Rance stopped. He waited. He looked at Shane. Didn't speak. Just stood there.
Shane opened his mouth. The words wouldn't come out. He shook his head. "She wasn't crying?" he said urgently. God, he didn't want her crying, but—!
Rance's mouth twisted. "Poetic license. No, she wasn't crying. Not literally. Not on the outside, anyway. But on the inside, yeah, man, she is."
Shane denied it. "Somethin' else upset her, then. It doesn't have anything to do with me."
Rance rolled his eyes. "When'd you get so good at lying to yourself? It has everything to do with you, Shane. She told me."
Shane's eyes bugged. "She told you? You talked about me. To her?"
"Why not? You're my friend. She's your girl."
"She's not!"
Rance made a sound suspiciously like a groan. "Fine, she's not." He turned away again.
Shane yanked him back. "What'd she say?"
"Ask her."
"She's not here." He looked quickly, nervously around. "Is she?"
"No, she's not. She's back home lonely as hell, thanks to you. What was it, some latent streak of cussed nobility that made you take off like that?"
Shane didn't answer.
"That was it, wasn't it?" Rance peered at him closely. "Step aside for the better man?" he said mockingly.
Shane's jaw bunched. He scowled. "Something like that." He didn't need Rance making a joke out of it.
But Rance just said mildly, "Well, thank you. You're mistaken, though. I'm not the better man."
"The star quarterback? The National Merit scholar. The heir to the Phillips's ranch? The Phi Beta Kappan? The guy with the Harvard law degree?"
"They're okay." Rance dug a toe of his boot in the dirt. "But they're not…" He lifted his gaze and met Shane's. "I looked up to you."
"Me? Oh sure. You wanted to grow up and wear a chicken suit maybe?" Shane's voice was scathing. "Or get your ass hauled to jail for malicious mischief? Or maybe you wanted to go off so half-cocked you stole the wrong woman from the wedding!"
"What?"
"Never mind. Looked up to me? You're outa your mind!"
"No," Rance said stubbornly. "I'm not. I'm tellin' you, all those other things came easy. The quarterbacking. The grades. All of it—but the bronc riding and turning my back on my dad's ultimatums. I never took any risks until then. You took risks all the time. They didn't always turn out the way you wanted them to—" Rance grinned faintly "—like the chicken. But you had guts. And you lived with the consequences. You taught me a lot, Nichols." His voice went quiet. "You were my hero."
Poleaxed, Shane simply stared. "That doesn't make sense." It didn't. It was completely ridiculous. Him? A hero? To Rance? "Gimme a break."
"I'm trying to. I'm trying to tell you that you're blowing it. Poppy wants you. She's waiting for you. But she's not gonna wait forever. What the hell do you think I'm doing here? I called your brother, badgered your sister-in-law, bugged your doctor, pestered 'em down at the PRCA. Drove everybody nuts looking for you. And when you finally called home and said you were riding here, I thought, hell, what's a nine-hundred-mile drive if it'll keep my buddy from screwing up his life. So—" he spread his hands "—here I am."
Shane swallowed. "You're … serious." It started as a question, but by the time he got the word out, he knew the answer.
"You could say that," Rance drawled. "The rest, ol' buddy, is up to you."
* * *
It seemed simple.
He got in his truck. Filled it with gas. Headed northeast. Drove straight through.
He was in Livingston the next day. Parked right down the street from Poppy's Garden.
Then he sat in his truck and didn't move. Couldn't move.
Because all of a sudden it wasn't so simple.
Maybe it had never been that simple. Because suddenly it wasn't just needing Rance to back away, to give him his blessing. It had just been easier to believe that. Easier than believing that the problem wasn't out there.
It was inside. In him.
Shane sat there in his truck and thought about turning up out of the blue and walking into Poppy's life again, expecting her to be glad to see him. Hoping she loved him the way he loved her.
And he thought about how ridiculous that was.
He might love her. She might even think she loved him. But then what? What on earth did he have to offer a woman like her?
