The Horseman's Bride

by Marilyn Pappano

  “I’m not health—”

  She raised one hand to cut him off mid-denial. “I’ve made love with you. Don’t tell me you’re not healthy,” she warned. “You have a few problems—the worst of which is that you’re afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  Easy took an unsteady breath. He wasn’t afraid. He just had no tolerance for being the local freak. There wasn’t any reason to subject himself to the stares, the talk, the pity. Accept yourself the way you are, she’d counseled, when what she’d really meant was accept himself the way she wanted him to be. What gave her the right to decide what was normal for him?

  Nothing. But she sure as hell had the right to decide what was normal for herself, and she obviously felt that living with a man who had become a virtual recluse wasn’t normal for her.

  So the issue here wasn’t really him, but her, and what he was willing to do to have her.

  What was he willing to do? Go shopping in Tulsa?

  It wasn’t a bad place to start. A city that size was filled with strangers. If he knew anyone there, what were the odds of running into them in a few hours spent at an appliance store? Slim at best.

  He drank a gulp of coffee even though it was still hot, though he hadn’t yet added sugar and cream, and then he looked at her. “All right. Let’s go shopping.”

  The smile that brightened her face once the surprise disappeared was worth the decision.

  The reality of finding himself an hour later in Tulsa’s biggest home supply store among strangers wasn’t. He couldn’t honestly say that everyone in the store was staring at him. Some glanced at him with total disinterest. Others never noticed him. But the salesman certainly found it easier to talk to Shay than to him. The woman who was interested in the same model refrigerator kept giving him surreptitious looks from face to hand to cane, and he knew damned well she wasn’t thinking she’d like a few hours to play rodeo queen with him. And when he tried to make out the check for the appliances and the new countertop Shay had chosen, he struggled with the ink pen and the checkbook while everyone—salesman, clerk and other customers—waited impatiently.

  Frustrated, he tossed the pen on the counter, tore the check out and wadded it, then slapped down a credit card. After scribbling an illegible signature at the bottom of the charge slip, he took the paperwork and stalked off as best he could.

  “Easy.” Shay hurried to catch up with him and caught his arm just as he placed the cane tip on the concrete floor. It slid and he slipped, losing his balance. If not for a teenage boy passing by, he would have fallen.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the boy asked, increasing the heat that was already burning through him.

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” Easy muttered, his jaw clenched, a fierce scowl locked in place.

  “Easy, I’m sorry,” Shay whispered, reaching out again.

  He raised his right hand to stop her, caught a glimpse of it and returned it to his pocket. “Don’t grab me. Don’t touch me. Let’s just see if we can get out of here without making me look like a complete fool.”

  It was a long way to the front entrance, made longer by the Saturday morning crowd. Once they finally reached the door, they still had to cover half the parking lot to get to his truck.

  “If you want to wait here—”

  He glared at Shay, and she broke off and lowered her gaze. She looked sorry—sorry for him, sorry to be here with him. Well, she couldn’t possibly be any sorrier than he was.

  He waited for a break in traffic and got it when a white-haired man stopped and waved them across, then tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient with their slow progress.

  “You know,” Shay began when they were halfway down the aisle, “you can get a parking permit to—”

  Slowly he turned a cold, angry stare on her and, once again, she clammed up. When she didn’t go on, he finished for her. “To let me park up front with all the other cripples?”

  “Easy—”

  “Don’t ‘Easy’ me! That’s what you’re talking about—a handicapped permit! To give me special privileges because I can’t even park in a damned space like a regular person!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having special privileges when you’re entitled to them!” she argued. “We’re talking about a stupid parking permit! How does that diminish you? How does parking all the way out in the north forty make you any less—”

  He stopped walking, and slowly she did, too. For a long still moment they stared at each other, then he finished the sentence for her once again. “Handicapped. Go ahead and say it, Shay. You’re obviously thinking it.”

  “I’m not, damn it, Easy!”

  Handicapped. By anyone’s definition, he was, of course. He’d known it for months. Hell, his parents had never let him forget it for a minute. But it hurt more to know that Shay thought of him that way, too—way down deep in places that his parents could never touch. To her he wasn’t merely a man she might love, but a handicapped man. Less than a man.

  Right that moment, he felt it.

  Unbearably weary, he started walking again, his gaze locked on the truck a hundred feet away. It took Shay mere seconds to catch up with him, took a conscious effort on her part to match her pace to his. Somewhere down deep inside, he hated her for doing it, almost as much as he hated himself for making it necessary.

  They were mere feet from the truck when a woman headed inside backtracked and called Shay’s name. “Shay Stephens, is that you? Oh, my God, what did you do to your hair? It’s so—so short!”

  Shay’s smile was strained, her response reluctant as she stopped. Though it would be easier to go on to the truck, though he wanted to go on to the truck, perversely, he stopped beside her.

  “Hello, Chris,” she said quietly, her voice noticeably lacking in warmth. “Yes, I cut it this summer. It’s so much easier to take care of.”

