by Susan Fox
If she’d been tired or not in the mood, he didn’t care. He had said a good wife was always there for her husband. Sometimes he’d used rough sex to punish her. Other times he’d wanted make-up sex after he’d hurt her—and even if he was gentle, her body and emotions were so wounded that all she wanted was to be alone.
Since he’d died, she had owned her own body. Could she ever imagine sharing it with, opening it to, another man?
But she was getting ahead of herself. Ben had suggested she take things slow. There were lots of steps before that intimate, irrevocable deed. He’d said he’d like it if she tested her wings with him. Maybe that was something she could do.
He turned and a smile spread across his face, warming his eyes. “Hey, you. Good morning. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better. Thank you.” She squeezed her eyes shut against a surge of emotion. “Those words seem s-so inadequate.” Her voice quavered.
“Aw, Sally.” Distress shadowed his eyes. The poor guy must be afraid he was in for another shirt-soaking.
She sniffed, shook her head. “No, I’m fine, really. Happy, hopeful.” Hoping to make him smile, she said, “Did your floor survive my accident?”
And she won that grin again. “Good as new. It’s indestructible.”
That flashing smile, those dancing chestnut eyes . . . If she wanted to test her wings with Ben, how would she make the first move, to let him know she was interested?
She’d muse on that. “I’d better get to work.”
They fell into their normal morning pattern, but as she went through the familiar activities, she saw herself in a new light. Not only was she great with horses and a pretty fine teacher, she was a strong woman. She’d held Ryland Riding together by herself for three years.
In the late morning, she asked Ben, “Would you be okay holding down the fort for a couple of hours if I went into town?”
His brows rose, but he quickly responded, “You bet.”
Immediately, she had second thoughts. “Or did you want to take Chaunce for a ride?”
“I’d rather practice in the ring. Exercise my roping arm. I can do that and keep an eye on things. If anything important comes up, I’ll call your cell.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe I can run a load or two of laundry?”
“Of course. Help yourself.”
She went into the house and changed into her newest jeans, frowning at how shapeless they were. She picked the nicest of her old shirts, wishing the one Ben had given her wasn’t in the laundry basket. At least she could wear her good boots and brush her hair, though it too was a shapeless mess.
Pete had liked it long. One night, a few months after he died, she’d been brushing her hair and remembered how he’d sometimes pulled it so hard that tears sprang to her eyes. She’d taken scissors and hacked it mercilessly. The last time she’d had hair shorter than her shoulders, she’d been a kid. It surprised her to find it still had that girlish curl. Thank heavens it did, or her do-it-yourself cut would look appalling. She did love the practicality of it, though, and couldn’t imagine ever going back to long hair. Certainly not to please a man.
Grabbing her purse and keys, she went to see if her rarely used truck would start. Fortunately, it did. When she reached Caribou Crossing, she parked at the end of town and continued on foot, admiring the attractive storefronts of shops. How could she have lived twenty minutes from town for seven years and know almost nothing about this place?
But that was the past. She was a new woman. Back straight, chin up, she set about accomplishing her various tasks.
It took her a couple of hours and more than an ounce of courage, but she was smiling as she drove home. Window open, elbow resting on the sill, she enjoyed the breeze in her hair and remembered those days on the road, chasing the next rodeo. When the radio played the Waylon Jennings version of “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” she sang along.
Her thoughts turned to Ben. Was he that kind of cowboy, the kind who was always on the road, always alone? Not that it mattered to her, because she wasn’t aiming to be a serious girlfriend. But for Ben’s sake, she hoped that when he was ready to quit rodeo, he’d find a ranch or some other horsey place to call home. And, of course, a loving wife and two or three kids. He’d been such a natural, cuddling that sweet toddler, Nicki.
It had tugged at her heartstrings. For a moment, she’d imagined herself and Ben with a baby of their own. That was an absurd fantasy, but maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous to think that one day, she might find a man who was . . . well, who was a lot like Ben. Not only strong and capable, but kind, gentle, and supportive. A man she could trust. But, unlike Ben, a man who was available, not itching to return to a different life. Perhaps she might one day realize the dreams she thought she’d given up on, of a happy marriage and children.
