It didn't help that she'd had to drive over the pass she'd come over with Gus not much more than a month ago. It didn't help that she remembered what every moment of it had been like, watching him drive.
It had been clear this morning, bright and sunny. Not a snow cloud in the sky. She shouldn't have been so forcibly reminded.
But she was.
Everything, it seemed, reminded her of Gus.
And now, when the doorbell rang a second time, longer and more insistent, she dared to wonder if it might possibly be Gus.
He hadn't come with the other visitors. He hadn't stopped by on his own. He'd gone to the hospital to see Jonathan and his parents before the baby had been released—because he hadn't wanted to see her, Mary was certain.
Just as well, she'd told herself a hundred times over.
She didn't want to see him.
The door bell rang. And rang. And rang.
It sounded as if someone was leaning on it. It sounded like they wouldn't quit until she finally opened up. She drew a steadying breath, a fortifying breath and tossed aside the magazine. Then she went and opened the door.
Becky and Susannah were standing on the porch, looking awkward and nervous and worried all at once.
"We brought you a present," Susannah said.
"From Gus." And Becky stepped aside. The puppy sitting behind her looked up at Mary and wagged its entire body.
She started to cry.
"Don't!" both girls exclaimed at once.
"If you really don't want it," Susannah said urgently, "my dad said we could find a good home for it."
"But Gus got it for you. He said to give you this, too." Becky held out an envelope.
Mary took the envelope and blotted her tears with it, then crouched down so she was on the puppy's level. "Oh, baby," she murmured. "Oh, you beautiful baby!"
It was a golden retriever, maybe ten weeks old, and when Becky loosened the leash, it plunged forward and began licking the tears on her cheeks, filling her arms with its soft puppy body—Gus had known she would be aching for something to hold.
Mary buried her face in the puppy's fur. "Oh, Gus."
Everyone knew she'd be lonely. Everyone said, "Will you be okay?" But only Gus had given her something to fill the emptiness.
Only Gus.
The puppy wriggled in her embrace and finally she let it loose, let it scamper around the porch, as she stumbled to her feet. She swiped at her eyes with the envelope once more.
"You should maybe read it," Becky suggested. With trembling fingers Mary did.
It was brief. To the point. Pure Gus.
Dear Mary, I thought you ought to have a friend to keep you company. I remembered how much you loved Arlo when I first met you. He was a great dog. This one can be if you give him a chance. I think you will.
I don't blame you for not trusting me. I had my chance. I blew it a long time ago. I hurt you and I'm sorry. I love you now more than I ever did, and I'll never be sorry for that.
Take care. Have a good life. You deserve one.
Darling Augustus Holt
Mary's fingers shook. She read it again, looked at the signature. Traced it with her finger. Then she glanced up at the girls. "Where is he?"
"He left," Susannah said. "This afternoon."
"He went to Louisiana," Becky said. "To teach at Jim Milburn's place."
"When will he be back?"
Becky shook her head. "Won't. Dad said he was going to teach a workshop down there, then move on. He said Gus told him it was better that way."
"No," Mary said, and knew it was the truth to the bottom of her soul. "It's not."
* * *
Gus had never been to Louisiana in the winter.
It was a heck of a lot nicer than in the summer. Cooler. Drier. A nice place to visit, all in all. Except Gus had left his heart in Montana, and his brain somewhere in between.
At least that's the way it seemed.
He sure didn't seem to be making what was left of it work.
He'd come down here to give a four-day workshop on bronc riding. It wasn't difficult. He'd done it half a dozen times with Noah over the past few months. He ought to have been able to do it blindfolded. Give the guys the theory, the practice, the answers, the moves. He couldn't do anything right.
Questions baffled him. They asked him simple stuff, basic stuff, and they asked things over and over. Gus didn't hear.
He was thinking about Mary, wondering about Mary, daydreaming about Mary.
Was she all right? Was she missing Jonathan? Did she like the dog? Was a puppy too much for her? What was she doing?
"—you think, Gus?"
"—right, Gus?"
"—explain it again, Gus?"
And he would reply, "Huh? What'd you say? What?"
It wasn't only the questions he couldn't seem to focus on.
Yesterday he'd shot an entire round of practice rides, then discovered he'd never loaded the tape in the camcorder. Last night during the last round he'd pulled a cinch strap on a horse, then stood there thinking about Mary and damn near got trampled when the gate swung open and the horse blew out.
He'd do better today, he promised himself. He'd concentrate. Take it one step at a time. Focus. Really get into things.
That was why he'd decided that the hands-on approach was the best. That was why he'd decided to show a couple of guys what they were doing wrong by doing it right.
"Teach by example," Noah and Taggart always said.
Yeah, well, Gus was teaching by bad example.
He got distracted by a glimpse of blonde hair in the distance just as he'd settled in on the bronc and nodded his head. The gate clanged open. The horse shot out. And Gus didn't have a prayer. He got thrown. Worse, he got himself kicked in the head.
