She snatched a rag from the back pocket of her jeans and rubbed furiously at the grease that stained her hands. “The ranch isn’t my home,” she informed him coldly. “It’s yours.”
“Like hell it—” He glanced down to find the twins staring up at him, wide-eyed and hanging on his every word. Knowing that they didn’t need to hear what all he had to say to their mother—or the words he might use—he dropped his hand to his side and jerked his chin toward the pump motor she’d been working on. “What’s the problem with the well pump?”
“It quit working.”
“And you’re going to fix it?”
She planted a fist on her hip. “Do you see anyone else around to do the job?”
He returned her stony gaze with one of his own, then growled, “Yeah. Me,” and brushed past the twins and stepped into the shed’s shadowed interior.
Though he could see that Rena resented his backhanded offer of help, she stepped aside, making room for him in the small space. He circled the pump, examining it. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, dragging a frustrated hand through her hair. “It was working just fine, until about an hour ago.”
“So you don’t have any water in the house,” he said, stating the obvious as he hunkered down for a closer look.
“Brilliant deduction, Clayton,” she muttered dryly. “Just brilliant.”
He glanced up at her, meeting her mulish gaze a long moment, before turning to look at the twins. “Can you kids reach the faucet at the kitchen sink?”
“Yeah,” Brandon replied, swelling his chest proudly. “We got a step stool to stand on.”
“Then run back up to the house and turn it on,” Clayton instructed, “and give me a holler when water comes out.”
The twins took off at a run, arguing with every step over which one of them got to carry out their daddy’s instructions.
When they were out of hearing distance, Clayton braced a wide hand on his thigh and spun on his heel to glare up at Rena. “Why didn’t you tell me you were planning on leaving Oklahoma?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” she shot back.
“I left a message for you.”
“You did not! I called your motel and specifically asked if you’d left any messages and was told that you hadn’t.”
“That’s because I didn’t leave the message at the motel. I left it with your—”
Rena groaned, pressing her hand against her forehead. “Mother,” she finished for him, then dropped the hand with a weary sigh. “She didn’t tell me.”
“Figures,” Clayton muttered, then scowled, adding another grievance to the long list he’d already prepared against his in-laws. “How long have you been planning this, anyway?”
“Planning what?” she asked in confusion.
“On leaving me.”
She stared at him a moment, two spots of color rising to stain her cheeks, before she dropped her gaze. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, looking guilty as hell. “A while, I guess.”
“So why the hell didn’t you ever say something to me about your plans?”
She snapped her head up to glare at him. “And when was I supposed to have said something? You were never home.”
He leaped to his feet and shoved his face close to hers. “That’s a damn lie, and you know it. I’ve been home.”
She arched a brow, undaunted by his threatening stance. “Really? That’s odd, because I don’t remember seeing you there recently.”
He swore and spun away, then whirled back, leveling a finger at her nose. “I’m a professional cowboy. I travel the circuit. You knew that when you married me.”
She shoved his hand away from her face. “Yes, I did. But what I didn’t know was that you would put your career before your family.”
“That’s bull, Rena, and you know it!”
“Is it? When was the last time you were home, Clayton? Better yet, when was the last time you called home?”
He frantically racked his brain, trying to remember when he’d last called. When he couldn’t, he spun, turning his back to her, hiding his own guilt. “I can’t name dates,” he mumbled.
“No, I doubt that you can. Your memory isn’t that long. But then, neither is mine. It’s been so long ago, I can’t remember, either.”
He drew in a long breath, fighting for calm as he turned to face her again, knowing that arguing with her wouldn’t do him any good. Not when what she said was true. “Okay, so maybe I haven’t been home in a while, or called as often as I should, but is that any reason to leave me?”
“That’s not the only reason I left.”
“Well, what are your reasons, then!” He swung an arm toward the open doorway, gesturing at the house beyond. “And what the hell are you trying to prove by buying this dump, when you’ve already got a perfectly nice house to live in?”
Rena stared at him, wondering how he could be so blind to her needs, to the problems that existed in their relationship, and knowing that trying to explain to him something that she was only beginning to understand herself was impossible. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said and turned away.
“Try me.”
She swung back around to face him. “Because I wanted a home!” she cried. “Something of my very own. Something that belonged just to me.”
He swore under his breath, then, unable to control his temper, shouted, “Dammit! You have a home. With me!”
She took a step back toward the door. “No. I don’t have a home with you, Clayton,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “I never did.” Turning, she ducked through the doorway, then ran to the house, leaving Clayton in the well house alone.
Clayton dipped his hands beneath the faucet and scrubbed at the grease that stained his hands, his butt all but dragging. The long drive from South Dakota back to Oklahoma, sleeping in his truck when exhaustion forced him from the road. The six-plus-hour drive from Tulsa to Salado. Another two hours sweating in the cramped shed, while he worked on the cantankerous pump. And for what?
