Undeniably Yours

by Becky Wade

  “I love you,” he said.

  Plainly, just like that.

  She gawked at him.

  “I love you. I do. And I want to marry you.”

  A sound like the final, joyful, exultant note of a choir anthem filled Meg’s head. “Bo,” she breathed. It was the best she could do. He’d stunned the voice straight out of her.

  “I can’t do many things,” he said fiercely, “but I can love you, Meg. I can love you every hour of every day for the rest of my life. I swear to you I can. I want to earn the right to try.” The pad of his thumb rubbed her cheek. “I love you so much I can hardly see straight. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. I can’t make myself care about anything on earth except for you. I’m useless.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I’m a mess.”

  “No.”

  “I am.” He insisted. “About you, I am.”

  Her gaze traveled over his familiar features with wonder. He loved her! Until now she’d only been able to guess at his feelings, unsure. To hear his feelings confirmed with such force caused joy and amazement to lift in her heart, violently sweet, almost uncontainable. She reached onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, then the side of his neck, then she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. In response, his powerful arms enclosed her against him in an I’ll-protect-you-forever kind of embrace that spoke louder than a thousand words ever could. They stayed that way for long moments, heartbeat to heartbeat.

  When he finally spoke, his words emerged ragged against her hair. “I wish . . .”

  She waited, but he didn’t finish. “What do you wish?”

  “I wish you could be mine.”

  That didn’t sound promising. She pulled back enough to look at him.

  His mouth twisted with bitterness. “I don’t like your uncle—”

  “No, neither do I at this moment.”

  “—but at least he had the guts to tell me to my face to leave you alone. I couldn’t argue with him about it.” He let go of her and strode away. “From the first day I met you, I’ve known that’s exactly what I should do, but I couldn’t make myself stay away. I’ve been kidding myself. Hoping, even though I knew better. . . . So stupid.”

  “Bo, my uncle was completely wrong—”

  “No, hearing him say it the other day hit home for me just how right he is. You deserve way better than me, Meg.”

  “What?”

  “You should be with someone who has framed degrees on his wall. Who’s sophisticated. Rich.” He threw up his hands. “Look at me! I’m none of those things.”

  “You think I care about those things? Really? Your heart is right, Bo, and that’s what I care about. That counts for way more with me than everything else combined.”

  “I drive a ten-year-old truck. I live in this small house. I grew up in Holley. I’m simple. I’m just this normal guy, and then . . . there’s you. You’re everything that’s beautiful. I’m not good enough for you, and it kills me, because I want to be.”

  Tears filled her eyes, blurring her view of him. “Of course you’re good enough for me, Bo. Of course you are. I don’t want to hear you say that you’re not ever again.”

  He came to her at once. “Countess,” he whispered, taking gentle hold of her face. She closed her eyes, and he mopped up all traces of tears with his fingertips. “I’m so sorry. Don’t cry.”

  “You are good enough.”

  “Shh. Please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Here.”

  She opened her eyes to see him pull a tissue from his jeans. He handed it to her and she used it to press away her tears.

  He carried tissues around in his pockets for her, even on nights when he had no expectation of seeing her. Despite his attempts to convince her otherwise, he was one of the best, most worthy, most deserving men she’d ever met.

  She drew him over to sit in the leather chair. She perched on the coffee table facing him, his face higher than hers, his knees bracketing hers on the outside. She made one last attempt to sweep away runaway mascara.

  Bo watched her, his expression drawn with concern.

  “Okay.” She took both of his big hands in hers. “I’m the one that’s a mess. For the last five years, but especially since my father died, I’ve been weak and scared and unsure of myself.”

  “Meg,” he protested.

  “It’s true.” She squeezed his hands. “You, Bo. You, on the other hand, have it all together. You’re solid and strong and full of integrity. There’s no logical reason for you to consider yourself not good enough for me, unless this has to do with my money.”

  He scowled. He had pride, she knew. He was the oldest son, the caretaker of his siblings. He’d no doubt been born and bred to provide for his future wife and future children. He probably wanted it that way. It must go against his grain to be with a woman like her when their wealth was so unequal. He’d be teased for it by some. Others would always regard him with suspicion, would believe the worst of him, would whisper behind his back that he was with her for her fortune. There were advantages to wealth, but there were difficulties, too. Difficulties that she couldn’t change or shelter him from.

  “I want to tell you a few things about my money,” she said. “First of all, I know I’m very, very lucky to have all that I do. I didn’t earn it. I was just born into it. Whispering Creek, good schools, and all the rest of it.” He’d said that he loved her. She could see it now, a deep softness in his gaze, as he looked at her. “I want you to know, though, that those advantages haven’t come free. My family’s fortune cost me my father, which in turn cost me a lot of my self-confidence.” Her throat threatened to close with emotion, but she managed to keep talking through it. “My money cost me my first marriage. And it’s cost me most of my ability to trust men ever since. So, between you and me, I’m done—really done—with letting my money cost me things. I’m not in the mood to let it cost

  me you.”

  “Meg,” he groaned, his eyes turning shiny with moisture. “I only want what’s best for you.”

