The One (Book 1, of The Wilde Brothers, A Contemporary Western Romance)

by Eckhart, Lorhainne

  “Joe, is this her purse?” Nancy said, sliding back the plastic chair and holding up a beige cloth purse. Joe stared at the thing, because he didn’t have a clue what she had brought. Nancy made a face. “You’re such a guy. This is her purse, and you need to take it to her, or we could drop it off on our way home,” she added, turning to her husband. “Someone should apologize to her.”

  Joe didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of Nancy and Vern taking it back. After all, it was his place she’d run from, and he felt responsible. He started shaking his head, and before he could stop himself, he said, “No, I’ll take it.”

  “What?” Sara squeaked beside him. She flushed when he glanced at her, letting her know how annoyed he was. “Of course,” she said then, touching his arm. “I’ll come with you.”

  He wondered if his eyes bugged out of his head, as he heard someone chuckle behind him. “No. I’ll run it over after we finish up here,” he said.

  Sara didn’t say anything else, but she did slide her hand up his back and hook her arm in his. She leaned into him, all soft and curvy, and she smiled.

  Joe looked around at his friends and caught a glimpse of Ryan at the bottom of the steps, alone, watching the road where Margaret had gone. His son dumped his half-eaten plate on the table beside the gifts and went inside.

  ****

  Margaret was just topping the hill, her driveway in view, when she heard a vehicle coming behind her. She glanced at the road and the narrow ditch, turning to see who was coming, and froze as a sudden jolt tore through her. It was Joe and his damn truck, dust flying. He had obviously spotted her, as he slowed and then pulled off to the side. He jumped out, the engine still running, and Margaret stood and watched as he came around the front of the truck. He stared down at her with a look that was irritated, dark, and filled with something else that had her quelling the panic that was starting to choke off her next breath.

  He set his hand on his hip and then shook his head. “You plan on walking all the way home? I suppose your car keys are in that purse you left behind before you ran out.”

  Margaret swallowed and glanced up at the truck, letting out a sigh of relief when she realized no one was with him, namely the blonde who had just ground her into the dirt. She opened her mouth to speak, but not a sound came out.

  “Get in,” he said, setting his hand out toward her as if she’d spook and bolt the other way. He gestured toward the passenger door and moved her with his large body as if she was being herded. He pulled open her door and all but tossed her in, slamming the door shut and walking around.

  Margaret touched her cloth purse in the middle of the seat and set her hand on the door when he jumped in. His sharp gaze didn’t miss a thing, as he raised his eyebrows and said, “You planning on running again?”

  She dropped her hand into her lap and had just reached for the seatbelt when Joe spun the truck around, going the other direction.

  “Joe, look…” she started, but she stopped when he gave her a sharp glance.

  “Look, I’m sorry about what Sara said,” he began. “That wasn’t okay, but I can’t believe you ran like that and left your car parked on the side of the road to walk. Why wouldn’t you come back for your keys?”

  “I was embarrassed, okay? I shouldn’t have come to Ryan’s party. I realized I probably wasn’t expected. He didn’t tell you he had invited me, did he?” she said, watching the way he ran his hand over his chin, obviously trying to hide his discomfort.

  He kicked up the gas and didn’t answer. Margaret looked away. Why would he have told Sara about her nightmarish teenage years? She’d hated every minute of growing up as a gangly misfit whose only joy was coming home and talking to her horse, Snow, a gelding palomino cross who had died before she left for medical school. She squeezed her eyes shut at the ache that came from nowhere and sucker punched her. Snow’s death was a loss she had never gotten over.

  She heard Joe clear his throat. “I heard that something happened in Seattle and you lost your job,” he said before clearing his throat again.

  Margaret realized then that the horror and embarrassment that had been flung in her face by Joe’s girlfriend had nothing on this. How the hell had he found out, anyway? She hadn’t told anyone, slinking back here to hide. She felt the tingle of a heated blush flood her cheeks, and when she glanced in horror at Joe, he must have seen how freaked out she was. He reached across the seat and touched her arm.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s not the end of the world.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Not the end of the world, are you kidding? I screwed up. Tell that to a little boy and his family. Who told you, anyway?”

