The Other Laura

by Sheryl Lynn

  His daughter stood on the very top of a six-foot ladder, stretching precariously toward a spruce tree branch. His heart dropped into his belly. His camera bag dropped to the ground. He raced across the driveway.

  “Whoa there, short stuff!” He caught her around the waist and brought her down to the ground. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  She held up a seed-encrusted suet ball. “I’m gonna feed the pee-pees!” She all but shoved the ball into his face. “Mama said I can.”

  “Mama did, did she? Did she tell you could break your silly little neck falling off a ladder?”

  “I didn’t fall.”

  “Where did you get this ball of seeds, anyway?”

  “Mrs. Weatherbee got it at the grocery store.”

  “What in the world are pee-pees?”

  “Oh, Daddy!” She rolled her eyes. “You know, the little bitty birds. Chickadees and juncos and creepers. They stay all winter and needs lots and lots of seeds and sewer.”

  “Suet.”

  “Suet. Mama says if we hang the balls, they’ll be like living Christmas lights. And since it’s spring, they need extra.”

  “Uh-huh. And you asked Mama if you could hang it up? Where is she?” Apparently Laura had forgotten how maddeningly literal and independent Abby could be. Tell the child to take a hike, and before you knew it, she’d be fifty miles away.

  “I dunno.”

  “You stay off the ladder. I’ll hang it for you.” He set her on the ground and took the seed ball. He asked her where she wanted it. She changed her mind several times before settling on a suitable branch. He gave the wire hanger a securing twist.

  He closed the lightweight aluminum ladder. “Now you dragged it out here, you drag it back where you found it.”

  “Okay, Daddy, thanks!”

  He retrieved his camera bag and checked his equipment for damage. No harm done, so he stomped through the house, leaving the bag on a table, and went in search of his wife. She wasn’t in the house. He checked his studio.

  For a moment, the clean desk and neat stacks of paperwork in his office distracted him. Laura appeared to enjoy puttering around in the office. More amazing, she had a knack for organization. The place was cleaner than it had been in months.

  He went to the pool house. Laura wasn’t in the water.

  He looked through the small window in the sauna door and spotted her inside.

  Laura lay on her back, stretched out on a redwood bench. A white towel was draped over her breasts and belly. Eyes closed, pearled with sweat, her body outline softened by clouds of steam, she looked as if she belonged in a sylvan forest.

  Heat flooded his groin. He hadn’t had sex in what felt like years. Not that he hadn’t had ample opportunities. Society columnists had followed Laura’s progress from the hospital to her recovery at home, and part of the readership apparently saw the accident as an indication that he was eligible to play the field.

  He didn’t want a mistress, or even a fling. He wanted his wife.

  He turned the handle on the door. Drawn by the stillness of her, he silently slipped into the sauna cell. Hot, wet air made his shirt cling to his back. Laura breathed slow and steady.

  He looked down at her, his artist’s eye critically studying the changes. The scars on her face were mostly around her hairline and jaw. Her nose and cheekbones were flattened, giving her features an exotic cast. Her lips were thickened, the skin on them smooth and pink. No longer perfect and gorgeous, she looked genuine and real, a natural woman with character. He touched her crooked chin then traced his finger down the long, slim length of her throat. Her collarbones were too prominent, and her breastbone formed a ridge under thin skin.

  Her eyelids fluttered and she looked at him.

  She gasped and caught the lower edge of the towel, pulling it down on her thighs. “Ryder,” she whispered.

  The husky note drove straight to his heart.

  She bolted upright, clutching at the towel. It slipped, revealing the sensuous curve of a breast and the cool expanse of her hip.

  “What do you want?” she asked breathlessly.

  He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he was aroused and he wanted her.

  “You shouldn’t fall asleep in the sauna,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. His tongue felt too big.

  She scooted down the bench and rose, tucking the towel around her nakedness. “I know. Thanks for waking me. What are you doing here?”

  She was escaping, edging toward the door. He sidestepped and slipped an arm around her, pulling her to him. The sharp nip of her waist reminded him of her fragility.