As for right now, it gave her great pleasure to drive this country road and see the sign for Ryland Riding, to turn down the driveway and think that this piece of heaven was hers. Well, mostly the bank’s, but hers as long as she kept up with the mortgage payments. It also made her surprisingly excited to think of future trips into Caribou Crossing to spend social time with the friends she was making and to further explore all that the charming town had to offer.
Her little kids’ lesson would start in less than an hour, and as she drove into the barnyard, she saw Ben leading a pair of haltered horses in from the paddock.
He flashed a welcoming smile and she waved a hand as she drove to where she parked her truck. She hopped out and gathered her bags. Though she hadn’t eaten a proper lunch, she’d devoured a giant, gooey cinnamon bun from a lovely bakery.
When she stepped into the barn, Ben had one of the horses in a stall and the other in cross ties as he groomed it. He stopped work to eye her from head to toe with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “You went shopping. The results look mighty fine.”
“Thank you.” Armed with a new sense of herself, plus the knowledge that new clients meant a modest uptick in income, she’d had herself a little splurge.
At Days of Your, with the assistance of Cassidy’s friend Maribeth, she’d chosen two pairs of jeans, one plain and one a little fancier. Both were her size, not painted on but definitely not baggy. She’d purchased an embroidered snap-front shirt, two nice but less dressy shirts, and three tees that were more flattering than her loose, high-necked ones. She now wore the plain jeans and a pale blue tee, with a darker blue shirt over it.
He cocked his head. “Your hair . . . It’s the same but it’s different.”
“Brooke squeezed me in.” The stylist had trimmed split ends, evened everything out, and thinned Sally’s thick hair to give it more body and bounce. She had also shampooed and conditioned with products that smelled herbal and wonderful.
“I like it,” he said. “What else did you get up to in the big city?”
She handed him the liquor store bag.
He drew out the bottle of Jackpot Syrah, which had cost an unbelievable forty dollars. “Aw, Sally, you shouldn’t have done this.”
She screwed up her courage. “I thought that if I invited you over for dinner, you might bring it.”
A smile grew. “I just might. When did you have in mind?”
“Why not tonight?”
The smile widened. “Why not indeed?”
“It won’t be anything fancy,” she warned. “Do fajitas sound okay?”
“Delicious.”
He was so easy to please. Even in the beginning, when Pete was wooing her, he’d been picky and demanding. He’d said it was because they both deserved the best. For Sally, the best was a man who was happy with simple things.
Ben whistled as he dressed for dinner. Sally was a more free-spirited woman today. He didn’t fool himself that last night had banished all her Pete ghosts, but she’d turned a corner and was traveling a new path. Was there any chance that, a few hours from now, that path might lead to a good night kiss?
&nbs
p; He had to laugh at himself. In bars after rodeo performances, all he had to do was wear a trophy buckle and flash a smile if he wanted to hook up with a buckle bunny who’d ride him all night long. Now here he was, feeling like an adolescent at the prospect of winning a first kiss.
Truth was, the buckle bunny thing had worn thin a few years back. Sure, he liked sex, but when that’s all it was about, his own hand worked almost as well. He liked a woman he could talk to. One who was interested in him, Ben Traynor, not in collecting a notch on her tooled leather belt. Hell, he wanted to be respected in the morning—and he wanted to respect the gal in the bed, too.
Even if he didn’t get a kiss from Sally, he’d rather spend the evening talking to her than doing bedroom acrobatics with some anonymous female.
Not that he didn’t want that kiss.
He grabbed the bottle of wine and a corkscrew, and sauntered over to Sally’s house. Summer was heating up and he wore cargo shorts and sandals. During her lessons this afternoon, Sally had tossed her shirt over the fence, wearing just a short-sleeved tee. It was the first time he’d seen her bare arms. They were slim and toned, strong yet graceful, pale from not having seen the sun. That delicate skin made him think of baring the other covered-up parts of her body, and his own body stirred with arousal.
