He stroked into her, hearing his own groan at the rightness of finding his place inside her. But just that fast, the pulsing needs of the rhythm rose up with its demands. Her arms and legs wrapped around him.
Each stroke was a force of will to hold back the fire another second, another movement, another lifetime. He wanted, needed, to hear her cal out. To have one last memory of her voice as he brought her to the peak.
Her internal muscles clenched around him, and she threw her head back.
"Cal!"
He exploded. Beyond force of will, beyond his experience. Up, hard and fast in a rush of sensation that erased everything before it.
Holding her, feeling her arms around him, he tried to pretend the landscape of his emotions had somehow remained untouched. And especially he tried to pretend that he hadn't needed her not only to call out, but to call out that name – his name.
* * *
He was a damned liar.
The fact that he'd lied to himself made it worse.
He'd wanted Taylor even more than she'd wanted him.
Cal stuffed a pillow behind his shoulders so he could angle up enough to look at her – her cheek resting against his chest, one arm draped across his waist, one leg hooked over his. Where the drifts of covers receded, her skin glowed pale in the moonlight.
Taylor deserved more than this, more than him.
Taylor deserved someone to love her.
If he'd been standing, the thought would have buckled his knees, like an unexpected punch.
Love? Someone to love her? How could he wish that on her? Someone she would show her generosity and vulnerability to, and then would use it against her?
Like he had?
Maybe I can understand, with your history, that you're worried about me doing that to you. But how do you explain your trying to do it to me?
Because, God help him, he loved her. And that's what love did.
No. God should help Taylor, because even after the lesson at his hands, she still believed in love.
* * *
Taylor woke with a start. She hadn't meant to sleep. She hadn't meant to miss even a moment. She hadn't meant to leave him the option of leaving silently.
But he was still here. His arms wrapped around her, his body her pillow. She tipped her head back and met his gaze. For one heartbeat he held her still – a snapshot in her heart of what could be if he'd allow it.
Then he released her and moved away. A powerful shifting of his muscles and he'd rolled out of the bed to stand beside it, reaching for his briefs. Watching his motions brought the familiar thudding heat to her bloodstream, but the tightness in her chest and throat came from the meaning behind his motions.
"You're leaving for good – no, not for good. Forever." She said it not because she didn't know the answer, but to make him say it.
"I'm doing you a favor."
"You expect me to say thank you?"
With his back still to her, he looked around, pausing in the act of pulling on his jeans. "I can do without a thank-you."
Regret underpinned the starkness of his voice. It made her all the more certain that he was leaving forever.
"There's one thing I do thank you for, Cal." She'd thought yesterday she'd said everything she had to say. She'd been wrong. "Without realizing it, I was afraid I might be tempted back into being that shark lawyer I used to be if I got too close to it again. I'm sure that's part of why I came to Knighton – not much chance of being drawn back into that world here, right?" She tried to smile. "I hadn't counted on you."
Shrugging his shirt into place, he looked at her over his shoulder.
"But now," she went on quickly, before she could beg him to stay and be the man she knew he could be, "thanks to you, I have been exposed to that old life, so my fears and doubts have been tested. And I've come out the other side knowing – no fears, no doubts – that my life here is what I want."
"I'm glad. It should make you understand that's what I'm doing – trying to protect my being able to stay where and what I want to be."
"That's not what you're doing, Cal." She sat up, holding the sheet to her throat, though it offered no protection from the pain. "That's what's so heartbreaking about it. You learned a long time ago where you didn't want to be and what you didn't want to be, but you've been running scared ever since that, if you let yourself get too close to your old life again, it would swallow you up and make you just like your father."
"That's bull." He sat on the farthest corner of the bed from her to pull on his boots.
