by Ilsa Mayr
He wouldn't have to, she realized. This irritated her. He wouldn't have to do a single thing and women would follow him, and the more disinterested he acted, the more persistently they would try to catch his attention. They probably unbuttoned their blouses, swished and swayed their hips, and paraded shamelessly in front of him to get him to notice them.
"But I bet you didn't discourage them," she said, her voice cold.
Quint grinned. "When I was eighteen, nineteen, I naturally thought life couldn't get any better than having women chase me. What red-blooded young buck wouldn't think that?"
"And when you got to be twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"
He shrugged. "I still like women. I'm pretty sure I always will, so sue me."
Aileen leveled a long look at him.
Quickly he added, "But groupies no longer interest me."
"Yeah, right.
"Really. It's the truth."
"Why not? Seems to me you wouldn't have to woo them, or wine and dine them to charm them into your bed." Aileen saw his jaw clench and his eyes narrow and knew she had crossed a line.
"Are you saying a rodeo bum isn't supposed to be choosy? Have any standards? Is that what you're claiming?"
"No. I'm sorry if I implied that. I didn't mean it. And I didn't call you a rodeo bum."
"You're too well brought up to say that out loud, but I bet you thought it."
"I wasn't thinking that. Until a few minutes ago, I didn't even know you followed the rodeo circuit."
"I never followed it full-time. I only entered events that were near the spreads where I worked."
"To earn extra money."
"Primarily, but I won't deny that it wasn't also thrilling. To a kid who'd been in and out of a half-dozen foster homes and agencies, who'd been considered wild and incorrigible, a little applause, a little recognition, was like salve on an open saddle sore. We didn't all grow up where you were given gold stars or words of praise and validation."
Aileen looked at him for a long moment. "I can't even begin to imagine what your teenage years were like."
"Darlin', you don't need to imagine my youth. I don't need your pity," he snapped.
She had hurt his feelings again without meaning to. With a pang she realized that behind that handsome, reckless facade, he hid barely healed wounds and an easily hurt pride. She would have to be more careful with her words.
"Looking at you, I'd never presume to offer you pity," she said. "I'm sure men envy you and women adore you."
"Horses and dogs like me too," Quint said, his tone selfmocking.
"I don't doubt that. You could probably charm the proverbial birds out of a tree as well," she said, matching his ironic tone. Then growing serious, she said, "What I meant was, I feel compassion for the boy who had no home."
"Well, the boy's all grown up, so save your compassion."
So much pain beneath that fierce pride. Aileen wanted to touch him, to...What? He didn't want compassion, and anything else was inappropriate. The tone of his voice told her that the discussion of his past was closed. At least for now. Aileen knew she wouldn't be able to leave it alone. She was always interested in people, so how could she not be intensely curious about Quint? She had never known a man like him.
She glanced at him. He hadn't shaved this morning. The dark stubble reinforced the aura of quiet danger that clung to him. Men would hesitate to tangle with him and women, if they had any sense of self-preservation, would cross the street when they saw him coming. And here she was, sharing a house with him. Heaven help her. The pressure around her lungs increased as if she had dived too deeply into the gray-green water of an unknown river.
"Have you had breakfast?" Quint asked.
"Only coffee."
"Why don't I cook us some flapjacks?"
Visualizing chewy, bland pancakes, she said, "Why don't we cooperate in fixing breakfast? There's a loaf of bread that's beginning to go stale. It'll be just right for French toast."
"Sounds good to me. What do you want me to do?"
"Set the table and pour juice. But first, get me two eggs from the fridge and the milk."
"Yes, ma'am."
Aileen ignored his mock-serious tone of voice. She cut the loaf of homemade bread into thick slices. Then she beat the eggs with milk, added spices, and soaked the bread in the fragrant liquid.
