by Caro Carson
She sniffed the tears back. She would pummel that voice into silence.
“Am I hurting you?” Kayla asked. “I’m so sorry. I’m just trying to get all these tangles out.”
“It’s okay,” Kristen mumbled, too cowardly to admit the truth. Of all the people on the planet, Kayla was the last one who’d chastise her for holding on to her cowboy dream, but Kayla could look at a calendar and see what everyone else saw. Kristen liked to believe that Kayla looked at her with empathy...but that look was getting darned close to pity.
If Kayla looked at her with real pity, that would mean no one, not even Kristen’s twin, believed that she’d mattered to Ryan as much as he’d mattered to her.
He’s coming back. Even if he was too stubborn to see how many check marks were in the plus column, he wants me. He’ll try to talk me into moving to wherever he chose to settle down. He’s coming back.
In the meantime, she wasn’t being entirely open and honest with Kayla, for the first time in their lives. She was acting, pretending that she wasn’t eaten up with worry over Ryan, going entire weeks without mentioning his name, just to avoid that final, hope-killing look of pity.
“This is going to look so good on you.” Kayla held up a picture of a beautiful ice skater from a Victorian Christmas card. Kayla’s mission was to make Kristen’s hair look just like the Victorian ideal of feminine beauty, because Kristen was auditioning for a role in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. The play would open Thanksgiving weekend at one of the theaters in Kalispell, and Kristen fervently hoped it would open with her in the role of Ebenezer Scrooge’s former fiancée.
The thought of returning to the stage revived her sagging spirits. There were boards to be trod, greasepaint to be smelled and shows that had to go on. The theater was her passion, and although the principal at the high school wouldn’t let her direct an after-school drama club, she wasn’t going to give up something she loved any longer.
In July and August and September, as she’d relived every second of her time with Ryan, one moment that had nothing to do with love had kept running through her head. It must be frustrating to have gotten that college degree and then not use it. She’d majored in theater because she loved the theater. She had talent. She was trained. And most of all, she missed it. The lack of a theater in Rust Creek Falls might be her own check mark in the minus column, but the fact that the city of Kalispell was within commuting distance was a plus she intended to use.
Today, she was going to pursue something that made her happy. After Kayla finished making her look like a Victorian sweetheart, Kristen was going to drive the forty-five minutes to Kalispell and kill that audition. It was time to get a job doing what she loved.
She had Ryan to thank for inspiring her. She’d thank him in person, when he came to see her. It was October, so now he would come.
* * *
“Listen to this.”
Kristen set down her half-empty cup and plopped her chin in her hand, prepared to listen to her sister.
“‘Sunday, November first. The Power of the Punch has claimed another love match. During the fateful Fourth of July wedding of Braden and Jennifer Traub, Brad Crawford appeared to many to be impervious to the potent properties of the now-infamous punch, but the Rambler asserts that had he not partaken, or more to the point, if his fellow poker players had not partaken of the punch, then he would not have won the piece of property that included his prospective bride.’”
“How can you read that column?” Kristen asked. “It’s torture.”
Kayla frowned at her over the edge of the newspaper. “It is not. You just don’t like it because you’re never mentioned in it. You ought to be happy about that.”
Of all the things Kristen felt, happiness was not one of them. Oh, sure, she’d been pursuing it. She’d landed that role in the play. She’d even managed to move out of her childhood home.
It wasn’t enough.
She pushed her coffee cup away. At least she felt some pride that it was her own coffee cup, and she was sitting at her own kitchen table in her own house. Kayla had stopped in to share her first Sunday morning brunch in Kristen’s new home.
Well, it was sort of her new home. Jonah had bought a block of five Victorian homes after the flood. They’d been dirt cheap, because no one else had dared to attempt to rehab century-old houses. Jonah had turned the home on the corner lot into his architectural firm’s office. The other four houses were works in progress, and Kristen was going to be part of that progress.
She was proud of her new job in the Christmas play, but the commute from the ranch to Kalispell was over an hour and a half, round trip. The ranch was north of Rust Creek Falls, but Jonah’s houses were on the south edge of town, close to the highway to Kalispell. Living here saved her hours and hours of driving every week.
She couldn’t pay Jonah much rent. Regional theater was run mostly on donations and volunteers. She was lucky that her role paid anything at all, but it worked out to less than minimum wage when she counted up her hours. Living here was her second job. Instead of rent, she’d agreed to scrape and sand and repaint the interior of the house for Jonah while she lived in it.
Having her own place should have been exciting, and Kristen was certain she’d been performing her role of independent young woman admirably, fooling everyone. No one except Kayla suspected the truth she was masking: she was on the edge of a horrible heartbreak, clinging as best she could to her belief that she and Ryan belonged together. Her sister’s empathy had evolved into concern this month. Concern was so very close to pity.
Kayla lowered the paper to peer at her once more. “I finished the rest of the column. It’s not horrible, but I think the Rambler might have used the letter p just a bit too much, playing off the ‘power of the punch.’ Was that the part that tortured you?”
