Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1)

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  Offering a quick glance at Amelia, she smiled quickly. “Sorry. I have some missed calls. Let me check these.”

  “Ah, the joys of sporadic coverage.” Caught up in her son, Amelia only barely acknowledged Becky’s comment.

  Tapping the side of her phone while waiting for the ding to tell her to enter her password, Becky stared at Slate’s knuckles absently. The pain must be abating somewhat, his fingers jerked on the ground, normal movement for a person coming out of a faint.

  Not that she’d ever tell him he’d fainted or passed out. Becky would have to come up with some macho way to say what happened. Men had a tendency to get riled up over little things like phrases and colors. Slate’s house didn’t have a spray of pink anywhere. A man’s-man.

  She punched in her pass code.

  Slate’s fingers and hand moved with more fervor.

  Becky patted his forearm. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. Just one second.” She muttered while the voicemail auto-voice recited the day and time of her first message.

  Wait, had that been the other day? Like the day she’d headed home to see her mom?

  Chapter 28

  Judging by how nice Becky had acted when Slate had joined her in Spokane, she’d never received his message about what he thought of her helping Ronan.

  Slate couldn’t move his hands fast enough. Sluggish and weighed down, his eyelids and mouth wouldn’t do what he wanted… what he commanded. No, she couldn’t listen to the messages. She couldn’t hear what a jackass he’d been, not before he had a chance to explain.

  Over the last two days he’d come to realize how much he liked her – genuinely liked her. He hadn’t felt like that in… well, forever. Foreign and more than a bit surreal, the sensation of being friends with her left Slate wanting to protect the proverbial boat from jarring.

  He fought the pain pulling him down. Soothing cold lapped at the burning in his side and up his chest while small drips warmed as they rolled down his skin.

  Faint beeps from beside him seemed louder than they really were. His voice, metallic through the machine, didn’t conceal his anger in the message as he let her have it. Each syllable strong and pronounced.

  His eyelids fluttered, revealing in little spurts She-Doc’s silhouette backlit by the kitchen lighting. Pulled tight, her sloppy bun didn’t hide the high bones of her cheeks or the soft slope of her neck.

  Slate scratched his fingers for her phone again – but couldn’t raise his arms. Oh, hell, his ribs and clavicles felt like they’d been snapped in half. Every single one.

  Beep. Beep.

  Through Slate’s eyelashes he could barely make-out Becky’s calm expression as she listened to another voicemail with a different man’s voice… filled with repentance and guilt. Something Slate suspected he’d be mimicking really soon.

  But she didn’t react.

  Beep.

  She clicked her phone shut and tucked it in her pocket. Then she sat and watched something past Slate’s shoulder. He wished he could turn his head to see what captivated her attention so definitively. But pain controlled any movement he made – or didn’t make.

  Emotionless, she pressed his wrist and seemed to consider something. Slate succeeded at opening his eyes and he watched her with concern. He couldn’t speak with the pain wrapped up around his lower neck.

  What the hell had happened to Robbie?

  Before he could get her attention, She-Doc stood and brushed her hands on the backs of her thighs. “Amelia, I think he’s going to be okay. I need to get back to the clinic before this blizzard blocks the roads. You wouldn’t happen to know where my dad went, would you?”

  She walked out of his view.

  And didn’t look back.

  His ribs tightened as if she’d walked away from him forever. Odd sensation, really, nothing prepared a man for the feeling of loss. No angry words had passed between them. She hadn’t even acknowledged him.

  But Slate could hear his message across the space that separated them. Even through his lashes he’d seen the light dim in her eyes and the worry pale to professional concern.

  His stomach twisted in knots beneath the pain.

  Amelia’s murmurs reached him and he groaned. She rushed to his side. “Slate, oh how are you feeling? What happened? Robbie…”

  Slate moved his tongue for moisture to speak and swallowed with sandpaper-like rasping. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly at first. “Yeah, he said… he’d been beat… pretty badly. Heading home.”

