by Cait London
“That’s my business.”
“You always were difficult and bull-headed.”
Without pausing, Mitchell shot an edgy taunt at her. “And you like things nice and easy, don’t you?”
She didn’t understand the shifting emotions, and frowned up at him. Mitchell pushed away from the counter and turned on the faucets full force. He bent his head beneath the running water and scrubbed his face.
“What’s with you?” she asked, trying to understand how she’d upset him.
When he straightened and deliberately wiped his face while looking at her, she knew he was washing her touch from him. “You,” he said as he ran the towel roughly over his hair, leaving it in shaggy peaks.
Mitchell wasn’t in a mood for gentleness or understanding as he hurled the kitchen towel into the sink and issued his challenge: “Coming?”
Uma’s reply surprised her. She wondered if his bristling mood was contagious as she lifted her chin, staring at him boldly. If he wanted an argument, she could give him one. “Only if you ask nice.”
Mitchell considered her face, the way her body tensed as his look raked down and up. “Terms?”
“You could call them that. I don’t like feeling like a tagalong. Either you invite me, or you don’t.”
She didn’t trust the way his mouth curved slowly, or the low husky intimate tone, “Well, Ms. Thornton, would you mind accompanying me this morning?”
“That’s better. Yes, I would love to, Mr. Warren,” she said very properly and wondered why she had agreed. Why Mitchell fascinated her. Why she wanted to reach out and shake him.
At the ranch, or what was left of it, Mitchell tossed the brush onto a pile and glanced at Uma; she didn’t deserve the backlash of his dark mood. With a bad, restless night behind him, he’d battled the garden for physical relief.
And found that he liked it.
All those years when he’d worked his way up the corporate ladder, he actually liked the physical movement, the tending of trees and plants. Just one more thing he didn’t know about himself, that he enjoyed the simplicity of working with his hands.
The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know how to react to those soft, caring looks, that light sweet touch of her fingers upon his skin.
He should apologize, but he—Mitchell hurled a limb onto the pile. He never apologized. Never. The morning was cool, with just enough warmth to foretell the day’s baking heat, and he remembered that his father had never apologized. People take apologizes as a sign of weakness…
Mitchell frowned and studied his hands locked to the pickup’s side panels. The pickup jolted and he looked up to see Uma standing on the bed, taking the old broom in the back and sweeping out the leaf and twig clutter. “I can do that,” he said, nettled that she would be helping him, working with him.
And he wondered why.
There, moving tall and leggy, silhouetted in front of the bright morning sun, capable and lithe and all slender curves, Uma looked like any other woman, not the cool artist-type who preferred her shadowy office and her quiet. Or was she?
Mitchell could almost feel his fingers locking into those hips, smoothing those long, slender legs. In his mind, an erotic flash of skin against skin, of those long legs circling his hips as he drove into her, just sex and heat and woman making him forget everything—
When she put down the broom and made to leap from the back of the pickup bed, Mitchell stood in front of her. He wondered what she would do—
“Move,” she ordered and he took pleasure in that tight tone.
“Or?” He wondered how far he could push her before—
She placed her hands on her waist and looked down at him. “Mitchell Warren, you are as perverse as you were as a boy. Just every bit as ornery. Now, step back.”
With his hand sweeping low in front of him in a bow, Mitchell stepped aside and Uma leaped to the ground. “You just love doing that, don’t you? Challenging me? Why?”
“Because you’re here and I like getting to you. You sizzle, just a nice smothered sort of anger, all very ladylike—and I wonder what it would take to get you really riled. Call it entertainment.”
Uma’s gray eyes narrowed, then she lifted her head and walked away from him to the overgrown rubble of the house. He rarely entered other people’s lives, but Uma seemed so complete and strong and yet feminine.
He wondered how any man could let her go and why she didn’t want remarriage to a man as gentle and upstanding as Everett; why she didn’t want a home of her own and a family when she suited the role.
He wondered why that lurch of possession shot through him, to hold her, to have her. He came to stand behind her and heard himself ask, “Do you like being single?”
“I do. I like my life.” She pushed an old board with her foot as the old windmill slowly whirred nearby. “Tell me about that night.”
“No.”
Those gray eyes turned to look up at him, searching his shadows. “Afraid?”
“Of telling you? No.” She was pushing, trying to understand something he couldn’t. To give himself thinking room, removing himself from the passion inside, he said, “The Warren homestead was originally 640 acres. Now it’s only forty.”
She knew everything, but still those gray eyes studied him and the night of the fire pushed out of him, something he’d never shared with anyone else. There, in that cool summer morning, amid the old burned house, that bitter night slashed out of him as fresh as when it had happened—the living terror of seeing the barn blaze.
“Roman and I saw the fire first. Dad was drinking and we couldn’t rouse him. The horses went wild, the smoke so thick you couldn’t see, and you could only hear those awful sounds. The barn doors had been nailed shut. By the time we found a crowbar to pry the plank free and get the horses out, the house was on fire and Dad was screaming. The doors to the house had been nailed shut while Roman and I fought the fire. It was arson…payback for something I’d done, or didn’t do.”
