Lips tightening, Shane curled his fingers around the door and pushed. Although gentle about it, he left her no doubt he was coming in—with or without her permission. She should have left the door shut and talked through it. But this room didn’t have a lock on it anyway.
Sighing, she stepped back and padded over to the windowseat. No way would she sit on that bed with Shane’s incontrovertible presence in her room.
But he did. He closed the door quietly, crossed the room and sat down on the mattress. His gaze steadied unwaveringly on her.
“You first, Ellie.”
She shook her head. “You’re the one who sought me out to talk. What do you want to talk about?”
“What don’t we need to talk about is more like it,” he said in a musing voice. “It might take us the rest of our lives to discuss all of it.”
“If you are insinuating again that you will marry me because you feel guilty about what happened this afternoon, I’ll tell you once more to forget it.”
“What if that’s not what I mean?” he asked quietly. “What if the reason I’m talking—trying to talk marriage to you is for a completely different reason?”
She stared at him across the room, hope mixing with self-doubt in her mind. Her hands clenched in her lap, both to still their restless nervousness and to keep her from holding them out to Shane. A long, tense silence settled between them while Ellie struggled to make sense of the turbulent emotions teeming in her thoughts.
It soon became clear Shane would say nothing more; that the next step was hers. Unable to maintain eye contact with him, she turned her head slightly to look out the window.
Her room was in the rear of the house, overlooking the endless vista of rangeland stretching toward the invisible horizon. Silver blue moonlight scattered across the fence railings and sagebrush, hinting at sparkles where night dew had settled. The pleasantly pungent odor of the sagebrush reached her, the very scent reminding her of Texas.
She had lived every bit of life she could recall here on this ranch. Nearly every person she knew lived in this state. Yet so many times she yearned to see other vistas, other cities, even other countries. She always wanted the ranch to be there for her to return to, however.
Pulling in her bottom lip, she chewed on it in contemplation, then cleared her throat.
“Have you made up your mind about the ranch?” she asked, still gazing out the window.
“No.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Ellie thought he could have at least asked her what that had to do with the two of them. She thought of Cinder. Her gelding would never be happy anywhere else. Hadn’t she read that the only place to exercise a horse in New York City was on the bridle paths in the parks? Heavens, they probably only had ducks there for a cow pony of Cinder’s ability to herd.
Should Shane decide to buy the ranch; should she decide to marry him—although he hadn’t yet come right out and asked that exact question—what then? He would need someone to run the ranch, but as his wife, she definitely wouldn’t be that person. Someone else would ride her ranges, her horse, order her men about.
No, not hers, she reminded herself. Elvina’s, and then Shane’s.
The mattress creaked and she twisted around to see Shane standing, striding for the door. Her mouth opened to call to him, then clamped shut in pique. Silently, despite still wearing his boots, he went out the door and closed it behind him.
What on earth was that all about?
But she knew. He was tired of sitting there like a bump on a log and waiting for her to speak. She had pushed him too far with her silence.
She slid off the window seat and flew across the floor. Hesitating for only a second, she turned the knob and pulled the door free far enough to peek out. Shane was already down at the end of the hallway, opening his bedroom door. He paused for a few seconds halfway through the door, and she got ready to ease her door closed if he turned and looked her way.
But he didn’t.
He went on in, and she heard the faint click when the door closed behind him.
Well, she liked that! Shoving her own door shut, she flapped her hands out and strode across the bedroom, halted at the window, turned and glared at her door. What the diddly darn did he mean by that? He came in here demanding they talk, sat down and refused to say anything, then left without another word before she gathered her own thoughts.
Didn’t he realize how important this conversation between them could be?
No. He had said one word after he sat down. No.
He hadn’t even attempted to carry on his share of whatever conversation he came to her room to foster. It was just like this afternoon. Then he fell asleep. Now, he deserted her!
The heck with him. She stomped across the floor and got into bed. Flounced to her side and yanked the sheet up over her.
Tomorrow she would talk to Fatima and see what it would take advantage of some of that magic she kept offering her. Convince the fairy woman to loan her some funds and send her somewhere else. She didn’t need much; just enough to keep her going until she found a job. Something like the bookkeeping job the storekeeper offered her, but somewhere far away from Fort Worth. Maybe down around El Paso.
Uncomfortable, she flounced to her other side and yanked the sheet over her.
She had to have a little bit of a stake. She handled all the ranch funds, but didn’t have any money of her own. Not enough to travel that far away and live until she found a job—got a paycheck.
Shoot, this position was uncomfortable, also. She flounced to her back and tried to yank the sheet up. It tangled around her legs, and when she tried to kick her feet to loosen it, it wrapped tighter. She squirmed for several seconds until she finally got loose, nearly falling out of bed by the time she had everything unwound, including the night rail that helped the sheet imprison her legs.
In fact, she was so close to the edge of the mattress, she did start to slide off. Twisting, she managed to land on her feet.
Well, she liked that. And she’d had about enough of this entire situation, furthered by the huge silent man who kept her in such a turmoil!