"It's not. It's…" Understanding produced from a thousand fragments – words, looks, touches – came together then. "It's true, but it's only half the truth. You're afraid if you're loved you'll be like your father, and you're afraid if you love you'll be like your mother." The fear of hurting and the fear of being hurt – and both of them were driving him away from her – not because he didn't care, but because he did. "You won't know that neither one of those needs to be true until you face those old temptations. And until you do that, you won't know if you belong here or anywhere else. I've done that, thanks to you. Now you have to do it, too. To stop running and to face those demons you thought you were leaving behind. Because you haven't left them, Cal, don't you see that? Just like your Aunt Eva remained in her prison even when she could have left it, you carry your demons around with you. They're inside that shell you retreat into. But there's also a man with life and love and joy inside there, if you'll let him out.
"I pray you do, because I love you, Cal."
He stood, fully dressed. Ready to leave. "I never wanted you thinking you're in love with me."
She laughed, and half meant it. "You don't think I've tried not to? From the start I fried not to. But mistletoe and puppies and blizzards conspired against me. Mistletoe, puppies, blizzards and you. I never had a chance."
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Matty walked into Taylor's office and dropped into the chair.
"Cal's gone. Left this morning. Spent Tuesday lining up another hand so the Flying W wouldn't be short." She huffed as if in irritation, but Taylor saw the telltale sheen of tears. "As if some fill-in could replace him – the idiot. He packed up yesterday, loaded his truck and left at first light."
"Did he say anything?"
"Not much. Said he was sorry to be leaving me in the lurch. Said 'Thanks.'" Taylor could hear the single, laconic word in his low voice, and knew, as Matty did, how much it encompassed. "Said you wouldn't be his lawyer anymore, so he had to take care of things himself. You had to know he'd go, Taylor."
"I knew."
"Do you think that was wise?"
"It was the only thing I could do. I couldn't watch … I couldn't." Taylor looked to her friend for understanding and received it. Matty came around the desk, put her arm around Taylor's shoulders and squeezed.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just hope to God it shakes him up hard enough to loosen some of those stubborn bolts in his head."
"Did he … did he take everything?"
"No. Left his furniture and most of his books. Took clothes, a couple paintings, a candlestick – if you can believe that." She shook her head. "And he took Sin."
"Good," Taylor said firmly. "If there's anyone who needs unconditional love, it's Cal."
* * *
One look at his father's last assistant, and Cal knew that Christina had hired this one. She had medium brown hair going gray, less chin than forehead, thick glasses and a nervous air.
"If you want anything, Mr. Whitton, just buzz. It's the red button, on the right."
"Greg Salisbury should be here in five minutes, and the meeting starts in twenty. If I think of anything I can't do without before then, I'll get it myself, or I'll open the door and ask you."
"Oh. Yes, sir. Of course, Mr. Whitton."
"No, wait. One thing I do want – don't call me Mr. Whitton."
"Not … but— I mean, yes, sir, uh, sir." She was b
acking out of the room the entire time.
"Thank you, Ms. Markham," he added just before the door closed, leaving him alone. Alone in his father's office.
It hadn't changed since the last time he'd been here, the week before Great-Aunt Eva died.
His father's portrait still hung in the place of honor over the antique sofa. Anyone who ever sat on the thing soon learned the error of his ways – and a lesson in the ego of Laurance Whitton – because the only comfortable seating faced the portrait.
Cal looked at it now. It showed a vital, driven, savvy man. A man who not a soul on this earth honestly mourned.
A man who'd had a woman who truly loved him, until he drove her away.
A sensation of cold moved up Cal's neck and across the base of his skull.
Before he could decipher its cause, a knock sounded and Ms. Markham ushered in a man a few years older than Cal, with a streak of gray in his dark hair and an easy smile.
"Mr. Salisbury," Ms. Markham murmured before disappearing.
"It's nice to meet you, finally, Cal. Sorry – I should call you Mr. Whitton. I've talked with Taylor so much about your situation, I guess I picked up her habit."
"No problem. Matter of fact, I'd prefer it to Mr. Whitton."
The lawyer frowned. "That might not be a good idea. I understand you're not sure you want the people here to know about your life in Wyoming, is that right?"
