by Janet Dailey
When Rachel rejoined the party, she drifted aimlessly from the fringes of one group to another, listening in on conversations without taking part except to smile or nod whenever her presence was noticed. Careful to stay well away from the family game room where Ross Tibbs was singing, she wandered over to the long bar and saw MacCrea at the far end, nursing a cup of coffee.
"Coffee, MacCrea? Haven't you heard this is a party?" But she felt no more festive than he obviously did.
"I never listen to rumors," he replied dryly, lifting the coffee cup to his mouth and taking a sip.
"Have you seen Abbie yet? But of course you have. You spoke to her earlier, didn't you?" Rachel said, watching closely for his reaction.
"Briefly." He nodded, his expression never losing its brooding look.
"Abbie and her mother are in charge of this party tonight. You'd think it would be awkward for them to work for people who were once their friends. I understand, though, that they've traded considerably on those friendships in order to get these parties. You'd think they would have more pride."
"Maybe pride doesn't pay the rent," MacCrea suggested.
"Maybe it only burns down houses that don't belong to you anymore," Rachel countered, the anger and bitterness over the destruction of the original Victorian mansion at River Bend resurfacing. "Excuse me. I'm going to look for Lane."
As she walked away, she saw Ross Tibbs coming toward her. She paused uncertainly, then realized there was no way to avoid meeting him.
"I was beginning to think you'd left. I'm glad you didn't," he said, looking at her in that warm way that always made her feel uncomfortable.
"I thought you were singing."
"Just taking a break between sets. This is quite a place, isn't it?" He glanced around the high-ceilinged room tastefully decorated with garlands and wreaths for the holiday season.
"Yes."
"You'd think with all these Christmas decorations there would be some mistletoe hanging somewhere, wouldn't you? But I've yet to see any. Have you?"
"No. No, I haven't. Excuse me, but I'm looking for my husband."
As she started to walk by him, he said, "I'm glad you liked the song I wrote for you, Rachel."
She stopped short. "What makes you think I did?"
"Because it made you so uncomfortable you had to leave the room."
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him that it hadn't affected her at all. It was just another song—like so many other country songs. But the words wouldn't come. Instead she walked away, almost breaking into a run.
A little after midnight, Babs walked over to Abbie in the kitchen. "The party will be breaking up in another hour or so. If you want to go ahead and leave now, I'll finish up here. I know you've been up since six this morning, working with the horses."
"I am tired," Abbie admitted, conscious of the pounding in her head that just wouldn't go away. "If you're sure you can manage. . ."
"I'm sure. You run along home."
Ten minutes later Abbie left the house by the service entrance and walked along the path to the garage where she'd left her car parked. It seemed strangely quiet outside after all the clinking and clanking in the kitchen and all the laughter and noise from the party in the rest of the house. There was a faint chill in the early December air, but it felt good. She was almost to her car when she noticed the man leaning against the black pickup, one long leg negligently hooked over the other. Abbie stiffened in surprise as MacCrea casually straightened and came forward to meet her.
"I was beginning to wonder how much longer you'd be," he said. But Abbie didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to talk to him. Instead she started for her car, walking briskly and clutching the key ring like a talisman.
"I've been waiting for you to come out." His breath made little vapor clouds in the air.
"If I had known you were here, I would have called a cab." She stopped beside the car and fumbled to locate the key to unlock the door, her fingers numb and cold.
"No, you wouldn't." He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "You aren't the kind that runs, Abbie."
"You don't know me as well as you think you do." She tried a key but it wouldn't fit in the lock.
"Don't I? Right now, you're hating yourself because you still want me."
"You're wrong!" she insisted, stung into denying it.
"Am I?" He caught her by the arm and pulled her away from the car, toward him. She gripped the folds of his jacket, feeling the tautly muscled flesh of his upper arms, and tried to hold herself away from him. She could feel the mad thudding of her heart as she looked up at him, torn by conflicting emotions. "I don't think so, Abbie. I really don't think so."
