by Susan Fox
“I guess it would be.” Her mother nodded, then said, “Jessica, you invite him over for supper. Your pa and I would love to see him, and I’m sure Robin would like to meet your old friend.”
“Robin.” Jess leaped to her feet. No way was she letting her daughter and Evan sit down and talk around the Bly kitchen table.
When Evan had been in New York, Jess and Dave’s deception had seemed so logical and been so easy to maintain. Now, she truly felt like she was in the middle of a tangled web, and she wasn’t a very skilled spider. “She’d be bored,” she said quickly. “All that talk about old times. Besides, I don’t know if Evan can come. Maybe he’s got other plans. Gosh, maybe it’s supposed to be a secret he’s here. I never asked.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “He wouldn’t keep it a secret from us. And we won’t be telling Brooke. It would only hurt her if he doesn’t get in touch. Lord knows, that woman’s had enough pain in her life. Jessica, you invite Evan for supper. Maybe Friday?”
“I—”
“If you don’t ask him, I’ll call the Crazy Horse and do it myself. Just because you’re feeling guilty for having cut off ties with an old friend, you shouldn’t deny your pa and me an opportunity to catch up with him.”
Oh great, now she was getting guilt from her mom. “Okay, I’ll ask. Night, Mom.”
Jess went to kiss her sleeping daughter. Then, as she brushed her teeth and washed her face, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Same old Jess. Country girl, plain and simple. Freckles, no make-up. Long dark lashes and well-shaped brows. A straight nose, full lips, a strong jaw. Not bad, but nothing that would compare to Cynthia. Yet Evan seemed to find country girl attractive. She’d been right that he always had, and she felt vindicated.
She tilted her head. Was she attractive, or had it always been about that inexplicable bond between her and Evan? When she’d loved him in high school, she’d known the girls considered him a nerdy know-it-all, a misfit who shunned their town and was shunned in return. Jess had focused on the beautiful eyes and his sweet, loyal personality, and she’d found him the most attractive guy in the world.
Now he really was gorgeous on the outside. Was that what drew her, or was it her conviction that the old Ev still lived inside the handsome new shell?
Aagh. “Don’t,” she muttered, and bopped herself on the head again. It didn’t matter why she was drawn. There were so many reasons to resist the urge.
Tomorrow, she’d pass on her mother’s supper invitation. If Evan accepted, she’d make sure Robin was at Dave’s.
Did she want him to accept?
Evan couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t just because of the mosquito bites. Tonight, knowing Cynthia waited for him in Manhattan, he’d started to make love to Jess. His body still ached with unsatisfied lust.
Lust? Much as he’d like to think that was all it was, he couldn’t fool himself that things would ever be that simple with Jess. What was it about the woman?
Partly, it was their history. She’d had an unwavering loyalty. She’d pushed and challenged and questioned, she’d teased him about his clumsiness, but the constant underlying theme was her faith in him.
No one else had ever thought so highly of him. His father—before he’d run out on Evan and Brooke—had called him a sissy and a failure. His mother had almost been worse. Every now and then, she’d be fun, exciting, affectionate, and he’d get sucked in. Sucked in to caring, to believing she might actually care for him. But those spells never lasted long, and she’d be back to the drinking, the long days in bed or in front of the TV. Back to whining about this stupid hick town and about Evan, saying he’d ruined her life.
Jess’s parents . . . Well, they’d been great, but to them he’d always been their daughter’s eggheaded little friend. The other kids at school had included him in activities only if Jess insisted.
It all came back to Jess. She’d been the firm center that held his faltering world in orbit.
Cynthia was her own self-contained world, just as he, in Manhattan, was his. Now he wondered if maybe they’d each been holding their emotions in careful check, afraid to surrender control. Control, versus love.
Did he love Cynthia?
He liked and admired her, and he certainly loved the idea of her. She was exactly what he’d always believed he wanted.
