But as it was? Sabrina shivered.
Would Mitch sleep out under the stars and risk someone seeing him? Would they take turns? Or would they share the second hut—and the single, rough bed—for the entire night?
Poor Mitch. She understood his desire to prove himself to his family, and the community he’d grown up in and essentially discarded. No one wants to come home hat in hand.
But he was already so successful, and all on his own. He had established a name for himself, and he had the fortune that went with it. Yet he still wasn’t satisfied. He still had more to prove. He was still running, running, running to show his father that he didn’t need him. That he was good enough. That he was worth loving.
Only his father was dead, and where did that leave Mitch?
A knot popped and crackled, making her jump. Mitch brushed a spark off her knee.
“Don’t want you to catch fire, do we?” he said with a smile.
An odd sense settled over her of being thrown backward in time. The warmth of his hand spread across her leg, through muscle and bone, touching off cell-deep memories of Mitch’s hands on her, with no denim between them.
“I wish I could stay out here forever,” Paris said. The forlorn quality in her voice poked up through Sabrina’s disturbing thought, snagging her attention. She shifted away from Mitch, just slightly, just enough to allow herself to think. Which, ever since that good-night kiss, had become increasingly difficult.
That moment of intimacy had been a terrifying wake-up call to just how tight this wire was that she balanced on. She shuddered at the memory of how easily she’d slipped into the role he’d asked of her. How natural it felt. She had to snap out of it. Her whole plan was to get him to fall in love with her, and it appeared she was making headway. She should be happy. She should be cavorting over the moon, if the look in his eyes the night she’d fled the car was any indication.
And yet she felt no triumph. This was not good.
“I feel like I can breathe out here,” Paris continued.
Sabrina shifted. Air rushed in to cool the heated spots where Mitch’s body touched hers. Better.
Mitch slanted a questioning look at her. She ignored him.
“Why don’t you stay, then?” she asked the girl. “You can do whatever you want, can’t you?”
“Oh, no,” Paris said, her pale eyes impossibly wide. “I mean, yes, of course I can. But…”
“But what?” Mitch asked. He tossed a stick into the coals. “It’s your life, isn’t it?”
“It is, and it isn’t.” Paris sighed heavily. “Before he died, Daddy made sure I was well taken care of. I’m an heiress now, as Della reminds me every chance she gets. I know she means well, but she and Daddy planned everything out—where I’d live, what car I’d drive, who I’d spend vacations with, what charities I’d support. I’m not even twenty-one and I can see my whole life just lying there, waiting for me to step into it. I know she’s looking for a husband for me. She thinks it’s time. You know, date a couple of years, engaged for another, then a lavish wedding and poof, she’s fulfilled her obligation to look after me.”
Sabrina heard tears trembling beneath Paris’s words. She wondered how quickly her father had married Della after Paris’s mother’s death. Likely no amount of time would have been long enough for a grieving daughter. Under Della’s lurid manner, Sabrina suspected a bruised, confused heart, still trying to do right by a young woman who had never let her get close.
“I just wish, for once, that I could take control of my own life.” Paris stared into the flames. “Do what I want for a change.”
Sabrina had helped girls younger than Paris become mothers, take on responsibility for a new life, and grow into adults in the process. But Paris had never been given the opportunity to be challenged into adulthood. She’d been swaddled in cotton wool, cherished, pampered, and loved, whether she realized it or not.
And now, all that well-meaning protection was suffocating her.
But before Sabrina could speak, Paris stood up and brushed off her jeans. “Sorry for all that. Forget what I said. I must be tired. See you in the morning, okay?”
After the door to Paris and Della’s cabin creaked shut, Sabrina shifted back toward Mitch. She suddenly missed the closeness she’d felt earlier, risks be damned.
“Poor kid,” she said.
“Poor little rich girl?” Mitch scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Sabrina shook her head. “She feels so constrained by her station in life, but she has no idea what her real problem is.”
“And what might that be?”
There was an edge to his voice. Mitch no doubt identified with Paris. His father had controlled everything about his sons’ lives, forcing them to compete, refusing to acknowledge their unique gifts and needs. He must have loved them, too. But his way of showing it had probably been at least as bad as Della’s.
She squeezed her eyes against the memories of Mitch as a troubled young man. She knew that leaving the ranch, his family, his life, was Mitch’s best option at the time. His only option. He’d never have fought his way out if he’d stayed.
Still.
She gripped her forearms around her belly, remembering the gaping visceral pain she’d felt when she first realized he wasn’t coming back. They’d had something real. But the timing had been all wrong. They were too young, had too many strikes against them to make it work.
But oh, how Sabrina had wanted him.
He’d have stayed, if she’d asked. If she hadn’t seen his relief at dodging the bullet. If she hadn’t recognized that holding him then would have destroyed everything they might have had.
So she let him go. But oh, how she’d wanted him.
And how she’d wanted their baby.
Oh well, ancient history. Now she had a good life. She was content. Mostly.
But Mitch, for all his striving and desperate ambition, was not. He continued searching for the next big thing, endlessly dissatisfied, unaware that he was starving in a land of plenty, always reaching past the bounty in front of him.
