Everyone else had been dumbstruck.
"How on earth do you get plum out of that?" Noah had asked.
"They have a past, Daddy," Susannah had explained. "Like you and Mom."
"Not exactly," Gus had said hastily, worried about how Mary would take that. But she didn't seem upset. She was still smiling. At him.
She kept right on smiling the rest of the evening, and she stayed a lot longer than he figured she would. But as the crowd thinned out and more and more people left, she got up, too.
"I really ought to go," she said apologetically to Felicity and Taggart. "I realize that your parents are staying. But even though I came with them, I need to get home."
"Oh, of course!" Felicity said.
"I'll take you," Taggart said promptly.
"No!" Becky blurted. Then, face red, she said, "I mean … I need you to help me with my math."
Taggart gaped. "Help you? With your math? Tonight?"
Becky bobbed her head earnestly. "I've got a lot, an' I don't understand it, an'—"
Susannah's foot collided with Gus's ankle. "Now!"
Gus almost missed his cue. "I'll take you," he managed, and at Mary's startled blink he shrugged. "I'm lousy at math."
Felicity beamed. "That would be great." Then she turned to her stepdaughter and gave her an arch smile. "We certainly wouldn't want Becky to do poorly in math."
Becky's face got even redder. "I'm just tryin' to stay on top of things, like you said. I'll get my book," she said to her father.
She started toward the stairs, then stopped and shot a quick look at Gus and Mary. "G'night. Miz McLean."
She touched his arm as she slipped past and mouthed, "Good luck."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
They went outside into the cold and the snow and the silence.
Gus had hold of her arm so she couldn't slip and take a fall. His grasp was firm but gentle. He held her carefully—the same way she'd seen Shane hold on to Poppy when they'd left a while ago.
"You okay?" His breath was warm against her ear.
"Yes. Fine." She could feel the heat of his body through both of their jackets as they picked their way through the snow toward his truck. He hovered. Solicitous. Gentle. Caring.
Gus.
Mary tried to distance herself from this version of Gus Holt. It was far too close to the one she'd dreamed of all those years ago.
But it was hard to pretend it wasn't happening when it very definitely was.
His fingers tightened on her arm. "Be careful," he cautioned. "The ground's uneven."
She tried to be careful—and not just of her footing. Of her heart.
Gus opened the door to his truck and helped her in. He reached around her and fastened her seat belt because he had a better angle at it than she did. His hat brim brushed her chin as he did so.
"Sorry."
Mary ran her tongue over her lips. "It's all right."
He went around and got in, starting the truck, then turning up the heater full blast. "There's a blanket in the back if you want it."
She shook her head. "I'm fine." She gave him a bright smile.
The look he gave her in return was grave.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. "If you'd rather not take me—"
"Of course I'm taking you," he cut her off. He flicked on the windshield wipers and put the truck in reverse, then concentrated on getting the truck turned around and headed down the lane toward the county road.
But he didn't speak. Didn't say a word. Mary wondered at that, then decided it was better that way. If he left the conversation up to her, she could direct it however she wanted—which would be into safe, impersonal lanes.
She settled back against the seat, took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She watched Gus out of the corner of her eye. He had his own gaze firmly on the snow-covered lane.
"It was a lovely Thanksgiving," she ventured finally.
"Yeah."
They wound down the narrow, winding road. The world seemed all shades of silver and gray and black. Only the snow sparkled white in the glare of the headlights. She rubbed her belly. "I'm stuffed," she said. "Aren't you? Such wonderful food. And so much of it."
"There was a lot."
"I should never have had that piece of pie. I don't know why I did. I certainly didn't need it." She prattled on about the dinner, the people, the games all the way to town. Gus managed the occasional monosyllable, only in response to direct questions on her part.
More than once she slanted him a glance, wondering at his taciturnity. It wasn't like Gus to have nothing to say.
They pulled up in front of her house, and she fumbled to undo the seat belt. He reached over and did it for her, then jumped out and came around to give her his arm up the walk.
"I can manage," she protested, but in fact was glad of the support.
She put the key in the lock and turned it, then pushed open the door and turned to say good-night to him. "Thank you," she said.
"Could I have a cup of coffee?"
She blinked.
"I need a cup of coffee," he said. "And we need to talk."
"No, I—"
"About Mrs. Plum."
"Mrs. Plum?"
He nodded. "Coffee," he said. "Then talk." He turned her around and steered her into the house, then shut the door and helped her off with her jacket.
She tried to toe her boots off.
"Hold still," he commanded, and dropped to one knee to lift her feet one at a time and slip her boots off for her while she held on to the pillar beside the entry to the living room with one hand and braced the other on Gus's shoulder. It was strong, firm, steady.
She was trembling.
He looked up. "Cold?"
"No. Yes. I don't know."
He finished with her boots, then snagged the moccasins she wore in the house and tucked her feet into them. His fingers on her feet made her tremble even more. When he stood up she stepped back quickly. But he just pointed her toward the sofa. "Sit down and wrap up in that afghan. I'll make the coffee."
"I can."
"I'll do it."
"But—"
"Go. Sit."
