Well, maybe he had been in the past. But no more.
“That’s very noble of you, Miz O’Brannoch, but you can keep your damn promises. I don’t accept charity, ever, and I sure as hell don’t need yours.”
He reeled to his feet and stalked off toward the house to clean up. Leaving her there. Ignoring the wounded look in her eyes.
Hell, he’d had plenty of promises in his lifetime. Too many. From his mother, his teachers, the cops, his rodeo career, from Fitz. But he’d recently stopped believing in them. Promises were like tumbleweeds, here today, tomorrow gone and forgotten. Time to start remembering that. From now on he wanted everything on paper, nice and legal.
It was time to take the reins of his life firmly in hand. He’d earned his place on this ranch with his own sweat and blood. If Rhiannon wanted to share anything with him, great. But she’d have to earn her place with him. As his wife.
He stopped halfway across the meadow and turned. “You were right about another thing,” he called to her angrily. “I’m ready to ask Fitz about his will. We’ll find out tonight.”
At least that way he’d know one way or another. And could make some long-overdue decisions. Like what he’d do with the rest of his life if Rhiannon inherited Irish Heaven.
Or how to make her marry him if he did.
Rhiannon put her trembling hands to her face and battled hard not to cry. Mature women didn’t cry. And she didn’t. Not since her mother’d died had she shed a single tear about anything. She wasn’t about to start now.
By the saints, but she wanted to badly. How could things have gone wrong so quickly? One minute she and Hawk were practically making love, the next her broody lover was stalking off—after she’d offered him everything she had in this world, herself included.
But everything she had was not good enough for him. He wanted more. He wanted her fate linked with his for all eternity, in marriage. To a man who didn’t love her.
She couldn’t believe he’d proposed a second time. A marriage of convenience. And here she’d thought such a thing only existed in the pages of lurid nineteenth-century Gothic novels.
But she was not willing to compromise on such an important decision. Temptations of the flesh would be forgiven. But marriage was sacred. She’d only marry a man who loved her with all his heart.
Hawk was not that man.
With a deep sigh, she buttoned up her cotton dress, rose and made her way to the water pump to rinse off.
At least one good thing had come of it all. Tonight she’d know the worst. Tonight she’d know if she had a home of her own, or if, once again, her dream of belonging would be shattered.
“God damn it!”
The back door slammed hard, startling Rhiannon so badly she dropped the pan of cornbread muffins she was taking out of the oven. She added her own choice word to Redhawk’s diatribe blasting in from the laundry room.
“They’ve hit us again,” he announced, slamming his hands against the door frame as he stormed into the kitchen.
“What?” she asked in dismay, swiping the pan up and turning off the oven before facing him. “The rustlers?”
He drilled a hand through his hair. “Four more steers are gone. Four!”
Fitz looked up narrow-eyed from the table where he sat slicing vegetables. “It’s that Grant fella, I tell you. He arrested two of the boyos on the last raid an’ turned ’em over to that British colonel. Ye can’t trust him, Jamie lad. It’ll be you next, I tell ya.”
Rhiannon blinked, and met Hawk’s gaze. He gave his head a brief shake. “I’ll be careful, Fitz.”
“Are you sure the animals are gone?” she asked.
“I followed the trail to the chute next to the highway. There were three men on horseback herding them fast. Tracks looked fresh. Probably last night.”
She swallowed a prick of guilt. While they were making love. Could the rustlers have known?
No, how could they? And what difference would it have made if they had? That far away, Hawk couldn’t have heard anything anyway.
“What does this mean for us?”
“It means we’re screwed. We only have twenty-three steers left in the herd. At $500 a head profit—if we’re lucky—it’ll be impossible for three people to live on that next year. Especially…” He took a sidelong glance at Fitz before shaking his head.
“I have my job,” she said. “That’ll help.”
He gave her a level look, then sat down opposite Fitz. Gently, he set the knife aside and took the older man’s hands in his.
“Fitz. I know we’ve always vowed we’ll never sell a single acre of Irish Heaven. Not even if it meant living under the stars and eating cactus. But with you being sick, things are different. We need to be able to take care of you. What happens if you get worse?”
“What are you saying, lad?” Fitz asked, a heartbreakingly puzzled look coming over his face. “You want to sell our home?”
At his use of the word “our,” a stab of misery sliced through Rhiannon.
“No, I—”
“I’ll never sell Irish Heaven,” Fitz said emphatically.
“I don’t want to, either,” Hawk said. “But we may have to consider it. Just a few acres of the land, if we can find a buyer. You remember that offer you had a couple years back? Maybe the lawyer can contact the party and ask if they’re still interested.”
“I won’t,” he repeated, crossing his arms.
“The thing is…” Hawk went on as though he hadn’t seen Fitz’s determination. “The situation has changed now, what with Rhiannon being here and all.”
“Rhiannon?” Fitz glanced over at her and started, as though he hadn’t realized she was standing there. “Janet!”
“Rhiannon. Your niece. Janet’s daughter,” Hawk patiently repeated for at least the hundredth time since she’d arrived at the ranch. “Fitz, you’re going to need help making some important decisions soon. And we were wondering…that is, Rhiannon and I felt it would be most fair if that person is the one who’ll be inheriting Irish Heaven from you.”
