by Andre, Bella
"You were almost killed today. Do you have any idea what the thought of that does to me, what I went through when I saw you go down?" The gray of his eyes darkened nearly to black. "It rips me apart. I saw you lying there and it was just like before. Like Sarah."
It was the first time she'd ever heard him say his wife's name. For some reason, that knowledge—that he'd so carefully kept this part of himself away from her—hurt far worse than knowing he was leaving.
"I couldn't protect her, Andie. I should have been able to, should have known Zamora was serious when he threatened me. Because I screwed up, my wife and son died. When I saw Jessop with that knife to your throat, it was the same thing. I should have known. Something didn't feel right about the whole thing, about arresting Tom. But I didn't listen to my own instincts, and as a result you could have died."
"I didn't, though, Will. I'm fine."
"No thanks to me."
"What do you mean, no thanks to you? You're the one who ended up shooting him."
"Which was one genuinely stupid thing to do when you were standing right next to him. I didn't even think about it, didn't think about what would have happened if I'd missed. Don't you get it? It never should have happened. I should have been able to protect you. Just like I should have been able to protect Sarah and I couldn't."
"I don't need you to protect me, Will. Just to love me."
The words slipped out and she would have given anything to call them back. His jaw clenched and he reached a hand toward her, then dropped it.
"I can't. I’m sorry. I can't."
"Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?"
"Andie—"
"It doesn't matter," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "It doesn't. Just—just be safe. Please?"
He turned and walked a few paces, then looked back, studying her out of eyes that were once again as bleak as a winter sky. A hawk spiraled overhead, piercing the air with its eerie, mournful cry, and the wind moaned in the pine trees. The sounds echoed the pain pulsing through her. But she wouldn't beg. Damn him, she wouldn't beg.
Despite her strenuous efforts to keep it in check, one stubborn tear slipped from her eye. She could feel it rolling down her cheek. If anything, Will grew more stoic, and then, with a strangled groan, he crossed the space between them and swept her into his arms, crushing her so tightly, the buttons of his shirt pressed into her skin through the layers of cloth. He lowered his mouth to hers, and she tasted desperation and regret in his kiss.
"I'm sorry, Andie," he whispered against her lips. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, one arm tucked against her stomach, the other hand pressed to her mouth.
As he drove out onto the road, the wind sent a torrent of leaves rattling behind him.
***
"Well, guys," Andie said, "it looks like our gardening days are over for the year."
The dogs barked and raced off to chase one of the chickens that had ventured from the pen to bravely peck the cold, hard ground. The weak early morning sun filtered through the trees, sparkling off the frost that coated every surface.
Her breathing made little puffs of condensation in the cold air as Andie studied the blackened remnants of her garden, all that remained of it, anyway, the few plants the frost hadn't destroyed.
She felt just like her frost-killed garden, as if all the life had been frozen out of her. To her shame, she'd spent the night alternating between grief and anger, had lain in her bed, under her wedding-ring quilt, crying more tears than she ever thought she contained.
And where had it gotten her? Exhausted and wrung out, with nothing left in her but a weary acceptance. Around about dawn, she'd come to the realization that no matter how hard she cried, Will was still gone and there was not one single thing she could do about it except try to rebuild her life once again.
She ought to be pretty darn good at that, she thought, grimacing. She'd certainly had enough practice.
Sighing again, she made her way across the ground, the frost crunching beneath her boots, to her garden bench. She would go on. With hard work and practice, she might even achieve some measure of peace again.
The preschool didn't open for another hour. That should give her just enough time to make a start on that apple tree, she decided.
She was up on the ladder, filling her second bucket, when she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway. Beth must be checking up on her, she thought. She hoped the cold had wiped away all traces of her self-pity. It wouldn't do for Will's sister to know how much his leaving had devastated her.
She picked a few more apples, then started to climb down, just as a deep, dearly familiar voice vibrated through the cold air.
"You missed a few up there."
Her heart stumbled for an instant and she froze. She followed the voice and found him standing at the bottom of the ladder, watching her with a curious, tender expression on his face.
"I—I think you took a wrong turn somewhere, Sheriff," she said breathlessly. "Phoenix is a few miles south of here."
"You know, I was halfway through Utah before it hit me."
"What hit you?"
"Come down and maybe I'll tell you."
Her hands shaking, she slid the rest of the way down the ladder and faced him, her blood throbbing rapidly through her, her chest tight.
"About two in the morning," he said, "I drove through that empty stretch in Utah. You know, where the mountains begin to turn into desert. As I looked out at all that sagebrush, I suddenly realized there's nothing for me in Phoenix. Just dust and heat and one hell of an empty life. Everything important to me is right here."
Her heart quickened a pace but she refused to let herself hope. Not yet.
"Emily?" she asked.
He stepped closer to the ladder, caging her between it and his body. Strong fingers caressed her cheek and his wolf eyes burned with intensity.
"Yeah, Emily. And somebody else."
She swallowed down the beginnings of a smile. "Beth?"