He forced his thoughts to something else: the e-mails and texts he’d answered before he left the trailer. His mom had wanted to know how he was feeling and to give him a little guilt for not spending his recovery time in Alberta. Dusty had reported on the weekend rodeo in Coronation, Alberta. He’d come third in tie-down roping. As for team roping, he said the wannabe heeler had potential, but Dusty doubted they’d be pulling in prize money anytime soon. He’d told the kid their partnership was temporary, a chance for him to gain experience.
Dusty hadn’t tried to give Ben any guilt, but he felt it anyhow. His injury was costing his partner prize money. He could easily push through the pain and get back in action. Yet harsh experience told him that going back too soon could cost him, and Dusty, big-time. Some years back, Ben had done that, and it had resulted in a more serious injury that made him lose the rest of the season and his chance at the Finals.
He had a physio appointment tomorrow. Maybe he’d be lucky and Monique would clear him for this weekend’s rodeo. If not, he was damned well going to be ready for the weekend after.
Walking past the vegetable garden, Ben scared off a rabbit. He wished Sally would let him put up a fence, but she said she wouldn’t have time to garden anyhow. It bugged him to think that, after he was gone, she’d go back to wearing herself out doing everything. The woman needed to hire an assistant.
Hmm. The idea of some guy living in the apartment in the barn, out here all alone with Sally . . . No, he wasn’t keen on that. Unless it was an older guy, a grandfatherly type. That’d be good. It’d be better still if Corrie came back.
He went up Sally’s back stairs and into the mudroom. The kitchen door was open, the radio playing Miranda Lambert. “Hey there,” he called.
“Hi, Ben.” Her voice floated out. “Come on in.”
Earlier today, he’d used the washer and dryer in the mudroom, but this was his first invitation to enter her house. Smiling, he kicked off his sandals and went inside. Sally was at the counter, slicing vegetables, and tossed him a smile over her shoulder.
“Want me to open the wine?” he asked.
“Sure. Oh, I don’t have a corkscrew.”
“Figured you wouldn’t, so I brought one along.”
“Thanks. There are glasses in that cupboard.” She gestured with her head, her fingers occupied with slicing peppers.
After getting down two juice glasses, he glanced around, smiling to see the wildflowers on the table. The kitchen was old-fashioned, the appliances in that seventies harvest gold. People scoffed at the color, but he found it cozier than white or stainless steel.
This room wasn’t exactly homey, though. It was functional, not unattractive, but the walls and ceiling could use a coat of paint in a lighter shade than the dull green, and the cracked lino needed replacing. More than that, the kitchen lacked personal touches. There were no photos stuck to the fridge, no artwork on the walls, no crocheted tea cozies or quirky salt and pepper shakers. It seemed as if Sally spent no more time in this room than she had to. Bad memories?
Tonight, it would be nice if they could create some pleasant ones.
He poured wine and put a glass beside her where she was now dicing tomatoes.
“You trust me with that?” she asked dryly.
He chuckled, pleased that she could joke about last night. “It’s your own glass.” He had a swallow of wine, hoping that tonight none ended up on the floor. “How can I help?”
She shot him a surprised glance. “It’s under control. Why don’t you sit outside with your wine and relax?”
“Because I’d rather be here helping you. Come on, make me feel useful.” He wasn’t the kind of guy who wanted to come home at the end of the day and have a meal put in front of him. He’d rather share the cooking—and Sally’s company.
“If you’re sure. You could grate some cheddar, and put the sour cream, guacamole, and salsa into bowls.” She told him where everything was, and he got to work. As he grated, she tossed strips of beef into a cast iron frying pan. They sizzled, giving off a tantalizing scent.
“You marinated the beef? What do you use?”
“Garlic, lime juice, chili flakes, cumin, salt, pepper. I haven’t made fajitas in a long time, so I hope they come out okay.”
“Smells terrific.”
