Backlash

by Lisa Jackson

  * * *

  “I want to see him!” Tessa demanded, planting herself squarely in front of the information desk of the hospital. For five days she’d been thwarted by the hospital staff, but no more. Though her letter had been returned unopened, her gift of flowers sent back, her visits refused, she wasn’t about to be put off. Denver was somewhere in this hospital and she intended to see him.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Kramer, but Mr. McLean is to have no visitors,” the nurse said, her mouth compressed firmly, her spine as rigid as the crease in her white uniform.

  “I know his brother has seen him!”

  “Colton McLean is family.”

  “But so am I,” Tessa lied, persevering despite the woman’s uncompromising stare. “I’m going to be his wife. I’m his fiancée!”

  The nurse glanced down at Tessa’s ringless left hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kramer. Doctor’s orders.”

  Desperate, Tessa said, “Then let me talk to the doctor.”

  The nurse hedged, then picked up the phone at the desk. A few seconds later, Tessa heard the page. “Dr. Williams. Dr. Brandon Williams to the main lobby.”

  “Thank you,” Tessa said, unable to sit on one of the cold plastic couches that lined the reception area. She paced instead, walking a worn path between a potted palm tree and a magazine rack. “Come on, come on,” she whispered, glancing at her watch.

  The seconds ticked by, and finally a thin man with sharp features, wire-rimmed glasses and thinning gray hair swept into the lobby. Wearing a white doctor’s coat and carrying a clipboard, Dr. Brandon Williams was the epitome of authority.

  “I’m Tessa Kramer,” Tessa said, extending her hand.

  He shook it weakly, then crossed his arms over the clipboard. “I understand you want to see Denver McLean.”

  “I’m his fiancée.”

  Dr. Williams’s expression clouded. “I didn’t know he was engaged,” he said slowly, obviously doubting her.

  “It’s, uh, recent.”

  He shifted uncomfortably from one soft-leather sole to the other. “Listen, Ms. Kramer, you have to understand that Denver has gone through not only physical but emotional trauma,” he said patiently.

  “I realize that.”

  “He’s very confused right now. Until the surgery—”

  “Surgery!” she repeated, gasping.

  “Cosmetic surgery,” he assured her quickly. “But until he’s convalesced completely, he doesn’t want to see anyone.”

  “Anyone?” she asked, willing the horrid words over her tongue, “or just me?”

  “This is difficult for him—”

  “If I could just see him, talk to him. I know I could help,” she insisted, glancing down the hall. She knew Denver was somewhere on the first floor, but had no idea which room.

  “His brother and uncle are complying with his wishes—as I am. In a few weeks, after Denver’s had time to deal with everything, he’ll probably want to see you.”

  A few weeks. Tessa couldn’t wait that long. It was a week since the fire, five days since she’d first tried to see him here, and now the doctor was talking about weeks?

  Was it possible, as her father and brother had suggested, that Denver didn’t want to see her? She swallowed back every ounce of pride she had. “Could you please tell him—right now—that I’m here. That I have to see him.”

  The doctor sighed, his thin face drawn. “It won’t do any good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve spoken with him about you before. He doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I don’t believe it!” she said, stricken, her worst fears confirmed. “I won’t. Not until I hear it from him!”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible!” she hissed, and started to half run, the soles of her boots muffled against the brown carpet. The fear that had been with her since the night of the fire gnawed at her, tearing a greater hole in her heart. Something wasn’t right—something more than the terrible tragedy of the fire.

  “Hey! You can’t go down there!” she heard someone behind her yell, but she didn’t stop.

  “Miss—miss! Stop her! Oh, hell! Someone call security,” another man said.

  Tessa had been in the hospital only once before, but she tore down the halls, looking into private rooms, scanning the signs at each junction of the corridors. Where was he? Where?

  She rounded a corner and collided with Colton McLean. She fell against the wall, the wind knocked from her lungs.

  Colton’s gray eyes were cold as slate. “What’re you doing here?” he demanded, catching hold of her arm as she tried to scramble past.

  “I have to talk to Denver.”

  “No way.”

  “Let go of me,” she demanded, jerking on her arm as her eyes peered into the surrounding rooms. “He has to be here. Where is he, Colton?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Colton said, ignoring her question. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I don’t believe you! If I could only see him—talk to him—” She wriggled free and started down the hall again, only to be met by two burly security guards.

  “I think you’d better leave,” the larger man said.

  “Not until I see Denver McLean,” she insisted. She was so close! She had to see him—tell him how much she loved him!

  “If you don’t leave of your own volition,” the shorter guard added, his kind eyes understanding despite the rigid set of his shoulders, “we’ve been told to call the police.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Colton added. “Your family’s in enough hot water as it is.”

  “My family had nothing to do with the fire!” She glanced yearningly past the shorter guard’s shoulder, down the hall to a wing labeled ICU. Intensive care! Of course! Desperate to see Denver again, she turned to Colton. “Please,” she begged, “please tell him to call me!”

  Colton’s gray eyes flickered with sympathy before turning stone cold. “I’ll tell him you were here,” he said tautly as the heavier guard clamped a beefy hand over her upper arm and dragged her toward the doors.