  She shut her eyes. It had to have been Hazel. Stan and Hazel had been like surrogate parents for her while she was growing up, friends of her grandfather. The day she’d come back to Post Falls, she had promised herself she would never tell anyone, but Hazel and Stan had arrived with a casserole, a pound cake, and questions aplenty. Hazel had started asking when Margaret had to be back at the hospital, and she just wouldn’t let it drop, though she could obviously read Margaret’s body language and see how upset she was. Well, it had come pouring out. She’d never been good at hiding anything.

  Her face was burning, and she stared out the passenger window, praying Joe would drive faster so she could jump out of the truck and climb into her car and drive away. Instead, he pulled to the side and stopped.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” she said, almost jumping as she slid around in her seat to face Joe. He shoved the gearshift into park.

  “Look, Hazel didn’t mean anything by it. I think she was worried, is all. I can only imagine how you’re feeling. Did you do it intentionally?”

  She couldn’t believe he would ask something like that. “Oh my God, of course not! What would ever make you think something like that?” She knew she must sound exasperated, but she couldn’t understand how he could say something so awful, so cruel, so… She stopped when she saw a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “You’re a jerk.”

  “Maybe, but I’m glad to hear you understand it wasn’t intentional. I may not know much about being a doctor or, pardon, a fancy surgeon, but I’m pretty sure you’re human just like the rest of us. You make mistakes, too.” He was watching her with far too much concern, a familiarity they didn’t share, or so she needed to tell herself. She rubbed her arms.

  “Tell that to the little boy who’ll be stuck in a nightmare for the rest of his life, unable to recognize anyone. His parents suddenly have a stranger for a son. No, I deserve what happened. If I could trade places with him…” She shook her head, feeling a familiar overwhelming numbness, that place she’d gone too often, when the pain and guilt of what she’d done became too much. “Could you drive me to my car, please? I’d like to go home,” she said. She couldn’t look at him but could feel the heat from his gaze, and she shut her eyes, keeping her gaze averted, praying he wouldn’t say another word. Finally, he started the truck, shoved it into gear, and started driving.

  He pulled in front of her car and had barely stopped when she jumped out and froze, realizing she had left her purse again. This time, when she turned to reach for it, he leaned across and handed it to her, and she didn’t miss the softness—or was it understanding?—in his expression.

  “Don’t be kind to me,” she said, shutting the door before he could say another word. She hurried to her car just as a truck pulled out of Joe’s, honking its horn, someone yelling out at her as she slid into her car and shut the door. She didn’t think as she started the engine, glanced to the side, and pulled out in front of the green truck without a wave or a honk or anything, but her eyes did lock on to Joe’s as he watched her drive away.

  Chapter Nine

  Margaret was still in bed, listening to the birds chirping. Storm and Angel were neighing softly in answer. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, sleeping in fits, waking almost every hour, and now her head felt like a lead weight from the lack o
f sleep.

  Her eyes felt thick and heavy from the tears she’d shed all night as she relived the horror of the botched surgery on that little boy. It had been a nick, a fraction off, just barely, but she knew she’d screwed up as soon as she made the cut. She’d gone through the procedure again and again, over and over, at least a hundred times in her head, reliving the nightmare, trying as she might to figure out why her overconfidence had made her screw up so badly. She’d outlined the surgery, all the steps. She’d had it down, or she should have, anyway. She rubbed her face with her hand as she wondered where that eight-year-old boy was now. Was he in rehab or at home? She thought of the struggles his parents were now having.

  She heard the deep purr of a truck, Joe’s truck, and she instantly jolted and leaped from bed, wearing only a thin nightshirt that barely covered her thighs. She listened to the door slam, footsteps in the dirt, and frantically searched for a shirt, pants, anything to pull on. She grabbed the jeans she had tossed in a heap on the floor and stepped into them just as she heard footsteps on her steps and a knock at her door.