  She pressed a hand against his shoulder. Her lips parted and her pupils swelled, darkening her soft eyes. Staring into those soft, curious eyes, he was lost, he drowned. Unable to resist, he kissed her. She was wooden, unresponsive. He kissed her anyway, tasting the salt on her lips and the sweetness of her breath. Underneath the chlorine, she smelled warm, faintly musky.

  Her lips softened, and hesitantly, experimentally, she kissed him back. She stopped pushing with her hand and caressed his shoulder. Trying to kiss her easy, he made himself slow down. Effort made him tremble. He wanted her too much, but he felt her wariness the way he could sense when a horse was about to spook.

  Her mouth turned hungry, meeting his with hot desire. Her tongue flicked tentatively against his. She slid one hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and her fingers were hot underneath his hair. In the small of his back, her other hand clutched convulsively above his belt, fanning his desire.

  He held her tighter, kissed her deeper, absorbing her sweetness and the heady scent of womanly musk. His teeth touched hers. Her tongue slithered silkily, wet and soft against his, parrying his thrusts.

  She made a small, strangled sound. Alarmed, he lifted his head.

  She wept.

  He cursed and pulled away. He’d hurt her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears quivered on the brink, making her eyes shine hotly. “I want to remember you. I want it more than anything. Please, believe me, Ryder. Please. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to hold you. How to kiss you or love you. I don’t remember!”

  He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. The lingering taste of her inflamed him, colored his vision and muddied his thoughts. Her tears shamed him.

  “I want to be your wife again, but we’re such strangers.” Her voice was rough and anguished. “Did you ever love me, Ryder?”

  The sauna heat filled his head with wool, and his clothing clung wetly to his body. The ache of his arousal throbbed low in his belly, but her meaning finally penetrated.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he held out a hand. “Come on, darlin’, it’s too hot in here.”

  Ignoring his hand, she clutched the towel over her bosom. “Do you love me, Ryder? Did you love me once?”

  He did—and he didn’t. He pushed through the redwood plank door. The chlorine-heavy air hit him like ice water. He gulped in cool breaths.

  He’d loved his wife because she was his wife, and husbands loved their wives.

  But love Laura?

  He’d lusted for her. The first time he’d ever seen her it had been as if lightning struck. Her fabulous beauty had blinded him, inflamed him. Nothing had mattered except owning her, and she’d been a hard-won prize.

  But love her?

  Not the way his father had loved his mother, honestly and simply, sharing a mutual concern and affection for each other that had carried them through nearly thirty years of marriage. Loving Laura had never been comfortable, or honest, for that matter. They’d danced through their relationship like a pair of hungry wolves, respecting each other’s teeth, but craving the same piece of meat.

  Sensing her behind him, hearing her soft, raw breathing, he acknowledged the sickness of what he’d once felt. Laura had satisfied his pride. He was a simple cowboy who never had expected much more from life than hard work. Fame and fortune had caught him flat-foote
d and swelled his head. For a man who’d scrabbled from the bottom of a dung heap to the top of the world, she’d been the ultimate status symbol.

  The pleasure in having a trophy wife—and that’s exactly how he’d felt—had lasted about as long as it bad taken to get from that rinky-dink chapel in Las Vegas back to the ranch. As soon as his ring was on her finger, she’d turned off the sweetness like turning off a light. Pride carried an expensive price tag.

  “Ryder?” She placed a hand against his back. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me crying. I’m so sorry. But you—you scared me. I scared myself. I want to be your wife. I do! But...”

  He looked over his shoulder. She’d put on a white terrycloth robe and cinched the belt tightly around her narrow waist. She blushed bright red. Astonished, he turned around.

  “But what, darlin’?” Laura’s blush intrigued him. Before the accident, nothing had ever embarrassed her.

  Her chin quivered. The blush spread down her throat. “I’ve forgotten how.”

