by Jeanne Allan
“Charlotte?”
The hesitant voice from the other side of the counter startled her. She hadn’t heard anyone come in. Her gaze flew to a spot above Tim’s head. No one stood there. Charlotte looked down. “This is a surprise. Where’s your dad?”
He shrugged. “I hafta go to the bathroom.”
Troubled by the evasive answer, Charlotte counseled herself to be patient. The mall restrooms were only a few feet away, and she stood in the doorway to the store waiting for Tim to return. “Now. Where’s your dad?”
Tim checked the price tag on a straw hat. “Jeez. No wonder you was mad at Snowball for eating yours.”
“I wasn’t mad.” Tim’s obvious reluctance to answer her question occasioned a sense of foreboding, but she refused to panic. He could be embarrassed after her refusal to marry his dad. “Are you with your grandmother?” At his quick head shake, she asked, “With your Kenton grandparents? Your aunt Paula?” Each question prompted another negative shake. He was avoiding her eyes. “Timothy Thorneton,” she said sternly. That won her a quick, narrow-eyed look of reproach. “What’s going on?”
Tim ran a finger down the glass showcase. “Dad told Grandma he’s buying your ranch. He said you didn’t want it.” He looked at Charlotte, hurt and censure spilling from his eyes. “Me and Snowball thought you liked us.”
Charlotte walked around the showcase. “It has nothing to do with you,” she began, reaching for Tim’s stiff shoulders.
He shrugged off her hands. “Why won’t you marry Dad? Now he’s gonna marry her and I hate you.”
Judging from the pain, her heart had shattered into a million pieces. She managed to gather herself raggedly together. She had to deal with Tim. She’d deal with the rest later. “You ran away from home, didn’t you?” At his nod, she sighed, brushed aside some clothing from a wicker chair and sat so her eyes were level with his. “You better tell me about it.” When he finished she said, “I have to call your dad. He must be frantic.”
“I wouldn’t run away if you married him.”
Charlotte shook her head. “That’s baby talk. You can’t go around hurting and scaring people who love you just to get your own way.”
Tim hung his head and scuffed his toe along the pattern of the rug. “You mad at me? Don’t you like me no more?”
Charlotte held out her arms. As Tim gripped her neck tightly, she breathed in the smell of small boy and blinked back hot tears. “Hey, kiddo, we’ll always be friends.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“I know.” Charlotte gave him one last squeeze and dialed the ranch. Matthew answered the phone. “Matthew, it’s Charlotte. I—”
“I can’t talk right now. I don’t want to tie up the phone. Tim—”
“Is here.” Dead silence greeted her words. “In Denver. He remembered the name of the mall and—”
“I’ll charter a plane and be there as soon as I can,” came Matthew’s grim voice.
“I’m closing early and taking him home right now. Matthew, he’s fine.”
“So far.” He slammed the phone down.
“Is he mad?” The freckles stood out on Tim’s wan face.
“Maybe a little. He must have been terribly worried.”
Tim gave her a speculative look. “He’ll probably beat me.”
“Timothy Thorneton, I don’t believe your father has ever beaten you or ever would.”
“Once me and my friend was messing around and Dennis’s chickens sorta got loose. Dad made me catch them and I had to get the eggs and clean the henhouse. For a whole week.”
Charlotte had a hard time not laughing at the outrage in Tim’s voice.
* * *
Everyone else had gone to bed by the time Matthew’s pounding fist summoned Charlotte to the door. Not bothering to acknowledge her, he strode into the house. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs, in my room, sleeping.”
Matthew brushed past her, covering the entry in one stride. He started up the stairs two at a time.
“Matthew, wait.”
He stopped and turned. “What’s wrong?”
“Tim’s fine, really.” Charlotte grabbed the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. “I just thought... He’s only a little boy. Maybe you should wait until morning and...” Her voice withered under Matthew’s blistering look as he moved slowly down the stairs until he towered over her.
He grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. “Are you trying to protect my son from me?” he asked savagely. “Did he say he needed your protection?”
