Love Somebody Like You

by Susan Fox

  This shirt was the correct size and it skimmed her breasts then narrowed at her waist. The open neck framed her horseshoe pendant. She rolled the cuffs a couple of times, baring her wrists and the bottom of her forearms. What she saw was an okay-looking woman in a nice, gently worn shirt. Not a seductress. “Stop overthinking,” she muttered.

  On the way out of the house, she collected three of this morning’s eggs from the fridge. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, so the temperature was pleasant. A warm, dusty scent lingered, a reminder of the day’s heat.

  Ben had parked his trailer on a flat patch of stubbly grass with the entrance facing the view. A portable barbecue rested on a crate, a tempting aroma drifting from under the closed lid. Barbecue sauce? Two folding chairs sat on either side of a card table. The table was bare but for a water glass filled with a vivid bunch of wildflowers.

  When Pete had brought her flowers, they were carnations or roses wrapped in plastic. Sally loved these wildflowers, so casual and outdoorsy.

  “Ben?” she called.

  “In here.” He came to the door.

  His hair was damp and tousled. He must have forgotten to comb it, but she liked it this way. He’d buttoned his blue short-sleeved shirt, and she tried to convince herself she was glad.

  She held up the small bowl of eggs. “I brought these for breakfast.” Quickly, she corrected herself. “I mean for your breakfast.”

  His lips twitched as he took the bowl. “Thanks. I’ll enjoy these. I’ll get you a drink.”

  Tonight it might be safer to avoid beer. “Water will be fine.”

  “Coming up.” He disappeared, and a few seconds later returned to hand her two glasses like the one that held the flowers, these full of cold water.

  She put them on the table and when she turned back to him, he was passing her two more water glasses half filled with what looked like red wine. “Ben, I—”

  “It’s called Jackpot Syrah. Taste it and see what you think.”

  Since he’d already poured it, it would be rude to say no. She took a sip. Back in the days when she drank alcohol, she’d mostly had beer, and sometimes a shot of tequila. Champagne for a really big celebration. She was no connoisseur of wine, but hmm . . . She sipped again. Was that a hint of cherry? “I don’t know those fancy words they use to describe wine, but it sure does taste nice. Kind of, uh, rich, if that makes sense.”

  He stepped outside, took the other glass, and tasted. “ ‘Rich’ sounds right to me. Think it’ll go okay with barbecued ribs?”

  “Mmm, I thought I smelled barbecue sauce. Yes, I’m sure it will.”

  Ben opened the barbecue to turn the ribs. “Almost done. I have potatoes in foil cooking too, and I pillaged your garden for salad veggies.”

  She sat on a folding chair. “I told you you’re welcome to anything from the garden. If you can get it before the deer and bunnies.”

  “You need a fence.”

  “I know. When Corrie planted the garden, we didn’t think about the hungry critters. She was embarrassed, since she’d worked in a garden center. But they don’t get a whole lot of deer roaming around Vancouver where the center was located.”

  “I could build you that fence.”

  Every time she turned around, the man was finding something nice to do for her. That habit was almost as disconcerting as his physical appeal. “That’s a kind offer. But even if I took you up on it, you’d be wasting your time. I’ll be too busy to garden after you’re gone.”

  “You need a new assistant.”

  “I know.” Glancing at his clean shirt, she said, “You can also help yourself to the washer and dryer in the mudroom. You must be running low on clean clothes.”

  “I am. Thanks, that’s great.”

  She gestured at the makeshift vase. “Where did you find the flowers? They’re so pretty.”

  “I drove through the foothills. Nice country up there. Hopped a fence and stole these. Didn’t figure anyone would notice. Don’t go telling anyone, okay?”

  “I can keep a secret.” The words slipped out teasingly, before she thought. They sent a dark echo through her mind. Oh yes, she had kept secrets. Bruises, cracked ribs, harsh words. The miscarriage Pete had caused when he punched and kicked her in the belly.

  “Sally? Are you okay?”

  She forced air into her lungs. “Fine. A little tired, I guess.”

  “Relax, drink some wine.”