  “Margaret, it’s Joe,” he yelled out.

  She grabbed a sweater tossed over the foot of her bed and shrugged it on, hurrying barefoot to the front door, catching a glimpse of bed hair in the mirror and smudges from the previous night’s makeup under her eyes.

  He pounded on the door again. “Open the door, Margaret, or I’m coming in.”

  She heard the locked doorknob jangle and watched in horror as the door shook. He really was trying to come in. She pulled her sweater closed over her breasts and pulled open the door, peeking out at Joe with the door in front of her as a shield. Dammit, the man looked good in a tan barn coat, ratty cowboy hat, and dark whiskers as if he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.

  He took in her attire, and Margaret couldn’t help the wave of self-consciousness that passed through her. She ran her hand over her tangled hair, and her sweater gaped, her bare legs feeling the chill. She grabbed the edges of her sweater, feeling her face warm.

  Joe set his hand on her door, and her gaze went to it. “Just in case you try to slam the door in my face,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I was still in bed. I didn’t sleep well last night,” she said. She could smell his scent, and it was so warm and enticing that it rattled her nerves.

  “Got any coffee?” he asked.

  “I haven’t made any yet.” She gestured behind her, and Joe took a step inside, crowding her and forcing her back. He took in the empty living room.

  “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll put some coffee on, if you don’t mind me rummaging through your kitchen?” he said.

  She realized he wasn’t really asking her. In fact, he stepped inside and shut the door as she stepped back again.

  “Joe, I’m…” she started. She didn’t know why he was here, and she was still embarrassed—hell, not embarrassed, mortified—from the previous night and how she had behaved.

  “The coffee’s where?” he asked, walking into the small walkthrough kitchen. She cringed because she had next to nothing for food and a sink full of dirty dishes that had piled up over the past two days. When it came to housework, she would rather shovel out a barn than set foot in a kitchen.

  She heard him stop and then turn, raising his eyebrow as he looked at the mess. She shrugged. “Sorry, it’s kind of a disaster.”

  He didn’t seem to dwell on it, chuckling and shaking his head. “You’re kind of an enigma. I somehow pictured your place neat and tidy, with frilly decorations and useless knickknacks,” he said. He yanked open a cupboard and then another before taking the red coffee can out. He pulled out the used coffee filter and opened the cupboard under her sink. “You got a garbage?”

  Margaret stepped closer and pointed. “That pail under there. Just dump it in. I haven’t picked up any garbage bags, either,” she said. She took another step as she watched him dump some water in her coffee pot, measure out some grounds, and flick it on. “You really see me as the kind of person with frilly knickknacks and…?” She stopped talking as she took in the sparseness of the place as if seeing it for the first time.

  “What happened to all the furniture?” Joe asked.

  “It had to go, broken-down crap. It kind of spooked me a bit, too. Granddad was found dead in his favorite chair, so that had to go, and it was just stuff, anyway. It doesn’t mean much to me.” She stepped closer again as she watched him frown. “I don’t like frilly things, Joe, and I don’t have much use for fancy trinkets. The best gift I ever got was a box set with a cordless drill, a jigsaw, and a chop saw. I was fifteen, and that was my Christmas present. Granddad didn’t waste time buying me girly stuff. I remember I made cut-outs of horses and helped Granddad build that potting shed out back. It was the best Christmas ever.”

  His face softened as he listened to her.

  Margaret shrugged as she remembered how well her grandfather had known her. She loved to work with her hands, building, cutting, and maybe that was why he hadn’t been surprised when she told him she wanted to be a surgeon.

  “I didn’t know that about you,” Joe said. She shrugged, running her fingers through her tangled hair, and the coffeemaker beeped. Joe turned to the pot. “You got some mugs, anything clean?” he asked in a teasing way that did, in fact, lighten the mood.

