The Cowgirl & the Stallion

by Natasha Deen

  “That man is not my savior,” she said in a hard, low voice.

  “He’s the only thing between you and bankruptcy. How long are you going to limp from one month to another? I’ve been here for six weeks, and you’re one disaster away from sinking. One sick cow, one case of bovine sniffles and you’re toast.”

  “I intend to save this farm, and keep it in my family. And if I have to limp or crawl to that goal, I’ll do it.”

  A bleak, forlorn light flickered in his eyes. His sadness and despair palpated the air—the dark lord with the heart of gold. “So, you’ll marry Jason.”

  No. Not in a million years. I’ll never marry anyone, not since you came into my life. She sighed, her anger deflated by his concern. “I never had any intention of hooking up with Jason.”

  Nate frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Aya sank into the chair. “He asked me out, and I considered it—not for the farm.” She covered her mouth with her hand. The humiliation of admitting her weakness, and the piercing shame of admitting it to Nate, made her want to crawl under the chair, to hide from his judgment and condemnation. She dropped her hand and sighed. “It was a while ago—almost eight months.” She glanced at him, and unable to meet the unwavering focus of his gaze, looked away. “I was lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely, and he was there. He paid attention to me, and it was flattering. When he asked me out, I thought about it—briefly, very briefly—but I turned him down. I could never do anything that would hurt my son, and I would never put anyone in his life who wouldn’t love him with an open and full heart.” She took a deep breath, and met his gaze. “There. Are you happy now? I was lonely and pathetically needy, and Jason caught me at a low moment.”

  Aya braced herself for his scorn, but it never came. Instead, he knelt by her side, took her hands in his, and said, “It’s okay to be lonely and scared.”

  Tears rushed hard and fast to her eyes, and a sob pounded its way up her chest and to her throat. She blinked, hard, and swallowed even harder.

  “It’s okay to want to fulfill your parents’ dreams, but not at the expense of your own life.”

  Acid burned in her stomach and licked fiery, sour tongues along her esophagus. “I’m not.”

  He didn’t say anything, but continued to kneel in front of her. Blood roared in her ears. The dark lord had risen again, this time cloaked in a robe of pity and patronization. Comfort and friendship had once again been banished to the black, stinking pits. And from the depths of his kingdom, the heat licked her face and burned her heart with the knowledge of Nate’s disapproval.

  “I am not compromising myself,” she repeated above the howling demons in her head. “This is my life, and I’m happy with it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Don’t say that!” Aya ripped her hands away, her voice rising, because deep in the quiet parts of herself that only made themselves known late at night, she knew he was right. She wanted to lash out, cover his all-seeing eyes that were too aware of the secret parts of her. But mostly, she wanted to cry, to sob because his opposition hit her with the force of a bomb, and lay siege to her emotional defenses. She wanted his approval; she needed his love. And the knowledge—the truth that she pined for the very thing she could never have—ripped and clawed at her razor-sharp nails. “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  “Anything. Everything.” Her voice shook and her legs trembled, and if this fight got any worse, she was going to be physically ill.

  His expression changed, shifted from pity to interest. And in the blink of an eye, compassion replaced pity, and banished the dark lord’s presence. Nate reached out, pulled her upright and against his chest. The thump of his heart weakened her with regret and wanting, obliterated her pride.

  “Tell me anything,” he said softly. “Tell me everything.”

  His arms held her tight and safe. When she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend there were other options for her and the future didn’t stretch out bleak and gray.

  “I have to save this farm, and keep it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...because my parents died trying to make my dreams come true, and I owe them.”

  “They died in a car crash.”

  “They died because of me.”

  He said nothing, but his grip tightened reflexively.

  “They told me they were going to look at some cows, asked if I wanted to come along. But Spencer was just getting over a flu, and I told Dad to cancel the trip because he wasn’t feeling good, either. He didn’t listen, just said he’d take something for the cold—” The sudden, sweet memory of her father by the kitchen table, her mind’s view so sharp the image seemed three-dimensional, assailed her. She choked on the memory and gagged on the regret of lost moments and never-to-be memories.

