And then because even that could be better-and he knew it-he began to move. Slowly at first. Savoring every second. Making himself wait. Making Freddie wait. Watching her in the moonlight. Watching the way her lips parted, the way her back arched and her body trembled. Feeling the way her body tightened around him.
And then his concentration shattered. He shattered, too. Right along with her.
He had never been more broken. He’d never felt more whole.
She had no willpower.
A stronger woman would have been able to resist. A stronger woman would have thanked Gabe McBride for saving her son’s life-then waved him goodbye and breathed a sigh of relief when he went away.
Not Freddie. Not now. Not tonight.
Tonight, God help her, she needed his touch. She needed his warmth. She needed him!
It was true, what she’d told him. In those awful moments when she hadn’t known where he was-if the bull had spared Charlie and gored Gabe-she’d felt an awful despair, a wrenching sadness, a hollow sense of loss.
For whatever they could have had.
For what might have been.
She didn’t expect forever. She knew better.
When she’d married Mark, she’d expected forever. She’d counted on it. And she’d been devastated by his death. She’d fought to protect Charlie and Emma from any such risks. She’d hoped-by refusing to get involved with anyone else-to protect herself from further pain.
She was past that now. She knew better.
There was no way to protect oneself from pain. There was no life without it. There was just pretended indifference. She knew now that was worse.
To let Gabe go without loving him would be worse.
She knew he was going back to Montana. In the morning he would be gone. But at least she would have tonight. And if the memories caused her heartache, they couldn’t be worse than the fear and anguish she’d felt before she’d known he was safe.
She lay now, watching him sleep, and reached out to tug the duvet up around his shoulders. At her movement, he smiled faintly. He reached out an arm and drew her close.
Tears pricking behind her eyelids, Freddie snuggled in. A ragged breath caught in her throat. She pressed a kiss against his jaw. “I love you,” she whispered.
He didn’t hear her.
It was just as well.
Gabe didn’t get out before the kids got up.
He was, thank heavens, not still in their mother’s bedroom. But he wasn’t out the door yet, either. It had been too wonderful lying in bed with her, too tempting to stay just a little longer, to make each kiss last, but not the last.
But then Freddie had heard Emma padding around and she’d almost bolted out of bed, grabbing for her robe as she did so.
“They can’t-” she hissed. “They can’t find you in here!”
“They won’t,” Gabe swore. But even after she’d disappeared into the bathroom, he lay there a moment longer, just breathing, looking, touching-taking it all in.
Then he dragged himself up and pulled on his clothes. He made the bed. Found a single long hair on Freddie’s pillow. He curled it around his finger, then touched it to his lips.
He wanted- He needed…
“Will you get out of here?” Freddie was back, bustling in with her robe wrapped tightly around her. The color was high in her cheeks. Her mouth looked wonderfully well kissed. The sight made something inside Gabe twist hard.
“Gabe! I don’t want to have to explain!” She looked desperate. And desperately unhappy, too.
Because he was going? Or because he hadn’t gone last night?
Did she love him?
He didn’t know. But even if she did…
“Gabe!”
“I know! I know!” He poked his head out. The coast was clear. He could hear Charlie and Emma both moving around now, but neither had appeared. He slipped downstairs.
His bags sat where he’d left them by the door.
He had only to walk across the room, pick them up and walk out. He could be out the door in five seconds flat. In his car in five more. There would be no more goodbyes. No more Charlie and Emma.
No more Freddie.
He shut his eyes. His fingers curled into fists. He didn’t move.
Why not?
Because, damn it, it wasn’t easy to ride off into the sunset when it was barely eight o’clock in the morning!
Footsteps clattered down the stairs. He turned to see both Charlie and Emma. Their eyes lit up when they saw him still there.
“Gabe!” They came hurtling down, only to stop dead when they spotted his bags still by the door. They stared at the bags, then looked back at Gabe. He gave a vague lift of his shoulders, then reached for his hat and clapped it on his head.
Emma sniffled. Charlie blinked rapidly.
“It was…pretty late by the time…I…reckoned I could just…leave this morning,” he explained.
Behind them Freddie appeared. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a hunter green sweater. Neat and tidy. But her hair was still down-loose, flowing. The way it had been all night when he’d buried his face in it, wrapped his hands in it, rubbed his cheek against it.
He felt something lodge in his throat.
Freddie was stone silent, just looking at him. Her face was pale. Pained. Not like the woman who had loved him last night. Like a woman whose heart was breaking.
Was it?
Was he walking out on her when she wanted him to stay? Did she want him to stay?
Staying meant marriage. It meant commitment. It meant responsibility. All the things that Gabe had been running away from for years.
It meant being like Randall.
Or…did it mean doing all those same things but in his own way?
“Can I come and see you, Gabe?” Charlie asked. “In Montana? Someday?”
“Charlie!” Freddie admonished.
But Charlie ignored her. His eyes were fastened on Gabe’s. “Can I? Can I come an’ learn to be a real cowboy? Someday?”