Fitz stared at him, apparently not comprehending the words.
“Fitz, we need to know. Who are you leaving your ranch to, in your will?”
His mouth dropped open, and Rhiannon’s heart literally stopped in her chest. She wanted to cover her ears, or scream “No!” and run from the room. But she made herself stand perfectly still. And take the worst, if it should come.
The old man gaped at Hawk in surprise. And said, “Why, you, of course, Jamie! Who else but me own brother?” He nodded at her. “And your Janet, when ye wed.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and took the breath her lungs were starving for. Nothing. He’d told them nothing.
“Fitz.” Hawk bent in closer. “Jamie’s gone now. And Janet, too. You have to tell us. Is it me or Rhiannon?”
Her uncle jumped to his feet, visibly agitated. “I’ll not be selling Irish Heaven! And that’s that.” Then he hurried from the kitchen, leaving an awkward, awful silence in his wake.
After a moment Hawk leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. “That went well.”
“The poor man,” she whispered. “He’s so confused.”
“At least we got our answer,” Hawk muttered, and hauled to his feet.
“What answer?”
He approached her and pinned her with a slow, penetrating look. “That he’s leaving the ranch to me.”
“You think—”
“What else could he have meant?”
“That he really did leave it to my da, in which case it’ll be mine.”
Hawk parked his fists on his hips and glared down at her. “If I recall correctly, your aunt and uncle were your daddy’s heirs, not you.”
She gasped, and reeled back as if slapped. “They won’t want this place!”
“Don’t be so damn sure. Not when they can turn around and sell it for over a cool million in cash.” He backed her up against the counter and put his face in hers. “So you
better start praying he did mean me.”
His breath on her forehead was hot and swift, smelling of sage and piñon nuts, like the scorching wind off the cliffs. And yet she shivered.
He put his hands to her waist and held her fast, bending his lips to her ear.
“I’ll make you the same offer as you made me,” he growled. “To share. My land, my home, my work, my bed. But I have one stipulation.” He grasped her chin and jerked it up so she was forced to look into his eyes. “If you accept, you’ll do so as my wife or not at all.”
He let her go, turned and walked away, not a hint of limp in his powerful stride.
With a quiet sob of anguish, she wrapped her arms around her middle, swung and leaned over the sink.
He’d won. Now she really had nothing, and belonged nowhere.
Pain razored through her insides, and she had to clamp her jaw against crying out.
What would she do? Where would she go? She couldn’t stay here and marry him. She wouldn’t. A loveless marriage would be condemning herself to being no one and having nothing of her own for the rest of her life.
No.
She was better than that.
She took a steadying breath. She had her pink boots. They were hers. She’d bought them with her own earned money. And her new clothes. And the room upstairs she was building.
That would be hers, too, she decided. Not Redhawk’s. She’d build it with her own hands and move into it just as soon as possible. It would be all new, and wouldn’t remind her of him. Of the night they’d spent together in his bed, and the things they’d done together there.
She didn’t want to think about that. Because if she did, she might consciously have to acknowledge that she really wanted to marry him. In a true marriage.
Because she’d already fallen in love with Redhawk Jackson, and nothing would make her happier than to share the rest of her life with him, along with everything in it.
But that was even more of an impossible dream than owning a million-dollar ranch in Arizona.
Because he didn’t want her love.
Thanksgiving was subdued.
Hawk remembered not too long ago when it had been a big, noisy affair at the ranch, all the hands bringing their gals or wives and families, Fitz helping Estella, their former cook, whip up a real dandy feast in the kitchen. That was back when they had money. And ranch hands. And a cook. And plenty of reasons to be thankful.
Rhiannon did her best with the dinner, but he supposed they didn’t get much call for turkey in Ireland. Fitz tried to help, but just muddled things up more and more the later in the day it got. For some reason he always seemed a lot worse in the afternoons and evenings than he did in the morning.
Hawk figured it was about time for another trip to the doctor. Expensive as it was, the old man’s medication didn’t appear to be helping much anymore. Maybe there was something stronger they could give him.
Anyway, Hawk decided to rescue the poor Thanksgiving bird and slow roast it on a spit over the grill. Barbecue was about the only kind of cooking he was any good at. Hell, it was the only kind of cooking he’d ever tried.
It wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was downright tasty after he’d spread on the last few drops of Fitz’s famous red chile-chocolate oil that he’d put up last fall. With a batch of Rhiannon’s perfected cornbread muffins, a few roasted veggies and a homemade apple pie for dessert, it was more than a passable meal.
Too bad no one was talking.
He and Rhiannon hadn’t done a whole lot of that in the week or so since they asked Fitz about his will.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure why that woman was so damn blasted stubborn. It’s not like he’d seduced her, then dumped her. He’d asked her to marry him for chrissakes.
But he wasn’t going to think about that. Because every time he did, he just got mad. The woman was going to be the death of him. He still wanted her with a physical ache that kept him awake long into the night. First waiting for her to come home from her job at Jake’s, then imagining what it would be like to follow her upstairs and climb into bed with her. Demand she share with him, as she’d promised. The bed, and her.