“Good. Cassidy reminded me how much I enjoy Mexican food.”
Ben scooped grated cheese into a bowl. “Pete didn’t like it?”
“Lord, no. He was your classic Alberta meat and potatoes guy.”
He spooned the other condiments into little bowls as she’d asked, though it would have been way easier to just put the store containers on the table. “Want me to take these outside?”
“Yes, please, and the tomatoes.”
He did as she asked, and added the wildflower bouquet to the table.
She scooped the beef out of the pan and tossed in sliced onion and red and green pepper.
“Want me to get out the tortillas?” He’d seen the package in the fridge.
“Oh! I forgot.” She turned a startled, wary gaze on him. “I should have warmed them. I’ll put them in the microwave. It won’t be as good as the oven, but—”
“Sally, I don’t care if they’re warm.” He took out the package and opened it. “But if you want them heated, I’ll put them in the microwave. How close are we on the filling?”
“Less than a minute. I’ll just toss the beef back in and finish it off.”
He put a few tortillas into the microwave and set the heat for thirty seconds. While waiting, he topped up the wine in his juice glass and added a splash to her mostly untouched glass. The microwave dinged, so he put the warmed tortillas on a plate and took them and the glasses out to the deck. Sally followed, holding the cast-iron pan full of steaming filling, which she put on a hot plate. They sat down to eat.
“What a feast,” he said happily, spooning meat and vegetables onto a tortilla, adding a liberal sprinkling of condiments, and rolling the whole thing up.
She watched him take a bite, waiting until he said it was delicious before serving herself.
While they ate, he asked about her trip into Caribou Crossing. Then they discussed a new client who’d come by. Ben didn’t tell her about his mom’s nagging e-mail but did fill her in on Dusty’s news. He told her he’d be seeing Monique tomorrow, and would see when she thought he’d be fit to compete.
He’d been here only a week, yet it felt strange to think about going. About leaving Sally alone. “Any luck finding a new assistant?”
“No. I sure wish Corrie would come back.”
“Have you heard from her?” he asked as he assembled a second fajita.
She nodded. “I e-
mailed to ask how she was and to tell her about Moon Song. She replied and said she really misses this place. She never said exactly why she had to go. I sure hope it’s nothing too awful.” Sally picked up her glass and swirled the wine, staring into it.
Ben assumed she was reflecting about Corrie, so it was a surprise when she put the glass down and said, “I need to call my parents. It’s going to be hard.”
“Did you used to get along with them?”
“Sure. We were close. They supported me in pursuing rodeo as a career.”
“I’m lucky that way, too.” He considered. “Your parents loved you. I bet that hasn’t changed. They were hurt by being cut out of your life, but if you explain, they’ll understand.”
“I hope so. I sure owe them an apology. I am going to call, just as soon as I get up the nerve.” She lifted her glass again, and this time took a hearty swallow. “They were right, but I didn’t listen. Why didn’t I? I wasn’t some foolish teenager, trying to rebel against them. I was a grown-up. Twenty-five years old. I’d traveled on the rodeo circuit for years, looking after myself on the road. I shouldn’t have been so naïve.”
“First love?” he suggested.
“First serious one. But . . .” She scowled into her glass. “Why did Pete pick me? Did he really love me, or did he see something in me? Something that made him want to . . . tear me down, to deconstruct the woman I was and create a new one. A woman he’d bend to his will.” She gazed at Ben beseechingly. “What did he see in me that made him believe he’d be able to do that?”
“I sure didn’t see anything like that, Sally. Don’t blame yourself. He was twisted and he used what he called love to manipulate you.”
“Why did I let myself be manipulated? Why did I always believe him?” She shook her head. “Why did I let him set the rules and punish me for breaking them even when half the time I just knew he’d changed them? Why did I believe him when he said my parents and sister wanted nothing to do with me? Why did I believe him when he said he loved me and that I was nothing without him? Why didn’t I walk away?” She wrapped her arms around herself, this time not across her chest but lower, over her belly.