Quint sniffed. Whatever it was Aileen had added to the milk reminded him of her scent. He didn't know if the fragrance was due to perfume or was the natural smell of her skin; he hadn't been close enough to her to determine that. In any event, the scent made him think of the caramel on top of the flan his Aunt Ramona used to make. She wasn't really is aunt, but a kind woman who had taken him in after his mother's death. Unfortunately, a stroke had lamed her and sent him to his first foster home.
Dismissing thoughts of the past, he completed his tasks. Then he brooded over their earlier conversation about easy money and values as he watched her saute sausage patties in one pan and French toast in another. His initial assessment had been correct. He would have to prove himself to her, and that wouldn't be easy. She had high standards. Then and there he resolved that he would not only meet her standards, but surpass them. He would show her that he was good enough for her.
While they ate, Aileen turned the conversation back to the rodeo. "It's not that I disapprove of the rodeo as much as I simply don't understand it. What would possess a supposedly sane man to climb on the back of a bull who's been raised to be snake mean and chronically illtempered?"
Quint thought for a moment before answering her question. "I suppose the same thing that makes men climb snow-capped mountains, or race cars at death-defying speeds, or surf killer waves. The challenge. The danger. The satisfaction of doing it and surviving. The competition."
Aileen shook her head, signaling that this was incomprehensible to her. "You said this was your last rodeo competition?"
"Yes." Quint waited a beat. "Do you believe me?"
"I would like to, because the alternative is more than a little scary. What if you got hurt and were laid up for weeks, or months? Bob is past retirement age. He stayed on only because Dad got ill. He promised to work until I hired a competent foreman, but that could take time. I could learn to run the ranch, but that would take time as well. In the meantime, we could lose half the cattle and subsequently the land." Aileen paused to take a breath.
"I'm aware of what's at stake. I told you, I only entered because I'd already paid the fee. And the money I earned will cover my personal needs for quite a while."
"Why didn't you ask-"
"No! I've never asked a woman for money, and I'm not about to start now," Quint said, his voice rock-hard, his eyes emerald bright.
Aileen felt heat cover her face. "I'm sorry. We should have talked about money sooner. My fault. I was so caught up in all that's happened that I didn't think clearly."
"No need to apologize."
"Yes, there is," she insisted. He had risked his life riding a wild bull because she hadn't faced facts. "Let's talk about it now," she said. "This is how we've managed the finances in the past. I use part of my salary to buy groceries and pay the utility bills. Dad has...had an account for his personal expenses and an accountant who pays the hands and whatever the ranch needs. You should have an account too. And if this arrangement meets with your approval, we can continue it."
"I already opened an account." Quint paused, trying to frame his words carefully. "Do you have any idea what kind of financial shape the ranch is in?"
"No. Dad refused to discuss such things with me."
"I'm only asking because we need to make some longterm financial plans if the ranch is going to make a profit. Don't you agree?"
"Yes. I think we better take a trip to the accountant's office."
Quint nodded. "When can you go there with me?"
Aileen studied the wall calendar. "Not until Friday afternoon, but I'd like to know before then what shape we're in. If I call Mr. Holloway and tel
l him about you, are you willing to go there by yourself?"
"Sure. Why not."
"I'll phone him from school tomorrow."
It turned out that Mr. Holloway had retired. He'd kept the Triangle B as a client only as a favor to its late owner. The accountant had left for a monthlong vacation in Florida. His secretary assured Aileen that the hands had received next month's salary, that the feed bill had been taken care of, and the taxes had been paid. More than that the secretary couldn't tell Aileen, but she promised to have the accountant get in touch as soon as he returned.
When she told Quint that evening, he nodded thoughtfully. "At least we know everything's taken care of for the next month. After that, we'll see."
"I can't believe that the ranch is in serious financial trouble," Aileen said. "I mean, wouldn't Dad have said something?"
"Would he? Did he confide in you about ranch problems?"
Aileen shook her head, chagrined. This had always been a sore point, and for Quint to realize this so quickly was embarrassing. "In some ways he was a dinosaur. As I mentioned before, he claimed a woman's work was limited to the house and the garden. My mother was the only exception to this."