"When did you get so bossy?" she grumbled even as she padded across the room and settled on the sofa, tucking her feet under her.
Gus just smiled enigmatically and disappeared into the kitchen.
* * *
Teasing and flirting, Gus knew, were fine, as far as they got you. Subtle was fine, too. It had got him here.
But in the end, it all came down to this.
Spilling his guts. Telling it like it was.
Laying his heart on the line.
Gus took his time making the coffee, trying to rehearse the words. They were there, as inarticulate as they were imperative, on the tip of his tongue.
He muttered them, fumbled with them, trying to express them in his mind, but finally he gave up.
Muscle memory was one thing. Soul baring was something else. He'd never been good at this kind of preparation. And unlike Becky, he couldn't rehearse.
Suddenly he didn't want to wait any longer.
Suddenly he knew there was no time like the present. Suddenly he had to tell her what, finally—this evening—he'd really understood.
He drummed his fingers on the counter now, impatient for the coffee to drip. It was decaf. He didn't care. He didn't need caffeine now. He had nerves enough.
He could have gone back to face her without it. But, for all that he was going to have to do this extemporaneously, he still wanted a mug to hang on to.
At last it was ready. He poured two mugs full, added milk to hers, then carried them back to the living room.
Mary was curled on the couch and she looked as if she were asleep. But when he came in, her eyes flicked open at once and she straightened to sit up.
"Don't," he said. "Relax. Here." He handed her one mug and then, tossing his hat onto the chair, sat down at the other e
nd of the couch.
Mary tucked her feet more closely beneath her, careful to leave more than a foot of space between them. She brought the cup to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes watched him from above the rim of the cup. She didn't say anything.
Gus didn't quite know where to begin.
In the old days he'd never had any problem talking to Mary, but things were different now. Maybe, he reflected, because he wasn't just talking—he was thinking before he spoke.
"I was thinking about Mrs. Plum," he began.
Mary smiled. "That was wonderful! I'm glad you remembered. I didn't know if you would. But I didn't know any other words—"
"Before you brought her up," he cut in firmly. "I was thinking about her earlier—when I was watching Becky and Tuck across the room."
Mary looked surprised at his interruption, but she pressed the mug against her lips and didn't say anything else.
Gus, feeling her gaze on him, swallowed. "I was thinking about how young they are—Becky and Tuck. And then I was thinking about how young we were when we first started going out." He flexed his fingers on the handle of the mug. That was why he'd wanted it—to have something to hang on to. He stretched his booted feet out in front of him and studied the toes.
Mary waited, not saying a word.
"I thought about the way things were between us—you wantin' a home and a family and the whole works … and me wantin' … sex." He sat up straight and looked at her urgently. "It wasn't just sex, Mar'. I loved you. As much as I knew how. But I didn't know much about love in those days, though I guess I thought I did. But I know better now. And I started thinking about ol' Plum. About what she said." He settled back again and flexed his toes inside his boots. He balanced the mug on his belt buckle and stared at it.
"What she said?" Mary prompted after a moment. "You mean about biology not being all?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "It's true, I can see that now from hindsight. Biology isn't the only thing, but when you're sixteen or seventeen it feels like everything. Did to me, anyway. I was a walking hard-on in those days," he muttered, embarrassed as he remembered how all-consuming his biological urges had been.
"You were … eager," Mary agreed with a faint smile.
"I was," Gus agreed grimly. "And I really didn't stop to think that it was different for you. I didn't know it was—until we were engaged."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, when we got engaged. I thought we were on the same page, that we wanted the same things. Each other, you know? Makin' love—spending nights together and not havin' to sneak around. That's what I thought I was getting when I asked you to marry me. That's what I thought love was." He shook his head. "I wasn't thinking about it bein' … I don't know … a relationship—" He twisted the word when he spoke "I didn't think about commitment. Or about bein' together … forever. It didn't even occur to me."
"It didn't?" She stared at him, eyes wide.
"Nope. Didn't even cross my mind."
Her jaw sagged slightly.
"Guys don't think like that, Mar'. Not most of 'em anyway. Not when they're eighteen, nineteen years old. They're pretty much thinkin' with their—" he felt his face heat "—well, you know what they're thinkin' with. You remember what I was thinkin' with! Then, when the wedding got closer and you started talkin' about apartments and leases and if we should try to save money to buy some land or if I was gonna maybe go into trainin' horses with J.D. and my dad—"
Even now, thinking about how he'd felt then had the power to dry his mouth and make his breath come in short, shallow gulps. "Buyin' land and settlin' down and raisin' horses wasn't what I was thinkin' about at all. It sounded—" he took another breath "—I don't know … responsible. And it scared the bejeezus outa me.
"I thought, 'I don't wanta be on a ranch the rest of my life. I don't even know what it's like in California, Arizona, Louisiana.' I'd never been to half the places I wanted to go! Hadn't done half the things I wanted to do! And the closer the time came and the more you talked about the wedding and … and after … I couldn't see myself ever gettin' to do 'em. Not if … not if we got married. It was what you wanted, what you were lookin' for, hopin' for … and it wasn't what I wanted at all."