Next thing he knew Jim Milburn was hauling him to the hospital.
"Concussion," the doc said, shining a light in Gus's eyes and asking him what his name was, where he lived and who was president.
Gus thought two out of three wasn't bad. Besides he didn't really live anywhere, so his hesitation wasn't really wrong.
"Hmm," the doc said. "Gotta watch these things. No more broncs today. Take it easy."
"I gotta teach."
But the doc was adamant, and Jim agreed.
"Not this afternoon," Jim said. He took Gus back to the ranch and dropped him off at the little trailer that was his for the term of the workshop. "We'll work on somethin' else. Maybe watch 8 Seconds. You just go on in and take it easy." He grinned. "Don't think too hard now."
"No," Gus mumbled. "I won't."
He clumped up the steps, pushed open the door and stopped right where he was.
Mary was sitting on the bed.
Did concussions cause hallucinations?
Because if they did, he was sure as hell having them.
He shut his eyes. Pressed his fingers to his temples. Cursed the headache to end all headaches and the perversity of his brain that it would do this to him in a weak moment.
Finally he opened his eyes again.
She was still there.
"Mary?" His voice was barely a croak.
She looked at him worriedly. "They said you were hurt. They told me to wait here. Are you okay?"
Was he?
Since his hallucination could talk, Gus supposed that was good. But it might mean he was worse off than he thought. He shook his head. It hurt. He ran his tongue over his lips. "'M … fine. What're you…" He kept expecting her to vanish.
But she got up and came toward him, still smiling. "You're sure? I came to thank you for the gift."
He blinked. "Gift? Oh, yeah. You liked the dog?" She'd come halfway across the country to thank him for the dog?
"I love the dog," she said. "I named him Gus. After you."
Swell. He had a dog named after him now. And she'd come halfway across the country to tell him so. He looked at her warily. "Why?"
"Because now you won't feel obliged to name any of our so
ns after you."
He stared at her. His head pounded. The world spun.
What was she saying? Did she mean…
He didn't know whether to hope. He didn't know if he was dreaming.
"Mary?" he said faintly, wobbling where he stood.
She caught him as he reeled, held him and looked up into his eyes. "Ah, Gus. Darling Gus. The dog is lovely. But that's the gift I meant."
His name.
Darling Augustus. God. Even now he couldn't believe his parents had done that to him. It didn't matter that it was a family name. It didn't matter that his fifth great-grandfather who'd borne it had been a wonderful man.
"A saint," his mother said.
"He'd have had to be," Gus had always muttered. He knew that three or four other poor souls had been stuck with it as well. It didn't matter.
It only mattered that he was stuck with it for his entire life. If ever there was a name you didn't want bandied about on the playground, if ever there was a name a guy could wish was as dead and buried as all his old relatives, that one was top of the list.
"Why?" he'd asked his mother, anguished.
"Why?" he'd demanded of his father more than once.
"Because you were," his mother had told him, smiling all soppy and dewy-eyed. "Just darling."
"It was a family name," his father had said stubbornly, then added almost apologetically, "An' I was in Texas buyin' horses."
Gus had threatened his brother with extinction if word got out. It was his deepest, darkest, most awful secret. He'd never told anyone. Ever.
Except now.
Except Mary.
He had trusted her with the worst truth of his life.
It had been a gift, all right.
With it he had given her the power to make his life miserable forever if she chose.
"I love you," she told him then. And she slid her arms around his waist and leaned in to kiss him.
There was no baby between them now, and it felt odd—and wonderful—to hold her so close.
"I can't seem to stop loving you," she whispered against his lips.
And Gus didn't care if his head pounded or his ears rang or what his name was. He just smiled and whispered back, "Don't."
He deepened the kiss then, damned his headache, and took the love she so graciously offered. He kissed her with a hunger so deep and so powerful that his whole body shook with the need of her. It had been so long. He loved her so much.
"Don't ever stop lovin' me, Mar'," he muttered, and if his voice broke, he didn't care. This was Mary.
He had no secrets from Mary.
Nor did she from him when she kissed him and gave him her heart, swearing, "I won't."
* * *
He was an old married man.
Well, maybe not so old. Thirty-one wasn't that old. But married. Oh, yeah. Gus was definitely that.
Had been for two months—ever since he and Mary had stood up right where J.D. and Lydia had and said their vows. He was well and truly married—and loving every minute of it.
Funny how what had seemed like a noose years ago was now the greatest blessing in his life.
The joy of knowing Mary was there at the end of every day, the bliss of rolling over in bed and wrapping his arms around her, the pleasure of facing her over the breakfast table in the mowing—all of it—it satisfied him—fulfilled him. There was no other word.
He didn't hanker after the open road. He didn't flip through the road atlas and yearn for places he hadn't seen.
Because he'd seen them, Mary told him with a smile.
And that was true enough.
He also knew they didn't hold a candle to what he had right here.
He lay on the bed now and watched as Mary got ready to join him. She slipped on one of those simple cotton nightgowns that made her look innocent and virginal. It made him smile because he knew better.
