by Juliet Burns
If she could just put aside this niggling sense of guilt, she’d make it through this just fine.
She rubbed her arms and wandered into the den. Drawn to the wall of picture windows, she gazed wistfully out, past the neglected pool and yard to the barn and corral in the distance. A lush forest of pines, oaks and sweet gums lined the horizon.
Audrey turned to scan the gloomy room. Her heart ached at the wasted potential of the room—and its owner. A pine-paneled wall opened to a dark hallway that led to the master bedroom, and on the other side, a large stone fireplace sat alone, like the house, cold and empty. The only furniture in the room was a tattered recliner and a big-screen TV.
Well, if she were going to carry out this charade, she should start cleaning this pigsty. The cowboys’—and girl’s—mud-caked jeans were piled high in the laundry room. As she put on a load to wash, a thought hit her. A real housekeeper would clean Mark’s room and change the sheets. She decided to tackle that room first thing tomorrow morning.
That night at dinner, Audrey self-consciously pulled the bottom of her T-shirt down after she set a giant bowl of mashed potatoes in the middle of the table.
Thank goodness for Ruth. All this testosterone in one room left her flustered and overwhelmed. Men definitely didn’t eat the way her sisters did. The meal was a loud, boisterous affair.
She learned a lot more than she ever wanted to know about ranching. Discussion of branding, ear tagging, vaccinations, calves, yearlings and castration all figured in the dinner conversation.
One of the youngest hands, Pete, had scrambled for the seat next to her. He leaned close and threw his arm across the back of her chair, caressing her shoulder. Knowing of his nomadic lifestyle, she tried to chalk it up to loneliness, and ignore him. But every time he touched her, she felt a strong urge to bathe.
“Ma’am, these chops are great!” Jim called from the other end of the table. “After working with cows all day, it’s nice to not have to eat one.” He stuffed a bite into his mouth.
Audrey stopped chewing momentarily as certain images came to mind. She would definitely lose some weight if there wasn’t a change of subject.
“They’re the best pork chops I’ve ever tasted,” Dalt agreed with his guaranteed-to-melt-hearts smile.
She smiled back. “Thank you. There’s a secret ingredient.”
“Mark loves pork chops,” John muttered from his seat across the table.
Mark was absent from the meal again, and she worried he wasn’t eating. Why on earth did she care, anyway? But John had given her the opening she’d been waiting for.
“Mr. Malone seems to have changed a great deal since the accident,” she fished.
John frowned and gave his full attention to his plate.
Audrey wouldn’t let it go this time. She needed information. “Was his right leg the only injury? What’s he going to do after he sells the ranch?”
John glanced up sharply, scowling.
Maybe she should act worried for his health. Act? “It’s just that he doesn’t seem to eat. I wondered if I should take some dinner in to him.”
As if they’d rehearsed it, several guys erupted into laughter at the same time.
Jim, still snickering, said, “Not unless your secret ingredient is whiskey!”
More laughter followed, but Audrey frowned with disapproval. “I don’t see what’s so funny about a man drinking himself into oblivion every night. You should be encouraging him to join AA or something.”
That sobered them up a little, so to speak. Jim finally answered. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Audrey, but Mark’s a grown man and ain’t nobody gonna tell him what to do. Besides,” he continued with a grin, “I win too much money off him to wanna change things.”
Ruth must’ve caught Audrey’s confused expression. “Some of us play poker at night,” she explained. “Guess with your room upstairs, you haven’t heard anything.”
So that explained the mess in the dining room. Poker! She didn’t know what else to say, so she mumbled something about being a sound sleeper and started clearing dishes off the table.
Looking slightly guilty, the men and Ruth thanked her for the meal and shuffled out.
As she loaded the dishwasher, a horrifying thought struck her. It would make a sensational story, but if she couldn’t stand to see Mark become a laughingstock to his own hired hands, how could she bring herself to write an exposé and tell the whole world about his problems?
Arms loaded with a tray containing pork chops, potatoes, broccoli and a slice of apple pie, Audrey knocked on the master bedroom door.
No answer.
She knocked again, louder.
A deep, slurred voice grumbled, “Go away!”
She rapped again and shouted through the door, “I’ve brought you some dinner.”
Silence.
She took a deep breath for courage and shoved the door open with her shoulder.
The only light came from a metal gooseneck lamp on a small plastic table by the bed. The rest of the room was shrouded in shadow. The hand-carved pine bed and an old-fashioned armoire against one wall was the only other furniture. Empty beer bottles and dirty tumblers littered the table, and clothes were strewn on the floor. How could anyone live like this?
Mark was sitting on the side of the king-size bed, wearing only a pair of white briefs, his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. His broad chest sported a light dusting of chestnut hair, and his arms and left thigh were thick with muscles. Even with the injured leg and a scruffy beard, Mark Malone was sinfully gorgeous.
Stop thinking like that! You’re here for one purpose, to get the story of the Lone Cowboy!
Powerless to stop herself, she looked her fill. His right leg was shrunken, with long, jagged scars snaking around from the top of his thigh all the way to his ankle. As she stood there, she wondered where she would find the coverage to ask about his injury?