It was the conversation they'd never had twelve years ago, the explanation, lame as it was, that he'd never managed to give.
It wasn't admirable even now, to Gus's way of thinking. But it was a little better thought out, a little clearer than his desperate, "I can't marry you. I might as well be dead," or whatever awful words he'd come up with on that pay phone.
"I'm sorry," he said now. "Sorry I was such a jerk."
Their gazes met for just a moment. Then Mary's dropped. She stared into the coffee steaming in her mug. She stared and stared. Gus saw her swallow.
And then she began to speak, her words so soft Gus had to strain to hear. "I wanted to die," she told him. "Of pain. Of mortification. Of embarrassment. Of being so wrong about you! I didn't understand at all. I felt betrayed."
"You were betrayed."
But she shook her head. "No. You were a boy. Not a man."
He winced at that, true though it was.
She didn't notice. She went right on. "And I—I didn't understand. I thought … I thought just what you said—that we were a couple, that we loved each other—"
"We did!"
"—and that that meant we were going to be together forever. That we were going to have babies together, build a life together, make a home together. I should have realized." She shook her head.
"How could you? I didn't realize! We were kids!"
"Still," she said stubbornly. "I should have known." She looked at him. "I should have seen it coming that day we went to get the marriage license."
"We didn't get a marriage license."
"I know. But we were going to. We went to the courthouse, remember? We went up to the office and asked for the papers and you wouldn't fill them out."
"Because of my name! They wanted me to put down my name!"
"Exactly. And you wouldn't do it. You wanted to put your initials."
"There's nothin' wrong with initials." He glared at her. "Nothin' at all wrong with D.A."
"But it's not your name."
"I wish my name wasn't my name!"
"What is it?"
He shook his head. He wasn't answering that. He'd never answered that. His knuckles were white on his coffee mug. It was the deepest, darkest secret of his life. "Don't matter," he said gruffly.
Mary smiled sadly. "But it does, you see? Because you don't trust me."
"That's not true!" He set down the coffee mug and bounced up off the couch, pacing around the room. "I do trust you."
"But not enough to tell me your first name."
"I don't go by it! I never have, you know that. Besides, it's not a big deal. It's an old family name, and it doesn't mean anything."
"Except to you."
He glowered at her, rubbed a hand through his hair and wished to hell she hadn't brought that up. His first name didn't matter. He'd never used it. And it wasn't true that he didn't trust her, he just hadn't seen the point of putting it on a legal document.
"But you're right now. It doesn't matter anymore," she said now. "It's over. Past. Done. It's been done for years."
That stopped his pacing. He shook his head. "No. It isn't. It's still here. Between us."
"This want you've been talking about?"
"Yes. It's still there. You feel it. I feel it."
"Of course. It's what Mrs. Plum said—biology. We'll always feel it."
He shook his head impatiently. "It's not only that. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It's more."
"What do you mean more?" Her eyes narrowed, pinning him with their intensity.
"I mean I want those other things, too! I want the … the relationship. The commitment." He ran his tongue over his lips. "The … kids. The mortgage. The future. Forever. The whole shebang." He met her stare with an equally intent one
of his own.
"The whole … shebang," Mary repeated slowly. She was regarding him with a sort of wary fascination.
At least, Gus thought, she hadn't told him to get lost.
He poked his chest. "It's here now, too. That emotion thing. What you had all along. At least, I guess it's what you had," he added truthfully.
"You guess?"
"Well, I'm not a girl, am I? I don't know how girls think. But ol' Plum talked about emotional needs, about them bein' as important as the biological ones. And … well, that's where I am now. Finally. I never really understood that before. But … well, I do now. I have 'em, too."
For a long moment Mary just stared at him. Finally she blinked. But she still didn't say a word.
Gus shifted under her gaze. He didn't like her looking at him that way—like he'd grown another head or something. "It's true!" he protested. "That's why I'm here."
"Because now you feel the way I feel … felt," Mary corrected herself. "You think," she added dubiously.
"Yeah, I do." Gus lifted his chin stubbornly.
"And that means what? That you want to get married?"
He gulped. Then, "Yeah," he said. "I would."
"To me." It wasn't precisely a question, and yet it was.
"Of course, to you!"
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
"Gus, you just got through telling me you don't know what love means."
"I said I didn't know what it meant. When I was nineteen, I didn't know what it meant. I do now."
"What?"
He frowned at her. "What do you mean, what?"
"What does it mean?" she asked patiently.
"It means…" he stopped. He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to find the words to say what in his gut he understood. "It means," he said finally, "puttin' the other person first. Caring about what they need more than what I need. Wanting to do what's best for them."
He met her a wide blue eyes steadily and doggedly. If this was a test, he was giving her the whole answer, the whole nine yards—and then some. "It means wanting that, not just now but forever. When it isn't easy. When it isn't fun. When it sometimes doesn't even feel good. Because bein' with that person—bein' with you is worth more than all the other stuff I used to think I'd rather be doin'." He shook his head. "I wanted that other stuff then. I wasn't ready then. I am now. I swear."
A COWBOY'S GIFT Page 9