Part of the Bargain

by Linda Lael Miller

  Libby took Jess’s champagne glass and set it aside, then rested both hands on his elegant satin lapels. The other guests—and there were dozens—might not have existed at all.

  “Dance with me,” she said.

  Jess took her into his arms, his eyes never leaving hers. “You know,” he said softly, “you look so wonderful in that silvery dress that I’m tempted to take you home and make damned sure my father gets that grandchild he wants.”

  “When we start a baby,” she replied seriously, “I want it to be for us.”

  Jess’s mouth quirked into a grin and his eyes were alight with love. “I wasn’t going to tape a bow to the little stinker’s head and hand it over to him, Libby.”

  Libby giggled at the picture this prompted in her mind. “Babies are so funny,” she dreamed aloud.

  “I know,” Jess replied. “I love that look of drunken wonder they get when you lift them up high and talk to them. About that time, they usually barf in your hair.”

  Before she could answer, Ken and Becky came into the magical mist that had heretofore surrounded Libby and Jess.

  “All right if I cut in?” Ken asked.

  “How soon do you want a grandchild?” Jess countered.

  “Sooner the better,” retorted Ken. “And, Jess?”

  “What?” demanded his son-in-law, eyes still locked with Libby’s.

  “The music stopped.”

  Jess and Libby both came to a startled halt, and Becky was so delighted by their expressions that her laughter pealed through the large room.

  When the band started playing again, Libby found herself dancing with her father, while Jess and Becky waltzed nearby.

  “You look real pretty,” Ken said, beaming down at her.

  “You’re pretty fancy yourself,” Libby answered. “In fact, you look downright handsome in that tuxedo.”

  “She says that to everybody,” put in Jess, who happened to be whirling past with Becky.

  Ken’s laugh was low and throaty. “He never gets too far away from you, does he?”

  “About as far as white gets from rice. And I like it that way.”

  “That’s what I figured. Libby…”

  The serious, tentative way he’d said her name gave Libby pause. “Yes?”

  “Becky and I are going to get married,” he blurted out, without taking a single breath.

  Libby felt her eyes fill. “You were afraid to tell me that? Afraid to tell me something wonderful?”

  Ken stopped, his arms still around his daughter, his blue eyes bright with relief and delight. Then, with a raucous shout that was far more typical of him than tuxedos and fancy parties, her father lifted her so high that she was afraid she would fall out of the top of her dress.

  “That was certainly rustic,” remarked Monica, five minutes later, at the refreshment table.

  Libby saw Jess approaching through the crowd of guests and smiled down at the buttery crab puff in her fingers. “Are you making fun of my father, Ms. Summers?”

  Monica sighed in exasperation. “This is a formal party, after all—not a kegger at the Golden Buckle. I don’t know why the senator insists on inviting the help to important affairs.”

  Slowly, and with great deliberation, Libby tucked her crab puff into Monica’s artfully displayed cleavage. “Will you hold this, please?” she trilled, and then walked toward her husband.

  “The foreman’s brat strikes again,” Jess chuckled, pulling her into another waltz.

  Cathy was sitting alone in the dimly lit kitchen, her eyes fixed on something far in the distance. Libby was careful to let her cousin see her, rather than startle her with a touch.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Cathy replied listlessly.

  Libby took a chair opposite Cathy’s and signed, “I’d like to help if I can.”

  Cathy’s face crumbled suddenly and she gave a soft cry that tore at Libby’s heart. Her hands flew as she replied, “Nobody can help me!”

  “Don’t I even get to try?”

  A tendril of Cathy’s hair fell from the soft knot at the back of her head and danced against a shoulder left bare by her Grecian evening gown. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “Oh, Libby, I’m pregnant!”

  Libby felt confusion and just a touch of envy. “Is that so terrible? I know you were scared before, but—”

  “I’m still scared!” Cathy broke in, her voice unusually loud.

  Libby drew a deep breath. “Why, Cathy? You’re strong and healthy. And your deafness won’t be the problem you think it will—you and Stacey can afford to hire help, if you feel it’s necessary.”

