by Lisa Bingham
This time, it was Jace who laughed, a low, quiet rumble that came from somewhere in the depths of his chest.
“Which is how we got Monthly Cake Dump Day.”
Bronte must have looked confused because P.D. quickly explained, “The Cake Dump is a bakery here in town.”
The explanation teased a memory from Bronte’s brain. “The place with the doughnuts and hot rolls?”
“That’s the one,” P.D. affirmed exuberantly. “He put the ‘kitty’ carefully back in its hole, and we hightailed it out of there before mama could come home and catch us messing with her litter.”
“Leaving the third day of every month as an official Cake Dump Day.”
“It’s a small price to pay not to have Elam’s cabin covered in skunk spray.”
P.D. and Jace laughed, and as she watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, the unconscious way he rubbed the bridge of his nose, those damned lines at the corner of his eyes, she was inundated with a wave of hunger that took her completely by surprise.
Suddenly, she wanted to touch him. She wanted to reassure herself that he was real. She wanted to bracket his face in her hands and look deep into his eyes. But more than anything, she wanted to kiss him.
Whoa, girl. Just because she’d severed the last ties with her husband didn’t mean she had the time or the energy to rush headlong into the arms of another. That would be a big mistake. Big mistake. The mere thought of how complicated things could get—juggling her present worries with the emotional seesawing of a relationship that could never be anything more than temporary …
Her brain threatened to implode from the mere thought of the risk. Not to mention the upheaval that would soon erupt with her children when they discovered the divorce was final.
Jace.
In the past week, she’d discovered that he had his own brand of worries. He was knee-deep in spring planting and running the business end of Taggart Enterprises. From what she’d heard so far, Barry was hell on wheels, but Jace had somehow managed to deal with his brother’s special needs along with everything else.
Bronte joined in the laughter, but as her gaze flicked back to Jace, she realized how much he’d sacrificed over the last few years. He must have been in his wild twenties when the accident had occurred. To be that young and assume the responsibility of a sibling, especially one who’d suffered a brain injury?
It must have changed his entire life. Suddenly, he would have been confronted with rigid schedules, occupational therapy, doctors’ visits, school challenges. Judging by the lack of feminine frippery in the house, it didn’t look like he’d had a wife or girlfriend to help him. Even his brothers had been limited in their ability to lessen the load. If she remembered some of their earlier conversations correctly, Elam had been out of the country and Bodey had been little more than a teenager himself.
Bronte wondered if his brothers were even aware of how difficult the shift in lifestyles must have been for Jace. Bronte fiercely loved her daughters. She would willingly step in front of a speeding bus if that’s what she had to do to protect them. Until each squirming bundle had been placed in her arms, she hadn’t understood how strong and all-consuming her desire to provide for them could be.
Yet, even with all that powerful emotion bonding them together, there were still days when she was severely tempted to send them both to military school. Kari could be petulant and obstinate and downright mean when she was in a snit. And Lily. Even her darling, shy Lily could whine and moan and pitch a fit worthy of a three-year-old. And the two of them together?
Lord, save her from the constant bickering and sniping.
So if Bronte had moments like that, even after having given birth to her daughters, how much more difficult must it have been for a twentysomething young man to step in and do the same?
What did that say about the man?
Jace looked up at her, and her expression must have grown serious, because his brows rose in a silent question. But Bronte wasn’t about to confess her thoughts, so she merely smiled and looked away.
It wasn’t long after that when Barry burst into the room.
“Jace! Elam sent me to get you. There’s another baby horse about to get born-ded.”
“Ah, hell,” Jace muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He rounded to the back door, grabbing a hat and a thick jacket from the rack. “Which mare, Barry?”
“The one with a flower on her nose.”
“It’s called a blaze, Barry.”
“Why? It looks like a daisy.”
Jace seemed to think about that, then he nodded. “I guess you’re right. The white patch on her nose does look like a daisy.”
He seemed to become aware of P.D. and Bronte. “I’ll, uh …”
“I’ll rustle up a jacket for Bronte, then we’ll come down to the barn.”
Bronte was about to protest that she should probably take the girls home and get them out of the way. But when a slow pleasure slipped across Jace’s features, dynamite couldn’t have blasted her off the Taggarts’ ranch.
“See you there.”
He jammed his hat over his head and hurried after Barry into the darkness on the other side of the door.
P.D. was reaching for Bronte’s empty plate, but she grabbed it herself and carried it to the sink. “I can rinse this off.”
“Great. I’ll get a jacket for you from one of the closets,” P.D. said, crossing to the swinging door.
While she waited, Bronte quickly washed her plate and utensils and placed them in the draining board by the sink. By the time she’d finished, the woman had returned.
“Here you go.”
It was another of the thick canvas jackets like the one she’d seen Jace wearing. But even as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, Bronte realized that it was Jace’s jacket. She recognized the familiar spicy scent of his cologne.
“Ready?”
“Mmm hmm.”
P.D. led her out the side door and slowly headed in the direction of the huge barn about a hundred yards away from the house.
