The Runaway Bride

by Patricia McLinn

  Judi’s amusement soured. Becky hadn’t selected these jeans for her. That meant—

  “I told you you were way off, Thomas. Didn’t I say that? Didn’t I?”

  Thomas straightened from stowing lettuce in the refrigerator, glanced Judi’s direction for a millisecond and turned to the cooler, taking out a plastic milk jug. “Yeah, you said it.”

  Thomas had picked out these jeans. Thomas, who had glided his talented hands over her after the accident, then had held her so close the day she oiled the hinges, had translated what he’d felt into a body that would wear these jeans.

  “You thought these would fit me?” Oh, lord, she hoped that hadn’t sounded as plaintive as it felt.

  “Comfort’s more important than style on a ranch.” He sounded strange. For a second she thought he was laughing, but no. “Besides, denim shrinks.”

  “Not this much,” Judi muttered.

  “Now go try on these,” Becky ordered. “These are the ones I bought.”

  Having handed over the other jeans, Becky gave her a little shove to get her started, and Judi nearly tripped over the drooping hem. Come to think of it, everything drooped. She grabbed the sliding waistband with her free hand.

  A sound came from behind her, but when she turned around, Thomas had his head back in the refrigerator.

  Putting the next pair on took significantly longer. Pulling them up her legs was like acquiring a second skin. Gran could have used them as anti-embolism stockings. She struggled to close them, finally flopping back on the bed to zip them up. God, she hadn’t done that in ages. The legs were so tight and the material so stiff she could barely bend her knees.

  “I feel like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” she said as she crossed the kitchen threshold. “One’s too big, one’s too small. Wasn’t there a size in between that would have been juuust right?”

  “What do you mean? These aren’t too small. They’re perfect.”

  “Becky, honey, I can’t move.”

  “Sure you can. You got down the stairs, didn’t you? Break ’em in a little and you’ll love them. Besides, they look great on you. Don’t they, Thomas?”

  Judi had been aware he was standing without moving. Now she realized he had the freezer door open and his hand inside it, while cold fog swirled around his head. He didn’t seem to notice. He looked as frozen as the items stored there. Except for the slow glide down, then up of his Adam’s apple.

  In that instant, Judi knew Becky was right—the jeans looked great on her. A curling warmth pulsed low in her stomach and the tips of her breasts tightened against the inside of her bra.

  “C’mon, Thomas, admit it. I was right and you were wrong. She looks really hot in these jeans, just like I told you. I said—”

  “I heard you.” He jerked his hand out of the freezer as if it had been burned. “It’s up to Helga which pair she wants.”

  “Oh, yeah, like she’d wear yours. Who’d want to wear a sack?”

  She was a little shaken—at the intensity of his look, even more at her reaction. “If these jeans shrink any they’ll crush me like a boa constrictor.”

  Becky chuckled, but protested, “Just break them in, you’ll see.”

  Upstairs, wriggling out of the tight fabric, Judi wondered just what it was she’d see if she did wear those jeans long enough to break them in. Would she see that look on Thomas’s face again? All the time?

  She folded the jeans and put them on the dresser. Or would he learn to hide it the way he tried to hide everything else?

  Picking the large pair of jeans off the bed, she folded them, too.

  She stopped in midmotion. Could it be that Thomas knew her figure perfectly well—knew it and was trying to hide it so he wouldn’t be tempted into the kind of reaction he’d shown when she’d worn the pair Becky selected?

  She was smiling when she went downstairs.

  Thomas gave Keith his instructions, slammed the truck’s passenger door and sprinted to avoid a drenching. Jumping an instant puddle, he took the steps two at a time. When he slowed he saw Helga sitting on the porch swing. Even that far under the overhang she was getting misted.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Watching the storm. I’ve become surprisingly partial to storms.”

  It made no sense. But there was something in the look she gave him that drove the blood from his head, sending it south in a rush of heat. He should have been giving off steam. He had to get a grip on this. Or stay the hell away from her.

  “You might want to get soaked, but I’m going to get washed up to go to the bank, so—”

  “You’re going to lose Keith.”

  He turned to her. “I’ve paid attention and he’s just like always. I even asked, and he said everything’s fine.”

  “Big surprise, since you’re so approachable and open to new ideas and people. You practically accused me of stealing when I offered to do something extra for you.”

  “I never said that. If you took it that way, that’s your problem. And I’ve always told the hands to talk to me if they have a problem.”

  “Telling them isn’t enough. God, you’re just like—” She bit it off.

  “Your brother?”

  “No. Paul’s very approachable—for people he likes. The ones he doesn’t like?” She shrugged, dismissing them as Paul would. “Not to mention he has a great sense of humor. He’s the one who showed me the Hot Dog Inn off I-90 when we… Well, that’s beside the point. The point is you’re like a former, unlamented boss of mine.”

  “A boss.” He studied her. “Has to be fairly recent, since you couldn’t have been working more than five, six years. So your memory must be getting better.”