  “All of that is so easy for you to say, Libby!” Cathy flared with sudden and startling anger. “You can hear! You’re a whole person!”

  Libby felt her own temper, always suppressed when dealing with her handicapped cousin, surge into life. “You know something?” she said furiously. “I’m sick of your ‘Poor Cathy’ number! A child is just about the best thing that can happen to a person and instead of rejoicing, you’re standing here complaining!”

  “I have a reason to complain!”

  Libby’s arms flew out from her side in a gesture of wild annoyance. “All right! You’re deaf, you can’t hear! Poor, poor Cathy! Now, can we get past singing your sad song? Dammit, Cathy, I know how hard it must be to live in silence, but can’t you look on the positive side for once? You’re married to a successful, gentle-hearted man who loves you very much. You have everything!”

  “Said the woman who could hear!” shouted Cathy.

  Libby sighed and sat back in her chair. “We’re all handicapped in some way— Jess told me that once, and I think it’s true.”

  Cathy was not going to be placated. “What’s your handicap, Libby?” she snapped. “Your short fingernails? The fact that you freckle in the summer instead of getting tan?”

  The derisive sarcasm of her cousin’s words stung Libby. “I’m as uncertain of myself at times as you are, Cathy,” she said softly. “Aaron—”

  “Aaron!” spouted Cathy with contempt. “Don’t hand me that, Libby! So he ran around a little— I had to stand by and watch my husband adore my own cousin for months! And I’ll bet Jess has made any traumas you had about going to bed with a man all better!”

  “Cathy, please…”

  Cathy gave a guttural, furious cry of frustration. “I’m so damned tired of you, Libby, with your career and your loving father and your…”

  Libby was mad again, and she bounded to her feet. “And my what?” she cried. “I can’t help that you don’t have a father— Dad tried to make up for that and I think he did a damned good job! As for a career—don’t you dare hassle me about that! I worked like a slave to get where I am! If you want a career, Cathy, get off your backside and start one!”

  Cathy stared at her, stunned, and then burst into tears. And, of course, Jess chose exactly that moment to walk in.

  Giving Libby one scalding, reproachful look, he gathered Cathy into his arms and held her.

  Chapter 15

  After one moment of feeling absolutely shattered, Libby lifted her chin and turned from Jess’s annoyance and Cathy’s veiled triumph to walk out of the kitchen with dignity.

  She encountered a worried-looking Marion Bradshaw just on the other side of the door. “Libby… Mrs. Barlowe…that man is here!”

  Libby drew a deep breath. “What man?” she managed to ask halfheartedly.

  “Mr. Aaron Strand, that’s who!” whispered Marion. “He had the nerve to walk right up and ring the bell….”

  Libby was instantly alert, alive in every part of her being, like a creature being stalked in the wilds. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in the senator’s study,” answered the flushed, quietly outraged housekeeper. “He says he won’t leave till he talks with you, Libby. I didn’t want a scene, what with all these people here, so I didn’t argue.”

  Wearily Libby patted Marion’s shoulder. Facing Aaron Strand, especially now, was t
he last thing in the world she wanted to do. But she knew that he would create an awful fuss if his request was denied, and besides, what real harm could he do with so many people in the house? “I’ll talk to him,” she said.

  “I’ll get Jess,” mused Mrs. Bradshaw, “and your daddy, too.”

  Libby shook her head quickly, and warm color surged up over her face. Jess was busy lending a strong shoulder to Cathy, and she was damned if she was going to ask for his help now, even indirectly. And though Ken was almost fully recovered from his confrontation with the bear, Libby had no intention of subjecting him to the stress that could result from a verbal round with his former son-in-law. “I’ll handle this myself,” she said firmly, and then, without waiting for a reply, she started for the senator’s study.

  Aaron was there, tall and handsome in his formal clothes.

  “At least when you crash a party, you dress for it,” observed Libby drily from the doorway.

  Aaron set down the paperweight he had been examining and smiled. His eyes moved over her in a way that made her want to stride across the room and slap him with all her might. “That dress is classy, sugarplum,” he said in acid tones. “You’re definitely bunkhouse-calendar material.”

