by Natasha Deen
“Couldn’t sleep. I figured I’d fix myself a snack and maybe watch some television. There’s supposed to be a John Wayne movie showing.”
“I’ll join you—unless you want to be alone?”
The last thing he wanted was to be alone with the raucous cacophony of conflicting desires and urges screaming in his head. “No, I could use the company.”
The floorboards creaked as they headed into the kitchen. He flipped the switch and the bulbs lining the underside of the cabinets blazed into life and wrapped the room in soft light.
Scrutinizing Mason, his scan sharp and penetrating, he asked, “How long’s it been since you fixed a woman’s windows?”
Mason blinked. “We talking about windows or windows?”
“Windows.”
“A while.” Opening the fridge door, he reached in and grabbed them both a beer.
“Is that why you keep looking at my granddaughter like that?” Jim took the bottle from him and opened it.
“Like what?” He twisted the cap off his bottle. Carbonated air escaped the long, amber-colored neck with a puff of smoke, and he prayed the casual air he projected hid the slamming of his heart.
Jim leaned his hip against the counter, swallowed his mouthful of beer, and said, “Like Fluffy staring after Althea.”
He grimaced. “Does everybody think I look like that goddamn bull?”
“Only when you’re looking at Aya.”
He played with the lip of the bottle, his index finger circling the rounded edges, and he let the weight of Jim’s words sink in. Mason took a long, slow pull of his drink, and contemplated his options. If he admitted his feelings, would that help or hinder his relationship with the older man? He’d been sent to take the land, not confuse or mess with Aya’s heart.
“So?” Jim prodded
“So what?”
“Why are you staring at her like that?”
Unable and unwilling to create another lie in his already tangled life, he sighed. “I’m hoping she’s got a stuck window.”
Jim exhaled, heavy and deep, and Mason prepared himself for a blistering litany regarding the inappropriateness and undesirability of his emotions.
“I was afraid of that. I got you in a real mess, boy, and I’m sorry.”
Startled by the unexpected words, he said, “Don’t. I don’t need anyone’s help to get me in trouble with a woman.” He gulped his drink. “Does she know?”
Jim shook his head and flipped the screw cap into the sink. It sailed over the island, spinning and twisting in the air, then landed in the metal basin with a ping. “She’s too concerned with Spencer and the farm to see anything but them.”
“Thank God for small mercies.” Even if I don’t deserve any.
The older man grunted, running calloused hands through his hair and further disarranging the silver spikes. “What a mess. When I brought you here, I never thought you’d fall for her. That was stupid.” Recrimination scarred Jim’s face with dark, violent color. “Of course you would. Aya’s a good girl...” He sighed. “And you’re a good man. You’re perfect for her—or at least, you would’ve been, had the situation been different.”
He’d known Jim liked him in a “Let’s have a beer and watch the game” way. But the knowledge that he had met the standard for his approval as a partner for his granddaughter—a standard instinct said was high and nearly unattainable—hit Mason in the gut. The blow was deep, powerful, made his throat contract and his stomach heave at the tortured thought, If only.
“She likes you.”
His heart skittered, skipped, then scattered to the winds of emotions and regrets he couldn’t begin to name. The wooden legs scraped against the floor as he pulled a stool from under the island’s lip and sat down. Jim slumped into the chair beside him and they both stared ahead at the stove.
“I thought she didn’t notice me.”
“She doesn’t notice your reaction. She’s been too long out of love and relationships to remember the subtle signs, but she’s a woman, and women always know when their heart is involved with someone.”
“She acts the same way with me as she does to anyone else.”
“That’s cause you haven’t known her as long as I have. She’s...lighter, calmer, when you’re around.”
