MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  Mark spoke up from the back seat. "You don't. Not a bit. And Nate, unless you're dumber than I give you credit for being, I'm sure you'll agree with me."

  The light changed. Instead of moving the big car forward, Nate slid the transmission into park, unsnapped his seat belt, and scooted over. He cupped Hannah's shoulder with one hand and her chin with the other, tilting her head so that her startled eyes met his dark ones. "You are nothing like her," he said fiercely. "Not in looks. Not in mind or body or soul. Understand?" And for the second time since they got in the car, he kissed her.

  He took his time about it, too.

  Hope sang a happy song in her heart the rest of the way back to the ranch.

  * * *

  Hannah didn't think she was anxious about the party that night—the one Nate had insisted she was going to with him. The one where all his friends and neighbors would meet her as his date, not his employee. But maybe she was a teensy bit self-conscious. If only she could find the right thing to wear, she'd feel better, but she hadn't brought any party clothes with her.

  Of course, she didn't really own any party clothes. All she had done for years was work and go to school, and when she did socialize, it usually involved pizza or a movie. Nothing fancy. So tonight she was going to a party, and she had nothing to wear.

  No wonder she had no appetite for the lunch she'd just fixed.

  She poked at a macaroni with her fork. Maybe her black sweater—? No, her black sweater had a hole at the hem. She could fix that, but the sweater itself was shabby.

  She used her fork to escort a couple of noodles back into the macaroni mountain she'd built in the center of the plate, but then three others slithered back down.

  What about her green church dress?

  Stupid, she thought, stabbing a helpless noodle with her fork. The party tonight was a barbecue. No one wears a church dress to a barbecue.

  She would have asked Nate what to wear, but she hadn't seen him today. When she'd woken up that morning, his side of the bed had already been cold. But then, she'd known it would be, because he had left it hours before dawn. Hannah had woken the moment he left her side, but she'd said nothing. She'd lain awake for what had seemed like forever, waiting for him to come back.

  He hadn't.

  "What's wrong?" Mark asked. He sat in his wheelchair, enjoying his first meal at the table since the accident. Nate had helped Mark into that wheelchair early that morning while Hannah still slept.

  "Nothing," she said, and smiled brightly to prove it to both of them. "I'm not very hungry today." She'd fixed macaroni and cheese at his request. Nate would be home shortly to eat and then get Mark back in bed, since the doctor had insisted he had to spend the afternoon horizontal if he wanted to go to the party tonight.

  "Right," he said dryly.

  She set her fork down. "Do you think I should cut my hair?"

  "Why?"

  "Just a trim, to get rid of the dead ends." She lifted a handful of hair and studied it. Yes, some of the ends were splitting. Damn. She should have thought of this earlier and made an appointment. "Do you know how to cut hair? I never can trim mine and get it straight."

  "No way am I going to touch your hair, Hannah. I'm not crazy. If I cut off an eighth of an inch too much, you'd take the scissors to me."

  She grinned. "I'm pretty nonviolent. I'd probably just hit you over the head a few times." She tilted her head to one side. "How did a man without any sisters learn so much about women and their hair, anyway?"

  "Gosh," Mark said innocently, "I guess I'm just observant."

  Hannah rolled her eyes. "It's the face, I suppose." It was funny, but now that she was used to Mark's face, he just looked like Mark to her. She shook her head sadly. "Women can be so shallow."

  "Hey, I'm not just a pretty face," he protested. "Don't forget the incredible body that goes with it."

  Nate heard Hannah's laughter the minute he opened the side door. The sound stopped him as if it were a hand pressed on his chest. He stood there in the doorway looking at the neatly folded clothes stacked on top of the dryer while the sound of her laughter pressed against him. Then, suddenly, it wasn't pushing on him anymore. Somehow it slipped in, slid right past his clothing and skin and up inside him. It filtered through him like smoke, and his heartbeat picked up. Laughter was a good sound, but his heartbeat was racing with fear, not pleasure. He didn't understand. He didn't know what was happening to him lately.

