The Cowgirl & the Stallion

by Natasha Deen

  “It was one night,” he said. “Not one night and a conversation the next morning.”

  “I wanted to...” Now the moment was on her, she hadn’t a clue what to say. To discuss the setting of boundaries seem redundant, given his aloofness, and to say anything sentimental, in bad taste. She gave him a wobbly smile. “Thanks for the memories.”

  The newspapers snapped into the barrier position. “Time will tell.”

  Tears threatened. Of all the scenarios that had crossed her mind, this ruthless, emotionally devoid man sitting beside her, had never been one. She swallowed and blinked, unwilling to have him see her cry or race from the room.

  “How do you do that?” she asked, her voice husky with unshed tears.

  “Do what?” He sounded tired now, defeated.

  “Pull yourself away, act like last night didn’t happen?”

  The pages rustled. “I do what I have to do.” He flipped the newspapers down, the smile on his face half-mocking, half-despair. “It’s one of the many things about me you don’t know, and you insisted didn’t matter in the grand scheme of your feelings.” He gave her a predatory smile. “Still feel the same way?”

  Slivers of ice pierced her heart. “Do you have to be so cruel?”

  He erected the paper barrier once more. “Life is cruel. We all have to deal with it.”

  She had no response, but the swiftness of his overnight personality change left her confused and groping for answers. Aya bit into the toast, and though it still tasted of sawdust and cardboard, she chewed and swallowed.

  They settled into a brittle, tight silence, and when the ring of the phone shattered, she released the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Aya reached for the phone at the same time he did, and the contact of Nate’s skin against her set her heart stumbling after the memories of the night before. She snatched her hand away and let him answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  His deep voice vibrated in her bones, in the tiniest corners of her soul, and she closed her eyes against the wave of pain rushing through her.

  “Spencer, what’s wrong?” Nate glanced at her, the flesh on his face tightened as he listened to her son’s response.

  Aya’s heart contracted, tight, painful, squeezed shut, and wouldn’t relax.

  “We’ll be right there,” he said, his voice terse.

  Her heart squeezed tighter. “Nate?”

  “Get dressed. Pops is in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Worry and fear made the four hours waiting for the doctor’s results and updates stretch into a lifetime. The sterile smell of plastic, mixed with the ammonia from detergent and the cloying smell of sickness and death, so thick and rancid, made Aya gag. She hunched in the waiting-room chair, feigning courage.

  Numbers—the insurance company’s toll-free line, the cost of the hospital stay—ricocheted in her brain, along with questions the doctors still needed to answer—how bad was the heart attack? What was their next move? Amid the figures and suppositions, the dark, hooded emotions of fear and helplessness stalked her courage, trailing hysteria in their wake and leaving her shaking.

  “Mom, do you want something to drink?”

  Spencer stood in front of her, looking like she felt: scared but trying to be brave. She stretched out her arms and pulled him into her, reveling in the comfortable smells of home—laundry detergent and sun—and said, “No, I don’t feel thirsty. Do you want something?”

  “Not really.” He pressed his face into her neck. “Are you scared?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Really?” He wriggled on to her lap and settled against her chest.

  “Sickly terrified. He’s my grandfather—I’m not ready to lose him.” She glanced over to where Destina stood by the window, her body tight and hunched. “None of us are.”

  Aya leaned into the chair, closing her eyes against the pea-green walls and gray floors. “You know what the nicest thing about having family is?”

  “What?”

  “We can be scared together. And together, we’ll get through anything.”

  “Is Pops going to be okay?” The catch in his voice mirrored the skips of fear in her heart.

  “I don’t know, baby. I hope so.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yep, as long as I have you guys around, I’ll be fine.”

  “No.” He twisted out of her embrace, and looked her in the eyes. “I mean your heart. Those ads on television say that heart disease runs in families.” His brown eyes glistened. “Are you going to have a heart attack?”

