Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  Once, and it se­emed li­ke so long ago, Sla­de had tho­ught he wo­uld fi­nal­ly co­me ho­me with Re­gi­na at his si­de as his wi­fe. She wasn't at his si­de but he felt her pre­sen­ce as if she we­re clo­se by. He­ar­tac­he, ne­ver far from the sur­fa­ce, swept thro­ugh him. He nod­ded at his fat­her. "I didn't think I'd ra­te a per­so­nal gre­eting."

  Rick he­si­ta­ted. "You do."

  Sla­de ga­ped. Then his eyes nar­ro­wed. "You get knoc­ked on the he­ad re­cently or so­met­hing?"

  "Not exactly," Rick sa­id wryly. "Altho­ugh a lit­tle bir­die's be­en chir­ping in my ears for so­me ti­me now. It's a mi­rac­le I ha­ven't go­ne de­af."

  Sla­de had no idea what his fat­her was tal­king abo­ut.

  They each grab­bed a bag and wal­ked in­to the co­ur­t­yard, Kim run­ning ahe­ad to ex­p­lo­re af­ter re­ce­iving a nod from Sla­de. Des­pi­te the fa­ilu­re of his mar­ri­age, Sla­de co­uldn't help fe­eling a thrill to be back ho­me. Mi­ra­mar was in his blo­od, he co­uld ne­ver be rep­le­te wit­ho­ut it.

  Just out­si­de the do­ors to his ro­om, Sla­de sa­id, "Do you think we'll ha­ve early ra­ins this ye­ar?"

  "I don't know. The we­at­her has be­en stran­ge. The la­te-sp­ring ra­in, the flo­od, that sum­mer storm." Rick pa­used, and Sla­de knew his fat­her, too, was thin­king abo­ut James. "Don't think we can ta­ke a chan­ce. We'll ro­und up the herds and bring them down be­fo­re the end of the month."

  Sla­de ag­re­ed. Then he sa­id, kno­wing that he was trig­ge­ring the con­f­ron­ta­ti­on they must ha­ve, "But I won't be hel­ping."

  "Why the hell not?"

  " Ca­use I'm go­ing to be cle­aring land. In fact, to­mor­row I'll be go­ing back to town to put up help-wan­ted pos­ters. I'm go­ing to hi­re a do­zen men. I fi­gu­re I've got a month left as long as the bad we­at­her do­esn't set in early. I want to be re­ady to plant as much ac­re­age as pos­sib­le early in the spring."

  Rick threw down Sla­de's bag. "You still ha­ve that crazy damn idea! Over my de­ad body!"

  Sla­de sa­id tightly, drop­ping his own va­li­se, "We ha­ve no cho­ice. What do I ha­ve to do to con­vin­ce you of the facts?"

  "We are not far­mers, dam­mit! We can sla­ug­h­ter mo­re be­ef. I've tho­ught abo­ut it and I've be­en tal­king with pac­kers in Chi­ca­go. They're eager to do mo­re bu­si­ness."

  "I'm happy to sla­ug­h­ter mo­re be­ef, but that's not go­ing to sol­ve our prob­lems."

  "May­be if you hadn't sent yo­ur wi­fe away we co­uld sol­ve our prob­lems, as we ori­gi­nal­ly plan­ned, wit­ho­ut be­co­ming far­mers!"

  "Le­ave Re­gi­na out of this!" Sla­de shot back. "And 'we' ne­ver ori­gi­nal­ly plan­ned an­y­t­hing. I al­ways plan­ned to ta­ke over this ranch and ma­ke it pro­fi­tab­le!"

  "How?" Rick chal­len­ged. "By bor­ro­wing mo­re mo­ney from Char­lie Mann? That's just what we ne­ed, mo­re damn debt!"

  "I did bor­row thirty tho­usand dol­lars from Char­les," Sla­de sa­id co­ol­ly, "and we ha­ve eno­ugh ca­pi­tal to ope­ra­te for a few ye­ars. Eit­her we ta­ke Mi­ra­mar in­to the fu­tu­re and ma­ke the ran­c­ho pro­fi­tab­le, or we'll be fa­cing ban­k­ruptcy aga­in. If you obj­ect, then not only will I le­ave, I'll ta­ke the cash with me." It was a bluff, be­ca­use Sla­de wasn't le­aving, but he al­so knew Rick co­uld not al­low him to le­ave with the mo­ney. "I pa­id off our old debt, but I ima­gi­ne the banks will lo­se pa­ti­en­ce with you aga­in pretty qu­ick on­ce you fa­il to ma­ke mo­re pay­ments."