  Trixie found him standing there, unmoving, about the same time Mark called out something. The spell was broken. He took a moment to rub the dog behind her ears and compliment her on how well she was getting around on three legs. Then he raised his voice as he moved on into the kitchen. He was relieved by how normal he sounded. "What are the two of you laughing about?"

  They sat together at the table, Hannah and Mark. His brother and his lover. The sight of them affected him, too, but not the way her laughter had. This felt right. He liked walking in the kitchen and finding these two people here, waiting for him.

  Hannah's face was alive with happy mischief when she answered him. "Male pulchritude," she said.

  "Male what?"

  "I'll bet it's one of her vocabulary words," Mark said.

  Nate took his jacket off and hung it on the hook just inside the laundry room. "Is that your word for today?" He'd never seen anyone as determined to improve themselves—and as little in need of it—as Hannah. Someone, sometime must have done a real number on her, because she didn't seem to have any idea how smart she was. He wished he knew how to make her believe that. This was one of those times that words wouldn't work, though. Telling her she was smart wouldn't get the belief down inside her where she needed it.

  "Whose pulchritude were you laughing about?" he asked as he came over to the table.

  "Mark's, of course. Doesn't he just ooze it?" She grinned as she stood. "There's some roast chicken left from last night to go with that macaroni. I'll get you some."

  "I'll get it. You sit down and finish eating." He took his plate over to the stove so he could dish himself out some of the macaroni and cheese.

  "Oh, she's not going to eat. Hannah doesn't have any appetite today," Mark said.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she said much too cheerfully.

  He turned around. She had the refrigerator open and was digging around in it, giving him a distracting view of her backside. "Hannah, you lie as poorly as anyone I've ever known."

  "There's nothing really wrong," she insisted. She took out a foil-wrapped package and used her hip to swing the refrigerator door closed. "It's stupid for me to be bothered by something so trivial. And I'm not upset about it. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but it's entirely too unimportant to talk about. You want white meat or dark?"

  "I want you to tell me what's wrong."

  "It really isn't important."

  "Hannah."

  "All right!" She flung one hand out. "I don't have anything to wear."

  Nate set his plate down and tried to see what was wrong. She had on a perfectly good pair of jeans. Her blue-and-green flannel shirt was a little worn, but he liked the way the soft, well-washed material draped over her breasts. He shook his head, confused. "Are you talking about uniforms? I noticed you stopped wearing them after the first few days, but I like the way you look in jeans. I'd rather you didn't wear a uniform, but if you think you should—"

  "Nate," Mark said, "I think she's talking about the party."

  Oh, damn, he'd forgotten about the party. He hadn't wanted to remember. But he had asked her to go with him, so now he was going to have to go, wasn't he? Scowling, he dug into his back pocket. "I can stay with Mark a couple of hours," he said, pulling out his wallet. "Take the truck into town and get what you—"

  "Don't."

  He looked up. She stood in the middle of the floor clutching that foil-wrapped package of chicken, her face white. "I don't want you to give me money, Nate."

  Hell. She thought he was trying to pay
her again, the way he'd once offered to do. "I just—I didn't think. I didn't mean it that way."

  She turned and set the shiny foil package on the counter carefully as if it held eggs instead of leftovers. "I don't need your money."

  "I know." He felt helpless and angry. "I didn't mean it the way you're thinking. I'd like to buy you something. A present. That's all."

  "You know what a lot of people are going to think, don't you?" she said, her voice low and intense. "When I go to the party tonight, I mean. I work for you and—and we're involved, and they'll think that means I'm bought and paid for. I guess that seems petty to you. You've had people thinking a lot worse things about you. But it bothers me. I can't go to that party wearing something you paid for."

  How could anyone think badly of Hannah? He crossed to her. "I'd like you to go to the party with me because I'd enjoy showing you off. But if the thought of what some idiots might think makes you uncomfortable, we can skip it."

  "Oh, no." She shook her head. "I want to go."

  "Even though you don't have anything to wear?"

