“I’d rather you didn’t.” There was no hesitation, no offer to explain. There was just the slamming of a mental door with her on the outside.
Had she thought before that she couldn’t breathe? How wrong she had been, because it hadn’t been anything like this—there was a vacuum in her chest, a sucking emptiness that made her want to curl in on herself. Not because of the folder or even what it might mean, but because of the cold deadness in his expression, the sudden loss of the easy affection between them.
Oh, God. What was happening? Who was the man standing in the doorway? It looked like Ty, but it couldn’t be.
Except that it could. It was.
She stood, legs gone rubbery. “I should . . . I need to go.” Away from him, away from there.
Something flickered in his expression. “Ashley—”
“No, don’t. It’s okay. I’m fine.” But then she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the sudden chill, chafing the gooseflesh on her arms. “Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not fine, but it’s not your problem, just like whatever is in that folder is none of my business. You never promised me full disclosure.” He hadn’t promised her anything, really, except that he wouldn’t disappear on her the way Wylie had by walking out on his job at the ranch without warning. But while he might be physically present right now, he had disappeared nonetheless. “I’m going to go,” she said again, heart drumming miserably against her ribs. Please stop me. Please talk to me. Please help me understand what is going on here.
How had they gone from making love beside a waterfall to this?
He didn’t stop her, though. He shifted aside, so he was no longer blocking the door.
Vision blurring, not meeting his eyes, she hurried past him and down the stairs. The barn aisle seemed endless, like one of those dreams where she was in a long hallway and the door at the end kept getting farther and farther away as she ran. She passed Justice’s stall, saw Brutus’s zigzag blaze, Betty Crocker browsing on a thick pile of hay. Then she was through the doors and out into the night, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.
You’re freaking out. Overreacting. All he did was refuse to share something private. But the look on his face . . .
Bugsy was a welcome sight, so bright and foolish with his spring-loaded antennae and lash-fringed headlights. She got the door open, dropped into the driver’s seat, and closed the door, cocooning herself in the quiet space, the familiar smells. Then she sat there for a minute, figuring she should wait for the shakes to subside.
One minute stretched to more, at least according to the digital clock in the belly of the bobblehead troll mounted on the dashboard. At three minutes, her diaphragm loosened up and oxygen found its way back into her lungs. At five, her head cleared some, no longer replaying that cold, dark stare over and over again. At seven, she figured she was okay to drive. She turned the key, waited for the classic engine to catch.
There was a brisk knock on the glass beside her.
“Eep!” She jumped against her seat belt, adrenaline sizzling through her at the sight of a familiar silhouette. Her hand went to the stick shift and her foot hovered over the gas. She could drive away, run away, not look back. She rolled down the window instead. And even though it hurt, deep down inside, she met Ty’s cool stare.
Only it wasn’t cool anymore. His eyes were stormy in the darkness, his face raw. “Come inside,” he said, his voice as ragged as his expression. “Please.”
• • •
Ty hadn’t meant to go after her. He had told himself to let her go, to leave it alone—he already knew how this one ended. She wasn’t Brandi, it was true. But he was the same guy he’d been before. The situation was the same.
Except it wasn’t. With Brandi, he wouldn’t have had to fight the urge to yank open the car door, sweep her into his arms, and carry her upstairs. He wouldn’t have wanted to keep her trapped in his space until they worked things out. He wouldn’t have been holding his damn breath while he waited for Ashley’s answer.
Until, finally, she turned off the engine.
The silence that followed seemed very loud, broken only by the squeak of the hand crank as she rolled up her window. Then she swung open the door and climbed out of the spotted Bug without saying a word.
He didn’t carry her, didn’t touch her. He just led her upstairs and gestured for her to take the same place she had just been on the sofa. He sank down beside her, not so close that they were touching, but close enough so that when he flipped open the blue folder, she could see the picture that was engraved on his brain.
