She couldn’t tell him the truth. “I don’t want you.”
It sounded like a patent lie to her own ears, but Hank believed her and retreated. His face lost all expression, but not before she saw a flash of pain.
“Then what was all of this about?” he asked.
“A moment of weakness on my part,” she whispered. She tried to touch him, to soothe his pain, but he stepped farther away. She winced.
“It isn’t you, Hank,” she whispered. “It’s me.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotten that line before,” Hank said with uncharacteristic bitterness. He turned and raced down the stairs.
Amy slid along the wall until she sat on the floor, her breasts cradled in her hands, one bare and the other clothed in fabric and shame.
She remembered Tony’s reaction to her altered body.
The worst time, the absolute worst, had come after she’d already had her mastectomy. She’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her image shimmering through her tears.
Her chest had lost its perfect symmetry. On one side, a beautiful breast. On the other, a scar still swollen and red where a matching breast used to be.
A movement in the doorway caught her attention. Tony stood behind her, his gaze locked on the mirror. The revulsion on his face shocked her. Shame flooded through her. She snatched the lapels of her robe and wrapped them around herself, left her arms crossed over her chest to protect herself from Tony’s horror.
Where was the man she’d thought she’d married? Where was his compassion, his love for her?
Oh, why hadn’t she locked the door? But that would only have delayed the inevitable. Tony was going to have to see her at some point.
How many times early in their marriage had Tony urged her to stop wearing a bra? After all, he’d say, why mess with perfection?
Why? To save her life, of course.
He’d never touched her again.
Amy dragged herself into her room, changed into a sweat suit and crawled under the quilt with Cheryl, chilled to the soul in spite of the warmth of the breeze wafting through the window.
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, a knock awakened Amy. She slid out of bed without disturbing Cheryl, rubbing her gritty eyes, and opened the door.
Matt leaned one shoulder against the wall and grinned.
“Hey,” he said, his voice as smooth as chocolate.
“Hi,” she whispered, brushing her hand over her hair, knowing she looked a mess and self-conscious with this gorgeous man so close.
He gestured toward the bed with his chin. “Who’s your little friend?”
“Cheryl.”
“She okay after her scare in the pool?”
“I think so.”
“You going to the dance tonight?” he asked.
“What dance?”
“Didn’t Hank tell you about it?”
She shook her head, guessing that Hank hadn’t wanted to ask her on a date after what had happened this afternoon.
“It’s at the Legion in town. Everyone’s going. Kids, too.”
Everyone? Even the children? But apparently not her. Oh, Hank, that hurt.
Matt leaned his forearm high on the wall, flexing his biceps. “I want you to come with me. My truck’s a whole lot more comfortable than the old school bus Hank uses.”
Did Hank think she’d stay home alone? That she deserved to? She wanted to go out, to experience a little carefree happiness. But what about Mother?
“I’d like to go, but I don’t want to leave my mother here alone.”
“She’s going,” Matt said. “I heard Hank ask her.”
He’d asked Mother, but not her? That tremor of envy Amy felt about their fondness for each other erupted into a full-blown earthquake, even if it didn’t make sense, given what had happened between her and Hank this afternoon.
Matt reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. A callus scraped across her earlobe and she shivered. He shouldn’t be touching her so intimately, but she didn’t complain, off balance from her encounter with Hank and still half asleep.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
“Seven o’clock. At the front door.”
She nodded.
“It’s a date.” He flashed her a dazzling smile, then left.
A date, but not with Hank.
CHAPTER NINE
SHE REALLY DIDN’T WANT to go with Matt. Instead, she wanted to be with Mother and Hank and Cheryl and the other children.
Amy’s stomach jittered as she tucked her raw silk blouse into black jeans then slipped her feet into black shoes—not at the thought of going out with Matt, but with apprehension about her next encounter with Hank.
Mother sat on the bed in Amy’s room, her navy-blue dress with the white polka dots neatly pressed, her hair and face shining. Soft pink lipstick shone on her lips.
“That looks nice, Amy,” she said.
Amy straightened the button tab of her shirt until it aligned with the exact center of her pants. Laying a hand on her flat stomach, she pressed, hoping to stop the fluttering.
“You look pretty,” Cheryl said from her perch on the neatly made bed. She sat cross-legged wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a pink sweater.
Amy turned from their reflections in the mirror and smiled. “Thank you. So do you. Should I add earrings?” Amy asked. “What do you think?” She must be more nervous than she’d thought, if she was asking a child for clothing advice. Why was she so worried about what Hank would think?
Lordy, woman, get yourself together.
She opened her small jewelry box and set it on the bed between Cheryl and Mother. She stirred the contents with her finger.
“What do you think? The black stones? The danglers?”
“Those,” Cheryl said, pointing.
“The pearls? They’re a bit dressy.”
“I like them.” Cheryl knelt on the bed so she could see herself in the mirror. Picking up one of the pearl earrings, she held it against her earlobe, covering the small gold ball in her ear, tilting her head one way then the other.
“Pretty.” She set the earring back down in the box, but left one finger touching it, reluctant to let it go.