  “I sure hope so,” she said. She didn’t know for sure, and she looked at the pile of dishes as Joe opened cupboard doors and then held up a chipped blue mug and a larger brown one. “Sorry about this mess. I’m not much good at housework,” she said, accepting the mug of coffee after Joe poured her the larger cup. She took a sip and was grateful, as she breathed in the strong aroma, that it helped to clear the cobwebs in her head. She wondered if he thought she needed more caffeine.

  “Any milk?” he asked, and she started to gesture to the fridge before wincing.

  “Probably not,” she said. He dropped his hand just as it touched the fridge door. “Are you okay without it?” she asked as he picked up the chipped mug and took a sip.

  “No, I’ll be fine.” He paused. “You have a great smile.”

  She realized he had lightened the mood and made her feel a little better, but she didn’t have a clue how to take a compliment, so she gestured to her cup. “Good coffee, thank you. Can’t remember the last time someone made me a cup in my own kitchen.”

  “So, about last night,” he said. “I know you were pretty upset about me knowing you were fired. You’ve got to shake it off, Margaret, and forgive yourself. We all make mistakes. God knows I’ve made my share.”

  She firmed her lips and said, “I think there might be a difference between me costing a boy his future and, I don’t know, you making fun of someone.”

  He bristled at her response, and she couldn’t help but notice the twitch in his cheek and the way a white line formed on his lips from holding them tight. “Would you please get the stick out of your ass?” he snapped.

  “What?” she sputtered.

  “Don’t go taking that the wrong way, as well. Yes, what you did is pretty shitty, but I’m sure you’ve beaten yourself up far more than those docs or corporate yahoos who fired your ass ever could.” He took another step closer to Margaret as she watched him over the rim of her cup. “You said you wanted to trade places with that kid. Well, I’ve been exactly where you are.”

  She frowned at that and wondered what he meant. She gestured and started to ask when he blurted out, “My wife.”

  She lowered her cup, because one thing she did know was that Joe’s wife had died, and she could see the shadow of pain, something she was all too familiar with, flicker in his expression.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t, especially with you.”

  Well, that had his attention. He nodded.

  “What happened to your wife?”

  He didn’t say anything for the longest time.

  “You know, you don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.…” />
  “It was my fault.” He cut her off, and from the way he said it, she could hear how he felt responsible.

  She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, to tell him it would be okay, that it wasn’t his fault, but she said none of it because she didn’t know what had happened. She just held the hot mug as he glanced at the floor, obviously trying to gather his courage to say something.

  “Evie, she’d been having some women’s problems, cramping, and she ignored it. Actually, she didn’t make a big deal about it because I’d been laid off from the mill. We had no insurance, so going to the doctor…we had no money.” He let out a mournful sigh. “You’ve probably heard that a thousand times.”

  She just watched him, because she knew where this was going. He was right. She’d gotten mad—no, furious—at the many patients who ignored their symptoms for something treatable until it was too late, and it always came down to money, insurance, HMOs.

  “It was two years before she started losing weight. I thought at first that she was trying to, and then one day she doubled over in pain. I rushed her into the emergency. They did some tests, and then a specialist came in and said it was cancer, late-stage cervical cancer that had spread to her lungs, her stomach, her liver…”

  Margaret shut her eyes, because that was a death sentence. “How long?”

  He must have known what she was asking, as he said, “She died two weeks later.” He dumped out the rest of his coffee and set it on the counter. “I’m pretty sure you don’t hold the corner on the pity party. Evie didn’t go to the doctor because she didn’t want to add to my worries. Docs cost a lot, and we were struggling, but I would have sold my soul to the devil to pay. I’ve relived what that doctor said over and over millions of times in my head. If she’d seen a doctor, had an annual checkup, a pap smear, they’d have caught it sooner, and it would have been treatable, a different outcome. She’d still be here, and I’d still have my wife.”