  Libby bit her lower lip, counted mentally until the urge to scream passed. “What do you want, Aaron?” she asked finally.

  “Want?” he echoed, pretending pleasant confusion.

  “Yes!” hissed Libby. “You flew two thousand miles—you must want something.”

  He sighed, leaned back against the senator’s desk, folded his arms. “Are you happy?”

  “Yes,” answered Libby with a lift of her chin.

  Again he assessed her shiny silver dress, the hint of cleavage it revealed. “I imagine the cowboy is pretty happy with you, too,” he said. “Which Barlowe is it, Libby? The steak-house king or the lawyer?”

  Libby’s head began to ache; she sighed and closed her eyes for just a moment. “What do you want?” she asked again insistently.

  His shoulders moved in a shrug. “A baby,” he answered, as though he was asking for a cup of coffee or the time of day. “I know you’re not going to give me that, so relax.”

  “Why did you come here, then?”

  “I just wanted a look at this ranch. Pretty fancy spread, Lib. You do know how to land on your feet, don’t you?”

  “Get out, Aaron.”

  “Without meeting your husband? Your paragon of a father? I wouldn’t think of it, Mrs. Barlowe.”

  Libby was off balance, trying to figure out what reason Aaron could have for coming all the way to Montana besides causing her added grief. Incredible as it seemed, he had apparently done just that. “You can’t hurt me anymore, Aaron,” she said. “I won’t let you. Now, get out of here, please.”

  “Oh, no. I lost everything because of you—everything. And I’ll have my pound of flesh, Libby—you can be sure of that.”

  “If your grandmother relieved you of your company responsibilities, Aaron, that’s your fault, not mine. I should think you would be glad—now you won’t have anything to keep you from your wine, women and song.”

  Aaron’s face was tense. Gone was his easy, gentlemanly manner. “With the company went most of my money, Libby. And let’s not pretend, sweetness— I can make your bright, shiny new life miserable, and we both know it.”

  “How?” asked Libby, poised to turn and walk out of the study.

  “By generating shame and scandal, of course. Your father-in-law is a prominent United States senator, isn’t he? I should think negative publicity could hurt him very badly—and you know how good I am at stirring that up.”

  Rage made Libby tremble. “You can’t hurt Cleave Barlowe, Aaron. You can’t hurt me. Now, get out before I have you thrown out!”

  He crossed the room at an alarming speed, had a hold on Libby’s upper arms before she could grasp what was happening. He thrust her back against the heavy door of the study and covered her mouth with his own.

  Libby squirmed, shocked and repulsed. She tried to push Aaron away, but he had trapped her hands between his chest and her own. And the kiss went on, ugly and wet, obscene because it was forced upon her, because it was Aaron’s.

  Finally he drew back, smirking down at her, grasping her wrists in both hands when she tried to wriggle away from him. And suddenly Libby was oddly detached, calm even. Mrs. Bradshaw had been right when she’d wanted to let Jess know that Aaron was here, so very right.

  Libby had demurred because of her pride, because she was mad at Jess; she’d thought she could handle Aaron Strand. Pride be damned, she thought, and then she threw back her head and gave a piercing, defiant scream.

  Aaron chuckled. “Do you think I’m afraid of your husband, Libby?” he drawled. Incredibly, he was about to kiss her again, it appeared, when he was suddenly wrenched away.

  Libby dared one look at Jess’s green eyes and saw murder flashing there. She reached for his arm, but he shook her hand away.

  “Strand,” he said, his gaze fixed on a startled but affably recovering Aaron.

  Aaron gave a mocking half-bow. It didn’t seem to bother him that Jess was coldly furious, that half the guests at the senator’s party, Ken Kincaid included, were jammed into the study doorway.

  “Is this the part,” Aaron drawled, “where we fight over the fair lady?”

  “This is the part,” Jess confirmed icily.

  Aaron shrugged. “I feel honor-bound to warn you,” he said smugly, “that I am a fifth-degree black belt.”

  Jess spared him an evil smile, but said nothing.

  Libby was afraid; again she grasped at Jess’s arm. “Jess, he really is a black belt.”

