Ethan

by Diana Palmer

  Mary and Matt lived with Matt and Ethan's mother, Coreen, at the big rambling Hardeman house. Co­reen always welcomed Arabella as if she were family when she came to spend an occasional afternoon with her friend Mary. But Ethan was cold and unap­proachable and barely spoke to her.

  Arabella hadn't expected more from Ethan, though. He'd made his opinion of her crystal clear when he'd announced his engagement to Miriam shortly after he'd started dating the model. The engagement had shocked everyone, even his mother, and the rushed wedding had been a source of gossip for months. But Miriam wasn't pregnant, so obviously he'd married her for love. If that was the case, it was a brief love. Miriam had gone, bag and baggage, six months later, leaving Ethan alone but not unattached. Arabella had never learned why Miriam had refused the divorce or why Miriam had started running around on a man she'd only just married. It was one of many things about his marriage that Ethan never discussed with anyone.

  Arabella felt oblivion stealing her away. She gave in to it at last, sighing as she fell asleep, leaving all her worries and heartaches behind.

  Chapter Two

  When Arabella woke up again, it was daylight. Her hand throbbed in its white cast. She ground her teeth together, recalling the accident all too vividly—the impact, the sound of broken glass, her own cry, and then oblivion rushing over her. She couldn't blame the accident on her father; it had been unavoidable. Slick roads, a car that pulled out in front of them, and they'd gone off the pavement and into a telephone pole. She was relieved to be alive, despite the damage to her hand. But she was afraid her father wasn't going to react well to the knowledge that her performing days might be over. She refused to think about that possibility. She had to be optimistic.

  Belatedly she wondered what had become of the car they'd been driving. They'd been on their way to Ja-cobsville from Corpus Christi, where she'd been per­forming in a charity concert. Her father hadn't told her why they were going to Jacobsville, so she'd as­sumed that they were taking a brief vacation in their old home town. She'd thought then about seeing Ethan again, and her heart had bounced in her chest. But she hadn't expected to see him under these cir­cumstances.

  They'd been very close to Jacobsville, so naturally they'd been taken to the hospital there. Her father had been transferred to Dallas and had called Ethan, but why? She couldn't imagine the reason he should have asked a man he obviously disliked to look after his daughter. She was no closer to solving the mystery when the door opened.

  Ethan came in with a cup of black coffee, looking out of sorts as if he'd never smiled in his life. He had a faint arrogance of carriage that had intrigued her from the first time she'd seen him. He was as individ­ual as his name. She even knew how he'd come by the name. His mother Coreen, a John Wayne fan, had loved the movie The Searchers, which came out be­fore Ethan was born. When Coreen became preg­nant, she couldn't think of a better name for her firstborn son than the first name John Wayne had been given in the movie. So he became Ethan Harde­man. His middle name was John, but few people out­side the family knew it.

  Arabella loved looking at him. He had a rodeo rid­er's physique, powerful shoulders and chest that wedged down to narrow hips, a flat belly and long, muscular legs. His face wasn't bad, either. He was tanned and his eyes were deep-set and very gray, al­though sometimes they looked silver and other times they had the faintest hint of blue. His hair was dark and conventionally cut. His nose was straight, his mouth sensuous, his cheekbones high and his chin faintly jutting with a slight cleft. He had lean hands with long fingers and neatly trimmed flat nails.

  She was staring at him again, helplessly she sup­posed. From his blue-checked Western shirt to his gray denims and black boots, he was impeccably dressed, elegant for a cowboy, even if he was the boss.

  "You look like hell," he said, and all her romantic dreams were pushed aside at once.

  "Thank you," she replied with a little of her old spirit. "That kind of flattery is just what I needed."

  "You'll mend." He sounded unruffled; he always did. He sat down in the armchair next to the bed and leaned back with one long leg crossed over the other, sipping his coffee. "Mother and Mary will be in to see you later. How's the hand?"

