by Sheryl Lynn
A dainty, smooth-skinned, young hand. He lifted his gaze to her face. Her skin was clear as a mountain spring, her eyes wide and innocent. It occurred to him Megan had never mentioned her age, and he hadn’t discarded a lifetime of manners to ask her. He’d always assumed she was close to his thirty-eight. An age that at the moment felt downright ancient.
He glanced at his son. William leaned slightly forward, his mouth agape. The boy looked as if he should be asking her out on a date—as if he wanted to.
Megan Duke, the woman who had been filling his head with fantasies of a second chance for marriage and children and growing old together—she was nothing but a kid!
Chapter Three
Megan’s hand trembled as she unlocked the door to the Honeymoon Hideaway cabin. Next week, all four cabins were booked, but this week Tristan had the entire Hideaway to himself.
Talk to him, tell him you love him, hug him, kiss him, leap into his arms, she urged herself, but every time she opened her mouth, out popped a stupid question about his flight or the weather, or an inane comment about the resort facilities. She sounded like a chirpy, bubbleheaded tour guide who’d memorized a script but hadn’t a clue as to what she talked about.
Every time he looked away, she stole glances at him. Broad bulky shoulders and a powerful neck gave him a football player’s build. For once in her life she didn’t feel like a muscle-bound Amazon; she felt almost delicate standing next to him.
His hair wasn’t sandy as she’d imagined, but yellowblond where it had been bleached by the sun and dark brown at the roots. It showed signs of a fresh haircut, and she felt ridiculously flattered he cared so much about impressing her with his appearance. He’d certainly taken care with his nice brown suit, starch-crisp white shirt and string tie.
His face was broad and craggy with powerfully jutting cheekbones and brow, the rough masculinity softened by the softest, warmest, sweetest brown eyes she’d ever seen in her life.
His son made her nervous. She’d been expecting a boy, but William Cayle towered over her, his lanky arms ending in hands big enough to palm a basketball. His round face was suntanned, sporting deep-set hazel eyes framed by thick eyebrows. He lugged four suitcases as if they contained nothing heavier than feathers.
He’d been polite enough during the introductions, but he watched her as if expecting, or hoping, she’d make some kind of mistake.
She opened the door and invited them inside the cabin. Tristan’s eyes widened and so did his smile.
“Do you like it? My mother did all the decorating and had the furniture refinished. It’s all antique. Well, most of it is, anyway.”
“It’s pink,” William said, and dropped the suitcases. They thudded on the carpet. Hugging his elbows, he gingerly sidestepped the king-size sleigh bed. “Lace pillows!”
Made of golden bird’s-eye maple, the bed dominated the room, and heightened Megan’s awareness of Tristan Cayle as an incredibly sexy man. The contrast between his size and gentle mannerisms, his robust maleness and shy, soft-spoken words, made him irresistible. She wished she’d arranged for rooms in the lodge—separate rooms—so she could visit Tristan without his son hanging around.
“It’s fine, Megan. I like it just fine.” Tristan slanted a hard glare on his son.
“I don’t like it.” William picked up a carved crystal candy dish. He grimaced as if the bowl somehow contaminated the chocolate mints it contained. “It’s all girly. Rather sleep in a barn.”
“I can arrange that, Billy.”
William looked as shocked by the rejoinder as Megan was by blurting it out. She smiled at the teenager, but she told him with her eyes she wouldn’t take any crap off him.
He recovered quickly. His crooked grin could melt stone, but it didn’t quite match the orneriness in his eyes. “It’s William,” he said, still smiling. “Not Bill or Will or Billy. William.”
Loudly clearing his throat, Tristan removed his hat and settled it carefully on a table. He finger-combed his hair, then pulled off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His white cotton shirt fit snugly over what had to be a body to die for. She noticed how well he cared for his possessions, and approved.
“William and I will be fine here, Megan. This is a nice place and you won’t hear no complaints.”
“Elk River aims to please.”
