by Jodi Thomas
“My stepmother, who lasted one summer around here, had the flowers brought in from all over the South. My father wouldn’t let her redecorate the house. I like the courtyard, but I’m not sleeping outside.”
“You are if I do.” His words were a challenge.
“Right. Our bargain. For eight months I sleep with you, right?”
“Right.”
Ora Mae walked in to say she was leaving, and the discussion dropped. He talked about what he’d done on the ranch, and she talked about a problem at the office. Neither understood much of what the other one was saying.
When they went to bed, he sat in a chair by the sealed windows and pulled off his boots as he watched her. She always turned her back to him when she slipped off her bra and tugged on her nightshirt. If he’d asked her to turn around, she told herself she would, but he’d have to ask. Otherwise, she had no intention of putting on a show.
When she crawled into bed he walked over to her side and flipped off her light, then pulled the cover to her shoulder, and she had the feeling he’d done the same thing every night they’d been married. One week.
Nevada lay awake waiting for him to say something. She guessed he wasn’t a man who asked for things, and she wasn’t a woman who waited for what she wanted.
After ten minutes she was still wide awake and waiting. “I’ve had it,” she broke the silence. “I’m tired of lying over here every night waiting for you to reach over and touch me. If you’re gay, that’s fine, but if you’re not, I’d like to know why you’re not attracted to me like every boy I’ve known since I was old enough to car-date.”
Practically every man she’d spoken to since she’d been fifteen had hit on her. Before she became the CEO of Britain Oil and Drilling, almost every male in the office had brushed against her, or acted drunk and made a pass. But Cord had been sleeping three feet away and hadn’t even tried. She’d never played hard to get. He must know that.
“When I suggested marriage I meant it as a business arrangement.” She tried to calm. “I knew you’d be good at running the ranch, but then you added the bit about my sleeping in your bed and I thought, great, he’s just like all men, he wants a piece of me. I’ve given away so many pieces in the last ten years I didn’t figure one more would matter. Then you marry me and I do my part of the bargain and crawl into bed with you, and you don’t even bother to touch me. I’m lying here wondering night after night when you’re going to pounce on me. I swear, it’s downright exhausting.”
“You coming up for air anytime soon, Nevada?” Cord sounded more concerned than interested in her crisis.
She sat up and tried to glare at him, but the room was too dark to pull it off. “I see you looking at me, taking off my clothes with your eyes. But when I’m right here all night long, you don’t cross the three feet of bed between us. We might as well be sleeping in cots, or better yet have a bundling pillow between us like the Victorians did. I don’t know why you asked me to be here anyway. We’d probably both be more comfortable in separate rooms; after all, you’ve got four others to pick from. Which reminds me, you don’t make a sound all night or move. You just fall into bed like you were shot and sleep without even pulling covers. Corpses don’t lie as still as you do at night, Cord McDowell, and I can tell you for a fact it’s unnerving. Twice last night I woke up and couldn’t even hear you breathing. I lay there thinking, great, I’m in bed with a dead man.”
He got out of bed and circled round to her side. “You finished?”
She shrugged, thinking she’d made a fool of herself, but she’d always had a problem slowing down once she got rolling. He was about to be husband number four to tell her to shut up. She’d really outdone herself in finding something wrong with this one. Why couldn’t she just have been happy with his plain conversation and simple ways? It wasn’t like he had habits hard to put up with. The man didn’t even leave his socks on the floor.
Cord sat down beside her and turned her shoulders until they were facing each other. “I’m an only child. I’ve always slept alone. When I went to prison I slept alone. Since I came home three years ago, I’ve never shared a bed with anyone.”
Her vision adjusted to the light enough to see his face. “You asked me to be in your bed because you didn’t want to be alone? That’s it! I don’t know if I’m more insulted or confused.”
“It seemed like a good idea.” He sounded tired, not at all like a man who planned to take his turn listing her faults. “I didn’t know your sleeping in my bed came with touching.” His big hand moved down her arm. “But I could get used to the idea if it bothers you so much.”
“Oh, it’s all right now that I understand; forget about it. I was just feeling rejected. Now that I know you wanted to sleep, I’m fine, really.” She pushed his hand away and turned her back to him.
He sat on the bed awhile, but she wasn’t about to start rattling on again.
She felt him stand and heard him walk to the windows. The drapes swished as he opened them, and she guessed he was looking out into the night. Another one of his simple habits, she thought. Something scraped across the floor.
Glass shattered with a crash vibrating like a gunshot through the room.
Preparing for flight, Nevada jumped to her knees on the bed. His broad-shouldered body shadowed across a seven-foot window, now without glass. The heavy iron luggage rack she’d always hated now rested upside down atop one of the rosebushes.
Cool night air flowed gently around her as the room settled back into silence. “What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered, afraid to confront him too strongly.
“Opening a window,” he answered as he walked back to her side of the bed.
“Have you lost your mind? You’ve probably broken half the branches on that rosebush, and it will be a mess cleaning up all the glass.”