  "It hurts," she said simply. She used the good one to brush back her hair. She could hear Bach preludes and Clementi sonatinas in the back of her mind. Al­ways the music. It gave her life, made her breathe. She couldn't bear to think that she might lose it.

  "Have they given you anything?"

  "Yes, just a few minutes ago. I'm a little groggy, but I don't hurt as much as I did," she assured him. She'd already seen one orderly run for cover when he walked in. All she needed was to have Ethan bulldoze any more of the staff on her behalf.

  He smiled faintly. "I won't cause too much trou­ble," he assured her. "I just want to make sure you're being treated properly."

  "So does the staff," she murmured dryly, "and I hear at least two doctors are thinking of resigning if I'm not released soon."

  He looked the least bit uncomfortable. "I wanted to make sure you got the best care possible."

  "I did, never fear." She averted her eyes. "From one enemy to another, thanks for the T.L.C."

  He stiffened. "I'm not your enemy."

  "No? We didn't part as friends all those years ago." She leaned back, sighing. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you and Miriam, Ethan," she said qui­etly. "I hope it wasn't because of anything I said. . ."

  "It's past history," he said curtly. "Let it drop."

  "Okay." He intimidated her with those black stares.

  He sipped his coffee, allowing his eyes to wander down the length of her slender body. "You've lost weight. You need a rest."

  "I haven't been able to afford that luxury," she told him. "We've only begun to break even this year."

  "Your father could get a job and help out," he said coldly.

  "You don't have the right to interfere in my life, Ethan," she said, staring back at him. "You gave that up years ago."

  The muscles in his face contracted, although his gaze didn't waver. "I know better than you do what I gave up." He stared her down and drank some more coffee. "Mother and Mary are fixing up the guest room for you," he told her. "Matt's off at a sale in Montana, so Mary will be glad of the company."

  "Doesn't your mother mind having me landed on her?"

  "My mother loves you," he said. "She always has, and you've always known it, so there's no need to pretend."

  "Your mother is a nice person."

  "And I'm not?" He studied her face. "I've never tried to win any popularity contests, if that's what you mean."

  She shifted against the pillows. "You're very touchy these days, Ethan. I wasn't looking for ways to insult you. I'm very grateful for what you've done."

  He finished his coffee. His gray eyes met hers and for an instant, they were held against their will. He averted his gaze instantly. "I don't want gratitude from you."

  That was the truth; not gratitude or anything else— least of all love.

  She let her eyes fall to her hand in its cast. "Did you call the hospital at Dallas to ask about my father?"

  "I phoned your uncle early this morning. The eye specialist is supposed to see your father today; they're more optimistic than they were last night."

  "Did he ask about me?"

  "Of course he asked about you," Ethan replied. "He was told about your hand."

  She stiffened. "And?"

  "He didn't say another word, according to your uncle." Ethan smiled without humor. "Well, what did you expect? Yours hands are his livelihood. He's just seen a future that's going to require him to work for a living again. I expect he's drowning in self-pity."

  "Shame on you," she snapped.

  He stared at her, unblinking. "I know your father. You do, too, despite the fact that you've spent your life protecting him. You might try living your own way for a change."

  "I'm content with my life," she muttered.

  His
pale eyes caught and held hers, and he was very still. The room was so quiet that they could hear the sound of cars outside the hospital, in the nearby streets of Jacobsville.

  "Do you remember what you asked me when they brought you in?"

  She shook her head. "No. I was hurting pretty badly just then," she lied, averting her eyes.

  "You asked if I remembered the swimming hole."

  Her cheeks went hot. She pleated the material of the hospital gown they'd put her in, grimacing. "I can't imagine why I'd ask such a question. That's ancient history."

  "Four years isn't ancient history. And to answer the question belatedly, yes, I remember. I wish I could forget."

  Well, that was plain enough, wasn't it, she thought, hurt. She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. She could imagine the mockery in his eyes. "Why can't you?" she asked, trying to sound as unconcerned as he did. "After all, you told me yourself that I'd asked for it, that you'd been thinking about Miriam."

