Rancher's Wife

by Anne Marie Winston

  Vested interest? Angel opened her mouth to assure him that she didn’t, but a memory of Emmie, her own precious infant, floated across her consciousness and halted her words. Emmie...Beth Ann. Perhaps her motives weren’t as pure as she believed. Emmie was unattainable now, gone forever to a family who could give her everything that Angel had believed she couldn’t. But Beth Ann was here. And she needed Angel, needed her in a way that called out to every mothering instinct she had. Was it possible that Beth Ann was replacing Emmie in her heart?

  Her shoulders sagged. She was barely aware of Day’s grip loosening, allowing her to slide free.

  “Angel?” he asked in a hushed voice from which all anger had drained.

  She shook her head blindly. “I—I can’t” was all she could say as she sought the privacy of her room.

  * * *

  Morning couldn’t come fast enough. She’d lain awake through most of the long, dark night, wrestling with feelings she’d successfully avoided for the past several years. Finally, out of the miasma of unproductive self-flag-ellation and sorrow, she’d realized again that she couldn’t change the past. All she could do now was look to the future and try not to be swallowed whole by regret.

  The future... It stretched bleak and empty before her, a long vista of years dodging the press, trying to fade into anonymity. When she left the ranch, she was going to have to choose a new direction. Maybe during the next few days something would appeal. Ah, what was the point in thinking about it? She might as well head downstairs and help Dulcie, keep herself busy so she couldn’t think.

  After lunch, she tiptoed down with her boots in her hand so as not to wake Beth Ann. She hadn’t had time to ride again since the first time Day had shown her the ranch, and she hoped to get out of the house for a little while. Beth Ann was napping after the story time they had begun to share every afternoon; the little one’s eyes had closed before the end of the second book.

  She paused inside the back door to stomp into her boots, then stepped outside into the sweltering Southwestern heat. Corky came out from under his bush long enough to offer her the obligatory snarl, then retreated. As she approached the barn, raised voices caught her attention.

  “I’m not yelling at you. I’m just yelling! What the hell am I going to do now?” The voice was Day’s.

  “I don’t know.” Dulcie was the other speaker, and she sounded miserable and upset. “Day, I wish I could stay, but Lyle wants me home. This is my marriage on the line here.”

  “All right, Dulce. It’s not your fault, I know. I didn’t mean to shout.”

  This was clearly a private family matter. Angel started to tiptoe away, hoping that they would never know she’d been there. It wasn’t as if she’d intended to eavesdrop. Although, to be honest, she was dying to know what the problem was be—

  “Who’s there?” It was a command, not a question, as Day appeared in the doorway of the tack room.

  “I was just leaving.” Angel realized her shadow had crossed the patch of sunlight that streamed into the room. Prudently she kept moving.

  “Wait.” He beckoned her into the barn. “You need to hear this, too.”

  “Hi.” Dulcie sat on a hay bale, her face as shadowed as the interior of the barn. “I just got a call from Lyle. He wants me to come home right away.”

  “Oh.” Angel sat down beside her, conscious of equal parts disappointment and concern warring within her. There was nothing she could do but make this easier for Dulcie.

  “I’ll get my stuff packed, and we can drive to Albuquerque together. I can arrange a flight from there.”

  “But...” Dulcie looked even more stricken. “I didn’t mean that you had to leave, as well.” She twisted to face her brother. “Can’t Angel stay here until the end of next week? I’d hate to spoil her vacation.”

  Day had been leaning against one of the stalls. At Dulcie’s words, his mouth flattened into an even thinner line and he straightened, planting his feet wide apart. He transferred his gaze slowly from his sister to Angel. As the silence stretched, she could read the refusal in his face. “Are you willing to continue helping out?” he asked.

  “I...certainly.” What was he getting at? And did it matter, if it meant she didn’t have to go back to L.A. or anywhere else she might be found?

