Rance shrugged his shoulders against the straw beneath his back. He flexed his shoulders, clenched his toes. Maybe thoughts of him out here in the barn were keeping her up, the same way thoughts of her naked in her too-big-for-one-person bed were driving him up the wall.
What if she was just waiting up over there, wondering how to get him to come to her?
What if she wanted him and couldn't manage to say so? What if he went to the house right now and opened the door? What if she smiled at him? Held out her arms to him? Invited him to…
He couldn't get out of his sleeping bag fast enough.
He stopped just long enough to comb his hair and run a hand over his jaw, then wish he had running water in the barn. There was considerably more than a five-o'clock shadow on his jaw at half past midnight.
But maybe Ellie would think his whiskers were sexy.
Or maybe she would be too busy kissing him to notice.
He hurried across the yard and up the porch steps. It wasn't until he reached the door that he hesitated. Usually he went right in.
But usually she was expecting him for a meal or to take a shower. He didn't want to surprise her.
He tried to see in the window, but the shades were drawn, and the angle from which he had to peer only gave him a slice of the sink. She wasn't standing at the sink.
He put his hand on the knob. The door was unlocked.
He knocked, anyway.
If she really didn't want him, he would see it on her face, and he could make up some excuse about forgetting to brush his teeth.
Want me. The words hammered in his head. He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting, listening for footsteps.
She didn't come.
He tapped again. Louder. Maybe she had the television on, though he couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything except the wind in the pines on the hillside and the muffled sounds of cattle.
She didn't come.
He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He rocked back on his heels, then tapped his toes. Aw, the hell with it, he thought, and eased open the door.
"Ellie?" He said her name softly, not wanting to wake the kids. He stepped into the empty kitchen. "El?"
Closing the door and moving as quietly as he could without taking his boots off, Rance crossed the kitchen. "Ellie?" he called again softly.
She couldn't be waiting in bed for him, could she?
His heartbeat quickened. He stepped into the doorway to the living room and stopped dead.
Ellie wasn't in bed, but she was fast asleep. She was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, a piece of bright blue cloth and a needle and thread on her lap, as if she'd simply fallen asleep while sewing.
Which, Rance thought, damn it all, she probably had!
So much for making love with Ellie O'Connor.
She was clearly too tired to do anything at all. He was surprised she hadn't fallen asleep in her dinner some nights. She worked twenty hours a day, for heaven's sake!
Even now, asleep, she looked tired. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. He would have liked to run his thumb over those smudges, erasing them, making her the eager innocent he'd once known. But there was no way to do that. No way to turn back the clock.
And, truth be told, he liked Ellie the way she was.
Oh, not as tired as she was. But the woman she was. The woman she'd become in the past eleven years. There was a strength in her, a determination, a purposefulness that he admired. It amazed him how a woman as delicate as she looked could be as resilient as she was.
It was actually comforting to see that she wasn't superhuman, that she sometimes got too tired, that she sometimes couldn't accomplish everything she put her mind to.
Rance moved quietly across the room, coming to stand over her where he could actually indulge himself and look his fill.
Ellie had always been pretty. But there was more than prettiness in her face now. There was gentleness, warmth, caring—character. She was a woman for whom life had not been easy, Rance knew that well enough.
And yet she looked almost happy as she slept.
"Are you happy, El?" Rance whispered. He reached out a hand and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.
For an instant, at his touch, her brows furrowed, and he held himself quite still, afraid that she would wake. But then her forehead smoothed again and she smiled once just slightly as she shifted, trying to get more comfortable. The piece of blue cloth slipped off her lap.
Rance picked it up, taking care to pick up the needle and thread along with it. He held it up, studying it. It looked like a dress—a doll-sized dress. Not, not a doll. A bear. She was making clothes for Clarissa.
As if she didn't have enough to do, he thought to himself as he set it on the table beside the couch.
"You need sleep, not sewing," he told her in barely more than a whisper. And then, before he could think twice about what he was doing, he bent and slid his hands under her, scooping her up in his arms.
It was an indication of just how tired she was that she didn't even wake up. Instead she simply leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers clutching at his shirt-front, and she slept on.
He carried her to her room. Her hair brushed against his mouth. He could kiss the top of her head.
For an instant he did. Couldn't help himself.
He'd never been in her bedroom. He went in boldly now. He crossed the room and, bending down, laid her gently on the bed.
She sighed and smiled slightly, but still didn't wake up.
He wondered if he ought to undress her. But he wasn't sure she was exhausted enough to sleep through that. And he wasn't sure what kind of damage control he'd have to do if she woke up to find him peeling off her jeans.
He didn't dare even slide the covers down and tuck her between the sheets for fear of waking her. Finally he just undid the top two buttons of her shirt—only to make her more comfortable, he rationalized—then lifted the blankets on the far side and covered her with them as best he could.
It wasn't much, but it was better than leaving her on the sofa.
So much for pipe dreams about sliding into the bed next to her, making love with her and keeping her warm that way. He wasn't going to get it. Not tonight.
But one thing he couldn't resist. He bent and pressed a light kiss to her lips.