He knew the fire of her passion. He knew the heat of her love.
He knew that prim virginal gown wasn't going to last more than a few minutes. But if she wanted to wear it so he could take it off, well, that was fine with him.
She raised her arms to loosen the braid of her hair, and he said, "Let me," and sat up.
She smiled at him in the mirror. "I can't believe you want to do this."
But he did. Always. There was nothing—well, almost nothing!—as satisfying as taking down Mary's hair.
She came to sit on the bed, and he shifted around to sit behind her. He eased the rubber band off, then ran his fingers through the braided locks, lifting them, loosening them, rubbing his hands and his face in their golden silk. He kissed her shoulders, nibbled her neck, felt her shiver.
"Gus," she protested.
"Mmm?" With his lips he caressed her ear, traced the curve of it with his tongue.
"Gus!"
"Yeah?"
"If you're going to take my hair down," she said primly, "you have to stay on task."
He groaned. "Stay on task? What is this? Even in bed you're a teacher?"
She turned her head and as she smiled he caught sight of that dimple at the corner of her mouth. "Once a teacher, always a teacher," she said. But the dimple flashed. "Besides, I'm not the only teacher. You've taught me quite a few things." She blushed at the memory of those lessons, and Gus grinned.
"I do my best," he said modestly. Picking up the hairbrush he began to run it through her hair, untangling the braid and smoothing her hair over her shoulders and down her back. He nuzzled his face in it, loving the feel of it—loving the way just being with her, combing her hair, kissing her neck made his body almost hum.
"Do I … disappoint you?" she said.
His hand stopped mid-stroke. "Disappoint me?" He was flabbergasted. "How could you possibly—?"
She shrugged almost irritably. "I'm not exactly worldly."
"Thank God."
"I'm sure there are some very nice women who are—"
"I'm sure there are," Gus cut her off. "But they're not you. I don't want anybody but you. Ever. You make me crazy. You put on those proper little gowns, and you waltz around this room like we've got all night and—"
"We do have all night."
"Well, yeah, but … well, yeah, you're right." He grinned again and tossed the hairbrush aside. He pulled her back against him into the V of his legs. "Remember when we were at Lamaze classes? Remember when I held you like this?"
"Oh—" she cleared her throat "—oh, yes." She wriggled back a little more so that her butt pressed against him.
"You really are driving me nuts," he breathed against her ear. "How can you say you're not worldly? You mean you do this naturally? You're torturing me."
Mary's head turned, and she looked at him, her eyes wide. "Torturing you?"
He bumped against her. "Yessssss."
"Oh. I see." She sounded thoughtful. "That's torture?"
"It was at Lamaze class. There was no relief, if you remember."
"I do." She shifted around so that, instead of sitting between his legs, she sat across them. She pushed against his chest, and he tipped back flat onto the mattress. "There is now."
Gus swallowed and stared up at her with her golden hair loose and falling forward like a windblown curtain around her face. He reached for her and grasped her hips as she swung around and straddled him. Her proper nightgown bunched around her hips as she pressed down against where he needed her most.
Instinctively his hips rose, needing her closer, needing to be part of her. He took hold of the gown and, in one motion, tugged it over her head. He tossed it aside, then skimmed his hands up over her slim hips and her rib cage. He cupped her soft breasts in his hands. They were smaller now, since Jonathan's birth. He stroked them lightly and felt her shiver.
"That's torture, too," she said.
He smiled. "Sure it is."
She put her hands on his chest, drew light teasing circles around his nipples, shifted her bottom against his erection, then bent and touched each nipple with her ton
gue. The breath Gus hadn't known he was holding hissed through his teeth.
"Okay," he said. "You made your point."
She laughed and rose up on her knees to peel down his shorts. "And now I suppose you're going to make yours."
He groaned as he kicked his shorts away and rolled Mary beneath him, kissing her senseless and, yes, making his point at last.
She was ready for him. Eager. Drawing him down, easing him in, bringing him home.
At nineteen, home had been the last place he'd wanted to be. At thirty-one he knew better.
There was nothing better than life with Mary, no place better than where she was. They were a pair, the two of them.
Better together, she said and he agreed, than they ever were apart.
And together now, they began to move. To love.
He kissed her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. "Thank you," he said in a voice that shook because his body trembled with need of her. "Thank you for waiting for me. For hanging on. For being there when I finally got my act together."
"Thank you for getting it together," she whispered. "And for still caring. For becoming the man I always knew you could be."
Eyes locked, hearts beating as one, they shattered together—and became whole together. Two made one.
And after, even when they were two again—they were two together. Forever. And they lay wrapped in each other's arms and kissed softly and stroked gently.
"I love you, Mar'," he whispered.
Mary snuggled closer and rested her head against his heart. "And I love you, Darling Gus."
In the right context, Gus decided, smiling as his eyes drifted shut, it wasn't such a bad name after all.
* * * *
A COWBOY'S GIFT Page 15