by Cindy Dees
She stepped close behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Hey, handsome. What can I do to help?”
“Pour yourself a glass of wine and go sit by the fire. I’m cooking supper tonight.”
“To what do I owe this treat?”
“You’ve been cooking for me and my father’s men nonstop for the past two weeks. You deserve a break. Go. Sit. Drink. Relax.”
Well, then. She could get used to this! She sipped on a crisp Washington State wine she’d found in Butte the last time she’d been there and did her best not to let worry about her father creep into the quiet of the evening.
Wes carried two plates over to the couch, and they ate in front of the fire while a John Wayne movie played on the TV. She was amused to listen to Wes critique the details of ranching, horseback riding, roping and a myriad of other cowboy skills portrayed in the black-and-white film.
Of course, she was known to nitpick set details in historical movies, too, so she wasn’t going to cast any stones at Wes over it.
The movie ended, and she helped Wes carry the empty plates back into the kitchen. They finished cleaning up and he turned off the lights, leaving only the dim light of the dying fire lighting the great room.
“About what you said to your father today,” he commented.
She turned to look at him questioningly.
“I understand that you were just trying to make a point with him and to get him to back off.”
“You mean the part where I told him I love you?” she asked ominously.
“Yeah. That. I just wanted to let you know that nothing has changed between us.”
Nothing had changed, huh? She’d yelled at the top of her lungs that she loved him and Wes was totally blowing it off? Seriously?
A slow burn of anger began to simmer in her gut.
Wes continued, “Believe me. Of all people, I get what a gigantic ass he can be. I won’t hold you to what you said.”
God. What a fool she’d been. She’d thought this afternoon’s tenderness in bed had been him reacting to hearing her declare her feelings for him. That he’d been pleased to know she loved him and had been trying to show her how he felt about her. Had she really been that wrong in reading him? Had she been so lost in her own euphoria at realizing how she felt about Wes that she’d totally mistaken his feelings in return?
Embarrassment joined in with the burgeoning anger.
Wes spoke over his shoulder as he piled ashes around the coals and damped the fire for the night. “My parents have been known to drive me crazy, too. I’ve said things to both of them in the heat of the moment that I regretted later.”
He thought she should regret saying she loved him?
But what if she didn’t?
“It’s late,” he said, apparently oblivious to her dismay. “We should get some sleep. I have a big day tomorrow. I have to run the entire herd through the cattle chutes and vaccinate them. If you want to come out and kiss the calves, feel free to join me.”
He looked up as she didn’t move from her position next to the kitchen counter. “Are you coming?”
She planted her fists on her hips as her indignation broke loose. “Why is it you refuse to acknowledge that I’m capable of real, deep and lasting feelings?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Men. Sometimes you’re so clueless!”
She warmed to her topic, really irritated now. “Why do you just assume that I don’t mean it if I say I love someone? Do you think I’m so shallow that I don’t know how I feel? Or that I’m so vapid and unreliable that I would change how I feel in the blink of an eye?”
“Huh?” Wes managed to get in. She barged on without letting him get a word in edgewise.
“What have I ever done to you to convince you that I’m such a terrible human being? Is it me? Or is it my father? Do you believe the horrible things he says about me?”
A look of recognition flashed across Wes’s features. Ha! She’d hit the nail on the head! He did believe her father!
“You do know that my father says awful things about me to chase off people who might take me away from him, right? He’s a freaking psychopath. I don’t even want to think about what he must have said to you to get you to break up with me when we dated the first time around.”
“He pointed out that dating you was a conflict of interest to my career,” Wes replied. “Which it was.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you were so willing to get rid of me that a mere bump in your career path was enough for you to dump me like a hot potato?”
“It was more than that. You were wild. Unpredictable.”
She strode forward to stick a finger in his chest. “Name me one thing—one thing—I did that was wild or unpredictable while we were dating!”
He frowned as if trying to remember. Finally he said, “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“I’ll tell you what I did that was wild and unpredictable. Nothing! I was nothing but decent and caring to you.”
“Except for the whole ruining my career part.”
“And I’ll feel terrible about that until my dying day. I only lied because I believed wholeheartedly that you would be killed if I didn’t do it! Even then, even when I hurt you, I did it one hundred percent with the intent to protect you.”
“That’s sure as hell not what it felt like.”
She threw up her hands. “And, of course, the only thing that matters is how you felt. Heaven forbid that you should think for a second about how I felt, terrified and isolated, and scared to death that at any minute you would be murdered. Paco might have only been a dog and old, but he was mine. And I loved him. And someone killed him! I was convinced the same would happen to you if I didn’t lie.”
He frowned and took a step backward, away from her. Which was probably a pretty good call. She was ripsnorting mad now.
“I suppose you actually believed all the garbage my father spouted about me. You let my rotten, crazy, self-serving father poison your mind against me, didn’t you? Are you really so gullible and weak-minded that you can’t make a decision for yourself? Don’t you trust the evidence of your own eyes? What the heck have I been doing around here if not working beside you and helping you build a home?”