Mark glanced up and did a double take. What the hell? It was little Ms. Nosy. Couldn’t she respect a man’s privacy? He grabbed the sheet and threw it over his leg. Had she seen it?
“What do you want?”
She extended a huge tray of food. “Um, I brought you dinner. I thought you should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.” His head ached and his leg throbbed and he didn’t want her pity.
“Are you sure?” She moved closer, and the aroma of honey and garlic drifted to him. “John said you love pork chops.”
Anger flared. Of course—John had put her up to this! “No, thanks.” He spied a half-full beer bottle on the nightstand and reached for it.
“You don’t really need that, do you? You know, drinking won’t solve your problems.”
“Look, lady,” he sighed, his hand halted halfway to the table. “You don’t know anything about my problems.”
The bed dipped as she set the tray on the mattress. “My name is Audrey.” She strode over to the table and grabbed up an empty beer bottle. “I’ll just clear this off while I’m here.” The glass bottles clanked as she filled her arms.
Mark winced. His stomach churned. His head pounded as if a bronc had kicked it. He just needed a sip to take the edge off. Before she could take it away, he leaned forward and grabbed the half-full bottle from her hand.
Damn. She had that hurt look again. Her green eyes reproached him. His gaze dropped to her full lips. She licked them and he envied her tongue. He looked back up to her eyes and leaned forward, reaching out a hand to touch her smooth cheek.
For a moment, he thought she felt the same pull he did. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened. But she jerked back and made a little sputtering sound.
Damn it! What the hell was he thinking? He looked away and started to drink.
The beer was almost to his mouth when she latched on to the bottle. “Stop! You have this beautiful ranch, and good friends, yet all you do is sit in here and drown your sorrows. There’s so much more to life!”
He glared at her. �
�Lady, if I want a sermon, I’ll go to church.” He tugged on the bottle.
She didn’t take the hint. “Please. This isn’t the man I’ve admired all these years.”
Who the hell does she think she is? “I’m not the Lone Cowboy anymore!” As if to prove his words true, his muscle cramped and pain streaked down his leg. “I can barely walk.”
“Oh, please!” She let go of the beer and stalked around the room. “The point is you can walk. And you’ve got two strong arms.” She grabbed clothes and bottles as she ranted. “You can do whatever you set your mind to.”
“Are you through yelling?” he said, grinding out the words. He might take this from John, but he didn’t have to listen to some carping housecleaner, even if she did have a cute, round behind.
She turned back to him, one hand on her hip. “No.” The woman was relentless. “My brother-in-law has ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. It attacks his muscles, and every day he loses more ability to move his arms and legs. He’s in a wheelchair. He can’t talk or move his hands or even swallow. He won’t live to see his son grow up!” She stopped in front of him and shook her fistful of clothes at him. “Yet he gets up every morning and thanks God for one more day!”
She glanced at the empty beer bottles and dirty clothes in her arms with a look of disbelief. Her brows drew together and her eyes darted about the room as if she were amazed to find it straightened.
Mark stared at her. Her brother-in-law was dying? What had she called it? ALS? And the poor guy had a son? What a screwed-up world. His own father had never bothered to be a part of his or Keith’s lives.
He realized he still held the beer. Ah, finally a nice, long swallow.
She snatched his liquid relief just as he raised the bottle to his mouth again.
“What the hell?”
The interfering little tyrant stalked to the bathroom, and a second later he heard the sound of the precious fluid splashing in the sink, his hopes for a cure flowing down the drain. For a moment he sat frozen by fury until, like a volcano, he erupted, spewing every curse word he knew.
She stomped back out of the bathroom and dumped the clothes and bottles in a heap at his feet. “What a waste of a life!” A smug look of triumph illuminated her face as she sailed out of the room.
Three
A hoarse shout penetrated her sleep. Audrey rolled out of bed, grabbed her robe and scrambled down the stairs, heading toward the origin of the cry. Did her mother need another pain shot?
Audrey stopped and rubbed her eyes as she became more alert. Her mother had died eleven years ago, and she was at the Double M.
Had she dreamed the sound of someone yelling out in pain? She crept to Mark’s door and listened. When she heard nothing but silence, she turned to leave.
“No!” a strangled voice called out.
She pushed open the door and raced to his side. With the light from the connecting bathroom, she could see his shadowy figure lying on the bed. He appeared to be asleep. The sheets were tangled around the lower half of his long torso, and his face and chest glistened with sweat. His hair was mussed and he twisted away with a low moan. His expression looked so tortured, he seemed a different man from the belligerent drunk of last night.
Was he reliving that night the bull crushed his leg? Or was there something else in this man’s life that prompted this horrible dream?
She reached out a tentative hand to brush a strand of hair off his cheek, but checked her dangerous impulse. Her palm hovered over him for what seemed like minutes.
His arm flashed up and knocked her hand away with a coarse swearword.
Mark bolted up in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. His leg throbbed. Relentless images flashed through his mind.
His mom was screaming. Mark dragged Keith to the safety of the back bedroom. His brother was only three, and didn’t understand what was happening. Through the bedroom window he saw the flashing light of the police car. The medic yelled, “She’s still alive,” while the cops took his father away in handcuffs. Dad would never come back.
