He didn’t reply immediately, and Martha was shocked at his expression. Jaw grim, eyes blacker than midnight…
Spook barked energetically from his position on the seat between Fraser and Daisy, and she dimly registered Daisy’s chatter, telling the dog everything that had happened since breakfast. Fraser muttered something—a curse, she had no doubt—and got out of the truck in one smooth fluid motion. She could feel the energy in his body, ruthless, taut, barely controlled. Her first instinct was to step back, but she held her ground. He slammed the door and leaned back against it, looking down at her. She saw a muscle jump in the side of his jaw.
“Where the hell were you?” he bit out finally.
“We…we went to town.” Stunned, Martha waved one hand vaguely toward the Bronco. “Daisy and I. What do you mean, where were we?”
“You took Daisy to Pine Ridge?” His tone was incredulous, his expression black. “When? This morning?”
“Yes.” Why was he so angry? “This morning, right after we dropped Anne off. I needed to buy some clothes and I thought I’d pick up a few things for the girls and—”
“You could have asked me,” he broke in. “I could’ve gotten someone I know in town to pick up whatever the kids need. You could’ve ordered stuff out of the catalog—”
“I guess you forgot to tell me we were prisoners out here when you gave me my job description,” she snapped. The nerve! He obviously expected her to read his mind, to figure out every little angle he’d cooked up to keep the girls hidden and safe at his ranch.
He stared at her a long moment, long enough for Martha to become aware of the thump-thump of her heart, the shakiness of her knees, the deep burning enigma in his eyes.
“You’re not prisoners,” he growled, then turned to order Spook to silence. The dog stopped barking instantly and began to lick Daisy’s face with enthusiasm.
With a sinking feeling, Martha suddenly understood what he was saying. What he was really saying. He’d been worried someone in Pine Ridge would recognize Daisy, perhaps ask questions she, Martha, wouldn’t be able to answer. She was a stranger; it made sense the locals would notice her. In fact, now that she thought about it, the waitress at the restaurant had seemed to know Daisy. At the time she’d thought it was just normal small-town friendliness. Fraser faced the very real danger of more and more people finding out about Daisy and Anne the longer their mother stayed away.
Maybe she should have mentioned that she might go shopping this morning.
“Look.” She touched his arm in an instinctive gesture. He didn’t pull away, not immediately, but she felt his muscles tense, iron-hard under the thin cloth of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t realize—”
“Forget it.” He pulled away from her hand then, his voice gruff. This time she glimpsed some emotion beneath the grim facade he presented to her. She saw a man in pain, a man with a whole hell behind his eyes, a hell he shared with no one. The girls were part of it; she knew that but wasn’t sure why. She was part of it. And there was something else, something secret, unnamed, that was part of it.
Part of what? There was so much she didn’t understand. Would she ever understand? Did she want to? Suddenly she felt weary. She pushed her hair from her eyes with both hands and took a deep calming breath. Forget it, Martha Thomas, this is just a job. A shortterm job. It was supposed to be fun, remember? A challenge? Something different.
“You going to give Daisy a lift back to the ranch then?” she asked in as light a tone as she could manage.
He nodded, his eyes unreadable. “I’ll drop her off at the house.” Anger, worry, pain—she could tell he’d stuffed everything back inside him.
“Fine.” She turned to head for the Bronco.
“Martha. Wait.”
She stopped.
“I’ve got some work I have to do this afternoon. I might be late.” She nodded. Yes, boss. “I need to talk to you tonight.”
“Sure.” She shrugged and continued toward the Bronco, excruciatingly aware of her too-tight designer jeans, her too-thin city jacket. Her hair that was a windblown mess. Above all, she was aware of his eyes on her retreat from across the road. She held her chin firm, her shoulders infinitesimally higher.
But when she got to the Bronco and dared to glance back, it was to see that he was already in his pickup and letting the clutch out to turn around.
Who was she kidding? Fraser McKenna hadn’t given her a second glance.