  Her vulnerability shoved all rational thought from his head. Pulling her against his chest, he embraced her and rubbed his cheek against her seal-sleek damp hair. “It’s all right, Laura, it’s all right. Don’t cry.”

  Holding her brought back the heat. Helping her remember about lovemaking was a chore to look forward to.

  Chapter Seven

  Laura balked on the third step. She grasped the rail in her left hand and tugged Ryder with her right.

  Her husband. The man she loved.

  She wanted him so much her skin tingled and her joints had turned to syrup. But kissing him had touched nothing inside her head.

  Confusion drove her crazy. One good close-up look at Tom Sorry had made her remember kissing him. Although Ryder’s searing passion had dropped the world from beneath her feet and filled her veins with molten silver, he failed to trigger even the tiniest memory. It made no sense.

  “Come on, darlin’,” he coaxed. His midnight eyes sparkled with compelling light. His eagerness had a taut, teasing quality that formed responsive tension low in her belly. “You can shower in my room. I’ll wash your back.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle.

  The doorbell chime echoed in the two-story, open foyer. Ryder’s face turned thunderous. He hopped down a step, caught Laura around the waist and stared fiercely into her eyes. Her fears evaporated like ice cubes under the sun.

  “I’ll see who it is.”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “Nope.” He rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. His eyes were hot, liquid, searing her soul. “Go on up and shower. Change into something...not too comfortable.”

  She practically floated up the stairs.

  Once in the shower, she faced the pulsing water and closed her eyes. She rubbed her soapy hands slowly over her breasts, and for the first time in her memory felt truly alive. Ryder hadn’t said he loved her, but he hadn’t said he hated her, either. He certainly didn’t act as if he hated her.

  He gave her hope the past could be forgotten, perhaps forgiven, as well. She finished in the shower and stepped onto the marble tile. She selected a bottle of perfumed body lotion and smoothed it over every inch of skin. Her reflection in the mirror made her frown. Her ribs jutted ladderlike against her sides and her pelvic bones were as prominent as her collarbones. Her legs were acquiring some shapeliness, but not nearly enough.

  Standing straight, she pulled back her shoulders and turned this way and that. Her breasts kept her from looking like a preadolescent, but only barely. She made a mental note to speak to her physical therapist about how to put on some weight.

  Have a baby.

  The thought startled her. She splayed her fingers over her flat belly. With a hunger so richly turgid it made her limbs heavy and her mouth water, she wanted a baby. A little sister or brother for Abby, another child for Ryder to indulge and adore. A baby to fill her belly and swell her breasts.

  She pressed her fingers against her tummy. In the accident, she’d suffered internal injuries. Her back ached almost all the time, and probably always would. Yet not a single doctor had given her any reason to believe she couldn’t have another child. For another baby, she’d willingly go through any kind of physical pain or inconvenience.

  Surely Ryder wanted more children. He was a wealthy man, and this house was huge. He had infinite patience with Abby. With the neighbors so far away, Abby must want siblings to play with. Closing her eyes, Laura could almost hear the sound of children laughing and running in the wide halls and smell the sweet-sour milk scent of babies.

  She practically floated to the closet containing her lounge wear. She trailed her fingers over yards of silk, satin and chiffon. Unable to recall what Ryder preferred, she closed her eyes and turned a slow circle. She stopped and thrust out a hand. She grasped the first article of lingerie she touched.

  Her choice made her laugh. The gown was a collection of electric blue satin and peekaboo lace with a long skirt slit up both sides. The matching robe was trimmed in lace and frothy marabou

  Sticking to her choice, she worked the slithery gown over her head. Fortunately, the bodice wasn’t fitted, so it being too big didn’t matter much.

  The telephone rang and her heart sank. Ryder must be calling to tell her that he was busy and would be tied up for a while. Jamming her arms into the robe sleeves, she hurried to answer.

  Ryder said, “You need to come downstairs, Laura.” He sounded as if he’d been kicked in the belly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Living room.” He hung up.