  "Damn Miriam!" He got up, upsetting the coffee cup in the process, splattering a few drops of scalding coffee onto his hand. He ignored the sting, turning away to stare out the window at Jacobsville, his body rigid. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the hot liquid again to steady himself. Even the mention of his ex-wife made him tense, wounded him. Arabella had no idea of the hell Miriam had made of his life, or why he'd let her trap him into marriage. It was four years too late for explanations or apologies. His memories of the day he'd made love to Arabella were perma­nent, unchanged, a part of him, but he couldn't even tell her that. He was so locked up inside that he'd al­most forgotten how to feel, until Arabella's father had telephoned him to tell him that Arabella had been in­jured. Even now, he could taste the sick fear he'd felt, face all over again the possibility that she might have died. The world had gone black until he'd gotten to the hospital and found her relatively unhurt.

  "Do you hear from Miriam anymore?" she asked.

  He didn't turn around. "I hadn't since the divorce was final, until last week." He finished the coffee and laughed coldly. "She wants to talk about a reconcili­ation."

  Arabella felt her heart sink. So much for faint hope, she thought. "Do you want her back?"

  Ethan came back to the bedside, and his eyes were blazing with anger. "No, I don't want her back," he said. He stared down at her icily. "It took me years to talk her into a divorce. Do you really think I have any plans to put my neck in that noose again?" he asked.

  "I don't know you, Ethan," she replied quietly. "I don't think I ever did, really. But you loved Miriam once," she added with downcast eyes. "It's not in­conceivable that you could miss her, or want her back."

  He didn't answer her. He turned and dropped back down into the armchair by the bed, crossing his legs. Absently he played with the empty coffee cup. Loved Miriam? He'd wanted her. But love? No. He wished he could tell Arabella that, but he'd become too ad­ept at keeping his deepest feelings hidden.

  He put the cup down on the floor beside his chair. "A cracked mirror is better replaced than mended," he said, lifting his eyes back to Arabella's. "I don't want a reconciliation. So, that being the case," he continued, improvising as he began to see a way out of his approaching predicament, "we might be able to help each other."

  Arabella's heart jumped. "What?"

  He stared at her, his eyes probing, assessing. "Your father raised you in an emotional prison. You never tried to break out. Well, here's your chance."

  "I don't understand."

  "That's obvious. You used to be better at reading between the lines." He took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and dangled it from his fingers. "Don't worry, I won't light it," he added when he saw the look she gave him. "I need something to do with my hands. What I meant was that you and I can pretend to be involved."

  She couldn't prevent the astonished fear from dis­torting her features. He'd pushed her out of his life once, and now he had the audacity to want her to pre­tend to be involved with him? It was cruel.

  "I thought you'd be bothered by the suggestion," he said after a minute of watching her expression. "But think about it. Miriam won't be here for an­other week or two. There's time to map out some strategy."

  "Why can't you just tell her not to come?" she fal­tered.

  He studied his boot. "I could, but it wouldn't solve the problem. She'd be dancing in and out of my life from now on. The best way, the only way," he cor­rected, "is to give her a good reason to stay away. You're the best one I can think of."

  "Miriam would laugh herself sick if anyone told her you were involved with me," she said shortly. "I was only eighteen when you married her. She didn't con­sider me any kind of competition then, and she was right. I wasn't, and I'm not." She lifted her chin with mangled pride. "I'm talented, but I'm not pretty. She'll never believe you see anything interesting about me."

  He had to control his expression not to betray the sting of those words. It hurt him to hear Arabella talk so cynically. He didn't like remembering how badly he'd had to hurt her. At the time, it didn't seem that he'd had a choice. But explaining his reasoning to Ar­abella four years too late would accomplish nothing.

  His eyes darkened as he watched Arabella with the old longing. He didn't know how he was going to bear having to let her walk out of his life a second time. But at least he might have a few weeks with her under the pretext of a mutual-aid pact. Better that than noth­ing. At least he might have one or two sweet memo­ries to last him through the barren years ahead.