“I appreciate your help...”
“But?” she demanded. “I want to know how you were going to finish that sentence.”
His jaw tightened. “Fine. But I’m waiting for you to leave. You’ve run away before, and you’ll do it again. You wouldn’t know how to put down roots and stay in one place if the dirt reached out and bit you.”
“You broke up with me! I never stopped caring about you. When I was in trouble, you’re the first person I called! When I thought you were in trouble, you’re the person I warned. I knew you hated me. I knew you would be terrible to me if I showed up on your doorstep, and I still came. Why? Because I’ve never stopped caring for you, Wes Morgan!”
He looked flabbergasted, but he also looked stubborn. Like he still refused to believe her.
She continued, “I never abandoned you. But you abandoned me. You’re so eager and willing to believe the worst of me that you would ruin what we have between us rather than admit you were wrong.”
Wes stared at her, saying nothing to refute her accusations, doing nothing to show her she was wrong.
She threw up her hands. “I give up. If you don’t believe, we have no future together. If you can’t trust my feelings to be real and lasting, I’ve got no chance with you. We’re wasting our time here. I’m done.”
Chapter 15
Wes had known she would ultimately leave him. He just hadn’t expected it to end so spectacularly, with her making accusations against him that almost, but not quite, hit home. Their fight hadn’t been about him. It had been about her, dammit. About her issues with her father. About her blamin
g her old man for all of her problems. Right?
It took him about forty-eight hours to cool down enough to start going back over her words, flung at him in anger. He could finally hear what she’d been trying to say. Did she have a point, after all?
Had George Blankenship engaged in a subtle and persistent campaign to tear down his daughter’s reputation? Why would any father do that to his own flesh and blood? What did the guy have to gain from sabotaging Jessica? It made no sense at all.
Frustrated that she’d walked out on him, just like he’d predicted she would, and that she’d proved his point by doing so, he had no idea how to make things better between them. Until she realized she’d been childish and impulsive to just walk out, they had nothing to discuss.
The wildflowers in their vase on the kitchen table died. He tried to replace them with a new handful of flowers, but they just looked like weeds. And they died, too.
More calves were born, but Jessica wasn’t around to coo over them and give them whimsical names. They got ear tags with numbers in them, and he tried to name them, but his heart wasn’t in it.
He fed the cattle and cleaned barns; he did chores and made repairs, but he got no joy from it. He sat alone in his beautiful home, and with nobody to share it with, he hated it.
In short, with Jessica’s departure, the light went out of his life. Again.
Wes went back to eating random frozen food out of his freezer and lost weight again. The hollows came back to his cheeks, the haunted look returned to his eyes. His beard and hair got longer and stragglier, and he didn’t care.
He couldn’t even find the energy to carve anymore and spent long hours in his wood shop holding a piece of wood in his hand, staring at nothing and not carving a single shaving off it.
Now and then, he worked up enough energy to ask himself where and when it had all gone so terribly wrong. But he didn’t have the energy to find the answers or come to any conclusions.
He’d been in bad shape when he’d come home from the military, but that was nothing compared to now. The only thing that got him out of bed in the morning was the insistent mooing of the cattle demanding their breakfasts. They were innocents in all of this, and he wouldn’t let them suffer. Even if he could barely bear to look at them anymore. Their curly faces and big brown eyes only reminded him of Jessica’s delight over how sweet and friendly they were. Their silly names stuck in his head, and he couldn’t think of them by their number tags anymore.
He’d lost track of what day of the week it was or what the date was when he spied his mother’s car racing across his front pasture one afternoon.
He groaned. Great. Just what he needed. A visit from Hurricane Miranda to further mess up his already wrecked life.
She got out of the car and came up the porch steps, stopping in front of him where he lounged in a porch swing. “You look like crap,” she announced.
“Hello to you, too, Mother.”
“Have you been drinking?”
He shrugged. “I had a beer a while ago.” And he’d had several more beers before that. But she didn’t need to know that. God knew, he didn’t need a tirade from her on the evils of excessive alcohol consumption.
And yet, she drew a deep breath and launched into the mother of all tirades.
“Wesley James Morgan. I’ve been trying to give you the space you so loudly demanded from your father when you came home. I’ve been trying to respect that you’re an adult and can live your own life, but enough is enough, young man. What did you do?” she demanded.
He squinted up at her. He really did have a headache, and her strident tone of voice wasn’t helping the throbbing in his skull. “What did I do about what?”
“What did you do to make Jessica leave?”
He threw up his hands. “Not you, too.”
Her eyes narrowed to a menacing glare.
“I didn’t do a damned thing. Why don’t you ask her?”
“I did. She wouldn’t say anything other than you knew what you’d done and it wasn’t her place to tattle on you.”