A shadow fell across the bed.
"What're you doin' to her?"
The harsh childish voice caused Rance to jerk back. He spun around to see a pajama-clad Josh standing in the doorway. The boy looked at him accusingly.
"I found your mom asleep on the sofa," Rance said. "And I carried her to bed."
For a moment Josh didn't say anything, just looked at him. And the way he looked made Rance feel very much like a teenager all over again, caught with his hands in Mary Jane Beasley's shirt.
But then he pulled himself together. He was an adult, not a teenager. He was interested in this woman. "I was kissing her good-night," he said.
Now Josh took a step into the room. "You don't need to do that," he said firmly.
"No. I suppose I don't," Rance said. "But your mother has very kissable lips, you know."
He shouldn't have said it. It was almost as if he was trying to have another of those arguments he had with Josh. As if he was playing devil's advocate. Or the devil himself.
"It don't mean you gotta kiss 'em," Josh said furiously. He jerked his head toward the door. "Get outa here. Now."
The boy's anger was palpable. And Rance felt equal parts foolish and regretful. He rubbed a hand against the back of his head, nodding and heading toward the door at the same time. "It's okay, Josh," he said gently. "I was only giving her one kiss. That's all."
The boy didn't answer. He didn't move, just kept his gaze fixed on Rance unblinkingly as Rance eased his way out of the room.
"She fell asleep on the couch. I came in for … a glass of water. I found her there. She was exhausted. Obviously. She works too damn hard." He c
ouldn't keep all the emotion out of his voice, but he tried to keep it down. "I figured she needed as much rest as she could get, so I carried her into the bedroom, put her down and kissed her good-night. That's all."
The boy didn't even blink, but slowly his gaze turned. He looked at his mother, then he lifted his gaze, looking for a moment toward a photo on the dresser just beyond the bed. It looked like a wedding photo to Rance. Finally Josh's gaze moved back to meet his. There was an ache in his eyes so deep it hurt Rance to look at it.
"I've known your mother a long time, Josh," he said quietly. "We're old friends. Old friends are allowed a good-night kiss."
He wasn't sure if he was convincing the boy or not. He just knew he didn't ever want to be responsible for pain that harsh. "Ask her, if you're worried about it," he said at last.
"Maybe—" Josh cleared his throat "—maybe I will."
The boy followed him to the living room. Rance remembered to get his glass of water. He gulped it down and set the glass on the counter, all the while feeling the boy's eyes on him. Then he opened the door, paused, looked back and gave the boy his due. "You're a good man, Josh O'Connor."
"Huh?"
"You're takin' care of your mother. Good for you."
Was he?
It didn't seem like it sometimes. Not well enough, anyhow, Josh thought as he stood at the window in the darkened living room and watched from behind the curtains as Rance took a slow, lazy walk toward the barn.
If he'd been taking care of his mother right, he wouldn't have let Sunny spook and throw him. He wouldn't have broken his arm. He wouldn't have let a lecher like Rance Phillips move in on her—much less have encouraged him!
But how was he supposed to know Phillips had had eyes for his mother?
Josh wasn't used to thinking of his mother as a sex object. Even thinking the words sex object made him shift from one foot to the other and shrug his shoulders against his pajama shirt because it suddenly felt too small.
He was almost ten and a half years old. He knew about sex. He knew what went where. What kid raised on a cattle ranch didn't?
Sometimes lately he even thought about it. Not about cows and bulls. About girls—like Megan Stevens and Katie Kyle in his class at school.
Not about his mother! Josh couldn't imagine anybody thinking things like that about his mother.
But Rance Phillips did.
Josh's fingers tightened on the curtain as he watched Rance disappear into the barn. Would Rance have gone back to the barn if Josh hadn't come looking in his mother's room? Or would he have woken her up? Slid in bed beside her?
Josh let go of the curtain and shook his head, as if he could dislodge the thought. Of course not! And even if Rance had thought about it, his mom wouldn't have let him.
Would she?
Josh was sure she wouldn't.
At least he was pretty sure she wouldn't.
But she liked Rance. He could tell that from the way she watched him sometimes when he was saddling his horse, telling stories to the kids, or dipping his head under the tap to cool off. She'd stand there watching, and she'd get a funny kind of look on her face.
She never had that look when she was watching him or the twins or Carrie. Josh had only seen it a few times—and only when she'd been watching his dad.
She used to go out with Rance—before she'd married Dad.
Did she want Rance like she'd wanted Dad?
She missed Dad. Josh knew that. His mom was lonely. He knew that, too. Sometimes he found it hard to believe a person could be lonely in a house this small with so many people in it.
But he knew it could happen, because sometimes he felt lonely here, too. Caleb and Daniel were twins. They had each other. Mom and Carrie were girls. They had each other. But he, Josh, had no one.
Not anymore.
Once he'd had his dad.
He shut his eyes and pressed his fists against them. He shouldn't be thinking about his dad tonight. It hurt whenever he thought about his father. It was like there was this great aching hole where his father once had been.