In it, his rawboned nine-year-old self glowered into the camera from beneath too-long bangs, in stark contrast to the blue-eyed, white-blond little girl he held in front of him. She looked like an angel; he looked like a prepubescent thug.
Ashley reached out, hovered her fingers over his face. “She’s your sister.”
“Was. Is. I don’t know anymore. I haven’t seen her since she was three years old. But I’ve been looking for her ever since I made my first fifty bucks putting bulls in the chute at that rodeo.”
20
His sister. Ashley wanted to touch the picture, but didn’t dare, wanted to ask what happened, but was afraid to hear the answer. More, she was ashamed. She had jumped hard and fast to the wrong conclusion when she should have known better. There was no way a man like him, coming from the background he’d come from, would abandon a child. She knew that. More, she knew Ty.
At least she used to think she did. Now she was realizing she had barely scratched the surface. She looked at the man beside her and saw a stranger. Worse, she saw the shadows.
“Priscilla.” He touched a finger to the very corner of the Polaroid. “We called her Scilla, though. Ma shortened it because she decided after it was too late that she didn’t like the name all that much.” His lips twisted in a smile that held zero humor. “That was Ma.”
Shame and all the rest gave way to an ache—for the boy in the picture, who looked so fierce and afraid; for the little girl, who was smiling bravely for the camera while clinging to her brother’s hand; for the man sitting beside her on the sturdy sofa, looking at the picture like he was losing his childhood all over again.
She wanted to touch him, but wasn’t sure she was ready to. So she studied the Polaroid instead. “Tell me about the picture.”
“It was at the group home, the day they took her away. I was nine. Scilla had just turned three. A caseworker snapped the picture—I don’t think she was happy about them splitting us up. I heard her arguing with someone about it. Didn’t change what happened, though.” His fingers hovered over the little girl’s smiling face. Retreated. “The lady gave it to me a couple of weeks later. She said she’d send one to Scilla, too, but I don’t know if she ever did.” His hand balled to a fist. “I promised I would protect her, that I would always be there for her.”
Oh, Ty. “What happened?”
“They told me she was adopted by a perfect little family. Husband, wife, golden retriever, little house in the suburbs, the whole fairy tale. It was what was best for her. That’s what they told me, what I told myself. But now, when I look for her . . . it’s like she never existed.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve done everything I can think of. Ads. Online posts.” He set aside the photo and flipped through a stack of photocopies and printouts. “When I had a little money from rodeoing I hired a guy, then another, but they didn’t find anything but dead ends. There was a fire at CPS, lots of records lost, so sorry, too bad. Until Mac came along.”
“Mac?”
“Ian Macaulay.” He shot her a sidelong look, almost a grin. “Actually, your brother introduced us, back at the wedding. Small world, and all that. Anyway, Mac finds things. Money. Stolen art. People. And I figured, what the hell? It had been a few years, and thanks to Higgs & Hicks, I could spare the cash. I hired him six months ago, told him to get in touch when he found s
omething. So far, there hasn’t been much. A couple of weeks ago, he said he might be on to something, had a lead in Rapid City. I haven’t heard from him since.” Expression going faraway, he touched his pocket, the one where he kept his phone, in a habitual gesture that suddenly made far more sense than it had.
“I . . . don’t know what to say.” He couldn’t have changed over the course of the past few minutes, could he? Because now when she looked at him, the shadows were pain, the chill a brittle layer of ice covering a huge well of resolve.
“Lots for you to take in.”
“Lots for you to go through.” But there was still a pang there, a twist of discomfort. “Why didn’t you mention her before?” What else aren’t you saying? This wasn’t about her, wasn’t about them. So why did it feel like there was a part of it that was?
“Habit.” He avoided her eyes when he said it, though. After a pause, he added, voice slow and low, “Fear. What if she’s not okay? What if she’s out on the streets, or worse? The statistics—”
She reached out to him and gripped his hand. How could she not? He was hurting, worried, carrying the burden all alone. “I’m sorry,” she said, though the words were entirely inadequate.