FRASER GRIPPED the wheel until his hands hurt as the pickup pitched over the rocky track. You damn near lost it back there this afternoon, buddy. You damn near lost it good.
But he hadn’t…he hadn’t. Fraser relaxed his hands on the wheel. He took a deep breath. Then he gunned the engine and slipped the clutch. The pickup’s wheels spun out on ice, then caught and the vehicle lurched forward. Upward. Where was he going, anyway?
He knew.
After he’d dropped off Daisy, he’d gone back to the high pasture and pitched hay in a frenzy of physical exertion that had finally banished most of his demons. He could’ve gone back to the ranch house hours ago. He didn’t have work to do that would take him much past suppertime.
That had been a lie, an excuse not to have to sit around the kitchen table with Martha and the girls talking about nothing. Smiling, pretending. At least when it’d been just him and the girls, they hadn’t had to pretend. He’d been Fraser McKenna, the neighbor they’d known all their lives, and they’d been Brenda’s two girls, whom he was keeping an eye on for a while.
Martha Thomas. She was the wild card. She was the one who’d turned those silent straightforward meals into something he didn’t trust. Already, in less than a week, things had changed. Damn her, anyway, her and all her talk about how their days had been and what Anne had done at school and how Daisy and she had made cookies or some damn thing and what the kittens were doing now. Barn cats, for God’s sake!
The pickup’s engine growled as it climbed the frozen track. This was all so familiar. Back then, when the memories were razor-fresh, he’d come up here nearly every day. He’d had to come. Later he’d stopped. Had tried to forget, tried to push it all out of his mind. It had eased the pain to throw himself into hard physical work and stay away from this place of remembering.
He frowned. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been up here for months, since way before Brenda had left. Maybe that was a good sign Maybe he really was starting to forget, to put the past in the past where it belonged.
So what was he doing here now?
Snow blew across the narrow track in front of him. The wind was up. He couldn’t stay long, didn’t dare. Yet somehow he just wanted to come here. To think. To be alone with the rocks and the wind and the stones that marked her ashes. He remembered the day he’d brought them here. Buried them both. Charlotte’s ashes mingled with the ashes of the child-that-neverwas. A handful, not more than one small handful. Even in his dreams, even in his nightmares, he’d never given the child a name.
He maneuvered the truck around at the end of the track, then stopped and killed the engine. Suddenly it was silent, too silent. He opened the door, and an icy blast of wind swept into the cab, laden with flinty snow. He banged the door shut again with a curse. He peered through the thickening light. He could just make out the cairn he’d built, gray and faint. And cold. The stones looked so goddamned cold.
With another curse, he started the truck. What kind of sentimental fool was he? She was dead. He slammed the truck into gear. Leave it be, McKenna. Nothing will bring her back. Ever. Nothing will bring you back, either—the man you were then. Life goes on, that’s what everyone said. It must be true.
And it was true, dammit. Life did go on. He’d struggled, brought Westbank Ranch back from the near disaster he’d caused. He’d neglected the ranch for nearly two years while he wrestled with his grief. Now he was in the black again, keeping other men employed, other families fed. Bloss and Daisy were under his roof now—they needed him. Until their mother got b
ack anyway.
And this Martha Thomas—she was under his roof, too.
As he drove, Fraser looked down to where he knew the ranch buildings were situated. He could just make out a glow, probably the yard lights. He knew there’d be lights on in the house. He couldn’t deny the good feeling that gave him, just thinking about it. The kind of feeling he’d had as a boy, coming home. First it’d been just him and Weston, then the twins when they got a little older, riding their ponies home after a long day in the hills, chasing down strays. Lazy talk, laughter over the sly jokes of boys, promises made and dreams of what the future might hold….
Wes and the twins had left Blue River long ago. Charlotte had been dead nearly four years. He’d been coming home to a cold dark house for too long. Maybe there were some advantages, after all, to hiring a Lady Companion for the girls. Keep the home fires burning. He smiled to himself in the darkness of the cab, the heater blasting hot air around his feet, the wipers slapping rhythmically against the snow. It was coming down now, really coming down.