“Well, praise the Lord and pass the potatoes. She didn’t throw me under the bus again.”
“I’m going to throw you under a bus if you don’t tell me what happened,” Miranda threatened.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Apparently, it is, if my son’s going to sit around wallowing in depression and refusing to do a damned thing to help himself.”
Ugh. He hated it when his mother got into one of her zealous, fix-the-world moods. She was a human bulldozer when she got like this.
He leaned back with a long-suffering sigh. “All right. Say what you’ve got to say and get it off your chest. Then you can go home and leave me alone.”
“I’m not here to give you a lecture. I want to know what you said to her that could drive her away from you. She loves you.”
He snorted. “How the hell would you know what she feels for me?”
“It was written all over her face every time she looked at you.”
“Infatuation is a far cry from love.”
“You think I don’t know the difference?” Miranda snapped. “This isn’t my first time around the block, son of mine.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Did she tell you she loved you?” his mother demanded.
“Not that it’s any of your business—yes, in fact, she did.”
“Did you tell her you loved her back?”
“It’s not that simple. She was having a fight with her father on the phone and shouted at him that she loved me by way of getting him to back off.”
“So?”
He stared at his mother. “So. She didn’t really mean it.”
“How do you know what she meant? Did you ask her?”
He shrugged. “She said she meant it. Hell, for all I know she did mean it at the time. But I know Jessica. She’s like trying to hold the wind in your hand. She’ll slip right through your fingers.”
“So, you didn’t tell her you love her.”
He glared at his mother. “No. I didn’t.”
Miranda nodded sagely, a knowing look on her face. “No wonder she left you high and dry. You’re an idiot. Can’t say as I blame her.”
“Hey, now! She’s the one who left me!”
Miranda glared down at him. “I thought I raised a smarter man than this. There’s a huge difference between running away and being driven away. You drove her off.”
“Did not.” But his denial wasn’t as heated as it had been in his own head for the past few weeks.
“Why are you always so fast to see the worst in that girl? She’s had a hard life and precious few people have shown her any love. It’s not like she had any example of a loving relationship between her parents to show her what a real relationship looks like.”
“Everybody has baggage from their pasts. She’s not special in that regard.”
Miranda shrugged. “I don’t know about that. The fact that she’s as warm and loving and caring a soul as she is without ever having had a mama—I think that makes her pretty darned special indeed. Downright extraordinary.”
“She. Left. Me.”
Miranda pointed an accusing finger at him. “You. Pushed. Her. Away.”
He stuck his jaw out belligerently. “Yeah, well, I don’t see her running back to me, do I? If she loved me so damned much, she wouldn’t have left. The facts speak for themselves.”
“Yes, indeed, they do. You’re an ass.”
And with that grand pronouncement, Miranda turned on her designer heel and stomped down the steps.
“Love you, too, Mom. Glad we had this little talk!” he called after her sarcastically.
Miranda didn’t deign to answer but about tore up the asphalt of his driveway, she peeled out so fast.
He glared down into
his beer bottle. Jessica walked out on him.
* * *
Jessica walked around in a fog for the most part. Thankfully, she was very good at her job and experienced enough at it to operate on autopilot. The beautiful Victorian mansion she was restoring next door to Annabelle’s B and B was a walk in the park to renovate. She’d bought it on a whim to have something to do to keep her mind off how bad it hurt to have lost Wes. Again.
Not that it worked for a second, of course.
She was numb whenever she wasn’t devastated by grief. She’d lost him for good this time. There would be no going back. She’d given him everything she had, even told him outright that she loved him, and it still hadn’t been enough for him. She had nothing else left in her arsenal to fire at him.
The old home she’d bought had never been converted to apartments like so many of these large Victorians, which meant the floor plan had not been chopped up and altered from its original layout. With its bones intact, it was only a matter of figuring out how to route air-conditioning ducts, how to modernize the plumbing and wiring and how to fix a big crack in the foundation. Then the fun work of dressing up the grand old gal in authentic Victorian finery could begin.
She ought to be more enthusiastic about researching the home’s original color scheme and figuring out how to pay homage to its past as the dwelling of a turn-of-the-twentieth-century copper baron. But her heart just wasn’t in it.
The research librarian at the county library eventually found a description of the house in a lady’s diary from the period. It detailed the exterior paint colors, and where they’d been applied. That and a few black-and-white photos were enough for Jessica to make an educated guess at how the house had been painted.
She put Charlotte Adams to work trying to find out exactly what paint pigments would have been used locally to achieve moss green, which had been the house’s primary color and the white, hunter green and lavender that had been used as accent colors. Poor copper baron. His wife must have insisted on the lavender.
She only hoped it turned out to be a soft shade that would complement the moss green body of the house and not some garish purple tone. If it turned out to have been a loud violet trim paint, she would have to choose between historical authenticity and good taste—a decision she always hated to have to make as a designer.