But as for real love . . . He wasn’t sure what the word meant. When he looked back on his life, he realized the only time he’d ever come close to loving was when he and Jess were kids. His feelings for her had seemed so straightforward. The only uncomplicated aspect of his life. But then they had hit their teens, and hormones had messed up even that one good thing.
Now here she was, in his life again. And he still had feelings for her. The childhood affection, plus the teenage lust in raging proportion, and maybe something more: a liking and respect for, and a curiosity about, the woman she had become.
As for the lust, he definitely had to sublimate that feeling. His commitment to Cynthia wasn’t a formal one, but it was real. Besides, the fact was, he and Jess had always belonged in different worlds. They had no future as anything other than friends.
As she had pointed out. Damn, she was right. And she didn’t even know his real reason for being here. If he revealed it, they might have no future at all.
Why did he care so much whether they did? And why didn’t he feel the same things for Cynthia as he did for Jess? Was it simply a matter of time? His emotions for Jess were both more tender and more violent. In fact, with Jess, he was irrational. With Cynthia, he was utterly rational. There was a powerful lesson in that. He valued rationality.
Evan traded his sweaty pillow for a fresh one, and listened to the absence of sound. How the hell could anyone sleep in this place? He missed the constant background hum of traffic, the shrill of sirens, the bustle of a city always awake, always alive. Here there were no sounds to lull him to sleep, to distract him from the turmoil of his thoughts.
He swung out of bed, wishing for one of the forms of relief that would have been available in New York. But there was no Internet to surf, no e-mail to check, not even a TV with a twenty-four-hour news channel.
He clicked on a light and studied the photo of Cynthia that sat on the dresser. He’d come close to betraying her, and the knowledge shocked him. First thing in the morning he’d call her. A defense against Jess.
By the time he’d showered in the morning, Evan was able to view the previous night with crystal clarity. There was one, and only one, reasonable explanation. Temporary insanity.
He hurried to the lodge, dialed the phone, and it rang and rang. He was going to be stuck with voice mail again.
But no, she answered, sounding distracted.
“Cynthia, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Evan, hello. I’m busy, but, no, of course I have a moment to talk, darling.”
He could imagine her expression as she turned her focus from work to him, and he appreciated that she was making the effort.
“So,” she teased, “are you walking bowlegged and singing country and western songs?”
He scratched a mosquito bite. The damned things itched like crazy. “Good guess. I’m definitely sore. Riding is hard on the body. And last night there was a sing-along. We ran through quite the repertoire of old favorites. Are you familiar with that song that goes ‘She’ll be coming ’round the mountain when she comes’ ”? He heard the sarcasm in his voice and winced. The lyrics were no more ridiculous than most opera librettos.
“I take it that’s not some kinky sex analogy?”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Somehow I don’t think so. Though in one verse she was wearing pink pajamas when she came.”
She chuckled. “Poor darling. Culture deprivation. Take heart, it’s only a couple more days.”
And he’d learned absolutely nothing about Jess’s proposal. What the hell was wrong with him? His work ethic was atrophying out here in the boonies.
; “Jess doesn’t seem inclined to discuss her proposal,” he said. “Any suggestions?”
“Hmm. That seems odd, considering you used to be such friends. Maybe she’s shy about it in light of your success.”
He reflected. “That’s perceptive of you.”
This was what they did best. Brainstorm together. With a few words, she’d given him an insight from which he could work out a new approach.
“How about you?” he asked. “What are you working on?”
“Weston has decided to go after Dynamite, so I have a lot on my plate.”
“Oh, right.” How could he have forgotten a deal like that? “Tell me about it.”
She didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then, “Are you sure you’re interested?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He truly was. That was his world as well as hers, and he listened intently as she described the maneuvers she was planning. He asked a couple of questions, made a suggestion, and felt his hunger for home grow into a gnawing ache.
“I must get back to it,” she said, “but before I go, I’ve heard good things about a one-man play that’s in town next week. They’re saying the performer’s the new Woody Allen.”
He grimaced. “I’m not a big Woody Allen fan.” Understatement. He found the guy unbearably tedious.