She saw the purposeful gleam in his eye and knew she didn't have a hope of fighting him. He tunneled a hand under her hair and cupped the back of her head in his palm. As he covered her lips with his mouth, Abbie tried to remain passive and show him that she didn't care anymore. But it had been too long since she'd felt the warm pressure of his lips. She'd forgotten how good his kiss could make her feel. She missed the sensation of having his arms around her. . . of being loved.
Yielding to him at last, she returned his kiss and slid her hands up to his shoulders, no longer trying to keep him at arm's length, instead seeking the contact with his hard, lean body. As his arms gathered her close, she rose on tiptoe, straining to lessen the difference in their heights. All the passion and emotion were back, but with them, too, came the knowledge that they wouldn't last—they couldn't last.
When he dragged his mouth from her lips, Abbie pressed her head against his chest, trying to hold on to this poignant moment a second longer. "Tell me now I was wrong, Abbie," he challenged huskily. "Tell me you don't still care."
"The way I feel doesn't change anything. You still can't understand that, can you?" she said.
"Because of Rachel, I suppose."
She heard the grimness in his voice. It hurt. "Yes. Because of Rachel." She kept her head down as she pushed away from him, but he caught her by the shoulders.
"I thought by now you'd be over this stupid jealousy of yours," he muttered.
"It may be stupid to you, but it isn't to me," Abbie flared bitterly. "As long as you have anything to do with her, I'll have nothing to do with you. And don't try to tell me you didn't talk to her at the party tonight or that you don't go to River Bend to see her, because I've seen your truck there several times."
"And when you have, it's because I had business to discuss with Rachel and Lane. But, yes, you're right in your way of thinking. I was with her. Do you know what I think about when I'm around her? What goes through my mind?" he demanded. "You. Always. And you don't know how many times I wished to hell that it wasn't so. What makes it even crazier, she's not like you at all."
He sounded so convincing. . . or maybe she simply wanted to believe him. "I don't know what to think anymore." She was tired and confused. Too much had happened all at once, and she knew that right now she wasn't in control of her emotions. They were controlling her.
"There's no reason for you to be jealous of her. There never was, except in your head. Put it in the past where it belongs. All that's over now." His hands tightened their grip as if he wanted to shake her, then they relaxed, their touch gentling. "And if you have to think about something, Abbie, think about this. I love you."
For a split second, she resented him for telling her now. It tipped the balance of her emotions. Yet the rest of what he said was true, too. His business with Rachel was over. His testing system had failed. There was no more reason for him to have anything to do with her.
"I love you, too, Mac," Abbie murmured. "Don't you know that's why it hurts so much?"
"Abbie." As he lifted her off her feet, Abbie wound her arms around his neck and hung on to the man who had given her so much joy and pain—the man she loved. She kissed him fiercely, possessively, thrilling to the punishing crush of his arms and the driving pressure of his mouth as he claimed h
er as his own. She was sorry when he let her feet touch the ground again, but the look in his eyes made up for it. "You're coming with me."
But as he started to walk her to his truck, she suddenly remembered. "Wait. What about my car?"
"To hell with your car." MacCrea didn't break stride. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. I'm not going to take the chance that between here and my place, you'll change your mind."
Abbie wondered whether she would have second thoughts if she had time to think about it. It felt so right walking beside him, his arm around her, that she doubted she would. He loved her. With Rachel out of the picture, maybe they could start over. And this time they could make it work.
When they climbed into the truck, MacCrea insisted she sit next to him. Abbie happily snuggled against him, feeling like a teenager out with her boyfriend, stimulated by the close contact with him and the kneading caress of his hand, his arm around her, close enough to steal a kiss now and then as they made the drive to his trailer.
The drilling site was pitch-dark: not a single light shone in the clearing that once had been brightly lit at night. The truck's headlights briefly illuminated the dismantled rig loaded on a long flatbed behind a snub-nosed truck cab.
