by Donna Alward
Clay gestured toward the table with a hand. “Then have a seat and let’s talk.”
His mind spun as he went to the fridge to grab a couple of drinks and gather his thoughts. He hadn’t meant to say all that to Meg in the meadow. He’d thought long and hard about his offer and how best to present it to her. But she hadn’t even heard him out. She’d thrown out the pity word and he’d lost it. Told her exactly what he thought and the hell with sparing her feelings.
Feelings, ha. He had asked himself plenty of times over the last few days what he wanted from Megan. Each time the answer had come back—and it was always an answer he didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t want love. He didn’t want her to love him and he didn’t want to love her. There were too many risks involved.
The problem was he was already in over his head. If it had just been a fancy dress and a fine pair of legs in high heels he could have moved on, just as he’d always done. A flirtation was fine but he never let himself get serious about anyone. But this was Meg. She was different. It didn’t matter if she was dressed to the nines or like she was today—adorable and oh-so approachable in her jeans and soft sweatshirt. He knew her inside and out—why else would she make him so angry? He couldn’t just hold her in his arms and walk away. He had to be careful.
But he also knew it would never work. He wasn’t the marrying kind. Dawson called him The Bachelor like the reality TV show of the same name, and quipped him about whether or not he was going to institute his own rose ceremony to send the ladies on their way when he broke their hearts. For a long time Clay had laughed at the comparison. But lately it had been wearing thin—both the name and the meaningless dating.
And Meg was…
Well. Meg was a mess and she deserved better than him. She deserved someone who would be there for her in ways that he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was complicate things further when she was struggling so much. The idea of opening his heart to her only to have it tramped on was not the most attractive option on the table. It would end badly, no doubt about it. So, yeah, maybe he was feeling the smallest bit guilty about Saturday night. He’d started something that could never be finished.
All he knew was that he valued her friendship too much to mess around with it. Loaning her money was the one thing he could truly do to help, while at the same time keeping his heart wrapped up nice and safe.
He took out two cans of pop and put one in front of her; then he took a seat, popping the top of the can. He looked at her from across the table and wondered how to broach the subject better this time, so she didn’t see it as some pity party.
“Look, Meg. I know that if it weren’t for bank policies you’d already be on your way to making this a reality. Clearly you’re strong and healthy, right?” He ignored the niggling voice in his head that persisted in chirping about risks and reoccurrence rates. “And you know what you’re doing. You’ve been around horses all your life. It’s a crying shame that you keep coming up against the word no.”
She couldn’t argue with any of that, he reasoned. She took a drink of her pop and said nothing, which was encouraging.
“The only thing keeping this from going ahead is capital. I have it. It’s yours.”
He watched as Meg’s finger circled the lip of the can. Finally she looked up at him. “This isn’t about feeling guilty about the other night?”
Her question was aimed true and he took the hit. He pushed his pop aside, swallowing roughly. “Guilty?”
He had felt guilt. About letting her mistakenly believe he was turned off by the changes in her body. About losing control and hurting her. But enough to want to make restitution with money?
“Pardon me,” he said dryly, “but I hardly think that what happened between us is cause for that much guilt. And I’m a little insulted that you think I’d try to buy you off.” Even as he said it he felt the little slide of uneasiness knowing he still wasn’t being completely truthful. But how on earth could he say, “I can’t love you as you should be loved so here’s your consolation prize”?
“Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to imply…” Her eyes looked distressed and she moved to tuck her hair behind her ear, only it wasn’t long enough. She was nervous. They’d never been nervous around each other before. “I’ll shut up now,” she whispered, and Clay let out a breath. He didn’t want to fight with her. Somehow they had to find their feet. Put things on an even keel again.
“This is a friend to friend offering, Meg. Neighbor to neighbor. I want you to have it.”
“As a loan,” she said.
Clay ran his hand over his hair. She wasn’t going to make this easy, was she? Why couldn’t she just accept it as a gift and go?
Because she was Meg. Because, to a certain extent she was right. People did count on her. Meg always paid her way. She always did things right. Maybe she had felt more pressure than any of them had realized so they could all feel a bit more secure, reassured. She could hardly be responsible for everyone’s feelings, could she?
“I meant it as a gift, but you won’t accept it that way, will you?”
She shook her head. Her face was uncompromising and she coolly took another drink. He felt like smiling then. She was a heck of a negotiator, even when she didn’t have the upper hand.
“I want to know how you happen to have all this money lying around. And why you haven’t put it into your own place.” Her brows pulled together. “Any farmer worth his salt either puts his money back into the operation, or it’s his rainy-day safety net if the worst happens.”
Clay pursed his lips. The story was old history, especially now that Stacy was gone, but he still held the resentment deep in his heart. He hadn’t even wanted to accept the money to begin with, but Stacy had convinced him, telling him it would come in handy someday. The irony wasn’t lost on him. His mother had left it to him and it had felt like a payoff for all the love she’d deprived him of as a boy. Now he was offering it to Meg instead of offering himself. He could never confess such a shortcoming to her.