Kristen shook her head.
I can’t do this. I can’t pretend anymore.
“What part bothered you?” Her sister was waiting, no pity in her expression...yet.
“The part that said ‘Sunday, November first.’” Kristen choked out her words. “He isn’t ever coming back, is he?”
Then she put her head down on the kitchen table and cried.
* * *
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
In the inner sanctum of Ryan’s office, it was only a blinking light on the phone on his desk. Screening calls was his assistant’s job, so Ryan could work without interruption. But his assistant was not here, and the incessant noise from the phone in the outer office had broken Ryan’s concentration. He answered the damned phone.
“Roarke speaking.”
“Roarke speaking here, too.”
“Hey, Dad.” Ryan tossed his pen onto his desk and sat back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s November first. You know what that means.”
Ryan tried to recall which sporting events were nearby. “It means you’re calling me from the PGA tournament at Newport Beach.”
“It means it’s Sunday. A day of rest. Part of the weekend. What are you doing in the office, son?”
Ryan rubbed his jaw. It had turned slightly black and blue the day after the horse had butted him in Montana. Everyone in LA had assumed he’d been hit by a model’s jealous ex. In a nod to his boxing reputation, friends and acquaintances had been equally sure the other guy must look worse. Ryan the Player, everyone’s favorite hero. Never would they have guessed he’d been hit by a pure white horse attached to a white-ribboned carriage.
That day had changed him. If he’d skated close to the edge of being a Casanova before Montana, then he’d been a monk ever since. No one noticed; men still clapped him on the back in approval and women competed for his attention in vain. People saw what they wanted to see.
Except his dad.
“You haven
’t taken a weekend off since when? July?”
Ryan had a feeling his dad knew exactly when. “Somewhere around then. I’m not putting in a full day here. Just a few hours.”
“Then meet me at the club. It’ll do you good.”
Golf was his dad’s thing, not Ryan’s. Boxing, surfing, those were Ryan’s preferred leisure activities. Actually, he hadn’t been surfing since July, either. The boxing, though, he’d used like a drug for the past four months, throwing punches until his brain was numb, almost wishing for a hard hit to knock all the thoughts out of his head.
“Humor me. Come hit a bucket of balls with your old man.”
Ryan supposed the fresh air would do him good. When he showed up at the club’s driving range, he got much more than that.
“Your mother and I have been having some serious discussions about the future of the firm.”
Thwack. Damn if his father couldn’t make those balls sail. Ryan chose an iron from his golf bag and addressed the ball that had been teed up for him by a trendy automated machine.
“We want to retire earlier than our original timeline.”
Ryan ignored the ball and turned to address his father instead. “Have you had some news I should be aware of?”
A week after Ryan’s trip to Montana, his father had driven himself to the hospital with chest pain. He’d escaped any permanent damage beyond being chastised by his wife and son for not calling an ambulance, but the doctors had labeled it a wake-up call. It had been one for Ryan, as well. There was no way he could abandon his parents and their law firm for a Montana dream. The whole idea of living in a cowboy town had been a whim, anyway.
Kristen had been real.
Real, and out of his reach.
“I’m as healthy as a horse,” his dad said. “But that’s the point. I’d like to take my wife around the world while we’re healthy enough and young enough to enjoy it. That’s always been one of our goals.”
Ryan felt the weight of the firm settle on his shoulders as he turned back to the tee. His parents deserved the good life, and to give it to them, Ryan would become the only Roarke in Roarke and Associates. They’d groomed him to take over someday, and he was ready. It didn’t matter if that day came now or ten years from now.
I will still want you next month, and the month after that.
Kristen’s words were never far from his mind. If Ryan followed in his father’s footsteps and retired a few years early, he could move to Montana, guilt-free, in thirty years. That would be swell, if Kristen still wanted him thirty years from now.
Thwack. Ryan sent the ball on a long, hard drive.
His father approved. “Nice hit. We should think about beefing up the Associates part of Roarke and Associates before we retire. We’re not trying to burden you any more than you already burden yourself. What do you think about offering partnership to Lori?”
The next ball had been teed up for him. Ryan knocked the holy hell out of it with his nine-iron. “We’d be smart to make Lori a partner whether you retire or not. We’ll still need to hire an additional attorney. I’ll start the headhunt.”
“When? You’re already working seven days a week.”
Ryan readied himself for another swing, but his father reached across the low wall that partitioned the driving range and placed his hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
“Let me tell you another one of my life’s goals. I want my children to outlive me. That might make me a selfish old bastard, but I think I deserve to leave this earth without seeing you or Shane or Maggie leave it first. Every parent deserves that, whether they get it or not.”
“What the—for God’s sake, Dad. What kind of talk is this?”
“You’re scaring me, Ryan. No one works as many hours as you’ve been doing and lives to tell the tale. Whatever demon you’re trying to exorcise with work is winning. You need to try something else. Find a healthier way to forget whatever it is you’re trying to forget.”