After a moment, Ty’s fingers twined with hers and squeezed.
“The system chews you up and spits you out,” he said. “Getting fostered is good; getting adopted is better . . . at least it’s supposed to be. Doesn’t always work that way—kids would get dumped back into the group home sometimes, and be glad to get away. They’d tell stories . . .” He cleared his throat. “Most sounded like lies. Not all of them, though. I just hope to hell she’s okay. If not . . .” His expression hardened. It didn’t go cool, though—it stayed hot and fierce, making him suddenly look very much like the boy in the picture. The one who had promised to protect his little sister, no matter what.
Ty to the rescue, she thought, chest tightening. “She got adopted by the perfect family, right? So she’s probably fine.”
“Maybe. I sure hope so.” But his bleak expression said that he’d be envisioning the worst until he had hard evidence that said otherwise. After a moment, he glanced over at her, expression shifting, darkening. “You thought I was looking for my daughter. What did you think, that I walked out, then got to having second thoughts years later?”
“I’m sorry.” Guilt stung anew. “I’d take it back if I could. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, and doesn’t fit with anything I know about you.”
“Then why say it?”
“I was . . .” Feeling scared, vulnerable, not nearly so in control as I want to be. Even now, she was teetering on the edge of the cliff with her bootheels hooked on a little ridge. She could stay there, should stay there. But she was suddenly so tired of keeping her balance, so moved by his story that she couldn’t hold back from saying, “What we have is important to me, Ty. It matters enough to worry me some days.” Most days. “So when I saw the folder and realized you were holding back, I immediately pegged you with the sin that would hurt the most.” She did her best to stifle the tears, but one broke free, tracked down her cheek.
His expression shifted instantly. “Ah, sweetheart. Come here.” He slipped an arm around her, lifted her onto his lap, and kissed her.
The feel of his lips on hers made her burn even as the pressure of his arms made her want to weep in earnest. It felt like it had been an age since the last time he’d held her. Or maybe it was that, deep down inside, she had been sure they were done, that she would never kiss him again.
She was kissing him, though. And she thought they were going to be okay. Better than okay, even.
He eased the kiss, tucked her head beneath his chin, and rocked them both for a moment, as if he was taking as much comfort as he was giving.
Into her hair, he said, “I’m sorry, too, Ash. I went dark on you, and that wasn’t cool—you weren’t doing anything wrong. I just . . . It happens like that sometimes. Instead of getting angry or upset or whatever, I just go blank, lock everything down. I always figured it was better than getting pissed—especially the way I used to do anger—but Brandi hated it. Things were falling apart long before she left, and I heard a whole lot about how I needed to share more, give her more. So there you were, asking me for more . . .” He eased away, tipped her chin up so their eyes met. “What we have here is important to me, too, Ashley. You’re important to me.”
His face was alive and alight, and the heat that radiated from his body into hers made her feel, for a second, like she was coasting in an updraft, her boots braced on nothing but air.
“I’m not staying, though.” His voice was tinged with regret. “I can’t promise you that.”
“I didn’t ask you to.” She lost some altitude, though, felt the heavy tug of gravity.
“I just wanted to make sure we were clear on that. If Mac finds Scilla—when he finds her . . .”
“I understand.” This was what put that faraway look in his eyes sometimes, what held him back. He didn’t want to make a new family. He wanted to save the old one. She got that, respected it. But, oh, how she wished she could have been the one to put that determined look in his eyes, the one that he was waiting for, searching for, fighting for.
“So . . . we’re okay?”
He was asking more than that, but it was already too late for her. She couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t deny herself the glide, even knowing that she would inevitably hit bottom. “We’re okay.”
His exhalation said without words everything that she was feeling. Easing her aside, he stood and held out a hand. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
Before, he had always caught her up, carried her, left her breathless. Now he waited until she placed her hand in his, then led her down the darkened hallway to the bedroom. There, he undressed her slowly, reverently, as if seeing each piece of her for the first time. Stood still while she did the same, feeling like she was undressing an intimate stranger, someone different from before.