“Does it matter where it came from?”
Meg’s dark eyes cooled. “It matters to me, Clay. It really matters. You know I can’t take any money that will compromise your ranch. It wouldn’t be right.”
She wouldn’t let it go. He’d have to tell her, but he’d keep to the unemotional facts. “It was my mother’s,” he replied. He folded his hands and leaned forward. “She left it to me.”
“That still doesn’t explain…”
“I don’t want my mother’s money touching this place,” he said sharply. Too sharply perhaps, because Meg’s shoulders stiffened. But he and Stacy had gone through this time and again and it was something he felt strongly about. His mother had never wanted this farm. She’d never wanted him when all was said and done. Maybe she had loved his father, maybe she hadn’t, but the painful truth was either way she’d left her kid behind. He hadn’t given a damn about her money. At one time he’d have given it all for a simple acknowledgment.
“But it’s okay to give to me. For it to ‘touch’ the Briggs ranch.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand, Clay.”
How did he explain that it felt tainted to him without insulting her at the same time? “Money is money, Meg. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it. She left it to me when she died a few years back. That was all I got, you realize. Legal correspondence. Not once in the years since she walked away did she contact me. Anything this ranch has become is in spite of her and not because of her. Stacy thought I was crazy, but I couldn’t bring myself to use it. In the end I invested it.”
She reached over and took his hand. The contact rippled through his fingers and along the length of his arm, settling hard in the center of his body. But he didn’t pull his hand away. He didn’t want her to know what the simple touch did to him. For a few moments he was eleven years old again, back in the meadow, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve as Meg put her hand in his and said, “Don’t worry, Clay. I won’t ever leave you. P
romise.”
Neither of them ever spoke of that afternoon again, but it had been in the front of his mind when she’d said the words breast cancer. From that moment he had failed to live up to the tacit promise he’d made when he’d squeezed her hand in return. Helping her now was the best way he could think of to make up his past failings.
“I’m not as angry as I was,” he said, and realized it was true. “It just didn’t feel right when she never loved this place, you know? It should do some good somewhere. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place. This could fix everything. I want you to have this chance, Meg. I believe in you.”
Meg gripped his fingers firmly as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “You never talk about your mother. Never,” she whispered.
“You pushed.”
Yes, she had, and she felt bad about it and yet somewhat relieved. She wouldn’t have accepted her family going into debt for her and she wouldn’t have accepted those terms from Clay, either. But what a thing for him. What a slap in the face. For all her family’s faults, for all their stifling, worried glances, she had never once felt unloved or unwanted.
In all the years growing up it had been an unspoken rule: you don’t talk about Clay’s parents. But Meg knew the story and she could understand his resentment.
“I understand you want to have something positive come from the money.” He was handing her the opportunity she craved, like a sweet in front of a child and she was afraid to reach out and take it. The fact that he believed in her made her heart sing. Now, faced with the prospect of making it a reality, she wasn’t quite sure she believed in herself.
She slipped her fingers from his and curled them around her pop can. It was hard to believe there wasn’t a little bit of guilt at play in his sudden offer. She remembered the look on his face when he’d realized she was missing a breast. She’d told herself that it was a perfectly normal reaction but the truth was she’d wanted more—expected more—from Clay. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe they expected too much from each other. After all, what had happened between them was nothing disastrous. Nothing worth ruining a whole friendship over. And while she had reservations—borrowing money from friends could really be a recipe for disaster—the carrot he was dangling before her was too bright and shiny to resist.
She sat back in her chair. “If I borrow the money, I have complete autonomy over the operation. The construction, the operation, everything. You have no say.”
His gaze was keen on her. “Did I imply otherwise?”
She could see it in her mind. The warm summer breeze carrying the voices and laughter of children. The stable full of healthy horses, a riding ring set up with barrels or being circled by new riders.
Her own business. Her own contribution. And business partners with Clay. Her balloon popped. Because no matter what he said, he could never be the silent kind of partner.
That idea made her throat close over. She could just hear her father’s voice saying that business partners made for bad bedfellows. If he only knew how close she and Clay had come to the latter he’d give her one of those disapproving looks she despised. They couldn’t be partners.
And he was agreeing to it all too easily. She bit down on her lip, wondering what the pill in the jam would be. “I know you, Clay. You’ll put in your two cents. You’re not capable of keeping your opinion to yourself.”
“So you are going to close your mind to helpful advice? Are you sure that’s wise?”
“There’s a difference between helpful advice and taking over. You’ll make noises about protecting your investment and all that nonsense.” He would, too. This would bind them together for a long time. It would be years before she could pay off the entire loan. She would be tied to Clay for ages—except for the one way she wanted to be tied to him. Exchanging one dream for another. She supposed it wasn’t a bad sort of thing, so why wasn’t she happier?