  He’d thought the woman looked familiar, and the name clinched it. Chris Taylor had graduated the year after them and came from Heartbreak’s wealthiest family. They had more money, more land and more cattle than anyone else in the area, and they’d thought it put them on an elevated social plane—that, and the fact that their heritage was untainted by Indian blood.

  He never had liked her.

  He remembered her as a thin, snotty redhead. Now she was a plump, overbearing redhead, and trailing along behind her was a thin, snotty kid who looked too much like her to not belong to her. The boy looked at him, staring openly at the scars on his face and throat, then lowered his gaze before tugging on his mother’s sleeve. “Mom...”

  “Hush, Devon. Mama’s talking,” Chris admonished without missing a beat in her conversation about some poor unfortunate she and Shay both knew.

  “But, Mom...”

  She brushed the kid off, continued her rapid speech, then abruptly drew a deep breath and turned her attention to him. “And who is this?” She squinted, stared, then gasped. “Oh, my God, Easy Rafferty. What have you done to yourself? Your poor face—”

  She reached out, but before she could touch him, Easy deliberately caught her wrist with his right hand. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and revulsion crossed her face, followed by morbid fascination. “Oh, Easy, your poor hand,” she murmured sympathetically even as she none-too-subtly twisted free so it wasn’t touching her.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” the kid said. “His fingers are gone. Gross. Where are they? Like, did the doctor cut ‘em off and give ’em to you to keep? Or, hey, I seen this movie once where this guy stole money from a drug dealer, and the drug dealer, he had ‘em hold ’im down and he chopped off his hand with a machete.” With one hand, he made a cutting gesture across the other. “Did you get caught stealin’ from somebody?”

  His mother recovered enough to give him a shake. “Devon McCloud, you hush up right now! It’s rude to talk about a stranger’s handicaps right in front of him!”

  “But it’s okay if you do it behind his back,�
� Easy said sarcastically, then directed his next words to Shay. “Or if you just think about it.”

  Her face turned deep crimson, and hurt darkened her eyes. “Chris, we’ve got to—”

  Chris brushed her off. “Easy, what did you do?”

  “I was in a wreck.” He forced the words out in a steady, indifferent tone—not easy with his jaw locked tight, with every muscle in his body straining to walk away before she could say anything else.

  “Is it permanent?” she asked, then added in a rush, “Of course, you’re not going to grow new fingers, but the cane... Are you ever going to walk normally again? And the rodeo—that is what you were doing, isn’t it? I guess it’s over for you.” She shuddered dramatically. “If I suddenly lost my career like that, why, I think I’d rather die! What will you do now? What can you do?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “Well...” Looking as if the prospect repulsed her, she forced herself to pat his arm. “Don’t you lose hope. There are all kinds of programs out there to help—well, people like you. You know, disabled people, or physically challenged, or—What term do you prefer?”

  His fingers were knotted so tightly around the head of the cane that he couldn’t feel the tips anymore. “I usually just say useless cripple,” he said snidely. “And what term do you prefer for yourself? Insensitive bi—” He glanced at the kid and chose another word. “Bigot?”

  She looked flustered. “Why—why, I can’t imagine why you’d say such a thing, Easy. I’ve never shown any prejudice against you. I always treated you exactly the same as everyone else, even though you were Indian, and every year I make a donation to charities that help people like you. But—” she gave a holier-than-thou sniff “—I understand. You’re bitter over your situation and you have to take it out on someone. I can forgive that—though it may take some time Devon, let’s go.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness,” he called after her, drawing the attention of other shoppers in the area. For once, he didn’t care that they looked. He was too damn angry.

  Chris and her son walked on as if they hadn’t heard. Shay brushed past him and went to wait at the truck. Her head was down, and she looked...

  Mortified.

  He hobbled to the driver’s side and climbed in, then tossed the cane in back. After starting the engine and fastening his seat belt, he simply sat there for a moment, breathing heavily. Maybe he owed her an apology Maybe, for her, he should follow Chris Taylor inside and apologize to her, too.

  But he didn’t feel particularly sorry. He just felt hurt.

  They drove home m silence. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he turned into his driveway and felt a rush of relief. The tension that had knotted his shoulders began to ease in a flood of heat, and his fingers, cramping from his tight grip on the steering wheel, flexed, then relaxed. It felt good to be home. It felt safe.

  He parked beside Shay’s car, and for a moment, even after he shut off the engine, they both simply sat there. Then, at the same time, they started to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” she began.

  He asked, “Now do you under—”

  They both stopped, and he drew a breath, then started over. “Now do you understand why I don’t want to go anywhere? Why I’d rather stay here?”

  “It was just Chris Taylor. You can’t possibly care what Chris Taylor thinks.”

  “Yes, Shay, I can,” he said quietly. “And it wasn’t just Chris. It was you. You were embarrassed. You were embarrassed to be with me.”

  Shock darkened her eyes and rounded her mouth in a silent exclamation. After a moment she closed it, then opened it again. “I can’t believe—That’s the most ridiculous—How can you say that?”

  “I saw your face.” The bleakness he felt came out in his voice, making it quaver unsteadily.

