This was so wrong. She had to do something.
She made an impulsive decision. “We’re going to the bank in Ordinary,” she said. She didn’t want to build up Hank’s expectations, but she couldn’t tolerate seeing him do nothing.
“What?” Hank asked, his demeanor dull, listless.
“Stand up,” Amy ordered, a drizzle of hope running through her veins—unrealistic, perhaps, but she was willing to try anything. “We’re going to the bank in Ordinary. You’ve told me how special this town and the people who live around here are.”
She grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the chair. “It’s time to put Ordinary to the test. We’re going to ask for help.”
Amy got a whiff of Hank and waved a hand in front of her nose. “You need a shower.” She looked him over critically. “Wash your hair. You need to look good for this.”
Hank walked upstairs, his shoulders a little straighter.
Amy phoned Hank’s bank and, five minutes later, she had set up an appointment with the bank’s manager. She had two hours to spruce up Hank.
“Put on dress clothes,” she yelled up the stairs once the shower turned off.
“What?” she heard Hank ask a split second before he appeared in the upper hallway wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist above his long, long muscular legs. His chest hair glistened with moisture.
Amy swallowed. Hard. Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy. What a body.
She gulped. “We have an appointment with the bank in two hours.” Her voice sounded squeaky, so she cleared her throat. “Put on your best dress clothes.”
Amy ran upstairs to change, then went to gather any paperwork they might need.
When Hank came downstairs twenty minutes later, he wore a pair of black pants and a white shirt that molded to his biceps and pecs like a second skin, making his shoulders seem twice as broad as usual. His damp hair shone dark brown and whistle-clean against the snow of the pressed shirt. The tie he wore matched his pants—jet-black—with small white dots. His strong jaw was shaven clean of the dark stubble he’d been sporting lately. Amy had never seen him look so handsome.
Hank? Handsome? She nodded, tilting her head as if studying a piece of artwork. Yes, she mused. In his own way. It had to do with the strength of his personality and the depth of his caring—for the children, for his employees and for visitors to the ranch. She’d never known a man who possessed more compassion, and it shone out of him to meet everyone he dealt with. Yes, he was handsome in his own unique way. Handsome Hank.
Hanksome. Amy chuckled. Hank would like her made-up word, but he’d never accept it about himself.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
Amy shook her head. With his habit of self-deprecation, Hank would never understand.
“You need a haircut,” she said. “You need to look your best today.”
Hank swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Nerves, Amy thought, about going to the bank with so much riding on it.
She stepped close to him and smelled the bracing citron of his aftershave. “Hank, we’ll make it work out, one way or another. I’m striving so hard to make sure you don’t lose everything.”
“If I’m selling the ranch and no longer having kids up here, then I’ve already lost everything that matters.”
Amy felt rotten. Yes, Hank was certainly going to lose everything that mattered.
“I have to tell you honestly, Amy,” he said. “I hate talking to bankers, even if I did go to school with the manager.”
“You did?” Amy asked. “Hmm, that just might help us.”
“If you say so.”
“You won’t be there alone. I’ve done this dozens of times before, to work things out for clients. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. I know how to deal with these people. Okay?”
Hank nodded then gestured toward his head. “I don’t know if Ralph can squeeze me in at the barbershop.”
“I’m going to cut your hair,” Amy said. Responding to Hank’s raised eyebrows, she continued, “I used to cut Tony’s hair all the time. He hated barbershops and salons.”
Hank stilled. “Tony?”
Damn. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. “My husband.”
“Husband?” Hank looked at her as if she’d been lying since she got here, but why should she have mentioned Tony?
“My ex-husband. I no longer see him.”
Hank raised one eyebrow in a silent question for more information.
“I’m still angry, raw. I can’t talk about him.”
“He was a rat, eh?”
She huffed out a laugh. “You could say that.”
“What did he do?” Hank sounded sympathetic.
“He left me for another woman.” That was only half the explanation. She would not tell Hank the entire reason Tony left.
“Do you want to talk about him?” Hank echoed the question she’d posed to him when he’d told her about his son.
She shook her head and Hank, thank goodness, let it go.
“I haven’t been paying attention to my hair lately.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Amy said as she walked away, expecting Hank to follow her. He did. “You’ve had your mind on more important things.”
She led him to the back of the house, armed with her comb, her small nail scissors and a pair of sharp shears from Hannah.
“Grab a chair from the kitchen, Hank.” She snagged a towel from the bathroom and stepped out to the patio. The shade on this side of the house cooled the air to a reasonable temperature.
“Should I bring a bowl, too?” he joked.
“Ha. Ha. I’ll have you know I’m very good.”
Hank set the chair near the edge of Hannah’s garden, where the cinnamon scent of pinks permeated the air.
“I’ve always wanted a Mohawk.” The twinkle in Hank’s whiskey-colored eyes warmed Amy.
That’s more like it, she thought, let your natural good humor shine through. If anything would help him get through today, that would.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered.
“Huh?”
“I said, take off your shirt.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to get hair on it.” What was wrong? Was he shy?