Poppy had intelligence, a good education, a job she'd built up from scratch and had made a success of.
He had none of the above.
He was bright enough—in what his sister-in-law called a "gut instinct sort of way." But his education had been the school of hard knocks, his job was about to become a thing of the past. And he'd only made a middling success of that.
He'd hoped—and worked—for an NFR gold buckle. He'd given it his all. His all hadn't been enough.
He'd won $271 at the rodeo yesterday. He'd almost got his head kicked in. Muscles he'd forgotten he had were aching now like they hadn't ached in years. His thumb had survived, but he couldn't grip the steering wheel all the way home.
There weren't going to be many more bull rides in his future, and he knew it. There might not be any. There wasn't a lot of sense in going out and taking the risk of riding a ton of bovine ferocity if you didn't think you had a shot at winning the world.
Shane knew now he didn't have a chance of winning the world.
He knew, too, what he did have: nothing.
No prospects. No plans. No hopes.
Unless you wanted to count the hope that Poppy loved him.
It seemed too much to ask for.
And even if she did, he had no big history of success. He couldn't even steal a damn hawk and do it right. It would be worse—the worst thing he could imagine—to fail her.
* * *
"Shane?" Jenny's voice came through the barely open bedroom door.
He debated pretending he was asleep. He'd come back to Mace's, managed a few polite mumbles, declined Jenny's offer of dinner, then had taken refuge in the spare bedroom. He told them he was tired. He said he'd driven straight through and he needed sleep.
He didn't say there was a pain so deep in his gut and his heart that he didn't imagine it would ever go away.
If his brother saw something was wrong, he would have the good sense not to say it. Jenny was a different matter. She would sympathize. She would commiserate. She would care. That was the last thing he needed tonight.
So he held perfectly still and breathed as slowly and deeply as his ribs, still sore from the bull riding, would allow.
"Telephone." Jenny pushed the door open wider. "For you. It sounds important."
There was nobody on earth he wanted to talk to now. Unless—
He sat bolt upright. Poppy?
Jenny came in and handed him the portable, then left again.
He swallowed, licked his lips, then pressed the receiver against his ear. "H'lo?"
"Nichols?"
It wasn't Poppy. But he would have known that stern, gravelly voice anywhere. "I saw you sitting in your truck outside my daughter's shop this afternoon."
Shane shut his eyes. Even in the darkness, he couldn't face this. He couldn't listen. Couldn't tolerate hearing the old man tell him what he already knew too damn well: that he was a loser, that he'd already lost.
"Why'd you leave?"
The question was so totally unexpected that when Shane opened his mouth, he found no words. Only air.
For a moment he groped for an answer, then gave the only one he had. "You know why," he said on an angry, harsh breath. "You, of all people, know that."
"No, I don't." The judge's voice was firm, implacable. "I thought you loved her." Again he left Shane open-mouthed. "Don't you?"
Guilty? Or innocent?
Guilty. As always. "Yes." Shane said hoarsely.
"Then why did you leave?"
"Because I— There's no point. I have nothing to offer her, and you know it. Y
ou know what I'm like!"
In the silence he heard the judge take a long slow breath. Then, "I thought I did," Judge Hamilton said quietly. "I thought you had the courage of your convictions. A long time ago I thought you were rough edged and cocky as hell. But I was sure you had enough intestinal fortitude to take a punishment I'd never have dared give a lesser man. You did. And I respected you for it."
He paused a moment and let that astonishing notion sink in. Like Rance's looking up to him, it was going to take some getting used to.
"I'll tell you one thing I never thought until today, Shane Nichols," the judge went on. "I never thought you were a chicken."
* * *
He was a chicken.
Poppy had seen his truck out in front of her shop this afternoon. She'd been helping a customer choose a wedding anniversary bouquet, and out of the corner of her eye, she'd spied a red truck through the glass. Her stomach had somersaulted, her mind had spun, her heart had begun thumping to beat the band, and she'd started grinning like a fool.