“Stop talking, Nevada, and lie back.” He lifted her covers and she leaned back against the pillows. Without another word, he moved in beside her, pushing her over to allow himself room. With one arm around her shoulders, he pressed his body along hers. “I don’t want you to feel rejected. I’m not going to pounce and attack you, but I think I might like to be close enough to touch you for a while.”
They were both nervous, but neither one moved away. She told herself she wasn’t afraid of him, but the man had just knocked open a floor-to-ceiling window. She corrected her evaluation of him from simple to unpredictable.
He placed his hand on her waist and pressed his cheek against her hair.
“I like the way your hair smells.” He pulled the covers over them both.
She wiggled to a more comfortable spot beside him, deciding that she might need his warmth now that they had cool air coming in. “You going to touch me while I’m asleep?”
“I might. You got any objections?”
“No. I guess not.”
It took a while, but slowly both calmed and she fell asleep.
Their night together set a pattern. Whoever went to bed first picked the side, and the other cuddled in. If he explored her body during the night, she wasn’t aware of it. As the days passed, she realized that if they’d had sex she would have felt wanted, but by gently holding her Cord had made her feel cherished, and she’d never felt cherished. Somehow it was more intimate than sex. She’d never had a lover who’d held her all night.
In the mornings he moved away from her. With a light kiss on the cheek, he vanished. If she saw him before she went to work, she made a point to walk over to wherever he was and kiss him good-bye. He’d always cup the back of her head and stare down at her as if he wanted one last look before she left. Days passed, drifting into spring, and one by one all the windows were fitted with windows that opened.
On cool evenings they always rode, Cord on his gray horse named Devil and Nevada on one of the mares from her own private stable. Slowly, they grew used to the other’s touch. The way he put his hand on her leg when he checked the stirrup. The light touch of his fingers against her back
when they walked. Her pats on his forearm when she wanted his full attention.
There were no words of endearment between them except when they knew others were listening, but there were few words of anger. He was stubborn about running the ranch and seemed to trust his judgment more and more. She rarely came home in time to eat dinner with him, and he was often gone before she woke up.
At night, she’d bring her dinner into the study and watch him work at her father’s old desk. Once in a while he’d tell her about something that happened at the ranch. She’d usually fall asleep watching the news and he’d carry her to bed. The next morning she’d wake up with her clothes still on and raccoon eyes from sleeping in her makeup. And . . . she’d smile, remembering that she’d slept soundly in his arms.
The only time he slowed his routine was when he watched her dress, and she made sure that was as often as possible. She liked the idea that she affected this cold man. Sometimes, if they went to bed at the same time, he’d just sit in the chair with a clear view of her closet and watch. Sometimes he’d stand at the door and study her as she changed into riding clothes after work.
They were like two people occupying the same space, but in different dimensions. If she hadn’t felt his warmth against her at night, she would have wondered if maybe he was simply a machine and not a man.
As she cuddled next to Cord, Nevada told herself that a machine was exactly what she needed to marry. She was no good with people . . . with relationships, and neither was he. If there was no passion, she could live with it. He apparently didn’t have any for her, and she’d learned from others that what she’d thought was passion had been simply lust. Once lust cools, it shrivels into indifference to the point of cruelty. Her last husband’s bruises had taken weeks to heal.
Bryce liked to play rough with her, half teasing, half cruel, to prove he was stronger and in control. At first he’d said he was sorry when he hurt her in his play before he took her to bed, but after a few months he stopped caring. He only wanted control, and if she didn’t respond fast enough, he made her pay.
When she’d shown her bruises to her father, he’d told her to stop lying; Bryce had already told him she’d been drinking again and that he’d had to restrain her when she’d gone wild. By the time her father grew ill, she knew Bryce thought he’d broken her. She’d followed his every rule and she’d learned to curl into a ball if he raised his hand. Most of the time, he’d laugh and forget about hitting her.
He thought he’d take charge of everything but couldn’t stand the depression of watching her father wither away, so he’d left, thinking to make her suffer without him. But while he partied in Vegas, she’d served him with divorce papers. He hadn’t thought she would go through with it, so he’d ignored the court date. The divorce was final before he could contest it.
The last words Bryce said to her when he’d collected his things had been that she’d never belong to anyone else. Even knowing that he was miles away didn’t keep the shiver of fear away. Bryce wasn’t finished toying with her. He’d been wealthy and worthless all his life. Like a big-game hunter who kills for the thrill, Bryce wanted her. He told her once that she was beautiful and he wanted everyone to know that she was his. At the time, she’d been flattered, not realizing he saw her only as a toy.
His words would have been funny later in the marriage, if she hadn’t felt his anger so many times. In truth, she’d never belonged to Bryce, or anyone else.
At first, when Bryce had been courting, she’d noticed pats that were a bit too hard, always followed by apologies. She told herself he was showing off in front of her brother, proving he was the boss. Then after they married, even his grip often left bruises. She’d been a fool not to see the signs early, but he’d always talked his way around her hurt and anger, until finally he no longer cared and hurting her became pure entertainment when no one was around to see. He’d always been attentive in public, explaining her bruises as drunken accidents as he served her another drink.
Bryce didn’t want her, not then and not now. He’d made it plain within days after they married, but he did like playing the rancher.
