Wyoming Strong

by Diana Palmer

  CHAPTER TWO

  GABRIEL WENT BACK to work, and Sara had a weekend jaunt to the Wyoming ranch with Michelle during spring break. Then Michelle went back to school, and Sara went shopping in downtown San Antonio.

  Sara shopped for spring clothes and then tried on mantillas in the huge Mercado in San Antonio, enjoying the sounds and smells of the market. A few minutes later, she took her purchases to the River Walk and sat down at a small table, watching the boats go by. It was April. The weather was warm and dry, and flowers were appearing in the planters all around the café. It was one of her favorite places.

  She put her purse under the table and leaned back, her beautiful hair rippling with the movement. She had on black slacks and loafers and a candy-pink blouse that emphasized her exquisite complexion. Her black eyes danced as she listened to a strolling mariachi band.

  She moved her chair to accommodate two men sitting down behind her. One of them was Wolf Patterson. Her heart jumped. She rushed to finish her cappuccino, gathered her bags and went to pay for it at the counter.

  “Running away?” a silky, deep voice asked at the back of her head.

  “I was finished with my coffee,” she said stiffly, smiling and thanking the clerk as she was handed her change.

  When she turned, he was blocking the way out. His pale eyes were flashing with hostility. He looked as if he’d have liked to fry her on a griddle.

  She swallowed down the nervousness that always assailed her when he was close. She tried to step back, but there was no place to go. Her huge, beautiful eyes widened with apprehension.

  “When does your brother get back?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “He thinks maybe by the weekend.”

  He nodded. His eyes narrowed on her face. “What are you afraid of?” he asked half under his breath.

  “Not a thing, Mr. Patterson,” she replied. “Because I’m not your type.”

  “Damned straight.”

  She was ready to try to push past him, frustrated beyond rational behavior, when one of his companions called to him.

  While he was diverted, she slipped to the side of him, and went out of the area at a dead run. She didn’t even care if people stared.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A ballet later in the week. She loved the ballet. She loved the color, the costumes, the lighting, all of it. She’d studied the art in her childhood. At one time, she’d dreamed of being a prima ballerina. But the long years of training and the sacrifices the role demanded were too much for a young girl just discovering life.

  Those had been good days. Her father had still been alive. Her mother had been kind, if distant. She remembered the happy times they’d had together with a bittersweet smile. How different her life might have been if their father had lived.

  But looking back served no real purpose, she told herself. Such as her life was, she had to try to cope.

  She sat down in her seat near the front of the concert hall, smiling as she looked at the program. The prima ballerina was an acquaintance of hers, a sweet girl who loved her job and didn’t mind the long hours and sacrifice that went along with it. Lisette was pretty, too, blonde and tall as a beanpole, with eyes as big and dark as chestnuts.

  The ballet was Swan Lake, one of her absolute favorites. The costumes were eye-catching, the performers exquisite, the music almost enchanted. She smiled, her heart swelling as she anticipated the delightful performance.

  She heard movement nearby and almost had a coronary when she saw Wolf Patterson and yet another beautiful blonde moving into the seats beside hers. She actually groaned.

  The woman stopped to speak to someone she knew. Wolf dropped down into the seat next to Sara’s and gave her conservative black dress and leather coat a brief scrutiny. His glare could have stopped a charging bull. “Are you following me around?” he asked.

  She counted to ten. In her hand, the program was twisting into large confetti.

  “I mean, just a couple of weeks ago, there you were at the opera in Houston, and here you are tonight at the ballet in San Antonio, with seats right next to mine,” he mused. “If I were a conceited man...” he added in a deep, slow drawl.

  She turned her black eyes up to his and made a comment in Farsi that made his hair stand on end. He snapped back at her in the same language, his eyes biting into her face.

  “What in the world sort of language is that?” his blonde companion asked with a laugh.

  Wolf clenched down on more words as Sara turned her head and tried to concentrate on the stage curtain. The orchestra began tuning up.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the blonde woman persisted, glancing at Sara’s discomfort with an honestly worried expression.

  “I am not,” Wolf said, enunciating every word. “Curtain’s going up,” he added shortly.

  * * *

  SARA WANTED TO get up and walk out. She almost did. But she couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction. So she lost herself in the color and beauty of Swan Lake, her heart in her throat as the preliminary dancers gave way to the title role, and Lisette came on stage.

  Her friend’s exquisite beauty was apparent even at a distance. She twirled and pirouetted, making the leaps with precision and grace. Sara envied her that talent. Once upon a time, she’d seen herself on the stage in a costume like that beautiful confection Lisette was wearing.

  Of course, reality had put paid to that sad dream. She couldn’t imagine standing in front of a lot of people, having them all look at her, without flinching. Not after the trial.

  Her face grew taut as she remembered the trial, the taunting of the defense attorney, the fury in her stepfather’s face, the anguish in her mother’s.

  She didn’t realize that she’d crumbled the program in her slender fingers, or that the tragic look on her face was drawing all too much reluctant interest from her acquaintance in the next seat.

