Rancher's Wife

by Anne Marie Winston

  To his surprise, she drew back a little. “Can we talk for a few minutes first?”

  Talk was the last thing on his mind. He gave himself an approving pat on the back for being able to say, “Sure,” without a trace of disgruntled male irritation. “What’s on your mind?” He tensed as it occurred to him that what she might want to discuss was a date for her to leave, if he got the custody papers as expected.

  “Beth Ann.”

  He relaxed again.

  “I think it’s a mistake to allow her to carry her blanket everywhere with her.”

  It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. He felt his hackles rise automatically and he tried to hide it. “I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

  “It is when she sucks her thumb every time she touches it. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t suck her thumb at all unless she has her blanket.”

  Reaching for patience, he said, “When I got her home from her last visit to Jada, that blanket was the only thing that comforted her. If it makes her feel secure, why upset her by taking it away?”

  “If I thought she really needed it for emotional comfort, I’d agree.” Angel was sitting up now, turned toward him. Her eyes glowed with the intensity of her words. “But I think it’s just a habit now, one that needs to be eliminated, at least during the day, before her teeth are damaged by the constant thumb-sucking.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale.” He had no idea, but he wasn’t about to let her get the upper hand.

  “No, it isn’t. I called a dentist in Las Cruces yesterday, and he said that continued thumb-sucking could change the shape of her palate, leading to problems later that might require braces.”

  “So we get braces if she needs them.” He shrugged, more because he didn’t want her to know she was right than because he disagreed. Actually, her words concerned him. And shamed him. Beth Ann was his responsibility. He should have thought of it himself.

  “I really don’t think she needs it to make her feel secure anymore, except, of course, during the night,” she said again. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

  “Why are you so concerned about it?” he countered. Defensiveness made his tone sharp. “Who made you the authority on child rearing? You’ve never even been a parent.”

  As soon as he said it, he regretted the cheap shot. Then alarm replaced regret as color leached from her cheeks with a dramatic suddenness that he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it.

  She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was chilled and her head bowed until all he could see was the crown of her shining blond hair. “You’re wrong.” Her words were barely audible and he had to lean forward to hear her. “I was a parent once. But I gave my baby away when she was two months old.” Her voice wavered and cracked on the last words. She began to rock back and forth, caught in a past too painful for him to share.

  He sagged back against the cushions, stunned by her words. “When?”

  She made a strangled sound and bolted off the couch.

  Too late, he realized his reaction had been insensitive, thoughtless. But dammit, she’d shocked the socks off him.

  “Angel! Sweetheart, wait.” He reached for her but she shrugged off his hand. “We have to talk about this.”

  “I c-can’t.” She backed away, flinching when he rose to his feet. “I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”

  The bone-deep weariness and sorrow in her whispered voice cut him to the quick. He knew, without being a brain surgeon, that she wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed tonight, but he also knew, without a hint of doubt, that if he pressured her, she’d leave.

  And that was the last thing he wanted.

  * * *

  Day didn’t have time to talk to Angel in the morning and she carefully avoided his gaze while she prepared breakfast and lunches. But when it came time for him to walk out to the barn, he found that he couldn’t go off without trying to fix things between them.

  As the last of the hands clumped out of the house, he caught her by the hand and drew her to him. He perched on a stool at the counter, placing her between his knees. Reaching for her other hand, he rubbed his thumbs back and forth across her knuckles, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say.

  Finally, all he said was “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled; she bit down fiercely on it as he pulled her into his arms and began to rub her back. She was as stiff as a fence post in his grasp.

  At last she drew away a little and said, “Thank you.”

  He didn’t remove his arms completely, though he could tell she was itching to get loose and flee the room. “I didn’t mean to act like a such a jerk last night,” he said, gazing straight into her eyes. “I was...surprised. Tonight, will you tell me about it? About your baby?”

  She nodded, still worrying her lip between her teeth. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

  He caught it with his thumb, then brushed a gentle finger over her lip. “Cut it out before you hurt yourself.” He pulled her close again, not even wanting to kiss her so much as simply to comfort her, and this time she let him rock her in his embrace until the rigidity left her body and she was limp against him. The sound of a horse leaving the yard reminded him of the work that wouldn’t wait and he had to force himself to set her away from him, gently kissing her temple. “I’ll see you later.”

  In midafternoon, the gelding he was riding to cull cows from the herd threw a shoe and went lame. He loaded the cutter into one of the stock trailers they used to haul the cows they were going to sell, then drove back to the barn, where he worked over the injured horse’s leg. When he pared down the foot, he uncovered an abscess that was brewing, so he cleaned it out and let it begin to drain.

  Finishing up, he went into the saddle room to wash the blood from his hands. Then he called the vet to get some antibiotics for the gelding. The sound of a motor interrupted him just as he was deliberating whether or not it was too late to take another horse and rejoin the men. He walked to the barn door and leaned against the frame.

  To his astonishment, the vehicle bumping toward the house was a florist’s delivery van from Deming. He stepped out of the shadow of the barn and waved his hand, and the driver detoured toward him.

