by Susan Wiggs
“We did it,” she said. “We’re the perfect couple with the perfect relationship.”
“Yeah,” he said, but he wasn’t looking down at the paper. “Just perfect. Ever had one?”
She laughed, silly with the wine and the nonsense they had created. “Right. A perfect relationship doesn’t exist, pal.”
He grew pensive, twisting the stem off a strawberry. “You’re pretty young to have reached that conclusion.” He pushed back from the table. “Come out on the porch, and you can tell me all about it.”
Carrying the legal pad, she followed him outside. It was a typical Wyoming summer night, the stars so bright and abundant she felt as if she could reach up and pluck them from the sky like so many wildflowers. “Tell you about what? What’s left to tell?”
He took the pad and pencil from her and set them aside. “This isn’t for the masquerade. This is for me.”
“What’s for you?”
“This.”
He didn’t move fast, but with a straightforward deliberation she found oddly thrilling. He gripped her by the upper arms and pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his.
Dear God, a kiss. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had kissed her. And what a kiss. It was everything a kiss should be—sweet, flavored with strawberries and wine, and driven by an underlying passion that she felt surging up through him, creating an answering need in her. She rested her hands on his shoulders and let her mouth soften, open. He felt wonderful beneath her hands, his muscles firm, his skin warm, his mouth…She just wanted to drown in him, drown in the passion. If he was faking his ardor, he was damned good. When he stopped kissing her, she stepped back. Her disbelieving fingers went to her mouth, lightly touching her moist, swollen lips.
“That…wasn’t in the notes,” she objected weakly.
“I like to ad lib.”
“I need to sit down.” Walking backward, never taking her eyes off him, she groped behind her and found the Adirondack-style porch swing, sinking back onto it. Get a grip, she told herself. It was only a kiss.
“I think,” he said mildly, “it’s time you told me just why you were so reluctant to come back here for the reunion.”
“And why I had to bring a fake fiancé as a shield?”
Sitting down beside her, he brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek, and she flinched.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Don’t do what?”
“Act like you’re not used to me touching you.”
“But I’m not—”
“We’ve been together six months,” he said, grinning.
Then she got it. “Okay, you’re right. I have to act like we do this every day.” Every night, she thought.
“Good plan.” Very casually, he draped his arm along the back of the porch swing. “I’m all ears, Twyla. Why’d I have to practically hog-tie you to get you back here?”
She felt a jolt of panic and prayed he couldn’t see it in her face. How much should she tell him? How much could she trust him? “It’s so predictable. None of this would surprise a soap opera fan. Are you sure you want to hear?”
“I insist on it.”
The calvados and the darkness gave her courage—or made her foolish enough to trust this stranger with an old, old hurt. “It started with my marriage.”
“The one you were too young for.”
“Of course. But Jake and I had a plan.”
“Jake—your ex-husband.”
“Uh-huh. Jake Barnard. He was three years older, going to Northwest College in Powell. He was like a god to me, always had been. Top of the heap. Captain of the football squad. Voted most likely to…everything. All through high school, I made sure I measured up to the standards he’d set.”
“You made captain of the football squad?” Rob gave a low whistle.
“I had to settle for head cheerleader, smarty-pants.” She felt as if she were speaking about a couple of strangers, so remote were those two people now. “Hell Creek is so small, I guess you could say we lived in a fishbowl, with the whole town watching us. I didn’t mind, so long as there was nothing to hide. It looked as if our lives were all set. Nothing could stop us.” She was surprised to feel a thickness in her throat. Even after all these years, it still hurt. “We both got into great schools. University of Chicago for me and law school at Northwestern for Jake. The trouble was, only one of us could afford to go at a time while the other one worked.”
“Let me guess. You volunteered to work full-time while he went to school.”
“It made perfect sense. He was able to take an extra-heavy course load and attend summer school. Within three years, he’d have his law degree. We knew he’d get a terrific position right out of law school, because there was a firm in Jackson just waiting to hire him. Once that happened, then it would be my turn.”
“It’s a pretty grim commute from Jackson to the University of Chicago.”
She remembered how disappointed she’d been, realizing she’d have to give up the chance to attend one of the best schools in the country.
“Change of plans,” she said. “I’d be going to Northwest college in Powell. Anyway, I held up my end of the bargain. I cut hair for three years while he went through law school.”
She stared at some distant point in the night sky, remembering. “We had such plans. We’d spend three weeks in Paris—it was always my dream to go to Paris—and then when we came back, he’d go to work and I’d get my degree. He landed a six-figure job at a major firm in Jackson, and we bought a house in Hell Creek. Everyone in town figured we were the fulfillment of the American Dream.”
It felt good, talking about it after such a long time. She wondered about Rob, though. “Am I boring you?” she asked.
“No way. I have to hear the rest.”
“I couldn’t wait to get back to my studies. I remember feeling giddy, browsing through the course descriptions in the catalog. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew it would complicate things, but I had no idea my whole world would explode.”
“What do you mean, explode?”