"Yes, being married for fifty-three years in this day and age is pretty amazing, isn't it?" the woman ordering the bouquet had said, evidently thinking that Poppy's sudden smile was a reaction to her last remark.
It was, Poppy had agreed. Almost as amazing as the fact that Shane had come back to her.
She watched. She waited. She barely paid attention to another word the woman said. Her attention was totally caught by the red truck parked across the street.
And then, just as she'd finished writing down the order, she looked up and saw him drive away.
At first she hadn't believed it. She'd thought he was moving his truck or going around the block or … or … something. Anything other than what eventually she came to realize he'd done.
He'd left.
And he never came back.
"That was Shane? Wasn't that Shane?" she'd demanded a few minutes later, after her customer left and her father came into her shop.
The judge hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug.
"It was," Poppy said, angry and aching at the same time. "I'm sure it was. I thought he'd come back to me." Her throat felt tight and she couldn't get any more words past the lump in it. This was worse than when her mother had died.
Then it was awful, but it was over. Then she'd been empty, but she'd waited and worked and prayed and hoped—and gradually, slowly, she'd got her life back. There had been a definite bottom. And there was the slow, hard way back up.
But at least she'd known when she'd hit bottom.
With Shane she was never sure.
He'd come to dinner. She'd hoped. He'd kissed her. She'd dreamed. He'd left. And still she'd hoped—for a time.
And then she'd felt empty. And aching. And lost. She'd thought it was the bottom. She'd been learning to live with it, to be patient with it, to hope that it would get better.
And then when she'd seen his truck—for an instant all her hopes and dreams came flooding back.
Only to be dashed again.
The glass wasn't simply empty this time. She felt as if Shane had broken it right in front of her.
"He's a good man," her father said quietly.
Poppy stared. "I'm sure he'd be surprised to hear you say that."
"Do you think so?" The judge looked thoughtful.
"I'm surprised," she said, which was only the truth.
And she wasn't sure she agreed with him, either. "He's a stubborn, hardheaded, impulsive, no-good jerk."
Her father smiled and leaned in to give her a kiss. "Just in case … hold that thought."
Whatever that meant, Poppy thought irritably now, as she stared at the ceiling in her bedroom and wished she could fall asleep. She remembered, after her mother had died, that sleep was the one thing that helped. She'd needed a lot of it then. She thought she could use a good eight hours now.
But she'd been lying here forever, and she was no nearer sleep than she had been when she went to bed. And that had been how long ago? She glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
Only an hour?
Well, it felt like forever. At this rate the night would take five years to pass.
"Damn him," she muttered. "Oh, damn him." She rolled over and punched her pillow. Wally, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, stirred, lifted his head and gave her a look of feline disapproval.
"He's a jerk," Poppy told him.
Wally yawned and put his head back down and began once more to snore.
The sudden sound of knocking on her front door caused her to jump. Who on earth?
Probably someone who left the tavern down the street early and decided to raise a little cain on his way home. She ignored it.
The knocking came again. More insistently.
Poppy got up and tugged on her robe, then padded to peer out past the curtain in her living room window, which gave her a view of whoever might be standing on her second-floor porch.
He had his back to her and stood with his shoulders hunched in the snow that had been coming down since early evening. But there was no question who it was.
Poppy shivered, dropped the curtain, went back to the bedroom and crawled back into bed. She had no desire at all to talk to Shane Nichols.
If he'd had anything she wanted to hear, he could have said it this afternoon. If he was here now, it was because her father had called him, had made him come. And to say what?
She didn't want to know.
He knocked again. Louder this time.
Poppy pulled the pillow over her head. "Go away."
More pounding. "Poppy! Open up. Come on, Poppy! Open the door!" He was making more noise now than the drunks who came out of the bar down the street. At the rate he was going, he'd wake old Mrs. Patters in the apartment in the next building, and she'd call the police.