They lapsed into a miserable silence, Jim picking at the bottle’s label, and Mason too preoccupied with the possibility of Aya returning his affections to bother with his drink. The masculine side of him rejoiced in the knowledge he wasn’t alone in his attraction. Hyde whooped, hollered, and had Mason’s libido and heart jumping. But Jekyll, the sane, logical side of him, cursed this latest piece of information. He felt like the proverbial beggar, standing on the cold, wet street, his face and hands pressed against the glass and looking at a life—full of light, warmth, and Aya—he could never have.
“What are you going to do?”
“Short of changing my name, electing for plastic surgery, and hoping she never asks me questions about my past? Nothing.”
The older man sighed again. “It’s a goddamn tragedy. There’s got to be a way for me to fix this.”
“There isn’t any.” His answer came out rough, unforgiving. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”
“If you married her,” Jim spoke slowly as he traced the rim of the bottle with his index finger, “the land would belong to both of you.”
He gave a short, harsh bark of laughter and drained his bottle in one desolate swallow. “I marry her, Mason St. John mysteriously withdraws his offer. Then my dad moves in and I spend the rest of his life praying he can keep a secret.”
“I never said it was a particularly good idea.” Jim drained the last of his beer. “Fluffy loves Althea—desperately. If you and Aya have half of what that bull has, it seems a damn shame to see the two of you part company. Maybe...maybe you should try for the relationship, anyway. You care for each other—surely to God, love has to mitigate some of this mess.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, his heart squeezing tight and hard at the thought of walking away from Aya, never seeing Spencer laugh again. “I didn’t come here for love.”
“The farm.”
“The farm.” His repetition sounded dark and grim.
“Did you see this month’s financial sheets?” Jim rose, taking his empty bottle to the counter and fetching himself another drink.
“Decrepit. Another four weeks of back-breaking labor, and all she’s done is limp to the next bill payments.”
“She’ll never sell those cows.”
“Then she’ll have to sell her soul.” He grabbed the amber bottle of beer and took a big gulp, hoping to drown his guilt in alcohol. “Has Aya ever mentioned anything to you about a secret weapon or last-minute plan?”
Jim frowned at the bottle, then at Mason. “Never heard anything like—what did you call it? A secret weapon?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, taking another pull of beer. “She says the farm won’t go to me, because she’s got some kind of ace in the hole.”
“Do you mean Jason Radcliffe?” Spencer’s voice piped behind them.
Jim jerked back, his sudden movement a mirror to Mason’s. He whirled, his gaze searching the empty family room. “Spencer?”
His face popped up from behind the couch. “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?” Jim’s voice pulsed with surprise and consternation. “Have you been lying there, eavesdropping?”
His dark eyes grew wide. “No.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s damn late—near midnight.”
“It is?” He scrambled over the back of the sofa and came toward them. Mason went to the boy and scooped him up. He felt warm and bony, all angles and flannel, and it made Mason’s heart melt. After setting Spencer on to one of the stools, he resumed his seat.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here; I guess I must have fallen asleep.” He gave his great-grandfather a beseeching look. “Honest, I just woke up and heard you talking about
mom and her plan. I wasn’t listening in, I swear.”
After a moment of silence, as Jim stared at Spencer with enough force to burn a hole through his head, he grunted, “I believe you.” He moved to the cupboard, took a mug, filled it with milk, and stuck it in the microwave. “Why can’t you sleep?”
Even in the half-light of the kitchen, the pink that tinged Spencer’s cheeks was visible. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Problems with a woman, huh?”
His eyes grew wide at his great-grandfather’s question. “How did you know?”
He snorted. “What else gets a man out of his bed at ungodly hours, other than a woman?”
Mason smiled at the thoughtful expression on the child’s face. “What do you know about your mom’s plans? Has she told you anything?”
He shook his head. “Not really, but I think it has to do with Jason Radcliffe.”
“Fluffy’s owner? Who’s he to Aya?”
“The rancher next door,” said Jim, taking the mug out of the microwave, dipping his pinkie into it to check its temperature, then handing it to Spencer. “Drink this, it should help your insomnia. Why do you think Jason’s involved—your mom’s never been particularly fond of him.”