Nervously she set the swing in motion with one foot. “You probably already guessed. It’s such a cliché. When I told Jake about the baby, he asked for a divorce. Within a few weeks, he went to France with some resort property heiress who went to high school with me. She already had her degree.”
“He never contacted you about Brian?”
“No. I guess it’s stupid, but I never pursued child support and Jake never offered.”
“So whatever became of him?”
“My husband?” Her voice sounded soft, wistful.
“Ex-husband, you mean.”
The sharpness of his correction startled her out of a dreamlike reminiscence. “What? Oh, Jake. I haven’t seen him since the day I left Hell Creek, right after my father’s funeral. He…um…showed up for the ceremony, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him. He married the heiress, made a big name for himself in Jackson, ran for Congress, and as far as I know, they lived happily ever after. He never wanted to see Brian. Never calls him.”
“So what were you hiding, Twyla? Marriages don’t always work out. There’s no shame in that. Especially since you were the injured party.”
“But—” She took a long breath. The night air was filled with the fresh scent of water from the stream and the peppery perfume of daisies. “It wasn’t what you’d call a quiet, discreet divorce. Jake’s first case with his law firm was to sue my father over a contract with a crop-dusting chemical company.”
Rob said a word that both seared her ears and pretty much summed up her opinion of the whole situation. Then he was quiet for a long time. She didn’t know him well enough to guess what he was thinking. She didn’t know him well enough to ask.
“So I suppose that’s why coming back here didn’t appeal to me. I was never fond of circling buzzards.” She halted the motion of the swing and looked off into the distance at a swirl of stars. Her pride again. It was always ge
tting in the way. The truth about Jake was that her experience with him had filled her with so much hurt and shame, she knew she’d never recover completely.
How did women get over their divorces? she wondered. Some of them—Sadie, for example—sailed through the trauma, cut their hair, lost weight, took up smoking and came through just fine. Twyla, on the other hand, was sure she’d spend her life wearing a scarlet V on her chest—V for victim.
What she really wanted was not to care. Not to care that she never had the chance to go to college, to go to Paris, to spread her wings and see where the wind took her.
But she did care. She cared so much that it burned a hole in her heart.
“No,” said Rob, setting the swing in motion with his foot.
“No what?” she asked, startled out of her thoughts.
“No, it’s not stupid that you never went after your ex for child support. I suppose if you were incapacitated you could make a case for it. But you’re not. You’re strong and capable, probably more so than your ex ever was.”
She turned on her half of the swing so that she was facing him. Shadows fell across his face, but she could tell he was looking at her.
“That’s about the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He laughed. “Clearly you don’t get out enough.”
The night breeze sneaked across the porch, and she shivered. Quite naturally, without making any sort of production of it, he reached down and pulled her bare feet onto his knee. “Cold feet,” he commented, covering her toes with his large, warm hand.
Twyla panicked, though she held herself perfectly motionless. He couldn’t have known the alarm that was erupting inside her.
Yet he must have seen something in her face, maybe in her posture. “What’s wrong?”
“This wasn’t in the script.”
“What wasn’t in the script?”
“This. The bare feet in your lap,” she said with an impatient shake of her head.
“You have beautiful feet.” He rubbed them slowly, very slowly.
Thank God for Diep. Diep and her glorious pedicure. She closed her eyes and thought, You have great hands. Wild horses couldn’t make her say it aloud.
“You think I have great hands, don’t you?”
“What makes you say that?” she demanded.
“The way your eyes sort of half close when I do this.” He rubbed her foot firmly, his thumb tracing the arch and curving around the shape of her heel.
She yanked her feet out of his lap and stood up, pressing herself against the porch rail. “Look, you don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This…this…everything. But especially the foot thing.”
“Twyla. Do you have a foot fetish, or does any touching have this effect on you?”
She felt so hot she nearly burst into flames. She stayed in the shadows, hoping he couldn’t tell. “It’s a forbidden intimacy,” she said.
“Forbidden? Isn’t that a little melodramatic?”
“It’s too personal.”
He grinned wickedly. “I think that’s the point.”
“I think we can get through this weekend without having to make that particular point.”
“We’re supposed to be having a good time.”
“We are having a good time,” she insisted.
“Oh. Glad I asked.”
She blew out a heavy sigh. “Okay, so we’re not. I take full responsibility. We can head home tomorrow and forget this ever happened.”
“Not,” he said, “on your life.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth would tar and feather me if I didn’t see this through. Besides, I like you, Twyla. This is a great house. We should enjoy it.” He got up from the swing, crossed to the railing where she stood. “And you’ve got to quit shying away from me. I’m not Jake Barnard. No woman put her life on hold in order to pay my way through school.” He paused, a devilish grin on his face. “Although, if I’d known that was an option, I might have pursued it.”
“Ha. Typical male.”
He ran his finger down her bare arm and back up, drawing circles on her shoulder. Until this moment, she’d never known that shivers could feel warm.
“Twyla, calm down and let yourself have fun with this. That’s the point. You’re spending your first weekend away from your son and your mother and your shop, and if you don’t have a good time doing it, then you’ve betrayed them and yourself.”