  “What would be best for me is for you to try to see me completely apart from my last name and everything that comes with it. Okay? Just see me.”

  He still looked torn.

  “You think God views us any differently, Bo? He doesn’t. He doesn’t care one bit about all the outward things. To Him we’re equal. We’re both loved the same, valued the same. We both need to find our worth in God’s view of us. To look for it anywhere else is a big mistake.”

  “Meg . . .”

  “It’s a big mistake, Bo.”

  Taut silence traveled between them. She could sense him hovering on the edge of decision. The first day she’d met him, in her father’s office, she’d hovered on the edge of a decision also: to let him stay or make him go. It had been a turning-point moment, just as this was. She couldn’t bear to let him fall away from her reach. She had to persuade him.

  “I’d really like to give this thing between us a chance.” She pressed one kiss, two, three, into his hands. Then she looked up at him with a smile that felt wobbly. “How about we just date? Isn’t that what everyone else does? Let’s just date.”

  “I work for you.”

  “You know what? I’m ready to let that worry go.”

  “A lot of people won’t like it.”

  “I’ve spent a lifetime caring about what other people said about me, and I’ve never been able to please them no matter how hard I tried. I can’t let myself care about what other people say about me anymore.”

  “I care a lot about what they say about you, Meg.”

  “You’re going to have to get over it.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “C’mon. Let’s just take it slow, date each other, and see where it goes. There’s no real harm in that, is there?”

  “No real harm? I’m already half dead over you.”

  “Any chance the half-alive part is willing to give it a try?”

  He looked upward, sighed de
eply, then returned his full attention to her for long moments. “Yes, God help you.”

  Triumph and hope pierced her. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t change your mind?”

  “No.”

  Grinning, she launched herself into his lap. He clasped her to him, nuzzled his face against her neck, and pressed kisses against the tender skin below her ear. “I hope to God this is what’s right for you,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything you ask. Anything to make you happy.”

  “You make me happy. You don’t have to do anything.”

  He lifted his head, eyes alight with fire. “Meg.” Then he claimed her lips with a kiss—territorial, demanding, adoring—that communicated his feelings with unmistakable certainty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They talked for hours that night. Bo pulled sofa pillows onto the floor, and they stretched out on the living room carpet facing each other, their heads and shoulders propped up on the pillows. They ate Oreos. Kissed. Drank Dr. Pepper. Laughed. He toyed with her fingers, occasionally kissing their tips.

  Bo felt like he was living wide awake inside the best dream he’d ever dreamed. He was almost too scared to believe it was real, because he wanted this—wanted her—so much. Worries kept trying to enter his head, and he kept shoving them aside.

  In the wee hours of the morning, he climbed into his truck so that he could follow her car back to Whispering Creek. She’d tried to convince him it wasn’t necessary to trail her home, but he wasn’t buying. All the drunks swerved down the roads at this time of night.

  As it turned out, between his house and hers, Bo spotted one green Honda, and nothing else. That didn’t stop him from following her all the way to Whispering Creek, then watching as the security guard greeted her and waved her through.

  There goes my heart, he thought. My everything.

  When her car disappeared, he pulled away and drove through the pitch darkness back in the direction of his house.

  He hoped he’d done the right thing tonight.

  With every piece of him, he hoped so.

  But he didn’t feel sure. Alone in the quiet, the worries were harder to shove away.

  When he’d caved and told her how he felt about her, had he done what was best for her? Or had he simply done what was best for himself? Was there any chance that his actions tonight might hurt her in the end? Might hurt the farm?

  Too late now. He’d have to trust God to protect Meg. He’d have to trust Meg’s judgment and kindness to do right by the farm and its employees. What had happened between them couldn’t be undone. He’d told her to her face that he wouldn’t change his mind. More than that, he didn’t want to change his mind. He’d rather cut off his arm than change a single thing that had happened between them.

  He pulled onto the shoulder of the road, his headlights drilling into the darkness in front of him, shadowy trees swaying above him. He stacked his hands on top of the steering wheel and laid his forehead on top of them. Oh, God. Don’t let anything bad happen to her. Not ever, and certainly not because of me.

  Concern hummed low in his gut, shapeless, hard to pin down. When he’d been in the Marines, he’d had this same intuition of danger sometimes, right before his squad had come upon hidden enemies.

  Why this premonition of a threat against Meg now? Was it because of the turn their relationship had taken tonight? Was there someone out there who wanted to injure her? Or was it because he didn’t want people thinking badly of her because of him?

  The first person he didn’t want thinking badly about her was Jake. Tomorrow morning, he’d call his brother and break the news.

  God, please watch over her. Don’t let me do anything out of selfishness. Keep my motives right. Show me how to protect her. I’m here, and I’m willing for you to use me. I’ll do anything you ask to keep her safe.

  Stephen McIntyre trained his binoculars on the intersection of Holley’s main street and the road that led to Whispering Creek’s gated entrance.

  Still nothing. No sign of Bo Porter’s truck returning from Meg’s house.

