Cry Mercy, Cry Love

by Monica Barrie

  What was Higgins doing in Nevada? Reid wondered about the cowboy and hoped like hell he wasn’t working at the Strand Ranch.

  With that thought, Reid crushed out the thin cigarillo, stretched, and went back to bed. He knew he would sleep undisturbed for however long he wanted to. That was something else he had learned. When he had his dream, it happened only once in a night. Never twice.

  Reid shut off the light, lay down in bed, and willed the sleep to overtake him.

  ~~~

  Heather stepped from the shower, letting the water cascade from her body. She felt good; she always did after a shower. She reached for a towel, bent her head over, and wrapped her hair within it. When the turban was finished, she reached for the heavier terry cloth bath towel and began to massage herself dry.

  When Heather was satisfied that every inch of her skin was dry, she powdered herself with Ciara, enjoying the fresh, clean smell of the perfumed powder and the uplifting feel of it on her skin. Then she went into her bedroom and to her dresser. Carefully her fingers searched through the drawer until they found what she wanted. She withdrew her lightweight bra with its matching lace panties. Heather slipped her arms through the straps of the front-closing bra. Leaning forward, she let her firm breasts fill the cups as she closed the bra. Then she slipped the panties on and adjusted them on her hips. When she wasn’t wearing jeans and men’s shirts, Heather enjoyed the feel of soft and silky clothing against her skin. She enjoyed it almost as much as when she sculpted.

  She stood in the bedroom debating over what she should wear. With a quick smile and nod to herself, she turned back to the dresser and withdrew a silk half-slip. After this was on, she returned to the bathroom, undid the towel on her hair, and began to blow the hair dry. Using her fingers, she let the warm air of the dryer flow through her hair and hands. Her natural waves would take over by the time her hair was dry, and a few quick brushstrokes would control it. Heather liked her hair to fall naturally. It wasn’t vanity—it just felt good to her that way.

  At the closet, Heather hesitated. At first, she’d considered wearing a suit in order to be businesslike. Now she was unsure. She didn’t dress up very often, and she hated to make all her effort go to waste.

  Letting her fingers run along the clothes rack, Heather felt for each item. Above each hanger was a braille code letter to tell her the colors. Three times Heather stopped and felt an article of clothing. Three times Heather rejected it. Then Heather’s fingers touched another code letter and her hands went to the dress. She nodded and pulled it free.

  This dress was a cinnamon color with a button-down front and a lace collar. It had a wide belt and a nicely pleated skirt. The hem of the dress fell midway between her knee and calf. Heather stepped into the dress, buttoned it, and belted it. She let her hands run along her sides, roll over her hips, and then smooth out the flare of the skirt. She did the same thing along her derriere and over her stomach and breasts.

  The material was sheer to the touch, but opaque, and was pleasantly soft against the palms of her hands. Heather knew that while the dress would be perfect for her luncheon interview, it would stand out amongst the crowd.

  She laughed at the thought. Polaris would stand out anywhere. Heather knew that no matter what she wore her dog would cause everyone’s eyes to follow her if she brought him with her. She went back to the closet and found the matching shoes. The shoes had a small gold strap across the front and medium heels. Heather slipped into the shoes and left the bedroom. At the front door, she called Polaris, who accompanied her to the office.

  “Aren’t we the pretty one,” stated Emma when Heather entered.

  “Do I look all right?” Heather asked, executing a pirouette before Emma.

  “Gorgeous! Oh….”

  “What?” Heather asked, alarmed.

  “Your shoes. They’re green.”

  “Oh, no,” Heather cried. “Gregg promised he’d stop tricking me if I gave him a paying chore. I’m going to get that little devil...” Heather declared as she started to turn and go back to her house.

  “Hold it, turkey, I’m kidding.” At the relief Emma saw in Heather’s face, she began to laugh softly. “Got ya!”

  “One day I’m going to get even,” Heather swore, but smiled as she said it.

  “Are you ready?” Emma asked.

  “As ready as ever. I do hope Reid Hunter needs this job badly. Especially for what we’re going to pay him.”

  “Tell him you’ll cook dinner every night—maybe that’ll persuade him,” Emma offered good-naturedly. “Come on, let’s get you over to the restaurant.”

  FOUR

  Heather stepped into the bathtub for the second time today, but this time she sank gratefully into its warmth. When the hot water covered her, she exhaled and let the water caress her skin. After a moment, she laid her head on the porcelain edge and breathed softly.

  She ran her hands along her legs, feeling the firmness of her skin and muscles. She traced them as an artist would, with her mind on their lines. Her calves were smooth, lean, and she knew their shape was almost perfect. Her thighs were firm and the warm skin on them was smooth. Her hands and fingers rose along her hips, and there, too, she felt the firmness of her skin and muscles. Her fingers skimmed across her flat stomach, over the muscles that lay just beneath the skin. Her hands rose to her breasts and felt them critically. They were firm, not large, and the muscles supporting them held them high. Her neck was long—just a drop too long for a classic model—and it was one reason Heather never had done a bust of herself. When she sculpted from a live model, especially a woman, there were certain things she demanded as an artist. One was the correct proportions.

  It was not the beauty of the person—not their actual physical beauty—but a beauty of proportion Heather loved to work with. Like Gregg Farley. At eight years old, his proportions were magnificent. His neck, shoulders, and head were perfect. But, Heather conceded, even if they weren’t, she would have done a bust of Gregg anyway. His mind and his whole being were beautiful.

  Heather shook away the thoughts of her art as she reached for the bar of soap. Gently, enjoying the luxurious vanity and the needed relaxation of this bath, she began to wash herself. In Heather’s world, everything was touch, sound, or scent, and for Heather the feel of the gentle soap rubbing along her skin with the soft terry washcloth was almost like heaven.

  When she finished washing, she pulled the drain and the soapy water began to run out. When the water was more than half-gone, Heather closed the drain and began to run fresh water into the bath. When it filled again with the hot water, she put her arms on the sides of the tub and let her head sink slowly back as her mind began to wander to today’s lunch with Reid Hunter.