In spite of herself, she chuckled. “Oh, you’re good, Dr. Carter.”
“Thanks. Now, get back over to the swing and put your feet in my lap.”
The surprising thing wasn’t that he came right out and said it. The surprising thing was that she obeyed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Rob woke up thinking about kissing Twyla. He had to take a cold shower immediately. Lifting his face to the needles of water, he told himself he shouldn’t have touched her. But for the first time in his life, he had no willpower where a woman was concerned. No control, no honor, no conscience. And no idea why, of all the women he’d ever met, the one who sent him into a tailspin was a small-town hairdresser.
After his shower, he was tempted to phone Lauren despite the early hour. It was probably best he didn’t, because the mood he was in now wouldn’t make for a pleasant conversation. “I hope you’re satisfied, babe,” he’d say. “You told me to do what it takes to show this girl a good time. I’m just following instructions.”
He put on a well-worn pair of jeans, a T-shirt and his favorite hat. It was a Red Sox baseball cap, so old Lauren wouldn’t even speak to him when he wore it. His cowboy boots were equally lived-in, and he was glad he’d brought them along. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn them. Years ago he used to practice team roping, a skill he’d learned at Lost Springs. Lately, however, he didn’t have time to ride a horse, much less go roping. Lauren’s idea of riding was to put an English saddle on some high-strung, overbred Arab mare and try to coax it over jumps.
Before leaving the cabin, he stood outside the door to Twyla’s bedroom. She had left the door slightly ajar, and through it he caught a glimpse of her that nearly sent him back to the shower. She lay in a cloud of covers, her features softened by the morning light through the curtains. Her hair spilled like liquid across the pillow. One bare foot and one bare shoulder were visible. The rest he could only imagine—and did.
Muttering under his breath, he went outside. The cool, sharp morning air gave him a much-needed draught of sanity. The agreement was for a romantic weekend without the romance. How hard could that be?
It was a long hike to the Laughing Water stables, clear on the other side of the meadow, though still in sight of the lodge. He didn’t mind the walk, though. He needed time to think. Yesterday had been extraordinary, and too damned fun to dismiss as doing his duty. The talk, the honesty that had come out between them, smack in the middle of plotting their deception, had amazed him.
In one day he had told Twyla McCabe more about himself than he’d ever told anyone. And he’d learned more about her than he had a right to know. It was hard to keep a woman like Twyla at arm’s length. He was glad she’d told him about her jerk of a husband and the dreams she believed no longer could come true.
And he was glad he had kissed her.
He had spent half the night tossing and turning, trying to be sorry he’d crossed over the line, but guilt couldn’t overshadow the raw pleasure of holding her in his arms.
The scuffed toes of his boots were damp with morning dew when he reached the stables. A young boy was working in the paddock, beating saddle blankets with a crowbar.
“Got a couple of horses we can borrow?” Rob asked.
He squinted through a cloud of blanket dust. “You the folks up at the cabin?”
“That’s right.” Rob handed him the card he’d found on the table of the lodge. “I thought we’d take advantage of the invitation.”
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p; “Sure thing.” The youth had a bandy-legged ease around horses that Rob recognized. At Lost Springs they had worked with livestock a lot, riding and roping, and many of the boys went into ranching as a result. “You experienced riders?”
“One of us is.” Rob took a wild guess that Twyla didn’t ride. She just didn’t seem the type.
“We’ll give you Mabel and Trapper, then. Mabel’s perfect for beginners.” He offered a quick overview of the riding trails in the area, mentioning that the sight of a horse on the streets of Hell Creek was as common as a bicycle.
Rob helped him saddle up, handed him a generous tip and mounted Trapper, leading Mabel along by the reins as he returned to the cabin. It felt good to be on a horse again.
When he got back to the cabin, the sun had reached a dazzling midmorning point, raising heat shimmers across the swishing meadows. Twyla sat out on the porch, sipping coffee from a mug and eating a bagel. She wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and red sneakers. Her hair was damp from the shower. An ordinary woman in ordinary clothes, he thought, so why did his heart speed up when he looked at her?
She wasn’t his type, he told himself for the thousandth time. His type was a woman who wore designer jewelry and dressed in a long silk peignoir and high heels for breakfast.
But when Twyla saw him and broke into a smile, he forgot all about dressing up for breakfast.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, setting down her coffee mug. “Do you know how fabulous you look in cowboy boots, leading a pair of horses to my door?”
He grinned, liking her frankness. He had no doubt she would be equally frank if she didn’t think he was fabulous. “So mount up, cowgirl. We’re going for a ride.”
“No way.” She finished off the bagel.
He dismounted, tethering the horses to the porch rail. Without giving her a second glance, he grabbed her hand.
She pulled back, resisting him. “I don’t ride.”
“They say Mabel is the perfect horse for a beginner.”
“I’m less than a beginner. I’m an unhatched tadpole. Wild horses couldn’t make me get on that horse.”
“We’ve only got tame horses.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “How about a little trust here? That’s what this is about. Trust. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you can’t handle.”