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Hank, I’ve seen a man’s chest before.”
Hank’s lips thinned as he tugged the tails out of his pants. Amy watched his trim hips swerve from side to side with his motion. Then he unbuttoned the shirt, one small white disc at a time, revealing his flat stomach and tanned chest one tempting glimpse at a time.
When he shrugged out of his shirt leaving his massive chest bare, she knew she’d made a mistake. She was the one who felt shy now, standing in front of the most stunning display of male beauty she’d ever witnessed. How was she supposed to touch him now with the intimacy that a haircut required, and remain unmoved by it?
Gesturing for him to sit, she threw the towel around his shoulders to hide some of what tempted her, but it was like throwing a spoonful of water on a forest fire. Too little, too late.
Touching him gingerly, she positioned his head where she needed it, then pulled her comb through his thick waves, loving the chestnut highlights that ran through the brown. Combing the strip of caramel at his widow’s peak that curled around her finger like a baby’s fist, trusting and tenacious, she wondered how she was supposed to get through this.
She lifted a swatch of hair and clipped the ends with the scissors, lopping off a good inch. Circling his head, she trimmed the sides and back, lifting thick handfuls of hair then letting the sleek bunches slip through her fingers. The lemon of his shampoo lingered on the squeaky clean strands. Nothing sounded but the clip of the scissors and the chirp of a cricket on the still air.
She might have cut Tony’s hair throughout their marriage, but nothing could have prepared her for the sensual experience it became with Hank. The warmth of his body smoldered in the distance between his back and her chest, s
himmering between them like heat waves on asphalt. Her nails scraped the back of his neck and he shivered. A narrow band of lighter skin appeared as she trimmed, accenting how brown his skin tanned while he worked on the range.
The time came for Amy to cut the front of his hair and she stepped around Hank. Trying not to touch his knees with her own, she leaned forward to trim his hair, but found the position too awkward.
She cleared her throat. “Could you open your legs?”
Hank’s gaze flew to her own.
“Please?” she said. “I need to move in a little closer.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice as rough as tree bark. When he spread his feet apart, she stepped between his thighs, then wondered if she’d lost her mind. As she leaned forward this time, she felt the moisture of his breath skitter into the V of her blouse, bathing her neck and upper chest.
Concentrating on the job at hand, she lifted a few strands of hair and snipped, brushing away the bits that clung to his forehead. Her fingers glided over skin as smooth as stones in the bottom of a shallow stream. Her hand shook when she lifted the next strand.
Tilting his head forward until it nearly touched the swell of her breasts, she worked her way toward the hair that she’d already cut on the back of his head. One of Hank’s warm, hard thighs pressed against her leg.
She snipped the last strand, then froze, knowing she should step away but not wanting to. Running her fingers through the silk of his hair, she caressed his scalp just for the pure pleasure of it. Lifting his head, she traced his cheek and softly touched his lower lip, giving in to the joy of connecting with this big, tender man. Everything about him was huge and generous, like his heart.
Hank’s other leg fell against her until she was cradled. The tips of his fingers nudged the front of her thighs, sending electric impulses shooting through her. A bead of sweat trickled down the center of her chest. Her blood meandered through her veins in a languid trickle.
Hank’s head fell forward, nestled into the crevice between her breasts. His breathing accelerated, and she felt the humidity of it through her blouse.
She wanted to open her blouse and bra, to expose to Hank’s mouth the beautiful flesh that men had adored in the past. To have Hank place his full lips around one of her nipples and suck. To feel his broad palms caress a pair of whole breasts. She held his head against her with a hand at the back of his neck, keeping still so she wouldn’t destroy this precious moment.
She needed to cry with the pain of losing this opportunity. Why was life so damn unfair? She willed the tears pooling in her eyes to stay where they were. She’d shed enough already.
Hank lifted his head to look at her with all of his desire blazing in his eyes.
“Your hair’s done. We just need to trim that mustache.” She had to pretend that nothing had happened.
Picking up her nail scissors, she held his chin with one hand while she clipped.
When she finished, she straightened to find his intense gaze on her face, his intention clear. Moving slowly, he lifted his hands to her hips. He wrapped his palms high around her waist, his long thumbs caressing the ribs below her breasts. She felt the quickening of sexual desire and welcomed it. It had been so long. So damn long.
“Incomparable,” Hank whispered, his voice raw with pain and wonder, and she knew he held himself in check.
She tucked her fingers into his hair and caressed the smooth skin of his temple with her thumb. “Beautiful,” she whispered. Her knees shook.
As Hank ran his hands up her ribs until he covered her breasts, she dropped her head back and sucked in a deep breath, filling his palms with her full breasts.
On one breast, her nipple peaked, flooding her with intense desire and longing that echoed in a pull in her lower belly. She moaned and covered his hand with her own. On the other side, she felt no response. Nothing. Nothing but a prosthesis pressing against empty, dead tissue. Her scar. She grasped his wrist and shoved away from him, unsteady on her feet, her head pounding with desire and frustration and pure rage.
