Grant

by Jennifer Ashley

  In a few hours, Christina would know the truth, and what direction her life would take.

  ***

  Grant couldn’t hang around outside Christina’s house waiting for her to come home the next day because Carter dragged him off to the shoot.

  Good thing, because he’d make a complete fool of himself pacing on Christina’s porch and peering up the street. Better to go to work like a normal person.

  Sort of. Normal people didn’t ride their horses next to a moving old-time train, and then jump from saddle to train car and pretend to rob the passengers.

  Buster was better this morning, but none of the brothers wanted to run him in case something really was wrong with him. They used Bobby and a couple others, but Grant knew they’d be re-taking some of this.

  Tyler fell twice before he finally got himself on the damn train. Then it was Grant’s turn. Hampered by duster, bandanna, and double holsters with pistols, Grant galloped Bobby alongside one of the passenger cars, looking for his opening.

  Bobby, unlike Buster, who would run straight until he decided to stop, liked to swing his body in the opposite direction from the jump as his rider left the saddle. Grant would have to compensate for that.

  Also for the fact that his mind was not on the job. He was worried about Christina and wouldn’t feel good until he knew she was home. Safe.

  He knew in his heart that this would be his last chance with her. Carter was right—if Grant screwed things up this time, it would be forever.

  The train hit the straight stretch of track Grant had been waiting for. Bobby was right on stride. Grant crouched, readied himself, and leapt.

  The handhold slid out of his grasp. Grant’s gloved hands slipped, and he opened them to let himself fall, tucking in before he hit the gravel just outside the rail. He rolled like crazy, away from the clacking metal wheels, tumbling down the little embankment to prickly weeds.

  Carter came riding up, looking like a real bandit in his duster, a bandolier of bullets across his chest. “You okay?” he called.

  Grant rolled to his feet and brushed the dirt and dried grass off his clothes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Carter said nothing. He never admonished them for a fall, although he was the one who answered to the producers if they were late with their material. He simply waited for Grant to make sure he hadn’t broken or sprained anything, then indicate that he was all right to go again.

  The advantage of Bobby was that he’d come when called, so precious time wasn’t wasted chasing down a horse. Bobby had good manners, but even so, he didn’t have the edge Buster did. Buster always got the job done. Then he ran off and was a total shit.

  Grant mounted, rode Bobby around a little to work off his own stiffness, then ran the horse at the train again.

  This time when Grant jumped, he caught the bar he aimed for, though barely. He felt his hands slipping, but he clung on grimly, swinging his legs until he found purchase on the step.

  Then he was up and tearing inside, staying in the character of a man with one thing on his mind—robbing all the sitting ducks.

  No one waited in the passenger car, because they’d film the interior scenes on a different day. Today was about jumping on and off.

  The small train slowed and ground to a halt. The engineer had explained he couldn’t run the train constantly because the engine used a lot of fuel, and the antique needed a rest.

  Grant went out to the back platform. Tyler followed him, and Carter dismounted and joined them.

  They spent a few minutes simply resting, three bandits taking a break. Grant sat with his back to the door frame, one leg drawn up, arm on his knee. Tyler swung his legs off the back. Carter remained standing, leaning against the railing, the three of them enjoying a quiet moment of Texas springtime.

  Grant’s cell phone jangled. His two brothers looked at him in surprise, knowing Grant’s record for losing his phone. He ignored them as a hundred terrors slammed into his head—Christina in a car wreck, in a hospital, car-jacked or robbed …

  He grabbed the phone, not recognizing the number. “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s Karen. You need to get over to Christina’s place. I mean right now.”

  “Why? Is she all right? What happened? Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have let her go …”

  “Stop talking and take yourself over there. I couldn’t stay with her—I have to meet someone in Austin.”

  “What happened to her? Is she hurt—?”

  “Christina’s fine … Well, that’s not for me to say. You need to get over there. And go easy on her, Grant. This has been tough for her. Buh-bye.” Karen clicked off.