  “Oh, honey.” The tears she’d held back fell, running down her cheeks in a rapid, salty, stream. “I’m fine. I get tested every year, and I take good care of myself. You’ll have to put up with me for a long, long time.”

  “Promise?”

  She smiled. “With all my heart.”

  He slid back into the fortress of her arms and they settled into silence. In the background, the waiting room T.V. flashed images of women on exercise bikes while a perky host expounded the virtues of exercise. Hospital staff, patients, and visitors strode the hallway, their voices and steps muffled, as if the room itself possessed a dark power that sucked all life, sound, and energy out of anything that crossed into its territory.

  Destina turned from the window. Anxiety and worry carved her face, turning her soft features into tense, hard slabs of muscle and tissue.

  “I need to walk,” she said. “The wait is driving me loco.”

  “Can I come?” Spencer hopped down from Aya’s lap.

  “Sure.”

  He slid his tiny hand into Destina’s. “Pops will be okay.”

  “He had better be,” she muttered. “If he dies, I’ll kill him.”

  “If you see Nate wandering the halls, tell him I’m in here.” Aya smiled as she watched them walk away. But when they had gone, her lips slipped into a grimace, the effort of being brave was too much for her feeble strength.

  Alone in the room, the walls seemed to compress together at the precise moment they expanded outward, and gave the impression of a living, breathing entity quietly stalking her, waiting for the perfect moment to leap and devour her. Her palms turned clammy, sweaty, and her body felt feverish yet chilled. Nausea began to swirl in her stomach.

  On shaking legs, she rose and lurched toward the window, hoping the view of the outside would dispel her anxious reactions. The sill, cold to the touch, gave her a strange sense of grounding, as did the view of the afternoon sky that stretched out, expansive and endless.

  “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t make me lose him.” She whispered her prayer against the window pane; her breath left condensation on the glass.

  “Ms. Michaels?”

  She turned at the feminine voice. The doctor stood a few feet from her. “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Jang. Please, come and sit.”

  She followed the petite woman to the worn, periwinkle blue sofas. Aya searched her dark eyes, looking for any herald of bad tidings, but the doctor exuded confidence and comfort.

  “I have some good news and some great news.” Dr. Jang smoothed a wisp of white hair back.

  “We ran a variety of tests, from EKG to chest x-rays.”

  Her soft hand encircled Aya’s fingers. Strength radiated in her touch, and warmed the icy core that had settled in Aya’s stomach.

  “Your grandfather did have a heart attack, but—” The doctor’s grip tightened when Aya instinctively jerked away. “The majority of the damage is in a place we call No Man’s Land. It’s the muscle in between the chambers, and that’s very encouraging.”

  “It is?” Feeling like a child, lost and seeking comfort, she held onto Dr. Jang.

  “Very.”

  “Was that the great or the good news?”

  “That was the good stuff. The great news is that we’ve arranged to fly Mr. Michaels to Hou
ston, to the Texas Heart Institute. They’ve got one of the best facilities to treat cardiac patients.”

  The warmth in Aya fled, and bitter cold rushed in, making her insides tremble. “I don’t understand—you said it was minor.” The cost of transportation, accommodation, hospital treatments began to swirl, so fast they zipped by her in a blur of math and despair. Her mind raced to create a plan, decide if she or Destina should stay on the farm, or if she should close everything down, pull Spencer out of school, and have all of them go to Texas.

  “It is, but the treatment he can get in Texas far surpasses what we can do for him. Besides, Mr. St. John insisted on the best treatment and has made all the necessary arrangements.”

  “Mr. St. John?” The room began to sway and weave. “Who authorized you to call him—to discuss anything with him?” She ripped herself from the doctor’s grasp and launched to her feet.

  Dr. Jang looked at her in confusion. “No one called him. I was under the impression he was a close family friend—Mr. Michaels authorized him to deal with this.”

  “H-he what?” Strength left her limbs, and she collapsed back to the couch.

  They both turned as muffled footfalls grew louder and Nate stepped into the room.