  “I need somebody to help with Beth Ann and the house until I can find another housekeeper,” he reminded her. “I’ll put an ad in the paper this week, so if you’re willing to fill in, you can stay until I hire someone.”

  She didn’t have to ponder. The relief that swept over her was almost overwhelming. “I’d be happy to help.”

  “Great,” said Dulcie. “I’ll feel much better about leaving Beth Ann with you,” she said to Angel.

  “You don’t have to leave her with anyone,” Day said to his sister, and Angel wondered at the gruff tone of his voice. “You know you always have a home here.”

  “Thank you.” She stood and kissed his cheek, and Angel was struck by the similarity in the two dark heads pressed close together.

  As she rode out of the barn a few minutes later, she deliberately set herself to savor every moment of the experience. From the look on Day’s face, he’d hated having to ask for her help, and she doubted it would be long before he’d found someone to care for the house and Beth Ann. This might be her last chance to enjoy a quiet ride in total solitude before she had to leave.

  Leave the ranch... She forced back the panic that the thought created. Where could she go? She supposed she could quietly rent a place somewhere and hide out. If she was careful—and lucky—the press wouldn’t find her.

  But what would that accomplish? She couldn’t get a job, and she could hardly sit around a house all day and do nothing. She was used to hard work.

  The question was, if she wasn’t going to pursue a career in entertainment anymore, what else could she do? She’d left high school with a diploma and no specific skills. She wasn’t a secretary, or a teacher, or anything else useful, for that matter. All she knew how to do, other than act, was what she was doing now. Run a ranch household. And she couldn’t imagine there was much of a market out there for that.

  She rode out to where the ranch road met the highway. The big bull Day had warned her about was grazing in one of the front pastures again. Day had explained that they kept him pretty close to home, since he was too valuable a stud to risk on the range. The mail had been delivered, she noticed. Mindful of the bull’s hulking presence, she stayed in the saddle as she collected the letters and magazines in the big metal box.

  One was a sturdy brown envelope from her agent. She’d finally broken down and told Karl how to reach her, after he’d promised not to call unless she called him first. The envelope looked familiar. Fan mail. She received these collected letters once or twice a week in a mass. If she wasn’t diligent about answering each letter, the stack could pile up to an impossibly daunting height. Rats. She’d planned on starting a new mystery novel this evening. Looked as if she would be answering fan mail instead. If these people took the time to write to her she felt obligated to write back.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d be answering a lot more than that if she didn’t get back and get cracking on dinner.

  * * *

  She was turning into a pretty damned good cook, Day thought later that evening. The lasagna had really hit the spot, especially when it was paired with that homemade Italian bread Angel had baked. And the dessert hadn’t hurt any, either. An unwilling smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the expression on the ranch hands’ faces when Angel had uncovered the trays of cream puffs.

  “What’n tarnation’s that?” old Wes had grumbled. “Whatever happened to shoofly pie?”

  “I haven’t made shoofly pie in years,” Angel had responded. “But I’ll try one tomorrow just for you.” Her smile had melted more than one man into a willing puddle on the floor, and when she urged them to “just try one bite” of the cream puffs, not a man had complained further. Their
expressions, as the sweet confection had dissolved in their mouths, had been akin to discovering heaven on earth.

  The cream puffs had been delicious. And the baking activity had been exactly what Beth Ann had needed to take her attention off the fact that her beloved Aunt Dulcie had departed for Albuquerque right before dinner. Angel had deflected that tantrum, too, he remembered as he idly picked up the mail that had been laid on his desk. Beth Ann had been so excited about drizzling chocolate sauce over the cream puffs that she’d completely forgotten to cry when Dulcie left.

  A buff-colored envelope caught his eye and he slit it open, prepared to toss it immediately if it was, as he suspected, junk mail. His eyes narrowed as he read the letterhead of his ex-wife’s lawyer. A moment later, he sat straight in his chair. Assess his life-style, hell!

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rose and left the office. Beth Ann was in bed and he thought Angel had settled down in the living room for the evening.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said, finding her seated cross-legged on the couch as he barged into the room.