“Right. I forgot. Oh well, I’ll go with Tonia; she’ll be keen.”
“Great.”
“Uh-huh. Got to go. Bye, darling.”
“Bye, Cynthia.”
They really were good together, he thought as he hung up. Even when their interests differed, there was no pressure. She’d be quite happy going to the play with her friend, and she’d share any interesting bits afterward. Their lives were a perfect balance of togetherness and separateness.
At breakfast the others rehashed the highlights of the hayride and sing-along, and Evan, in a New York state of mind, thought how naive they all sounded. He didn’t have much appetite and left the table early.
As he tramped down the hill to the barnyard, he kicked a pebble and wished he was back home. He hadn’t belonged in the Cariboo when he was a kid, and he didn’t belong here now. The difference was, now he was a grown-up, a free agent, and he didn’t have to stay.
Today he’d find an opportunity to get Jess alone. She had softened toward him last night, and, insane idiot that he’d been, he’d never even thought of exploiting that opportunity to ask about her business plans. Was Cynthia right, that Jess was overawed by his success? Maybe she’d feel less intimidated now, after he’d made a fool of himself last night. He’d apologize, play up his frailties and her strengths, and look for an opportunity to talk about her current dream.
Madisun gave him a subdued “Good morning” and he asked, “How’s your sister?”
“She’ll be okay. Thanks for asking.” But her smile looked as forced as his had been.
Should he inquire further? No, he didn’t want to be pushy. Besides, he had his own agenda. “Where’s TJ?”
“In the barn, getting tack.”
Squaring his shoulders, he strode inside. Jess had just hauled a saddle down, and the moment their gazes locked over the top of it, he felt a zing of sexual heat.
Quickly, he looked away. The next thing he knew, she was dumping the saddle into his arms. “This is Mickey’s,” she said brusquely. “You can saddle him up.”
He got a grip on the saddle. “About last night . . .”
“Yes?”
“I behaved stupidly. I’m really sorry.”
She shrugged, her expression noncommittal. “No problem. We both did.”
She turned away, slung a bridle over her shoulder, and picked up another saddle from a peg marked “Rambler.” When she walked out of the barn, he walked beside her.
“My parents asked me to invite you over for supper,” she said without looking at him.
He stopped dead. “Your parents . . .” When he’d had sex with Jess, he’d not only betrayed their friendship, but the trust her parents had placed in him. What had she told them—ten years ago, and now?
She stopped, too, and shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Don’t worry, they don’t know anything about what happened when we were seventeen. I just told them we were both too busy to stay in touch.”
“Thanks. That’s more than I deserve.”
“Yes.”
What could he say to that? Instead, he responded to the invitation. “I’d love to see them, but I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
She gnawed on her lip, and then her face relaxed and she gave him a genuine smile. “I’d like you to come, too. I’m just feeling a little weird about . . . you know. Last night and everything.”
“Me, too.” He felt weird, as well, about the fact that despite his best intentions, his body was superaware of hers. “But you’re right, we should concentrate on being friends. We made great friends once upon a time, and I’d like to get that back.”
She sighed, then said softly, “Me, too.”
Finally, here was an opportunity. “Then I want to get to know you again. You hold back with me, Jess. I know the basics, like your divorce, your daughter, living at your parents’ ranch. But you don’t tell me your hopes and dreams the way you always used to. I miss that.”
She ducked her head a little, so the brim of her cowboy hat hid her eyes. “It takes time to rebuild trust.”
Trust. Shit. “I guess it does.” He did want to be her friend, to hear her hopes and dreams. He wanted to be a man she could trust. He couldn’t manipulate Jess to serve Gianni’s agenda, and he couldn’t sit at her parents’ dinner table and deceive the whole family. Cynthia would probably disagree with him, but he had to call Gianni, be more forthcoming about his friendship with Jess, and say that this undercover role didn’t work for him. He needed to convince his client that he could be honest with Jess and still objectively assess her plans.
Jess glanced up, wrinkling her nose. “About supper, uh, there’s something else. Pa asked me to tell you in case it makes a difference.”