Someday.
Gabe thought about someday. He thought about all the somedays that would stretch out endlessly before him-with no Charlie, no Emma, no Freddie-if he walked out that door.
And suddenly, without thinking further, he blurted, “Why wait?”
“What?” Charlie and Emma and Freddie said together.
“Why wait?” he repeated. “Come with me. No time like the present.” He spoke quickly, grabbing the notion, hanging on desperately, as if it were the rankest bull he’d ever rode. “I love you,” he blurted. “You could marry me, Fred, and we could move to Montana. All of us. What do you say?”
The children’s eyes lit up like Christmas trees.
Freddie looked poleaxed.
And Gabe, having reached the eight second mark of the scariest ride of his life, bailed. He couldn’t wait and watch her reaction, couldn’t face the judges’ marks. He strode quickly out the door.
Freddie stared after him. Astonished. Disbelieving.
Hope sang inside her-and yet, shaking her head, she wondered if she had just imagined the whole thing. Had he said, I love you. You could marry me and come to Montana with me?
Had he said that-and then walked off?
Out by the car, Gabe, damn him, was whistling!
Desperate, she ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Look at me.”
He didn’t. The color was high in his face as he shook her off. He stowed his bags in the boot of the car. “I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I-”
And then she understood. Or dared to hope she did.
This was the way Gabe always was, whistling in the dark, shaking in his boots whenever he really cared, determined, and yet at the same time pretending it didn’t matter.
She took hold of his arm again. “Gabe. I love you, too.”
He stopped moving. But he still didn’t speak.
“I know you’re not Mark. And I know I’ll be scared sometimes, but no more than you’re scared now, G
abe. Please. Look at me and ask me. Ask me again. I need you to. Please.”
Slowly he turned to her. He looked at her long and hard and deep-and gave her his heart in his eyes.
“I need you, too,” he told her hoarsely. “You make me want to commit, be responsible, do all those grown-up things that Earl thinks will make a man of me.”
“You’re man enough already.”
He grinned. And then he kissed her, long and hard and deep, while Charlie and Emma danced and cheered. With a look he shushed them, then turned back to her. “I love you, Fred. Marry me? Come to Montana with me?”
Freddie touched his cheek, first with her hand, and then with her lips. Then she slipped her arms around him and laid her head against his heart.
“Yes, Gabe,” she said. “Oh, yes.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
RANDALL
One
It was good to be back.
Randall came out of Bozeman Airport to the sight of snow. Last time he’d been in Montana, twelve years ago, it had been high summer, but now there was a magical beauty to the white-capped mountains all around the broad valley. He took a long, pleasurable breath. The air was like champagne.
He hadn’t planned it this way. When Gabe set off for Devon to take charge of the Buckworthy Gazette, Randall had meant to visit some of the other Stanton publications, without, of course, telling Gabe and Earl. They could think he was resting.
As if!
If they thought he had time to rest, they knew nothing about Stanton Publications. Come to think of it, they did know nothing about Stanton Publications.
But it seemed they understood Randall. Earl’s eyes had been opened to many things about his heir that he’d missed before-like that he was working himself to death. And Gabe’s understanding of his cousin was instinctive. So the old man and the young had plotted to send Randall to Montana for a few weeks on the MBbar, while Gabe was in Devon.
He hadn’t fought them very hard. His head had been aching, and a few weeks free from all cares had suddenly seemed very attractive.
“I’m going to be you for a while,” Gabe had said, “so you can be me.”
“Run the ranch?” Randall had queried, aghast. “No way, Gabe. I know my limits, even if you don’t.”
“Will you hush! It’s January, the quietest month of the year. Anyway, my mom will be there. She’ll do the stuff that needs a brain. You just relax and enjoy yourself with a bit of roping and riding.”
Claire should be here to meet him, but there was no sign of her. At least, Randall didn’t think so. She’d been twelve last time, and he might not recognize her now-not having noticed her much then, so to speak. She’d been a pest, forever trotting at Gabe’s heels and scowling at him. That much he did remember.
Just when he was wondering if she’d forgotten him he noticed a tall young man in jeans, sheepskin jacket and a large hat, striding purposefully toward him. Closer inspection revealed the young man to be a young woman.
She positioned herself in front of him, thumbs in her belt, pushed back the brim of her hat and surveyed him critically.
“Lord Stanton?” She made it sound like a challenge.
“Randall.”
“Claire. Sorry I’m late.”
Randall took the hand she held out and nearly winced from the force of her grip.
“These yours?” She indicated his bags.
“Yes.”
Randall reached down but she was before him, seizing the heaviest bag and moving off, tossing “This way” over her shoulder. He had no choice but to follow, carrying the smaller bag and feeling like a seven-stone weakling. He wondered if this alarming female would kick snow in his face.
She headed for a four-wheel drive pickup truck that had seen better days, and tossed the heavy bag into the back. She would have seized the other if Randall hadn’t firmly grabbed it.
“It’ll take us an hour,” she said, settling into the driver’s seat. “You okay?”
