"There was no specific incident," she said softly. "I was pregnant, and then I wasn't. It happens, Brad. And it's not always possible to know why."
Brad absorbed that, took another sip of his coffee. "You should have told me."
"I didn't tell anyone," Meg said. "Not even my mother."
"Then how did Jesse know?"
Now that she'd had time to think, the answer was obvious. Jesse had been the one to take her to the hospital that long-ago night. She'd told him it was just a bad case of cramps, but he'd either put two and two together on his own or overheard the nurses and doctors talking.
"He was with me," she said.
"He was, and I wasn't," Brad answered.
She set the plate of scrambled eggs in front of him, along with two slices of buttered toast and some silverware. "It wouldn't have changed anything," she said. "Your being there, I mean. I'd still have lost the baby, Brad."
He closed his eyes briefly, like someone taking a hard punch to the solar plexus, determined not to fight back.
"You should have told me," he insisted.
She gave the plate a little push toward him and, reluctantly, he picked up his fork, began to eat. "We've been over that," she said, sitting down on the bench next to the table, angled to face Brad. "What good would it have done?"
"I could have—helped."
"How?"
He sighed. "You went through it alone. That isn't right."
"Lots of things aren't 'right' in this world," Meg reasoned quietly. "A person just has to—cope."
"The McKettrick way," Brad said without admiration. "Some people would call that being bullheaded, not coping."
She propped an elbow on the tabletop, cupped her chin in her hand, and watched as he continued to down the scrambled eggs. "I'd do the same thing all over again," she confessed. "It was hard, but I toughed it out."
"Alone."
"Alone," Meg agreed.
"It must have been a lot worse than 'hard.' You were only nineteen."
"So were you," she said.
"Why didn't you tell your mother?"
Meg didn't have to reflect on that one. From the day Hank Breslin had snatched Sierra and vanished, Eve had been hit by problem after problem—a serious accident, in which she'd been severely injured, subsequent addictions to painkillers and alcohol, all the challenges of steering McKettrickCo through a lot of corporate white water.
"She'd been through enough," she replied simply. Brad's question had been rhetorical—he'd known the McKettrick history all along.
"She'd have strung me up by my thumbs," Brad said. And though he tried to smile, he didn't quite make it. He was still in shock.
"Probably," Meg said.
He'd finished the food, shoved his plate away. "Where do we go from here?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe nowhere."
He moved to take her hand, but withdrew just short of touching her. Scraped back his chair to stand and carry the remains of his meal to the sink. Set the plate and silverware down with a thunk.
"Was our baby a boy or a girl?" he asked gruffly, standing with his back to her.
She saw the tension in his broad shoulders as he awaited her answer. "I didn't ask," she said. "I guess I didn't want to know. And it was probably too early to tell, anyway. I was only a few weeks into the pregnancy."
He turned, at last, to face her, but kept his distance, leaning back against the counter, folding his arms. "Do you ever think about what it would be like if he or she had survived?"
All the time, she thought.
"No," she lied.
"Right," he said, clearly not believing her.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Brad. That you had to find out from someone else, I mean."
"But not for deceiving me in the first place?"
Meg bristled. "I didn't deceive you."
"What do you call it?"
"You were gone. You had things to do. If I'd dragged you back here, you wouldn't have gotten your big chance. You would have hated me for that."
At last, he crossed to her, took her chin in his hand. "I couldn't hate you, Meg," he said gravely, choking a little on the words. "Not ever."
For a few moments, they just stared at each other in silence.
Brad was the first to speak again. "I'd better get back to the ranch." Another rueful attempt at a grin. "It's been a bitch of a day."
"Stay," Meg heard herself say. She wasn't thinking of leading Brad to her bed—not exclusively of that, anyhow. He'd just ridden miles through a blizzard on horseback, he'd taken a chill in the process, and the knowledge that he'd fathered a child was painfully new.