Clay got up from the table and walked to the window looking out over the backyard. Meg’s insides twisted. His shoulders were tense and he’d shut her out by turning his back on her. She’d made him angry again. With a sigh she put her forehead on her hand. She seemed to insult him without trying. She’d walked through the door determined to get out of her own way and here she was right back at it again, throwing up excuses rather than finding solutions. No wonder Clay got frustrated with her.
Finally Clay turned back around. “Meg, you need to decide what it is you want. I’m offering you an answer to all your worries, and still you’re finding reasons why not. What are you so afraid of? No one is throwing up roadblocks but you. My offer stands, but you’re under no obligation. You have to be the one to decide. I am not going to tell you what to do.”
She looked around the kitchen, hating that he saw things so clearly. She couldn’t fake her way through with Clay. And yet admitting the truth seemed so impossible.
He came over to her and knelt by the table. “What is it?”
“I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?” He put his wide, warm palm on her thigh, a friendly gesture but one that scored her heart just the same because she wished it came from a different sort of sentiment.
“Of everything. Of living, of dying, of failing. Just because I know you were right today doesn’t mean I can snap my fingers and just fix how I feel. You told me weeks ago that I could either quit, go through it or around it. I’ve been trying to go around it all, Clay, and it’s not working. I don’t want to quit. And going through it is hard.”
“But you’re forgetting something,” he said firmly, giving her knee a squeeze. “You don’t have to go through it alone.”
In her heart of hearts, Meg wished he meant something different than what he did. But she wasn’t stupid. She didn’t read anything into the words that wasn’t there.
“Talk to your mom and dad. Dawson. Your friends. Like I said, no one expects you to be perfect. You’re human. You went away to protect everyone but you don’t need to. Let them in.”
“Like you do?”
He bounced on his toes a few times and treated her to a wry smile. “Men don’t talk about feelings the same way.”
“You’re telling me.”
Clay patted her knee and stood up. “This is a community, Meg. Yes, there are gossips and busybodies, but there’s also a helping hand and understanding when you need it. People will want you to succeed. That’s what we do when one of our own is in need.”
“Damn you,” she said, but then she laughed, disbelieving but somehow very, very relieved now that the words were out and not pressing on her lungs. She pressed her hands to her warm cheeks. “I should say no. Money and friends rarely turns out well…”
“I can draw up terms if you’d like. Have Brianna Johnson look after it.”
“I’ll want the payment schedule in writing,” she insisted, but the fizz of excitement built again. She was so close to getting what she wanted.
“Done.”
He held out his right hand, waiting for her to shake. One eyebrow arched up as he paused. “Gentlemen’s agreement until it’s put to paper.” he nudged her.
Gentlemen’s agreement. A handshake of equals. Meg’s chest swelled with the gesture. “Agreed,” she said, before she could change her mind. She put her hand in his, feeling his fingers close around hers. He held it a little too long as their gazes caught. The kitchen was completely, utterly silent. He had to do something soon before she was tempted to make a fool of herself.
But where would it lead? Nothing had changed. She was still the same. Still scarred. Still afraid. And so was Clay. She pulled her hand out of his.
“About the other night,” she said quietly.
“It won’t happen again,” he replied firmly. “We just got carried away. Maybe Aunt Stacy was right about weddings after all.”
It was the assurance she wanted but it left her feeling strangely empty.
But now her idea was on the cusp of becoming a reality and she couldn’t stop the a
nticipation that began to take hold. “This is really going to happen.”
“You bet your boots,” Clay announced, and clapped his hands together, seemingly unaffected. “Now, call Linda and tell her you won’t be home for dinner. I’ll take out another steak and you can tell me your plans.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRIANNA JOHNSON’S office was a study of organization and precision. She had the papers in order, pens at the ready, and before Meg could catch her breath it was all done. All that was left was transferring the money to Meg’s new business account.
Meg looked up at Clay, feeling slightly sick. There was no taking it back now. The enormity of the job ahead sank in as well as the knowledge that for years to come, she was linked to Clay Gregory.
He smiled down at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let’s go celebrate.”
Celebrate? Meg thought maybe she should just sit down for a moment since her feet seemed to be feeling slightly numb. Maybe it was an extremities thing because she felt a little light-headed, too. She hadn’t eaten breakfast, she realized, having been too keyed up about this morning’s meeting. Now it was nearly lunch.
“Okay,” she answered, gripping the strap of her purse. “Where to?”
“You choose.”
“How about the Inn?” They were both dressed up for the appointment—or at least, out of ranch gear, and their clothing would be totally appropriate for the Inn’s dining room. Meg had worn dark trousers and a drop-sleeve cashmere sweater in gray that she’d received last Christmas, and Clay had left his denims in the closet, going business casual. Her mouth watered at more than the thought of lunch. Why shouldn’t they make an occasion of it? Today was the start of something very exciting.