He gave a raspy laugh. "You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?"
"After what you put me through last night? What do you think?"
He framed her face in his big, hard, wonderful hands. "All Phoenix can offer me is vengeance and hate. If I went back, if I followed that trail, it would eventually destroy me. Wyoming, on the other hand, has the one thing I can never give up. You."
Her smile broke free just as he dipped his head and whispered his lips against hers. Her hands fluttered up and rested against his chest, and she settled into his kiss.
All the pain of the night before seemed to shimmer away as she felt his muscles, his strength, beneath her fingers.
"I love you, Andie. I think I have since the moment I pulled you over that day, when you flashed that smile and your long legs and offered me a drink."
She laughed against his mouth and wondered if she'd ever get used to hearing those words.
"And here I thought you meant all that frowning and growling you did," she teased.
"I thought I did too." He paused, staring into her eyes. "I never thought I'd love another woman after Sarah died. Never deserve to love another woman."
"Oh, Will. You're not to blame for your wife's death. You're not!"
"A part of me will always feel guilty for it, will always wonder what I could have done differently. But the rest of me is just thanking God I have another chance for love."
"I do love you," she whispered. "So much, Will."
He cleared his throat. "I don't know how we'll get along, but I thought I'd see if Hank could use another deputy around here. If he doesn't, maybe I could try my hand at ranching again. If you're willing to marry a broken-down ex-sheriff, I'm even willing to put up with that mangy goat of yours."
She started to laugh, then the rest of his words sank deep into her bones and she gaped at him.
Marry him? Marry him? She couldn't possibly. She didn't dare. Slowly, she pulled her hands from around his neck
and slid from the ladder, away from him.
"I... Can't we go on as we have been?" she asked, knowing even as she said it that it was impossible. For Emily's sake, if nothing else.
He looked confused. "I want to marry you, Andie, to live here at the ranch, if that's what you want, and to see those mountains out the window while I kiss you awake every morning for the rest of our lives."
She wanted that too. Desperately. The pain of the night before paled compared to this agony, the terrible knowledge that he loved her as she loved him, but that she could never be with him.
"I can't marry you, Will."
"What do you mean, you can't marry me? I love you. You just said you love me. Isn't marriage the normal progression of things, or have I missed a step somewhere?"
"No. I just... I should have told you before now."
"Told me what?"
She wrapped her arms around herself as Peter's words echoed in her ears. I don't want you now. I can't.
"Marriage is about family. Children. I - I can never give you that."
What the hell was she talking about? Will wondered. He started to speak, but her outstretched hand stopped him.
"I told you about the baby and the miscarriages," she continued in that dry, lifeless tone he'd heard only once before. "I ... What I didn't tell you is that the last baby was too much for me and I—I had to have an emergency hysterectomy. I can't have children."
Stunned, he could do nothing but stare. It explained so much about her, he realized. The caring she dispensed to everyone around her. The ranch that flourished under her loving attention. The school, where she spent each day taking care of other people's children.
She was doing her damnedest to make up for the loss of something that had been so important to her, and it nearly broke his heart. Just when he thought he couldn't love her any more, she managed to spin him around once again.
"Oh, Andie. You're what I want. You. The sweet, funny, generous woman who thawed my heart. I don't need a brood mare. I need you."
"What if you decide in a year or two that you want a child?"
"I have a child. And so will you, if you marry me. A beautiful, stubborn daughter."
Tears filled her eyes, shimmering in the deep green, "How can yon take that risk? What if you decide you want another baby, and that I'm not good enough anymore because I can't give you that?"
Not good enough? Where the hell was this coming from? He suddenly remembered her talking about her marriage, about her husband who had desperately wanted a child. About his wealthy parents and their constant demands. Was that the reason she was divorced? Because her husband couldn't deal with the fact that she could no longer give him what he wanted?
Something of his fury must have shown on his face, because she seemed to shrink inside herself.
"I'm so sorry, Will. I should have told you before."
Though the rage still thrummed through him at the spineless bastard she'd married, Will struggled to contain it and to choose just the right words that would convince her it didn't matter to him.
"I love you," he said slowly. "No matter what. You healed me, sweetheart. Taught me to laugh and to love and to live again."
She closed her eyes, as if his words hurt her somehow, and he knew he had to try harder. "Andie, whatever happened to you is not your fault. Just like what you said about me not being to blame for Sarah's death. It doesn't make you any less of a person. If anything, it only makes me love you more because you've worked so hard to make your life right again."
She lifted her head, afraid to hope. The possibility of a future with Will and Emily was like a shimmering mirage, just out of reach.
"I'm sorry for what happened to you," he continued. "So sorry. And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make it not hurt you so much." He reached for her hand with both of his and held it tightly. "I can't guarantee I'll succeed, but I'll do my best."
"Oh, Will," she whispered. She felt a smile bubbling up inside her at this earnest, tender side of him, which she'd never imagined lurked inside her gruff sheriff.