"Did he confide in your mother?"
"He must have. She kept the books. He hired the accountant after she died." Aileen pushed a piece of meat around on her plate, her appetite suddenly gone. "Of course, my mother kept the books before she got married. After her father died, she was in charge of the ranch for about five years. She knew everything about it and managed it successfully until she got married."
"When you were growing up, did you think you were well off?" Quint asked.
Aileen considered this question at length before she spoke. "Yes. We took vacations. We had nice clothes. In addition to the pickup, my parents each had a car which they always traded in for newer models long before the cars needed to be replaced. I had a college fund which paid for tuition." She shrugged. "We weren't poor. At least I don't think we were."
Quint chuckled, but it was a cynical sound rather than a humorous one. "I'm an authority on being poor, so let me assure you that you definitely weren't."
She studied his face, trying to gauge how much it had hurt him to have gone without when she'd had everything. His expression was unreadable. If anything, he looked tired. And he was also worried about something. "Quint, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, probably."
Aileen put her fork down. She carried her plate to the sink, where she set it down with unnecessary force. Then she whirled around to face him, her expression mutinous and determined. "Don't you dare do this to me. It's bad enough your father put me off with evasive answers. I had to take it from him, but I don't have to take it from you."
Quint covered the distance between them with deceptive speed. "Don't call him my father. Ever."
The anger in his green eyes caused Aileen to want to move back from him, but he had her trapped against the counter. She raised her chin. "Jack Bolton is your father. Or rather, was your father, whether you like it or not. Maybe he wasn't a great father-"
"Maybe he wasn't a great father? That lousy excuse for a man...." Quint forced the rest of his words to stick in his throat. He balled his hands into fists. He took a painful breath. "Let me tell you about the man you call my father. Jack Bolton saw a lovely, innocent young girl, filled her head with false promises, and seduced her."
Aileen felt the blood drain from her face. "What promises?"
"What do you think? That he would marry her. Leave his wife. What else? The miserable liar."
"No!" Aileen placed her hands over her ears.
"You asked. Now you have to listen." Gently Quint pulled her hands from her ears. "When she got pregnant, he discarded her like a worn-out saddle."
Aileen shook her head vigorously. "Discarded her? That's not possible. Maybe she left because her folks were leaving. Are you sure he knew about you?"
"Oh, yes, he knew. When my mother wrote him, telling him again that she was pregnant, he denied being responsible. He sent her a couple of hundred bucks hush money and told her never to bother him again. If she or any mem ber of her family ever set foot on the Triangle B, he'd sic the dogs on them."
Aileen gasped and swayed as if he had struck her. She clutched the edge of the counter behind her to steady herself. "I can't believe he could have done that," she cried out in protest.
"Why not? Because he was good to you and your mother?" Quint looked into her eyes, which were dark blue pools of shock, anger, and misery. He knew it was cruel to tell her this, but she had asked. "Aileen, you said the ranch belonged to your mother's family. Think about it. According to Bob, Jack Bolton blew onto this ranch like a tumbleweed, owning nothing more than a beat-up pickup, good looks, charm, and an overwhelming determination to improve his station in life."
"Just like you," she snapped, and immediately gasped, appalled at her own words. But she was too angry to apologize.
"True," Quint said, his voice harsh. "Except I was invited. Or summoned. I didn't manipulate a woman into giving me half ownership of this ranch." She looked as if she might faint. Realizing that Jack Bolton might have taken advantage of her beloved adoptive mother was obviously painful to Aileen. She turned away from him. Her head dropped forward, exposing the soft, vulnerable curve of her neck. Without conscious thought, Quint laid his hand on her neck, a gesture meant to be comforting.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said this. Maybe Jack did love your mother. Maybe he was only heartless to mine." Quint turned her to face him. She was so pale that the caramel-colored freckles on her face stood out in stark contrast.
"I don't know what to think," she whispered. "I'd like to believe that he loved my mother." Aileen took a shud dering breath. "Still, your story is proof that he was capable of cruelty, deceit, and irresponsibility."