"You've finished driving here?"
"Yep. We went to depth and came up dry."
But he wasn't interested in discussing the well as he stopped the truck, then proceeded to carry her into the trailer and all the way to the bed. There wasn't time for anything except making love—now—immediately. It was as if the months of separation lent a sense of haste and urgency to the consummation. . . that only through the coupling of their bodies could they bridge the angry pride and bitter jealousy that had driven them apart before.
Later they took the time to explore and enjoy each other all over again: a lovemaking filled with all the kisses, caresses, and fondlings that had been missing from the first. The climax was a long time coming, but when it arrived, Abbie knew it had never been so good between them before.
Afterward she lay in his arms, feeling wonderfully relaxed and content. From the sound of his deep, even breathing, she guessed MacCrea was asleep. Smiling faintly, she closed her own eyes and started to turn onto her side and join him.
His encircling arm tightened around her and pressed her back onto the mattress. "Don't leave," he said in a voice heavy with sleep. "Stay with me tonight."
"I can't leave, silly," Abbie's smile widened as she turned her head on the pillow to look at him, his face a collection of shadows in the darkness of the trailer. "You wouldn't let me drive my car here, remember?"
His response was a throaty sound that indicated he'd forgotten she was dependent on him for transportation. "I should have carried you off like this weeks ago."
"Is that right?" she teased.
"Mmmm." The affirmative sound was followed by a long silence. Abbie thought he was drifting back to sleep, but then he spoke again, his voice a low rumble coming from deep in his chest. "I'm leaving for Louisiana this next week. I want you to come with me, Abbie."
"I don't see how I can," she said, feeling a sharp pang of regret.
"Why not?" Slowly he let his hand wander over her rib cage, letting the persuasion of his caress work on her resistance. "I'm sure we can find some minister in the parish willing to marry us."
"Are you proposing?" She couldn't believe her ears.
"Only if you're accepting. If you're not, I take it all back." He sounded amused, and Abbie didn't know whether he meant the proposal or not.
Afraid of taking him seriously, Abbie chose the middle ground. "I want to go with you. You have to believe that, Mac. But I just can't pick up and leave the way you can. I have responsibilities and commitments here."
"Like your mother, I suppose."
"Yes. Plus Ben, and I have contracted with several owners to train and show their Arabians." It didn't bring in a lot of money by the time all the costs were deducted, but she'd managed to earn enough to pay the high veterinary bills on River Breeze. The rest she planned to save to pay for the filly's stud fee. But she didn't go into all that with him. It didn't seem necessary. No matter how much she loved him or wanted to go with him, she just couldn't right now. "Do you have to leave next week? Can't you postpone it? What's in Louisiana? Why are you going there?"
"Oil. What else?"
"You can find that right here in Texas," she argued. "You don't have to go to Louisiana, do you?"
"I've acquired the oil and gas rights to a hot piece of property there."
"But it's still going to take you time to raise money to sink the well."
"Not this time. I have a financial backer."
"Who?" She felt suddenly tense.
MacCrea hesitated just a little too long. "It's no secret. Lane Canfield's putting up the money."
Abbie sat up and flipped on the wall light at the head of the bed so she could see his face and make sure this wasn't some cruel joke. MacCrea threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare, but she saw there was no smile, no teasing light in his eyes. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Would I lie about something like that?" He frowned.
"No. You never lie," Abbie said as she realized it, the anger rising in her throat like a huge, bitter lump. "You just let me think things that aren't true. The way you let me think you were through with Rachel—that you weren't going to have anything more to do with her."
"Are we going through all that again?" he asked grimly.
"No. No, we're not." Stiff with anger, Abbie swung out of bed and began grabbing up her clothes.
MacCrea sat up. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Can't you guess?" she shot back. "I'm leaving. I'm not going to stay around here and listen to any more of your half-truths. I've trusted you for the last time, MacCrea Wilder. Do you hear me? For the last time!"
