Phantom Waltz

by Catherine Anderson

  “Even though,” she said with absolute certainty. “When I say it wasn’t Wink’s fault, I really mean it wasn’t. Not at all.” Her eyes got a distant look in them as she remembered the accident that had left her paralyzed. “She was racing her heart out for me, giving me everything she had to give. It wasn’t her fault she stepped in a hole and fell. Afterward, I can’t count the people who came by to see me at the hospital just to tell me I shouldn’t blame Wink for what happened. They said that when she realized she couldn’t stop, she shifted her weight to one side, trying her best not to fall on me. It wasn’t her fault that the barrel tipped and threw me directly in her path.”

  Ryan watched her trail her fingertips along the horse’s jaw, her touch so light and loving that she might have been caressing a child. “I don’t suppose you can ask for more than that from anyone,” he said softly, “not horse or person. Traveling at that kind of speed and stepping in a hole, she could have busted a leg. A lot of horses wouldn’t have been watching out for their riders at a time like that.”

  “No.” She smiled mistily. “And it would have been impossible for any horse to stop.” She gave the mare another pat. “I know she tried her very best not to fall on me, and that’s all I need to know. Why is it that people always want to place blame? Sometimes bad things just happen. The fairground maintenance crew raked the entire arena that morning and packed it with a roller. There shouldn’t have been any holes. They’re extremely careful about that because some very valuable horses compete in barrel racing events, and they don’t want to be liable.” She shrugged. “A ground squirrel tunneled up after the area was prepped. I won’t say it was an act of God because I can’t believe He wanted me to be paralyzed or that He orchestrated the accident, but I will say it was an act of nature—an unforeseeable one that couldn’t be blamed on anyone.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unless, of course, I want to blame the ground squirrel.”

  Ryan dusted some hay off his jeans. “Wanna go hunting? We’ve got ground squirrels aplenty around here that you can use for target practice.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I worked through my anger years ago. I really don’t think that poor little rodent tunneled a hole because he was out to get Bethany Ann Coulter.”

  Ryan grinned. “A very rational way to look at it. Not very satisfying, but rational.”

  “Looking at it rationally was the only way I stayed sane. Did you know that anger is the easiest emotion for human beings to feel, and when we lose our faculties, it’s the last emotion to go? That’s why people with dementia so frequently grow violent, because in the final stages, all they have left are unreasoning feelings of rage.” Her smile faded, and she looked deeply into his eyes. “I was there once, feeling nothing but rage. I never want to feel that way again. Bitterness and anger affect every part of your life. I just want to be happy and make the most of things. We have to accept and move on. Feeling sorry for ourselves and casting blame only destroys what’s left.”

  “I definitely want you to enjoy life,” he agreed.

  “For me, that means if I go riding again, it has to be on Wink. Anything less would be a cop-out. Riding her may bring back bad memories and frighten me, but it’s something I’ll have to do. Choosing to ride another horse would be a betrayal. I can’t do that to her. I won’t.”

  “I understand,” he said huskily, and he honestly did understand, perhaps better than she realized Bethany was no coward, and she didn’t have it in her to take the easy way out, not when she thought it might hurt the horse that she loved so much. “I only have one question. Feeling the way you do about Wink—trusting her as you do—why are you so afraid to ride again?”

  “Because I know I won’t be able to use my legs and that it will never be the same. A part of me is afraid that it will be a huge disappointment—that maybe it would be better to dream about riding and tell myself how great it might be than to actually try and find out it isn’t all great and never will be again. Does that make any sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense. In dreams, there are no limitations. Reality seldom measures up to that. But, Bethany, look at the flip side. What if the reality turns out to be different from before, but just as wonderful in its own way? If you never dare to try, you’ll be missing out on that.”

  “I know.” She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Her eyes darkened with shadows as she met his gaze again. “I’m also really afraid that I may fall. Imagine being in the saddle and not being able to grip with your knees. The very thought ties my stomach in knots.”

  “You won’t fall, honey. You’ll be strapped on.” Ryan reached out to brush a tendril of dark hair from her face. “We’ll take it slow. The first few times, I’ll lead you around the corral. You’ll get used to it and soon love riding again.”