She wanted to tell him everything, but her overwhelming sense of shame held her back. “I—” She closed her eyes and hung her head. “I can’t,” she said raggedly.
Life was unfair. She had to live with that.
Letting her scissors slip from her fingers to the ground, she walked away, devastated by loss.
HE COULDN’T TAKE THIS ride much longer without going around the bend. She wouldn’t give in to him, wouldn’t give in to the attraction blazing between them. What the devil held her back? Had her bastard of a husband ruined her for other men? He wanted to tell her that he’d never be unfaithful if she was with him. That he’d never even look at another woman.
Some niggling uneasiness, though, told him that he still didn’t have the whole story.
What the hell was happening here?
He rubbed his hands over his face. The frustration of it all was killing him, on top of losing everything else.
Forget about her, he thought, buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. Think of Amy as only an accountant. Forget about her as a woman.
Right, and pigs could fly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY DROVE INTO TOWN in Hank’s pickup. Ordinary bustled on this midweek business day. Amy waved to C.J. Wright through the window of his candy store. She had found out that Mike Wright, who owned the grocery store across the street, was his uncle. Walter Wright, the minister, was his father.
She would soon be gone, and this sweet place that had coiled tendrils of affection around her heart would become nothing more than a memory. She sighed, wondering what it would be like to live here. That thought stopped her. Not go back to the city, to her home? She couldn’t imagine giving up all of that.
Hank pulled the truck into a parking spot, then turned off the engine. He cracked the knuckles of his left hand. When he started on the right hand, Amy stopped him with a touch on his forearm. Hank froze and the muscles in his arm tensed until they felt like granite under her fingers.
“Take a deep breath,” she said.
He did. His white shirt stretched across his chest.
Settling his clean white cowboy hat firmly onto his head, he stepped out of the truck. Taking her own advice and breathing deeply, Amy climbed out and locked the door behind her.
Hank opened the door of the bank for Amy to enter ahead of him.
The meeting went better than she’d hoped. On the strength of Hank’s reputation in the community and his excellent record in dealing with the bank in the past, the manager had agreed to give Hank a mortgage large enough to cover the entire sum owing to the bank in Billings, on one condition. Amy had a week to come up with a comprehensive plan to make the ranch stop losing money. Otherwise, the deal was off.
It helped that Hank had gone to high school with the bank manager, had played football on the same team. There was something to be said for small communities.
Even so, those mortgage payments would be huge. How on earth would he pay them? Amy looked at Hank as they drove to the ranch, saw the tension on his face and in his shoulders, and had no idea how she was going to fix this for him.
LORD, how Hank had hated sitting in that office like a bump on a log, not understanding a thing that was happening around him and letting Amy take care of him and his business. He’d never felt so frustrated by his shortcomings. Aw hell, didn’t that just go to show the differences between the two of them?
Realizing his hands ached from gripping the steering wheel too hard, he flexed his fingers.
How could he ever measure up?
He turned on the radio. Dwight Yoakam sang “A Thousand Miles From Nowhere” with his distinctive twang. Matt’s favorite song. That thought led to memories of Amy dancing with Matt. Hank switched the radio off with an impatient flick of his wrist.
He felt her watching him.
“How much do the children pay to come to the ranch?” she asked. “I couldn’t find that information anywhere.”<
br />
“That’s because they don’t pay anything.”
“Why not?”
“Those kids are inner-city kids living in poverty, or with parents drained by the stress of illness and big hospital bills. Some of their parents are unemployed or on welfare.”
“Can you start charging the kids to come?”
Hank shook his head. “No. Emphatically no.” Emphatically. Excellent word for how he felt. Dad had tried a lot of times over the years to get him to charge the kids. He hadn’t done it then and he wouldn’t do it now.
“But—”
“No.”
“How about—”
“No. We don’t charge those kids for coming and that’s final.”
Amy threw her hands into the air. It sounded like she mumbled “stubborn mule” under her breath. He would have smiled if the situation wasn’t so damn serious.
“All right,” she said, “how about if you start taking tourists on the off weeks? So the kids would come for three weeks, and then tourists for one or two and then kids for three. And so on.”
Hank considered it, for all of thirty seconds. “That would give us no time for recovery. It takes a lot of work to prepare for those three-week visits with the kids.”
“Yes, I can see that. I know everyone works hard. I guess the same goes for turning the ranch into a B and B?”
“Yeah. That’s almost worse in a way, because you wouldn’t know ahead of time when you were going to have company. Or how many.”
He glanced at her briefly, watching her brow furrow. He could see that sharp brain of hers working. She brightened as if a lightbulb went on in there.
“How about if you turn the Sheltering Arms into a du—”
“Don’t say it!” he shouted. “Don’t even think it.”
She cocked her head to one side and said, “How do you know what I was going to say?”
Hank pointed a finger in her direction. “You were going to use the D word, weren’t you?”
“The D word? Do you mean dude? As in dude ranch?”
He ground his teeth, hating that word with a passion, one of the few words in the English language he really couldn’t stand. That and coarse profanity.
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