  Wolf Patterson had seen that look before, many times, in combat zones. It was akin to what was called the “thousand-yard stare,” familiar to combat veterans, a blank expression with terrible eyes that recalled things no mortal should ever have to witness. But Sara Brandon was pampered and rich and beautiful. What reason would a woman like that have to act tormented?

  He laughed silently to himself, faint contempt on his hard features. Pretty little Sara, tempting men, ridiculing them in passion, making them plead for satisfaction and then laughing when they achieved it. Laughing with contempt and disgust. Saying things...

  A soft hand touched his. The mature blonde woman beside him was frowning.

  He shook himself mentally and dragged his eyes away from Sara. He managed a reassuring smile at his companion, but it was a lie. Sara unsettled him. She reminded him of things past, things deadly, things unbearable. She was everything he hated in a woman.

  But he wanted her. The sight of her lithe, elegant body made him ache. It had been a long time. He hadn’t been able to trust another woman after Ysera, want another woman.

  In the back of his mind was the ridicule and the laughter. He hadn’t been able to control his desire, and Ysera thought it was funny. She loved manipulating him, tormenting him. And when she’d had her fill of humiliating him in bed, she’d sent him off on a chore of personal vengeance with a lie.

  He closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his powerful frame. He couldn’t escape the past. It tormented him still. There had been no consequences, but there should have been. Ysera at least should have been held accountable, but she was out of the country before she could be arrested. For over a year there had been no word of her. He’d thought she’d finally gotten what she deserved—that she was dead. Now she was back, still alive, still haunting him. He would never know peace for the rest of his life.

  “Wolf,” the blonde woman whispered urgently. She wrapped her hand around his clenched fist. “Wolf!”

  Sara realized, belatedly, that something was going on beside her. She turned her head in time to see an expression of such
anguish on the tall man’s hard face that concern replaced her usual resentment.

  His fist was clenched on his chair arm. The blonde woman was trying to calm him. He looked like a drawn cord.

  “Mr. Patterson,” Sara said, her voice very soft so that it didn’t carry. “Are you all right?”

  He looked down at her, coming out of the past with the pain still in his eyes. They narrowed, and he looked at her as if he hated her. “What the hell do you care?” he gritted.

  She bit her lower lip almost through. He looked coiled, ready to strike, dangerous. She forced her attention back to the stage, a deathly pallor in her cheeks. More fool me, for caring, she thought.

  He was trying to cope with memories that were killing him. Sara reminded him too much of things he only wanted to forget. He cursed under his breath in Farsi, got to his feet and walked out of the theater. The blonde woman looked at Sara with a grimace, as if she wanted to explain, to apologize. Then she just smiled sadly and followed him out.

  * * *

  THAT TORMENTED LOOK on Wolf Patterson’s face haunted Sara for the rest of the week. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. He’d stared at her as if he hated her in those few seconds. She began to realize that it wasn’t necessarily her whom he hated. Perhaps it was someone she reminded him of. She smiled sadly to herself. Just her luck, to feel the stirrings of attraction to a man for the first time in her life, and have him turn out to be someone who hated her because she reminded him of another woman. An old flame, perhaps, someone he’d loved and lost.

  Well, it was hopeless to look in that direction anyway, she consoled herself. She’d only really been alone with him once, and look how she’d embarrassed herself when he came too close. She still flushed, remembering how she’d run from him after her flat tire. He wouldn’t understand why she’d reacted that way. And she couldn’t tell him.

  * * *

  SHE CLIMBED INTO her pajamas late that night and pulled up her game on the computer, setting the laptop on a board across her lap as she propped up in bed.

  Her friend was on. Hi, she whispered.

  Hi, he whispered back.

  He was usually more wordy than that. In the middle of something? she queried.

  No. Bad memories, he said after a minute.

  I know all about that, she wrote sadly.

  There was a brief pause. Want to talk about it? he asked.

  She smiled to herself. Talking doesn’t help. How about a battleground?

  He wrote lol on the screen, invited her to a group and queued them for a battleground.

  Why does life have to be so hard? she wrote while they waited.

  I don’t know.

  I can’t get away from the past, she wrote. She couldn’t tell him everything, but she could talk a little. He was the only real friend she had. Lisette was kind and sweet, but she had so little free time just to talk.

  Neither can I, he wrote after a minute. Do you have nightmares? he asked suddenly.

  She grimaced and wrote, All the time.

  Me, too. There was a hesitation. Damaged people, he wrote.

  Yes.

  Holding each other together, he added, with another lol.

  She returned the laugh, and smiled to herself. BRB, she wrote, gamer’s slang for “be right back.” I need coffee.

  Good idea. I’ll make some and email you a cup, he wrote.

  She chuckled to herself. He was good company. She wondered who he was in real life, if he was a man or a woman or even a child. Whatever, it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if they only talked in single syllables.

  He was back before the queue popped. We should get one of those chat programs like Ventriloquist, he commented, so that we can talk instead of type.

  Her heart almost stopped. No.

  Why?

  She bit her lower lip. How could she tell him that it would interfere with the fantasy if she brought real life into it? That she didn’t want to know if he was young or old or female.

