The Bride Wore Starlight

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “My mama’s lessons pull me through again.” He stood over her and smiled. “ ‘Alec, don’t try and hide the truth. When it comes out, and it always will, it won’t be nice and simple anymore, it’ll be a wildcat that’ll sink its teeth into your butt and hurt like heck.’ ”

  “She sounds like quite the homespun woman. A little like my grandmother.”

  “She probably would have been a lot like Sadie,” he agreed. “She and my dad died in a car accident when I was twelve. But she got off plenty of good advice before then.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “It was a very long time ago.” His voice soothed. “Sad but not painful anymore. I grew up with my aunt and uncle, and they were great.”

  Matter-of-fact cheerfulness covered a darker emotion she couldn’t quit put her finger on.

  She frowned at his story and his matter-of-fact cheerfulness. She’d had her issues with her father, but she wondered even now if she’d ever get over losing him so early. She covered her discomfiture by teasing Alec as she ushered him farther into the apartment.

  “So you never tell a lie, then, Pinocchio?”

  He chuckled. “I won’t swear that was the case early on. There may have been youthful indiscretions.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  He moved without replying through her living room area, such as it was with its one love seat, one armchair, a lamp, and a tiny end table. He set the sack of food on the table in front of a ground-floor window that served as her eating area and then turned back toward her.

  “So I’m sorry, Joely. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of the wedding guests.”

  Genuine surprise washed over her. “You do know.”

  “I know what I needed to say, and I mean every word. But as I told you, I don’t understand.”

  “I was upset because I got talked into doing something I didn’t want to do.”

  “And you did a fantastic job at that thing, which you didn’t believe you could do at all. So you fell.” He held up a hand to ward off her indignant protest. “I don’t mean that wasn’t a big deal. I get that it was. It’s not a lot different than getting tossed from a bronc after only one or two seconds. You feel like an idiot.”

  “The difference is, you got on that bronc of your own free will.”

  “I didn’t force you to dance.”

  The words were so calm, so nondefensive. She didn’t even mind arguing with him.

  “I beg to differ. I recall being hauled out of my chair and then thanked for being a good sport.”

  He shrugged and dipped his head slightly. “Touché. You’re right. But to my credit, I did ask if you wanted to quit and sit down and you refused.” He smiled. “Not to say I wasn’t happy about it. I was having a great time.”

  She could feel the flush blossoming off her shoulders and rising up her neck. How could she admit after all her complaining and blaming that she’d been having a great time, too?

  “Okay. I’ll concede I got a little carried away. But that’s exactly what I don’t want to do.”

  “Where are your plates?” he asked. “I’ll grab them for us.”

  Bossy and presumptuous, she thought. How did he know she hadn’t eaten already? And yet, he was so pleasant about everything, so big and present, she couldn’t help but enjoy the moment.

  She pointed. “That cupboard, bottom shelf. There’s some fruit in the refrigerator—early strawberries. I’ll grab those.”

  He didn’t say more until the table was set, and he’d found a bottle opener for the hard cider. Although he filled her apartment, he moved with effortlessness around her, never bumping into her chair, never waiting for her or getting in her path, never too big for the space. As if this were just another dance.

  “It’s not a feast,” he said. “But it’s my peace offering.”

  A surprising dart of guilt pricked her conscience. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “No. But like I said—”

  “No bad blood. I know. I’m sorry I made you feel there was any.”

  She picked a drumstick out of the bag of chicken and bit into it before she could think too hard about the greasy calories. She tried to be so good about her eating. Now that she was chair bound, she wasn’t in the kind of shape she’d always maintained before the accident, but she loved fried chicken. She took a big, crispy bite and sighed. It had been a long time.

  “Really good,” she said over her mouthful.

  He bit into his thick piece of white meat and nodded. “I’m a sucker for this stuff. I’m a sucker for junk food. There, now you know.”

  He didn’t look like any junk food junkie to her—no puffiness or extra poundage anywhere. Just a tall, lean, sandy-haired cowboy.

  “So here’s my big question,” he said. “Why do you want so badly to avoid getting carried away?”

  The question took her aback. Wasn’t it evident?

  “I don’t want to do something stupid and reverse the little progress I’ve made. I fell once shortly after my recovery started, and I ended up having three more surgeries.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What are your restrictions?”

  “Restrictions?”

  “What have they told you not to do because it would be dangerous and cause more injury?”

  She stared at him. Seriously? What was his problem?

  “My restrictions are sort of obvious don’t you think? I could have reinjured something falling like I did.”

  “I could have gotten hurt coming over here to see you.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath and set her piece of chicken on her plate. “That’s not the point.”

  “It is, though. Your body might be out of shape and out of practice doing what it used to do, but it’s basically healed.”

  “It’s not!” She banged a fist onto the tabletop. “People keep saying that, but I have a spine that’s crooked, a leg that’s crushed, and a face that’s scarred. None of that will heal.”

  She couldn’t read the expression on his face—as if he had something to yell back but couldn’t quite make himself do it. She wished he would. She didn’t want to be the only one here with high emotions.