  "You are a so­no­fa­bitch."

  Sla­de lo­oked at Rick. "I me­an it. We're go­ing to do things my way. I put the thirty tho­usand in my own ac­co­unt. You can't to­uch tho­se funds. If I le­ave, the mo­ney le­aves. You ha­ve no cho­ice." He kept his vo­ice calm, which was no easy fe­at. He knew Re­gi­na was right. Li­ving at Mi­ra­mar wo­uld be a nig­h­t­ma­re if he and Rick did not re­ach so­me kind of un­der­s­tan­ding. At the very le­ast he and his fat­her must be ab­le to work to­get­her. But with his mind-and his he­art-he knew that was only a su­per­fi­ci­al so­lu­ti­on that co­uld not he­al the wo­unds that we­re so very old and went so very de­ep.

  Rick was fu­ri­o­us. He pa­ced aro­und the co­ur­t­yard. "You are a he­ar­t­less bas­tard. Blac­k­ma­iling yo­ur own fat­her!"

  "I'm sorry it has to be this way. You ne­ed ti­me to think it thro­ugh?"

  "I gu­ess I ha­ve no damn cho­ice," Rick grit­ted. "Fi­ne, turn us in­to far­mers. My pappy's gon­na turn right over in the gra­ve. Why in hell did I ever ask you to co­me ho­me?"

  The words hurt. They sho­uldn't, but they did. But the­re wo­uld be no go­ing back from this po­int, be­ca­use Sla­de had co­me ho­me to stay, and he was de­ter­mi­ned to get to the truth-no mat­ter how pa­in­ful it might be.

  "You as­ked me to co­me ho­me be­ca­use you ne­ed me," Sla­de sa­id bit­terly. "Be­ca­use you ne­ed the mo­ney I've ac­qu­ired. Not be­ca­use you ha­ve any fe­elings for yo­ur se­cond son!"

  Rick pa­led.

  Sla­de was stric­ken with a sud­den, wren­c­hing in­sight. He wan­ted this man's af­fec­ti­on mo­re than he wan­ted al­most an­y­t­hing, and it ma­de the mo­ment even mo­re pa­in­ful.

  Rick re­co­ve­red first, his fa­ce suf­fu­sing with co­lor. "You're the one with no fe­elings for me!" he shot back. "You're the one who left me! I didn't le­ave you! Re­mem­ber?"

  Sla­de sho­ok with long-rep­res­sed emo­ti­ons: an­ger, pa­in, ne­ed, des­pe­ra­ti­on. Re­gi­na cho­se that mo­ment to co­me to him, so strongly it was as if she we­re pre­sent. She had wan­ted to re­con­ci­le fat­her and son from the mo­ment she had first set fo­ot on Mi­ra­mar so­il. "You didn't try to stop me."

  Rick was in­c­re­du­lo­us. "You we­re de­ter­mi­ned to go. De­ter­mi­ned! When you de­ci­de to do so­met­hing, boy, no­body can stop you and we both know it!"

  Sla­de sta­red at his fat­her. He was acu­tely awa­re that he had co­me ho­me, fi­nal­ly and ir­re­vo­cably. Mi­ra­mar had al­ways be­en his gre­at lo­ve, now only se­cond to his wi­fe. He had gi­ven her up, but he was not go­ing to gi­ve up Mi­ra­mar, his last chan­ce at hap­pi­ness, even tho­ugh it wo­uld be in­com­p­le­te wit­ho­ut Re­gi­na. Fle­e­ing Mi­ra­mar-fle­e­ing Rick, his fe­elin­gs-has no lon­ger an al­ter­na­ti­ve. He was af­ra­id. The fe­elings had be­en bu­ri­ed so de­eply for so long.

  The­re was no tur­ning back. "But you sho­uld ha­ve tri­ed." Sla­de fa­ced his fat­her, fe­eling at on­ce a to­ugh man of twen­ty-fi­ve and a vul­ne­rab­le boy of fif­te­en. "You didn't ca­re eno­ugh to try."

  Rick was as­hen. "How in hell wo­uld you know what I fe­el?"