  She shrugged. "I'll come up with something. I don't want you buying me clothes, Nate."

  "Okay." He didn't like it, but he'd agree to it. For now. Because it had been hours since he'd touched her, he put his hands on her shoulders. "I won't buy you anything. But you could, couldn't you?"

  "Well…"

  "Go on into town and pick up something. There's not a lot of selection, but the little dress store on Main used to have some pretty things."

  "But you didn't hire me to go shopping."

  She was grinning so impudently that he really wanted to kiss her. "I'll get Mark settled, and I need to work on the books anyway, so I can stay in the office this afternoon while you're in town. You can afford to buy yourself something, can't you?"

  "Well…" A smile tugged at her mouth. "I was going to buy myself a present yesterday, before—before everything happened."

  Before Jenny showed up, he thought grimly. "You could do me a favor while you're in town."

  "What's that?"

  "I've noticed lately that the place is getting kind of shabby. Like the carpet. It's pretty worn. And here in the kitchen, you did something to the cabinets that made them look really good again."

  She flushed with pleasure. "I just applied a little elbow grease and lemon oil. The wood is beautiful."

  "Well, that beautiful wood makes the floor look bad. I thought you might stop by the hardware store and look at some of those sample books—see if there's anything you think would work in here. If not, we'll head in to Amarillo, but I give the local merchants my business when I can."

  She blinked. "You want me to pick out new flooring for the kitchen? What kind? I mean, there's vinyl, like you have now." Her voice picked up speed as enthusiasm lit her face. "But wooden floors would be gorgeous in here, too, if you wanted to spend that much—though they might be a pain to keep up. And there are all kinds of ceramics. They're expensive, but they last forever. I saw some that looked like slate once, and that was gorgeous, but I don't know what you want to spend or what you like."

  "Blue," he said. "I like blue." He looked down, bemused, at her glowing face. Yes, he was going to have to kiss her.

  "What shade of blue? Turquoise or navy or powder blue or cerulean? And do you want solid, or a pattern? A white background with a blue design? Do you like traditional stuff, or something a bit bolder? And you didn't say if you want vinyl or tiles or what. You could get—"

  He bent and covered her mouth with his. She made a muffled noise, then looped her hands around his neck. Her mouth was soft and warm and welcoming, and he wanted her, suddenly, more than he wanted his next breath. The very strength of that need made him pull his head back, his heart pounding, his muscles tight with hunger—and terror. He wanted to push her away. He wanted to push inside her.

  He couldn't move.

  She tilted her head to one side and grinned. "I think you're trying to change the subject. And you're embarrassing Mark."

  "I'm all blushes," Mark agreed from over at the table.

  Nate was thankful for the moment to compose himself, but he was still badly unsettled. "I don't think it's Mark who's embarrassed."

  Something in his face or his voice must have given him away. Hannah's smile slipped. She searched his eyes, her own gaze troubled.

  "I guess I'm ready for bed," Mark said.

  Startled, Nate turned to look at him. He looked fine, but for Mark to actually suggest going back to his hospital bed told Nate that something was very wrong. Nate let go of Hannah and started toward his brother. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  Mark grimaced.

  Behind him, Hannah said, "He's being gallant, Nate."

  Nate reached Mark's chair in time to hear him mutter, "Better 'gallant' than 'sweet,' I guess."

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  «^»

  Mark was not looking forward to making the transfer back to his bed. He wasn't about to admit it, but spending the morning sitting in the wheelchair had left him pretty sore. His arm wasn't too bad, but his ribs ached and his leg—well, the damn leg hurt. Shifting to the bed wasn't going to feel good.

  But at least he'd have Nate alone for a minute. And then his stupid brother would have a little time alone with Hannah.

  "Ready?" Nate said from behind him.

  Mark nodded. His brother slid his hand under Mark's armpits and lifted, while Mark got his good leg under him and pushed. He balanced on one leg with the casted leg supported by the chair's leg rest at an awkward slant that made the leg throb. Nate came around and lifted Mark's cast, while Mark turned himself and sat on the bed.