  “Wait a minute— Shit.” Grant shook the phone as though that would make Karen’s voice come back.

  Carter eyed him narrowly. “What’s wrong?”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Christina okay?” Tyler asked, concerned.

  “I don’t know. I need to go find out.”

  Grant whistled through his fingers for Bobby, who raised his head and then half walked, half trotted over.

  Grant leapt from the train platform, swarmed up onto Bobby’s back and rode hell for leather to the depot.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Grant slid off Bobby at the depot and yelled at the stable hands waiting at the horse trailers. “Walk him around, cool him down.”

  Without bothering to explain, he jumped into the one truck not hooked up to a trailer—Tyler’s—and gunned it, sliding around in the dirt before the pickup straightened itself out.

  He bumped over a mile of dirt road, then turned onto a highway, where he opened it up and roared toward town at eighty miles an hour.

  He reached Christina’s house, stopped the truck and leapt out, racing up to her porch. He banged on the door, but there was no answer.

  Grant rattled the handle, but the door was locked. He banged again. “Christina, let me in!”

  A soft step behind him made Grant swing around. Small Mrs. Kaye from next door stood on the step behind him.

  “Her spare key, dear,” Mrs. Kaye said, handing it to him. She looked him up and down. “My, don’t you look handsome?”

  Grant was still in his long duster with pistols beneath it, the bandanna loose around his neck. He’d been too distracted to take them off.

  He grabbed the key. “She in there?”

  “Yes, dear. Crying her eyes out.”

  “Shi— I mean, shoot. Thanks, Mrs. Kaye.”

  “You need to marry her,” Mrs. Kaye said, giving him a serious look. “I know young people think it’s old-fashioned, but a commitment like that can keep you strong, even when things look very dark. Mr. Kaye and I were married sixty years¸ and we were as much in love the day he died as the day he proposed.” Her brown eyes shone with tears.

  “Yeah,” Grant said quietly. “I think you’re right.”

  He took a breath, unlocked the door, and strode inside.

  “I know I am, dear,” he heard Mrs. Kaye say before the lady closed the door for him and left them alone.

  ***

  Christina heard Grant let himself inside—locking the door and not answering didn’t send a clear enough message, she guessed.

  “Christina!” His deep voice boomed through the house.

  Christina, sitting on the edge of her bed, didn’t answer.

  Grant charged through the living room and straight into the bedroom. He halted on the doorstep, all delectable six-foot four of him, made more delectable by his movie clothes. His black shirt and butt-hugging jeans emphasized his athletic body, and the worn duster and revolvers gave him a dangerous air.

  When Grant saw her, he softened his abrupt tone. “Baby, what is it?”

  Christina couldn’t tell him. She could barely accept it herself. To be lifted up in such great hope, only to be dashed to the ground, hurt worse than any pain she’d ever experienced in her life.

  She knew, though, that telling Grant she didn’t want to talk about it would only make him sta
y and stubbornly try to pry it out of her.

  She opted for straight truth.

  “It was a false alarm,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m not pregnant.”

  Grant went motionless for a few heartbeats. His hat, which he must have automatically taken off when he walked into the house, hung at his side.

  “What do you mean, you’re not pregnant?” he asked. “Did you think you were?”

  Christina nodded. She felt the tears come, tried to stop them, and gave up. “That’s why I went to Dallas. I didn’t want anyone knowing until I was sure.”

  She’d been stunned when the doctor had called her back in. “Home tests are sometimes inaccurate,” the woman had said, “which is why it’s good to verify the results. But you’re not pregnant.”

  She’d said it as though Christina should be relieved.

  The doctor hadn’t known—Christina hadn’t confided in her—that her dream of having a child had just been ripped away from her once more. Maybe for the last time.

  Grant was staring at her. Christina wiped her eyes. “I was so scared about telling you I didn’t know whether it was your baby or Ray’s, but now … it doesn’t matter.”