“I dunno—she was asking me about him. Do I like him? How would I feel if he was in our lives...” he trailed off as he sipped his drink.
A cold, sick sensation lined Mason’s insides.
“Jessica says her dad asked her all those questions before he married her step-mom. Which is weird, ‘cause Mom’s never really liked Jason. They’ve never even dated. She says he’s odd.” He wiped away his milk-moustache with the sleeve of his pajama shirt.
The slimy sensation in the pit of Mason’s stomach gained weight and slid to the bottoms of his feet, leaving a thick, viscous trail in its path. He risked a glance at Jim, whose expression mirrored his feelings.
“Drink the rest of your milk and go on to bed,” he told his grandson. “Tomorrow’s a school day.”
His face puckered, as though he would argue the command. But as Spencer glanced from Mason to his great-grandfather, he seemed to change his mind, and after swallowing the last of the warm drink, set up the stairs.
They waited in silence for a few moments, then Mason said, “Tell me I’m thinking wrong. Tell me she’s not thinking about marrying a man strictly for money.”
“If you are, so am I.”
A guttural string of swears followed Jim’s words and a hard, icy cold permeated Mason’s bones.
“Is Jason a bad man?”
“No. He’s...good enough, I suppose. Hard working, boring, methodical.” He went silent. “He’d be able to take care of our debts. But Jason doesn’t like kids—he’ll barely tolerate Spencer, and he’s not an imaginative or particularly intelligent man. Aya’ll be bored to death in the relationship.” Jim swallowed his beer in a gulp. “The thought of her selling herself to save the land and what a loveless home will do to my great-grandson—” He grimaced as if the thought made him nauseous.
Jim pushed away from the stool, reached under the counter and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard. Mason brought two glasses from the washboard and filled them.
“I never thought I’d say this—” Jim tossed the amber liquid down his throat, then turned his intense gaze to Mason. “Take this farm any way you can—run her into the ground if you have to, but don’t let that man near her.”
****
At eight o’clock the next morning, Aya opened the door to her office and found Nate sitting in her chair. The Friday morning sun cast its light through the window and outlined him in a red-orange glow...or maybe it was the dark expression on his face that traced his body with the ominous aura. The door closed with a click, and she crossed the room, wondering why he looked like a dark god about to charge into battle.
His body remained eerily still, but his eyes tracked every movement, homing in on her with the precision and—if his mood could be judged—the lethal intent of a missile.
She took a seat across from him and smiled. “Thank you for your help with Spencer. It’s been a litany of emails, phone calls, and conferences, but the principal’s agreed to transfer Whitehead at the end of the school year. In the meantime, there’s a supervisor in the class to ensure he doesn’t abuse the kids.”
Nate said nothing. His eyes burned, his mouth remained set in its hard, granite position. He could have been made of Kevlar, and the ominous expression on his face would have stopped a bullet.
“What’s wrong?” The frown lining her forehead burrowed deeper, until she could see her eyebrows in her peripheral vision. “I thought you’d be happy with the news.”
He leaned forward, his fingers interlacing with each other; every molecule in his body seemed charged with angry, commanding energy.
Her internal frown deepened. The silent routine didn’t just wear thin, it left her humor threadbare. Her mind flicked from one possibility to another, trying to find a reason for his ill-temper, and as comprehension dawned, it shed its unflinching light on the farm’s finances. She put on her helmet and vest, and raced on to the battle ground.
“I know what this is about,” she said. “Last month’s figures aren’t that bad. We did okay. I don’t have to sell to Mason St. John, and I’m sure as hell not giving up my cows.”
“Cows? You think this is about your cows?”
He spit out the words, quietly, efficiently, and she realized he wasn’t mad.
He was furious.
It made the hair on her skin rise. The urge to backpedal, surrender, and run for cover overwhelmed her.
