by Cara Colter
And then about the progress in the case, which took another ten seconds, since progress seemed to have ground to a halt, though Blake thought Rafe had looked grim last time he had spoken to him.
"I know who it is," he'd said. "I just can't prove it yet."
"Just give me the name," Blake had suggested silkily.
"As if," Rafe had said and managed to smile, and despite the professional frustrations he was feeling right now, his contentment in his new relationship with Libby Corbett had been in his eyes and his smile.
The rest of the trip to the Coltons' was uncomfortably silent.
When they arrived, the place was already packed. The barn had been opened and cleaned. Bales of straw and hay were stacked here and there for atmosphere, old saddles and harnesses were thrown over stall dividers.
Blake almost felt like when he walked in the whole room froze and every man was looking at her. He wanted to put his arm around her possessively. He wanted to shout to the world she was his.
Which was insane.
She was the secretary. His secretary. That was all.
At first he didn't recognize the boy coming through the crowd toward them, his face alight on Holly's. His hair had been cut, and his face shone with cleanliness and there was a light on in his eyes.
He stopped in front of them. "Do you remember me?" he demanded of Holly.
Blake thought it made you pretty unforgettable to hold a knife at someone.
"Of course I remember you, Tomas," Holly said, as if the knife was the last thing she even associated with him. "How are you? How is Lucille?"
"Would you dance with me?" he asked with painful shyness.
"Of course I will," she said. "Thank you for asking."
She didn't even consult with her escort to see if that was okay with him.
He swore at himself. The kids came first. He knew that. Hadn't he showed her that? Why was he so annoyed? Wouldn't it have just made getting everything back to normal that much harder if he danced with her?
But he'd invited her to a dance. He supposed he was going to have to dance with her sometime.
Feeling grouchy and out of sorts, he repaired to the bar, debated a double rye and Coke, but settled for his customary Coke. With a sigh, he turned back to the dance floor.
The dance was a slow one, but thankfully Tomas was dancing with a certain stiff formality. Blake could have inserted a refrigerator between him and Holly.
She surprised him, though. She moved with a certain unselfconscious grace that he wouldn't have expected. Of course, that was back when he'd mistakenly thought he knew what to expect from Holly.
"My, my," Rafe said in his ear. "Who was that you came in with? Nobody I've seen around here before."
"You are no longer supposed to be looking," Blake reminded him tightly.
"I'm not looking for me," Rafe said indignantly. "I'm looking for you. You cannot believe how different life seems when you love someone. You just cannot believe it."
"Whatever."
"So who is she?"
"My secretary. Holly Lamb."
Rafe stared at her in disbelief. "My God," he finally said. "It is her. What on earth happened?"
"Good question," Blake said, without any of his friend's enthusiasm.
"She's beautiful."
"So it would seem."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Rafe said, giving him an incredulous look.
"It's a distraction that's not needed at the office."
Rafe's look became stern. "You know, Blake, you can take the Dudley-Do-Right thing too far. There are some things about the way you used to be that I miss."
"Like what?" Blake snapped.
"You used to be the kind of guy who said yes when the universe handed you a surprise package, an adventure."
"That landed me in a lot of hard places, Rafe."
"At least you were fun."
"So, what are you saying?"
"Go dance with your girl."
"She's not my girl. She's my secretary."
"You brought her to a dance. I assume not to take shorthand. Go dance with her."
But the first dance had ended, and another boy from the ranch was lined up right behind Tomas to dance with her. For a second it looked like a fight might erupt, before Holly intervened, putting her hand on Tomas's shoulder and saying something that made him beam.
Seconds later Tomas was dancing with his little sister in his arms, and Holly was dancing with Brad Carmichael, who at age fifteen was a B & E artist of some note. The music was faster this time, and Blake nearly choked on his soda.
God, she was sexy. She moved her body with a grace and freedom nothing she had done in his office could have prepared him for.
Rafe, giving him one last annoyed look, went and got Libby.
The second song faded into a third. He had nearly built up his nerve to go over there, when he saw the new banker moving toward her. No bow tie tonight. The guy looked ridiculously handsome in jeans and a western shirt, a felt hat and boots.
How was she going to know he was a nerd when he was disguised like that?
Blake's drink was already empty. He went to the bar and got another. When he turned back the music had stopped, and there was a cluster of men, young and old, around his secretary.
He sighed and prepared himself for the longest night of his life.
Seven
"Holy, Holly," her best friend Jennifer O'Riley said, pushing through the crowded barn and swirling people, "I hardly recognized you."
"Oh for heaven's sake," Holly said, irritated. "I took off my glasses."
Jennifer, a beauty with flaming red hair and slanting green eyes, was looking at her less glamorous friend closely. "No, it's more than that."
"Okay," Holly offered grudgingly. "I put on a bit of makeup and did something a little different with my hair."
Jennifer was still looking at her intently, trying to solve some mystery.
"All right. I bought a new outfit!" Holly admitted.
