night that you could barely move, but you told me what t
o do and how to do it. All you had to do was lie there on your back, and it was amazing. Well, darlin’, all you have to do tonight is lie back. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Lie back. I’ll handle the rest. And how much pleasure would she find in that? Doing all the giving while he did nothing but take?

  In Oregon, he remembered, she’d found enough pleasure to make her weep.

  “It’s late,” he murmured, gazing into her eyes, “and there’s a storm blowing in. Maybe I could stay here tonight.”

  Her gaze never left his as she replied, “The sky is as clear as a bell. See?”

  “Wrong kind of storm. Se—” The last word was lost as he kissed her, taking her mouth gently when gentleness was the last thing in the world he needed. She opened to him, welcomed his tongue, brought her hands up to touch him. Gentleness was the last thing she needed, too, he thought as she sucked hard at him, as her hands immediately sought bare skin under his T-shirt, as she struggled out of the confimng blanket to strain against him. His fingers aching for the warmth of her skin, he fumbled with the blanket and her dress. She fumbled with his own clothes.

  After a moment he ended the kiss, touched his forehead to hers and laughed. He hadn’t laughed in so long, and it felt almost as good as her body, long and lean, against his. “Is it just me, or were we better at this clothing thing when we were younger?”

  Slowly she stood up, sliding over him all the way. “Come inside—” she invited “—and I’ll show you just how good I am at this clothing thing.”

  While he eased to his feet, she climbed the steps and sashayed through the door. Inside, she turned on one dim light—for him, he knew, since she knew her way through the dark—then started for her bedroom. He stayed far enough behind her to appreciate the view, and with her mile-long legs and that impossibly short dress, it was quite a view. If he hadn’t been hard already, one look at her would have done it for him.

 

‹ Prev