“So where is Elk River?” William asked. “Ain’t seen a sign of any river since getting to Colorado.” He tugged off his suit jacket, pulling one sleeve inside out. He dropped it on the bed before going to work on his tie.
“There is no Elk River. Stinkbear Creek runs through the property, but Elk—”
“Stinkbear!” William hooted a laugh. “Sounds like bait and switch to me. Isn’t that false advertising?”
“You’re pushing it, son.”
Megan laid a hand on Tristan’s arm. “He’s right. The people who built the lodge originally intended it as a sportsman’s club for wealthy hunters.” This kid was pure trouble. She felt it in her bones. “Elk River sounded a lot better than Stinkbear. More…huntery. Your father says you enjoy fishing. The snowpack is really deep this year, so the creek is running high, but you might tease a few trout out of it.”
As he resumed his sullen exploration of the room, William shrugged.
Megan wondered if he was always unpleasant or if he disliked her personally. She suspected it was the latter.
Tristan raked his hands through his hair, drawing her attention. She always imagined she preferred dark hair, but his was gorgeous, shiny as sunshine.
“Go stretch your legs outside, son. I’d like a moment with Megan.”
“I reckon you would,” the teenager replied with a smirk. Rolling his shirtsleeves, he sauntered out of the cabin and let the door slam behind him.
Now alone with him, her every wish come to fruition, shyness washed over her, leaving her tongue feeling too big and her brain too stupid. Finding it difficult to look at him, she picked up a brochure describing the services Elk River offered and a listing of local attractions.
“I apologize for William. He’s not using company manners.” He showed his palms in a sheepish gesture. “He’s been getting downright bullish lately. It’s his age.”
She waved off the words. In her experience, she’d discovered most teenagers didn’t particularly care for vacationing with the ‘rents or being so uncool as to let anyone know they were having a good time. Snotty attitudes were the rule rather than the exception. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle teenagers.”
“Ah…yes. Imagine you can.”
She urged him to have a seat and offered him a drink. He asked for water and she obliged.
She handed him the water glass, and his fingers touched hers. Her pulse quickened. She forced her eyes to his, and wanted to sigh. They were velvet, deep and soft, and staring into them felt like drowning, as if the air turned liquid. “I’m so glad you’re here. I—I saved all your letters.” Her cheeks warmed and she backed away. Turning, she covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, man, that sounds so dumb.” She peeked between her fingers. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It is awkward, isn’t it?” He lifted the glass so quickly the water sloshed. A fat drop landed on his thigh. His laugh held a strained note. “We’ve talked about a lot of things. Feels like I know you almost as much as anybody.”
“Same here. I bet if I was at the HBD Ranch right now, I’d know where everything is. If I walked down the street in Powder, I’d know all the people.” She tugged at the miniskirt. The way he looked at her increased her nervousness. She couldn’t tell if he thought she was pretty or if she looked ridiculous.
“You’re…” His smile twisted and so did his brow. “Uh, younger than what I thought.”
Caught off guard, she laughed. “I’m not young. I’m twenty-four.”
His eyes glazed, and he puffed his cheeks before blowing a long breath. “I’m fourteen years older than you.”
She’d worried he wouldn’t
find her girlish enough, and now he worried she was too young. Uncertain if this was a problem, she pulled a chair from beneath a small table and sat. She tugged at the skirt, which threatened to hike up to her panty line, before crossing her legs at the ankles. “You don’t look old.”
His laughter filled the room. Relieved, she relaxed.
“Thank you for saying so, Megan. It’s just that, well, I thought, I assumed you were older. Shoot, my son is closer to your age than you are to mine.”
“No, he’s not….” Yes, he was. She winced. She shifted her legs and noticed the way he glanced at her ankles. His admiration gave her hope. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like I’m a teenager.”
He averted his face and scowled. “Reckon.”
“Is this a real problem for you?”