Forgetting Montana and its breathtaking scenery, he could do. Forgetting the ideal of living in a small town, forgetting what it was like to belong to a community, all of that he could do. They’d been pipe dreams, Norman Rockwell pictures that were too perfect to be real.
Forgetting Kristen? He couldn’t.
He’d been trying to adopt a brotherly attitude toward her. He was watching out for her best interests by staying away. She had a better chance at finding happiness in life and love with a cowboy who’d grown up where she had. She needed a man who understood ranches and horses and that pace of life. It was better for her if he stayed away. He’d learn to deal with it.
“I mean it, Ryan. You’re working yourself into an early grave.”
Ryan traded his nine-iron for his driver, a better club for beating the crap out of an inanimate object. “This is serious talk.”
“It is. Now lighten up.” His dad clapped him on the shoulder one last time and stepped back to his own tee. “Go home. Vegetate. Take a pretty girl out to dinner.” Under his breath, he added, “Today.”
Ryan looked in the direction his father was looking. He recognized the actress, and she recognized him. She changed direction immediately, walking toward him in her white golf skirt like she was walking down a fashion show runway. She had the legs and the attitude to pull it off.
“Ryan Roarke. It’s been too long.” Her hug enveloped him in perfume. Her civilized cheek kiss landed just a little too close to his ear, suggesting more of a lover’s nibble on an earlobe than a meeting of friends. He got the message.
She’d sent him that message before. When word had leaked out that he may have done some work for a Tarantino or a DeNiro, rumors that he would never confirm or deny as part of his professional code, the constant stream of hopeful actresses had become a deluge. That was Hollywood. He wondered what rumor she’d heard this time.
Thwack.
“I’ve got a secret,” she cooed. “I’m doing a screen test tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting? It’s all hush-hush, but you probably already know it’s something for Century Films.”
He said nothing. It wasn’t necessary.
She placed her finger on her full, lower lip, pretending to be lost in thought. “Come to think of it, you introduced me to the man they’ve tapped to be the assistant director. He was in our little group when we took that trip to Carmel. Wasn’t that a fun weekend?”
Thwack.
“You know, if you wanted to go back, I’m free this coming weekend. Who else was there last time? We could call around and get everyone together again.”
“Especially the assistant director.”
She perched on the bench that held his gear, crossing one long leg over the other and swinging her foot. “That would be such a boost for me. If you could arrange it, I wouldn’t know how to thank you.” The low purr of her voice and the come-be-naughty-with-me curve of her smile meant she knew exactly how she’d thank him.
Ryan looked at her, and wished for someone else. “I’m not available this weekend.”
She didn’t give up easily, but after some pointless banter, she did give up. Ryan had no doubt she’d find some other way to refresh her contacts with the assistant director and anyone else who could give her an inside edge to win the role.
“Not this time, then?”
Not ever.
She left him with another perfumed kiss, too smart to burn any bridges. As she sauntered away, Ryan’s father continued working on his golf swing, as if he hadn’t paid attention at all to what was happening on his son’s side of the partition.
Ryan answered his unspoken question, anyway. “Not my idea of relaxation.”
His father only grunted in a neutral way that could have meant anything.
Ryan began working his way through another dozen golf balls in silence. He wasn’t interested in relationships tha
t served careers any more than he was interested in the ones that were merely convenient. For the past four months of his life, he hadn’t been interested in anything. Not in the golf or surfing that were the hallmarks of Southern California. Not in the endless summer of Los Angeles, and worst of all, not in running Roarke and Associates.
The pursuit of happiness, Ryan Roarke’s personal pursuit of happiness, had led him to Montana. He’d fallen in love under the blue sky while looking into Kristen Dalton’s blue eyes.
Fallen in love.
Thwack.
He’d fallen in love, and then he’d gone away and stayed away. Although Kristen had smiled and said she wasn’t worried, he’d hurt her in those last few moments. If his father thought his son was leading a punishing life, Ryan saw some justice in it. He’d been treating himself badly because he’d treated someone else badly.
He didn’t know if Kristen was hurting still. Perhaps she’d moved on.
Perhaps she hadn’t.
He had no way to find out, short of making an ass of himself on the phone with his sister. Maggie worked in Rust Creek Falls’s one law office for an attorney named Dalton. In a town that size, Dalton had to be related to Kristen somehow. If Kristen had been sad or depressed and told her family it was because Ryan had broken her heart, then Maggie would have heard about it. Kristen obviously hadn’t been talking about him.
Brad Crawford, an acquaintance from the flood recovery days, had consulted him about land deeds last month. Ryan had resisted the temptation to ask about Kristen. Brad would have wondered why the heck Ryan Roarke was asking about one of the Dalton girls. Clearly, Rust Creek Falls wasn’t buzzing with rumors that Kristen was brokenhearted over the man she’d spent the Fourth of July with, and Ryan would do nothing to stir up gossip where none currently existed.
No news was good news. It meant Kristen was fine without him.
Thwack. As fast as the automated range teed up the balls, he hit them, full force, full swing, full power. Thwack. Thwack.