"Good," Poppy muttered. "I hope she does." It would be fitting. She would love to see him hauled away.
"Poppy!" More hammering. "I want to talk to you! I need to talk to you!"
"You had your chance," Poppy said into the pillow. She pulled the covers over her head.
"Poppy!"
She ignored him.
Mrs. Patters didn't. The window in the apartment next door scraped up. "Are you drunk, young man? Go home! Go home right now or I'll call the police!" The window banged down again.
There was silence.
Then there was a quieter tapping sound. "Poppy?" muffled. "Poppy. Open up." Then, "Oh, hell, if that's the way you're going to be…"
And as she lifted the pillow, Poppy heard the sound of footsteps going back down the wooden stairs.
She slumped face down on the bed and felt shudders run through her. He was gone. It was the right thing to have done. He was gone. Good. He was gone. It was for the best. But she felt hollow, desperate, aching.
She heard a scraping and a scrabbling sound outside her bedroom window. She stopped cold. Didn't move.
There came an indistinct, irritated mutter, then more scraping and the sound of metal creaking. Then there was a sharp rap on her window.
"You want me to kill myself? Fine, you'll get your wish. If you don't open this damn window in five seconds, my thumb will fall off, I'll lose my grip and land on my head!"
She flew out of bed and yanked back the curtains. Shane was hanging on to the ladder of her ice- and snow-covered fire escape. He grinned at her.
She flung open the window. "You idiot! What do you think you're doing?"
"You could've opened the door," he said with maddening logic. "But I suppose you were trying to say you were ticked at me."
"I am mad at you!"
"Don't blame you," he said matter-of-factly. "Could we, um, maybe … talk about that? Inside," he added. "I really am losin' my grip."
Poppy made an inarticulate mutter and reached out a hand to haul him in. He heaved himself up the rest of the way and clambered through the open window, then stood in the middle of her bedroom and shook the snow off like a wet dog.
&nb
sp; "Shane!"
He grinned. "Poppy!" And he reached for her.
She evaded him. "No. I'm not kissing you. I'm not!"
The light went out of his eyes. The smile faded from his face. He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets. "I don't blame you for that, either." He ducked his head and ran his tongue over his lips.
Poppy grabbed her robe and pulled it on. She turned on the light and then wrapped her arms across her chest, as if a bright light and thin arms could protect her.
Shane lifted his gaze once more and met hers. "I love you," he said.
Just like that.
Just like that he cut right through all her defenses. Smashed them. Crumbled them. Left her speechless. And still afraid. She didn't say a word. Couldn't have if her life had depended on it. She just looked at him, hope warring with doubt in her eyes.
He gave her a faint smile as if he understood all too well.
"I do," he said. "I don't deserve you. And I don't have a damn thing to offer you. But I have to say it. Your father was right. I couldn't—" his mouth twisted "—be a chicken about it, even if I wanted to."
"My father?" So this was at his instigation? She backed away, as if distance could help.
But nothing was going to help. She ought to have known that by now.
"He called me," Shane said. "He said he saw me today outside your shop. He asked me why I didn't go in. But he knew why."
"Why?" Poppy found herself whispering.
"Because I was afraid. And I was proud. They don't make a good combination. I'd taken a good hard look at all you had to offer and all I did, and the scales were nowhere near even. I didn't want to come to you that way."
"But—"
"He knew it. He knows a lot about my pride," Shane said quietly. "Someday, if we have a someday," he added, "I'll tell you about it. About the chicken."
"The chicken?" Poppy said, mystified.
Shane was sure she would appreciate the chicken. "He made me start thinking," he went on doggedly. "And remembering. I remembered what you said. It was like you said about when your mother died. I'm facing my future, and frankly, it looks damned empty. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have to figure that out. In the meantime, I've got to begin to put into it the things that will give it some meaning. And I will," he said firmly. "But I don't want to start with things, Poppy. I want to start with you."
The Cowboy Steals a Lady Page 14