His fingers were crushing her chin. “I know you’re angry, and—”
“Why should I be angry? My son ran away from home rather than come to me with whatever problem he had. And you’re acting as if I routinely take a belt to him.” His fingers tightened. “Lara never came to me with her unhappiness, either. What kind of uncaring monster do you all think I am?”
The pain of Matthew’s fierce grip was nothing compared to the suffering he was inflicting on himself. His voice might sound thick with rage, but bewilderment and hurt darkened his brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m acting like an idiot. I know you’re not going to harm him.” Reaching up, she pressed her fingers lightly against Matthew’s cheek. “As for Tim, I think having to clean Dennis’s chicken coop is what worries him most.”
Matthew frowned at her, then uttered a sharp bark of laughter. He eased the pressure on her chin. “He tell you why?”
She nodded. “Go see for yourself he’s OK, and then I’ll tell you what he told me. Second door on the right.”
Matthew absently dropped a quick kiss on her lips before racing up the staircase. When he returned, Charlotte handed him coffee in a mug she’d unearthed from the back of a cupboard. He took a deep swallow. “Thanks. I didn’t take time for dinner.” She lifted a napkin off a plate of sandwiches. Grabbing one, Matthew took a large bite and saluted her with the rest of the sandwich. Eventually he put down the empty plate and leaned his head back against the sofa, stretching out his long legs and closing his eyes.
Charlotte allowed her gaze to roam freely over him. Matthew had obviously rushed to the airport without changing, his work boots covered with who-knew-what and a smear of mud decorating his worn jeans. He’d tossed his dirty, battered cowboy hat on the table and his hair was a mess. Deep squint lines fanned out from his closed eyes, while a patch of windburn reddened one cheek. He needed a shave. Even with eyelashes long and dark against tanned skin, Matthew could not precisely be called handsome. What he was was devastatingly male.
“Interesting bedroom you have.”
Busy telling herself Matthew’s masculine charms meant nothing to her, it took a moment before his words penetrated. It had been foolish to hope he’d be too distracted to notice the various photographs and ribbons hanging on her bedroom walls. Nothing escaped Matthew’s keen eyes. “So now you know.”
“I knew before. The second night you were at the ranch, I called your mom to assure her I hadn’t strangled you yet.” He opened one eye. “She was pleased to hear you’d been riding, and went on at great length about your horseback riding experience and skills. I assume you didn’t tell her of your plans because she wouldn’t have approved.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You didn’t seem to be doing any real harm, and I hated to spoil your fun. And I didn’t want to spoil mine,” he added unexpectedly, grinning slightly. “You were as entertaining as a TV comedy. I never knew what you were going to think of next.”
“You weren’t so amused when you landed in the stock pond.”
“Ah, the stock pond.” He straightened up. “Tell me why Tim ran away.” The hint of laughter disappeared from his voice. His face was grim, almost haggard.
“He didn’t really run away,” Charlotte said quickly. “He wanted to talk to me, and a high school boy, the brother of a friend, was driving up, and Tim convinced the boy he had your permission to come.”
“Why you
?”
His unblinking stare unnerved her. Not that she’d expected this discussion to be easy. Charlotte stared at the wallpaper behind his head. “He found out you’re going to marry Paula.”
“How he’d find that out?”
So it was true. The lights in the living room momentarily dimmed. She folded her hands in her lap. “Paula told him.”
“I still don’t understand why he came to you.”
“He wanted me to tell you I’d changed my mind,” she said evenly. “To tell you I’d marry you.”
His gaze never left her face. “What did you tell him?”
“I said you’d never marry Paula.”
“Did he believe you?”
“No. Paula’s parents told him it was true, and he saw they were excited about it. When he went to ask your mom, he found her unpacking an old wedding dress, for the bride, she said. She was so happy, he didn’t tell her he hated the idea.”
“Why didn’t he ask me?”
“He said he did, and you told him it was a big secret and you thought it best not to talk about it yet.”