  “Let me help with dinner.” She started to rise.

  “Sit. You’re my guest.”

  Slowly, she sank back. This was a first: being waited on by a man.

  Ben brought out a big bowl of salad, two plates, knives, forks. A roll of paper towels. Butter, in the wrapper. Salt and pepper shakers.

  Automatically, her mind tallied the mistakes: no place mats; no proper napkins; no butter dish, and the butter would start to melt. Any one of those things would have earned her a slap from Pete. She eyed the wildflowers, so casual and vivid. The wine, a gorgeous purplish red in the sunshine.

  Pete was wrong.

  Oh, maybe it was good, as a general rule, to take the care to set a nice table, to not waste butter, even to avoid alcohol. But not all the time. There was a lot to be said for a casual, picnic-style meal with a glass of wine.

  Pete had been wrong about her family, too. Maybe they had pried and offered unwanted advice, but they’d done it because they loved her.

  He’d been wrong to punch her when she confirmed she was pregnant. Wrong to burn her fingers when she forgot her engagement ring. Wrong about so many things.

  She felt as if blinders had fallen from her eyes and she could see her marriage clearly.

  What was wrong with me that I let it happen? And whatever that was, how do I make sure it never happens again?

  Ben had taken the plates to the barbecue and was dishing out foil-wrapped potatoes and ribs slathered with sauce. He put a plate in front of Sally. “Look okay?”

  He was waiting on her. Cooking for her. Caring about what she thought. He hadn’t tried to sweep her off her feet with a fancy restaurant meal, as Pete had done. He’d put this together himself and everything was a reflection of him. He wasn’t like Pete. She was sure—as sure as a woman whose judgment had failed her once could be—that Ben wouldn’t go from romantic flattery to the smash of a hand in an instant.

  “Sally?”

  She glanced down at the meaty, spicy ribs and giant potato, and then beamed up at him. “Everything’s perfect.” And she didn’t mean just the food; she meant the handsome, generous, considerate man, too. “Thank you, Ben.”

  “Taste it before you say that.”

  “I can tell by the smell that it’s delicious.” Gingerly, she unwrapped the hot potato, sliced it open, and added a dollop of butter, then salt and pepper.

  They both dished out salad, and ate hungrily. After a few bites, she shared some good news. “Can you believe, I’ve already had some e-mails and phone calls about lessons and boarding from people I met at the Wild Rose last night?”

  “Your friends are right—in a community like this it pays to mingle.” He studied her across the card table. “I’m surprised you and Pete didn’t do that.”

  She wouldn’t give Ben the old excuse about how she and Pete had wanted to be their own self-contained unit. Standing, she picked up the empty wineglasses. “Why don’t I get us some more wine?” She’d give Ben a refill and herself a splash more, and then she’d find a safe topic of conversation.

  Ben stretched back as much as the folding chair would allow. He hoped another glass of wine would help Sally share some of those secrets she seemed so determined to keep.

  A shattering crash came from inside the trailer, followed by, “Oh, no!”

  He leaped to his feet and dashed in. The wine bottle lay on the floor, red wine streaming over the dark fake-wood laminate. The two glasses had shattered and Sally flung herself down on the floor amid the spilled wine and shards of glass, grabbing at the wine bottle.

&
nbsp; “No!” he shouted. “Sally, no, stop!” He gripped her shoulders and hauled her to her feet, pulling her away from the mess.

  She jerked away and cringed back, eyes full of terror, raising her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she babbled. “The bottle slipped and I grabbed for it and knocked over the glasses. I’ll clean it up, let me clean it up!”

  Oh, shit. Now Ben was sure it was Pete who had abused her.

  Keeping his voice calm as he would with a terrified horse, he said, “Sally, it’s okay. I only grabbed you because I don’t want you getting cut by broken glass.” He stepped back.

  For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Was she in shock, so that his words hadn’t penetrated? Then her hands lowered slightly and she eyed him warily. “I’ll clean it up. I’ll buy new glasses and another bottle of wine. Let me fix this.”

  “It was an accident. Don’t worry about it. We can clean it up together, but we need to be careful of broken glass. I’ll get a broom and dust pan.”