Amy studied the child’s clothes—the cheap sweater, the worn jeans—and made an impulsive decision.
“Would you like to wear these tonight?” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was crazy to think them, let alone say them aloud. She was offering real pearls to a child. She was certifiable, no doubt about it, but something stirred in her chest when Cheryl perked up.
Sitting up straight, she stared at Amy with large eyes and her mouth hanging open, then picked up the earrings with reverence.
“Here,” Amy said, “let me put them on for you.” She took off Amy’s small fake gold studs, then slipped the pearls through the child’s earlobes, where they shone too conspicuously on Cheryl’s bald head.
“Do I look pretty like you?” Cheryl asked, hope making her dark eyes huge.
The back of Amy’s eyes stung. She nodded, unable to speak.
Amy lifted Cheryl from the bed so she could look at herself in the mirror. “Let’s go see if anyone else is ready.” She set Cheryl on her feet.
Cheryl ran down the stairs, but Gladys stopped Amy with a hand on her arm.
“Why are you going to the dance with that randy young cowboy?”
“Because he asked me to,” Amy answered, turning away from the disapproval on her mother’s face. “Hank didn’t even tell me about the dance.”
“I’m sure that was a simple oversight.”
Amy refused to answer that statement and started down the stairs, but Mother stopped her again.
“What’s wrong, Amy?”
I’ve fallen for a man and can’t have him. “Nothing,” Amy said and ran down to the first floor, her temples pounding with every footfall.
In the foyer, Hank stood with Willie in the middle of a crowd of children. When he saw Cheryl descending, his eyes
lit up and his cheeks creased with a smile. Cheryl wove her way through the children.
“Hank, Hank,” she cried, “look what Amy gived me to wear tonight.”
She jumped into Hank’s open arms, turning her head this way and that to show him the earrings.
“That was real nice of Amy.”
Cheryl nodded. “Do I look pretty?”
“You look downright beautiful, darlin’.”
The way he looked at Amy when he mouthed “Thank you” sent a chill through her. She’d never seen his eyes so cold before.
She nodded in return, continuing to stare at him.
When Hank rested his head on top of Cheryl’s, the light glinted from his freshly washed hair and highlighted the streak of caramel. His beige chinos and pale blue shirt molded to the muscles she’d caressed only hours ago.
He picked up a pure white Stetson from the table beside the front door and set it onto Cheryl’s head. Her face disappeared. She looked like a hat on a skinny neck. Even at this distance, Amy heard her giggle.
Hank grinned and lifted the hat from Cheryl’s head, then set it on his own. He looked good. Too good. Amy couldn’t seem to stop staring.
The front door opened and Matt stepped into the house. When he saw Amy standing on the bottom stair, he whistled.
“Looks like I’m heading to the dance with the prettiest woman in the state.”
Hank’s head shot around to stare at Matt then swung her way. Emotions Amy couldn’t read crossed his face, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t happy. Obviously Matt hadn’t told Hank they were going together. Or maybe Hank was angry because Matt had told her about the dance.
Strutting his way through the kids, Matt approached Amy, his gaze traveling her body, head to toe. He took her hand, and twirled her around and under his arm to get a look at her from all angles. He pulled her close, warmth radiating from his body through hers. She wanted to push him away, but wouldn’t with everyone watching.
“You smoke, babe,” he whispered for her ears only. “You’re a stick of dynamite waiting for the right match to set you on fire.”
The man was smooth, too smooth—not her type at all—but she was committed for the night. She had to see this through to the end. Maybe she could leave early if her headache got any worse.
The kids filed out of the house behind Hank, Gladys and Hannah, then boarded an old yellow school bus. Matt escorted Amy to the black Jeep parked behind it, then helped her in.
When Matt climbed into the driver’s seat, the cologne he’d applied with a heavy hand filled the small interior, cloying compared to the lighter lemon aftershave Hank used.
She stared at the road ahead, willing her thoughts away from Hank.
Matt took off in a spray of gravel and Amy’s back hit the seat. Accelerating, he passed the slow-moving bus, honking.
He laughed. “Passed her like she was standing still.”
“Who was driving?”
“Jenny.”
“What’s she like?”
Matt frowned. “She’s just a kid.”
Not such a kid. She has a full-blown crush on you, Amy thought, a very adult crush, but she didn’t say it out loud. Matt had a healthy enough ego as it was. He didn’t need her to tell him about the women who loved him.
They pulled up in front of the Legion Hall off Main Street in Ordinary. Cars lined the street on both sides. People walked along the sidewalks, waving and greeting each other. Amy felt a twinge of regret that she wasn’t part of this warm-spirited community.
“It sure is a popular event,” she said.
“Yep. There are a couple of dances every year.” He took her elbow as she got out of the Jeep, his hand warm through the silk of her blouse. “Whole community turns out.”
The sound of fiddles and banjos flowed out of the hall along with the light streaming through the open door.
“Country music?” she asked.
“It’s a country dance, with a caller, like at a square dance.”
“I don’t know how to square dance.”
He pulled her to him and grinned. “You just follow me.”
The floor was already dense with people in square formations and following the singsong directions of the female caller to live music played full volume.
