Cord sat back on his heels, tunneling his hand through his hair. “I hope I don’t have to do that again. I felt like I was torturing him.”
Ella felt the same, and yet, in spite of her misgivings, Oliver hiccupped and then laid his head on her shoulder silently.
“Wow. That seemed to have helped.” Cord dragged his hand over his face, then gave her a careful smile. “Thanks a lot. I appreciate the expertise.”
“Hardly an expert,” Ella murmured, gently toweling Oliver dry, surprised herself at how quiet he now was. Thankful, as well.
“I’ll get a clean diaper.”
Cord stood but before he left he brushed his hand over Oliver’s forehead, smiling down at him.
Then his eyes met Ella’s, and it was as if everything else fell away and there was only the two of them and this moment.
Then her breath caught in her throat when he gently brushed the knuckle of his forefinger over her cheek. “Thanks again,” he murmured.
He left and Ella sucked in another breath. This was not a good idea, she told herself as she quieted her now racing heart. She couldn’t do this. Letting that man into her life was a complication she couldn’t allow.
He had children.
He had Oliver.
But as she looked down at the little boy who now lay quietly in her arms, he shifted and looked up at her, his eyelashes spiky with old tears. When he smiled, her heart was pierced.
* * *
Cord paused at the doorway to his bedroom, clutching Oliver’s clean diaper and sleeper. He needed a moment to center himself. It was as if each time he was around Ella he wanted to strengthen his connection with her.
Something about Ella called to a deeper part of him. The way she connected with his kids. The yearning he saw in her eyes when she was with Oliver in spite of her earlier reaction to his son.
Now that he knew her husband didn’t want children and she did, he saw her actions around Oliver in a different light. And when he walked into his bedroom and saw Ella rocking Oliver, her head bent over his, he felt a sense of rightness at odds with his earlier caution.
“So, I got a clean sleeper, as well,” he said, a forced heartiness in his voice as he held his hands out for his son.
“He’s still a bit warm,” Ella said, watching as Cord smeared some diaper rash cream on his son, then diapered him and slipped on the little boy’s sleeper. “Between the medicine you gave him and the bath, I think he’ll sleep now.”
Cord stood, lifting Oliver close, sensing Ella’s retreat.
“I’ll get him in bed and then maybe we can have a cup of coffee?” he asked. As soon as he spoke, he felt like sinking through the floor. Very suave. But he didn’t want her to go. Not yet.
To his surprise she nodded, adding a soft smile. “Sounds good. I’ll see you downstairs.”
He tried not to rush as he laid Oliver in his crib, stroking his forehead once again. He tucked his son’s favorite rabbit into his arm, then brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Good night, little guy,” he whispered. “May God watch over you and guard you. May Jesus be near you and may you sleep well.”
Cord’s mother had always whispered the same prayer over them when she’d tucked his sister, brother and himself in. His heart clenched at the thought of his children with no mother to tuck them in anymore.
For a moment he felt again the old remorse, the conviction that it was his fault his children were motherless.
You don’t deserve Ella.
As the voice accused him, the usual dark cloud of guilt drifted over his thoughts.
Then he thought of what the pastor had preached about on Sunday. God is a rock and fortress. He brings light into our lives.
A light that had been absent until Ella came.
He touched the rails of Oliver’s crib, then sent up another prayer for wisdom and patience. Oliver gave him a smile, then curled his arm by his head and his eyes drifted shut.
As Cord walked down the stairs to the kitchen, the scent of coffee brewing greeted him. When he saw Ella setting mugs out and spooning sugar in his, he felt a sense of peace.
She looked up when he entered the kitchen and gave him a careful smile. “I took the liberty of putting sugar in your coffee,” she said.
“How did you know?”
“I’m an artist with a hint of ADD. I notice more than I should.”
“Should I be afraid?”
Ella chuckled as she poured two cups of coffee. “Not unless I’m going to paint your portrait and show the real you.”
“Did you ever do portraits?”
“In art school and when I first started painting.”
“Not your style?”
“Didn’t sell.”
Cord took the mug she offered, glancing from the table in the dining room to the couch in the family room.
The dining room would be a safe choice and make their coffee time seem more casual.
But he didn’t want to be casual with her. He wanted to find out more about her. Talk without the kids around. Pushing aside his doubts, he headed toward the comfy couch and low lighting of the family room.
She followed him without a murmur. But then Cord was faced with another dilemma. The other chairs in the room were piled with the kids’ stuff. The only space available to both of them was the couch.
So he sat down on one end and Ella had no choice but to sit on the other.
“When you said it didn’t sell, where did you sell your work?” he asked as he settled back, his coffee mug cradled in his hands, not minding the arrangement at all.
“My mother opened a gallery, and in the beginning, I only sold my work through her.”