  “Mighty far out of town,” he said as the man rolled down his window.

  “Don’t I know it. But some fool paid three times the price to have these flowers hand delivered to the Red Arrow Ranch.” The guy eyed him quizzically. “It true that Angelique Sumner married the cowboy who owns this spread?”

  Day jerked his head forward briefly at the stranger. The guy obviously didn’t take him for the “cowboy who owns this spread.” “Yep.”

  The man whistled. “Whoo-eee! Bet I wouldn’t like to get next to her! You seen her?”

  Day shrugged, his temper thinning. “Not much.” He looked pointedly at the back of the van. “You got a delivery, give it here, and I’ll take it on up to the house.”

  The man’s face fell and it would have been comical if jealousy and irritation hadn’t eaten Day’s sense of humor down to a nub. “I don’t mind. I was hoping she’d answer the door.”

  “You aren’t going to get near her.” He knew his voice had been too harsh when the man cast him a speculative glance, but at least the driver got out of the van and hurried around to the side door.

  “All right, then, I’ll give ‘em to you.”

  Jealousy turned to outright rage when the man pulled an enormous spray of bloodred roses from the van and deposited them in his arms with a brief spate of instructions on their care. As the vehicle trundled away in the direction of the main road, he stalked toward the house with the damned flowers.

  A white envelope tucked in among the blossoms tantalized him. He was tempted to forget his good manners and read it but his hands were too full.

  Angel met him at the door. “I heard somebody coming as I was putting Beth Ann down for her nap— Oh!” Her face melted into lines of pleased ha
ppiness. “These are beautiful. Thank you.”

  As he set the heavy vase on the kitchen counter, she moved toward him but he forestalled her. “They’re not from me.”

  Her smile dimmed to uncertainty, which then shaded into bewilderment. “They’re not?”

  Oh, she was good. Of all the women in the world, he had to get involved with another actress. “No,” he said grimly, “they’re not. I just happened to meet the delivery van.”

  “Then who...?” A frown made small parallel furrows of puzzlement between her brows. She turned to the bouquet and detached the little white envelope.

  He folded his arms and stood waiting as she pulled a small card out and read the message. His face felt stiff with anger; he wanted to tear the card from her hands and shred it into tiny pieces. She was his, dammit! And nobody else was going to—

  Angel made a small sound and swayed.

  What the hell! He grabbed for her as her knees buckled, barely catching her in time to keep her from slumping to the floor. The card she’d dropped fluttered down a foot away and he reached for it, wondering what could be so terrible that it could make her faint.

  Soon we’ll be together again.

  No signature. He didn’t get it. But before he could puzzle any longer, Angel’s limp body began to struggle in his arms. He set her upright though he kept his arms around her in case she passed out again. Her face was chalk white and she shuddered when she saw the note he held in his hand.

  “Oh, God...”

  Was she afraid he was going to be angry? His ire returned with a rush. He damned well had a right to be. She’d deliberately led him to believe that she wasn’t involved with anyone, that she was as pure as the driven snow.

  Releasing her, he extended the card to her. She reacted violently, trying to scramble backward away from it. “No!”

  He looked at the card, then at her. She was acting like...like she was terrified of the card. If he’d had a free hand, he’d have smacked himself in the forehead as the truth dawned. She didn’t have a man stashed somewhere.

  The flowers were from whoever was stalking her.

  * * *

  “They’re from him.”

  Angel nodded, knowing what Day meant without further discussion. He had replaced the card in the bouquet of roses, and she looked at it, loathing and fear rising in equal proportions. “Get rid of them,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky and weak, not strong and commanding as she’d intended.

  Day extended a hand to pull her to her feet. “You got it. And then you’re going to tell me all about this.” He grabbed the vase and shouldered the back door open; she heard a crash as he unceremoniously dumped the hateful flowers into a large trash can.

  She poured each of them a large glass of iced tea and perched at the counter. When he came back in, he tipped back his head and drained the glass before setting it down with a loud sigh.

  “Okay,” he said. “What makes you think this guy—this stalker—sent you the roses?” When she hesitated, he turned and moved closer in until his face was bare inches from hers. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me,” he said through his teeth.

  It was exactly what she needed to take her mind off her peril and defeat the last remnants of fear. “Why should I trust you?” she countered. “You don’t trust me. Despite everything I’ve told you to the contrary, you believed those flowers were from another man.” She linked her fingers together and stared at them, afraid of revealing too much. “I haven’t lied to you about other men, Day.”

  “I know.” His voice was low. A dull flush crept up his neck to bronze his tanned cheeks. “It was easier to think you couldn’t be trusted than to let you get under my skin.”

  “Have I gotten under your skin?” She held her breath, hoping against hope for some small sign—anything!—to indicate that she meant something more to him than simply a warm body that was exclusively his for the time being.

  “Have you ever.” Swiveling his stool to face hers, he placed his hands on her knees and moved them apart, pressing himself against her. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you,” he said roughly. “Thinking about you with some other fella had me so irritated I could hardly see straight.”