  She jumped visibly, and the envelope she was holding by one corner dropped to the floor. A sound of distress escaped her.

  He took a step nearer, his own trouble forgotten. “Are you all right?” It was apparent that she wasn’t. Her face was white and her dark eyes looked enormous...and scared. No, not scared, terrified. Terrified? What, he wondered, could put that look on the face of an immensely wealthy actress at the top of her profession? Belatedly he realized she hadn’t answered him. He crossed the room and sat on the couch beside her. “Hey.” He waved a hand before her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  She still didn’t answer. Slowly her gaze swung to his. Equally slowly she raised a hand and pointed to the envelope that had fluttered to the floor.

  He reached down to pick it up and that seemed to break the spell.

  “Be careful,” she said. “You don’t want to erase any fingerprints.”

  Startled, he glanced at her to see if she was teasing him. She wasn’t smiling, wasn’t kidding in the least. Digging into his pocket, he fished out the clean bandanna he’d put there after he’d showered and changed. Then he bent and gingerly snagged the envelope by the corner as he’d seen her holding it. He had a letter opener in his office and he swiftly retrieved it and slit the top, then carefully shook out the single sheet of paper onto the couch beside Angel.

  She gave no indication of wanting to read it. Indeed, when he laid it near her, she recoiled visibly.

  He eyed her, then the letter. He really shouldn’t invade her privacy. But on the other hand, she looked like she needed some help dealing with whatever it was. He was her host. Wasn’t it his obligation to take care of her?

  Decision made, he caught an edge of the letter between his cloth-covered thumb and forefinger and held it up. As it fell open, he could see that it had been printed on a computer or typewriter. Angel made another small, involuntary sound of distress, which drew his gaze again. If she lost any more color, he thought, she’d match the sheet of paper in his hand.

  Turning his attention back to it, he quickly skimmed the short message. As he read, he felt his stomach clench at the filthy phrases and the possessive tone.

  Whoever had written this had a very, very sick mind.

  Tossing the letter down on the coffee table with his bandanna, he took Angel’s hands in his. They felt like two blocks of ice. “Do you get a lot of fan mail like that?” he asked incredulously.

  She shook her head.

  Then it struck him that she’d known what it was before he’d opened it. She’d known as soon as she’d seen it. “Have you gotten letters like this one before?” He realized he was rubbing his thumbs across her knuckles, unconsciously trying to warm her cold fingers, and he forced himself to relax.

  Angel nodded. “I’ve been receiving them for nearly a year now.”

  A year! He was thunderstruck. “Have you told the police? They ought to be able to stop him.”

  Her mouth lifted in a sad parody of a smile. “Oh, the police know. In fact, they have a whole collection of these letters.” Her voice quivered and she stopped for a moment. He could almost see her gathering her strength to prevent herself from breaking down altogether. “Do you have any idea of how strained the resources of the L.A. police are? This person hasn’t harmed me...yet. I’ve never seem him, never had any contact other than these letters and some phone calls.”

  “But this is a form of stalking, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I suppose if he’s ever caught, they could charge him with that. But who’s going to catch him? The police have a lot more serious problems than this. They suggested I hire a bodyguard.” She made a wry grimace. “Hardly inspired my confidence.”

  “What about a private investigator? Someone who is working solely for you?” He couldn’t believe there wasn’t a way to stop the creep who was sending her this stuff.

  “They suggested that, too.” Her tone was flat, dismissive, telling him what she’d thought of the idea.

  Her attitude made no sense to him, and his impatience colored his tone. “I don’t get it. You’ll take a chance on having some nut hurt you just because you don’t want to spend the money on a bodyguard or an investigator?”