  For a few paralyzing seconds, she stood with the dead telephone in her hand, wondering what could possibly make him sound so miserably flat. Dry-mouthed, heart pounding, she returned to the closet. She selected a simple rayon dress she’d ordered from a catalog. It had a long floating skirt and enough fabric to disguise her scrawniness. With trembling fingers, she fastened the long row of tiny wooden buttons. She slipped on a pair of pale pink slippers.

  When she finally made her way down to the living room, she found Ryder standing by the fireplace. He held a glass of whiskey. Her alarm shifted into dread.

  “Laura?”

  The stranger startled her. She turned about in time to see a man rise from the sofa. Lean and dark-haired, he had bright green eyes too large for his face and a wispy mustache that perched under his nose like a fuzzy caterpillar.

  Laura’s scalp prickled. Ryder hunched his shoulders, and his face was dark, rigid with anger. He looked as if someone had invited a grizzly bear into his home and forbidden him to chase it away.

  The stranger walked toward Laura. Instinctively, she hurried to her husband’s side. She hooked her arm with Ryder’s. The stranger stopped next to an étagère holding a display of crystal sculptures. He studied them as if they were the reason he crossed the room.

  Knowing she was being terribly rude, Laura cleared her throat. She felt as if every hair on her body stood on end and anxiety cramped her belly. “I’m very sorry, sir. My memory...” She shook her head and forced a smile.

  “Donny Weis,” Ryder said through his teeth. He shot the other man a malevolent glare.

  The name meant nothing.

  “You sure you have the right wife, Hudson?” Donny chuckled. “Man, oh, man, you don’t look nothing like yourself, Laura.”

  Laura gasped. Ryder moved with startling swiftness. Donny’s eyes widened and he backed furiously until his knees struck the sofa and he sat down hard.

  Cringing, Donny held both hands open in placation. “Hey, I didn’t mean nothing, Hudson. But you have to admit... you know.”

  Holding one clenched fist against his side, Ryder said, “Laura, Weis here wants to see Abby.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Donny whistled long and low. “You really do have amnesia. I guess you do, too, Hudson.” He waggled his eyebrows, and his eyes glittered like a cat’s. “He forgot to tell you I’m Abby’s dear old dad.”

 
; Laura had to sit down.

  Head down, brow thunderous, Ryder said, “Donny’s your ex-husband and Abby’s father. He has visitation rights.” He snapped up his head and focused the full force of his glare on the man. “Even though he’s about as reliable as a one-legged dog in a horse race.”

  Donny shrugged lazily. “Hey, I’m a traveling man. Business here, there. You know how it is, Laura.”

  She didn’t. She was still trying to figure out the ex-husband-and-Abby’s -father part.

  “I’m hurt you forgot about me,” Donny said. “But I guess you don’t look too bad. From what I hear it’s a miracle you even lived. So what really happened?”

  His glittering green eyes reminded Laura of the tails of greenbottle flies. Metallic, somehow dirty.

  Evil.

  She’d had this man’s baby? Her stomach churned.

  “Laura?” Ryder had set down the whiskey glass—empty. He looked ready to explode. “Visitation is up to you. You have sole custody. And Weis here is way behind on his child-support payments.”

  “Hey.” Donny waggled his fingers. “What’s forty bucks a week to a rich dude like you? A guy like me has to hustle for his pennies. It’s a big, bad world out there. But don’t think I don’t appreciate you taking such good care of my little baby.”

  Laura breathed deeply to clear her head. Ryder probably hadn’t told her about Donny Weis because Donny’s demands to visit with Abby were nearly nonexistent.

  Still, he was Abby’s father.

  And she had no right to keep them apart.

  Ryder had absolutely no right whatsoever to keep this information from her.

  She forced a smile and rose. She nodded graciously to Donny. “Please, Donny, help yourself at the bar. Ryder, may I speak to you for a moment, please?” She nodded toward the doorway.

  She left the room and kept walking until she was outside in the courtyard. A stiff breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt. Silently, Ryder followed. Once the doors were closed, she whirled on her husband. “Why didn’t you tell me I was married before?”