“So … have you and Jace known each other long?” P.D. asked with utmost casualness.
“Oh, no,” Bronte interrupted quickly. “We’re not … he hasn’t …”
Damn. Did P.D. think they’d had a long-distance relationship of some kind?
Bronte offered a too-casual shrug of her shoulders. “Jace has stepped in to help me the last couple of days.”
P.D. looked patently unconvinced.
Bronte opened her mouth to explain that she was married, but stopped herself in time. Like a bolt of lightning, the truth hit her with sizzling certainty.
She wasn’t married.
She hadn’t been married for a very long time. Long before the divorce had been started, long before counselors and lawyers had become involved, her relationship with Phillip had stopped being a “marriage” in any sense of the word. Although there might be those who would argue that, since she’d failed to promptly send in the last of the paperwork, she might still be harboring doubts about her decision to leave Phillip, Bronte knew there were no Freudian interpretations to be made. A flimsy piece of paper couldn’t negate what she already knew deep in her heart. She and the man she’d called husband for more than fifteen years were permanently and irrevocably split. What had once been a passionate romance had withered and died.
The process of their dissolution had begun so slowly and subtly that at first she’d been able to tell herself that Phillip’s inattention was simply a phase, a result from the way he spent too many hours at the clinic. But he’d begun to change, becoming a dark stranger that she didn’t recognize—that she’d begun to fear—until even the memories of the man he’d once been had begun to strangle.
Her fingers lifted to the bruise on her cheek that was nearly gone. Just as her skin was returning to normal, the quieter pace in Bliss was beginning to seep into her soul like a healing balm—one she was still having difficulty believing was real. But with each passing minute, her
senses grew sharper and clearer, shifting from her inner pain to the possibilities that awaited.
P.D. looked contrite. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“No. Not at all.” Bronte threw her a reassuring smile.
“I guess I jumped to conclusions with both feet. It seemed like there was some … zing between the two of you.”
Zing?
Bronte shied away from admitting that there was anything more than friendship with Jace. Lord, wouldn’t that be a horrible mess if she jumped from one man’s control straight into the arms of another strong-willed male?
Or would it?
Stop it! Just stop. If there was anything that she had learned from her relationship with Phillip, it was the value of her independence. No one would ever take that away from her.
No one.
“If you’re … interested … he’s available.”
When Bronte looked at her, both brows raising, P.D. clapped both hands over her mouth.
“Oh, crap. Forget I said that. I must be channeling my friend Helen. Once Elam and I agreed to team up for the Wild West Games, she couldn’t resist pushing us together any chance she could, knowing that if we were given enough time alone, we would spontaneously combust.”
The thought that she and Jace … that if they were together … together together …
A blazing heat seeped up her neck and into her face, raging so powerfully that she thought her hair might begin to smolder at the roots. But that was nothing compared to the warmth that pooled much lower …
No. No.
She couldn’t allow herself to think about Jace that way. Not when her life was already more complicated than she could ever imagine. She had the immediate worries surrounding her grandmother’s recovery and all of the challenges that went with it: getting the house ready, conferring with doctors and nurses, juggling the continual trips to the hospital. Then Monday, after putting off most of the details for a week, she needed to enroll her kids in school, set up a local bank account, and begin looking for a job. Once all that had been handled, she would tackle the more far-reaching concerns that would begin to appear once her daughters began asking the inevitable questions: Where’s Daddy? When are we going back to Boston? Why did you divorce him?
Why?
She still didn’t know how much she should tell them. Was it better to be completely honest?
Or preserve the illusion that she had manufactured for the past few years?
P.D. jerked Bronte from her thoughts with a hand on her arm.
“Are you all right?” P.D. asked, her fingers squeezing reassuringly through the thickness of Jace’s jacket.
Bronte nodded, forcibly pulling her lips into a smile even as her eyes filled with tears.
No. Not now.
But P.D. didn’t even wait for a response. Instead, she pulled Bronte into a hug that smelled of lemons and spices. “Shh. You don’t have to tell me anything,” P.D. whispered. “You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? That’s why you came to Bliss. But what you’d hoped was a haven has probably been equally challenging.”
P.D. drew back and Bronte opened her mouth, ready to deny that anything was wrong—just as she’d done a million times before. But when she met P.D.’s gaze, she saw that she was sharing this experience with a kindred spirit. Somehow, somewhere, P.D. had known pain, and the woman instinctively understood, even without an explanation.
Obviously sensing that Bronte wasn’t ready to share, she wrapped Bronte’s arm around the crook of her elbow.
“You’ve come to the right place, Bronte,” she murmured. “Believe it or not, you’re also mixed up with the right family.”
“P.D.! Bronte!” Barry dodged into the doorway of the barn. In his wake, like a shadow, was Lily. She was jumping up and down excitedly—and the sheer joy on her face took Bronte’s breath away.
“Mommy, hurry! The baby horse is coming!”
They picked up their pace, but Barry and Lily weren’t satisfied. They met them halfway and grabbed their hands, pulling them into the barn and down a long center aisle that was lined on either side with individual stalls. They had almost reached the end of the enormous building when the children stopped and guided them to the gate where Kari stood leaning over the top rail, filming the events with her iPod.