Fraser changed gears, slowing for an icy turn. Yeah, you nearly lost it this afternoon, McKenna. The memory of those last few minutes back at the road with Martha still burned red-hot in his mind.
Against the rhythm of the slapping wipers, he saw her walk away from him after they’d talked, that chin of hers up in the air. He’d wanted nothing so much as to jump out of his truck, go after her, wheel her around to face him, then…Then what, McKenna? Then what?
Be honest. Pull her into your arms. Kiss her the way you’ve wanted to from the moment she laughed and said you were a crazy man back in Vi’s hotel. He couldn’t deny the heat he’d felt when she’d touched his arm today, when she’d swung away and marched across the road, spine starched and straight, all that glossy hair flying…
Damn! Why her? Every male fiber in his being had leapt at the challenge. Every cell in his body had urged him to chase her down when she’d turned and walked away from him. What was it about the woman that sent his blood rushing? Why after all this time? Not many women affected him that way. Why in hell had he had the bad luck to hire one who did?
Because you were stuck. Face it. Because nobody else answered your ad, that’s why, he told himself cynically. Katie Barker would have taken the job, yes. But the girls had said they wouldn’t have her, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to cope with all the extra womanly attention Katie was bound to give him. Katie’d want marriage eventually—deserved it—and the last thing on his mind was marriage. At least Martha Thomas was a stranger, someone who’d be gone in a few months. Someone they’d never see again.
And the girls were happy. Wasn’t that what mattered? Daisy’d chattered happily all the way back to the ranch that afternoon.
Brenda’s youngest had a special place in his heart. She was tender and sweet and trusting, and he knew he’d die before he let anything hurt her or her sister again. Lately, once or twice, he’d felt rough surges of that fierce protective feeling he remembered so well, and it had scared the hell out of him. These two girls weren’t his to love and protect. He could protect them, yes. Brenda expected him to do just that. He couldn’t love them, though. There was no love left in him to give. He’d used it all up a long time ago.
The sooner Brenda got back, the better.
It had to work out. If he could just get through the next few weeks without becoming more attached to the girls than he already was. If he could just keep his hands off the Lady Companion. Which he would, definitely. Besides, he reminded himself, rubbing his jaw with one hand, Brenda was bound to show up soon, and then he’d be able to get back to the plain solitary life he’d carved out for himself in the past couple of years.
It was starting to sound like a mantra, he thought. Brenda’s coming back soon, Brenda’ll be back soon .. But he had to believe that, didn’t he?
THE LIGHTS of a vehicle swept into the yard, and Martha ran to the window. The snow was coming down thick and furious, lashed by the wind. The hammering of the pulse in her throat came from relief, pure relief, she told herself as she saw Fraser’s tall form emerge from the pickup. She heard the truck door slam dully. She wouldn’t want anyone, not even her worst enemy, out in a storm like this.
She dropped the edge of the curtain and ran to the door, then stopped herself. What was she doing now? She couldn’t run to the door, wringing her hands like some frantic wife. She’d make coffee, that was what she’d do, black and sweet. Surely he’d want something hot on a night like this. There was his dinner, too, leftovers, ready to be heated in the microwave. The girls were in bed, had been asleep for the past hour or so. Still, fingers shaking as she closed the cupboard, she couldn’t help wheeling the instant she heard the door open.
He brought the storm with him. Frigid air swept into the kitchen as he stepped in, and the wind sucked at the curtains. Quickly he shut the door and leaned back against it, as though to keep the storm outside. Martha saw snow on his shoulders, snow dusting his hat, which he slowly raised one hand to remove, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Looks like winter’s here,” she said brightly, hoping the inane comment would break the spell that seemed to hold them both.
He nodded, placed his hat on the peg near the door and shrugged off his sheepskin jacket. He hung the jacket on another peg and turned to her again, this time his eyes carefully screened, as they hadn’t been when he’d entered.