  “Their car ran off the road because he fell asleep at the wheel.” She wanted to howl at the stupidity of the preventable accident. “I should have been there. If I had gone, I would have been the one driving, and they wouldn’t have died.”

  She stepped away from him. Her steps were shaky, and his hand on her arm steadied her as she dragged herself to the desk. “But it’s more than that. They’d told me they were going to look at an organic dairy farm—that was their dream, to run one of those. When I got a phone call from a guy wanting to know if my parents still wanted to buy his glass-blowing equipment, I realized what they’d really been doing on the trip. That’s my education,” she said, realizing she’d never talked about her art. “I have a fine arts degree—”

  “I know. Jim told me.”

  She nodded then shrugged, a helpless, powerless gesture. “My mom and dad died trying to help my dreams come true. I owe them the effort—the full-faith effort—of making theirs a reality.”

  Nate sighed, the sound deep as the ocean, heavy as cement. “You’re not thinking this through. What if the farm continues to lose money? What if banks change their interest rates? You’re on the road to becoming homeless. Is that what your parents would want?”

  “It won’t happen. Despite what you and my grandfather seem to think, I’m not a complete idiot. I put aside some of the money I received from their estate. It’s enough to pay for an apartment if I lose the farm. But I’m not going to, it’s going to be fine, I know it.” She looked away from him, her assurance so weak and brittle she could barely stand to speak it.

  “How do you know?”

  Aya took a deep breath and met his gaze.

  “Because I have you,” she said, knowing that now was the time to be truthful. If he was going to walk away, she needed to know, right now.

  “What?” He jerked back, his eyes grew wide.

  “I know if you were on my side and helping me, we could make this farm a success.”

  “But Aya—” Desperation left his words ragged. “I’m not on your side. I agree with Jim. You’ve always known that.”

  “Don’t you see the possibilities—”

  “No, I don’t.” He looked exhausted, tortured, as though his words had been wrung from him. “You need to sell this farm, and soon. It needs an inflow of capital to make it thrive. Your nickels and dimes aren’t going to do anything but prolong the inevitable.”

  “But—” His words rocked the already shaky foundation of her plans. Tears pooled behind her eyes, readying themselves to escape and further undo her composure. “You have to help.” Unable to stem the tide, fat, salty droplets trickled down her cheek.

  “Please don’t cry.” The pain in his face reverberated in his voice. Placing his hands on either side of her cheeks, he brushed the tears away with a soft caress of his thumbs.

  “I can’t help it,” she whispered. The silent desire she’d never spoken of, the emotions she’d tried so hard to repress, broke free of its confines. “Tell me what I need to do to save the farm. Tell me what I need to do to keep you.” Rather than a request from a business owner in need to the man who could help her, the sentence reveal
ed the truth of her words: a plea from a woman in love to the man who held her heart.

  His face crumpled as though she’d hit him. In the ensuing wreckage, another expression rose on his face. And this one, which lent a soft glow to his eyes and made his breath come out in a short, sharp exhalation, spoke to the feminine spirit that dwelled within her. He dropped his head, shaking it side to side. When he looked up, the light had dimmed, and in its place the shadow of regret darkened his face.

  “I’ll have to leave eventually, Aya. I don’t want to—God, I don’t want to, but it’s not my choice. I came here to help you sell the farm. That hasn’t changed.”

  In the moment of truth—the reality of his transient place in her life and the bleakness of his goals—she realized the depth of her love for him, and the uselessness of it all. An emptiness that nothing—short of Nate—would ever fill, emptied her of hope.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “You will, eventually.”

  Then he stepped back and walked away.

  ****

  The blazing sun mocked Mason with its golden-yellow glow. A blue sky and white, cotton ball clouds added their jeers. He chewed on a stalk of grass, his fingers tearing at the blade in his hands, and contemplated the bizarre turn of events which brought him the woman of his dreams, then forced his betrayal of her.