"That's right." Once this was over, he planned to disappear. He doubted he'd go back to Knighton. But having the vultures from his old life know they could find him there would close off the possibility completely. He wasn't ready to do that.
"Then we better stick with Mr. Whitton, and leave Cal for Wyoming. You're not going to win any friends when this gets out."
He nodded. The gesture felt awkward, wrong somehow. Giving up being Cal Ruskoff was harder than he'd have expected. He missed the name. He missed the life. He missed the man.
By dissolving this company, you'll dissolve their lives right out from under them without another thought, simply because it's what suits your purposes. Isn't that what your father would do?
Oh, yes, Laurance Whitton always did what suited his purpose without a second's thought. Now Bennington Caldwell Rusk Whitton was about to tell a roomful of strangers that he was going to do what suited his purpose. Was Taylor right? Was it a futile gesture to try to get back at a man he could never get back at? Was it to even the score in a game with only one player left?
"Sorry it can't be simpler," Salisbury said, "but considering you're about to dismantle the company these folks work for, it's probably a necessary complication. If you want to look over these valuations—"
"It's as simple as you make it."
I found myself telling this five-year-old that it really wasn't as simple as Mama Abedelia made it sound. That there were circumstances and obligations that could complicate right and wrong tremendously, and that gray was the only universal color. But in the end, it's as simple as you make it.
"What?"
"Just thinking aloud. Sorry."
"No problem." The lawyer picked up where he'd left off, talking about valuations done for tax purposes.
Cal interrupted him. "These valuations – they're the same kind that would be done for converting the company to worker-owned?"
Salisbury looked up. "No. But Taylor had that kind done, too. I wondered…"
A discreet knock on the door presaged Ms. Markham opening it halfway to announce, "Everyone's gathering in the conference room, Mr. – uh, gentlemen."
"Thank you, Ms. Markham."
"Sooner we get this started, the sooner it'll be over," Salisbury said.
Something in the other man's neutral voice caught Cal's interest. "You're not looking forward to this, are you?"
"Can't say I am."
"I should have known that was why Taylor picked you." He shrugged. "We've been friends a long time. Well, are you ready?"
Cal glanced at the portrait again, then started to shrug out of his suit jacket. The lawyer's brows rose like an elevator.
"No, I'm not ready. In fact—" He broke off to stride to the door, fling it open to reveal the startled face of Ms. Markham, and announced, "There isn't going to be a meeting – not today anyway. Ms. Markham, tell everyone to go back to their regular work and I'm sorry to have wasted their time, then order in sandwiches, because Mr. Salisbury and I have a lot of work to do."
The woman's mouth worked before she got out, "What kind of sandwiches, sir?"
Cal laughed. "Beef, of course! Roast beef. In fact, order in roast beef sandwiches for everyone in the company. Oh, and Ms. Markham, get the flower shop in Jefferson, Wyoming, on the line. If there's more than one flower shop, get Dave Currick of Knighton, Wyoming, on the phone and ask him what the hell he was talking about."
He shut the door, then turned back to the gaping lawyer. "Now, let's get started. And call me Cal."
* * *
Almost two months of silence. Of not even hearing anyone else mention Cal's name. And then two phone calls referring to him in one day.
Taylor had thought the wordless looks of sympathy from Matty. Dave and Lisa were bad enough. Even Ruth Moski had patted her arm in a consoling manner. As for her family, the Larsen radar was working all too well. She hadn't told them anything, yet she'd received calls from her parents and each sibling, plus her sister-in-law, asking if something was wrong.
At least when Lisa buzzed and told her line two was Greg Salisbury from Connecticut, Taylor was braced for what the topic was going to be.
"Thanks for the client from hell, Taylor."
"What do you mean?" Cal had been the client from hell for her, but the same reasons wouldn't apply.