Inside a large horse paced nervously in the straw while Jace and another man—Elam, she supposed—waited on the fringes, ready to step in if their help was needed.
“Elam, this is Bronte Cupacek,” P.D. said. “She’s come to live with Annie.”
Elam was slightly shorter than Jace, his coloring darker, his body lean and muscular. Bronte could see the similarity in their bone structure, but while Elam’s features were all planes and angles, Jace’s were even sharper, more defined.
The horse was breathing heavily, weaving softly as if to ease its pain. When it turned, Bronte could see that the hooves of the foal had already emerged.
“We’ve got a new mother,” Elam said, “so she’s nervous.”
As if sensing that the time had come for her baby to be born, the mare lowered herself onto the straw. Jace and Elam took their positions to help. Thankfully, the horse had situated itself in such a way that Lily and Barry still had a view of the events, or Bronte was sure that the two of them would have climbed into the stall.
Bronte’s attention was drawn away from the impending birth to the three youngsters who watched with rapt attention. As if sensing that Lily couldn’t completely see, Barry boosted her up so that she could stand on one of the rungs of the gate. Then he placed a hand at her shoulder to steady her. On the other side, Kari stepped closer, giving her sister unconscious support.
Bronte was struck by the kindnesses being exchanged—and the simple sweetness nearly brought her to her knees. The truth hit her with the suddenness of a blow to her heart. She’d been trying to shield her children from the ugliness that had been brewing in Boston, but she could see now that her efforts had been in vain. As much as she’d tried to protect them from Phillip’s transition from Jekyll to an unrecognizable Hyde, as much as she’d battled to keep their home life structured and safe, as much as she’d made excuses and tried to explain that “Daddy was sick …”
Her children had lived through every sordid, degrading, soul-sucking experience.
Dear sweet heaven, why had she waited so long to break away?
But even as the thought drummed into her head, she knew the answer. She’d stayed until she couldn’t stay any longer. She’d stayed out of guilt, duty, and loyalty. She’d stayed under the misguided hope that he would change, that he’d wake up to what he was doing to himself and to them and he would return to the man he’d once been—even though she wasn’t sure if such a thing was even possible.
She’d stayed until she hadn’t dared to stay any longer.
As her children watched wide-eyed as life was being created in front of them—life—Bronte knew that she’d made the right decision in leaving. She’d made an even better choice by deciding to stay in Bliss. Kari and Lily were her only priorities now, and she would do everything she could to make up for the darkness that had surrounded them for so long.
“Look, Mommy, look!” Lily cried out.
Shaken from the morass of her thoughts, Bronte stepped forward to slide her arms around Lily’s waist. In the stall, she saw Jace gently pulling at the long gangly legs of the foal, while Elam stood ready to aid the delivery of the head. Then, as if eager to greet the world, the tiny horse slipped free to its tail. Jace helped to ease the rest of the foal out while Elam helped the baby to break free of the placenta.
The animal shivered, bracing its legs in front of it as it seemed to absorb the weight of its own head. Wide-eyed, it blinked at the world around it. Sensing the hard work was done, the mare rolled to her feet, staggering slightly, then turned to sniff and nudge at the miniature version of herself.
While Elam and Jace tended to the afterbirth and tidying up the stall, mother and baby got to kn
ow one another. Soon, under the encouragement of the larger animal looming over it, the foal attempted to rise on wobbly legs. Elam and Jace remained on the fringes, not wanting to interfere with the bonding process taking place in front of their very eyes. Again and again, the tiny horse tried to stand, relying on its mother’s gentle encouragement, until finally, it braced its legs in a slightly comical, wide-spread stance that Bronte wouldn’t have thought would hold it upright. But it managed to stay there. Then, with a shake of its tail, the foal seemed to proclaim, Ta-da!
When Jace and Elam headed to the gate, Bronte lifted Lily down so the men could slip back into the main aisle of the barn.
“What is it, Jace?” Barry asked.
“A colt,” Elam said as he and his brother moved to a utility sink near the far wall and began to wash their hands. “You’ll have to start thinking of a name, Barry.”
“What about Captain Kirk?”
Elam laughed, reaching for a paper towel from a dispenser hooked onto the wall. After drying his hands and throwing the towel away in a nearby bin, he slapped his little brother on the back. “We might need to think on that. He’s a thoroughbred quarter horse, remember? So we have to register his name.”
“We could register Captain Kirk.”
Elam ruffled Barry’s hair. “I think it’s already been taken.”
Barry looked disappointed, but not for long. “I’m cold. Can we have some hot chocolate? With marshmallows?”
Bronte quickly inserted, “I think it’s time I got the girls out of your hair.”
Barry’s brow puckered. “No one but Elam’s been touching my hair.”
“She means that it’s close to bedtime and Lily needs to get her pajamas on,” Jace said as he finished washing up and they headed back toward the door. Elam and P.D. remained behind, leaning against the gate, talking lowly.