“I don’t know. We talked about marriage and all, but it’s not just about you and me. Ranching isn’t a job, it’s a life and it can be hard. You have to be ready for it. Ready to settle down.”
“I am ready to settle down. Whatever that means.”
“If you want some nightlife, you have to go all the way down to Casper. And it isn’t near the big city Colorado Springs is. Can’t get cable TV, and I do most of my shopping by mail. In the middle of winter I can go weeks without seeing a neighbor.”
She studied the dejected slump of his shoulders. Meeting him face-to-face had lit up her life and etched him indelibly into her soul. This was love, true love, and she wasn’t about to let him blow it because he thought she was a baby.
They could say what they wanted about her, but no one ever accused Megan Duke of being a quitter.
She jumped to her feet. “Age is relative. It’s not like I’m a teenybopper and you’re past retirement. That would be a little much. Fourteen years is nothing.”
He rose slowly, facing her. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Megan. I have to be honest, that’s all. I should have asked your age.”
She’d always found his honesty a major attraction—she didn’t like it so much right now. Her cheeks tightened with the effort of keeping a pleasant expression on her face.
“I did hurt your feelings. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Look, my father is seventeen years older than my mother. He never thought she was too young. And she doesn’t think he’s too old, either. They’ve been married thirty-six years. And let me tell you, being married to a career army officer is no picnic.”
He smiled, and a pang ached in her heart.
“He’s not a rancher. Life can be pure misery on the ranch. Work never stops. Weather can drive you crazy. It can get powerful lonesome sometimes.”
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Just what makes you think I can’t handle it? You always tell me you think I’ll love Wyoming.”
He fingered the soft knit of her sweater. “I can see you’re city. All beautiful and sophisticated. I had it in my head you’d be…tougher.”
She raised her eyebrows, then realized her mouth hung open. She snapped it shut. “I will have you know, Tristan Cayle, I am not city. I have lived in cities, yes. But I’ve also lived on army posts, in small towns and once on an island less than a mile long.”
She hated the way their first meeting was going, but didn’t know how to turn it around. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to prove she was mature enough to be a rancher’s wife.
“Not a good sign,” he said. “Us scrapping on the first go-round.”
She dropped her arms and attempted nonchalance. “We are not fighting. Every relationship has some bugs to work out. I’m nervous, you’re nervous, it’s only natural, right?”
“Reckon.”
She touched his arm, smoothing her fingers over the fine cotton of his sleeve. “Do you remember the first time you called me? After so many notes and letters, it was weird hearing your voice.”
“Was a tad awkward.”
“We got over it. We’re friends.” Emboldened, she explored his forearm, entranced by the solidness beneath the fabric. “And you’re getting a great deal on one of the nicest vacation packages in Colorado. We’ll have a terrific week.” Which gave her a whole seven days to prove his fears about her age were groundless.
“That’s true.” His smile eased along with the strain in his eyes.
It took all her willpower not to sigh helplessly in the face of his devastating smile. That would be entirely too immature.
William strolled inside. He yawned mightily, not bothering to cover his gaping mouth. His cheeks and chin possessed youthful softness, but his size made him appear older than fourteen. Having inherited her mother’s youthful features, Megan knew she looked younger than her age. She wished the boy would beat it before Tristan began thinking they looked like a matched set.
“I saw tennis courts. You play, Ms. Duke?”
“Uh-huh. Do you?”
He pulled a face as he crouched before the wet bar and opened the small refrigerator. “Sissy game. I play real sports. Football and basketball.” He brought out a can of soda and popped the tab.
A sharp retort burned the back of her throat, but in the interest of maturity, she bit it back. Instead, she said, “I imagine you fellows are hungry. How about you unpack and get comfortable, then we’ll have lunch. You’ll love the food. Our chef is the best.”
Mentioning lunch—in the lodge, with her family—threatened her shaky composure. If Janine got a whiff of Tristan’s reservations about the age difference, Megan would never hear the end of it. “My family is dying to meet you. You don’t mind meeting them, do you?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
The bonus would be, he’d see firsthand that the age difference between her parents didn’t hamper their relationship one little bit.