  ~~~

  Emma pulled the car to a stop at the front entrance of the restaurant. The Pine Tree was one of the oldest restaurants in the area, and Heather Strand’s most favorite. She had been going there since she was a child.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay? I can wait for you. Really, it’s no problem,” Emma said.

  “No. Go have lunch and take care of those other matters in town. I should be ready in two hours,” Heather said as the attendant opened car door. Heather felt Polaris move and put her hand on his head. “Stay,” she commanded him, deciding not to bring the dog inside the restaurant with her.

  When Heather left the car, the attendant’s hand grasped her arm. “Two steps, Miss Strand.”

  “My goodness, Chuck, after all these years don’t you think I know how many steps there are?” she laughed lightly. “And after the two steps are six steps to the door, five steps in, and then turn left.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Chuck responded, and Heather heard the humor in his voice. She smiled at him and patted his hand.

  “Thank you, Chuck,” she said as he held the door open for her. By the time she passed through the door, every scent in the restaurant assaulted her. She could smell the beef roasting in the ovens, the vegetables stea
ming on the stoves, and the sweet scent of flowers on each table. The scent of gardenias stood out among them all. Then she smelled another scent, and her stomach growled in response. Brook trout—oh, how she loved fresh brook trout.

  “Heather, hi, how are you?” asked a familiar voice.

  “Caroline, it’s been a while. I’m fine. Yourself, the boys?” she asked with a smile and an outstretched hand. The other woman grasped Heather’s hand.

  “They’re fine. It’s good to see you. Why, it must be three months, and it’s all my fault. I know I promised to call.”

  “I know how busy you are,” Heather said graciously, excusing her friend from the lapse. Caroline Buckman and she had been friends since high school and kept in contact regularly. But, with Caroline’s work at the restaurant and her two boys, their times together had become less and less frequent. “I’m meeting a Mr. Hunter for lunch. Is he here yet?”

  “He sure is. Been here for about fifteen minutes. At your regular table,” Caroline informed her.