He'd spent eight years of his life watching his dad and doing everything just the way he did. Usually his dad called him Josh or Bud, but sometimes he'd called Josh Chip—as in "chip off the old block."
When he'd been old enough to understand that meant he was just like his father, Josh's chest had swelled with pride.
He could still remember that feeling, could still remember standing straighter when his father said the words. He could still remember the feel of his father's hand, firm and steady on his shoulder or rough and teasing, ruffling his hair.
It wasn't the same when his mom ruffled his hair. She did it softer, as if she might hurt him if she rubbed his head really hard. It hadn't ever hurt when his dad had done it. Josh reached up now and scrubbed his hand roughly through his hair. Like that, he thought, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.
But that wasn't it, either. Not really.
No one did it like his dad had.
No one ever would again.
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Rance was careful around Ellie after that.
With Josh's eyes on him, he was circumspect, proper. Everything that Josh could possibly want him to be.
He was frustrated as hell, too. Nothing new about that.
He was sure Josh would be pleased as punch if he knew, but he was equally determined the boy would never find out.
It occurred to Rance more than once over the next few days that maybe nothing at all would ever happen between him and Ellie. Maybe his dreams and fantasies would come to naught. Maybe all you got in life was one single shot. And as far as Ellie was concerned, he'd already had that.
It was beginning to look that way.
Well, then, so be it.
At least he'd done some good for her these past couple of weeks. He'd got her cattle down and sorted. He'd delivered three calves. He'd got her fences mended and her wood chopped. Yesterday, when a hard rain had made him less inclined to spend more time outside than he had to, he'd even helped strip wallpaper in Carrie's bedroom.
"You don't have to do that," Ellie protested. "Take a nap. Read a book. Watch television. You don't have to work every minute."
But he'd wanted to. Not just work. He wanted to spend time with Ellie.
So he did. And he felt the same proprietary interest in the kids and in the house that he already felt about the ranch.
For all the good it would do him.
Because before long he was going to have to leave. He had a court date coming up—a case he had to try, one that he couldn't postpone or fob off on Lydia. He'd talked to Jodi about it earlier in the week, and she'd assured him that it was hard-and-fast in the schedule.
"Monday afternoon," she'd said. "You will be here?"
"I'll be there," Rance had promised. But not without regret. He would have to leave Sunday evening, after the branding.
Doubtless that would make Ellie happy.
She'd been more distant with him than ever since the night he'd carried her to her bed. She'd never mentioned it to him, of course. Maybe she didn't even know for sure he'd done it. Maybe she thought she'd sleepwalked.
Or maybe Josh had told her about the kiss.
He'd hoped for an unspoken acknowledgment, a little eye contact at least. But she'd barely looked in his direction and went out doors as quickly as he came in them.
Finally last night Rance had broken down and stopped Josh as the boy was on his way to the tree house. He asked Josh if he'd spoken to his mother about what happened.
The boy had given him another of those looks of searing disapproval. But then he'd shaken his head. "I wouldn't," he said stonily.
Obviously even bringing up such a thing to his mother was distasteful. One more person who'd be happy to have the branding over and see Rance Phillips's back.
Still Rance didn't want to go.
Even on a day like today—a day when the rain still came
down, shoved down the valley by an increasingly sharp north wind and he couldn't hole up inside by a nice warm fire because one of the last of Ellie's pregnant cows was trying to deliver—he found himself reluctant to think about leaving two days later.
You like it here? He asked himself, hunching his shoulders and turning his collar up against the rain. You like this?
Well, maybe not this. But once the calf was delivered, once the chores were done, he did like the thought of tramping up the steps to the warm, waiting kitchen. He did like the notion of sitting around the supper table with Ellie and the kids, of the chatter and the questions and, after, sitting with them all in the living room, playing checkers with the boys or telling stories to Carrie, while Ellie worked on the books or sewed or read in the rocker by the fire.
"C'mon, Bossy, we haven't got all day," he muttered to the straining cow.
The cow gave him a baleful look. She made a pained lowing sound. He got off Sunny and checked the calf. It was big, but he thought she could manage. He wished he knew more about her.
The rain turned to sleet. The sleet stung his face. He got back into the saddle and moved on, checking on the other cattle, trying to stay warm, trying to keep Sunny warm and moving.
The next time he checked, things were no further along. The cow was straining more, accomplishing less. He considered trying to get her down to the barn. If he was actually going to have to deliver this calf, he'd rather do it there than in a wet, frozen pasture.
But he knew from her labored breathing he'd left it too long. She was in no shape for a mile jaunt at this point. She'd be having the calf right here—and like it or not he'd be helping.
He got his rope and squatted at the nether end of her. "Okay, sweetheart. You got a little problem, but nothin' we can't handle together. You wait till I get ready, then you push and I'll pull, and we'll have this critter out in no time."
He stripped off his gloves and reached toward her. She swatted him with a tail full of rain and nameless muck.
He swiped it away and set to work.
He wasn't even aware when it started snowing.
The last thing on earth Ellie needed right now was a teacher in-service day.
Cowboy on the Run Page 9