They lay down together, but didn’t kiss, didn’t touch, just held each other in the darkness. Their breathing synchronized; her pulse thrummed in time with his. This, she thought. This was what she had needed, what she wasn’t yet ready to lose.
After a time—maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour—a lone wolf howled in the middle distance, maybe from up on the ridgeline. Maybe beyond it. The eerie sound raised the fine hairs on Ashley’s arms, yet tugged at something deep inside her, wild and primitive. She snuggled closer to Ty, smiling when his arm tightened around her.
As the night wore on, they kissed, dozed, stayed very close together, absorbing the sensation of skin on skin and the knowledge that they had weathered a very personal storm. Later—or was it earlier?—as a new day pinkened the horizon beyond the dark teeth of the distant mountains, he turned to her, kissed her softly, slowly, and then made love to her as if they had all the time in the world.
Which, for the moment, they did.
• • •
Over the next few days, Ashley put in crazy hours at the store, running two more crafting clinics and getting together with Kitty and her Kountry Kitsch for an impromptu sidewalk sale that pulled in some decent returns.
She made time for extracurricular fun, too. On Tuesday, the Girl Zone convened out at the Rope Burn to watch Ty play behind another of Jolly’s regulars. They whooped, hollered, and danced, and at the end of the night, when Ty pulled Ashley up onstage for a kiss, she got way too much satisfaction from the looks she earned from the crop-topped cowgirls who had been waiting around to see who the hunky guitarist would pick to go home with.
That would be me, thankyouverymuch.
On Wednesday, she drove out to Mustang Ridge to celebrate the official launch of the new petting zoo, which had Betty Crocker as its centerpiece, along with two crooked-legged goats, an elderly ewe, and a one-eared mini donkey, all rescues. There were cupcakes, too, and lots of l
ittle people scuttling around the enclosure, dribbling handfuls of grain and crawling all over Ty. He bore it with good humor and then invited Ashley back to his apartment to help him shower off the icing.
She was only too happy to oblige. Then, later, she talked him into showing her the online profiles he had posted on various Web sites geared to connecting adopted children with their birth relatives. The picture of Priscilla was heartbreaking, the write-up was terse and factual, and the post was too easily lost in the ocean of information.
So many pleas. Looking for my sister. Missing: my little girl. Have you seen my mom?
Ashley had to blink back tears. Then, having learned some tricks from Della when it came to searching out the coolest and quirkiest vintage pieces online, she made some suggestions for better headings and keywords, tentatively at first, and then with more assurance when he seemed appreciative of the help, grateful to be doing something other than waiting.
When they had submitted the last change, he turned to her and drew her in for a kiss. “Thanks, Ashley.” His voice was rough, but there was nothing cold in him now. “Thanks for pushing. For understanding.”
She cupped his stubbled jaw in her palm, let the kiss linger. Then she pulled away to say, “If things had happened a little differently—if Mom had gotten sick and Wyatt wasn’t around to help—the same thing could have happened to me.”
In fact, the realization dug so deep that she called home, just to wish her mom and Jack a safe trip to the Grand Canyon. Her mom’s pleasure had made her think she should do stuff like that more often. There had been a couple of jabs, of course—a suggestion that she close “her little store” for the weekend and come along, and a reminder that she wasn’t getting any younger when it came to finding a good man to take care of her—but she let it roll off, telling herself that her maternal unit meant well, in her own way.
Look at her, being all grown-up and stuff.
By Thursday, she was alternating between terror and euphoria, convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to pull off the intricate window display for the grand unveiling on Saturday morning, but equally convinced that, if she managed it, she would kick bakery butt. Recognizing the sensation from the last couple of days before the fashion show, she switched to decaf and practiced the grab-hair-and-scream maneuver at regular intervals. And what do you know? It helped.
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 22