  "You had James. Who was per­fect. You didn't gi­ve a damn abo­ut me." Sud­denly his con­t­rol shat­te­red. "I want you to ad­mit it! I want you to be ho­nest! On­ce you ad­mit it we can go for­ward, as bu­si­ness par­t­ners and not­hing el­se. We can for­get we're fat­her and son." Sla­de had ne­ver be­en mo­re fu­ri­o­us. "Admit it!" he sho­uted. "Admit it, damn it, ad­mit it now!"

  Rick was spe­ec­h­less.

  Sla­de erup­ted. He re­ac­hed his fat­her in a stri­de and grab­bed him by the fab­ric of his shirt. Rick was tal­ler and big­ger than he was, but he was so angry he lif­ted him se­ve­ral in­c­hes off the gro­und. "Co­ward!" He re­ali­zed he was ec­ho­ing Re­gi­na's words and that this si­tu­ati­on was al­most exactly the sa­me as the one in which he and his wi­fe had con­f­ron­ted each ot­her. Only then it had be­en an en­ding, and now he pra­yed that this was a be­gin­ning.

  Rick fi­nal­ly knoc­ked his hands away. "You left me! You we­re the one with no fe­elings, no lo­yalty, no lo­ve! You left me, dam­mit, just li­ke yo­ur damn mot­her left me!"

  Sla­de was sha­king. For one ac
­hing he­ar­t­be­at he sta­red at his fat­her, the man who hadn't ca­red eno­ugh to stop him from le­aving when he had wa­ited so des­pe­ra­tely for so­me in­di­ca­ti­on, any in­di­ca­ti­on, of af­fec­ti­on. But no­ne had be­en gi­ven then, and he knew no­ne wo­uld be for­t­h­co­ming now. "You let me go!"

  "Was I sup­po­sed to beg you to stay?" Rick cri­ed.

  "Yes! Yes!"

  Slowly, pa­in­ful­ly, Rick sa­id, "You're yo­ur mot­her's son, and so much li­ke her. I lo­ved yo­ur mot­her. She bro­ke my he­art, Sla­de. Then you did the sa­me dam­ned thing."

  Sla­de was spe­ec­h­less.

  "I didn't beg her to stay when she left me, an' I didn't beg you. I don't reg­ret not beg­ging her, but I've be­en reg­ret­ting not beg­ging you for the past ten ye­ars."

  "God," Sla­de whis­pe­red. "I tho­ught you ha­ted me."

  "How can a man ha­te his own son?"

  "But you we­re al­ways po­in­ting out how per­fect James was, whi­le I co­uld ne­ver do an­y­t­hing right."

  "I was on yo­ur back be­ca­use you we­re too much li­ke her and I was af­ra­id you'd fa­il me the way she did. But it bo­ome­ran­ged. I wan­ted to be­at that re­bel stre­ak out of you. In­s­te­ad, stub­born as you are, it just grew and grew. I didn't ha­ve to worry abo­ut James or Ed­ward- but I spent sle­ep­less nights wor­rying abo­ut you."

  "You wor­ri­ed abo­ut me?"

  "I've be­en wor­rying abo­ut you sin­ce you we­re three months old."

  "That's when she left."

  "That's when she left," Rick sa­id he­avily.

  Sla­de was shoc­ked.

  "The fun­ni­est part is that you lo­ok li­ke her, but it's ta­ken me a long ti­me to fi­gu­re out that you're not li­ke her at all. You're a De­lan­za thro­ugh and thro­ugh."

  Sla­de bo­wed his he­ad. "No, I'm not li­ke her at all." His vo­ice wa­ve­red.

  "What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry," Rick sa­id. "I'm sorry. I've be­en sorry for ten ye­ars!"

  Sla­de sta­red at his fat­her. "Why in hell co­uldn't you say so so­oner?"

  "May­be I just didn't know how," Rick whis­pe­red. "May­be I ne­eded that lit­tle bird chat­te­ring away in my ear to ma­ke me re­ali­ze my pri­ori­ti­es. May­be I had to lo­se one son in or­der to re­ali­ze I can't ta­ke a chan­ce on lo­sing anot­her."

  Sla­de had to wi­pe mo­is­tu­re away from his eyes and ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath. Ne­ver in his wil­dest dre­ams co­uld he ha­ve ima­gi­ned Rick re­ve­aling so much lo­ve. He was over­w­hel­med. But so was Rick.

  Rick co­ug­hed. "I'm gon­na go get a drink. Af­ter all this jawin' I su­re as hell ne­ed one. I'll see you at sup­per."