He was silent, perhaps at a loss.
"You shouldn't be alone," Meg said. And neither should I.
She knew what would happen if he stayed, of course. And she knew it was likely to be a mistake. They'd become strangers to each other over the years apart, living such different lives. It was too soon to run where angels feared to tread.
But she needed him that night, needed him to hold her, if nothing else.
And his need was just as great.
He grinned, though wanly. "How do we know your cousins won't land on the roof in a helicopter?" he asked.
"We don't," Meg said, and sighed. "They meant well, you know."
"Sure they did," he agreed wryly. "They were out to save your virtue."
Meg stood, went to Brad, slipped her arms around his middle. It seemed such a natural thing to do, and yet, at the same time, it was a breathtaking risk. "Stay," she said again.
He held her a little closer, propped his chin on top of her head. Stroked the length of her back with his hands. "Those who don't learn from history," he said, "are condemned to repeat it."
Meg rested her head against his shoulder, breathed in the scent of him. Felt herself softening against the hard heat of his body.
And the telephone rang.
"It might be important," Brad said, setting Meg away from him ;i little, when she didn't jump to answer.
She picked up without checking the ID panel. "Hello."
"Jesse's home," Cheyenne said, honoring her earlier promise to let Meg know when he returned. "He's half-frozen. I poured a hot toddy down him and put him to bed."
"Thanks for calling, Chey," Meg replied.
"You're all right?" Cheyenne asked shyly.
Wondering how much Jesse had told his wife when he got home, Meg replied that she was fine.
"He told me he and Keegan barged in on you and Brad, up in the mountains somewhere," Cheyenne went on. "I'm sorry, Meg. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but I heard a report of the blizzard on the radio and I—well—I guess I panicked a little."
"Everything's all right, Cheyenne. Really.'"'
"He's there, isn't he? Brad, I mean. He's with you, right now."
"Since I'd rather not have a midnight visit from my cousins," Meg said, "I'm admitting nothing."
Cheyenne giggled. "My lips are zipped. Want to have lunch tomorrow?"
"That sounds good," Meg answered, smiling. Brad was standing behind her by then, sliding his hands under the front of her sweatshirt, stopping just short of her bare breasts. She fought to keep her voice even, her breathing normal. "Good night, Cheyenne."
"I'll meet you in town, at Lucky's Bar and Grill at noon," Cheyenne said. "Call me if you're still in bed or anything like that, and we'll reschedule."
Brad tweaked lightly at Meg's nipples; she swallowed a gasp of pleasure. "See you there," she replied, and hung up quickly.
Brad turned Meg around, gave her a knee-melting kiss and then swept her up into his arms. Carried her to the back stairs.
She directed him to the very bed Holt and Lorelei had shared as man and wife.
He laid her down on the deep, cushy mattress, a shadow figure rimmed in light from the hallway behind him. She couldn't see his face, but she felt his gaze on her, gentle and hungry and so hot it seared her.
Afraid honor might get the better of him,
Meg wriggled out of her sweatpants, pulled the top off over her head. Planning to sleep in the well-worn favorites, she hadn't bothered to put on a bra and panties after her bath earlier. Now she was completely naked. Utterly vulnerable.
Brad made a low, barely audible sound, rested one knee on the mattress beside her.
"Hold me," she whispered, and traces of an old song ran through her mind.
Help me make it through the night...
He stripped, maneuvered Meg so she was under the covers and joined her. The feel of him against her, solid and warm and all man, sent an electric rush of dizziness through her, pervading every cell.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung—she who never allowed herself to cling to anyone or anything except her own fierce pride.
A long, delicious time passed, without words, without caresses—only the holding.
The decision that there would be no foreplay was a tacit one.
The wanting was too great.
Brad nudged Meg's legs apart gently, settled between them, his erection pressing against her lower belly like a length of steel, heated in a forge.
She moaned and arched her back slightly, seeking him.