The smoke of that night choked him, the fear wrapping around him as he turned away. “There’s not much after that. Dad died on the way to town.”
Tell Grace that I’ve always loved her, his father had whispered amid his pain. Everything was my fault. Take Roman and go to her…
But he hadn’t; he needed Roman perhaps more than his younger brother needed him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Roman going to a mother who had left her sons and husband. Mitchell looked down to where Uma’s slender pale fingers held his own, and then up to the softness of her eyes. He tore his hand away, rubbing it against the other and studying the two fingers webbed by fire.
“You still feel guilty, don’t you?” Uma asked quietly at his side. “You think that you could have done something to save him, that you failed in some way.”
“I should have seen it coming. At nineteen, I had some idea about what a woman could do. Tessa was a woman who always got what she wanted. I didn’t want her.”
“Tessa Greenfield?” Uma’s sharply indrawn breath said she understood immediately.
“Her husband was dead of a heart attack by the time I put the pieces together and got Roman under control. When I walked out, Tessa was still screaming, cursing at me.”
A slight breeze riffled through the tops of the old elms, broken by fierce Oklahoma storms, and Mitchell heard his father whisper, Tell Grace that I’ve always loved her. Everything was my fault. Take Roman and go to her—
“Tessa just lives across the county line, not eighty miles from here. She sold the ranch and moved when Max died, so she could have more of a social life than on the ranch. You came that close to Madrid and never came back in all that time?”
When he shook his head, Uma looked off into the distance. “And that’s when you decided money meant everything, that and power. I saw the letters on your kitchen cabinet. Money and prestige weren’t enough, were they? You can’t get over this. You’re still wearing that guilt—that you were the reason he died and your family lost
what was left of the old homestead.”
“I think about it sometimes,” Mitchell said, unwilling to give her everything. “I imagine your father had a lot to say about—”
“His feud is his own. But in a way, you both are alike, carrying dirty old laundry with you, when there’s nothing to be done about it. How does Roman feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean, you don’t talk about it, right? You just locked it up and—”
“Lay off.”
The slow rise of color in her cheeks told him that she didn’t like his attitude. “Don’t forget you’re in my town now, Mitchell Warren, Vice President of Sales. I know the people here. I love them, and I won’t have you storming around, brooding, tossing off all sorts of porcupine needles—”
“‘Porcupine needles?’” Mitchell stared at the woman pacing back and forth in the sunlight. He could have picked her up and carried her into the truck and used her passion in a way that would satisfy them both—or could he? He wasn’t exactly certain what would satisfy Uma.
“Well, invisible barbs when someone comes too close.”
In his adult lifetime, few people had lectured Mitchell. He didn’t like it; in his youth he had taken enough orders from Fred. “Anything else while you’re at it? Just what’s bothering you about me?”
“Just don’t forget that you’re in my town. If you’ve got any big ideas about tearing everything apart—forget it.”
He leaned back against the pickup and crossed his arms. “My, my, my. How you do talk. And by the way, it’d suit me if you’d keep my private life private.”
She waved her hands again and shook her head. “As if I’m a pipeline to the world. I know what is private and what isn’t. Don’t fight me on this, Mitchell. You’ll lose.”
After her morning with Mitchell, an afternoon with Everett was soothing. Uma hadn’t expected Mitchell to be able to rile her, but he had. He’d stood there, tall and powerful against that black beast of a pickup and his expression said he was amused.
Amused. She amused him.
Uma trembled slightly. Unless she was mistaken, Mitchell’s look at her was purely sexual—raw, vibrating through the bright sunshine and locking within her. The ride home had been silent, and he’d driven right to her home—something that was certain to irritate her father. Mitchell had reached across her and opened the door, his arm brushing her breast.
In that frozen moment when neither moved, Uma’s heart stopped, her senses too aware of the currents between them. “Better go inside,” Mitchell had said softly, tauntingly. “Where it’s safe.”
She shivered again as she realized Everett was speaking to her—“Uma, we could still have a good life together. I love you. You know that.”
Uma wiped the counter in the kitchen that had once been hers to tend. Designing Everett’s travel and advertising brochures often led her back here, to the home she still loved, because it was a part of her—the old dreams that she didn’t want now. It was a good time and a good house, she thought fondly.
His office in the home they had once shared had been designed by her. She’d also shared his office on Main Street, her graphics computer set up across from his desk. They’d been high school sweethearts, their courtship gentle and secure, encouraged by their families. They’d gone to college together and had returned to be married. How exciting that time was—just married, working together and planning a home, building it. Life had been so perfect—once.
Then Christina, their baby, had died.
Uma tugged herself away from the pain, that ache. She folded the dishrag and placed it beneath the sink. “Everett, I love you, too. You’re a wonderful man. We’ve been friends forever, but you deserve more than that.”
“There’s never been anyone but you, and you know that. I—I made a mistake, my affair with Lorraine. I can’t explain it—”
She turned to him; Everett’s black, waving hair and soft blue eyes had been his gift to Christina. He was a gentle, good man, and very attractive now in his navy and white striped dress shirt, open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves, his suspenders in good taste and his navy suit pants flowing down to polished dress shoes. The suitcase at the front door said he’d be leaving on business soon and as always, she’d come to water the plants—ones she’d chosen long ago to decorate the house—and check on his home, no longer hers.