Matt’s hand was too heavy on her waist and she said, “Let’s dance. Show me how to do this.” She prayed there would be no slow songs.
He flashed her a huge grin and pulled her onto the floor. She dipped, twirled and stumbled her way through the steps until she was breathless.
The band changed tempo to a country-and-western heartbreaker. Matt pulled her flush against him and she regretted the impulse that had made her accept his invitation.
She scanned the crowd over his shoulder until she found Hank. He had a pretty woman in his arms. They talked quietly and laughed.
As Amy jerked Matt’s hand from her buttock to her waist, she envied the woman who had Hank’s attention. She could have been that woman tonight if she was whole. She cursed fate even as she tugged at Matt’s wandering hand again.
Matt twirled her off the dance floor. “I gotta visit the men’s room. Don’t go anywhere.”
She was going to go somewhere, all right, if Matt didn’t start keeping his hands to himself.
Heading for the refreshment table, she was stopped by countless people introducing themselves. She’d never felt so welcome in a community before and it warmed her. She filled a cup with pink punch and tasted it. Too sweet and fruity. What she needed was a shot of really good Scotch.
She felt Hank’s presence before she saw him and turned around slowly. He stood behind her with his expression shuttered and a question on his lips.
“Why, Amy?”
“Why what?” she asked, but she knew.
“What does Matt have that I don’t? Good looks?”
Her heart sank and she hated that he might think she was that shallow. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Is it because I’m not smart, not college or university educated?”
Before she could answer, he plowed on. “Neither is Matt.”
She put a hand on his arm to stop him and he flinched away from her. “It isn’t you, Hank,” she said. “The problem really, truly, is with me.”
“What exactly is the problem?” he asked, belligerence creeping in.
Amy felt her traitorous right cheek heat up. She couldn’t possibly tell him about her breast. How on earth would she even phrase it? How could she confess that to a man she only barely knew?
That thought stopped her. She’d only met Hank this week, yet she felt like she knew as much as any woman would need to know—that he was kind, strong, ethical and sexy. She realized that Hank had no idea how appealing he was, but she knew. She ached to place her hand on his chest, to cover his heart and feel the pulse surge strong and invincible through his veins, to believe that this man would never leave a woman once he’d committed to her.
The bottom line, though? He would not find her chest the least bit attractive, and someday, even this big, strong giant would die.
She shook her head, stricken by a sense of loss. Turning from Hank, she searched the room for a bar and spotted one in the far corner.
Before she reached it, Matt caught up to her. “Hey, you in the mood for a little drinking?”
Amy nodded, too overwhelmed with sorrow to answer. Matt returned with a beer. She hated beer. What the hell, she thought and took a long swig. All she needed was alcohol’s numbing effect. It didn’t matter what form it came in.
She took another big gulp.
“Whoa, slow down there, Amy.” Matt took her nearly empty bottle and set it on a table beside his. “The night’s still young. Let’s dance.”
He twirled her into another set. Toward the end of the dance, she noticed Hank talking to an attractive woman a little older than herself.
Matt saw her watching Hank. “That’s Macy Allen,” he said. “Used to be Hank’s wife.”
Hank’s wife? Of course. He’d had a son, so he was probably married at some point. Amy studied Macy. About Hank’s age. Slim. A little soft around the middle. Pretty in a mild sort of way.
“What happened?” she asked, turning back to Matt.
“She left after Hank turned the Lucky S into the Sheltering Arms. Said if she’d wanted to live with a saint, she’d have married Mother Teresa.”
“What a mean thing to say to a great guy like Hank.”
“Hey, Macy’s not a bad person. Just couldn’t watch all these sick little kids come to the ranch when her own baby was dead.”
“Oh. Of course. Poor woman.”
A tall man with a mustache and a brown cowboy hat took Macy’s arm, nodded to Hank then led her away.
“Macy’s current husband, Albert. Mayor of Ordinary,” Matt said. “Owns the first ranch on the other side of town.”
She wanted to know more, but the fiddle started a lively tune and the dancers twirled. She tried in vain to keep track of Hank, but lost him in the crowd.
At the end of that dance, she headed for the bar. Matt bought her another beer, then pointed to the belt buckle he wore.
“Hey, did I tell you how I got this buckle?” He rattled on about some rodeo, but Amy tuned him out.
She drank her beer. It went to her head but did nothing to ease her sadness. Here she was at a dance where she should be having fun, but she was with the wrong man. The right man was in this room, but about as far away from her as a man could get. She could never indulge her desire for him.
At that moment, she spotted Hank near the door with Cheryl sitting on his arm. The man looked right holding a child. He should have had a bunch of his own. He and Macy should have tried for more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to bring children to his ranch.
Who was Amy kidding? Hank was born to bring these children to his ranch. Even if he’d had his own, there was so much love in the man’s heart, he had plenty of room for more. And more. And more.
And the children loved him. How many children had he influenced with that love? Probably hundreds.
Hank’s gaze zoned in on Amy as if he’d felt her stare. His eyes were shadowed by the blazing white hat, but she knew them by heart.
No Ordinary Cowboy Page 11