  “Money has nothing to do with it!” Color tinged her too-pale cheeks. “It’s...privacy. I can’t bear the thought of hiring someone to dig into my life under the guise of helping me. Or of hiring someone to follow me around. I told you I wanted to leave public life, but I didn’t tell you all the reasons why. This is the big one.” Her voice rose. “I can’t bear the thought of living the rest of my life in a fishbowl, having the world know every move I make, and especially having to fear that I’ll attract the attention of someone who’s...unbalanced.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down. I’m sorry I brought it up.” Her voice had risen to such a pitch that he was afraid she might wake Beth Ann. He put an arm around her shoulders and patted awkwardly, not sure what kind of comfort she’d accept from him after the...misunderstandings they’d continually had. And, if it came down to it, not sure how big a dose of proximity to her his body could take. His mind might know that she was the wrong kind of woman for him, but that didn’t stop the cut of his jeans from becoming almighty tight every time he spent more than a minute near her.

  She heaved an enormous sigh and her tense body relaxed a little, conforming to his contours. His body reacted as he’d known it would, and he slipped his hand more firmly down her arm and pulled her closer. Might as well enjoy a few minutes of torture, even though he knew it could go no further. He turned his head and rested his chin against her temple, amazed at how such a simple action could stir up so many emotions. He missed this almost as much as he missed the steady sex that his marriage had ensured.

  In the beginning, he and Jada had had moments like this, moments of sweet security when her mere presence had soothed something inside him. But it hadn’t lasted long, he recalled. He could probably count on one hand the days his marriage had been either sweet or secure.

  Deliberately he shoved away the distracting thoughts and concentrated on this moment, and on Angel. Her hair smelled of the sweet confections she’d whipped up for dessert. Good enough to eat... That thought ushered in a host of disturbingly provocative mental images that quickened his pulse and made him shift uncomfortably.

  Hell, he thought. You need to get involved with her just about as bad as you need a hole right through your forehead. Forget it. She’s trouble with a capital T.

  Trouble. The word brought to mind his reason for seeking her out in the first place, and he realized uncomfortably that it hadn’t even occurred to him not to share the news of Jada’s machinations with her.

  The letter he’d brought into the room lay discarded on the coffee table. Withdrawing his arm from around her, he gave a mirthless grunt as he leaned forward to retrieve it. “Guess the mailman must have had it in for us today. Look what came for me.�
�

  She stirred and sat up straighter, creating space between them. Then she took the letter from him as if it might burn her fingers. “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  She did. Her finely drawn eyebrows knit together first in puzzlement, then in rising anger, and her expression mirrored his angry incredulity when she raised her gaze to him again. “She’s hired a caseworker to assess your life-style? You don’t have to submit to that, do you?”

  Day shrugged. “If I don’t, it sounds like they’re prepared to get a court order.”

  “What exactly does this involve?”

  He indicated the second sheet protruding from the envelope. “The first visit will be a formal, scheduled one that includes an interview. Then this...caseworker is going to show up without giving any notice three more times for what they call ‘informal’ visits. Guess they’ll be hoping to catch me doing something wrong.”

  “I would hope that this caseworker will be objective.” Angel frowned thoughtfully. “Do you get any input on who it is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can you insist on getting a caseworker to report on Jada?”

  His eyebrows rose in approval as he snapped his fingers. He hadn’t thought of that. “I imagine I could. Good idea.” He rose. “I’ll go call my lawyer right now.”

  “Isn’t it getting late?” Angel rose to her feet and gathered her papers.

  “Not for something this important.” He picked up his letter. Then he noticed the other one—hers—still lying on the table. He gestured toward it. “What should we do with this?”

  “Oh.” She looked as if she’d temporarily forgotten it, which pleased him immensely. “It should be sealed in a plastic bag and sent to the police...the L.A. police, I suppose, since it came with a batch of fan mail that I received today from my agent.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  Her eyes were shadowed, her classic cheekbones enhanced by the patterns of light and dark that played across her face in the lamplight. As she mounted the stairs, he couldn’t restrain himself from hungrily assessing the way she filled out her jeans. She might be fashionably slender, but what little padding she had was certainly attached in the right places. And how.