  His father would understand if he went back on his promise. But Mason had never been a guy who knew how to reverse direction. Even if it wasn’t fashionable, he still believed a man’s word was his bond. Solutions—how he would save Aya from herself, how he would be the stand-up son for his dad, how the hell he would do either without going insane—eluded him. He crested the hill, and the back of the house came into view—the distance too far for the excitement of seeing Aya; too damn close for the confusion circling his heart and mind. He walked to the house, his pace alternating between shuffle and stride as his thoughts flitted from seeing Aya to betraying her. As he got closer, he saw a small, familiar figure on the deck. Spencer.

  Mason picked up his pace, tossing the grass confetti and his worries to the breeze, eager to see his young friend and hear about his day.

  This must be what it’s like to be a dad. The thought stopped him hot, stopped him cold. He had no business thinking it, but he stood on the edge of the hill, and for a brief, sweet, moment allowed himself to believe that he had Aya’s love, was a dad to Spencer, and that his father was healthy. The brief, pure moment filled him, swallowed him in the bliss of a life that could never be.

  A cloud drifted across the sun, casting a shadow over his face, and in the ensuing darkness, reality nipped at him with pointed teeth.

  He started toward home, and as he drew closer, the chorus of angry voices drifted along the breeze. One he recognized as Aya’s, the other he didn’t know. Wondering who fought with her, his frown deepened until it left groove marks in his skull. When he was close enough for Spencer to see his face, though, he sandblasted the furrows until his expression hopefully looked peaceful, placid. “What’s with all the noise?”

  “Dad’s here.” Spencer’s expression went beyond dejected and epitomized total despair.

  Mason took a seat beside the child. “You okay?”

  He shrugged.

  Mason waited.

  “They sent me out here so I wouldn’t hear them fight.” He blinked furiously, took off his glasses and squinted at them. Then he pulled the hem of his shirt over his fingers and began to rub the lenses with enough fury and energy to wear them back into sand. “They forgot to close the windows.”

  “What are they arguing about?”

  “Me.” A sob strangled his answer.

  Instinct took over. He pulled Spencer into his arms and onto his lap, holding him tightly and silently cursing the deadbeat dad. “I doubt they’re fighting about you. It probably just sounds that way.”

  “No, it’s me. Dad said he couldn’t afford to pay for me and that I was a drain on resources. That’s when mom sent me outside.” He raised watery eyes. “When I saw him pull up, I thought he was coming to take me for the weekend.” The tears ran over, and with short, rough movements, he wiped them away.

  Mason swung him onto his hip as he stood and moved away from the raised voices. First priority, calm Spencer down. Second priority, kill the ex.

  “It’ll be okay. Your dad’s—”

  “An ass?” His childish breath puffed against Mason’s neck.

  “A big one, but don’t swear.” He heard a hiccupped sniffle, and took that as acquiescence. “How about if I take you guys into town tonight? We can go for pizza, maybe a movie? I know it’s not the same as being with your dad—”

  “I’d rather be with you, anyway.”

  The compliment, spoken with the pureness of an unfettered heart, sliced at Mason, hot and razor-sharp, and almost brought him to his knees.

  “Thanks.” His voice came out rough. “Your mom loves you, and though your dad’s doing a poor job of it, he loves you, too.”

  “That’s what mom says, but I don’t think it’s true.”

  “Of course it’s true,” he said gruffly. “How could anyone not love you? I bet Jessica pines for you.”

  Mention of his true love’s name seemed to act as a tranquilizer and Spencer relaxed against Mason’s chest. The weight of the small body in his arms gave a sense of completeness, rightness in his soul. He would carry this child forever, if given the chance, and he would charge hell itself to protect him from the hurts and pains of life.

  The sharp, intense contractions in Mason’s heart squeezed his spirit and reminded him the person who would make Spencer homeless, would be him.