She’d married Cord McDowell for more than his help on the ranch. She married him to be a barrier between her and the man who swore he’d finish the job of killing her one day. It wasn’t fair to Cord. Much as she hated herself for it, Cord was just one more wall she’d built to feel safe.
She’d realized when the bargain first occurred to her that she might be putting him in danger, but there had been no family, no friends to turn to. She’d told herself the risk was worth taking. After all, if she hadn’t picked Cord, he might have lost his farm. Only now, she felt guilty for not telling him more about Bryce. He had a right to know. She’d only been thinking of herself.
As worry swirled in her mind, she pulled her hand from the covers and moved her fingers slowly over Cord’s bare shoulder. “I’ll protect you,” she whispered, hoping that she could find a way to make it true.
A memory surfaced in her tired mind.
She’d been more drunk than sober years ago when a group of her friends gathered for a party at the lake one July Fourth. In the shadows she watched a man coming toward the camp, flashing his light like a weapon and shouting orders. Then he grabbed a kid’s arm and jerked him up.
The kid came up swinging and the invader crumpled after one blow. The reflection of a badge on his shirt blinked in the flashlight’s beam. Then Nevada remembered running into the shadows, leaving the kid and the deputy behind.
She rested her head on Cord’s arm, knowing the kid she’d seen that night had been him. Not one of the dozen teenagers drinking around the campfire came forward the next day to testify to what happened. She’d tried to talk to a cop that night, but he didn’t seem interested in listening to a drunk sixteen-year-old. When she’d wanted to go in the next morning, her father had demanded she remain silent.
The deputy claimed he’d been attacked, and there was no one to say otherwise.
Chapter 13
MARTHA Q PATTERSON THOUGHT SHE MIGHT HAVE A STROKE before she got up all the steps at the front of Wright Funeral Home. If she did, Tyler better do her funeral for half price, since he insisted she come over to his place to talk.
She knew she’d called him three times in less than two weeks, but she needed someone to talk to. Since he’d be getting her business someday, he might as well earn it now. Only this time he’d said he couldn’t leave his pregnant wife even for ten minutes, so here she was climbing Heart Attack Hill. It occurred to her that some of Tyler’s business might walk in and go out boxed.
Martha Q knew she wouldn’t complain. She cared about Kate Wright, so she came to Tyler’s office this time. In a strange way they were in the same business, innkeepers and funeral directors. They both laid people to rest.
Martha Q was laughing at her own joke when Tyler opened the door.
“Good morning.” He made a slight bow of his head, as if she were the queen come to call. Martha Q would have been flattered, but Tyler pretty much treated everyone like royalty.
“How is Kate?” Martha Q wasn’t in the mood to waste words and any more energy. She needed answers and a chair.
“My Kate is resting. She won’t admit it, but I think this pregnancy has been hard on her these last few months. She said something about how going into a war zone was nothing compared to carrying a baby.” He motioned for her to follow him into his office.
“Well, see that you two don’t get in this situation again,” Martha Q huffed. “There are ways to prevent this disease from happening again.”
Tyler laughed. “You sound like you’re talking to two kids. Once Tyler Two is born, I think we’ll be happy with one child. Kate and a son are far more than I’d hoped for in this lifetime.”
Martha Q squealed. “Please, Lord, don’t tell me that’s what you’re naming the poor child?”
“No,” he grinned. “That’s just what Kate calls him.”
As always, Tyler�
��s love for his wife showed in his face. For years the man hadn’t been able to get a date in town, what with his occupation and his build, and then he found Kate. Martha Q had heard several women wishing they’d given him a chance before he went off the market. Nothing makes a man more handsome than when he cherishes his wife.
Martha Q moved into Tyler’s messy office, mumbling that she hoped the kid had his father’s sense of humor and his mother’s looks.
Tyler acted like he didn’t hear her as he offered her a seat beside the windows. “When you called, I asked Autumn to make a fresh pot of coffee for us. With the cool morning I thought you might like a cup. Kate always tells me how nice Winter’s Inn was when she stayed there before we married. She said you’d have tea every afternoon in the style of a grand lady. I’m afraid all we can manage here is coffee and scones from the bakery. Autumn’s been too busy to bake lately.”
She straightened. In one lifetime she’d gone from being called the town slut to being called a great lady. Of course she was smart enough to know that a fine tea set doesn’t make a lady any more than fishnet hose make a slut.
As Tyler always did, he lowered his voice and asked, “How may I be of help to you?”
Martha Q finished off a corner of her scone before she stated her first fact. “I think we got one of those serial killers living right here in Harmony. Nobody knows it, and by the time they do, there’ll be a line of bodies waiting at your back door.”
Tyler frowned. “Who?” He said the word so slowly it sounded like a hum.
“A good-looker named Bryce Galloway. About thirty-five, all fancy, real nice. Too nice. You know, the kind whose neighbors are all interviewed after he’s arrested and they all comment on how ‘polite’ he was.”
“Bryce Galloway? Wasn’t he married to Nevada Britain a season or two? Seems like she got divorced right before her father died. If I remember correctly, he was from old oil money down near Houston or Dallas. Folks said he was crazy about her the minute he saw her.”