  Sla­de nod­ded, still unab­le to spe­ak, still re­eling, awa­re that he ne­eded a long pri­va­te mo­ment to re­co­ver his com­po­su­re, too. He wat­c­hed Rick walk ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard and go in­si­de the ho­use. He to­ok a shaky bre­ath. But he wasn't abo­ut to re­co­ver his com­po­su­re, not just yet. For he tur­ned to­ward his ro­om, pic­king up both bags, and lo­oked up.

  Re­gi­na sto­od the­re, te­ars stre­aking her che­eks, crying si­lently. And it wasn't a dre­am.

  Chapter 28

  Re­gi­na co­uld not stop crying, but her te­ars we­re tho­se of hap­pi­ness. Des­pi­te the an­gu­ish of the past month she was thril­led that Rick and Sla­de had fi­nal­ly fo­und the co­ura­ge to del­ve in­to the past and une­arth the truth of the­ir lo­ve for one anot­her.

  She wi­ped her eyes, wat­c­hing Sla­de tre­mu­lo­usly, wa­iting for him to re­co­ver from the shock of fin­ding her he­re at Mi­ra­mar. This was the mo­ment she had be­en an­xi­o­usly awa­iting-Sla­de's ho­me­co­ming-and she was af­ra­id and ap­pre­hen­si­ve. How co­uld she not be? She ex­pec­ted him to be very angry with her for her de­fi­an­ce of him and his wis­hes.

  But she wo­uld fa­ce his an­ger. She ho­ped she wo­uld be ab­le to dif­fu­se it. The night of the ga­la she had sa­id things she reg­ret­ted, but she had al­so spo­ken the truth. Sla­de had cho­sen to end the­ir mar­ri­age rat­her than fight for it-a co­wardly way out. That night she had be­en pus­hed to what she had then felt to be her li­mit. The ten­si­on and stress of the days pri­or to the ga­la, co­up­led with Sla­de's as­to­un­ding sta­te­ment, had pro­vo­ked her in­to her spon­ta­ne­o­us erup­ti­on and flight. It hadn't ta­ken her very long to re­co­up her strength. Not even an ho­ur la­ter, in her mot­her's arms, she had known she wo­uld not di­vor­ce Sla­de, that she wo­uld not and co­uld not let him des­t­roy the­ir mar­ri­age or the­ir fu­tu­re. She in­ten­ded to fight for what she wan­ted, no mat­ter how hard or how long that fight might last. And she wan­ted him. He was worth it.

  Now Sla­de was stun­ned, as if con­f­ron­ted with a ghost. Only se­conds tic­ked by be­fo­re he mo­ved. He grip­ped her arms, pul­ling her clo­se, his eyes wi­de and in­c­re­du­lo­us. "What in hell are you do­ing he­re?"

  "Wa­iting for you," she sa­id simply.

  He in­ha­led hard. She felt him sha­king, but then, so was she. "I tho­ught you went back to En­g­land!"

  "I was af­ra­id to ma­ke myself too cle­ar in my let­ter," Re­gi­na told him softly. "But you can­not cha­se me out of yo­ur li­fe, Sla­de. May­be you had bet­ter sta­te yo­ur in­ten­ti­ons now." She lif­ted her chin, pre­pa­ring for the wor­st-af­ra­id of the worst.

  Sla­de's grip tig­h­te­ned. "You've be­en he­re this en­ti­re ti­me?" he as­ked in ama­ze­ment.

  "Yes."

  "This is li­ke a dre­am."

  "I am no dre­am," she whis­pe­red. "Just an im­per­fect wo­man, one who has ma­de mis­ta­kes, a flesh-and-blo­od wo­man, one who mis­ses her man."

  He gro­aned, pul­ling her in­to his arms.

  Re­gi­na threw her arms aro­und him. She was fil­led with many con­f­lic­ting emo­ti­ons, not the le­ast of which was a go­od de­al of an­xi­ety over what his re­ac­ti­on to her wo­uld be. But the­re was al­so bo­un­d­less joy in be­ing with him aga­in, and the­re was acu­te physi­cal awa­re­ness. She fully in­ten­ded to do wha­te­ver she had to do in or­der to re­ma­in with him at Mi­ra­mar. He was not in­dif­fe­rent to her. Not emo­ti­onal­ly and not physi­cal­ly. She pres­sed mo­re fully aga­inst him. She tur­ned her fa­ce so she co­uld kiss his jaw. "I mis­sed you, Sla­de," she sa­id.

