by Susan Fox
“Well . . . thank you.” She trailed behind him. Even the rare times she’d been sick—or so beaten up she couldn’t drag herself out of bed—the most Pete had done was heat a tin of soup. He didn’t think cooking was a man’s job, and he didn’t believe in malingering in bed. Now, for no reason at all, Ben had cooked her lunch.
They walked up to the deck. Ben put his plate on the table and sank into the same chair he’d used last night. No place mats, no napkins. Pete had said there was no excuse for not laying a proper table. Sally had gathered that his ideas of male and female roles had come from his parents, who’d died when he was in his late teens. Once, frustrated but trying to joke, she’d told Pete that he wanted the two of them to live in a fifties TV rerun. Once . . .
“You think you’re better than my mother?” Pete grabbed her shoulders. “You’re not fit to clean her floor. You hear me?” He shook her so hard she could almost hear her bones rattle.
“I hear you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
“Damn right, you were wrong. Seems like you’re wrong most of the time. You’re pathetic, that’s what you are.” He flung her aside, so hard she cracked her head against the kitchen table as she fell to the floor.
She cowered there, vision blurred and ears ringing. Praying he wouldn’t kick her.
And he didn’t, that time. He stared down at her. “Damn it, Sally. I love you. I deserve better from you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I love you too, Pete.” And she did, back then. He was her handsome, charming husband, the one who’d swept her off her feet and into a whole new life. The one who’d made her the center of his universe. Why was she so stupid as to get her back up over a few old-fashioned courtesies like setting a pretty table and having a meal ready on time? “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“What’s wrong? Did I mess up? Don’t you like onions?” Ben’s voice. Not Pete’s.
Sally realized she was staring down at the plate in her hand. Ben’s words sank in. He was worried that she might not like the meal he’d prepared for her? “I do. Sorry, I just, uh, thought of something I’d forgotten to do. Lunch looks great and I really appreciate your making it.” She put her plate on the table. “What would you like to drink? Water or milk? Or, uh, beer?”
“A glass of milk would be great. Thanks.”
She went inside to pour milk for him and water for herself. Out of habit, she started to gather up place mats and napkins. And then, deliberately, she put them back in the drawer.
When she returned, she noted that Ben had waited for her rather than started eating. Quickly, she sat down and picked up her fork. After the first mouthful, she said, “Delicious. Thank you.”
He swallowed a bite. “Ever get sick of eggs?”
“Not really. There are lots of things you can do with them.” Though mostly all she had time for was boiling, frying, or scrambling. The meal he’d prepared was a treat.
“D’you eat chicken?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.” Automatically, she lowered her voice. “I used to. I used to love fried chicken. I suppose it seems foolish to you, raising hens and not eating chicken.”
“More like softhearted.” He grinned over a heaping forkful of omelet. “Have to confess, I can’t imagine life without fried chicken.”
“Sshh,” she teased. “Don’t say that so loud. My ladies might hear.”
He laughed, and she smiled in response. Ben had a way about him. Somehow he got her to loosen up the way she hadn’t done since she got married. Probably because he was an old acquaintance, and there was no personal baggage between the two of them—like there was with the family and friends she’d left behind years ago.
Penny had told Ben that the family missed Sally, and that maybe enough time had gone by. Her sister had made a first move, asking Ben to look Sally up. Did Sally dare make the next one, and get in touch? It had been so long....
“What’s the story on Amanda?” Ben asked, his tone sympathetic and curious.
“You noticed her leg?” When he nodded, she went on. “Amanda used to be in one of my after-school classes. Then she was in a car accident and they had to amputate her leg below the knee. She’s learning how to use a prosthesis. Her parents kept her out of school, homeschooling her so she could attend all her rehab and therapy appointments and start adjusting, physically and mentally. She wanted to keep riding, so I did a bunch of online research and worked with her physiotherapist—that woman Monique Labelle who I mentioned earlier—to figure out the best way to help her.”
“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “That sure sucks. I could see she’s frustrated and in pain, but she seems like one gutsy girl.”
“She is. She won’t settle for anything less than living life the way she did before. In September she’ll go back to school, and she wants to re-join her riding class.” She gazed across at him. “She wants to learn barrel racing.”
He grinned. “Good for her. I like this kid.”
“Me, too. If I’d had—” She broke off. When she was with this man, things came out of her mouth that she never intended to say.
“If you’d had what? Kids?” Ben asked quietly.
She and Pete hadn’t discussed the subject of children until after they were married. She’d just assumed he wanted them as badly as she did. Instead, he said the two of them were a unit; they didn’t need anyone else intruding. How could he see their own child as an intrusion? “Yes,” she told Ben. “But I didn’t. So that’s that.” She hadn’t intended to open that conversational door and now she was shutting it firmly.
“I was surprised you didn’t have kids. I always figured you would.”
Closed door. Hadn’t he got the memo, or was he deliberately ignoring it? Even her closest—okay, her only—friends Dave and Cassidy respected her boundaries and didn’t pry into her personal life.
There were so many things she would never tell anyone. But right now she felt a strong need to share one small secret with an old friend, a man who would soon be gone from her life again. “I figured I would, too,” she said quietly. “But it just didn’t happen.”