  It wasn’t what she’d been looking for, but it was a start. If his desire for her was that strong, if it was lasting, perhaps it would make the transition into love one day. “I don’t want to be touched by anyone but you,” she whispered. “Only you, Day.”

  He kissed her then and she curled into him, wordlessly giving him everything she couldn’t say. When he lifted his head, his eyes were glittering with arousal and he was breathing heavily. She lifted a finger to the hard length of man behind the zipper of his worn jeans and rubbed gently against him. He groaned. “Unless you’re planning on finishing what you started, you’d better get your hands out of there.”

  She smiled up at him without moving her hand. “Beth Ann will be awake soon.”

  Lifting her hand away, he bared his teeth in a smile. “Tease. Just wait ’til tonight.” Then the laughter died from his face as he stepped away from her. “You’ve managed to completely sidetrack me, haven’t you? I still want to know what made you so sure the flowers came from the same guy who sent you the letters in L.A. I thought he’d forgotten about you after you dropped out of sight.”

  “So did I.” She gave a resigned sigh. “I felt so safe for a while. I almost forgot to be afraid. But the moment the news came out about our marriage and where I was living, he sent me another letter.”

  His head came up sharply and he stared at her until she dropped her gaze from his. “And you didn’t think I’d want to know? Dammit, Angel, what were you thinking?”

  She swallowed. “I—it was my problem, not yours. You’ve had enough to worry about.”

  “Hey.” He waited until she was looking at him once again. “It’s our problem. You’re my wife, remember?” When she nodded, he went on. “I want to see the letter.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Wordlessly she got to her feet and left the room to return a moment later holding an envelope gingerly by one corner. She dropped it in his lap and took a seat at the far end of the couch as he stared at the innocent-looking pieces of paper.

  When he lifted his head, his gaze speared hers with angry incredulity. “It’s postmarked from Deming.”

  * * *

  The sheriff came out right after dinner. At Day’s request, he had contacted the police in L.A. to whom Angel had reported the other letters and messages she’d received.

  “The flowers are a dead end,” the law enforcement officer said. “Ordered by phone, paid for with an envelope of cash that appeared on the counter when the cashier went into the back for a minute.” The stocky man in the tan uniform shook his head ruefully. “Whoever’s doing this is a careful planner.” He looked at Angel, standing on the porch with her arms wrapped around herself, then at the letter in a plastic bag that he was taking with him. “He writes as if he knows you. It could be the delusion of a sick mind, or it could be he’s someone from your past, possibly even someone you know now. Give it some thought and let me know if anyone, no matter how slight the connection, comes to mind.”

  “I’m having a tap put on the phones, too,” Day told her. “If he tries to call you here like he did before, maybe we can get him that way.”

  “One way or the other,” the sheriff said, “we’ll get him.” He settled his hat on his head and turned toward the patrol car. “I’ll be in touch. You do the same if anything comes up.”

  What could come up? She shivered. Somewhere out there, somewhere close by, someone was waiting for her. She could almost feel his presence.

  * * *

  Day was determined that Angel wasn’t going to sleep away from him another night. When he took her hand and led her up the steps at bedtime, he expected some initial resistance. But she followed along with an absent docility that told him more clearly than words how disturbed she was. T
he delivery of those flowers today had sliced into the fragile links of understanding he’d been trying to forge and disrupted all semblance of normalcy. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten all about the revelations of the night before.

  Well, she might not be thinking about them, but he was. It was damn near all he’d thought about the whole day on the range...at least until he’d come in and waylaid that florist’s van.

  He was ready for bed before she was, and he propped himself against the pillows where he could watch her moving around the room, performing all those little feminine tasks that seemed such a part of her. She unbound her hair and brushed it out, then reached for a bottle of lotion and smoothed it down her legs, over her arms and up the slender column of her neck, her long, graceful fingers gently rubbing until her skin glowed with moisture.

  He couldn’t help grinning with pure pleasure as his body began to react to the sight. She didn’t notice his interest as she removed the lightweight robe from her shoulders and hung it on the bedpost, then slipped between the sheets on her side of the big bed he’d shared with her since their wedding.

  Being married took work, he reflected, but it had some fringe benefits he’d forgotten. Or more likely, had never known the first time around. And he wasn’t just thinking of the sex, either, great as it was. Having someone to greet him at the door with a special smile meant only for him was one of those intangibles he’d never thought would be so important. Even the simple act of sharing the load, working through problems together, was nice. It created a closeness that he was slowly beginning to realize he enjoyed, valued, needed.

  He scrunched down on his mound of pillows and slid an arm around her, drawing her in to his side. For an instant she tensed. Then she heaved an immense sigh and her body went boneless.

  They lay that way in silence for a few minutes; he idly rubbed his fingertips back and forth against the silky skin of her upper arm, reveling in the sweet warmth of her cuddled against his side. He knew that the moment he brought up her past—her baby—she would withdraw faster than a threatened prairie dog, but reluctant though he was to cause her pain, he needed to know, to hear, her story from her.