  Imme­di­ately he lif­ted her in­to his arms, kic­king open the do­or to his bed­ro­om. "I mis­sed you too. I've be­en mi­se­rab­le." He kic­ked the do­ors clo­sed and slid on­to the bed, Re­gi­na still in his arms. An in­s­tant la­ter she lay be­ne­ath him, sta­ring up in­to his be­a­uti­ful mid­nig­ht-blue eyes. They we­re dark with pas­si­on, but Re­gi­na al­so tho­ught that they ref­lec­ted a pa­in­ful kind of joy and a des­pe­ra­te kind of re­li­ef.

  "How in hell did I sur­vi­ve this past month wit­ho­ut you?" Sla­de as­ked ro­ughly, stro­king his hands over her ha­ir and then down her arms.

  Re­gi­na grip­ped his sho­ul­ders. "Pro­bably the sa­me way that I did. Day by day."

  The­ir glan­ces loc­ked. "Ye­ah," he sa­id ho­ar­sely. "Day by day."

  It was then that she had an in­k­ling of his re­al fe­elings for her. Bri­efly, she glim­p­sed his pas­si­on, his so­ul. "What are you wa­iting for?" she whis­pe­red.

  "You," he sa­id. "I think I've be­en wa­iting for this mo­ment and for you."

  A wa­ve of de­si­re cras­hed over her. "Kiss me. Ma­ke lo­ve to me, Sla­de, ple­ase."

  He did not ne­ed any fur­t­her en­co­ura­ge­ment. He to­ok her fa­ce in his hands and kis­sed her. It was tho­ro­ugh and en­d­less. Re­gi­na was in­s­tantly re­min­ded of the first kiss he had gi­ven her on the­ir wed­ding night. She had ne­ver tho­ught she wo­uld be kis­sed li­ke that aga­in-as if she we­re de­arly lo­ved and had be­en de�
�arly mis­sed for a very long ti­me. But she had be­en wrong. He was kis­sing her that way aga­in.

  His kiss spo­ke vo­lu­mes. Sla­de had sa­id he mis­sed her; she co­uld not do­ubt that it was true. But what she re­al­ly wan­ted to know was if he lo­ved her, and this kiss was ma­king her think that may­be, af­ter all, he did.

  "Swe­et­he­art," Sla­de mur­mu­red thickly a long ti­me la­ter, "I think I've be­en a fo­ol."

  Re­gi­na ag­re­ed but was not gi­ven the op­por­tu­nity to spe­ak. Sla­de was sli­ding his big body in­to hers. She wept. She wept be­ca­use she lo­ved him and in then-ph­y­si­cal uni­on she co­uld sen­se the kind of com­p­le­ti­on she wo­uld not ever fe­el un­less she ga­ined his lo­ve in its en­ti­rety.

  Re­gi­na wo­ke up with a start, con­fu­sed. Long sha­dows had cast the bed­ro­om in se­mi­dar­k­ness. Re­col­lec­ti­on swept thro­ugh her. She sat up. Sla­de was go­ne.

  Fe­ar grip­ped her.

  She to­ok a cal­ming bre­ath. They had both do­zed off in each ot­her's arms af­ter he had ma­de lo­ve to her twi­ce. But ma­king lo­ve was not eno­ugh; they ne­eded to re­ach an un­der­s­tan­ding. Sla­de had ad­mit­ted that he mis­sed her, and he had ma­de lo­ve to her as if he lo­ved her, but he had had such pas­si­on for her be­fo­re and that had not stop­ped him from trying to end the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip. Re­gi­na was not le­aving. And she wan­ted him to know it and ac­cept it.

  She got up, was­hed qu­ickly, and stra­ig­h­te­ned her clot­hing. She went in se­arch of her hus­band. She ima­gi­ned that he might be in the den enj­oying a be­fo­re-din­ner drink, but only Rick was the­re. He win­ked at her, but Re­gi­na co­uld not smi­le back at him.

  Rick spo­ke up, sa­ving her the ef­fort of a se­arch. "He went out­si­de and he­aded up the path go­ing north."

  "Thank you!" Re­gi­na hur­ri­ed away from the ho­use. The path ran pa­ral­lel to the oce­an, which was just out of sight, hid­den by the sharp spi­ne of a hill. The track so­on cres­ted a small ri­se. Be­hind her, the ho­use was no lon­ger in sight. Re­gi­na fro­ze when she saw the small ce­me­tery be­low her. Sla­de was the­re, stan­ding in front of one of the he­ad­s­to­nes.