“Don’t have a home,” he muttered under his breath as he hit the faucet handle with the back of his wrist, shutting off the water. He snatched up a dish towel from the worn countertop and dried his hands as he looked around the outdated kitchen. With its glass-fronted cabinets, scarred linoleum floor and ancient appliances, the room presented a sharp contrast to the modern, high-tech kitchen at their ranch…the house Rena insisted had never been her home.
Feeling the frustration building, he glanced up at the ceiling, hearing the creak of old wood overhead, and knew by the sound that Rena had finished putting the twins to bed and was on her way back downstairs. Tossing the dish towel aside, he headed for the hallway that led to the front of the house and the stairway that climbed to the second floor, ready to have it out with his wife, once and for all. He met her as she stepped from the last step and into the wide entry hall.
“We’re finishing this discussion. Right here, right now.”
She met his gaze stubbornly, letting a good five seconds hum by before she firmed her lips and brushed past him, headed for the front door. He followed, sensing that she didn’t want the children to overhear whatever they might have to say to each other. But that was fine with him. He didn’t think the kids needed to hear what they had to say to each other, either.
He let the screen door squeak closed behind him, watching as Rena stopped at the edge of the porch steps and hugged her arms beneath her breasts, her spine stiff.
Muttering a curse under his breath at her defensive stance, he crossed to stand beside her. With his gaze narrowed on the dark sky, he leaned forward, bracing his hands on the porch railing. “Why, Rena? Why are you doing all this?”
“Because I can’t go on living with things the way they are.”
He snapped his head around to look at her. “What things?” he cried in frustration.
She drew in a long, shuddery breath before turning her head to meet his gaze. �
�Us, Clayton. Us.”
Seeing the tears in her eyes, hearing the tremble of them in her voice, and unable to respond to either, he whipped his head around to glare at the dark landscape. “And what exactly is wrong with us?”
She dropped her head back, groaning her frustration. “That is the problem. There is no ‘us,’ Clayton. We don’t have a relationship. We never have. We simply share an address and a bed, when the mood strikes you.”
He slammed a fist against the railing, making her flinch, then whirled to face her. “Dammit, Rena! Haven’t I provided you with a home, seen that you and the kids have everything you need, everything you could possibly want? What the hell is it you expect from me?”
She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears, looking as if he’d just knocked the daylights out of her. “Nothing,” she whispered, and turned for the door. “Absolutely nothing.”
Clayton caught her by the arm, stopping her before she escaped. “Dammit, Rena!” he cried angrily, spinning her around to face him. “You’re not running away again. You’re going to stay right here until we settle this.”
She snatched her arm from his grasp, her brown eyes dark with fury as she backed a step away from him. “Don’t you dare think that you can tell me what I can and cannot do,” she warned him furiously. “I’ve lived my entire life by someone else’s rules. First my parents’, then yours. Well, I’m not doing it any longer.” She reached for the door again, jerked it open. “From now on, I’m living my life my way and by my rules. No one is ever going to have the power to control me again.”
“Now wait just a damn minute,” he said, and flattened a palm against the door, slamming it shut before she could escape him again. “I’ve never asked you to do anything, much less tried to control you or expect you to live by any set of rules.”
“Maybe not in so many words, but you stuck me out on that ranch and left me there, expecting me to stay.”
He tossed his hands up in the air. “Dammit, Rena! If you weren’t happy living on the ranch, why didn’t you say so? I thought you liked it there!”
“I do like the ranch,” she cried, her frustration rising to equal his. “But I don’t like living there alone.” Tears filled her eyes, and she dug her fingers through her hair, trying to force them back. When she couldn’t, she dropped her arms wearily to her sides and drew in a ragged breath as she met his gaze again. “I had dreams and plans for my life, Clayton, the same as you did for yours. But I put my dreams aside when we married and moved to the ranch, while you went right on chasing yours.”
Stunned as much by the tears that streamed down her face as he was by what she’d said, Clayton stared, speechless, unable to think of a thing to say in return. He’d robbed her of her dreams? What dreams? What the hell was she talking about?
Rena waited for a response from Clayton, some indication that he understood her unhappiness, her discontent, and was willing to discuss it. When none was forthcoming, she dragged the back of her hand across her cheek, then gave her chin a lift, clinging to her pride. “I want a divorce, Clayton. You can file, if you want, or I will. It doesn’t matter. But we’re getting a divorce.”
Something in Rena’s voice—a certainty of purpose, a calmness despite the earlier storm—chilled Clayton to the bone. This wasn’t a game she was playing, he realized slowly, his gaze riveted on her face. This wasn’t some dramatic stunt she was pulling in order to get his attention. She really intended to go through with this. She was going to divorce him.
And something deep in his gut told him that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do or say to change her mind.
When she reached for the door again, Clayton didn’t try to stop her. He simply stood on the porch and watched her close the door between them, shutting him out of her life.
Memories from the past knifed through him at the sound of the door closing, and he squeezed his eyes shut against them, trying to block them out. But the images grew, filling his mind, tearing at his heart. A five-year-old little boy, standing on the curb, waiting for a bus, watching his uncle Frank walking away. The feeling of abandonment, the fear that had filled him.