  There. His forehead was damp and he hurt everywhere but his toes—but he'd done it. Nate helped him get the broken leg up on the bed with him, which raised a little more sweat, but that was okay. Soon he was leaning back against the raised head of the bed, and Nate was offering him a couple of ibuprofen tablets and some water.

  Mark grimaced. He still hated taking anything, but he'd decided it was better to take these and wean himself from the prescription pills. "So," he said, accepting the tablets and the glass, "you do realize what you just did in there, don't you?"

  "I kissed Hannah," Nate said dryly. "It doesn't take a powerful understanding to figure that out."

  "You asked her to fix up your home, for God's sake! Hannah's hungry for a home. What do you expect her to think when you start talking about her picking out tile and carpet?"

  Nate was silent a long moment. "Maybe I'm thinking the same thing. Maybe I'd like her to stay."

  Mark almost choked. "You're going to marry her?"

  Nate's face tightened and closed down even more. "Hell, no. I haven't promised her anything, and I'm not going to. I just… I might like it if she stayed."

  "She's hoping for marriage."

  "Then she's a fool."

  Mark sighed. "Someone here sure is."

  * * *

  Hannah reheated the macaroni and sliced some of the roast chicken for Nate. She kept her hands busy, but her mind stayed curiously blank. She was balanced between hope and hurt, and it was a precarious place to be. A single wrong thought could turn a wobble into a fall.

  Like letting herself wonder where he'd been last night after he left their bed. Or whether talking about tile and carpet meant that he was beginning to think of his future, and if he wanted her in it.

  Cowboy boots on vinyl weren't very loud, but she knew the sound of his footsteps by now. "Ready to eat?"

  "I guess. You heading into town now?"

  "In a minute." She started to dish up his macaroni, then stopped with a sigh and leaned on the counter. She just wasn't any damn good at balance. She said, low-voiced, "I missed you this morning when I woke up."

  "I couldn't sleep."

  She turned around. His face had that closed-down look she hated.

  "So where did you go?"

  "I went out to the stable and messed with the tack f
or a while."

  "You were restless because you saw Jenny yesterday."

  "Yes."

  She swallowed. Ask a stupid question … well, while she was at it, she might as well ask another one. "Do you still—"

  He interrupted quickly, his voice hard. "I don't love her."

  "I was going to ask if you still hated her."

  He didn't answer, but something cracked open behind those dark eyes. She saw inside, and what she saw made her heart hurt. The only people, she thought, who need such big, high walls are the ones with so much to give that they hurt themselves in the giving.

  "I'm not used to talking about her," he said at last. "Hell, I'm not used to thinking about her, not anymore. I didn't think I felt anything for her one way or another. But I hadn't seen her since right after the trial, and then all of a sudden, there she was."

  "I guess that was confusing."

  "Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "We have a lot of shared history, Jenny and me, and she's all tangled up in my mind with some of the things I used to think, the kind of life I expected to have, once upon a time. And when I saw her yesterday… She's in pretty bad shape, isn't she?"

  "Yes," she said, her heart aching for herself, for him … for all of them.

  "I wish she hadn't come back."

  So do I, she thought, turning around to dish out his food. So do I.

  He came up behind her and ran his hands down her arms, then back up them, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. "I don't hate her," he said, his voice low. "It took me hours to figure that out. That's why I couldn't sleep. It was strange to find out that I wasn't angry anymore, after everything she's done."

  She turned in his arms. "Strange, and maybe a little scary?" Anger made a great fence—strong, hard and barbed. Had that wall come down because he didn't need it anymore? Or because the sight of Jenny had stirred his compassion—or other, more powerful feelings?

  "It doesn't matter. She's my past, not my present."

  Hannah badly wanted to ask where she fit—in his present, yes, he wanted her in his bed right now. But what about the future? She didn't know if it was fear or good sense that kept her from pressing him for an answer. Instead, she managed to say lightly, "So, are you going to give me any guidelines at all about the floor?"