  “Oh, I hope so …”

  “It’ll happen.”

  Ryan meant to see that it did.

  Bethany.

  When Ryan suggested that they had spent enough time with Wink and should adjourn to the house, her cheeks turned as pretty a pink as June clover blossoms. En route to the van to collect her wheelchair, Ryan chuckled to himself over her shyness. Then he frowned, the realization suddenly striking him that he hadn’t had much experience with virgins—as in none, period. Even in college, he’d sought out girls who knew the score. His father would have skinned him and hung his hide out to dry, otherwise.

  Ryan sighed as he returned to the stable. Once in front of Wink’s stall, he positioned the wheelchair and set the brake, then he stepped in to collect Bethany. She had straw in her hair, and as he got her settled in her chair, the hem of her ruffled blue skirt flipped up, revealing a rent in her hose. The jagged edges of the tear showcased a scrape on her knee.

  Ryan hunkered down to examine the abrasion. She immediately started fussing with her skirt, tugging and tucking the folds around and between her legs. He glanced up. Big, wary blue eyes stared back at him. Uh-oh. He tried a harmless-looking grin. He never had been very talented at looking harmless.

  “What?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Like hell. Ryan heaved an inward sigh, thinking that this was exactly why the traditional wedding night had been the butt of so many jokes. It was sort of like going to the dentist. If you thought about it too much beforehand, you got the jitters long before you sat in the chair.

  “You feeling a little nervous?”

  She shook her head no and then said, “Yes. A little.”

  Satisfied that the scrape on her leg was nothing to fret over, Ryan framed her face between his hands. Her cheekbones felt fragile under the pads of his thumbs—itty-bitty compared to his own. “You wanna just wait?”

  “For what?”

  His brain went blank. Good question. Except for marrying her, which he planned to do before the ink on the marriage license could dry, there was no real reason to wait. Unless, of course, he counted the worried look in her eyes. Which he did.

  She curled her fine-boned hands over his wrists. “Oh, Ryan, I’m not nervous for the reason you’re thinking. Not about making love with you. I’ve been—” She broke off, and the blush on her cheeks deepened. “I’ve thought about that part a lot, and I’m looking forward to it. It’s just—”

  “It’s just what?” he pressed.

  She smoothed a hand over the buttons of her blouse. “I, um—just sort of, you know, feel self-conscious. You’re so …” Her gaze flitted over him. “You’re so perfect. Handsome and superbly fit—the kind of man most women can only dream about.”

  Ryan’s throat went tight. “Thank you. I think that’s stretching it a bit, but it’s a very nice compliment, and I’m flattered that you feel that way.” He searched her expression. “Does that pose some kind of problem?”

  “No! Not a problem, exactly. It’s just that I’m not.”

  He mentally circled that pronouncement, not entirely sure what she meant. “You’re not what?”


  “Perfect,” she replied, the word barely more than a whisper.

  “Oh, honey.” Ryan realized then that he’d been trying so hard to play the role of best friend convincingly that he’d failed to let her know how very much he desired her physically. He’d never even allowed his gaze to trail over her figure. Not when she might catch him at it, at any rate. “If you were any more beautiful, Miss Coulter, I’d have a critical case of pneumonia by now.”

  She looked bewildered. “Pneumonia?”

  He chuckled. “From taking ice-cold showers.”

  She gave a startled laugh and said, “Oh. Pneumonia. Of course.” A hopeful, slightly incredulous expression came into her beautiful eyes. “Did you really take cold showers?”

  Seeing her incredulity made Ryan’s heart hurt for her. To him, it seemed such a crime that someone so lovely could reach the age of twenty-six without ever being told how desirable she was. That was a state of affairs he meant to resolve in damned short order. “Dozens of cold showers,” he assured her firmly. “I’ve wanted to make love to you ever since I first saw you. Every single time I was around you, I had to come home and stand under the cold water until I was numb enough to sleep.”