  “Thanks. I’ll find my own way. Oh, the trout smells wonderful,” she said as she began to walk toward her table. The table was the same one she always sat at and the most direct from the entrance. She knew exactly what the restaurant looked like, even though she’d never seen it. It was a large room with forty tables. Each table was set a small distance from its neighbors, comfortable, almost private, yet very open. The paintings on the walls were by local artists and among the best works in the state. Her table was set in the middle of a bank of windows, against the left-hand wall of the restaurant and, Heather knew, it overlooked a small pond. The pond was surrounded by evergreens, and in spring and summer, it was lush with flowers. There were several cement benches set near its edge, and dividing the benches was one of her own sculptures, an abstract she’d done a few years ago. As she walked and smelled the wonderful scents of the food and flowers, she felt at home.

  Stopping exactly three feet from her table, Heather heard a chair scrape along the floor. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunter,” she said.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” Reid replied. She could sense his movement as he came around the table and pulled out the chair for her. Then his hand was on her arm, guiding her to the chair. Again, came that jolt of electricity from his fingers and her breath caught.

  “Thank you,” she finally said as she sat down. After he returned to his seat, Heather smiled. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I was early, you’re on time,” he informed her politely. “Would you like to order?”

  “To be honest, the minute I stepped in here I became ravenous,” she said. It was true, but her appetite had left her when he had touched her. Why, she wondered, is he affecting me like this?

  “I...er...Damn! Sorry, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Do I read you the menu?” he asked.

  A bubbly laugh rose in her throat. “In a place I’m not familiar with that would be appropriate, but I know the menu here by heart,” she told him.

  “I should have known,” Reid said with a low laugh of his own. Then the waitress came. Both declined drinks and ordered their lunch. Heather chose trout and a small salad. Reid ordered the same. After the waitress left, Heather knew Reid was gazing at her. She waited for him to speak.

  “Please don’t take what I’m about to say in the wrong way,” he began. Heather nodded. “You’re a beautiful young woman, and a talented one too. Why are you trying to run the ranch? You could sell it and make enough to keep you in a nice way for a long time.” Heather felt herself grow angry and her muscles began to tense. Willfully, she forced herself to relax. “I thought I made that clear the other day, Mr. Hunter. This ranch has been in my family for a long time, and I plan on keeping it that way.”

  “I understand that. But you’re….

  “I’m what,” she demanded, forcing the man to put words to his thought.

  “You’re blind,” he said simply.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. How can you run a ranch? How can you check on what’s happening, see what your help is doing?”

  “Trust, Mr. Hunter, trust.”

  “That’s very risky,” Reid told her bluntly.

  “It’s all I can do. That’s why you’re here.”

  “What happened to your last foreman?” he asked. Heather relaxed, the anger of a moment ago subsiding as she realized his questions had not been mocking, but honest and sincere.

  “I’ll have to start at the beginning.” When she received no response, she began. “When my father died, Hank Thompson was the foreman. He stayed on for a year and taught me a lot, but then he received a better offer. I couldn’t stop him—he’s got a wife and two kids and he needed the extra money. Tom Farley took over then, but Tom doesn’t want to be the foreman. He’s been nice enough to handle everything until I hired the right man.”

  The waitress interrupted them with their food. As they ate, they talked about the area and about anything except the ranch. Throughout the meal, Heather felt herself reacting to Reid’s voice, his manner, and the way he spoke. Everything within her seemed primed to explode whenever he spoke, and the ability to use her willpower, the willpower she had trained herself to achieve during her growing years, was never more strained than it was now. She didn’t know what it was, this magnetism radiating from Reid. She fought it, and won, and nothing of her internal turmoil showed on her face. When they finished the meal, and coffee served, they began to talk once again about the ranch.

  Reid took the initiative, throwing Heather off stride until she realized what he was doing. When she understood, she let herself go, explaining all the details Reid wanted to know. By the time he was finished, Heather was certain Reid Hunter was the man she needed to run the ranch.

  “Have my references checked out okay?” he asked.