  He lowered the binoculars. He’d parked in an alley. Commercial buildings on either side shielded his position. The interior of the dark green Honda smelled like cigarette smoke and ground-in dirt. It had pained him to put his M5 in storage, but he’d done it because the M5 could be traced to him. He’d purchased this piece of junk with cash from a used car lot near the Texas–New Mexico border.

  He rubbed a smudge off the front of one of the lenses. For several days now he’d been watching Meg and had familiarized himself with her routine. On weekdays she drove to work and parked her car in a garage belonging to Cole Oil, staffed by security guards. After work, she drove straight home.

  On Saturday she’d left Whispering Creek to meet with her old nanny and to visit some of the shops in town. On Sunday, she’d attended church. While her car had been parked in the church parking lot, he’d placed a GPS tracking device under her wheel well. The device had freed him up considerably, because it meant he no longer had to trail her physically. He could trail her electronically.

  He raised the binoculars back to his eyes. Earlier tonight, from his room at the Garden Inn, the tracking app on his smartphone had shown Meg exiting Whispering Creek.

  She hadn’t left home on a weekday evening since he’d been following her, so he’d driven to the location specified on the GPS: a small brick house in Holley situated on several acres of land. He’d parked at a distance and approached the house on foot. Though he’d been unable to see anything within, he’d recorded the house’s address and the license plate number of the truck in the carport.

  When Meg had been slow in leaving, he’d gone to the foreclosed, remote, and empty house that he’d been using as a base separate from his hotel. He’d pulled out his laptop and searched online until he discovered the identity of the person who owned the house and truck.

  A man named Bo Porter, who apparently worked for Meg at Whispering Creek Horses.

  About a half an hour ago, when his app had shown Meg on the move again, he’d followed her. He’d expected to find her driving home to Whispering Creek alone. Instead, Bo Porter’s truck had been right on her bumper, so Stephen had taken a quick turn onto a side street and let them drive on together.

  His GPS told him that Meg had returned to Whispering Creek. He didn’t know where Bo Porter had gone, but he expected the man to return to his home any minute now. Unless he was staying the night with Meg at her place. The Meg Stephen had known had been a terrific prude about sex before marriage, but people changed.

  Through the binoculars, a truck came into view. Porter’s truck.

  Looked like Meg hadn’t changed much after all.

  The truck turned onto the main street and drove the few hundred yards towards Stephen’s position, then zoomed past. Stephen watched the vehicle until it vanished from sight. Thoughtfully, he slid the binoculars back into their case and set them aside.

  Bo Porter was someone to Meg. Probably a boyfriend. Maybe merely a friend. Either way, Stephen didn’t like the potential complication the man presented. Didn’t like to think that Bo Porter could influence Meg. She’d been—was—Stephen’s to control.

  Watching her these past days had caused bitterness to eat at him. Why should she have so much? Meg? She had no strength, no backbone, no merit, no skill for leadership.

  He’d invested a few years of his life in her the last time. But two million dollars was a drop in the bucket compared to the kind of wealth she’d come into now. He had something much quicker in mind for her this time. And a score much larger.

  Meg had suggested to Bo, the night of their first kiss, that they take their relationship slow. But truthfully, neither of them could stand to. Over the following days they spent every possible minute together.

  The day after their first kiss, Meg texted Bo as soon as she returned home from work, around 8:30. Her hours at Cole Oil had left her frazzled, but
as soon as he arrived on her doorstep and she got a good look at him in the flesh—poof. Her exhaustion evaporated. He made her spaghetti for dinner. She explained to him how her uncle had come to her and apologized for confronting him. Bo explained to her how Michael had called him and done the same over the phone.

  The next two nights in a row Meg left work as early as possible, yet still well after dark. Both nights Bo postponed his own meal until she arrived, and they ate take-out Mexican together at his place. He asked her, repeatedly, sweetly, not to work so hard. He told her he worried about her.

  The day after that she went shopping during her lunch break and bought a cookbook titled Meals He’ll Love, then tested recipes for baked chicken and chocolate cake on him that

  evening.

  When at work, Meg thought of almost nothing but him. Her mind constantly replayed memories of him—the things he’d said to her, how he’d looked, the shirt he’d worn, the way he’d stroked her face when he’d kissed her. Her daydreams rendered her even more useless to Cole Oil than she’d been before.

  Saturday arrived like a gift on her doorstep. She ignored the work she could have and should have been doing. Instead, she and Bo worked out in her father’s home gym, headed to their respective houses for showers, then met up again for BLTs (which he supplied) and a matinee of When Harry Met Sally (which she supplied) at his house. That afternoon, they returned to Whispering Creek and walked together across the hills and woods of the property hand in hand.

  Bo had aspirations—delusions—of fishing with her, so they finally stopped at the largest pond on the property to share a picnic dinner and to try their luck at fishing. After two straight hours of talking, casting, and teasing, they put away the poles and moved to higher ground to watch the sun set.

  Meg lay on her back on the blanket next to Bo, his bicep cushioning her head, her feet resting on one of his boots. Breeze tinged with the smell of jasmine brushed across her. Palest tangerine and darkest orange blazed across the enormous expanse of Texas sky. The underbellies of the clouds shone bright and opaque white.