  Jess did not so much as look at Libby; he was out of her reach, and not just physically. She felt terror thick in her throat, and flung an appealing look at Ken, who was standing beside her, one arm around her waist.

  Reading the plea in his daughter’s eyes, he denied it with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  Libby was frantic. As Jess and Aaron drew closer to each other, circling like powerful beasts, she struggled to free herself from her father’s restraining arm. For all his weaknesses of character, Aaron Strand was agile and strong, and if he could hurt Jess, he would, without qualms of any kind.

  “Jess, no!” she cried.

  Jess turned toward her, his jaw tight with cold annoyance, and Aaron struck in that moment. His foot came up in a graceful arc and caught Jess in the side of the neck. Too sick to stand by herself or run away, Libby buried her face in Ken’s tuxedo jacket in horror.

  There were sounds—terrible sounds. Why didn’t someone stop the fight? Why were they all standing around like Romans thrilling to the exploits of gladiators? Why?

  When the sounds ceased and Libby dared to look, Jess was still standing. Aaron was sitting on the floor, groaning theatrically, one corner of his lip bleeding. It was obvious that he wasn’t badly hurt, for all his carrying on.

  Rage and relief mingled within Libby in one dizzying sweep. “Animals!” she screamed, and when she whirled to flee the ugliness, no one moved to stop her.

  Libby sat on the couch in the condo’s living room, her arms wrapped around her knees, stubbornly ignoring the ringing of the telephone. She had turned off the answering machine, but she couldn’t help counting the rings—that had become something of a game in the two days since she’d left the ranch to take refuge here. Twenty-six rings. It was a record.

  She stood up shakily, made her way into the kitchen, where she had been trying to sketch out the panels for her cartoon strip. “Back to the old drawing board,” she said to the empty room, and the stale joke fell flat because there was no one there to laugh.

  The telephone rang again and, worn down, Libby reached out for the receiver affixed to the kitchen wall and snapped, “Hello!”

  “Lib?” The voice belonged to her father, and it was full of concern. “Libby, are you all right?”

  “No,” she answered honestl
y, letting a sigh carry the word. “As a matter of fact, I’m not all right. How are you?”

  “Never mind me—why did you run off like that?”

  “You know why.”

  “Are you coming back to the ranch?”

  “Why?” countered Libby, annoyed. “Am I missing some bloody spectacle?”

  Ken gave a gruff sigh. “Dammit, Libby, do you love Jess Barlowe or not?”

  Tears stung her eyes. Love him? These two days away from him had been hell, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “What does it matter?” she shot back. “He’s probably so busy holding Cathy’s hand that he hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.”

  “That’s it. Cathy. Standing up for her is a habit with Jess, Lib—you know that.”

  Libby did know; in two days she’d had plenty of time to come to the conclusion that she had overreacted in the kitchen the night of the party when Jess had seemed to take Cathy’s part against her. She shouldn’t have walked out that way. “There is still the fight—”

  “You screamed, Libby. What would you have done, if you’d been in Jess’s place?” Without waiting for an answer, her father went on, “You’re just being stubborn, and so is Jess. Do you love him enough to make the first move, Lib? Do you have the gumption?”

  Libby reached out for a kitchen chair, sank into it. “Where is he?”

  There was a smile in her father’s voice. “Up on that ridge behind your place,” he answered. “He’s got a camp up there.”

  Libby knew mild disappointment; if Jess was camping, he hadn’t been calling. She had been ignoring the telephone for two days for nothing. “It’s nice to know he misses me so much,” she muttered petulantly.

  Having said his piece, Ken was silent.

  “He does miss me, doesn’t he?” demanded Libby.

  “He misses you,” chuckled Ken. “He wouldn’t be doing his hermit routine if he didn’t.”

  Libby sighed. “The ridge, huh?”

  “The ridge,” confirmed Ken with amusement. And then he hung up.

  I shouldn’t be doing this in my condition, Libby complained to herself as she made her way up the steep hillside. But since the mountain won’t come to me…

  She stopped, looked up. The smoke from Jess’s campfire was curling toward the sky; the sun was hot and bright. What the devil did he need with a fire, anyway? It was broad daylight, for heaven’s sake.