  “Then you saw what you were feeling—not me. I was sorry I talked you into going. I was angry about the way some of those people looked at you. I was angry with myself for making it worse, and I was sick about running into Chris because she’s such an idiot and I knew she would say something to hurt you. But I was not embarrassed, Easy. Not for one second.”

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and to the side, stretching the muscles. After a moment he felt Shay’s fingers close gently over his arm. Her touch was as tentative as Chris’s had been, though for totally different reasons Chris had been showing her open-mindedness, that she wasn’t afraid to touch the Indian cripple, while Shay was expecting rejection. Truth was, he couldn’t push her away to save his life. Hell, she was saving his life.

  “You know what, Easy?” she asked softly. “People will look. That’s their nature. All your life they’ve looked at you because you were so damn gorgeous. Some still look because you’re gorgeous. Some feel sorry for you. Some feel uncomfortable. Some are even put off by your scars or your hand or the way you walk. But you’re not the only one they look at. You’re not the only one who gets judged unfairly. Everyone’s got their prejudices It’s an unfortunate fact of life But you can’t let it determine how you live your life.”

  He let his head roll to the right and opened his eyes to look at her. “I’m not doing that again.”

  Her smile was faint and regretful. “I think it was enough of an experience for a while—”

  “Not for a while, Shay. Not ever. I can’t handle it.”

  “I won’t ask you to.” For a while. She didn’t add the phrase, but he heard it. Even after this morning’s disaster, she was still convinced that getting out and seeing people was best for him. He was more convinced than ever that she was wrong.

  The pressure of her fingers around his arm increased, then eased. “Let’s go in.”

  “Wait.” He turned to face her, taking her hand in his good hand, sliding his fingers between hers. “You do think of me as being handicapped, don’t you?”

  He knew she was remembering almost saying the word in the parking lot when her hand tightened around his. “The simple fact, Easy, is that you do have a couple of handicaps, and they are permanent. They’re as much a part of you as your black hair and your brown eyes and your smile. I think the problem here is in definition. You see handicapped as meaning diminished—less than before. I see it as having to make adjustments—different from before.”

  “Nice distinction.” Unfortunately it wasn’t one he could make just yet.

  “And the first adjustment you need to make is your attitude. You might be amazed by what you can accomplish if only you believe you can do it.”

  Feeling marginally better in spite of himself, he teased, “Jeez, when did you become such a cockeyed optimist?”

  “The day I invited you out to Buffalo Lake so I could seduce you and you came.”

  “The day you invited me? And seduced me? I don’t remember it quite like that.”

  She smiled sunnily. “And how do you remember it?”

  He pulled, and she slid across the seat to him, maneuvering beneath the steering wheel to sit on his lap. “Ooh, I’ve been here before,” she murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Been there, done that, would love to do it again—but we seem to be wearing too many clothes.”

  He drew her head to his shoulder, then simply held her, rubbing her back, his every breath filled with her scent. She felt good—so soft and yet so strong—and she made him feel good.

  After a time, with her mouth close to his ear, she murmured, “How do you remember that day, Easy?”

  He remembered the way she had touched him, the way she’d all but whispered her plans—I’m driving out to the lake—and the way she’d managed to look frightened, excited and relieved all at once when he’d gotten there. Tilting her chin up, he pressed a single chaste kiss to her mouth, then replied, “I think of it as the best day of my life. Every day with you has been the best day.”

  For a long, still moment, she looked dazed. Then she gave a husky, delighted laugh as she began pulling at her clothes. “Easy Rafferty, you are too good. I wa
nt you—right here, right now.”

  He helped her with their clothing and showed her—or did she show him?—just how good too good was.

  After making love in the pickup like desperate kids with no place else to go, they ate lunch, then started working in the living room. With music from the boom box in the kitchen for accompaniment, Shay wiped a tack cloth over the woodwork she’d sanded while Easy taped the window glass in preparation for painting.

  She regretted the trip to Tulsa more than she could say, and she wished she could promise that she’d never ask him to set foot off the property again, but it was a promise that they would both know she couldn’t keep. After all, going into Heartbreak would be different. The people there weren’t strangers. They’d known him since he was a baby and would be too careful of his feelings to let any shock or dismay they might feel show. On top of that, most of them were just plain good folks. They wouldn’t care that he used a cane or had lost his fingers. They didn’t judge other people by such meaningless standards.

  But, thanks to Chris Taylor, it would be a long time before she’d be able to prove that to Easy.

  She finished just as he began taping the last pane of glass. Looking outside, he remarked, “We’ve got company.”

  She walked to the open door and saw three horses coming up the driveway. “They’ve got good timing. How about a break?”

  “How about you keep them company outside while I put the first coat of paint on?”

  She glanced at the paint sprayer, then nodded. As she went outside, Olivia and the girls dismounted in the driveway, then tied the horses to the fence there. “Hi,” she greeted them.

  Elly came tearing toward her. “Hey, Miss Shay. Where’s Mr. Easy?”

  She swung the kid into her arms, intercepting her on her way to the house. “He’s started painting. You’d better stay out here or you might get paint all over you.”

  “That’s okay. These is old clothes.”