  He grinned and lowered his gaze to the lush roundness of her small but perfectly shaped breasts. Maybe it was only wishful thinking, but he could have sworn he saw her nipples tighten in response. Encouraged by that, he took visual measure of her tidy figure from there down, his hands itching to curl over her hips, his body aching to feel her softness pressed firmly against him.

  When he returned his gaze to hers, her face was pink clear to her hairline, but there was a purely feminine sparkle in her eyes. He decided then and there that from now on he’d do plenty of ogling and make sure she caught him at it.

  “I can’t exercise certain parts of my body like other people,” she confessed shakily. “In those places my muscles have atrophied, and I’m not well toned.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to feel as soft and wonderful as you look?”

  She sighed, conveying by her expression that this was no time for nonsense. “I’m just so afraid I’ll disappoint you. That you might not like how I look and that I’ll be a big disappointment in other ways as well, and that—”

  He interrupted her by dipping his head to kiss her. Oh, God, how he loved her mouth, so soft and willing, yet uncertain and hesitant. He wanted to go on tasting her forever, wanted to spend the rest of his life pleasuring himself with her. He’d take this lady, horse slobber and all.

  Forcing himself to end the kiss, he whispered, “Sweetheart, would you stop worrying? I think you’re beautiful, and my opinion is the only one that counts. It’s going to be all right between us. I have this gut feeling, and my gut feelings are seldom wrong.”

  “Oh, Ryan, I pray you’re right. If we can at least have satisfying sex, I’ll feel so much better about marrying you. If I can’t feel anything, I think I’ll die.”

  Wink nudged Ryan’s shoulder. He reached up with one hand to rub the mare’s neck. “Are you sure that’s all you’re worried about? You’re not afraid I’ll hurt you?” Just in case she was embarrassed to admit she felt uneasy on that score, he hastened to add, “This is your first time. That’s a very natural concern for a woman to have, you know.”

  She laughed. “I pray.”

  “What?”

  “I pray it hurts. That’ll be good, Ryan. That’ll be great.”

  The very thought made his guts clench. He would have happily hacked off an arm rather than cause her pain. But she was right. He should be praying it would hurt. In this instance, the more discomfort, the more cause to celebrate.

  He returned Wink to her stall and battened the gate for the night. Then he pushed Bethany from the stable.

  “You want to swing down by the lake?” he asked, thinking he needed to woo her just a bit. “It’s beautiful down there at night. The stars twinkle on the water like thousands of diamonds.”

  “After,” she said firmly. “We can go down later.”

  So much for that tack. When they reached the house, Ryan turned on only a couple of lights and grabbed the remote to flip on the stereo as he went into the kitchen to pour them each some wine. Bethany marveled over the changes in the kitchen, then sat at the opposite side of the counter, her big blue eyes following him nervously.

  “Ryan?”

  He broke off pouring to meet her gaze. “What?”

  “Can we just—” She skittered her fingers down the front of her blouse, dragged in an unsteady breath, and then gulped. “You know—can we just—” She exhaled in a rush. “No big drawn-out thing. Please? I just want to—um—get to the important part. Just this time. I promise. I’m sorry for rushing you, but I need to know.”

  His heart caught at the shadows of anguish in her eyes. She was about to die of anxiety, and he was diddling around. He set the wine bottle aside, then circled the bar to scoop her up out of the chair.

  “You won’t have to issue that invitation twice.”

  As he swung her up against his chest, she wrapped both arms around his neck, pressed her face to the hollow just under his jaw, and whispered, “Tell me again, Ryan. I need to hear you say it one more time.”

  It wasn’t necessary for her to clarify the request. He ducked his chin to press his lips to her temple. “I love you, Bethany, and I’ll love you the rest of my life with every beat of my heart.”

  He carried her to the bedroom. When he set her on the edge of the bed, she bent her head so her hair fell forward to veil her face and then started unbuttoning her top with trembling fingers. She looked so forlorn, sitting there, with her pretty little feet turned all funny, one pointed inward, the other bent over at the ankle.

  Ryan ran his hands down her calves, knowing she felt nothing when he touched her there, but allowing himself the pleasure anyway. Through the mesh of her hose, her skin felt cool and wonderfully soft, reminding him of how satiny she was. He kissed the scrape on her knee, which earned him a startled look from her, then he gently repositioned her feet.