"It's something else," Jennifer decided. "There's a certain glow about you. You look like a woman—"
Thankfully, Steve Darce, the new young bank manager was back asking Holly if she wanted to dance with him again. Because it gave Jenn no opportunity to finish what she was going to say, Holly said yes.
As if Holly didn't know exactly what Jenn planned to say. She had never been able to keep anything from her best friend. Jenn had seen the secret in her eyes.
She had seen it herself when she had looked in the mirror tonight. A certain light in her face that no makeup could give. A dreamy, faraway look in her eyes that had nothing to do with lashes so thick with mascara it felt like she was dripping soot.
Holly Lamb looked like a woman in love. And that, as much as the makeup and the outfit, was what was attracting all this attention.
Embarrassing attention. But a bit heady, too.
There was only one problem.
She looked over at Blake. He had not moved from the bar all night, though the bevy of beautiful women came and went. She recognized many of them. They dropped by the office, casually, as if they were just passing by. Since the Hopechest was ten miles from the nearest anything, it was pretty hard to just be in the neighborhood.
Torey Canfield, stewardess and part-time model. Rosemary Hansen, divorced, rich, gorgeous. Kaye McMurphy, counted on to make that stunning first impression when people first walked through the impressive glass-and-steel front doors of Springer. They fluttered around him, gorgeous perfect women, younger versions of her mother. There was one in particular tonight, Holly didn't know her name. Her hair was a cloud of gold around her head, and she had ignored the fact it was a barn dance and was dressed in a sequined form-fitting black sheath with a scoop neck. Even from a distance it was obvious. No underwear.
And even though she looked good tonight, Holly had no illusions. She would never look like that. She knew part of what made her so attractive tonight to all these men, young and old, was
that she looked attainable. The nice, pleasant wholesome girl next door.
Not at all like the sophisticated woman in black who clung to the seat next to Blake.
Thoroughbred to her workhorse.
And Blake was a thoroughbred, too. Even the expression on his face—remote, glowering—seemed to add to his handsomeness not detract from it.
She recalled hearing that once. That a workhorse and a thoroughbred could not share the same harness.
And that probably said all that needed to be said about her and her boss. They were not in the same league. He had not noticed her when she had dressed out of the secretary's handbook, and he had not seemed to notice her duckling-to-swan metamorphosis tonight. He simply was not going to like her in the way she wanted to be liked by him, no matter what she did.
Not one comment on her appearance, the changes she had made.
Not one invitation to dance. No, it didn't take the sting out of it that he had not danced with anyone else either.
No, it didn't take the sting out of it when his friend Rory Sinclair went by with Peggy Honeywell and said to Holly in an undertone, "He never dances. Not even in college."
All that had done was make Holly feel ridiculously transparent, as if everyone in the whole world knew her secret and could see she was pining away for a man who did not see her the way she wanted to be seen.
It seemed to her romance was in the air tonight. In defiance of the tragedy that had ruled all their lives over the past few months, love grew, sweet and strong.
Rory Sinclair and Peggy Honeywell. Michael Longstreet and his wife, Suzanne. Now Rafe and Libby.
They were all here tonight, and Holly found herself resenting their obvious happiness. How easy it was, when she looked at these couples, to see how well suited they were, how they looked like they belonged together.
And little plain-Jane Holly Lamb was never going to look like that with her drop-dead gorgeous boss. Never.
"Hey," her dance partner, Steve Darce, said, "don't look sad. You'll give me a complex."
She forced herself to smile, and said lightly, "Well, that wouldn't do."
"I'd like to get to know you better. Where I don't have to yell over music. I heard there's a new restaurant open. The Red Herring. It's supposed to be pretty good. Do you want to check it out for dinner sometime?"
She kept her smile pasted on. "Let me think about it." Why? Why think about it? She needed to get on with her life, quit wishing for things that weren't going to happen.
Steve was a nice guy. All right, he didn't have Blake's commanding presence. Or Blake's penetrating gray eyes. Or Blake's beautiful silky full hair. He also didn't have a dozen gorgeous women hovering around him all night.
He had nice plain, clean-cut features, thinning reddish hair, an earnest way and a good sense of humor.
Why not go to the Red Herring with him?
It would be too pathetic if she just spent her whole life waiting for the thing that was never going to happen.
"Sure," she said. "Let's go for dinner."
He beamed at her. "I'll pick you up tomorrow night around six."
She wanted to protest that was much too soon. Two nights out in a row? But she knew wanting to put off her date with Steve was just part of keeping an unreasonable hope alive.
"That would be fine," she said. The dance ended, and suddenly Jenn was beside her.
"Last dance," Jenn hissed in her ear. "For God's sake, go ask him."
"Who?" Holly said primly.
Jenn rolled her eyes. "Go. For once in your life do something daring."
Holly thought that was particularly unfair. She had been daring. Couldn't Jenn see that? The hair, the makeup, the clothes. It had all felt pretty daring, until she had seen that number in the black sequins. Now she felt like little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.
But maybe Jenn was right. She had to take one more chance. She had to roll all the dice before she tossed in the towel for good.