  She gasped. “When?” And reached up to tuck a stray chunk of hair behind her ear. Amelia swiped at the shadows under her eyes and tugged on her sleeve.

  Slate closed his eyes at the effort. “I don’t know. Not right now. If he feels half as bad as I do, he’s not moving for a few days or more.” But that wasn’t the way it worked. Robbie had gotten the tar kicked out of him and Slate had absorbed the “extra” pain Robbie couldn’t absorb. They worked like sponges to each other. One of their tics at being twins. Mom had called it a ‘twin-kle’. Emotions worked the same way. An overabundance of any one emotion overwhelmed both brothers.

  It’d always worked in their favor before. If Robbie or Slate had been in trouble, the other knew and would attempt to fix the problem.

  He had to explain the twin telepathy to Becky and hope to high heaven she didn’t think he was crazy.

  Right then, Slate wished they didn’t have the connection. His ribs creaked when he tried sitting up. “I think I, I mean, he has some broken bones.”

  Amelia covered her mouth, smothering the whimper his words brought. She’d been with Robbie long enough she knew the bond between the brothers had a definition all its own. “If you feel like that… then Robbie…” There was no question. Not even a statement really. More like a collection of words glazed in pain for the man she loved.

  “Right. Robbie.” Whatever Slate had wrong with him, he could be certain Robbie was a whole lot worse. He breathed around his comments, careful not to jar anything. “If he’d stayed I could have helped him, but he’s not close enough for me to do anything, Amelia. There’s nothing… I’m sorry.” But who did he apologize to? Amelia? For some reason Slate suspected his repentance was more for his brother. Somehow, some way, Slate had failed him. Despite his best efforts. “I’m okay, why don’t you go check on Mac?”

  She returned to her son’s side, wringing out a washcloth at the sink. “What happened to upset Dr. O’Donald? Do you know?” Amelia wiped the damp cloth over Mac’s forehead.

  Slate took a lengthy moment to gather his thoughts. If he told Amelia, she’d have more than a few words for him and his actions. But, if he didn’t, she’d suspect he was hiding something and he didn’t need her nagging until he told which would then release the inevitable anger over his actions.

  “I left her a voicemail about working for Ronan.” He sighed, waiting for the tirade certain to start any second.

  Any sound would have been welcome. Careful not to jerk his head around, Slate angled his neck, looking hard out of the side of his eyes for Amelia’s reaction. Pressed into a thin line, lips competed with her narrowed eyes to scream his stupidity. He relaxed back into his position.

  Nothing she said could make him feel worse than he already did. Nothing.

  Chapter 29

  Fuming didn’t describe Becky’s anger. Holy cow, did she feel like an idiot or what? That whole time she’d believed Slate had followed her to Spokane because he felt bad for her loss. But… but… but…

  She blinked back the tears. Crying never helped anyone. Never fixed anything. Whiners never earned any medals or saved any lives.

  No matter how much she pep-talked herself out of crying, her tear ducts ignored the message.

  Crap. Before getting to the den where Amelia had indicated Becky’s dad had gone to, Becky stopped in the corner outside the door, wiping her cheeks with the edges of her shirt. Forced slow breathing calmed her down and she pushed the phone calls from her mind the best she could. />
  The second voicemail had been John apologizing for accosting her in the parking lot. Yeah, more than words would be needed to fix a near-rape. Who did he think he was? She shuddered the icky-ness from him off her shoulders. Unable to completely ignore the pain Slate’s recorded accusations had left behind, she couldn’t face his final words… utter rejection…

  Through the arched doorway into the den, Becky took in large dark shelves covered with hardback books. Picture frames and bronze stallions acted as bookends. Long dark brown leather couches lined each wall with matching ottomans strewn throughout the large room. The massive yet intimate feel to the library – no way could a room that amazing be called a den – hooked her curiosity and pulled her around the perimeter to get a closer look.

  A soft laugh caught her attention and drew her to her dad who’d made himself comfortable in one of the easy chairs set between couches. “I knew it’d only be a matter of time before you’d find your way in here.” He patted the arm of the couch beside him. “Sit down. Tell me all about saving that boy in there. According to your cowboy, you’re pretty amazing.” He smiled. “But I already knew that, didn’t I?”