  "Miriam isn't stupid," he said finally. "You're a young woman now, well-known in your field and no longer a country mouse. She won't know how shel­tered you've been, unless you tell her." His eyes slid gently over her face. "Even without your father's in­terference, I don't imagine you've had much time for men, have you?"

  "Men are treacherous," she said without thinking. "I offered you my heart and you threw it in my teeth. I haven't offered it again, to anyone, and I don't in­tend to. I've got my music, Ethan. That's all I need."

  He didn't believe her. Women didn't go that sour over a youthful infatuation, especially when it was mostly physical to begin with. Probably the drugs they'd given her had upset her reasoning, even if he'd give an arm to believe she'd cared that much. "What if you don't have music again?" he asked suddenly.

  "Then I'll jump off the roof," she replied with conviction. "I can't live without it. I don't want to try."

  "What a cowardly approach." He said the words coldly to disguise a ripple of real fear at the way she'd looked when she said that.

  "Not at all," she contradicted him. "At first it was my father's idea to push me into a life of concert tours. But I love what I do. Most of what I do," she cor­rected. "I don't care for crowds, but I'm very happy with my life."

  "How about a husband? Kids?" he probed.

  "I don't want or need either," she said, averting her face. "I have my life planned."

  "Your damned father has your life planned," he shot back angrily. "He'd tell you when to breathe if you'd let him!"

  "What I do is none of your concern," she replied. Her green eyes met his levelly. "You have no right whatsoever to talk about my father trying to domi­nate me, when you're trying to manipulate me your­self to help you get Miriam out of your hair."

  One silvery eye narrowed. "It amazes me."

  "What does?" she asked.

  "That you hit back at me with such disgusting ease and you won't say boo to your father."

  "I'm not afraid of you," she said. She laced her fingers together. "I've always been a little in awe of my father. The only thing he cares about is my talent. I thought if I got famous, he might love me." She laughed bitterly. "But it didn't work, did it? Now he thinks I may not be able to play again and he doesn't want anything to do with me." She looked up with tear-bright eyes. "Neither would you, if it wasn't for Miriam hotfooting it down here. I've never been any­thing but a pawn where men were concerned, and you think my father is trying to run my life?"
<
br />   He stuck the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette into his pocket. "That's one miserable self-image you've got," he remarked quietly.

  She looked away. "I know my failings," she told him. She closed her eyes. "I'll help you keep Miriam at bay, but you won't need to protect me from my fa­ther. I very much doubt if I'll ever see him again after what's happened."

  "If that hand heals properly, you'll see him again." Ethan tossed the unlit cigarette into an ashtray. "I have to get Mother and Mary and drive them in to see you. The man I sent for your clothes should be back by then. I'll bring your things with us."

  "Thank you," she said stiffly.

  He paused by the bedside, his eyes attentive. "I don't like having to depend on other people, either," he said. "But you can carry independence too far. Right now, I'm all you've got. I'll take care of you until you're back on your feet. If that includes keep­ing your father away, I can do that, too."

  She looked up. "What do you have in mind to keep Miriam from thinking our relationship is a sham?"

  "You look nervous," he remarked. "Do you think I might want to make love to you in front of her?"

  Her cheeks went hot. "Of course not!"

  "Well, you can relax. I won't ask you for the ulti­mate sacrifice. A few smiles and some hand-holding ought to get the message across." He laughed bitterly as he looked down at her. "If that doesn't do it, I'll announce our engagement. Don't panic," he added icily when he saw the expression on her face. "We can break it off when she leaves, if we have to go that far."

  Her heart was going mad. He didn't know what the thought of being engaged to him did to her. She loved him almost desperately, but it was obvious that he had no such feeling for her.

  Why did he need someone to help him get Miriam to leave him alone? she wondered. Maybe he still loved Miriam and was afraid of letting her get to him. Ara­bella closed her eyes. Whatever his reason, she couldn't let him know how she felt. "I'll go along, then," she said. "I'm so tired, Ethan."