  “None of those things will go back to being exactly what they were,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t healed. Or healing. You proved on Saturday you can do things you said you couldn’t. You danced. Why are you remembering the two minutes of embarrassment and not the twenty minutes of amazing fun?”

  “I . . . ” She couldn’t answer.

  “Because you’re not used to being embarrassed. You’re not used to being less than perfect.”

  Her anger bubbled over again and words rushed back to her in a torrent. “How dare you? That was cruel. When did I ever say I thought I was perfect? I wasn’t. I’m definitely not now. You don’t know me, so quit judging everything I do.”

  “Did you know a person can Google you and get your whole life story?” he asked. “Did you know there’s a Wikipedia entry on you? I’ve learned a lot.”

  His sudden changes in topic were starting to throw her. She felt purposely ignored and slightly ridiculed. Her amazement at his rude audacity kept growing.

  “I did know. It’s because of Miss Wyoming that’s all. And you don’t listen to me, but you’re stalking me?”

  He laughed. “For the record, I’m listening to everything you say. I’m not stalking you, and I’m not trying to be mean. I looked you up to fill in the gaps, find out what you used to do—learn the things we didn’t get a chance to talk about on Saturday before you kicked me out of your life.”

  “Yeah? I kind of wish you’d stayed gone,” she mumbled.

  “No you don’t. You’re having fun. Second time in a week. When’s the last time you argued with someone? Does anyone even dare start an argument with you?”

  Once again she had no comeback. Of course she argued with people—her nurses, her physical therapists, the Miss Wyoming pageant coordinators who desperately wanted her
to do a story about bravery and overcoming adversity.

  “I . . . argue plenty.”

  “Then this is no big deal. I enjoyed reading about you online.” He grinned. “You are an amazing person. Plus, I loved the pictures of you in the bathing suit competition five years ago. The judges picked the right winner.”

  “Oh my gosh, what a sexist thing to say!”

  “See, now here’s what I mean. Why are you angry? You entered the pageant, you were proud to do it, and I think it’s a great thing, too. Why is it sexist for me to say something about it?”

  “Because . . . that something is not the point of the competition.”

  “Of course it is! The question being asked was who models the swimsuit best? It was a beauty competition. I didn’t say you were showing off because you’re fast, easy, or bad.”

  The whole conversation was going nowhere, she thought. And she was losing her appetite for the chicken. Why was he here to pick on her? Why was she allowing it?

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she said. “I’m not sure all this is good for anyone’s digestion.”

  Once again his laughter rang out. “Good for digestion? You sound like someone from your grandmother’s era. C’mon. Eat your free chicken dinner and duke it out with me. I’m trying to get that pretty little girl who danced at her sisters’ wedding to come up out of her hidey hole, because I kind of liked her.”

  “Sure. Everyone loves a girl who can stand up and dance.”

  She knew her bitterness was unfair—he’d been nothing but kind.

  “You’re a tough case aren’t you, Joely Foster?”

  She ignored the “tough case.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not keeping his name.”

  “Ahh. Sorry. When will that be final?”

  She averted her gaze. “As soon as I sign the papers.”

  And once she did, she’d be entitled to a quarter of what she and Tim had owned together, if she was lucky. She’d effectively give up the home she’d created, all her possessions except the ones she could prove were her own and hadn’t been lost in the accident, and any benefits she’d received from Tim’s insurance. Nine months ago, when she’d gone to California with her mother to pack up her things, leave her husband, and come back to Paradise Ranch, she’d had a plan. She’d take over the management of Paradise Ranch and help her mother save the family legacy—which her father had left in financial straits.

  All her plans had died in a split second of devastation and agony.

  “You don’t sound very happy about this.” Alec’s voice was suddenly gentle. “Is the divorce something you want?”

  She straightened and squared her shoulders. “You bet I want it. It was my idea. My husband is not a good man—he’s cheated in more ways than one.”

  “Is there a reason you haven’t signed the divorce papers?”

  She shrugged. “Pride. Despite being the one who broke up the marriage, he’s winning everything and making me look like the bad guy. I’d like very much not to roll over and play dead, but I have no leverage. We were only married three and a half years, and he made most of the money.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t fight him.”

  “And drag it out forever? No. I want him gone. I just have to think a few days, and I’ll have someone look over the papers to make sure I’m not missing something. Then it’ll be done.”

  “And you can move on.”

  “I won’t have much choice.”

  “Hey.” He leaned forward over the table so he could get closer to her. She waited for him to touch her as he had the other day at Paradise, but he drew her eyes to his with no more than his voice. “It sounds like he’s baggage you don’t need. You’ve got a nice little place here and you’ll do fine.”

  Without warning, a dam on her emotions gave way and tears beaded in her eyes. From the moment Alec had arrived she’d been off balance, teetering between the reality that was her life and some unspoken fantasy he evoked about being swept away by a strong, handsome man who’d make everything bad disappear. But he wasn’t a prince, and there was no white horse tied to a parking meter outside. She’d failed. Again. The real reason she hadn’t signed the papers was that once she did, her marriage would be just another thing she’d killed.

  “Hey, hey,” he said again. “What did I do this time?”

  “Nothing.”