She stormed over to the wardrobe in the corner and grabbed her robe. Tossing it around her shoulders, she spat a near-curse when her furiously trembling hands tangled it, too, and she couldn’t find the arm holes.
The heck with it!
She tossed the robe on the floor and, not taking time to find her slippers, headed for the door.
Chapter 17
Damn it, where was Withers when he needed someone to talk to? Yanking off his shirt, Shane chucked it in a corner. He fell on the bed and pulled off his boots, almost taking his feet with them. Both boots landed on the shirt, clunking against the wall, muffled on the carpet when they fell.
Nearly tearing the buttons from those damned blue jeans these Westerners wore, which remained stiff and uncomfortable even after he sent them to the Chinese laundry in town, he stood and shimmied them down his legs. Kicked them toward the rest of the clothing.
Let Withers pick them up; he paid him enough to do that!
His night shirt lay across the pillows, the bed turned down, a neat triangle of snowy sheets showing and the comforter folded trimly. Jerking the top coverings off, he balled the comforter and sent it to join the shirt and boots. Then he tossed the sheet back on the bed, smiling in grim satisfaction at the untidy mess.
It was too damned hot in...Texas for covers! Hell, he could barely stand a sheet over him at night in the New York City summers, let alone during these humid, sweltering breaks in the endless, hot days this dastardly country called nights.
He looked at the night shirt and deigned donning it, too, as usual. Wondered briefly if Withers ever bothered to try to figure out why none of his night shirts ever needed replaced.
Hell, who cared.
He sat on the bed again, bent his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Clutched his head and shook it from side to side.
Who the hell cared about night sh
irts? Who the hell cared what Withers thought? Those thoughts were only an attempted distraction from the real reason his body heat was up. Damn it, he had perched there looking at Ellie like a schoolboy from the wrong side of the tracks yearning for the belle of the class and knowing there wasn’t the remotest possibility of him winning her. She looked like an ethereal dream there in the window, silver moonlight outlining her, the color matching the tumbles of platinum hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders. Dancing across the vibrant platinum tresses and curls with her movements. So tiny, yet so full of everything a man could possibly want in a woman. And he wanted her, no doubt about that. He had left the room before his scant control deserted him, as it had that afternoon.
Left with the heat roiling in his veins.
Left before he lost it and grabbed her like he did that afternoon. Let his guard down, and let Ellie at last see the horrible monster he was now; let her realize she, like Anastasia, could never make love with someone like him after seeing the disfigurement without encumbrance.
He cringed inside.
Admit it, Morgan, he told himself. You thought she might be different—hoped desperately she was different.
But after he got back to the ranch, he gave her three different chances to prove him wrong. She made no bones about not wanting to talk to him in the bathing room. He sloughed that off, because...well, because he had no business barging in on her there anyway. If he had, they wouldn’t have talked. He would have tried to make love to her again, if he’d been given half a chance.
But she reneged on her promise to come see him in the study, also. Went to her room on the flimsy excuse that “Elvina had told her to do so.”
He followed her to her room, took a chance on someone catching them together. And she held him at an across-the-room distance, not wanting him any closer. Not even wanting to discuss things with him.
Pity. She probably felt pity for him now that she knew exactly how marred he was, and didn’t quite know how to tell him what she was experiencing. Was too tender-hearted to actually put it into words, but nevertheless never wanted him near her again. Never wanted his hands on her soft skin; his lips on hers.
Despite what he had thought earlier, he found he couldn’t bear her pity. He couldn’t talk about that. When the faint hope that maybe she could actually bring herself to talk to him now that she knew how hideous he looked faded, he left.
He rose and walked over to the mirror. By standing sideways and craning his neck, he could see most of the damage to his back. He hadn’t looked at it since that first surreptitious examination his mother caught him at well over a year ago.
He recalled her soft gasp, then the look of love and admiration on Mariana’s face as she stood in the doorway of his room. She knew he needed to see this. But she wrung her hands in front of her waist, the unconscious gesture confirming her deep worry and dread of his reaction.
I would give anything if it were me instead of you standing there, my son, he remembered her saying.
The loathsome disfigurement hadn’t changed much. There weren’t the seeping sores and black, charred skin still needing to peel off. But the scars and ridges, pockmarks and shiny, distasteful-looking areas were just as repulsive.
The door flew open, and Ellie barely caught it before it banged against the wall. Startled, he watched her in the mirror. There was no time to cover himself, to pretend he had been at the mirror for something other than a grossly riveting examination of his disfigured body. He tensed, ready to throw her little rear end out of here if she made one wrong move—said one wrong word.
“How dare you?” she hissed quietly.
She obviously didn’t want to wake anyone and be caught in here any more than he had wanted to announce his presence in her room. To emphasize her words, she slammed her tiny hands on her hips, outlining them beneath the worn-thin night rail and pulling it tight across her well-formed breasts. Shane gulped and his eyes searched the room for his own night covering.