He rose, large, menacing, and filled her vision like Lucifer about to claim his prize. She gripped the arms of the chair, refusing to bolt, but wishing her old Nate, with his light and humor, would emerge and banish this dark lord back to the underworld.
“You lied to me, Aya.” He came toward her. Though his steps were quietly placed, they boomed with foreboding.
“I did not.”
“You said your secret weapon didn’t involve selling your organs or any body parts.”
Boom. Boom. Boom. Powerful, ominous, he advanced, an army of one who would conquer before the trumpet call had ended. His intense gaze prickled her skin. The angry flecks of copper in his eyes seared her.
“They don’t.”
He placed his hands on either side of the chair, blocking her. The air, charged and angry, hummed with tension. “Your lips are body parts, Aya.”
Had he lost his mind?
He scrutinized her figure, impersonal, cold. “So are your breasts and all your lovely, pink parts. How much did Jason Radcliffe offer for your services?”
She flinched, his base, guttural description brought to light the ugliness of his thoughts. “What the hell are you talking about?”
His face tightened with contempt. “Don’t play coy. Spencer told me all about it.”
Scorn, which made his mouth twist into a disapproving frown, ignited a firestorm of fury in her. Aya didn’t know the specifics of his suspicions, but she had a general idea, and she wanted to throttle him.
She put her hands on top of his and straightened her posture, slowly, deliberately. Leaning into his personal space, she said, “Think real hard before you accuse me or put all your faith in a nine-year-old child.” Then she leaned in further, never breaking eye contact. “Weigh your words before you speak.” And still she continued to move toward him, until their noses almost touched. “And then, I want you to speak real slow, because if you say what I think you’re going to say, these may well be the last words you ever speak, and I want you to enjoy them.”
The intense light in his eyes faltered, and in his enlarged pupils, uncertainty flickered. He broke away from her, stepped back, and leaned against the desk with his arms folded. “Spencer—”
“Yes?” She cocked her eyebrows and drew the one word question into a paragraph-worthy hiss.
“Damn it, Aya.” His hand
s jerked to his sides, then crossed his chest. Frustration rolled from him in crackling, static-filled waves. “Spencer says your secret plan involves Jason, and you’ve been asking questions parents only ask when they’re about to get remarried.”
The accusing light glowed red in his eyes, and Aya felt like a bull about to charge. “And you, in your infinite, male wisdom have concluded that I’m about to sell myself into matrimony for the sake of the farm.”
“It’s not just me—”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re supported by a person who’s still too short to get on to the majority of the rides at Disneyland.”
“Jim,” he said with growing impatience.
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re putting your belief in a man who thinks that a stuck window is a brilliant deception to cover his relationship with Destina?”
He stared down at her. “You’re avoiding the conversation.”
“Because I’m trying to save you some dignity. Do you even know Jason?”
“I know enough,” Nate snapped. “He’s rich and can save the farm.”
Anger, hurt, boiled a toxic, heated mix in her blood, but she kept a lid on her temper.
“The man doesn’t even like kids—how can you do that to Spencer? It’s bad enough to stick him in a home where there’s no love, but—”
She’d had her fill of this conversation. Hell, she’d gone past “fill” and was drowning in “over-saturated.” Aya bolted from the chair, stomped over to where he stood, and drilled an accusing finger into his chest. “What kind of mother do you think I am—what kind of person do you think I am?”
“One who’ll do anything to save her land.” Disdain rotted his words.
“At the expense of my child?” Her voice rose with incredulous anger. She balled her hands into fists, wanting to smash something—like his perfect jaw. “How dare you make that kind of judgment about me?”
“What do you expect me to think?”
“I’d hope you had enough brains to know I wouldn’t whore myself or my child.”
He flinched, but didn’t back down. “You’re close enough to the line. This farm is losing money. It’s a sinking proposition, but you’re too stubborn to see reality. I can—Mason St. John can save you—”