“That’s too bad.” Ben had finished his omelet and gazed sympathetically at her.
Pete never wanted her to see a doctor, so they’d relied on condoms. She’d wanted children so badly and hoped he’d eventually change his mind. When their birth control failed and she became pregnant, she was ecstatic. Knowing that Pete was likely to be less enthusiastic, she’d kept her pregnancy a secret for as long as she could. Morning sickness gave her away. When she’d admitted the truth, he’d gone into a rage. He’d slapped her, punched her, kicked her. Kicked her repeatedly—in the belly. When she miscarried, alone in the bathroom sobbing her heart out, he wouldn’t take her to the hospital.
Sally swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Yeah. It is too bad.”
Pete had followed his normal pattern afterward: flowers, tears, a plea for forgiveness, and an apology couched in “you shouldn’t have made me do it” terms. As always, he’d told her he needed her and she needed him, and they didn’t need anyone else.
Her body had healed, but her soul never did. She’d realized how crazy it was to think of bringing an innocent child into Pete’s world.
Why had she stayed with him? What was wrong with her?
“You’re only what, thirty-two?” Ben said. “There’s plenty of time to have kids.”
She shook her head. “Not going to happen.”
“Sally, you’re young and healthy. I’m sorry about Pete, but you can’t mourn forever.”
Or at all. What she could do, and would likely do for the rest of her life, was mistrust men. Or, perhaps more accurately, mistrust her ability to choose a man who would be a good husband and a good father.
Take right now, for example. The expression in Ben’s dark-fringed chestnut eyes seemed so honest, so sympathetic. Affectionate, almost. A woman could get drawn in, could believe that this man really did care for her. And maybe he
even did. But in what way? The way that Dave felt for Cassidy, where he loved her to pieces and also respected her strength and independence? Or the way Pete had loved Sally, where she and their marriage became an obsession? Where he saw something in her, some flaw that told him he could take a champion barrel racer, deconstruct her, and turn her into his idea of—
“Shit,” Ben said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He reached over to rest his hand on the back of hers.
She flinched, then tried to conceal the movement by quickly rising and freeing her hand to pick up her empty plate. “I’m not upset.”
But her heart raced erratically. And not, she realized, just because strong hands could be dangerous but because, for a moment, that warm male flesh, the roughness of his calluses, had felt good. Because that long-forgotten sensual, feminine side of her wanted more.
She grabbed up his plate. “I’ll wash these and leave them on the doorstep of your rig. Then I have to bring in some horses.”
He stood and rotated his neck inside the confining collar of the sling. “I’d help, but I need to get going.”
Finally. She should have been relieved, but instead felt a twinge of disappointment. Though he’d thrown her off balance, she would actually miss him. “Sure. Of course.” Dishes in hand, she took a step away from the table. She was all set to wish him a safe trip, and good luck healing and making the Finals, when he spoke.
“Need anything in town? Groceries? I have a physio appointment in half an hour and—”
The plates almost slipped from her hands. “You what? You made an appointment with a physiotherapist in Caribou Crossing?”
“Monique Labelle.”
“But what’s the point, when you’re going back to Alberta?”
“What?” He gave a puzzled frown. “I’m staying here.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I don’t have time to discuss it. They squeezed me in and I don’t want to be late.” He turned on booted heel and strode away, leaving her scowling after him.
As she washed the dishes, she wondered why he was doing this. Was he trying to manipulate her? If so, what did he want from her? Or was it possible that Ben Traynor was the rare type of man like Dave Cousins who was simply kindhearted? Even if that were true, she couldn’t accept any more of his help.
Dave talked about her stubborn pride. He didn’t understand that Pete had whipped every ounce of pride out of her. What was crucial to Sally now was that she not depend on others.
“I’ll leave you!” she screamed at Pete, tears pouring down her face as she cradled her injured arm against her body.
“You can’t,” he said flatly. “You have no one but me. Nowhere to go.”
And it was true. She’d cut all ties with her family and old friends, and made no new friends. Pete handled everything: the business, their finances. He’d said those things were the man’s job and she’d let it happen. Let herself become dependent on him. So dependent that the only way she’d be free was if he died.
And she wished he would.
Sally shivered despite the warm water running over her hands. If you depended on someone, you gave them power over you.
She dried Ben’s plates and took them out to the trailer. His old Ram dually was gone.
Resisting the temptation to step into the trailer and explore, she put the plates down on a step, and then brought in the horses for the family trail ride. With ten minutes to spare, she checked e-mail. There were no students nor any boarding requests. Ryland Riding was hanging on by its fingernails. She had a website—marginal, but functional—and she’d placed ads in the local paper and online. What more could she do to generate business?
Giving in to temptation, she searched online for this year’s Canadian rodeo standings. Ben was running fourth in saddle bronc, and he and his partner Dusty were sixth in team roping. They were nicely positioned to make the CFR—if Ben could get back to competing soon. Out of curiosity, she checked for videos of Ben riding, and found several.
She was viewing the second, admiring his power and ease as he seemed to read the mind of a bronc called Hurricane Force, when a female voice called, “Sally?”