"He doesn't listen to a damn thing I say. Sits across my desk from me, and tells me what he wants, stays silent while I tell him all the reasons that's not a good idea, then says to do it his way, and have it done a month faster than it's humanly possible to do."
"You're lucky he comes to your office," she murmured. A vision of Cal astride a horse, with the greening mountains and blue sky as his backdrop, swept in. And that was another thing to blame on his insistence that she go to the Flying W all those times – too many vivid memories of Cal in the life that had suited him so well.
A harumph came over the long-distance line. "I'll give him this, he's sharp. And quick. Never had anybody pick up the ins and outs of the P-and-S faster."
A purchase-and-sales agreement? Was he selling after all? She couldn't afford to jump to that conclusion, she couldn't afford to hope. "He's a good businessman. Wait until he finds a company to run – the right company for him, one he can build up his own way. And when he does, invest in it."
"First I have to survive what he's doing to dispose of this company. He sure doesn't seem to care about the hornet's nest he's stirred up. And the grieving widow is a definite hornet. But he never notices – he just keeps doing what he wants."
Just like his father.
"He's seen Christina?" The ache under her breastbone grew barbs.
"Seen her? He's practically had to peel her off him a few times. Maybe she's not a hornet, maybe she's a leech. Either way, she hasn't budged him any more than anyone else has."
Emotions hit Taylor like gusts of wind, not allowing her to recover from one before the next hit. Relief – Christina had not ensnared him again. Joy – he had faced one of his demons and come through it. Sorrow – surviving that demon hadn't yet allowed him to return to Knighton. Fear – more demons, perhaps not as enticing as his ex-fiancée, but broader and deeper, remained.
"Having your plan to follow has been a lifesaver," Greg went on. "Great work, by the way. That's really why I called. To say thanks. Your plan has made this go a lot faster than it would ordinarily. Although not fast enough to please my client. The man is definitely in a hurry about something."
Her plan … her plan to convert the company to worker-owned. He wasn't dissolving Bennington Chemical.
She couldn't formulate an answer, but Greg didn't seem to notice.
"Yeah, this plan to sell his majority ownership to the employees is a thing of beauty. And he's sweetened the deal even more."
She fulfilled her end of wrapping up the phone call automatically. Her heartbeat had picked up an irregular rhythm, like an added grace note. She feared it might be hope.
The fact that Cal was turning the company over to its employees didn't necessarily translate into his coming back to Knighton. And it certainly didn't mean he'd come back to her.
With the second phone call, an hour later, she had no opportunity to brace herself. Matty had called at least every other day "to chat," so Taylor had no reason to suspect this one would be different.
"Have you heard?"
"Heard what, Matty?"
"The animal rescue group's been funded for as far into the future as anyone can conceive, and Dr. Markus got a whopping donation for the clinic he wants to build. Somebody paid the back taxes on the Widow Brontman's place. Ruth and Hugh Moski's granddaughter suddenly got money to go to medical school, too."
"How wonderful for them," Taylor said when she could manage words.
"All anonymous gifts from some unknown benefactor. Word is the paperwork comes from some law firm in Connecticut."
She hadn't needed that confirmation to know. It was Cal. Clearing the books before he closed them? A lesson he'd learned from his father. Just like he'd learned from his father to fear love, with a refresher course from Christina.
He swore he'd hated his father all his life, but if Cal hadn't loved his father, the man couldn't have hurt him so bitterly. And he'd loved Christina enough to plan a life with her.
To protect himself from more of the kind of pain they'd inflicted, he'd perfected the habit of leaving what he loved. His home. Sailing and the ocean. Oh, yes, Cal had learned well to see danger in what he loved … and in loving itself. He'd grown to love Wyoming and the Flying W and cattle ranching. How could she even think he might return?
And her? It was the proverbial no-win situation. If he felt he was caring deeply for her, he would cut himself off from her as he had cut himself off from sailing. The only way he would come back was if he was sure he didn't care.
MATCH MADE IN WYOMING Page 20