“Paris’s problem,” she said, her voice husky with emotion, “isn’t that she doesn’t have control. It’s that she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what it is that she wants.”
Mitch stopped stirring the fire. He turned his head and looked at her, his eyes reflecting the golden glow of the flames. “What do you think that is?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what she thinks.”
“Why do you care, Bree? I mean, what’s it to you?”
His casual use of her old nickname made her heart constrict. And his oblivion at her feelings made her temper flare. “I care,” she said, keeping her voice low but cutting each word off crisply, “because I hate to see people floundering in a sea of emotional confusion. She’s in a crisis right now, searching for herself. I recognize it. I see it in my practice regularly. And I take pride in helping women through to the other side.”
“Just women?” He didn’t look at her.
“What?” She shook an annoying strand of hair away from her eyes. “Of course women. I’m a midwife.”
“I meant, do you help men figure things out, too?”
Suddenly, Sabrina felt thrown off, as if she’d missed a turn in the conversation. “Yeah, I guess. New dads are just as bad, worse sometimes. But they’re not my main focus.”
“Of course not. They can look after themselves, right? I mean, who really cares what they think?” There was bitterness to his voice.
“I totally care about them, Mitch. But I see a lot of women who have to go through the whole thing on their own.”
She swallowed, a rush of memories clawing behind her eyes. Young girls in trouble, desperate, not knowing who to ask for help, what to do, knowing that no matter which way they turned, they’d be hurting someone.
“I see a lot of girls who have no one to lean on, so I’m it.”
“The kind of person you needed but didn’t
have.”
She froze at his words. “I…was fine. I never got that far.” Her throat closed. She hadn’t been fine, and she’d gotten further than he knew.
“You were fine then. All alone. You got over it.” His voice was low. He didn’t look at her.
“I kind of had to, didn’t I?” she answered. “That’s my point. I focus on the women because it’s their deal. If a man is around, bonus, but it’s better for everyone if you don’t count on them.” She got to her feet, all closeness evaporated. “I’m tired. Good night.”
But she was still awake when he entered the cabin after dousing the fire and checking the horses again. She heard him unfold his bedroll on the floor. It was colder than she’d expected and she tugged her sleeping bag tighter, wishing she had his warmth next to her. He tossed and turned, the hard boards creaking with every movement. She could tell by his breathing that he couldn’t sleep any more than she could.
“Come on up,” she whispered finally. To hell with pride.
There was no response from the floor.
“I know you’re awake.” She turned to face the wall and shifted over to make room. “I can’t sleep with all your thumping around down there. So come on up already, will you?”
A pause. “You’re sure?”
“Look, I’m freezing.” She leaned up on her elbow so she could see him. Moonlight drifted through the cobwebbed window, highlighting the planes of his face. But it was too dark to read his expression. “It’s not like I’m proposing a torrid night of endless passion. Keep your hands to yourself. Stay under your own blanket.”
Mitch gathered his bedding and slipped in beside her. Instantly, a wall of warmth crept over her and with it, comfort. Security.
“So,” he murmured softly. “No torrid passion, huh?”
“Oh!” She brought her arm back to elbow him in the ribs, but before she could, he had her pinned, his arm pulling her back tight against his chest, spoon-fashion. She felt a chuckle roll over him.
“Not even a quickie?”
“Go to sleep!” But she found herself smiling again. She snuggled closer and listened to his breath slow and change. He was tired and cold and probably sore, too. He needed the rest at least as much as she did.
When she was sure he was out, she carefully tucked his arm between her breasts, over her heart, his curled fingers nestled under her chin. Then, she felt herself drift, finally, into sleep.
But just as she dropped off, he twitched, tightening his grip on her.
“’Night, Bree,” he muttered. His breath rippled over the flesh of her neck, raising every tiny hair in its path. “Love you more.”
Instantly Sabrina was 100 percent awake again, electrified.
Love you more.
The old endearment they’d always exchanged, once upon a time: Love you. Love you more.
What did it mean? Would he remember saying it in the morning? Should she tell him? What if he denied it?
Or was it possible…was her plan working? Was he beginning to fall for her again?
No. It meant nothing, just like that good-night kiss. The one that had left her shaken, yearning.
Slowly she brought her breathing under control. Mitch was still an immature, shallow heartbreaker. Nothing had changed. The ease with which he lied to everyone who loved him proved it.
But then she realized that he hadn’t lied to her. As far as she knew, he’d been completely aboveboard with everything when it came to her. She’d never doubted his word, just his ability to commit to something other than his own driving needs.
So what, then? Was he opening his heart to her?
Sabrina swallowed, listening to his soft breathing next to her. She used to love watching him sleep. He would nod off sometimes while she was tutoring him after school. He worked so hard on the ranch and when it came to school, it took him twice as long to learn half as much. He was always struggling, always tired, always preparing for the next task. She’d cherished those moments when he let down his guard and the lines on his face slackened.
Her throat tightened at the memories.
Don’t stop there, Sabrina. Remember everything.