“Fine, thank you. How is everyone? I’m looking forward to seeing Aunt Elaine again.”
“’Fraid you can’t,” Claire said, swinging the vehicle out onto the Interstate. “She felt better, and wanted to see her Dad, so she went to London. You probably passed her midair.”
“Went to-” Randall echoed in a hollow voice. His cherished picture of freedom took a knock. “You mean I’ve got to run the place?” he demanded, aghast.
“Don’t worry,” Claire said coolly. “Nobody’s going to let you get your hands on anything important. We’ve got Frank, who’s a great foreman. He and I will take care of things.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He was puzzled by her barely concealed hostility. Puzzled but not surprised. Claire had scowled at him when she was a kid, and she was still scowling at him, in a manner of speaking.
Claire was an orphan, raised on the ranch since she was a week old. She was devoted to the land, to her foster parents and above all to Gabe.
Randall glanced sideways, trying to get some idea of how she’d turned out. It was hard, even though she’d tossed her hat aside. Her hair was a rich dark red that might have been attractive if she hadn’t scraped it back so that it lay against her skull with a kind of fierceness. Her skin had the pale porcelain look often found in redheads, and her eyes were a vivid blue. She might have been lovely if she hadn’t seemed determined to squeeze every ounce of femininity out of her appearance.
“Have a good flight, Lord Stanton?” she asked.
“I’m not Lord Stanton,” Randall explained. “That’s my grandfather, the earl. I’m Lord Randall, but can’t you forget that stuff and just called me Randall?”
“Not much point in being a lord then.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t suppose you remember us much?”
“Well, twelve years is a long time, but I recall how lovely the scenery was. ’Course, that was summer.”
“You warm enough? I’ve got another sheepskin coat in the back.”
“Thank you, but I’m well provided.” He added, slightly nettled, “We do have winter in England, you know.”
“Not like a Montana winter,” she said.
“All I know is that Gabe was bellyaching about the cold when I left.”
“How is Gabe?”
“Apart from the weather he seemed cheerful enough, certain he’s going to knock their eyes out in Devon and show them all how to do it.”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the road, for which Randall was grateful. It was lucky that the Interstate was almost empty, since Claire drove as though she owned every inch.
They were higher now, on the mountain pass, going east into Shields Valley. The great range rose around them, the air so clear that it seemed as if he could touch the peaks, although he knew they were far away.
Just as England was far away, he thought, and all the normal burdens of his life. And right now, that suited him fine. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh of pleasure.
Claire heard it and cast him a sideways glance of disapproval. Everything about him annoyed her, starting with the fact that he looked so much like his cousin. He had the same lofty figure, except that where Gabe was tall and rangy, Randall was tall and elegant. He also had hair of exactly the same shade of brown, plus lean, handsome features that were heartbreakingly like Gabe’s.
Only he wasn’t Gabe. And that was the worst crime of all.
This was the day Gabe should have come home, greeting her with a shout of welcome, smiling into her eyes, and then-oh, please-then realising that she was the girl he’d loved all the time.
Instead she was stuck with this snooty English aristocrat, with his lofty air and his smooth voice, who thought he could just walk into the place. Run the ranch? Who did he think he was?
She knew she wasn’t at her best just now. She ought to have managed a more convincing welcome. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Gabe.
Hell, yes it was!
Randall grinned. “He created a trap and walked into it himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“He got worked up on my account, told the old man I was working too hard and I ought to take a break instead of going to Devon. Next thing, Earl challenged him to take my place, and it was too late for Gabe to back down. You know what he’s like. Big mouth. Boy, is he in for a shock!”
In the pause that followed he was sure he could hear Claire grinding her teeth.
“Great,” she said at last. “Just great. Did anyone-including Gabe-stop to think that he’s needed here?”
“Does Gabe ever stop to think?” Randall riposted. “I remember last time I was here, he and I went a bit mad. Got ferried home by the sheriff more than once. It was always his ideas that landed us in trouble.”
“That’s right, blame him!”
“Blame?” Randall echoed hilariously. “You mean credit. He’d be mad as fire if he didn’t get his due. Funny how women never seem to understand things like that.”
He couldn’t have said anything worse. Memories of that miserable summer flooded back to Claire: herself, twelve years old, hero-worshiping Gabe as she’d done since she was old enough to understand the world and her own place in it.
He was her savior, her idol, her god. Her childhood had been spent trotting after him, running his errands, happy when he talked to her, blissful if he deigned to spend time with her. And always dreaming that next year she would be old enough for him to notice her.
And then his cousin from England had come visiting, and immediately they had been as thick as thieves.
They’d spent all their time together doing things that excluded a twelve-year-old girl. Worst of all, they’d become “blood brothers,” in what Randall, ignorant like all Englishmen, thought of as the traditional Indian manner.
One memory was especially sharp: overhearing Gabe say, “Don’t tell that pest Claire about this. She’d only lecture us about ‘Hollywood fantasies.”’
Blood Brothers Page 10