  Seven. But she wasn’t going to confuse the issue with that fact. “Sorry, my memory hasn’t advanced past childhood—she was my boss at a lemonade stand. She said her door was always open, but she only wanted the people she supervised to do exactly what she said and leave her alone. Keith loves working with the horses, but with so few hands, he has to do a lot of stuff he doesn’t like. He understands, but give him something to look forward to. Maybe let him train a few horses or—”

  “I thought you were going to leave this up to me.”

  “I am leaving the specifics up to you.” Her dignified restraint collapsed. “Besides, you’re taking too long. This can’t wait forever, you know.”

  Because her time here was running out and she wanted to see what he did? There were three weeks left on the contract with the agency. But he’d always thought she had her own timetable. High time he figured out what it was.

  He headed for the door.

  “Thomas—”

  Without slowing he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  She watched him walk away, her heart beating faster.

  Maybe it was the intriguing toughness added to his look by a two-day beard. Maybe it was that his I’ll think about it was the literal truth. Nothing like being listened to to get a girl’s heart pounding.

  Sure, it didn’t have anything to do with a fascination with the lightning she’d discovered was part of the particular weather system named Thomas.

  But even someone becoming partial to thunderstorms had to come in out of the rain eventually. She dried off in the utility room, discovered a batch of Gran’s clothes were done, and loaded a basket.

  “Are those my things?” Gran asked. She was writing to friends at the roll-away desk Keith had built. Judi nodded. “I’ll fold them, just leave them on the dresser.”

  Gran had graduated from the walker to crutches last week, and figured out that by using the crutches and keeping weight off her one leg, she could stand for short periods to fold her clothes and put most of them away. Each week—each day—Gran took back more of her duties. Pretty soon Judi would be out of a job and she would go back to Illinois and return to her old life.

  Oh, no, I won’t.

  Judi set down the laundry basket on Gran’s dresser.

  She’d go back, since she woul
dn’t be needed here, but she would not return to her old life. She would not go back to a job where she wasn’t appreciated and that didn’t use her skills. She would not get stuck in something she hated just because she hadn’t found something she loved. Like she’d almost done in marrying Sterling.

  She had fallen into the engagement and wedding because she’d thought she might never find someone to love.

  Green eyes, sandy hair and a stormy personality flashed into her head.

  Oh, no, she wasn’t going to fall for him, not after less than a month… Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! If she ever fell for anybody again it would be after a long, slow get-acquainted period, followed by several years of dating and then maybe a two-or three-year engagement. All told, a decade ought to be safe. And that was if she ever fell again.

  The word fell was punctuated by a heavy tread directly over her head.

  Judi tipped her head back and looked up. Another footstep. In her room.

  It had to be Thomas. Gran couldn’t get up the stairs, and those sure weren’t Becky’s footsteps. Besides, neither Gran nor Becky had any reason to be in her room.

  But Thomas did.

  He didn’t trust her. She knew that. She’d even made provisions for his distrust. So why were her eyes stupidly tearing up?

  How long had she been hearing footsteps while she’d been too lost in thought for their significance to penetrate?

  The footsteps moved again. Getting dimmer. He was leaving.

  She went up the stairs as quietly as they would let her. The door to her room was open, the way she’d left it since nothing she had to hide was in here.

  She checked the closet, the bedside table, the dresser. Nothing appeared to be missing or out of order. She closed the underwear drawer—the last one she’d looked at. He must have been in her room a long time to be so neat about it. A shiver ran down her back and brought goose bumps.

  At the idea of her privacy being violated. Only that. In fact, it left her with an urge to wash her hands. Maybe sprinkle cold water on the back of her neck.

  She swung open her bathroom door, and nearly crashed into Thomas.

  “Hey, watch it! I’ve got a razor here.”

  He stepped back, holding that implement aloft.

  He had no shirt on. And from the tan bronzing the muscles that laced his chest and back, it wasn’t the first time. His jeans were partially unzipped and rode low on his hips, showing a ribbon of hair disappearing into a sliver of white briefs. She snapped her gaze to his face. Shaving cream covered his jawline, his chin and encircled his lips like a white beacon.

  She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She wet her lips and tried again.

  “What are you doing in my bathroom?”

  He faced the mirror again.

  “What I’m doing is shaving—in my bathroom.”

  He jabbed the end of his razor toward the second closet door. Except it was open and she saw beyond it a bed with a shirt laid out. His shirt. His bedroom.

  “But I’ve taken a shower here every morning, and you were never using it.” She’d known his room was upstairs, but if she’d given it any thought, she’d assumed he had his own bathroom.

  “I’m up and at work before you get up. I shower at night, before supper.” He hitched his shoulders, as if to say no big deal. “It’s worked out.”

  Not anymore. Every time she came in here she’d be wondering… Her dreams were going to slide from R-rated straight to X-rated. And then another aspect hit her.

  “You can just waltz right from your room through here and into mine. How many times have you searched it before today?”

  His hand stopped in midstroke, and his eyes shifted from his reflection to meet her gaze in the mirror. He didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t find anything, did you?” She didn’t bother to hide her triumph.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because there’s nothing to find!”

  “No ID? No wallet? No credit cards? Only way you could know I didn’t find any of those is if you hid them. Now, why would you do that?”