  The next day, she’d gone back to the hospital only to be told that Denver had been flown to a hospital in Los Angeles. All her cards and letters had been returned and even John McLean had kept Denver’s whereabouts a secret. If it hadn’t been for her brother, Mitchell, she wondered if she would have gotten through those first long, lonely weeks.

  * * *

  Now, as she thought of those seven lost years and the fact that Denver was back for the sole purpose of selling the ranch, her blood boiled. He had a hell of a lot of nerve, she decided, hurrying downstairs.

  The house was quiet as a tomb, aside from the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

  Tessa assumed that Denver, wherever he’d spent the night, was still sleeping. Relieved that she didn’t have to face him, she poured water into the coffeepot.

  Last night she’d reacted to him much too violently. His appearance had surprised her, but now that she knew where she stood, she’d be able to face him more calmly. Somehow, some way, she’d have to keep a cool head.

  She’d just poured herself a cup of coffee and was prodding strips of bacon with a fork when she heard a creak on the stairs. Her heartbeat instantly went wild. She tried to concentrate on the meat sizzling in the frying pan, but she knew the moment he walked into the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” she asked, without turning around.

  “Starved.”

  Dear God, he sounded so close, and she was reacting to him as stupidly as she had the night before. With an effort she asked, “Will bacon, eggs and toast do?”

  “Sounds great.” She heard him pour coffee from the glass carafe on the counter then listened as a chair scraped against the floor.

  Carefully, she forked sizzling bacon onto a platter, pushed down the button on the toaster, then cracked eggs into the frying pan. She felt his gaze boring into her back. When she turned to p
lace plates on the table, she met his eyes briefly and her heart thundered.

  Sleep still hovered in his eyes. Startlingly blue, they touched a vital part of her she had hoped was long dead. His hair was rumpled, falling over his forehead in a thick black thatch that matched the shadow covering his jaw.

  “Rough night?” she asked, unable to resist baiting him.

  “Rough enough. How about you?”

  “I slept like a baby.”

  The corners of his mouth twisted a bit. “Don’t tell me you woke up crying every two hours.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. The fleeting glimpse of tenderness she’d seen in his eyes lifted her spirits. She slid into a cane-backed chair at the table.

  He took a sip from his cup and motioned toward the food. “I didn’t expect this sort of hospitality.”

  “I guess you got lucky.”

  His lips twitched. “No arsenic in the jelly?”

  She smothered a grin. “Not yet. But you’d better be on your best behavior.”

  “Always am.”

  “Hah! Last night you came charging in here like a bloodthirsty pack of wolves! Arsenic would’ve been too good for you.”

  His gaze touched hers, remaining for a second before it shifted back to his plate. “You weren’t exactly all cordiality yourself.”

  “I get that way when my character is assassinated.”

  Pretending that he didn’t affect her, that she didn’t notice the seductive glint in his eyes, that her heart wasn’t slamming against her ribs, she buttered a slice of toast.

  “I guess I deserved that.”

  “And more,” she said, remembering his remarks about his uncle. A bite of toast stuck in her throat.

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “Do.”

  He watched her closely, studying her movements before finishing his meal and shoving his plate aside. “I thought you had a cook.”

  “Milly usually gets here around nine-thirty. She makes lunch and supper for the hands, then leaves about seven. I may as well warn you now, you’d better not tangle with her. You might own this place, but she definitely considers the kitchen her turf.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He stared at her again with that same stripping gaze that stole the breath from her lungs. “There’s something else I wanted to say.”

  Here it comes. “Oh?”

  “Last night got a little bloody.”

  “You noticed,” she said dryly.

  “I said some things I didn’t mean.”

  She lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but let him continue, hoping he didn’t notice that her pulse was doing somersaults in the hollow of her throat.

  “I was out of line.”

  “Way out of line.”

  He grimaced. “Right.”

  “Forget it,” she said, trying to sound casual, as if nothing he said had wounded her so deeply that she hadn’t slept a wink.

  “Then we can start over?”

  Her heart skipped a beat and her hands trembled. Start over. If he only guessed that for years she had prayed for just that—to start all over—from the beginning. Before the fire, before the lies, before he had turned away from her forever. She couldn’t answer, but nodded quickly, hoping to find her voice as she cleared the table.

  Denver set his cup on the counter and Tessa saw his hand. A few dark scars webbed across from his wrist to his fingers, the difference in skin tone barely discernible.

  He, too, noticed the ugly reminder of the tragedy and shoved the disfigured palm into his pocket. “It never lets me forget,” he said, his jaw growing taut.

  Instantly she pitied him, and the hard look in his eyes told her he must have recognized her pity for what it was. “Maybe we can’t start over—not completely over,” she said uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “But at least we can back up a little and ignore what happened last night.”

  “I doubt it,” he ground out, shoving his hand under her face. “This”—he shook his palm under her nose—“won’t let us.” His eyes blazed, and any trace of tenderness had left his features. “I don’t want your pity, Tessa. I don’t want anything from you!” He shoved his hand back into his pocket and strode out of the room, his footsteps ringing up the stairs.