  Her gaze was fixed on his face, anxious and disbelieving. As if she suspected a trap. “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not.” He tried a small joke. “It’s not worth crying over spilled wine.”

  She didn’t smile. Her taut muscles didn’t relax.

  “You don’t trust me,” he said. “You don’t believe what I’m saying, do you?”

  Slowly, she shook her head and whispered, “I want to.”

  He swallowed, aching for her and furious with the man who’d turned her into this fearful, cringing person. “I’m not him. Whoever did this to you, I’m not him. I’m not mad. I’m not going to hit you. You have nothing to fear from me.” God, he hated seeing her stricken expression. Softly, he asked, “Who was it? Was it Pete?”

  Tiny muscles in her face quivered.

  “Sally, you need to stop keeping secrets. They’re hurting you. Tell me. Let me help.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She choked back a sob.

  He took off the inhibiting sling and cautiously reached out to capture a tear that had overflowed. She tensed. He put his good arm around her and eased her stiff body closer to his own. “Let it go, Sally. Let go of the fear, the secrets. You’re safe with me.”

  “I don’t cry.” She spoke so low he could barely hear. “When I cried, he hit me.”

  It took all of Ben’s willpower to keep his body from clenching with anger. “Cry all you need to, sweetheart,” he whispered. Not that he liked to see a woman cry, but she had a lot of tears and pain bottled up that needed to come out before she could begin to heal. “I’m never going to hit you.”

  A shudder wrenched her body, as if something was letting go. Releasing, or maybe breaking. She made a choky, hiccupping sound. And then she clung to him, her arms tight around his back, her head on his chest, sobbing.

  “Let it out, Sally. Let it all out.” He wrapped his arms around her and stroked slow circles on her back.

  She cried for a long time as they stood in the hallway of his trailer. Wrenching, body-wracking sobs that made him wish Pete Ryland were still alive so Ben could show him what it felt like to be beaten and terrified. Then quieter, whimpering sobs, and eventually sniffles and shudders. She cried hard enough that his shirt was soaked, long enough that his shoulder ached from supporting her.

  Finally, she muttered against his chest, “I’m s-so em-barrassed.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, no. Don’t be embarrassed.” He bent his head and kissed the top of her head. The gesture was unthinking, but the softness of her curls against his lips made him realize it was the first time he’d kissed her. Although he hated the circumstances, he was glad she’d finally opened herself to trusting him. “You needed to cry.”

  She eased out of his arms and he let her go. Head down, she raised an arm and wiped the sleeve of her shirt, the one he’d given her and had delighted in seeing her wear, across her eyes and runny nose. Slowly, as if it took huge effort, she lifted her head and gazed at him. Her eyes, her nose, even her forehead, cheeks, and chin were blotchy. Her lips wobbled. “Did I need to b-break your glasses and spill your wine?”

  The fact that she felt comfortable enough to try for a joke made him smile and say gently, “I think you did. Or you’d have kept all the pain inside, eating away at you.” He touched her arm and she didn’t flinch. “Tell me what he did. You won’t be free until you do.”

  She did the so familiar thing of crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s humiliating.”

  “You think getting thrown off a bronc and busting your shoulder isn’t humiliating? Hell, Sally, shit happens; you deal with it; you move on. Shit happened to you and I need to know what it was so I can help you deal with it and move on.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why? It’s not your problem.”

  Because he cared about her. Maybe more than was sensible for a rodeo cowboy who had no plans for settling down. “I’m your friend,” he reminded her. “I want to see you confident and sassy again. Not afraid, not hiding out here like a hermit, but having a full life.” A life that could—should—include another husband one day, an established man who respected and loved her. Who gave her the kids Ben knew she yearned for.

  That thought hurt a little. But he wasn’t the guy for her, and he wanted Sally to be happy.

  Guessing she’d feel more at ease outside than in his cramped living quarters, he said, “Let’s go out and watch the sunset. Talk. Have a drink.” Teasingly, he said, “Happens that I’m out of wine. . . .”