And Mark knew it was all his fault.
“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked.
Mark blinked and focused on a blurry figure a few feet away. Audrey. What was she doing here? Oh, God. Had he yelled in his sleep?
“Just dandy.”
“Anything I can do?”
Great. Florence Nightingale to the rescue.
“No, I’m fine.” He closed his eyes and winced, wishing he hadn’t thrown out those pain pills the doctor had prescribed. They’d kept him blessedly numb in the hospital.
Beer. He needed a beer and an aspirin.
He threw back the sheet and started to swing his leg to the floor, but she was still there, hovering.
Why didn’t she just leave? He couldn’t see much, but what he saw had his blood heating up. The lush curves teased him from beneath her robe. His body hardened. At least he wasn’t thinking about the nightmare anymore.
“I heard you cry out. It might help to talk about it.”
Her melodic voice aroused him more. “You want to help?” He stood and put his hands on his hips, displaying his need. “Come here and kiss my troubles away.”
Her gaze darted down, and the whites of her eyes got bigger like a scared filly, before her shadowy silhouette swished out of his room.
He called after her. “What’d ya expect, a hero?”
Ignoring the pain, he stood and carefully slipped on his jeans. He caught a whiff of her lingering, sultry citrus scent as he headed for the stable.
Mark flipped on the light and made his way to his stallion’s stall, grabbing a brush and a bucket of oats along the way. It had been a few days since he’d checked on his horse. Lone Star nickered and tossed his head.
“Whoa, there, boy. How ya been?” He ran his hand down the stallion’s flank and poured the oats into his trough. Lone Star didn’t seem to mind it was three in the morning.
It might help to talk about it. What the hell did she know? Talking wouldn’t help. He’d had that nightmare ever since he’d ratted on his mother. And deserting his brother had only made it worse.
Mark ran the brush across Star’s back. “We had us some great times, didn’t we, Star? For a while there, I could pretend I was somebody else.”
He scratched the giant stallion behind the ear. “They been treating you good, boy? You lonely?” Lone Star whinnied and nudged Mark with his nose. “Yeah, me neither.” Out of habit, Mark stooped to check Star’s hooves. Searing pain shot through his leg. He stumbled forward, catching the horse around its neck for support. “Damn it to hell!”
Lone Star trembled, but remained steady as Mark pulled himself up and rested his forehead against the horse’s neck. “I oughta sell you, boy,” he whispered. “You’re wasted on me.”
Mark rubbed his throbbing leg as he headed for the house. Just past the barn doors he caught a whiff of…lemon. Damn it! He turned, and there she was, flattened against the barn wall like a prison escapee.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She stepped forward, clutching the front of her robe together with both hands. “I was worried about you.”
“About me?” Women didn’t worry about Mark Malone. They either wanted money or their fifteen minutes of fame.
“You find that so hard to believe?”
He crossed his arms. “Yeah, I do. Were you in there?” He nodded toward the barn doors.
She nodded. “I guess we both like to visit Lone Star when we need to sort things out.”
“What? Lady, you’ve been watching too many TV talk shows!” He spun around and walked back to the dark house, putting equal weight on his throbbing leg. He’d be damned if she’d see him limp.
He slammed through the back door and headed straight for the bar. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, he didn’t even bother with a glass. He stopped in midstride, staring at his gold championship buckles on display. Bile rose in his throat, and the rage seething in his veins erupted. He raked his
hand across the shelf, sending the belt buckles crashing to the floor.
Audrey awoke with a vague sense of hopelessness. Last night’s incident with Mark weighed on her mind. She’d never forget the heart-wrenching pain in Mark’s hoarse shout.
It was still pitch-dark when she stumbled to the kitchen to cook breakfast for what seemed like the entire U.S. Army. If she never saw a slice of raw bacon again, she’d be a happy woman. Writing the “Dear Audrey” column was beginning to seem like a dream job. It didn’t look as if she’d ever get a story here, anyway. Only propositions from drunks and unsavory ranch hands.
Grumbling to herself, she set the table. Nine years ago, she’d dreamed of Mark whisking her off on his horse and living happily ever after.
How pathetic.
Over the years, the few men who had looked past her plain features and plumpness to ask her out had only wanted one thing. Even if she’d been willing to do that on a first date—or even a second—she would’ve been too embarrassed to get undressed.
She’d been fourteen when her mom died, and until recently, she’d put all her energy into taking care of her dad and two younger sisters. But Miranda had her degree now, and a hunky boyfriend, and Claire had her husband and three-year-old son.
And all Audrey had was a dead-end job.
As the sun rose in a brilliant palette of pinks and lavenders, so did Audrey’s spirits. Was she going to give up now? Just because things were a little more difficult than she’d imagined? Slink back to the magazine and be taken for granted the rest of her boring life?
No way.
After breakfast Audrey dragged the vacuum cleaner to the den, intent on conquering the dust and dirt there.
Mark shuffled in with a six-pack and settled into his recliner.
She pursed her lips at the thought of him spending another day lounging in the recliner watching sports news. She glared at him and fired up the vacuum.