“So how did you end up painting what you paint? The darker stuff? Or did you always do it?”
Ella became quiet and he worried that he had overstepped some invisible boundary.
“I slowly moved into the mixed media I did...do now,” she corrected. “When I graduated from art school, it became my self-expression. Plus it sold.”
He wanted to ask her what was going on in her life that she felt she needed to express with such gloomy pictures.
“And how is the painting coming now?” he asked instead.
Ella tucked her legs under her and took a sip of her coffee before she replied.
“It’s slow. I had hoped that being here would inspire me...”
She let the sentence trail off.
“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward. “I know my kids take up a lot of your time. You can quit any time.”
“I helped the kids precisely because the painting wasn’t going well,” she said, her smile assured. “Though I should amend my statement. I’m not that inspired to do what I usually do.”
“The dark stuff.”
She nodded.
“Did you enjoy painting that?” As soon as he asked the question, he realized how dumb it sounded. Of course she did. Why would she do it otherwise?
“I don’t know.” She gave him a weak smile. “For many artists, paintings are an expression of their view of life.”
“So you saw life as dark?”
She lowered her eyes, pulled her legs in closer. “For a number of years, yes, I did.”
“Why?” He wanted to discover what inspired her to do such depressing paintings. Because they were. His dad had shown him her artwork online and what he saw confused him. Though Ella was a reserved person, he had a hard time reconciling what he saw with the woman who could laugh so easily with his kids. A woman who enjoyed planting a garden, throwing balls at a small-town fair booth. Whose smile was so captivating.
“I was in a dark place then.”
He heard the pain in her voice and it bothered him. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he moved closer, wanti
ng to find out more.
“And why was that?”
She didn’t answer right away, and he wondered if he had gone too far. Then, to his surprise and dismay, he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. She blinked and one coursed down her cheek, shining in the half-light of the family room.
He immediately put his mug down and moved closer, putting his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Please—”
She sucked in a wavering breath, her lips pressed together as she looked away. But as she struggled, he sensed she was losing her battle for self-control.
Another tear slipped down her cheek and then another.
He couldn’t sit and watch her silent sorrow. He gently took her mug, set it on the table by his and pulled her into his arms.
It was merely comfort he was offering, he told himself as he drew her close, surprised and thankful that she didn’t fight him. Instead she curled up closer, her head tucked against his neck, resting on his shoulder as her body shook with quiet sobs.
He rocked her, murmuring something, he wasn’t sure.
She cried silently, her shoulders shaking, her hands clutching his shirt.
What pain was she releasing? What bottled-up grief was finally coming out?
Then slowly her sobs subsided and she moved back, swiping at her eyes.
“I must look a mess,” she murmured, palming the moisture from her cheeks, looking down.
Cord’s shirt was damp from her tears and his heart touched by her pain as she looked up at him. Her lipstick was gone and some of her mascara had smudged.
“You look beautiful,” he said, gently stroking away a smear of black from under her eyes.
She gave him a tremulous smile, then pulled a tissue out of her back pocket. She ducked her head, her hair falling around her face, hiding it as she wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, then lifted her head. “I didn’t mean to break down. I just—” She stopped, shaking her head as if breaking off her thought.
Cord gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her heated cheeks.
“You just what?” he encouraged, his voice low and quiet, trying not to spook her.
He sensed she was edging close to something deeper than what she had told him before. Something darker.
Maybe what she had expressed in her paintings.
But silence greeted his question as she lifted her gaze to his. “It doesn’t matter.”
It did to him, but he wasn’t going to push again. In time, he told himself, she’d open up to him.
But their eyes held and the longer their gazes locked, the more he felt like he was losing his balance. His own breath came more quickly, his heart beating in his chest.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he cupped his hand around her head as if to steady her, then brushed a gentle kiss over her cheek.
He tried to tell himself he was comforting her but then she touched his shoulder, and leaned in.
Their lips met, warm, seeking.
And Cord felt as if he had found a place he’d been seeking for a long time.
His arms wrapped around her and she returned his embrace, their kiss lengthening, filling the empty spaces in his heart.
Slowly they pulled apart. She reached up and let her fingers trail over his features, her touch featherlight, her eyes following her hands.
Then he kissed her again, as if underlining what he had just done. The lightest touch of his mouth on hers. She broke away, then lowered her eyes again.
“Sorrow is tiring,” she said. “And I’m so tired. I imagine you felt the same after your wife died.”
He knew she was retreating but he also knew, from his own heartache, that baby steps were the reality right now. So he let her pull back and redirect.
“It was hard because the kids were grieving too. And they needed me. And Oliver was just a baby.”
“That must have been so difficult for you,” she said. “Taking care of a newborn and your children all the while grieving your wife.”