He took her with a single long, slow, smooth stroke, nestling into her depths. Held himself still as she gasped in wordless welcome.
He kissed her eyelids.
She squirmed beneath him.
He kissed her cheekbones.
Craving friction, desperate for it, Meg tried to move her hips, but he had her pinned, heavily, delectably, to the bed.
She whimpered.
He nibbled at her earlobes, one and then the other.
She ran her hands urgently up and down his back.
He tasted her neck.
She pleaded.
He withdrew, thrust again, but slowly.
She said his name.
He plunged deep.
And Meg came apart in his arms, raising herself high. Clawing, now at his back, now at the bedclothes, surrendering with a long, continuous, keening moan.
The climax was ferocious, but it was only a prelude to what would follow, and knowing that only increased Meg's need. Her body merged with Brad's, fused to it at the most elemental level, and the instant he began to move upon her she was lost again.
Even as she exploded, like a shattering star, she was aware of his phenomenal self-control, but when she reached her peak, he gave in. She reveled in the flex of his powerful body, the ragged, half groan, half shout of his release. Felt the warmth of his seed spilling inside her—and prayed it would take root.
Finally, he collapsed beside her, his face buried between her neck and the curve of her shoulder, his arms and legs still clenched around her, loosening by small, nearly imperceptible shivers.
Instinctively, Meg tilted her pelvis slightly backward, cradling the warmth.
A long while later, when both their breathing had returned to normal, or some semblance of that, Brad lifted his head. Touched his nose to hers. Started to speak, then thrust out a sigh, instead.
Meg threaded her fingers through his hair. Turned her head so she could kiss his chin.
"Guess you just earned another notch for the bedpost," she said.
He chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "Except this is your bed, McKettrick. You seduced me. I want that on record. Either way, since it's obviously an antique, carving the thing up probably wouldn't be the best idea."
"We're going to regret this in the morning, you know," she told him.
"That's then," he murmured, nibbling at her neck again. "This is now."
"Um-hmm," Meg said. She wanted now to last forever.
"I kept expecting a helicopter."
Meg laughed. "Me, too."
Brad lifted his head again, and in the moonlight she could see the smile in his eyes. "Know what?"
"What?"
"I'm glad it happened this way. In a real bed, and not the floor of some old line shack." He kissed her, very lightly. "Although I would have settled for anything I could get."
She pretended to slug him.
He laughed.
She felt him hardening against her, pressed against the outside of her right thigh. Stretching, he found the switch on the bedside lamp and turned it, spilling light over her. The glow of it seemed to seep into her skin, golden. Or was it the other way around? Was she the one shining, instead of the lamp?
"God," Brad whispered, "you are beautiful."
A tigress before, now Meg felt shy. Turned her head to one side, closed her eyes.
Brad caressed her breasts, her stomach and abdomen and the tops of her thighs; his touch so light, so gentle, that it made her breath catch in her throat.
"Look at me," he said.
She met his eyes. "The light," she protested weakly.
He slid his fingers between the moist curls at the juncture of her thighs. "So beautiful," he said.
She gasped as he made slow, sweet circles, deliberately exciting her. "Brad—"
"What?"
She was conscious of the softness of her belly; knew her breasts weren't as firm and high as he remembered. She wanted more of his lovemaking, and still more, but under the cover of darkness and finely woven sheets and the heirloom quilt Lorelei McKettrick had stitched with her own hands, so many years before. "The light."
He made no move to flip the switch off again, but continued to stroke her, watching her responses. When he slipped his fingers inside her, found her G-spot and plied it expertly, she stopped worrying about the light and became a part of it.
***
While Meg slept, Brad slipped out of bed, pulled his borrowed clothes back on and retrieved his own from the bathroom where he'd showered earlier. Sat on the edge of the big claw-foot bathtub to pull on his socks and boots, still damp from his ride down the mountainside with Jesse.