  She swiped at her eyes and pushed her chair away from the table. Hanging onto her composure by a very short, thin thread, she reached her living room without sobbing. Such emotions were ridiculous—she wanted this. Wanted her independence. Wanted freedom from Tim’s arrogant, dictatorial ways, and from the constant knowledge that she’d failed him. He wanted her so little that he’d gone to someone else and barely attempted to cover his tracks.

  Alec was in front of her in seconds. Squatting at her knees, he placed a hand on each of her chair arms and held firmly so she couldn’t push away.

  “You aren’t fooling me. This is about more than signing papers if they’re something you want to sign in the first place.”

  “It isn’t about anything else, though.” She swallowed more tears. “Because of the papers, I . . . I have to find a new apartment. Tim has cut off the benefits as of June first, and that gives me barely three weeks to find someplace I can afford. I don’t know why that got to me right here, right now. I’ve known about it since the morning of the weddings.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t say more for several seconds, but she could see the thoughts whirling through his brain. She braced for the inevitable platitudes, solution suggestions, and words of comfort, and promised herself she wouldn’t deck him for telling her she could go live with her sisters because they had plenty of room, and she’d be okay.

  “This is great!” he said.

  She nearly fell out of her chair.

  “Wha—?”

  “It’s a whole new world opening up for you, Joely Crockett. You can make any decisions you want. Go anywhere you like. Who’s going to tell you what to do?”

  The tiniest flutter of excitement fought through her panic. It flittered away as quickly as it had come.

  “You know, you have this really annoying way of forgetting the special things I need to consider. It isn’t exactly easy to find a place with wheelchair-friendly space, nursing assistants, and easy access to physical therapy—not to mention someone to get me around and pay for it all since I have no job.”

  He stood and ran a hand through his hair. For the first time he looked slightly disgusted.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Throw up a constant series of road blocks? What do you need a nurse for? Right this minute you’re handling an unexpected guest perfectly well without anyone’s help. Are you required to go to physical therapy at a certain place or time? Why not get back behind the wheel of a car and take yourself places? Get outside and take walks, strengthen that leg and get rid of the stupid chair. Find a damn job. You’re smart, beautiful, and strong. Why are you letting this ass of a husband, since that’s how you’re describing him to me, keep you down even though he’s not around? Or maybe he’s not the reason you’ve given up so soon.”

  “Given up?” She nearly rose out of the chair just to smack his smug, handsome face. He’d gone too far. “I don’t know you. Every time I think I’m simply imagining how forward and arrogant you are, you come back with something more insulting than ever.”

  “Has anything ever been truly hard for you, Joely Crockett?” He ignored her tirade as usual. “I think you’ve had it pretty easy up until now, and you don’t know how to work hard. Or push past the pain.”

  “I take it back.” Tears of pure anger clogged her throat. “You’re beyond arrogant. What on this or any other planet gave you the idea you have any moral authority to lecture me on working hard or dealing with pain?”

  He moved toward her again, slowly, his face twisted in painful apology. She waited
expectantly for the words, pulling her crossed arms tightly to her chest in righteous indignation. But there was no “I’m sorry.” He took a seat on her sofa and extended his right leg. She pressed her lips together.

  “I can show you my moral authority,” he said very quietly. “An IED in Iraq is what gave it to me.”

  Without any other explanation or warning he pulled up his pant leg. Rising from the top of his right cowboy boot was a cold, gray, titanium post. Joely’s head spun, her stomach lurched, and she dropped her head into her palms, folding in half in her chair as she began to sob.

  Chapter Six

  HE HADN’T MEANT to spring it on her. He hadn’t intended to tell her tonight at all; people who didn’t know about his leg sometimes never found out. He let the leg of his jeans fall back down over his boot. This visit had never been meant as a chance for him to teach a lesson, as one-upmanship, or to shock Joely into feeling sorry for him. The only thing he’d wanted was to make up for the abrupt end to their evening the past Saturday.

  But he’d found her to be so far into self-pity she didn’t even know she had a problem. So far into it that a normal conversation hadn’t even been possible. Everything they talked about somehow came back to how hard things were for her. And he completely understood. Three years before, he’d been right where she was. Now, however, he had sympathy but no patience for watching people give up. Joely was on the edge of a clifftop saying no to everything and trying to push away any semblance of her old life. The ground underneath her was giving way, and if it crumbled before she figured out how to step back and look around, she was going to fall.

  What was going to save her was the spark she still held inside. He saw it clearly every time she got angry at him or when she forgot herself and laughed. It had burned the brightest when she’d asked to stay on the floor for one final dance song. That’s when he’d known she wasn’t really stuck in the chair. And why, when she’d done nothing tonight but throw up excuses, he’d lost his cool.

  He let her shock from seeing the prosthetic so unexpectedly wear off, saying nothing but watching her face turn from white to green. He’d seen every reaction possible to his leg, from abhorrence to sympathy to interest, and everyone started out somewhere on the sliding scale of surprise. Joely also had guilt to deal with, since she’d been berating him for his unwanted advice. She didn’t need to feel guilty, but her sickly looking skin wasn’t from revulsion. He’d seen plenty of that, too.