“Great.” She checked her watch. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes. Okay?”
He stood, startlingly graceful for a man so large. “I brought you something.”
“A present? For me?” From the corner of her eye, she caught William silently mocking her spontaneous squeal, complete with rolling eyes and clasped hands.
Tristan unzipped the largest of the suitcases. From inside he brought out a bulky package carefully wrapped in .layers of white tissue paper. “I made it for you.”
Astonished and pleased, she accepted the gift. He urged her to open it and she did so, carefully, squelching the childish urge to gleefully shred the paper. She revealed a purse made of russet brown leather. It was shaped like a saddlebag, only smaller with adjustable straps so she could wear it over her shoulders like a backpack. The leather felt butter soft. Her eyes widened, and she breathed, “Oh. You made this? By yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am. Hand-stitched and hand-tooled.” He pointed out where he’d carved her name in small, exquisitely formed letters.
“You’re an artist. It’s beautiful.”
He ducked his head.
He did like her, she knew it, she felt it, and the purse proved it. He must have spent hours and hours making it. She hugged the soft purse to her breast “I just love my present. Thank you so very, very much.”
She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. A mixture of subtle cologne and male essence smelled heavenly. He was not, she repeated firmly to herself, under any circumstances returning to Wyoming without her.
Flashing a triumphant grin at William, she said, “I’ll meet you boys in the lobby.”
TRISTAN LET OUT a long breath and raised a hand to his cheek. The feel of Megan’s tender little kiss lingered, rousing images of that pretty mouth planting kisses all over his face and body and—
“Well, she ain’t fat,” William said with a shrug. “Kinda scrawny, in fact. Looks like a stork. And she’s all freckled, too. I could play connect the dots on her face.”
Tristan winced. He swung around, facing the boy he loved greater than life itself, but at the moment could have choked. “You’re shaming me, son.”
William’s arrogance melted like hot wax and his
lower lip trembled. Without the bullishness hardening his features, he looked so much like his mother Tristan felt a tightening in his chest. Tina had been gone six years, but sometimes he still missed her with an aching pain.
“Who taught you to speak to a lady like that? Not me, that’s for doggone certain.”
William sprawled on an armchair and thumped a boot heel against the plush carpet. Eyes hooded, he snuffled, swiping at his nose.
Tristan began unpacking a suitcase. Confusion weighted his mind. Megan being homely wouldn’t have bothered him. Good looks he could live without. Even fiddling with the facts about her home or family would have been easy to overlook. Her youthfulness, though, shook him to the core. He felt foolish to begin with having a love affair in cyberspace. His father and all the rest of his relatives had been riding him nonstop for months about his mystery girl. He’d questioned his wisdom often—questions that disappeared whenever he read Megan’s warm, chatty, insightful letters or listened to her enthusiasm on the telephone. Meeting her put a wrinkle in the relationship. He suddenly felt like an old fool trying to recapture his youth with a sweet young thing.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Love overrode the annoyance. Shaking out shirts, arranging them on hangers from the closet, he finally said,
“Say it flat out. You don’t want me marrying again.”
“I don’t care if you get married.”
“Then, why are you giving me such a hard time? And Megan, too. I never thought I’d live to see you act so rude to anyone.”
“C’mon, Dad! You met her on the computer.”
Tristan chuckled. “If I recollect, it was you showing me how to use the darned thing.”
“Not for meeting girls! And what’s wrong with her, she can’t get a date except on the computer?” He clamped his arms over his chest, and sullenness pulled the corners of his mouth. “What do we need a woman around for, anyway? Granddad’s cooking is just fine, and we keep the house clean enough.” He swept an arm wide. “She’ll come in painting the walls pink and putting flowers in the bathroom and fussing. Then you’ll have a bunch of rug rats and won’t have no time for me.”