Downstairs, he found the old-fashioned thermostat and turned it up. Dusty heat whooshed from the vents. In the kitchen he switched on the lights, filled and set the coffee-maker. Maybe these small courtesies would make up for his leaving before Meg woke up.
He found a pencil and a memo pad over by the phone, | planning to scribble a note, but nothing suitable came to 1 mind, at least not right away.
"Thanks" would be inappropriate.
"Goodbye" sounded too blunt.
Only a jerk would write "See you around."
"I'll call you later"? Too cavalier.
Finally, he settled on, "Horses to feed."
Four of his songs had won Grammies, and all he could come up with was "horses to feed"? He was slipping.
He paused, stood looking up at the ceiling for a few moments, wanting nothing so much as to go back upstairs, crawl in bed with Meg again and make love to her.
Again.
But she'd said they were going to have regrets in the morning, and he didn't want to see those regrets on her face. The two of them would make bumbling excuses, never quite meeting each other's eyes.
And Brad knew he couldn't handle that.
So he left.
***
Meg stood in her warm kitchen, bundled in a terry-cloth bathrobe and surrounded by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, peering at the note Brad had left.
Horses to feed.
"The man's a poet," she said out loud.
"Do you think it took?" Angus asked.
Meg whirled to find him standing just behind her, almost
at her elbow. "You scared me!" she accused, one hand pressed to her heart, which felt as though it might scramble up her esophagus to the back of her throat.
"Sorry," Angus said, though there was nothing the least bit contrite about his tone or his expression.
"Do I think what took?" Meg had barely sputtered the words when the awful realization struck her: Angus was asking if she thought she'd gotten pregnant, which meant—
Oh, God.
"Tell me you weren't here!"
"What do you take me for?" Angus snapped. "Of course I wasn't!"
&n
bsp; Meg swallowed. Flushed to the roots of her hair. "But you knew—"
"I saw that singing cowboy leave just before sunup," came the taciturn reply. Now Angus was blushing, too. "Wasn't too hard to guess the rest."
"Will you stop calling him 'that singing cowboy'? He has a name. It's Brad O'Ballivan."
"I know that," Angus said. "But he's a fair hand with a horse, and he croons a decent tune. To my way of thinking, that makes him a singing cowboy."
Meg gave him a look, padded to the refrigerator, jerked open the door and rummaged around for something that might constitute breakfast. She'd cooked the last of the eggs for Brad, and the remaining choices were severely limited. Three green olives floating in a jar, some withered cheese, the arthritic remains of last week's takeout pizza and a carton of baking soda.
"Food doesn't just appear in an icebox, you know," Angus announced. "In my day, you had to hunt it down, or grow it in a garden, or harvest it from a field."
suddenly, she seemed to be urging Meg to make contact with him. What was going on? "Listen, why don't you stop by the hotel, and I'll make you some breakfast. We'll talk."
"Mom—"
"Blueberry pancakes. Maple-cured bacon. Your favorites."
"All right," Meg said, because as shaken as she was, she could have eaten the proverbial horse. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Good," Eve replied, a little smugly, Meg thought. She was used to getting her way. After all, for almost thirty years, when Eve McKettrick said "jump," everybody reached for a vaulting pole.
"Are you going to ride shotgun?" Meg asked Angus after she'd hung up.
"I wouldn't miss this for anything," Angus said with relish.
Less than half an hour later, Meg was knocking on the front door of her mother's hotel suite.
When it opened, a man stood looking down at her, his expression uncertain and at the same time hopeful. She saw her own features reflected in the shape of his face, the set of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth.
"Hello, Meg," said her long-lost father.
Chapter Eight
After the horses had been fed, Brad turned them out to pasture for the day and made his way not into the big, lonely house, but to the copse of trees where Big John was buried. The old man's simple marker looked painfully new, amid the chipped and moss-covered stone crosses marking the graves of other, earlier O'Ballivans and Blackstones.
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