Aileen's voice sounded strangled, as if it were being squeezed out past unshed, bitter tears. Quint stroked her hair.
"Did my fa...did Jack ever send money to help support you?"
"No. Never." Watching her grow even paler, he said, "Aileen, let it go."
She couldn't let it go. She had to know. "Did he know where you were?"
"My mom wrote him when she took sick."
"Did he respond?"
"He returned the letter with a fifty-dollar bill and wrote not to bother him again."
"Oh my God," Aileen murmured. She stifled a sob, though she could not stop the tears that ran down her face.
Quint's fingers traced the curve of her neck. "Don't cry, for heaven's sake. None of this is your fault. Besides, all this happened years ago. It's almost forgotten."
"As if something like this could ever be forgotten," she cried out.
"Maybe not forgotten, but you learn to live with it."
A violent shudder shook her body. "I can't believe this. My mom used to say not to mind him when he was super critical or aloof. She said it wasn't his way to show affection. Now I wonder if she was wrong about him-if he ever cared about anybody but himself."
"Surely he treated her and you well." Quint didn't add that it was in Jack's best interest to treat his wife decently. "He didn't mistreat either of you, I'm sure."
"No, he was polite and solicitous. Most of the time he called her `Miss Ruth,' which I always thought was quaint and sweet, but now I wonder if this was just another way of keeping an emotional distance."
"How did he treat you?" Quint asked.
"Mostly he ignored me. Mom said he was too busy to pay much attention to us, so I tried hard to make him notice me.11
"How?" Quint asked.
"By getting good grades and doing everything that was expected of me."
"Did it work?"
"Minimally. I've often wondered if he might have paid more attention to me if I'd messed up and gotten into trouble."
"Maybe. Out of curiosity, why didn't you?"
"I couldn't do that to my mother." Aileen bit her lip, trying to control her trembling voice. "In retrospect
, I realize that most likely he agreed to my adoption only because it meant so much to my mother. And probably because he felt guilty for cheating on her." A new burst of tears followed that admission.
Quint placed his arms firmly around Aileen and held her. The murmuring, soothing sounds of his voice slowly calmed her sobs. With his face pressed against her neck, he inhaled her scent. He hadn't been mistaken. Her skin smelled a little like caramel, making him long for that sweet, melted-sugar taste of all the feast days of his childhood.
He moved his head lower until his lips touched her neck. He meant to kiss her neck just once, but that wasn't enough. She was so delicious that the taste, the touch, the scent of her fogged his ability to think. With a small groan he pressed a series of kisses on her skin until he felt her tremble. That stopped him cold. What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? Had he forgotten that to him, kissing the tender neck of a woman was a potent aphrodisiac that nearly broke his control?
He released her abruptly. "Sorry, Aileen," Quint murmured, his voice husky, and fled from the kitchen.
Aileen stared after him as if in a trance. Her senses, her mind, her body were all in a turmoil. She felt as if the world as she had known it had disappeared. Her father, who had merely seemed cool and distant, had been unmasked as a selfish, cold, cruel, immoral man. Could Quint possibly be wrong? He had seemed so sure, had told his story so convincingly.
And then Quint had held her and comforted her. She thought he may even have kissed her neck. Why? What was that all about? She felt so confused, ungrounded, cut off at the knees. A sob escaped from her burning throat. Then a new torrent of tears nearly blinded her.
Holding onto the kitchen counter, she made her way to the pantry. There, shielded in its near darkness, she sank to the floor. She hugged her knees to her chest. Surrounded by the familiar, homey smells of strings of dried peppers, sacks of beans and onions, bottles of sweet clover honey, and tins of cinnamon and ginger, she allowed herself the luxury of weeping tears she had repressed since her mother's death.
Quint left the house before Aileen got up the next morning, for which she was unspeakably grateful. She wasn't sure she could have faced him with even a minuscule measure of equanimity.