  You’re frightened, he wrote.

  She hesitated, her hands over the keyboard. Yes.

  I see.

  No, you don’t, she replied. I have a hard time with people. With most people. I don’t... I don’t like letting people get close to me.

  Join the club.

  So in a game, it’s sort of different, she tried to explain.

  Yes. There was a hesitation. Are you female?

  Yes.

  Young?

  Yes. She paused. Are you male?

  There was no hesitation at all. Definitely.

  She hesitated again. Married?

  No. And never likely to be. Another pause. You?

  No. And never likely to be, she replied, adding a smile.

  Do you work?

  And now, time for the lies. I cut hair, she lied. What do you do?

  There was a hesitation. Dangerous things.

  Her heart skipped. Law enforcement? she typed.

  There was a howl of laughter. How did you get there?

  I don’t know. You seem very honest. You never try to ninja the loot when we do dungeons. You’ll stop to help other players if they get in trouble. You’re forever using in-game skills to make things for lower level players. Stuff like that.

  There was a long hesitation. You’re describing yourself, as well.

  She smiled to herself. Thanks.

  Damaged people, he mused. Holding each other together.

  She nodded. She typed, It feels...sort of nice.

  Doesn’t it?

  There was a new warmth in the screen. Of course, they could both be lying. She didn’t work, she didn’t have to, and he might not be in law enforcement. But it didn’t matter, since they were never likely to meet in person. She wouldn’t dare try. She’d had too many false starts in her young life, trying to escape the past. She would never be able to do it. This was all she could hope for—a relationship online with a man who might not even like her in the real world. But it was strangely almost enough.

  Time to go, he said, as the Join Battle tag came up.

  After you, she typed back. Which was a joke; since they were a group, they entered together.

  * * *

  SHE WAS SITTING in the park, feeding the pigeons. It was a stupid thing to do, the birds were a nuisance. But she had bread left over from a solitary lunch, and the birds were comfortable, cooing around her feet as she scattered crumbs.

  She was wearing a green V-necked pullover sweater with jeans and ankle boots. She looked very young with her long hair in a braid down her back and her face clean of makeup except for the lightest touch of lipstick.

  Wolf Patterson stared at her with more conflicting emotions than he’d ever felt in his life. She was two different people. One was fiery and temperamental and brilliant. The other was beautiful and damaged and afraid. He wasn’t sure which one was the real Sara.

  He’d felt guilty at the way he’d snapped at her at the ballet. He hadn’t meant to. The memories had eaten at him until he felt only half-alive. Just knowing Ysera was out there, still plotting, made him uneasy. With the memory of her came others, sickening ones, that Sara reminded him of.

  She felt eyes on her and turned her head, just slightly. There he was, a few feet away, standing with his hands in his pockets, scowling.

  It fascinated him to see the way she reacted. Her lithe body froze in position with crumbs half in and half out of the bag she was holding. She just looked at him, her great black eyes wide with apprehension.

  He moved closer. “A deer I shot once looked just like that,” he remarked quietly. “Waiting for the bullet.”

  She flushed and dropped her eyes.

  “I don’t hunt much anymore,” he remarked, standing beside her. “I hunted men. It ruins your taste for blood.”

  She bit her lower lip, hard.

  “Don’t do that,” he said in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She actually trembled. She managed a faint l
augh. How many times in her life had she heard that from men who wanted her, hunted her.

  He went down on one knee right in front of her and forced her to meet his eyes. “I mean that,” he said quietly. “We’ve had our differences. But physically, you have absolutely nothing to fear from me.”

  She swallowed. Hard. Her eyes when they met his were full of remembered fear and pain.

  His Arctic-blue eyes narrowed. It had been a shot in the dark, but he watched it hit home. “Someone hurt you. A man.”

  She tried and failed to make words come out of her mouth. On the bag, her hands were clenched so tightly that the knuckles went white.

  Her very vulnerability hurt him. “I can’t imagine a man brutal enough to try to hurt something so beautiful,” he said very softly.

  Her lower lip trembled. A tear she couldn’t help trickled out of the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said roughly.

  She caught her breath and swiped at the tear, as if it made her angry. “Should you be giving aid and assistance to the enemy?” she asked in a choked tone.

  He smiled. Antagonism was much preferable to those silent tears. They hurt him. “Truce?”

  She looked into his pale eyes. “Truce?”

  He nodded. “We don’t want to scare away the pigeons. They’re obviously starving. You’re upsetting them.”

  She was upsetting him, too, but he didn’t want to admit it. He felt guilty at the things he’d said to her. He hadn’t realized that she was damaged. She had such a strong, brave spirit that he hadn’t expected this vulnerability.

  She straightened a little and tossed more crumbs at the birds. They gathered around them, cooing.

  “I expect if the police see me, I’ll be arrested. Nobody loves pigeons.”

  He got up and dropped lightly onto the bench beside her, just far away enough not to make her nervous. “I do,” he corrected. “If they’re cooked right.”

  A tiny little laugh jumped out of her throat, and her black eyes lit up like fires in the night.