  Stunned, Tessa decided to put as much distance as she could between herself and Denver. She slammed the back door as she strode through the porch and down the steps, away from that man and his mercurial temper. One minute he’d been kind and caring, the man she’d once loved—the next he’d once again become a bitter stranger.

  Outside, the air was clean and clear. There wasn’t a trace of the storm, not one solitary cloud to wisp across the blue Montana sky. The hills seemed to gleam, and the grass smelled fresh with the earthy scent of dewdrops clinging to the dry blades.

  In the pastures, spindly-legged foals frolicked near their mothers, kicking up their heels and nickering noisily. In the larger fields, cattle grazed, moving lazily across the lower slopes of the surrounding hills. Tessa breathed deeply, slowly counting to ten, willing her emotions under control.

  She paused near the barn and leaned against the fence. Brigadier whistled at the sight of her. His eyes ablaze with mischief, he tore from one end of his paddock to the other, his fiery red tail unfurling like a banner behind him.

  “Show-off,” Tessa whispered. She watched as the sleek chestnut trotted to the fence and shoved his head into her empty hand. “I’m sorry, boy, nothing today.”

  Disgusted, Brigadier snorted against her palm, tossed his head and raced to the far end of the paddock.

  “You’d sell your soul for an apple,” she called after him.

  Boots crunched against the gravel.

  Denver!

  “And what would you sell yours for?” he asked.

  “That,” she said through clenched teeth, “is my secret.”

  He touched her shoulder and she moved quickly away. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” She faced him then, saw the remorse etched across his features.

  His jaw slid to the side. “I can’t stand pity.”

  “Then you won’t get any from me.”

  “Good.”

  She stared into his eyes, then forced her gaze back to the paddock. To change the course of the conversation, she pointed to Brigadier. “He’s my pride and joy. And he’s not part of your ranch. I bought him and paid for his upkeep here out of my own pocket.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Denver said tightly.

  “He’s part of a herd of six. Brigadier and two of the mares, Ebony and Red Wing, are special.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “At auction. From one of the neighboring ranchers. You remember Ivan Aldridge?”

  “Ivan the Terrible—that’s what Colton used to call him.”

  “Right.” Tessa frowned and ran the tip of one finger along the dusty fence rail. “Ivan’s had a few rough years himself. Most every rancher in this valley has. Anyway, he had to sell Brigadier. Two years later, I found Red Wing. Ebony and the rest came later.”

  Denver’s eyes narrowed on the small herd of pregnant mares. “Were they Aldridge’s, too?”

  Shaking her head, Tessa said, “All the horses came from different ranches.”

  Denver’s gaze shifted back to her. “How could you afford to pay for them?”

  “I don’t see that it matters.”

  “Just curious.”

  “Sure.” Denver McLean always had an angle. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she finally said, “but I’d saved some of the money and I borrowed the rest.” Gathering her courage, she met his eyes and decided to go for broke and tell him the truth. “Of course no bank would loan me any money. I was still going to school and working here.”

  “Of course.”

  “Fortunately, John saw Brigadier’s potential. He loaned me the money to buy the stallion.”

  “And how,” he drawled, eyeing her suspiciously, “did you pay him back?”

&nb
sp; “Stud fees.”

  Blue lightning flashed in his eyes and a muscle jumped in his jaw. But before he could ask any more questions, a green station wagon rattled up the drive.

  Mitchell climbed from behind the wheel. Squaring his hat on his head, he approached Tessa and Denver. “So you really did show up,” he said, his eyes narrowing on Denver McLean for the first time in seven years. He wedged himself between Denver and Tessa.

  Denver returned Mitchell’s cold smile. “Thought I’d better check on my investment.”

  “Investment?” Mitchell snorted. “I wouldn’t be counting on retiring from this place if I were you.”

  “I’m going to sell it.”

  If this information surprised Mitchell, he hid it. His thin mouth didn’t move beneath the gold-colored stubble covering his jaw. His gaze didn’t flicker. He shoved a wayward strand of straw-blond hair from his face. “I figured you would.”

  “Your sister wants to buy me out.”

  “Does she?” Mitchell’s brows shot up. He cast Tessa a questioning glance.

  “Where’s your father?” Denver asked. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’ll be here. He had to pick up some feed in town.”

  Tessa threw her brother a worried look. That was a lie. They both knew it. Tessa was going into town later for supplies, not Dad. She was about to correct Mitchell, but the look in his eyes warned her to stop, before she said something that would embarrass him or Dad.

  Mitchell said, “When he shows up, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  “Do that.” Denver shot a hard glance at Mitchell then strode into the house.

  Tessa whirled on her brother. “Why did you lie?” she demanded.

  “Because it’s none of his business what Dad’s doing.” Mitchell started for the barn.

  “He owns the place,” she reminded him.

  “How could I forget?” Mitchell threw open the barn door and walked swiftly to the medicine cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of pills. “I’ll be working with the calves—”

  “Dad works for Denver,” Tessa cut in. “We all do.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Mitchell grumbled, jamming the bottle into the pocket of his jacket. For years he’d felt it his duty to protect Tessa, and obviously he still did. “Don’t tell me you’re on McLean’s side!”