Oh my gosh, she’d forgotten all about the trail ride! “Coming!” She hurried out to greet Wenda and her two kids, and they all readied their horses and got going.
Sally rode one of the boarded horses, Moonshot. The black gelding’s owner was away for a couple of weeks and Sally had promised to ride the horse occasionally, to give him exercise and attention. He had a long, smooth stride, Wenda and her children were good company, and the scenery was, as always, a delight. Yet Sally’s mind kept returning to the videos. Ben had matured into one hell of a competitor, and he looked mighty fine on the back of a bucking bronc.
Of course, he looked mighty fine whatever he was doing....
After the ride, a couple of owners came, and then she taught a children’s class. Midway through the afternoon, Ben returned and calmly lent a hand. Sally realized that she was getting used to having him around.
It wasn’t until they’d turned out the last horses into the paddock that there was a spare moment to talk. She and Ben leaned side by side on the top fence rail, watching the horses graze. His right forearm rested on the rail, but his left arm hung down in the sling so his shoulder would heal correctly. “What did Monique say?” she asked.
“She gave me some light exercises. Said to do my normal leg and core exercises and stretches, but hold off on running for a couple more days.”
Into her head flashed an image of Ben in running shorts and a tank top, the thin garments plastered to his body with sweat. “You run?” Knowing her cheeks had flushed, she didn’t turn her head to look at him.
“And do weights, crunches, chin-ups, isometrics, stretches. As much as I can fit in when I’m traveling. Anyhow, she said the shoulder’s coming along fine.” He turned his head and she felt his gaze.
Determinedly, she stared out at the horses as Moonshot had himself a fine old roll and came up shaking off dust.
“See, you’ve got no reason to get rid of me,” Ben said. “The work’s not hurting me.”
Maybe not, but it was making her think about all manner of things that disconcerted her. Now she did turn toward him. “Ben, I won’t be beholden to you.” She forced herself to stare straight into his eyes, even though confronting a man pretty much terrified her.
“Jesus, Sally. You’d be giving me a place to park my trailer, look after my horse, and get some exercise, rather than spend the next couple days on the road. But it seems to me, it shouldn’t be about who’s beholden to who. Whom. Whatever. When friends help each other out, no one should be keeping score.”
“But I can handle things on my own. You have no idea how important that is to me.”
He gave a puzzled frown. “No, I guess I don’t. I mean, you’ve been handling things since long before I first met you. You made it to the top of the heap as a barrel racer. I figured you could do anything you set your mind to. And do it well.”
“You did?” He saw her that way, as strong and capable?
“And now I see what you’ve built here.” He gestured around.
“That was Pete,” she said automatically. Her husband had made it clear to her that she was nothing without him. He’d obtained the mortgage, persuading a business connection at a credit union to take a chance on a young couple, and he’d handled the finances. He had fixed up the old barn, built the indoor arena, and done the repairs and maintenance. All she’d done was occasionally provide a second pair of hands.
Pete could do everything, as he’d repeatedly pointed out. All she could do, aside from try to be a good wife, was ride and take care of horses. She hadn’t even known how to teach; she’d figured that out as she went along.
Ben said, “Maybe it was Pete who built some of it, but the core of the operation is horses, and they’re your expertise. He was never more than a weekend rider, right?”
“A weekend rider
who worked in construction as a site manager.” A rodeo fan who, as Pete had told her, lost his heart to her the first time he saw her ride.
Sally, girl, when I saw you in that silver shirt, atop your silver horse, you were like a bolt of lightning. And that long fiery hair of yours, flying out from under your brown hat, was a banner of flame. Blazing right into my heart. I knew I had to make you mine.
Oh yes, Pete had been poetic when he was courting her. And every now and then after that, too. Enough to keep her confused. To make her think that he really did love her, even though his way of expressing it—of reinforcing that she was his after their marriage—was as often through high expectations, demeaning comments, and hard fists as through flattery and flowers.
“I’d bet,” Ben went on, “that you’ve always been the heart and soul of Ryland Riding. Not only that, but for the past three years you’ve run the whole show yourself.”
She’d taught herself the bookkeeping program, learned about the relevant laws and regulations, and figured out how to do the taxes. She did most of the maintenance work herself, grateful for what she’d learned by assisting Pete.
He’d always said that the two of them, together, ought to be able to do anything. They didn’t need anyone interfering in their business. Driving a wedge between them. Not her family; not the residents of Caribou Crossing. He had staked a claim on her, built a fence around her, and wouldn’t let anyone near. What was wrong with her that she had let him do it?
Pete would be so pissed off to see her here leaning side by side against the fence with Ben, their elbows almost touching. For her, it felt surprisingly natural. Surprisingly right.
And that kind of thinking was purely dangerous. Abruptly, she pushed away from the fence. “I’m going to check on Sunshine Song, the pregnant mare.”
Sally hadn’t told him not to come along, so Ben followed slowly, thinking about the thin lines that had creased her forehead. It seemed that something would trigger a memory, and she’d go off inside her head somewhere. Somewhere that made her unhappy.