"You haven't got a car, remember? You can't leave."
"Just watch me." Hurriedly, she pulled on her skirt and silk jacket, not bothering with her nylons. Instead she wadded them up in her hand as she started for the door.
"If you walk out that door, Abbie, I won't come after you again," he warned.
"Good." She reached for the handle.
"That damned jealousy is destroying you, Abbie. Why can't you see that?"
She stepped into the night and slammed the door on his angrily shouted words, then hurried to his truck. The keys were still in the ignition. She climbed in and started the engine. She saw MacCrea in the sweep of the headlights as he came charging out of the trailer. She gunned the engine and whipped the truck in a tight circle, driving away before he could stop her.
Chapter 28
That night, Abbie dreamed about MacCrea. They had gotten married, and after the ceremony he had led her under some moss-draped trees toward a small white cottage where he said they were going to live. The front door stood open. Then Abbie saw Rachel waiting inside, and MacCrea told her that she lived there, too—that all three of them were going to live together "happily ever after." Abbie had broken away from MacCrea and started running, but MacCrea had chased her. At first she'd been able to run fast enough to keep him from catching her, then he had started growing taller and taller—and his arms got longer. Soon they were going to be long enough to reach her. She could hear Rachel laughing with malicious glee.
A hand touched her shoulder and Abbie screamed. The next thing she knew she was sitting bolt upright in bed, completely drenched in sweat. "I don't know about you, Abbie, but you just scared the life out of me." Babs stood beside the bed, clutching a hand to her breast and laughing at the sudden shock to both of them.
"I. . . I was having a nightmare." A nightmare steeped in reality. Still a little dazed, she glanced at the sunlight that streamed through her bedroom window. "What time is it?"
"A few minutes before nine. I thought I'd check and see if you wanted to go to church with Ben and me this morning."
"I think I'll skip church this morning."
"I'
m sorry I woke you." Her mother moved away from the bed. "Go back to sleep if you can. And don't worry about Sunday dinner. It's in the oven."
As the door shut behind her, Abbie slid back under the covers, but she knew she couldn't go back to sleep. She wished desperately that she could forget last night. She'd almost gotten over all the pain and bitterness from the last time. Now it was back, more potent than before.
At least she had the consolation of knowing MacCrea was leaving the state. She wouldn't run the risk any longer of accidentally running into him, or seeing him somewhere with someone else—or with Rachel. He'd be out of her life, this time for good.
Abbie stayed in bed until she heard Ben and her mother leave the house. Then she went into the small bathroom off the hall, where she washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, trying to get rid of that dull, dead feeling. She opened the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet over the sink and started to reach for her toothbrush, but she stopped short at the sight of the flat plastic case on the bottom shelf—the case that contained her diaphragm.
Especially during the first years of her marriage to Christopher, she had wanted a baby very much but had failed to conceive. Christopher claimed that his doctor had found nothing wrong with him and said their childlessness must be her fault. It was shortly after she'd begun taking fertility pills that she'd found out he was cheating on her. Initially Abbie had blamed herself, thinking that her inability to get pregnant had driven him to seek other women. Christopher had sworn that he loved her and that the others had meant nothing to him, and promised to be faithful. She waited, continuing to use birth control, unwilling to risk starting a family while their marriage was on such shaky ground—only to catch him playing around again.
Nearly certain that she was sterile, she had taken precautions with MacCrea only during the most crucial times. Now, with a sudden sinking sensation, Abbie calculated where she was in her cycle. Lately she'd paid little attention to it; it hadn't seemed important, since she wasn't going with anyone. She never dreamed last night would happen.
Now she was forced to face the very real possibility that she was pregnant. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling frightened and half-sick. After all this time, she was about to find out whether the problem had been Christopher's, or hers. . . only it wouldn't be Christopher's child growing in her womb. It would be MacCrea's.