  “There he is,” Dr. Jang said. “You can ask him yourself.”

  Time slowed. Breath stopped.

  The icy chill of revelation drenched her.

  “Mason St. John?” There was almost no sound in Aya’s question, only a mouthed, whispered formation of vowels and syllables in which the plea she wasn’t staring at the man who threatened her livelihood and lifestyle screamed and roared.

  With his gaze on hers, he nodded. The smooth gesture carried with it a sledgehammer that smashed every soft, warm memory Aya held. It broke apart, shattering like brittle glass, and blinding reality poured in, harsh, consuming.

  Vertigo hit. The room spun, whirled around in a nauseous tornado.

  “You lied to me.” The words cost all her energy, all her hope, and repaid her fears tenfold.

  His gaze flicked to the doctor. “Thank you, Dr. Jang. I’ll take it from here.”

  After the cardiologist left, Nate—Mason—strode into the room. “I never lied,” he said.

  “You did so!” She heard the high pitch of hysteria in her voice. “I asked you if you worked for Mason St. John and you said no.”

  He moved closer, larger and darker than she ever remembered. “You asked if I was a lackey. Obviously, I’m not.”

  “Semantics,” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Was this the big secret Pops knew?”

  He nodded, and she lost her breath.

  She bent forward, putting her head between her legs and gulping for air. Her panic surged and rocketed to the stratosphere. And then cold reality kicked in, jolted fear’s upswing and brought her tumbling back to hard facts.

  “You’ve won,” she said, feeling empty, brittle, and completely defeated. “You’re going to get to the farm.”

  His eyes had the animal, unfeeling look of a shark. “The month’s not up.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” She wanted to rage and hurl something, but the numbness prevented her. “Without you and Pops to help, I’m as good as chum in the water.”

  A flash of anger surged on his face, and made his eyes burn. “You always knew I wanted you to sell—I never lied about my intentions.”

  “No,” she said. And even the anaesthetized sensation couldn’t numb her as everything that was light and happy in her crumpled inside and desolation’s internal, salty flood poured down. “You never lied—I just saw what I wanted to see.” What a fool she’d been.

  Blind.

  Stupid.

  Love-sick.

  She wanted to sob and wail, to cry out her frustrations and her broken dream, but beyond the call of duty was the unshakable resolve he not see her emotional breakdown. Aya rose, repressed the tears, and shoved her shattered heart aside.

  She turned and faced him. “I will handle matters with Pops’ care,” she said. “Since we’ll be in Houston, I can sign the papers in your office. Just give me a few days to settle everything.” The tears rose, and though she kept them from falling, she could not keep them from filling her eyes. “Your plan was brilliant.” She held out her hand. “The better man won.”

  His gaze flicked to her hand, but he didn’t take it.

  “I guess that tells me everything I needed to know about last night.” The words were full of condemnation and shame.

  He flinched as though she’d hit him. “I never—”

  She raised her hand to stop him. “It’s fine, Mr. St. John. You tried to tell me, to keep me from making a mistake. I didn’t listen.” She gave him a humorless smile. “What is it they say? Do anything to keep the client happy? You certainly did all you could to keep me happy, didn’t you?”

  He back pedaled and the stark, raw look of pain in his eyes seared her. Despite the revelations, the truth of who he really was, her love for him couldn’t be undone in a moment. The knowledge she’d caused him pain, that she’d crossed a line and inflicted injury made her stomach roll.

  His eyes filled with regret and desolation, and she turned from him, unwilling and unable to believe his emotions were legitimate or specific to her.

  “I told you—”

  “What?” She swallowed the lump of pain rising in her throat. “I’d hate you?” She shook her head. “I don’t hate you. I hate myself.” The tears proved too many to be held at bay and trickled down her cheeks. She swiped them away. “But that’s a conversation for me and my psychiatrist. Right now, I have to tend to my grandfather. Please, excuse me.”