Aching with trepidation, she crossed the dance floor. Just as she pushed through the throng milling around the bar, she saw the woman in black pulling at his arm, obviously making the very same request she had come to make. She turned away.
"Holly!"
She turned back. Blake was coming toward her, the woman in black perching on her seat with a pout that turned menacing when she saw Holly.
"Would you dance with me?"
Her mouth fell open. She blinked. She glanced at the woman in black and back at him. She had been chosen over that? Maybe miracles did happen.
"I don't dance very well," he said leaning toward her, "or very often. But I did bring you."
Oh. Nice of him to notice. The obligatory dance. Still, she could not refuse.
She allowed him to take her elbow and guide her onto the crowded dance floor. The music began. Fate having a snicker at her. One of her favorite songs of all time, so sweetly romantic, so full of hope and promise.
As the song's opening bars played, his one hand took hers, the other nestled in the hollow of her hip.
When
all else has failed me,
When
I'm weary and torn,
Love
whispers to me,
And
my spirit is reborn.
Holly closed her eyes and let the soaring vocals of Annie Adams pick her up, soothe her. The scent of him filled her senses, his hand in hers made anything seem possible.
Oh,
I've walked alone
All
the days of my life,
But
love promises me
An
end to heartache and strife.
He was a terrible dancer, and it didn't matter to her one little bit. But then, as if he confessed that to himself, he gave up the pretense of dancing. His hand moved to the small of her back and he tugged her gently into the wall of his chest, and swayed against her.
Like
the sailor who comes home from the sea,
The
warrior home from the dying;
Bring
your broken wings to me.
Love
mends those hearts that are crying.
Holly had known that this place existed somewhere on this earth for her. She had always known. That one day she would feel this. Safe. Protected. Cherished. Loved.
She was ridiculous to feel those things.
It was only a dance. Yet, she could feel the simple strength in him, in his hand against her back, in the heart that beat so steadily under the soft caress of her cheek against his chest.
Her bones were melting. If she had no other moment, it felt like this one would be enough to sustain her all the days of her life, to fix her broken wings and mend her heart, to make anything that was wrong with her world right.
The music stopped, and yet still he held her to him. And when she dared look up into his face, he was looking down at her with faint puzzlement, as if he had never seen her before, as if he had never felt what he had just felt.
As though he only suddenly realized the music had stopped, he stepped away from her. His hands remained at her hips for a precious moment longer, before he let them drop to his sides, then looked away from her and ran a hand through his hair.
"Shall we go?" he said.
She nodded, and looped her arm through the arm he offered her, but she knew, with a sinking feeling, that her moment was over.
But Jenn didn't seem to think so. She was grinning wickedly. "I'll call you tomorrow."
Jenn assumed Holly knew what to do next. When she didn't. Should she suggest they go for a drink? Did she invite him in? Did she kiss him if he came in?
The thought of kissing him actually made her feel weak with wanting.
"You seemed to have a good time tonight," he said in the vehicle.
"It was fun," she said.
"After all you've done at Hopechest you deserved a fun night."
She glanced at him quickly, because that didn't seem to
be said with the least bit of sincerity. He actually seemed very remote, as if she had annoyed him by having fun.
"You didn't seem to enjoy yourself."
He shrugged. "Two left feet."
"Not that I noticed," she said softly.
All too soon, before she had a chance to work up her nerve to ask him if he wanted to go somewhere for a drink, he had pulled the ranch vehicle into its parking stall in front of the office and walked her across the street.
The moonlight made it a perfect night for romance. The stars winked at them from the heavens.
A fact he didn't seem to notice. He seemed distant, and faraway. He didn't touch her and he certainly didn't attempt to kiss her. "Good night, Holly," he said softly, then turned and was gone.
Disappointed, she went in the door and closed it behind her. She went into the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror It was still there—that look of a woman in love. But there was something else there now, too. A certain sadness that made her eyes look huge and lonesome.
She tugged off the skirt and shirt and slipped into her beautiful old-fashioned nightdress. It was pure white, high-collared, embroidered down the front.
In the darkness of her cabin, she went and stood at her window, watched the light go on in his apartment. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, she watched his silhouette as he took off his clothes.
Her heart hammered in her throat.
A bolder woman, that woman in black, would have crossed the street.
Instead Holly turned away. She might not be a bolder woman, like her mother, but she realized she was not the dowdy secretary she had been portraying for eight months either. He had said to her she was the rarest of things. A person who knew how to be herself.
And she felt she needed to live up to that.
Herself was the girl who looked back at her from the mirror moments ago. Not trying to look professional, not hiding behind her glasses. A disguise was a disguise. Hiding her true assets was as much a lie as her mother's paint and dye.
Not the most beautiful girl, but not ugly either.
With a sigh, she went into the kitchen and pulled a sack of black plastic garbage bags out of the kitchen drawer. She went into her bedroom and opened the closet door. Without one bit of regret she slid the suits from their hangers, the black one, the gray one, the navy one, the white linen that she had been saving for summer. She dropped them into the bag. Tomorrow she would take them to Goodwill, and see if she could talk Jenn into a quick shopping trip with her.