  “Because I don’t like nosy men poking through my underwear drawer.” She turned, but his voice caught her.

  “If you don’t want men seeing your underwear don’t leave it hanging around.”

  She spun back. “I don’t—”

  He pointed to the handle on the bathroom side of her bedroom door.

  Her champagne lace bra hung there by one strap. She snatched it up and stalked out.

  Thomas heard the giggling from the three females behind him as he poured a mug of coffee before supper, but giggling wasn’t as rare as it used to be before Helga arrived, so he ignored it. He picked up his mug and started toward his desk to check forecasts for winter hay. If he could hay enough to have some to sell this fall—

  Belatedly the image recorded by his eyes registered in his brain. He turned back and looked at the appliance he’d just used. A gleaming white gadget with buttons and dials he didn’t recognize.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “A programmable coffeemaker. Program it to start brewing at a certain time and you’ll have fresh morning coffee when you get up—no more sludge.”

  He could swear his mouth watered at the prospect of fresh coffee in the morning. But a man couldn’t let himself get distracted.

  “You went to town to get this?” If she went to town that would put a dent in his theory that she was hiding out from something. Would she also have bought jeans while she was in town? Would that mean…

  “No. We had it delivered.”

  “How—?”

  She raised her brows. “You mean since I don’t have a credit card? I gave Keith the cash, and he was kind enough to order it on his card. He helped pick it out, too—he’s got one at home. And he liked being included in the decision-making process.”

  Subtle it wasn’t. But he had other issues to cover. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You will not. You bought me jeans and wouldn’t take payment for them.”

  “You can’t wear those jeans—either pair.”

  “It’s the thought that counts. Besides, this is self-protection. I drink the coffee here, too.”

  Out the window over the kitchen sink, where she was peeling carrots, Judi caught sight of Thomas and Becky. Becky hurried to keep up with his long strides, talking fast and her hands moving in short, angry stabs. Thomas’s mouth was thin and flat. The screen door swung open, and Becky’s aggrieved voice filled the room.

  “I’m fifteen—”

  “That’s right—and I’m your guardian until you’re eighteen. And I said no.”

  “Every other teenager in the world gets to date and go to dances. You want me to be a drudge. I suppose you’d be happy if I got fat and had zits all over my face. Then nobody would ask me and you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “I don’t care about the zits, but getting fat would be hard on the horses.”

  “You care more about the horses than your own flesh-and-blood sister!”

  “They might not be relatives but they’re not teenagers—thank God.”

  “You’re keeping me imprisoned here until I’m old and dried up!”

  “You’ll have the money to go to college, and that’s not old and dried up.”

  Becky paled then flushed bright red. She sucked in a breath, and Judi thought for sure it was to release another torrent—of words or tears or both. Instead, the girl turned and fled down the hall toward her room.

  Judi had braced herself, so she didn’t flinch when the slam of Becky’s door reverberated through the house. She dried her hands and turned.

  Thomas stood by the end of the table. His jaw tight, his mouth still firm. He held his hat in one hand and ran the other through his hair.

  “What’s that all about?” Gran asked.

  “She wants to go to some dance.”

  “You’ve let her go to dances.”

  “With a group. This
is different. Steve’s asked her—on a date. She’s too young,” he added, as if someone had argued with him.

  “Because you worked so much that you didn’t date until you were seventeen?”

  “I’m not saying she can’t do things because I didn’t. And I know she’s working hard. But, damn it, this teenage rebellion is getting out of hand. I was responsible—”

  “Mostly responsible,” his grandmother amended. “I remember a certain teenager who would get on the meanest, wildest horse—no matter what his Dad said—and ride and ride and ride. Stay out all night sometimes.”

  “That wasn’t rebellion. That was…I had to…” His hand holding his hat gave an aborted wave. “Get away.”

  “Uh-huh. And you don’t think Becky feels that?”

  “It’s not the same. And even if it was, going to a dance wouldn’t cure it.”

  He walked out, but his boot heels didn’t clomp down the porch steps.

  Judi and Gran looked at each other across the room. Judi tipped her head toward the door to the hallway— Becky’s path. Gran shook her head, then tipped it toward the outside door—Thomas’s exit.

  Judi hesitated. Gran tipped her head toward the outside door again.

  Judi gave an I-don’t-know-what-good-it’ll-do grimace, sighed, and headed out.

  Thomas heard the door open and close, but didn’t move from the railing.

  The go-rounds with Becky were getting worse. What she said didn’t change but the emotion climbed. Like a balloon filling and filling. What if it popped?

  “I think you should let her go to the dance.”

  “No.” Belatedly, he added, “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

  Helga ignored that. Big surprise. “You can’t keep her cooped up on the ranch.”

  “She’s not cooped up. This isn’t prison—no matter what she says.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult, Thomas.” Her voice had shifted to that soft, slow tone she used with Dickens. Her gaze slid to his jaw, and he became aware of a muscle ticking there. “This is a wonderful place. Becky loves it—almost as much as you do. But if you try to tie her too close, eventually, she’ll break out and bolt.”