  Becky huffed into the spot he’d pointed to, leaning her head against the back cushion. She fingered the edge of the couch, unable to meet his eyes. “Why’d you come with him, Dad?” Holding her breath, she waited for an answer. What would he say? Would he sound like her mother and chastise her for something?

  She couldn’t even come up with a reason she would be in trouble. But all that was out of character for her dad. He was her champion and loved her. It just seemed too unwarranted, his being there.

  Everything was too much for her to fully comprehend. She needed sleep.

  Her dad leaned forward and pressed a finger on either temple. The gray in his hair had never seemed so stark. “I couldn’t understand why she blamed you for our debt. It was all her health, her shopping, her addictions.” He sighed, closing his eyes. A flush covered his face and moisture glistened in his eyes when he returned his attention back to her. “I should’ve stood up for you. I should’ve done more, been more.

  “Once upon a time, she was my sweetheart. She made me smile. I blamed who she’d become on the medications… the alcohol.” He lowered his hands, twisting work-worn fingers together.

  And Becky got it. The fatigue and weariness in the shadows under his eyes, the paleness to his cheeks, and his thinner hair on top proved just how much her mom had sucked out of him. Out of the family.

  Swallowing the pain and no small amount of relief from being freed of her mother’s grasp, Becky allowed herself to acknowledge that the only thing left of her mother’s rage and disappointment were the bills. As soon as they were paid off, Becky would be free… until her memories raged inside her. But even those could be maintained.

  Her dad reached for her hands, choking on his words. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Becky. I was… well… I was hoping… Ahem. I was hoping we could start over. Help… Maybe help each other get back on our feet.”

  Not prone to tears, Becky broke down. The stress of the last few days had eaten at her, tightening every muscle in her body. But with her hands gripped tightly in her dad’s she let go and cried. Cried. All of the unknowns with Slate, the pressure Ronan continued pouring on her, her mother, debt, the desire to just sit somewhere warm and be for a few minutes without any responsibilities, everything flowed from her in small sobs. At some point, her dad moved onto the couch with her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  And yeah, a big part of her cried because her mom had just died – taking with her any possible chance she and Becky could have developed a more positive relationship, any chance Becky might have been able to reveal her feelings.

  Becky wasn’t heartless.