“Northeaster.” He nodded again. “Always brings weather. Snow probably won’t let up till morning. The girls in bed?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the kitchen clock. She knew it was already half-past nine.
“I’ve saved some supper for you. It’ll just take a minute to warm up,” she began, angry with herself because her voice sounded so breathless, so…relieved. “And there’s coffee almost ready. Want a cup?”
He looked at her for a long time, with the kind of look she’d seen before but knew she’d never get used to. “Sure.”
No thank-you, no yes-please. He sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled off his boots. Spook came out from under the old-fashioned kitchen range to nuzzle his hand. Fraser reached over and ruffled the little dog’s ears and said something to him, something rough and low and indistinct. Martha couldn’t hear the words, but she could feel them, could feel the affection and warmth in his voice.
“Thanks.” He took the coffee mug she handed him, curling his fingers around the mug.
“Shall I put your plate in the microwave?”
“Any time.” He took a sip of the coffee and met her questioning glance. “I appreciate you keeping some for me.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” she replied, feeling her cheeks warm. “Just some boring old leftover stew.”
Martha’s nerves were screaming. She wished she’d thought earlier of putting on the radio, anything to break up the thick silence, the careful words, that lay between them. It was too late to turn it on now; he’d know exactly why she was doing it. No, she had to sit here quietly, let him be the one to take the initiative. He’d said he wanted to talk to her. So talk, darn it.
He ate his meal in silence. Martha fiddled with her own coffee cup, one slippered foot tucked up under her on the chair.
“Pretty good stew,” he said finally, looking up. “For old and boring, anyway.” There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Martha smiled, annoyed that his compliment had made her feel so good. “I enjoy cooking.”
“You’re good at it.” Again his comment made her cheeks glow.
“I’d be happy to take it over while I’m here. If you want me to,” she quickly added. “I know you didn’t hire me as a cook, but I’m around, anyway, and—”
“Consider yourself hired.” He smiled, faintly, but still a smile. “I know I’ll never take any prizes as a cook. And I’m sure the girls would be pleased.”
Martha smiled back, her heart unaccountably giddy. “It’s a deal.” Then she wished she hadn’t said that, for fear he’d extend hi
s hand in jest, as people often did. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t know why; she just didn’t want to touch him.
She needn’t have worried. He made no move to shake her hand, simply stood and took his dishes to the dishwasher, bending to put his plate and fork and knife in the rack. Then he added detergent, twisted the dial and started the machine.
The energetic hum of the dishwasher filled the toosilent kitchen. Thank goodness!
Fraser turned toward her and began to speak in his typically direct fashion. “I’m sorry about this afternoon. Out at the road. I was out of line.”
“I should’ve told you,” Martha began hesitantly. “I should’ve told you I might go to town. Or at least left you a note. You’re right about me being a stranger around here—about people noticing. I just didn’t think-”
“No,” he interrupted. “It was myfault. Mine. I should’ve made it clear to you at the beginning.”
He walked to the window, stared for a long moment into the blizzard—he could see the snow driven into the black glass by the wind—then walked back. “Maybe you don’t realize just what kind of hornets’ nest you’ve stepped into, and that’s my fault, too.
“The first night you were here you asked if what I was doing was legal. I said I didn’t know.” His bleak gaze caught hers. “That’s true. I don’t know, but I’m damn sure I could get into trouble if the law found out I had these two girls here and their mother had disappeared.” He raised one eyebrow, as though to ask whether she agreed.
He continued, “I mean, where the hell is Brenda? They could think I might’ve something to do with her disappearing, too—” He ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. “The point is, I don’t give a damn about any of that, except I want to stay clear of it. I know Brenda’s just gone somewhere for a little excitement—it’s happened before and it’s going to happen again. I just need to buy a little more time until she gets back and takes her kids off my hands.”
He moved to the window again, and Martha could see his frown reflected in the glass as he added, “That’s all. That’s why I hired you.”
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