  “They were fine,” Heather said with a nod. Suddenly she needed to touch him, to feel his face, and to learn what he looked like. Not here, Heather thought, not in the restaurant. He was a cowboy, and she knew by the little time they had spoken he was part of that breed who kept their emotions private, who showed no public displays. A woman touching a man’s face in public, as she would have to do, might embarrass him.

  “Mr. Hunter, will you tell me the reason you left the Triple-K? From what I learned, Mr. Kingston respected and admired you; which, from what I understand, is something that doesn’t happen too often with him.” She heard Reid take in a breath, hold it for a moment, and then let it out slowly.

  “Miss Heather, it really was a personal reason. It had nothing to do with my job,” he told her. Heather knew he was speaking the truth.

  “Mr. Hunter, when can you start?” Heather asked, her mind made up.

  “When you start calling me Reid,” he responded. Heather smiled and stretched out her hand. Reid took it in his strong hand and clasped it tightly. She felt the dry warmth of his hand, the power and strength within it. They stayed like that for several seconds before Heather reluctantly withdrew her hand.

  “Reid,” she said, using his name for the first time, almost savoring it, “we haven’t discussed salary or anything.”

  “I’m not worried. Whatever the last foreman was getting will be fine. Is that all right, Miss Heather?”

  “It will be, if you’ll call me Heather when you’re not working.” Heather waited, knowing this was another form of the code. Women owners of ranches were always called miss, even though most foremen called their male bosses by the first name.

  “When do I start...Heather?” Reid asked.

  “When can you bring your things out and get settled?”

  “Right after lunch,” he told her, and Heather sensed the smile that was surely on his face.

  ~~~

  The warmth of the water departed as her mind returned to the present. Heather sat up. Not wanting to leave the bath yet, she again turned on the hot water. Two minutes later the bath was more comfortable, and she lay back. Yes, she thought, she was glad she’d hired Reid Hunter. T
hey’d even fought over the check. Reid had won, telling her he wasn’t working for her until he brought his things to the ranch, and insisted on paying the check. When they were outside, Reid had asked how she was getting back to the ranch. She’d told him that someone was picking her up. Reid said he’d checked out of the motel earlier and would be going to the ranch today to settle in. Could he drive her home?

  She agreed. Heather told Chuck, the attendant, that when Emma came for her to send her on to the ranch.

  They drove in silence until they neared the ranch. Although Reid started to tell her where they were, Heather had smiled and told him she knew. She could smell the familiar scent of her home.

  “Pull over,” she had ordered him suddenly. Reid had complied and then asked why.

  “I’ve hired you, I’ve listened to you, and I know some of your background. Now I need to know what you look like,” she had told him. As she had spoken, she’d felt her heart beating quickly within her. She could almost hear the staccato pounding deep within her chest and, as hard as she tried, she could not control it. Part of what she had said was the truth, but only part. She wanted to touch him, to know him as only a blind person could.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Reid had said to her.

  “It’s simple. Being blind doesn’t mean I can’t know what people or things look like. I use my fingers and hands to ‘see’. Like this,” she had said as she moved her hands toward his voice.

  Heather had been afraid her hands were trembling but dredged up a last bit of willpower and forced them to be still. She had started at his chin, moving her fingers slowly, tracing the outline of his jaw. She felt the beginning of his beard’s stubble, although she could also tell that he’d shaved earlier. He would have a strong beard; he’d probably have to shave twice a day if he were going out at night. Heather’s fingers traced his jawline and her heart beat harder. Reid’s jaw was smooth, strong, and angular, with the slightest of indentations near its center—a small cleft. Her fingers continued their course, tracing his cheeks. His cheekbones were strong, well formed. Then her fingers had dipped to his lips. He had full lips, soft skin, not hard and chapped like so many outdoorsmen. Her fingers moved to his mustache and had traced its outline. The mustache had been thick, straight, but not wiry. She had felt his even breathing, warm wisps that came from his nose and flowed across her fingers. Then, slowly, she’d traced his nose. Not too large, almost straight. She knew it would look straight, but there was a slight bump in the middle.