He tugged her closer to him. "I swear to you here and now that you and Emily will always be more than enough family for me. And that I will wake up every single day for the rest of my life thanking whatever miracle brought me to you."
"Oh, Will," she whispered again, awed by the sweetness of it, by the promise shining in his silver eyes, by the calm assurance sweeping away every single one of her doubts like a healing breeze after the storm. "Are you sure?"
"As sure as those mountains," he said solemnly, sincerely, and she fell into his arms.
He held her tightly, nearly squeezing the breath out of her. "Is that a yes?"
Her smile broke free just as the last of the frost melted in the sunlight. "That's a definite yes, Sheriff."
Epilogue
He was about to break a promise and the knowledge terrified him.
Nervousness edging through him, Will quietly opened the door to the ranch house. The house smelled alluringly of gingerbread and cinnamon mixed with the sweet tang of pine from the huge Christmas tree in the front room and the evergreen garlands Andie and Em had draped around the house.
He crunched the snow off his boots and hung his Stetson on the rack beside the front door before poking his head into the living room, where Bing Crosby sang about chestnuts and open fires at an ear-splitting level and the lights on the tree shimmered and winked.
The dogs, lying on their favorite rug near the woodstove, thumped their tails in greeting, but didn't rise to greet him.
Familiarity breeds contempt, Will thought, chuckling. A year ago, they would have been all over him, barking a frenzied greeting. Now he only merited a measly tail wag.
His life had changed completely in the past year, he thought. He took off his coat, the one with the sheriff's star proudly displayed, and hung it on the rack.
There was another way it had changed, and he hadn't even had to resort to ranching. He'd returned from his honeymoon with Andie to find two messages on the answering machine at her ranch. One had been from his old boss in Phoenix telling him Zamora had been captured the day of Will's wedding and would spend the rest of his life in prison. The other had been from Hank, saying he was quitting for good and that the town wanted Will to take over.
He'd found more contentment than he ever thought possible in Whiskey Creek. A job he'd grown to love. A daughter who had once again become sweet and affectionate. And most of all, Andie.
He found her in the kitchen, wearing an apron covered in flour-frosted poinsettias over a fancy velvety green dress that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was piled on her head, and long diamond earrings swayed when she moved.
All dressed up and she still couldn't stop working, he thought with a grin. She was singing loudly and off-key with Bing about kids from one to ninety-two, and he wondered if he could possibly love her any more.
He walked up behind her and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, just under her upswept hair, and she jumped, nearly spilling the bowl of dough on the floor.
She whirled around. "Will! I hate it when you scare me like that. Next time make some noise when you come in!" Despite her scolding tone, her eyes lit up and her mouth softened with welcome.
"Next time turn down the stereo. You couldn't hear a stampede in here."
"I like my music loud," she retorted.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I think everybody in the county has realized that by now."
She gave him a mock frown that was so adorable he just had to try to kiss it away. Before his lips met hers, he paused. "You have flour on your cheek, Mrs. Tanner."
"Rats." She backed away from him and rubbed her face. "And I was trying so hard to stay clean."
He leaned back against the counter. "Don't you think you might be a tad overdressed for making cookies?"
She frowned again. "I started worrying I might not have baked enough, so I thought I'd whip up one more batch while we waited for you. You're late, by
the way."
"I ran into a little delay." Knowing he was stalling, putting off the inevitable while he tried to form exactly the right words, he reached around her for one of the sugar cookies cooling on the rack. She swatted his hand before he could grab one.
"Stop that," she ordered. "Those are for your sister's party. Speaking of which, you need to hurry and shower if we're going to make it on time."
"Beth'll keep. I'm very much afraid this won't." He pulled her against him and lowered his mouth to hers.
A year of marriage, and just being close to her still made his head spin. He knew, without a trace of conceit, that he had the same effect on her because she melted in his arms, oblivious to the snow falling outside, to the party starting in less than an hour, to the timer buzzing on the stove.
He swallowed her low moan just as he heard the sound of a throat being cleared loudly.
He glanced over to find Emily standing in the doorway. "If you two are quite finished"—Em had on her exasperated prissy tone again, he noticed with amusement—"I have two more presents to wrap and I am out of tape. Where could I find some more?"
Andie, flustered, pulled out of his arms and turned off the timer, then rummaged through a drawer near the refrigerator. She handed a roll to Emily. "Here you go, sweetheart. Do you need help?"
"No. I'm just about through. Besides, it's your present I'm wrapping."
"Then you ought to need lots of tape. It's big, right?" Andie asked, a hopeful note in her voice, and Emily shook her head.
"You're as bad as Aunt Beth. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow."
"I'm not the one who's been rattling every present under the tree for weeks now, young lady."
Emily just grinned at her. "I know. That was Dad!"
They both laughed, and he took their ribbing with good-natured aplomb. He was used to it, after all, to them ganging up on him.
"Merry Christmas, Em," he said.
She smiled again and gave him a quick hug. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."
After she'd returned upstairs, he knew the time had come. He couldn't put it off any longer.
"Andie, we need to talk."