  She gave him a small, rueful smile.

  “But I can offer you beer or water.”

  “I’ll take water.” She paused. The smile grew. “If you trust me with a glass.”

  He laughed. “I’ll take my chances. My stuff’s not exactly fine crystal.”

  “I’ll clean up the mess.”

  “No, I’ll do it later. You go on out. I’ll be right there.”

  She nodded and obeyed. He guessed she could use a couple of minutes by herself.

  Avoiding the spilled wine and broken glass, Ben got a beer from the fridge and ran a fresh glass of water for Sally. He also fetched a damp washcloth and a few tissues from the bathroom. When he went out, she was leaning back in a chair, her face tipped up to the evening sky and her eyes closed.

  Not opening her eyes, she said, “I love how the air smells here.” Now her puffy eyes opened and she gazed at him. “Despite everything, I like it better here than in Alberta. The scenery, the air, it speaks to me.”

  “It’s lovely country all right.”

  When he handed her the glass, she drank thirstily, almost draining it. He gave her the washcloth and tissues, and went back inside to refill the glass, taking the dirty plates with him. He put the sling on and returned. “Tell me about him,” he said quietly.

  She pressed her lips together. “You’ll find out who I really am. It’s not a pretty picture.”

  “I don’t care about pretty pictures.” Though he suspected that, for him, Sally would always be pretty, inside and out. “I care about you. Start at the beginning and tell me the story.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sally gazed at the handsome cowboy with his tear-soaked shirt. If she told Ben the truth, he’d think less of her. Or would he? Did it even matter? If he could help her makes sense of it all, wouldn’t that be a good thing?

  She wanted this man to think well of her. But it was probably too late for that anyhow. She’d wasted good wine, broken two glasses, and cried all over him. She must look like the total mess she truly was. He was a friend. Not a prospective boyfriend, despite his disconcerting appeal. If he’d felt attraction to her, her behavior tonight would have destroyed it.

  The sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange. The sight was beautiful, but her eyes ached and so she closed them. Hiding behind closed lids, not seeing Ben’s face, made it easier to talk. Words slipped out. “He swept me off my feet.”

  Behind her lids, she saw
the images. “It was romantic and exciting. Pete took me to fancy restaurants, he had a sports car, he flattered and courted me. He was only a year older, but he had a real job and he made good, steady money. He bought me dresses—not slutty ones, actually quite conservative—and he said a woman should look feminine, not always wear jeans and boots. He made me feel prettier and more feminine than I ever had.”

  Maybe there’d been warning signs, but she hadn’t recognized them. “It was like he put me on a pedestal, and yet”—as she realized now—“the me he put there was one he was creating. It wasn’t Sally Pantages, cowgirl and rodeo performer, daughter and sister, friend. It was his vision of the perfect Sally. His future wife. His idea of a perfect wife.”

  “I thought you were pretty perfect the way you were,” Ben murmured.

  “I was too—” She stopped. “After we were married, Pete started to criticize me. He said I was too loud. He said I was a tease who flaunted my body and led men on, especially when I drank. I was immature, and alcohol made me act like a fool.” Just like Toby, yelling at Katy last night. “After our wedding reception, he said he didn’t like the person I became when I drank, so for the sake of our marriage we would ban alcohol from the house.”

  Ben made a guttural noise in his throat. “The asshole. I never once saw you act like a fool. You laughed, you danced, you had fun. Damn it, Sally, there’s nothing wrong with any of that! I loved seeing you like that.”

  She shrugged. “I believed him. He told me I was naïve, that I didn’t understand men and how easy it was to mislead them, to seduce them. He said that if I loved him, my femininity and sexuality should be reserved for him. It seemed to make sense at the time.”

  “I buy in to fidelity, but that doesn’t mean you have to dress and act like a nun.”

  “Pete said that from the day he laid eyes on me, he didn’t have the slightest interest in another woman. He was pleasant to our clients, but he never flirted. He dressed plainly. All he expected of me was to behave the same way he did.” She opened her eyes, picked up the water glass and sipped, then closed her eyes again, still hanging on to the glass.