  When he glanced back up, she was struggling with a button. He pushed her hands away and relieved her of the task.

  “Do you mind?” he asked. “I usually like to unwrap my own presents.”

  She flashed him a bewildered look, which he met with a smile.

  “You are a gift, Bethany Coulter. The sweetest, most beautiful gift God’s ever given me.”

  Her mouth went all funny, one corner turning down and quivering. “Oh, Ryan. I forgot to tell you one more really awful thing.”

  “What?” he asked, his heart catching because she looked so upset. “It can’t be that bad. What, honey?”

  “I have scars. Terrible ones.”

  His heart stuttered, then bumped back into rhythm. “Is that all?” He dispensed with the remaining buttons, then parted the front of her blouse and tugged the tails from the waistband of her skirt. “I’ll bet your scars are nothing compared to mine. You want to see a scar, darlin’? I’ll show you a scar.”

  He rocked back on one heel to unfasten his shirt, then jerked one side loose to reveal a jagged red scar on his rib cage. “I got it from a hay hook. Rafe and I got in a fight when we were kids. I threw something—can’t even remember what now—and hit him on the back of the head. When he swung around to come after me, he accidentally gaffed me.”

  “Oh, no.” She touched the mark with her fingertips. “Oh, Ryan, that must have hurt so much!”

  He chuckled. “It hurt Rafe worse than it did me. He felt so bad, he cried. Dad felt so sorry for him, he didn’t even give him a whipping.”

  Her eyes widened. “Did he whip you boys a lot?”

  “Once a day and twice on Sunday, just to keep us in line.” Ryan chuckled at the horrified look that came over her face. “Not really. Near as I remember, he took the strap to Rafe once, and that was way back in first grade when he smacked a girl. Kendrick code. No man worth his salt ever strikes a woman, including six-year-old boys.
”

  “Did you ever get the strap?”

  “Nope. The only time he ever took after me was when I was eighteen, and then he backhanded me across the mouth.” Ryan rubbed his jaw. “Knocked me ass over tea kettle, too. The old man carries quite a punch.”

  “Why did he backhand you?”

  Ryan chuckled, remembering. “You want a list? I drove home from town drunker than a lord. Mom took one look at me when I walked in the kitchen and jumped me about taking my life in my hands. I lied and said I hadn’t been drinking, which was my second mistake. Then I called her a name in a roundabout way. I never finished the sentence before Dad decked me.”

  Bethany had clearly forgotten her partial state of undress, which suited him fine. “What on earth did you call her?”

  Ryan grinned. “I didn’t exactly call her anything. I just pointed out that other guys drank, and their moms didn’t act like bitches when they got home. I never got much said after ‘bitches.’ Dad swung, I went down, and when I started to stand back up, he planted his boot in the middle of my chest to inform me there wasn’t a man alive who’d ever called my mother a bitch and apologized to her on his feet. If I was smart, I’d talk first and stand up later.”

  Bethany giggled. “Oh, my. What did you do?”

  “I lay there like the intelligent kid I was and told my mother I was sorry from a prone position. Afterward, Dad helped me up, checked my teeth, told Mom to put some ice on my lip, and left the kitchen. He never mentioned it again, and I sure as hell didn’t.” Ryan smiled, remembering. “I’ve never spoken to my mother since without showing the proper respect. Bitter lesson, good school. My father isn’t a mean man, but he can be a hard one if you cross him, and the quickest way on earth to cross him is to get out of line with my mom.”

  He peeled her blouse down her arms, doing his damnedest to pretend he wasn’t much interested in the view. She was such a pretty little thing, all creamy and soft, with pointy bones here and there for a man to nibble on,

  “Where are those awful scars?” he asked, pretending to search for them as he took in the lacy cups of her bra and what they supported. Her breasts were as beautifully shaped as he had imagined and just large enough to fill his hands. Through the lace, he could see the rosy tips peeking out at him. They were hard and thrust against the cloth like little rivets. “I don’t see a spot on you that’s not perfect.”