He felt the tears rising, the grief tearing at his heart.
Then he heard Rena turn the lock. The sound echoed the breaking of his heart.
Rena stood at her bedroom window, a hand braced against its wooden frame, staring down through the darkness, watching as Clayton crossed the lawn to his truck.
Emotion rose to her throat, choking her, when she saw the dejected slump of his shoulders, the hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans, and knew that she had hurt him. But she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Why would she want to hurt the only man she’d ever loved, the man she still loved with all of her heart?
She pressed a hand against her lips to hold back the sob that rose as she watched him climb into his truck and close the door behind him. As she listened to him rev the engine, she told herself again that she had done the right thing, knew that she’d had no other choice. It wasn’t enough to know that Clayton wanted her with him, wanted her to remain as his wife. She wanted, needed, so much more from him.
She wanted and needed his love.
But how could she explain her needs to him, a man who thought that providing for her physical needs, showering her with material gifts, was enough? How could she make him, a man who seemed incapable of displaying affection outside the bedroom, understand that she needed the reassurance of his love beyond that room?
She knew that a marriage forced by an unplanned pregnancy wasn’t the best groundwork on which to build a relationship. But she’d loved Clayton from the moment she’d met him, and that love had only grown stronger through their first year together. And though he’d never once professed his love for her, seemed hesitant to display any kind of affection at all, she’d sensed deep in her heart that he cared for her. She’d never tried to conceal her feelings for him, hoping that, by her example, he would feel more comfortable in displaying his.
But he hadn’t. Instead, with the passing of the years, he’d become even more withdrawn, spending more and more time away from home. Away from her.
Through a blur of tears, she watched him swing his truck around, its headlights slicing a beam of light through the darkness. She watched until the trailer’s red taillights disappeared down the drive, then she dropped her forehead against the glass and wept.
Early-morning sunshine drilled ruthlessly at Clayton’s eyelids, punching him from a deep sleep. Groaning, he shifted on the seat, stiff from having spent the night behind the wheel of his truck. Unable to find a more comfortable position, he gave up on the idea of getting any more sleep and forced his eyes open. He stared dully through the windshield for a few minutes, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. And with awareness came remembrance of why he was there.
He turned his head to look out the side window and focused on the front porch of Rena’s house. He’d come back only hours after their last conversation, knowing there was one last thing he had to do for Rena. A dull ache slowly spread through his chest as he envisioned her as she’d stood there the night before, tears streaming down her face. He closed his eyes against the memory, but he couldn’t stop the voice that had haunted his sleep from playing through his mind again.
There is no “us,” Clayton. We don’t have a relationship. We never have. We simply share an address and a bed, when the mood strikes you….
I had dreams and plans for my life, too, Clayton, the same as you did for yours, but I put my dreams aside when we married and moved to the ranch, while you went right on chasing yours.
He groaned and dropped his forehead to his palms, slowly wagging his head. Robbed her of her dreams? He snorted a rueful laugh. She didn’t even know the worst of it. If she did, she’d despise him all the more. And with good cause. For not once, in all the years of their marriage, had he even considered the possibility of her having dreams, much less her losing them, nor had he ever given any thought to what sacrifices she mi
ght have made when she was forced to marry him.
To his credit he had thought about the material things she’d given up. Worried about them, even. So much so, that he’d doubled his efforts at rodeoing and on the ranch, working hard to provide her with the finer things she was accustomed to having. He’d never wanted her to regret that she’d had to marry him. Had never wanted to give her cause to leave him.
And now she was leaving him, anyway.
Tears stung his eyes, blurring his view of the house as he angled his head to peer at it again. He wanted to be angry with the woman inside, but found he couldn’t. Didn’t deserve the emotion. Not when he’d cost her her dreams.
The hell of it was, he thought as he stared miserably at the house where she now slept, he didn’t even know what dreams he’d robbed her of. He’d spent a good part of the night trying to think what it was that she might have sacrificed for him and the kids, but hadn’t been able to come up with one blessed thing. Sad to admit that a man knew so little about his own wife. Sadder still to think that he hadn’t even realized she was unhappy.
Dragging the back of his hand across the moisture that had gathered in his eyes, he reached for his hat and snugged it over his head as he shouldered open the door and slid to the ground. Wondering how he could have been so blind, so selfish, when faced with such kindness and love, he pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and pushed them on, studying the house through the dark, protective lenses, while he looked for a sign that Rena and the kids were up. But the house was still as a church house on Saturday night, not so much as a flutter of movement appearing behind its smudged and dirty front windows.
Not wanting to try to rouse Rena for fear of waking the kids so early, he rounded the trailer to check on his horse. The gelding stood at the side of the trailer where Clayton had tied him the evening before, his eyelids at half-mast, a rear hoof cocked as he balanced his weight on three legs. “Hey, Easy,” he murmured, lifting one hand to scratch the horse between the ears as he untied the lead rope with the other. “Let’s see if we can find you a place to graze for a while.”
Slow Waltz Across Texas Page 6