But the attachment was there, the long hours spent in planning and painting—
How hard they’d both worked to set up their businesses—Everett taking over his family’s travel business and Uma starting out as a freelance graphic artist. That was the arrangement they’d always had, the Big Plan. According to the steps in the Big Plan, when they had children, her graphics office would be moved into their home—if she decided to continue working. They’d seen each other through the grief of dying parents, been together through so many wonderful and horrible times.
“I can explain Lorraine easily,” Uma said softly. “After Christina, I was depressed and withdrawn. You needed comfort, too. I understood, I told you that. I think you have someone now.”
Everett frowned and rubbed his chest. “I won’t lie. It’s convenient for both of us. We’re friends and she has a little girl. I…like that little girl, and Anna understands that we don’t have a commitment. She knows I love you.”
“You’re a man who should have a family.”
Everett rubbed his chest, and she thought how he had looked as a young father, cradling his baby daughter and so proud. The past tethered him, and it was unfair. He should have other children, a woman who loved him as a wife should. Uma loved him as a longtime friend.
His statement came from his heart; she’d never doubted him. “I will never forgive myself for being gone when Christina was born, or when she—”
Uma placed her hand on his, covering the ache she knew was genuine. “You were away at a conference, both times. It was essential to Thornton Travel. The company was growing, it still is. You’ve set up branch offices, Everett. You could move anywhere you want, but you’re staying here.”
“Home is where the heart is, haven’t you heard? I want you with me.” His other hand covered hers, his expression sincere. She’d seen the high-powered salesman in him, she’d seen the tender lover, the honesty—and the desire.
She couldn’t stand the desire, was chilled by it.
Uma eased her hand away, and Everett shook his head. “Uma, you’ve locked yourself away from life. You watch and you care, and you love, but you don’t live, not for yourself. Come with me on this trip. It will be good for you. You haven’t gone anywhere to relax since Lauren—”
She allowed herself to be drawn close to him in that old protective way, the friendly way that reassured her, comforted her. Everett rocked her against him. “I know, honey. Life’s not turning out like we planned, is it?”
She shook her head, mourning the old dreams in the house around her. The time had passed, and that’s what she felt as a woman—that her time had gone on without her.
“Shh. Just let me hold you. Friends, okay?”
“Sure—friends,” she returned, resting against him. After a moment, she drew away, and with the familiarity of the years between them, smoothed his hair and adjusted his collar. She did care for him, this genuine man who couldn’t move on either, and who deserved so much more. “You have a plane to catch, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Just send that design on to the printers, will you? Sign my name?”
“Okay. A hundred thousand copies, was it? Due at the end of the month and to be sent to your branch office in Chicago?”
“You got it, kid. Thanks.”
The working familiarity was there, the easy arrangements, the same old Everett. She raised her face to kiss him on the cheek, her friend, their lives merged. Instead he turned slightly, their lips meeting. The warmth was pleasant, lingering—and then Everett breathed heavily and moved away, and she knew he wanted more.
That afternoon, i
n Uma’s second-story office, Shelly sat hunched in the overstuffed chair. In her familiar shirt and shorts and her hair in a ponytail, Shelly brought with her the scent of lemon cleaners and fear. Her hand shook as she replaced the tea cup in its saucer, then gave it to Uma. “It’s always so safe here, so quiet, as if nothing ever changes. I remember being here, playing with the doll blanket your mother sewed for me, the way your grandmother cuddled me in this chair. Your mother fitted me for maternity clothes here. She held Dani—what am I going to do, Uma? Roman is back and I heard Dani talking to her friends—I really don’t like them—about this hunky guy on a Harley. It’s Roman. The talk is all over town. He and Mitchell went down to the lumberyard and got supplies and then to the thrift shop for a bed. You said Mitchell had a bed, so that means Roman is probably staying. What should I do?”
“Maybe he won’t stay.”
“Dani is determined she’s going to have him. I heard her talk about how she was going to have a real man take her virginity and he just arrived in town. I think that is all a ruse to force Jace to commit to a solid relationship. I’ve got to stop this now, somehow. Roman is her father!” On her feet now, a lithe, active woman, Shelly wrapped her arms around herself, her ponytail whipping around her face as she turned. “Tell me what to do. You’re the only one who I can talk to.”
Uma placed aside the tray with the tea service on it. Long ago in this same room, she had learned how women sharing tea led to peace and clear thinking. “You have to tell Roman.”
Shelly rocked herself. “I just can’t.”
Uma let the silence settle her point and Shelly sank once more into the chair, her head on her knees, arms around her legs as she rocked. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Not really. Mitchell has been here for a week. He’s been in town quite a bit, buying fix-up stuff for Lauren’s house—”
“Lauren’s house—I forgot to tell you. Pearl went over there and told Mitchell that you’d sent her for Lauren’s things. She intends to sell them at her church thrift shop. Did you really tell her she could have them? I thought we were all going to sit down and—”