“Ah.” Matthew lounged back against the sofa. “I remember that conversation. I also remember thinking at the time his reception of the news wasn’t quite what I’d anticipated, but I assumed it was a passing pang of jealousy. The child suddenly realizing he’ll have to share the parent. That sort of thing.”
Charlotte sprang to her feet and paced across the rug. “Matthew, you know Tim detests Paula and she detests him.”
“I don’t think I’d put it quite so strongly.”
She whirled, her hands on her hips. “How would you put it when a woman refuses to call her future stepson by his name?”
Matthew shrugged. “Things will work out.”
“Sure. She’ll probably send him off to boarding school,” Charlotte snapped.
“I’m not sure it’s your concern.”
The tone was mild, but the words were a slap across her face. “I like Tim,” she said stiffly. “I care about his happiness and well-being.”
“If you really care—” Matthew’s gaze followed her agitated pacing across the floor “—you’ll do something about it.”
Charlotte turned slowly to face him. If she’d misunderstood the challenge in his words, there was no misunderstanding the challenge clearly written on his face. She cleared her throat. “Such as what?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze bore steadily into hers. “What Tim said. Marry me. Save me from Paula.”
A million inner voices screamed at her to turn him down. “All right. I will marry you.” The minute the words were out of her mouth she wanted desperately to recall them. The odd look on his face brought it forcibly home to her he’d clearly expected her to say no. Not knowing how to retreat, she plunged ahead. “But I’ll want a prenuptial agreement.”
Matthew had regained control of his facial muscles. “Covering what?”
“The water rights. You can’t have them. I’ll be a mother to your son, and you can have the ranch and everything else, but you can’t have the water rights.” For a moment she thought she glimpsed icy rage in his brown eyes, but then he partially lowered his lids, effectively hiding his thoughts.
“What do you intend to do with them?” His voice was calm.
“Put them in a trust fund for my mother. Chick Gannen should have taken care of her, but he didn’t, and neither did his father. This way, no matter what happens, she’ll always be provided for.”
Sitting up straight, Matthew picked up his hat and circled the brim with a finger. Around and around. Finally he said simply, “No.” Slowly he rose to his feet. “No marriage, no happy bridegroom, no prenuptial agreement.”
Charlotte felt the blood drain from her head. She clutched the back of the nearest chair, an old wooden rocker. “I see.” His only reason for marrying her was to obtain the water rights. “That certainly clarifies the situation, doesn’t it?”
“It did for me.” He halted beside her. “I doubt if it clears anything up for you. You’re so blinded by resentment and hatred for Charlie and Chick Gannen, you can’t see the nose on your own freckled face.”
“How I feel about them has nothing—”
“It has everything,” he said curtly. “You’ve painted them as villains, you hate them, and you think because Charlie and Chick and I come from the same place, the same background, we’re cut from the same mold. The only reason you want to put those water rights in a trust for your mom is you don’t trust me. You can’t get it through your thick redheaded skull I am not Charlie or Chick Gannen.” He walked deliberately to the front door, clapped his hat on his head and turned to face her. “Adios, cream puff.” He reached for the doorknob, hesitated, tossed his hat to the floor and swiftly retraced his steps to her side. “This is for the stock pond,” he muttered harshly, his mouth claiming hers.
For a moment Charlotte stood frozen, one hand still glued to the back of the rocker. Then, with a small whimper, she wound her arms around Matthew’s neck and returned his kiss. If the kiss was started in revenge, it quickly transformed into passion. While Matthew’s hands possessively roamed her body, his mouth laid claim to her lowered eyelids, her cheekbones, her jaw, her ears, her forehead and, of course, her mouth. She gasped as his fingers found her swollen breast and teased the hard, aching tip. He instantly took advantage of her parted lips. His kiss was deep and thorough and totally shattering. When Matthew finally lifted his head, Charlotte groped blindly for the rocker, clinging desperately to it with shaking hands.