He took a long swig of his one allotted beer and stabbed another slice of turkey.
“You can sleep in your own bed tonight,” she said, breaking the silence and jerking his attention—and his body—like a puppet on a string.
“What?” He had to have heard wrong.
“You can move back upstairs,” she calmly said, dishing another helping of vegetables onto Fitz’s plate, who was busily eating, oblivious to the tension between them or the lack of conversation.
“All right,” Hawk said slowly, wondering if she’d gotten a little mixed up about what Thanksgiving actually entailed. Not that he intended to set her straight. If she wanted to thank him in that way, he was all for—
“I finished roughing out the other room. Jeremy helped me with the electrical earlier this week and—”
“Excuse me?” he interrupted, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Jeremy Lloyd? Was in this house?”
“You were off doing something or other. Fences, I believe. And—”
“And so you decided to ask Jeremy for help. Instead of me.”
He did his best to control his temper. He did. But he could feel the muscle below his left eye begin to tick. A dead giveaway he was set to explode. He tamped down on it, hard.
“Would you have?” she asked, brow raised skeptically. “Helped?”
Probably not. He hadn’t been in the mood to do anything but snap at her all week. Or kiss her to within an inch of her life. He gritted his teeth.
She harrumphed. “I thought not. In any case, it’s nearly done. Uncle Fitz’s friend, Otis, is an electrician. He promised to come inspect and make the final connection at the breaker. The only thing left is sinking a register into the heat duct, and then the drywall.”
Breaker? Roughing out? Drywall? Where had she picked up all this construction lingo? She’d obviously been talking to folks about this project.
So everybody knew about their sleeping arrangements.
The muscle ticked wildly.
What the hell did that matter? He’d told them all himself at Jake’s two months ago that he was sleeping on the couch.
So why did it suddenly feel shaming that everyone knew he and Rhiannon weren’t sharing a bunk?
Because he wanted to be, that’s why. And he wanted everyone to think they were. Correction: to know they were.
“What about a bed?” he asked, proud of how he wasn’t jumping up from his chair, throwing her over his shoulder and dragging her upstairs to show her exactly where she belonged, and with whom.
“I bought one of those blow-up mattresses. That’ll do until I can get a proper bed. It’ll be easier to move around, anyway. For the work that’s left.”
He carefully put his fork and knife down and wiped his mouth with his napkin, folding it neatly in his lap. Then he pinioned her in his sights.
The blood drained from her face and she licked her lips. But she didn’t look away. Feisty to the end.
“There’s no lock on that hall door,” he said, his voice low and suggestive. “Aren’t you worried?”
She swallowed but she wasn’t eating. “No,” she answered.
He cocked his head. “No? And why’s that, Rhiannon?”
“Because—” Her voice cracked and she suddenly shot up from the table and headed straight out the back door. The screen door smacked closed, startling Fitz.
Hawk tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll go see if she’s all right,” he told him, and followed her outside, where he found her standing at the porch rail, staring up at the cliffs, arms tight over her midriff.
“Because why?” he said, coming up behind her. He planted himself so they were nearly touching. So he could smell her shampoo and the lingering scent of cranberry and the apple pie she’d baked earlier. He couldn’t stand not touching her, so he grasped her arm and turned
her, making her face him.
“Why?” he repeated, keeping his hold on her.
“Because, I’ve never locked your bedroom door, Hawk. Ever. You could have walked in anytime. But you never bothered to try.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “Is that an invitation?”
“No,” she whispered. “Why would I want a man in my bed who all he can do is scowl at me? You know how I feel about you, Hawk. But sex is not enough. Once in a while a woman likes a man to make love to her. Cherish her.”
“Baby—” He tried to step closer, to take her in his arms, but she slipped away and walked back to the door.
“I’m sorry. I won’t marry you. Not even for the ranch. So maybe I’d better try to find a lock for that door.”
Then she went back inside, taking his aching heart with her. And closed the door firmly behind.
She left him standing out there alone, suddenly an empty shell of a man. Wondering why the hell he’d even want the ranch, without her by his side to share it?
Chapter 9
T he next day Otis came over with Fitz’s pals Pete and Jim, to finish up the electrical connection on Rhiannon’s “project.”
Hawk refused to call it her “bedroom.” Even after the guys had gone and had left Fitz most of the case of beer they’d come with, along with a promise to Rhiannon to scrounge up some cheap leftover drywall from the job sites Otis was currently working on. Even when she announced after supper that she had moved out of Hawk’s old room and he should plan to sleep there tonight. Even then he refused to call it her bedroom.
“Baby, there’s no furniture, no carpet, not even any walls. You can’t be serious.”
She frowned at him. He wasn’t sure if it was his endearment or his incredulity that irked her more. He’d taken to calling her baby all the time now, refusing to let her withdraw from what intimacy they had together. At least verbally.
He was also working on scowling less. It wasn’t easy.
“I have a mattress and the closet has a pole to hang my clothes on. That’s all I need.”
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