  She just missed a mom that she’d never really been able to have.

  ~~~

  Escaping Slate’s ranch had been easier than Becky could’ve hoped. All she’d needed to do was transfer her dad’s luggage from the foyer to her truck and away they’d gone. Yes, the roads had been slick as frozen yogurt, nothing a solid four-wheel drive couldn’t handle.

  “We didn’t stop in town on the way to his place, but your friend told me a bit about the history. Did you know that the James family owns the Colby Bank?” Her dad gripped the handle anchored overhead and the seatbelt across his chest with equal fervor. Watching the road, his words never faltered, like the only part of him that trusted his daughter’s driving was his voice box.

  Becky deftly cranked the wheel, lightly pumping the brakes when her anti-lock lights flashed in her dash. Snowflakes didn’t stand a chance as they tried clinging to the heated windshield, melting in nanoseconds and disappearing under the sweep of the wiper blades.

  She offered a small laugh. “Really? Leave it to you, Dad, to Sherlock Holmes the town. Are there any mysteries or fun things we should note?” Mostly focused on the road, Becky only partially listened to her dad repeat what he’d been told.

  “Well, according to Slate, Ronan took over the bank business when his parents died in some accident… oh, I can’t remember where or what, but they died.” He winced and fell silent.

  The branch across the road didn’t even warrant a sideways glance as Becky drove around it. Apparently her dad didn’t have the same confidence she did. “Nice, Dad. Okay, so they died. That’s terrible, but it happens.” She didn’t have a lot of sympathy for the man. He’d been involved in every dramatic situation she’d experienced at Lonely River and Becky didn’t particularly enjoy drama.

  “That’s not even the craziest part. I guess, a while back, most of the county – Becky, I said county – lost a lot of money in an investment scheme that had blown through here and most of the residents borrowed against their lands. Then the recession hit and bam, most of them lost everything.” His eyes wide, her dad didn’t bother looking Becky’s way as he nodded vigorously after his retelling.

  A sigh. She had nothing else for him. Oh, wait, she offered him a sidelong glance with a half-skeptical-half-amused smile.

  “Becky! You watch that road.” He made the sign of a Catholic cross.

  Turning the wheel, Becky rolled her eyes but returned her attention to the disappearing and reappearing road as the blizzard gave peeks at the terrain every twenty feet or so. “Dad, you’re not Catholic. Why do you do that?”

  “It never hurts to be prepared. Boy Scout motto, you know?” If his knuckles would, they would scoff at his attempts to be nonchalant as they grew paler with his increased tension.

  Becky’s laughter filled the cab. “Dad, you’re not a Boy Scout either.” The drive had passed quickly and Becky parked the truck between the barn and the large sprawling house in the middle of the woods on the town’s perimeter.

  Climbing out, Becky grabbed her dad’s luggage from the bed of the truck. The snow continued falling, blurring the lines of the forest, the house, and the tracks from her drive in.

  One bag hooked over her shoulder, and the other gripped firmly in her hand, Becky headed toward the barn door, her head down. “It can get kind of chilly in here. I’ll get an extra space heater.”

  “Becky, where are you going?” Muffled by heavy, thick flakes, her dad’s voice came from further away than just a few feet behind.

  She pivoted, lifting her head to search for her dad. Across the yard, he’d made it almost to the front door of the Roylance’s main home. Becky scrunched up her nose. “No, Dad. We’re in here. That’s the clinic owner’s house.” She pushed open the ground-level door and tucked his luggage just inside. Flicking the light switch, she dispelled some of the darkness but only with a standard light bulb set in the ceiling from two stories up and stepped back out to wait for him.

  Crunching of snow under his boots announced his arrival before his shadow could be seen from where she stood. He rubbed his hands together, huffing into them, the cloud bursting from between his fingers. “Why are you in the barn?”

  “I’m renting the loft. It’s
cheap and helps me stay close to the clinic when I’m on-call.” Becky pushed open the door and waited for him to pass through. Inside, her dad grabbed one of his bags and she yanked the other one onto her shoulder. “Down past the stalls and up the stairs. Be careful, there’s a lip on the bottom right stair that can trip you up in the dark.”

  Thumping and thudding of his bag against the ground mixed with the soft neighs and snorts of the horses in residence. The soft scent of hay and alfalfa mingled with the subtle musk of leather conditioner, giving the impression of warmth – at least more than there really was outside of the stalls.

  “Does your apartment have electric heating or gas?” He laughed, stepping up with care as she’d suggested. “Or is it antiquated and need wood? I don’t know if I can wait for a fire to start and get going before I warm up.”

  Holding back her comment, Becky winced.

  He reached the top of the stairs, looked around before facing Becky, questions twisting his lips. Shadows from the less-than-terrific lighting hid his true emotions.

  Embarrassed, Becky watched her foot placement with more care than necessary. Her parents had never visited her during her schooling, blaming it on her mother’s health and the cost. Becky had never minded before, having always resided in the least expensive… oh, hell, she might as well face it… the cheapest place in the region she could find.

  Coming to a stop beside her dad, Becky put down the bag and opened her arms, encompassing the whole of her “apartment”. “Here it is. You can have the bed. I’ll take the bedroll.” She’d been avoiding the bedroll because she’d found it shoved into the corner of the loft, covered in dust and dirt. She’d never admit it to her dad, though. “I use the bathroom under the stairs. Do you want to go first?”

  Reaching across the small space between them, her dad grabbed her hand and choked out. “Are you living like this to save money? The truth, Rebecca.” Her whole first name. The sign of severity and time for complete honesty. To him and herself.