  She pushed past Nate—Mason—and kept her eyes from him, unable to bear looking at him and seeing any glint of triumph, or worse, pity. She moved into the hallway, and with swift steps, headed to her grandfather’s room.

  Outside his door, a sharp, searing pain tore through her—the origin psychic, the ramifications, physical. Her breath froze in her chest and the consequences of all her decisions slammed into her mind. Jagged slices ripped and shredded, full of condemnation and fatal mistakes. She stumbled to the empty gurney in the hallway, laying her hands on the thin mattress, trying to find strength and unearthing only disaster instead.

  Sobs choked her throat, too thick and viscous to bite or swallow. Her vision blurred with tears, and she raced to the nearest washroom where she collapsed on to the tile floor and wept.

  Under the anemic, waxen flickering of the fluorescent lights, she sobbed out her heartbreak, gave vent to her fears about Mason—if all his kindness had been true, and if his feelings for her had just been part of his bargaining process. When the tears stopped, though, the fears and uncertainties remained.

  Using the wall for support, she rose to her feet, rinsed the tears from her face, took a deep breath and left. Her steps took her in the direction of Pops’ room, though her pace rivalled that of a sloth. She used the halting tempo to sift through the myriad of questions in her mind, and find a possible solution.

  Aya shoved aside her heart, relegating it into a dark corner where it continued to break and shatter into a fine powder. Her priority was her grandfather. Pops had given Mason permission to arrange his move, but he’d also helped the man infiltrate their home. The threads of deceit spooled across the fabric of her consciousness.

  Before she had sifted through all the information and questions, she’d reached the door of her grandfather’s room. The desire to run, to hide from shame and humiliation, twisted her away, but she refused to play the coward or the sap. She gripped the doorknob and stepped in, before her feet’s desires caught up to her brain.

  Spencer sat by Pops’ feet, Destina stood by the heart monitor, and Nate—no, Mason—sat by the foot of the bed. He looked up as she came in, the skin on his face tightening into a taut mask as he rose and stepped toward her.

  “I need to talk to Pops. Please excuse us,” she said, moving away from
Mason.

  Her body, though, held the memory of his comfort and caress, and each step away from him felt as though someone tore a strip of flesh from her. She tried to sound nonchalant as she spoke, but an edge of hardness, a note of desperation crept into her voice, and everyone followed her orders without argument.

  “Don’t be mad at Mason.” Though tubes and needles lined his arms and machines beeped and hummed by his head, his voice sounded as strong as it always did.

  The use of Nate’s true name, spoken by her grandfather, shattered the fragile fortresses surrounding Aya’s composure. Her hands dropped to her side. “How could you have done this to me?” She gripped the railing and shook her head. Tears streamed down her face, burning tracks of salt and water.

  “I did it for your own good.”

  “You did not!” She pushed back from him. The sharp recollection of where she was, the condition of his health, speared her anger and hurt. Wiping the tears away, she moved to the sink that stood opposite the foot of the bed, ripped some tissues from the box, and scrubbed her face. When she turned, she realized the curtain divide had hidden the room’s other occupant from view.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope we’re not too loud.”

  “Not at all.” He beamed a smile and ran a hand through the thick, black and white curls of his beard. “This is better than cable. I heard Mason’s side, can’t wait to hear yours.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a private matter between my grandfather and myself.”

  He smiled, his chocolate brown skin folding into pleasant lines and in his raspy, deep voice, said, “Lady, I’m stuck in a nightgown that has no back, nurses are probing areas of my body that not even my sweet Doreen—God rest her soul—ever touched, and a patch of puke-green fabric separates my side of the room from a total stranger’s. If you’re looking for privacy, you came to the wrong place.”

  She sighed and glanced to her grandfather. The soulless, white light above the bed gave his face a pasty, tired look and cast disparaging shadows under his eyes. The washed-out blue nightgown highlighted the papery condition of his skin, and the places where the needles joined skin were beginning to take on a mottled, red appearance. He looked old, frail, and easily broken.