But that old heartache wasn’t where she used to keep it. She reached for the resentment. She’d held it close for so long and needed it to fuel her final revenge.
He broke my heart, she reminded herself. Now I’m going to break his.
She just needed to stay on task. That’s all.
Hours later, she awoke to the sound of birdsong and the rustle of horses just outside their window.
She also discovered the sensation of his hand, cupping her breast, his fingers a mere hairbreadth from her nipple. Somehow, during the night, the top two buttons of her shirt had come undone. And her sleeping without a bra! Against her back she felt the even rise and fall indicating that he wasn’t awake yet. Sometime in the night he’d spread his sleeping bag over her, and now she was deliciously warm.
For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what might have become of them, had circumstances gone their way. Their lovemaking before had always been furtive, the excitement heightened by the fear of being found out. They’d never had the chance to see where their relationship might have gone, to take their time, to explore each other, to come awake slowly, together, with all the time in the world.
To do this.
She squirmed a little closer. If she could pull him around her like a cloak, she would have. His knees fit snugly against hers, so warm and heavy. So snugly that she could feel—
Oh God.
Her dreamy fantasies vanished like last night’s smoke.
If Mitch woke up in this state, with his arm trapped in hers and her without a bra…
Just then he tensed behind her. She forced herself to remain completely still as he lifted his fingers away from her, extricated his arm, and carefully slipped away from her. Before he left, he took a moment to reposition the blankets so she was covered.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Nine
“It’s perfect.” Della put her hands on her hips and plunked a fistful of papers in front of him. “I’ll be able to get it for a song.”
“What?” Mitch looked down at the small desk in the guesthouse sitting room. Definitely too small for Della. Ever since sleeping with Sabrina on the campout—platonically, no sex, though it had almost killed him—he’d had trouble focusing. Besides, Della had been so busy swanning around in boots and spurs and—God save them all—chaps that he’d let himself believe she was taking a break.
He should have known better.
“Read.” She pointed to the pages but they might as well have been written in Chinese characters. Then he saw the letterhead: Fulston Realty.
He grabbed them. “What is this?”
“Fulston Realty? It’s the local real estate agency. I thought that was obvious. The word realty is a clue.”
“But…why?”
What had she done? What had he done?
“You did good, Mitch. Excellent idea. My taste in men never fails me.”
She gave him a raunchy smile that made his stomach twist. “Della. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on. Has unlimited sex addled your mind so much that you haven’t figured it out? I think even Lulu’s cottoned on.”
Unlimited sex? Right. Sabrina was playing the part of lover for their audience, full credit for that. But she’d made it clear that any sleeping together would be strictly platonic, nothing more. He’d underestimated how the intimacy of sharing a bed with her would affect him, though. That first morning, when he’d awoken with Sabrina’s bare breast in his hand, his finger unconsciously toying her nipple, he’d had to dash outside to keep from ripping her clothes off then and there.
The second night was perhaps the worst of his life, but he’d managed to keep a lid on the desire that was, to put it mildly, killing him. They’d barely spoken during the ride home. Her firm, round behind snuggled into his groin two nights in a row had taken him to a
place of moment-to-moment survival.
Distracted? You could say so.
“Maybe I need to use smaller words.” Della leaned closer and enunciated as though she were talking to someone in a coma. “Me. Buy. Hard. Tack. Does that penetrate your hormone-infused fog?”
The triumphant look on her face sent panic surging through his veins as he made sense of the words.
“But you said you wanted to build a resort. We haven’t even started looking for potential locations.”
First, she’d indulge her inner cowgirl, then they’d begin looking for land. That was the plan. Or had Hard Tack always been her target?
“You haven’t started. I’m done.”
“But Della, it’s nothing like what we were talking about.” Surely she wasn’t serious. “It’s too remote. No flight access. You’d have to tear down everything here and start from scratch. Your costs would be astronomical.”
“Offset by the purchase price.”
Facts began filtering through. If she’d set her mind on buying Hard Tack, she was buying Hard Tack. And she’d grind the price down as low as possible, destroying whatever was left of Gus Harding. Not to mention Hailey.
“No, no, no way.” He gripped his head in both hands. The woman was a human bulldozer. “I won’t be party to this. We had a verbal contract, and this wasn’t in it.”
“Nothing’s signed. Sorry if you don’t like it. I’ll find someone else.”
“It’s crazy. This is a working ranch! It’s nowhere near suitable for an upscale resort. You’d have to mow the place down, at enormous expense, before you could even begin.”
She shrugged. “So I changed my mind. Now I’m thinking a dude ranch. We could install a bunch of guesthouses like the one I’m staying in, renovate the main house the way Carson did at Three River Ranch, except bigger. We’d offer the whole ranch experience. But with waitstaff.”
Forget showing everyone how successful he was; Mitch had brought the plague of Della Fontaine to his hometown. He should disappear in the middle of the night, before anyone found out about this. She’d find someone to build her gaudy abomination—not him, not at any price—bringing a constant flow of rich, thoughtless tourists, who’d gawk and laugh at these hardworking, honest people as if they were freaks in a zoo.
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