  “Fuck,” he said.

  Christina swallowed. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  She waited for him to start yelling. What do you mean, my baby or Ray’s?

  Grant dropped his hat to the bed and sat down next to her. He smelled good—dusty, full of sunshine and warmth.

  “Sugar, I’m so sorry.”

  Grant’s voice was hushed, all anger gone. Christina glanced at him and saw tears sparkling in his eyes, rendering them the deepest lake blue.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I was so worried about how to break it to you. Even when I found out it wasn’t going to happen … I still couldn’t decide whether to tell you …”

  “Karen called me and told me to come.” Grant slid his arm around her shoulder. “I’m glad she did.”

  Christina gave him a wry smile. “I never thought Karen would be the one to hold my hand when I got the bad news.”

  Grant’s arm tightened around her, and Christina sank into him. He was so strong, his strength comforting, no matter what the ordeal.

  She thought over what Karen had said about men being fragile. She supposed Grant could be fragile—for all his strength. He’d nearly fallen apart when they’d broken up, after month after month of hoping a child would come and finally giving up. They’d both been a wreck for a long time.

  Even now, Grant had just heard he’d yet again lost the chance to be a father. But he said nothing, only held her.

  “I wanted this to be real,” Christina said softly. “For you and me both. I wanted it so bad. When I got into the car after the appointment, I couldn’t stop crying. Poor Karen.”

  Karen stopped at a convenience store to buy her a box of tissues. But she’d been sympathetic.

  “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” Grant’s voice was quiet. “I’d have gone with you. You shouldn’t have had to face that alone.”

  “Then neither of us would have been able to drive home.” Christina gave him a shaky smile. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  “Yeah, they would have been.” Grant rubbed her arm. “Ray, huh?”

  Christina nodded. “It was the week before the wedding, when he was going off for the rodeo. And then you and me …”

  “Lost it in my trailer. I remember.” Grant blew out his breath. “Hell, yeah, do I remember.”

  “I was so happy. Scared, but happy. And then …”

  Christina had been crying since she’d come home. She’d tried to stop—the distraction of Grant storming in had helped a little, but the tears wouldn’t dry up.

  The sobs returned. Poured out. She ended up with her head on Grant’s chest, his arms around her. He kissed her hair, said “Shh, sweetheart.”

  Grant smelled of horse, leather, smoke from the train, himself. He held her securely in his arms, protecting her from the world once again. Christina put her arms around him and hung on.

  Not long later, they were lying on top of the bed, Grant’s caresses gentle. Both were fully clothed—Grant in his Wild West gear, minus his prop guns, Christina in her tank top and denim shorts.

  It hurt so much. The thought of at last carrying a baby had twined around her heart, bathing her in elation.

  Losing that hope was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to go through.

  Grant kissed her gently, touched her face, her throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and full of tears, and broke her heart.

  They held each other for a long, long time, lying full length, saying nothing, using touches and little kisses to let the other know they were there. The sun sank, slanting warmth through the bedroom windows.

  After a while, Christina said, “Your shoot. Did I mess it up for you?”

  The bed moved with his shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Buster was out, anyway. But hell, baby, even if everything had been perfect, I’d have come.”

  “Carter will probably rip you a new one,” Christina said, trying to find humor. But she felt limp, spent, as though she’d never laugh again.

  “Carter can suck on it. But he’d understand if he knew why.”

  Christina flattened her hand against his chest. “Please, don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to have to explain.”

  “You know I won’t, sweetheart.”

  “And not Ray. Please. Even with this, I wasn’t thinking about going back to him. It’s over for good. I meant that.”

  Grant’s eyes flickered. “I might still kill him. I just won’t tell him why.”

  “Leave it, Grant. Please?”

  “Don’t worry, love. I won’t talk to Ray. Don’t really want to.”