He nodded, thinking back to those dark days. “I got a lot of help. From my dad. My community. My church. My faith.”
A frown disturbed the smoothness of her forehead. “Didn’t you struggle with God? After your wife’s death?”
Cord heard a quiet desperation in her voice and sensed that she was revealing a part of herself through her questions.
“I did. It was hard,” he said, following her lead. “I threw out the usual questions. Why her? Why me and my kids?” He paused. “But what was worse was how guilty I felt. Still feel.”
“What do you mean?”
Cord hadn’t even realized he spoke the words aloud until he heard her question.
“It’s nothing,” he said, feeling flustered. “The usual cycle that’s part of grieving. You know. Anger, bargaining, guilt...” He looked away, unable to meet her now curious gaze.
“You said you still feel guilty. Why is that?” It seemed she wasn’t letting him off the hook he’d caught himself on.
He wanted to ignore her question but the thought of unburdening the load he’d been carrying tantalized him. Though he’d talked briefly with his father about his reaction to Lisa’s death, he’d never told him exactly how he had felt. And suddenly he was tired of holding back, keeping it to himself.
He sat back, looking beyond her, not really seeing the fireplace as he thought back in time.
“I know I’ve been rather busy with the Rodeo Group,” he said.
Ella simply waited as he strove to find the right words.
“I told you how getting our local rodeo connected with a larger association was always Lisa’s dream. It kept her crazy busy with meetings and phone calls and emails. I told you how I got involved because I wanted to finish what she began. Well, there’s another reason.”
“And what is that?” Ella prompted, her voice soft.
Cord leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We fought a lot over how busy she was. At first we had the same vision, but it got to be too much work and I pulled back. She accused me of being shortsighted and selfish. I accused her of trying to relive her glory days when she and my sister did the circuit. Told her she should stay home more. With the kids.” He shook his head, still feeling bad at the accusations he’d thrown at her. Accusations of living in the past. Of regret on her part that she hadn’t gone further in her career. “The day she died, she’d had an important meeting,” he continued. “Oliver’s pregnancy had been especially difficult for her and she was tired. We fought about it and she left in a huff. Half an hour later I got the call from the hospital that she’d been in a car accident, that they were getting ready to fly Lisa to Calgary. They kept her on life-support in ICU at Rockyview for a couple of weeks but there was no change. I had to make the call for Oliver to be delivered and for the doctors to stop intervening. The only good thing was that she was far enough in her pregnancy that Oliver was born only a few weeks early. He was strong enough for me to take home fairly soon after he was born.”
Silence followed his last words and Cord wondered what Ella must think of him now.
“That must have been so difficult,” she said finally.
Cord glanced over at Ella, hearing the sympathy in her voice. But something in her expression raised other questions. He wanted to ask them but she spoke up again.
“Was that when your father moved in with you?”
“Dad has a house in town that he’d bought after Lisa and I moved onto the ranch. He comes back to help me out and stays over sometimes but I still hired a nanny. I can’t expect him to watch over three little kids.”
“And Adana was the latest nanny.”
“Yeah.” Cord sighed, shaking his head. “And now, here I am again. St
uck with no one to help me take care of my kids.”
“I know I’ve said this before, but you could cut back on your Association work.”
“And I know why, but... I feel like...like I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He sighed, wondering if she would understand. “Lisa had asked me to attend the association meeting she was headed to in her place. I told her not to go. If I had done what she asked, if I had gone to the meeting for her...”
“You think she wouldn’t have died.”
He just nodded.
“But it wasn’t the meeting that killed her, it was her driving.”
Ella’s softly spoken comment hung between them and for a moment Cord couldn’t answer.
“She made her own choice, didn’t she?” Ella pressed.
Anger surged along with a need to defend Lisa’s actions. What did Ella know?
Yet, even as he opened his mouth to argue, her words slowly settled over his roiling grief like oil on water. Could she be right?
“I suppose she did,” was all he could say. No one had ever said anything like that to him, because he’d never told anyone the full details about what happened that day. Ever since he got the call, he’d battled with what-ifs and the ensuing guilt he’d kept to himself.
Ella moved closer, her hand resting on his shoulder distracting him from all the emotions swirling through him.
“Why are you taking it on, then? You can go to all the meetings in the world, work yourself to a frazzle trying to finish what she started, but at the risk of popping out clichés, it won’t bring her back. And you have bigger responsibilities right now,” Ella was saying. “You have your amazing children, and right now they need you more than any rodeo project. They are a precious gift. You shouldn’t waste these years of their lives trying to assuage a guilt you shouldn’t even be carrying.”
Cord noticed a puzzling tone in her voice. As if she understood what he was dealing with.
“You may be right,” he said. “Don’t know if I’m ready to admit that yet.” He added a half smile to show he was teasing.
Courting the Cowboy Page 12