“Huh? Tell me what?”
She walked over to the dark brown horse Aaron rode, and Evan followed, still lugging Mickey’s saddle. “Hey, Rambler,” Jess crooned, then she eased her saddle onto the horse’s back. To Evan, she said, “Do you know why your father left town, back when you were ten?”
His father? He never thought about Mo Kincaid. How had the man come into this conversation? “Didn’t know why he stayed, didn’t know why he went. All I knew was, I was glad. Brooke might have neglected me, but she didn’t hit me.”
Jess was tightening the cinch, and sent him a quick glance over her shoulder. “I didn’t know this at the time, but it was my parents, Ev. They reported him to the cops.”
“What? Did you—”
“No,” she said quickly. “I didn’t tell them. I didn’t know that much anyhow, just that your parents fought more than mine did and you sometimes got hit. You didn’t say much—”
“Damn right.” His dad had drummed into him, with his fists, that family secrets weren’t to be shared. Still, he’d been a little kid, Jess was his best friend, and he’d let a thing or two slip, then sworn her to secrecy.
“Everyone knew you were a klutz, but my folks got suspicious of all your bruises and cuts. Then when you had that broken arm and said you’d fallen out of a tree . . .” She shook her head. “You were no tree climber.”
It had been a stupid story. Had he secretly wanted her parents to guess the truth that he was scared to tell?
Fingers busy with the saddle, she said, “The police questioned your father. He was drunk. He denied everything, and, uh, Brooke backed him up. But the cops didn’t buy it. They told my parents they were going to charge him. Guess he saw it coming, because he took off.”
Well. He might’ve been Jess’s little eggheaded friend, but the Blys had cared enough about him to protect him. That was pretty amazing. As for his dad and Brooke . . . well, he’d always known they didn’t give a da
mn what happened to him.
“Yeah,” he said, “that makes sense. There wasn’t much to keep him. A kid he didn’t want, except as a punching bag. A wife . . . well, the same went for her. That’s why Brooke would have kept quiet—she’d have been afraid he’d beat her up. God knows why the two of them ever got married in the first place. Well, of course that was because he knocked her up when she was barely more than a kid. Jeez, it’s enough to put you off marriage for life.”
She slanted him a gentle smile. “But then you look at my folks and realize that’s how it’s supposed to be. They had that bad patch back when I was seven or eight, but they loved each other, worked things out, and were stronger for it.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yet you and Dave didn’t make it. Guess there are no guarantees, are there?”
“No, but you can stack the deck,” she said, taking the horse’s halter off.
“For example?”
“Don’t get married too young, to someone you barely know. Don’t . . . well, I’m sure you can fill in dozens of others.”
“Don’t knock a girl up like my father did,” he said bitterly.
She’d been buckling Rambler’s bridle. Her fingers stopped dead. “Right.”
Damn. What an ass. “Sorry, Jess. I forgot about you and Dave. Honestly.”
“Yeah. Okay.” She cleared her throat and picked up the task again. “Anyhow, Pa wanted you to know. In case you held it against them.”
“God, no. They might have saved my life.” The broken arm hadn’t been the worst of his injuries, only the most visible.
“So, supper tomorrow?”
“I’d be pleased to come. It’ll be great to see them again.” It would, and so would meeting her daughter. At least, in that environment, he ought to be able to curb any feelings of lust for his old friend.
“You going to put that saddle on Mickey, or stand around lollygagging all day?”
“Oh, right.”
As he got Mickey ready, and then Rusty, Evan reflected on parents: Jess’s and his own. She was right that he had good role models in the Blys. He’d always been so positive he didn’t want kids, but Jess’s comments had started him thinking. Was it fear of being a bad parent that held him back? Should he tell Cynthia he was willing to reconsider the issue—if she was willing to reconsider her ideas about parenting? And yet, could he imagine himself and Cynthia with a family of their own sharing dinner at home in the same way he used to have dinner with the Blys when he was a boy?