  “I’m sorry.” Christina sighed. “And I’m so tired of saying sorry.”

  “Then quit doing it. I believe you about Ray. I don’t want to go buy him flowers and tell him he and I should love each other, but I know you two are done. We need to move on.”

  “Move on to what?” Christina asked, sad.

  “I don’t know.” Grant caressed her cheek, letting his fingers trail to her shoulder. “All I know is I don’t want you moving out of Riverbend. Not yet. Not until I find out if we have a chance together.”

  Christina didn’t want to leave either. She loved Riverbend, in spite of how much she complained, and she knew it.

  “I made a big show of quitting my job,” she said dolefully. “I’d need it back if I stayed. I have a little put aside, but it won’t last forever. Bailey and I are buying this house together—I need to keep up my half. Plus there’s food, electricity—you know, all those luxuries.”

  “Christina, I have money. And you know I’ve always wanted to take care of you.”

  A gorgeous cowboy looking at her with those blue eyes and telling her that was hard to resist.

  Christina had to smile. “I remember fighting about that too. I like to pay my own way, and you know it. I’m not going to be the lady who lunches and has an affair with the tennis pro because her rich husband is too busy for her.”

  Grant gave her a patient look. “Sweetie, this is Riverbend, not Beverley Hills. We don’t have tennis pros.”

  She flicked her fingers against his chest. “You know what I mean. I want to contribute—we should be partners, not me being the cook and housekeeper while you take honeys out to lunch.”

  “Hey, did I ever say we’d be like that?”

  “No,” Christina said with a straight face. “You’re a total feminist, not a macho bone in you.”

  Grant’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Lying on her bed, in his black clothes and duster, looking like he’d just robbed a train and ridden home to his woman, Grant was more macho than this feminine room could take. The lacy pillows didn’t stand a chance. He was getting them very dirty. Bailey wouldn’t be happy.

  No, Bailey would un
derstand. She’d married a Campbell.

  “I mean I don’t want you to buy me,” Christina said. She loosened the bandanna around his neck. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, showing a sliver of liquid-dark skin.

  “Okay, I won’t give you a penny. You can sleep in the basement and eat crusts of bread, and I’ll eat off gold plates upstairs.”

  “In your trailer.” Christina touched the hollow of his throat. “Yeah, that would work.”

  “Fine—you go work and earn a ton of cash, and then I’ll stay home and drink beer. Sounds fair to me.”

  “You’d get fat and slobby.” Christina poked his stomach, which was rock-hard. “Then I’d have to go find that tennis pro. I like a man who can move.”

  “Oh, I can move, sweetheart.”

  Grant swiftly pushed her into the bed, coming over her to cover her mouth with a long kiss. He slid hands down her body as he kissed her, but quietly, soothing. Warming her.

  Christina held on to him and lost herself in the kiss. She tasted his tears and his grief, felt his body tight with emotion.

  She loved him so much. Even when they’d fought all during the years, Christina had loved Grant with everything she had.

  They went on kissing, and when the kiss drew to its end, they simply touched, gliding fingers over each other’s bodies. Sometimes they kept to the fabric, sometimes they dipped beneath their clothes to brush bare skin.

  They seemed to have a tacit agreement to not take it to full sex. They needed comfort right now, to simply be in each other’s company. The frenzy of love-making would come later.

  The sun sank, bathing them in darkness. Only then did Grant rise from the bed and skim off his clothes. He slowly stripped Christina, dropping her shirt, shorts, and panties to the floor, and then lay down with her again.

  Grant slid inside her without haste. Christina was slick, wanting him, a groan leaving her mouth as he spread and filled her.

  The feeling of Grant inside her was so right. He belonged with her. Their hearts and bodies understood—their heads were what needed to catch up.

  Grant went slowly at first, Christina running her hands over his taut, wonderful body, finding every hollow of him. She pressed his hips as they rose and fell, and under her touch, he went faster, then faster still.