“How dare you?” she repeated, closing the door firmly but quietly, then stalking across the room. Shane backed toward the other side of the bed, but she rounded it with him, keeping between him and reach of the sheet.
Why the hell didn’t she say something about his back? She damned sure had seen it, even in the dim light. The moon shone fully through the window, and he had the curtains pulled completely back to take advantage of any scant night breeze in this damned state of...Texas.
“Are you always like that?” she demanded. “When you want to have a serious conversation, do you either fall asleep or sit there like a bump on a log and wait for someone else to carry the load? Say something! Say something now, or I swear I’m going to scream out my frustration and not care if the entire house hears me!”
“I need to put something on,” he answered.
Head swinging wildly, his gaze searched the bed, but he couldn’t make out his night rail from the tangled, crumpled sheet. He sidled past her and reached for the sheet to shake it out, but Ellie beat him to it.
Swiftly, she grabbed it, slid it loose with a snap, then raced to the window and tossed it out. Shane’s mouth dropped, and she turned back to him, a defiant look on her face.
“What happened to your back? I demand you at least tell me that much.”
An outraged figure, she reminded Shane of one of the cocky bandy roosters on the estate a friend had outside the city. For a brief second, he almost laughed, but some mental warning saved his hide. He cautiously sat on the bed, his eyes never leaving Ellie in case she went into another flurry of movement. Hopefully, no one would find the sheet before could retrieve it, but if they did, that would take less explanation than if the comforter and maybe even his shirt and boots joined it.
“I don’t like to talk about what happened,” he said. Warily, he pulled a pillow across his lap. She dropped her eyes, her curled lip indicated she hadn’t missed the movement or the reason for it, but she let him get by with that much.
“You don’t like to talk about a lot of things!” she fairly snarled. “Well, I’m tired of not talking with you. I have never in my life been this angry. Never in my life even realized I could get this angry! I’ve always had to be Miss Nicy-Nice, satisfied with the leftover crumbs, and then sometimes not even that much.”
“You shouldn’t have to—”
“Shut up! I’m not done!”
He swallowed another laugh, along with the words telling her he thought she wanted him to talk. Laughing might be more disastrous to him than what had happened on the steamboat. God, she was in a fine fettle. He’d never seen her look so adorable, so...desirable.
She paced back and forth in front of the window, flinging her hands out as she spoke and unaware the moonlight shone through that worn-out night rail with barely any obstruction.
“I understand that things change over time,” she berated. “They can’t always stay the same—stay the way we want them to. The way we’re happy with them. But if things are going to change, I want time to prepare myself for them.”
Shane stared at her in puzzlement. How did they get from the story of his back to this track of reasoning? What was she talking about now?
She stopped in front of the window, blue eyes blazing brighter than starlight and delectable lips pursed in determination. “So tell me what I want to know. Right now!”
He shook his head and cautiously opened his mouth. Did she really want him to say something now?
“Well?” she demanded.
Hmmmm. He guessed she did. But he wasn’t sure exactly which question she wanted answered. Or even what the question was.
“Ohhhhh!” She threw her hands in the air. “There you go again! Mr. Strong, Silent and Non-communicative!”
She started around the side of the bed as though leaving, but Shane sprang to his feet and blocked her way. Startled, she gasped and backed up quickly toward the window. He nearly laughed again when he saw the wary look on her face, but he only held out a palm in a plea
ding gesture. One palm, since he kept the pillow in place with the other hand.
“I’m just trying to figure out if you want to hear what happened to my back or what I’ve decided about the ranch, Ellie. That’s all my hesitation meant.”
“Both, of course,” she said as if he were as dense as an ice berg. “Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about? Or at least, I’ve been talking, while you sit there like Mr. Stone on a Log!”
“Poor analogy,” Shane said inanely. “Logs don’t usually have stones on them.”
Ellie took a deep breath, which scared Shane more than if she’d lost it and started screaming hysterically at him. Through gritted teeth and a deadly calm voice, which sounded entirely out-of-place in such a tiny woman, she said, “Start with your back. Now.”
“I was burned in a steamboat explosion.”
“Where?”
“On my back,” he said, confused.
“Gosh darn it! Where did it happen?”
“Oh. On the Mississippi River.”
“Where?”
“Uh...down near St. Louis?”
“If you don’t tell me the entire story without my having to pull it out of you like pulling hen’s teeth, I’m—”
“Hens don’t have teeth, do they?”
“Gosh darn it!” She balled her small hands into even smaller fists and shook them at him. “That’s the point, you prim and proper Yankee! Hens don’t have teeth!”
Shane shook his head, but decided he better cooperate here, if he could only figure out exactly what she wanted him to say. He had never talked about the steamboat accident fully with anyone, not since the night he tried to prepare Anastasia for the damage to his body. His fiancée’s impatience let him know she was more interested in the resulting damage than the way it happened, so there wasn’t much discussion about the “how” end of it.
Would it have made any difference with Anastasia? Probably not. Probably not with Ellie, either, but she didn’t look like she was going to leave this room until he told her all of it.
Southern Charms Page 17