  “Jessica.” Spencer sighed. “Sweet Jessica.”

  “Sure. She probably has your name tattooed on her arm.”

  “We’re too young for tattoos.”

  “Even better. She’s defied convention to proclaim her love.”

  He giggled, and Mason had never heard a more beautiful sound. “Would you be okay if I just went and check on your mom? See if she needs anything?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  Mason set him down, gently pushed him the opposite direction of the house and encouraged him to find a spot where he couldn’t hear his parents arguing.

  “Thanks, Nate.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He watched the kid walk away with the distinct sensation that his heart was moving away from him, then he turned and headed into the house. Once inside, he shut the kitchen windows, and moved toward the raised voices.

  They stood in the foyer. Aya’s ex looked the way he’d imagined. From the blond highlights in his hair, the spray-on California tan, and his “I’m a Professor” blazer with the leather elbow patches, the guy’s appearance screamed all flash, no substance...Just call me Prissy McGee. Currently, however, he was screaming something about 401Ks and late child support. Aya kept one eye on the ex, the other on the baseball bat by the door, and Mason waded in before either one of them had to clean up Prissy’s bloodstains.

  “There a problem here?”

  Prissy didn’t spare him a glance. “No, pal, this is between me and my wife.”

  “Ex-wife.” He and Aya corrected him at the same time. She shot Mason a smile of gratitude and followed it with a “Can you believe this pompous ass?” eye roll. Their shared feelings, the sweet pleasure of the two of them being on the same team, fighting for a mutual goal, burst in him, warm and welcome.

  “Whatever,” sneered Prissy. “It’s a private discussion.”

  “Then maybe you should drop your voice to a decibel that won’t attract people in the next county.”

  He turned to deliver what Mason assumed would be a blistering retort. Judging by his forced, tight posture, the obviousness of his desire for status and attention, the retort would be less blistering and more like a hemorrhoid. Yeah, that was a good middle name for the creep, Hemorrhoid. Prissy Hemorrhoid McGee.

  “L
isten,” said Prissy, turning his gaze to Mason. Their eyes locked and Prissy’s mouth snapped shut.

  Shit.

  His pale, blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Yeah. I’m the guy who’s kicking you out of the house.” Mason moved with speed, grasped Prissy by the scruff of his neck and hauled him toward the front door. Because he had six inches and eighty pounds on Aya’s ex, he propelled the smaller man with more force than he’d initially intended, forcing Prissy to his tiptoes and all but pirouetting him out the door.

  “Get your—” He slapped at Mason. His ineffectual actions made him look like a ruffled chicken. “Let go of me.”

  Mason hauled him to what had to be his vehicle—who else would drive a Corvette—and tossed him by the hood.

  “What’s your problem, jerk?” He adjusted his white turtleneck, and reached into his blazer and brought out a Ray Ban container. “You’re just lucky you didn’t break my glasses.”

  “You’re lucky she didn’t break your neck.” He turned, saw Aya coming down the stairs, and waved her away. She frowned and kept coming. Frantic that she would come within earshot at the precise moment that Prissy realized who he was, Mason waved even harder, until he probably looked like a windmill. Thankfully, she stopped and waited. “What’s your name, again?”

  “What business it is of yours?”

  “Sentimental leanings. If I play bouncer, I like to know the name of the bouncee.” He pivoted around, aiming for the house.

  “Daniel. What’s your game? You trying to get into her pants?”

  Don’t hit him. He kept walking.

  “Don’t kid yourself. She’s not worth the effort—trust me, I’d know. Wooden and passionless.”

  Mason glanced over his shoulder. “Even Mozart couldn’t make a tune on a broken piano.”

  The blond man’s eyes narrowed. “Listen—” He stopped before his tirade began. A shocked look dropped on to his face, like he’d been hit from behind. “Wait, I do know you. Mason St. John?”

  “Who?”

  “You’re Mason St. John, aren’t you? I saw you at the ribbon cutting ceremony at UCLA a couple of years back.”