Reaching in his pocket, Matthew pulled out a bundle of envelopes. “I almost forgot. Letters from Chick to Charlie from Vietnam. The last one must have come after Chick died, because Charlie never opened it. Mom found them yesterday while she was cleaning some drawers.” At the door Matthew swept up his hat. “I’m staying down the street.” He named a nearby hotel. “Since Tim’s asleep, I’ll pick him up in the morning.” The door closed silently behind him.
Charlotte staggered around the rocking chair and fell into it with a thud. The envelopes dropped to her lap. Matthew Thorneton was nothing but a rude, overbearing, long-legged cowboy. She ran a finger over her lips. Skin against skin. That’s all it was when his lips touched hers. Skin against skin.
Aunt Faye walked into the living room from the kitchen. “The way you’ve been acting since you returned from the ranch, I suspected something was going on.”
“How long you been listening?” Charlotte asked dully.
“I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. I had indigestion and came down for some medicine. When I heard you and Matt in here I thought I could tiptoe in and out without disturbing you, but then he started to leave, so I thought I’d better wait.”
“And you saw the kiss and think you know what’s going on.”
“Saw the kiss, heard some of what he said and know exactly what’s going on.” Aunt Faye sat down on the sofa, folded her arms across her chest and looked steadily at Charlotte. “Do you?”
Charlotte leaned her head wearily against the wooden rungs of the rocker. “If nothing else, this experience has taught me how Mom came to grief over Chick Gannen.” She shuffled the envelopes in her lap. “It’s a very powerful thing, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“This magic elixir Western men have.” Charlotte set the rocker into motion. “It’s a myth, you know, that cowboys are strong and tall and brave and true. Cowboys are highly overrated as the ultimate specimens of mankind. I prefer men in spotless, immaculately creased tuxedos to rugged macho males in dusty jeans and muddy boots.”
Aunt Faye sighed. “Lying to me is bad enough. But lying to yourself...”
The rocker creaked in the quiet room. “I didn’t want to fall in love with him. He’s arrogant, single-minded and a cowboy. I didn’t fall in love with a man, I fell in love with an icon. Like mother, like daughter.” She rocked steadily. “He can be gentle and considerate. He’s kind to animals and good to his mother, and
if you could see him with Tim...” She rocked harder. “Do you suppose I’ve been looking for a father figure? Except—” she abruptly halted the rocker “—he’s so darned sexy.”
“It sounds to me,” Aunt Faye said slowly, “like all this cowboy nonsense is a smoke screen. What are you really afraid of?”
Charlotte gave her aunt a tremulous smile. “I never could fool you, could I?” She crumpled the envelopes in her lap. “He’s still in love with his dead wife. What am I going to do?”
* * *
What was the point of having an aunt if she made you solve your own problems? Charlotte thought, not for the first time, as she crossed the carpeted lobby. The clerk referred her to a nearby bank of house phones. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte picked up the receiver and asked for Matthew’s room. The ringing seemed to go on forever before the hotel switchboard operator asked if she’d like to leave a message. Charlotte declined. It was too late. He’d gone. She should have considered how early Matthew arose. They’d probably passed on the street.
“What are you doing here?”
Charlotte froze before turning slowly to face the owner of the low, growling voice. “How did you know it was me?”
One swift glance took in her simple peach-colored silk trouser outfit. “I recognized the back of your head.”
She ventured a smile. “By the red hair or the thick skull?”
“That remains to be seen.” His fingers closed around her arm, and he led her to the elevator.
Inside the cage, Charlotte stared at the numbers clicking off above the door. What if this was a big mistake? How had her mother at age twenty been so sure of Chick Gannen?
The elevator doors slid open. Down the hall, Matthew unlocked a door and ushered her inside. “I assume you’re here to see me.”
“Yes.” Warm moist air from Matthew’s shower hung in the room. Ignoring the rumpled bed, Charlotte walked to the window and feigned interest in the view. Her palms were sweaty; her heart hammered in triple time. Sensing Matthew behind her, she took a deep breath and turned. “I guess you could say I’m here about the water rights.”