To the One I Love: That Old Familiar FeelingAn Older ManCaught by a Cowboy

by Emilie Richards

  The certainty that had gripped her earlier suddenly felt as flimsy as floss. Sex. “The letter at Grammer’s. The one you—” She broke off. Devlin’s expression hadn’t changed. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  The floss snapped. Gravity inexorably overpowered weightless dreams. He hadn’t written the letter. Their lovemaking wasn’t a beginning. It was only a footnote on their limited time together. The pain of it was too deep for tears, yet they burned behind her eyes, anyway.

  She looked around, needing to do something, to keep moving before the hurt completely eroded her most basic abilities to function.

  She grabbed up the typewritten article. “I, um, have to get this f-faxed to the Courier.” She slid off the bed. The paper wrinkled as she pulled on her clothes without ever releasing it. She barely noticed that her clothes weren’t even fully dry from the drenching they’d gotten the day before.

  “Marti—”

  She hurried out of the room and ran down the stairs, blindly heading into Phillip Mason’s study. The fax machine sat on top of a cherry filing cabinet. But, of course, without any electrical power to it, it was as useful as a paperweight.

  She was an idiot, proving it over and over again.

  “Marti, what—”

  “Silly me.” She ducked beneath the arm that Devlin held out. “Forgot all about the power outage. I’ll have to drive it down there.”

  He caught her shoulders and dragged her to a halt. “Stop.” He stared into her face until she couldn’t help but look at him. “What letter?”

  She couldn’t hide from it. No matter what her instincts were, she couldn’t. “I should have known better. But you kept saying things…lines from it…and you were here. If you hadn’t shown up at Grammer’s house the day after the letter showed up, I’d have never thought—”

  He cupped his hand behind her head and kissed her.

  When he finally lifted his head, her tears overflowed.

  “There was a letter,” he said. “Delivered to your grandmother’s house. What did it say?”

  “It doesn’t matter what it said. I should have known you didn’t write it. You’re too straightforward. The letter was…romantic.”

  “What we did all last night wasn’t romantic for you?”

  It had been. Oh, it had been the stuff of dreams. But they’d been her dreams. Not his. Maybe she did matter to him, but she knew that would never be enough for her. She wanted it all with him.

  “The letter,” she said painfully, “was obviously written by a man who actually knows what to do with love when it finds him.” She was beyond humiliation. “I was foolish enough to think…hope…I was wrong. You were always clear about what you wanted from me. The only future we had together involved a mattress.”

  He swore beneath his breath. “That’s not—”

  She was beyond listening. “All I ever wanted to do was love you. You, Devlin. Your wry humor.” Her voice thickened. “Your kind heart. That unrelenting honesty and belief in justice that demands no less from the world. Not your reputation, not your contacts. Not what I could learn from you, or what I could get from you.”

  His eyes were dark. His expression closed.

  Her hurt multiplied. Not just for herself, but for him for not seeing that what was truly phenomenal between them wasn’t sex, but love.

  Her purse was still sitting on the chair in front of the desk. She grabbed it and stuffed the wrinkled paper inside. “I always thought you were a genius. A really smart man. But if you don’t recognize by now that nobody will ever love you the way I do, then maybe you’re not so smart, after all.”

  She walked out of the study. Devlin didn’t say a word, and she didn’t look back.

  Chapter 9

  The grass had recently been watered, Devlin noticed, as he walked across it from the winding drive toward his father’s grave. Even though there were parts of Tallahassee still cleaning up after the near-brush with Hurricane Leslie two days earlier, there were no visible signs of the storm here at the cemetery. Either it had completely missed the cemetery, or a clean-up crew had gone through already. Devlin was willing to bet on the latter.

  He pushed his hands in his pockets and wondered, again, what he was doing there. He was supposed to be heading to the airport. He had a flight scheduled for New York later that morning, with just enough time to meet his editor at Kennedy before heading out to London. His life was on track again.

  He’d hired Bobby Ray Caulfield, of all people, to finish disposing of Phillip’s estate. Any legal issues that arose could be handled through his editor.

  Then he’d spent the entire day yesterday at his laptop downloading research, writing outlines for stories he wanted to do. He hadn’t touched the manual typewriter, except to move it back to its place on the credenza.

  At least he was writing again.

  So what was he doing here at the cemetery?

  His boots dragged to a halt in the damp grass when he realized there was already someone sitting on the narrow stone bench near his father’s headstone. Not just someone. Tiffany. What the hell was she doing there? Her presence was as incongruous as his.

  She looked up and saw him, and he swallowed the caustic comment at the sight of her drawn features when he neared. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and if she wore any makeup, it had long been worn away.

  “The prodigal son,” she murmured and looked back at the headstone. “He always loved you best. You took your mother’s maiden name rather than be tied to Phillip, but he still loved you best.”

  Devlin doubted that. “It wasn’t supposed to be a competition.” The words surprised him. But even more surprising was the truth in them.

  Tiffany’s lips twisted. She looked at her hands. For the first time, he noticed that they looked her age. She wore only a gold wedding band. “Phillip never let me forget that you came first to him. Not the first time we were married. Nor the second.” She looked away. “I never got a chance to tell him I loved him.”

  Devlin had never understood the appeal between Phillip and Tiffany. His father had had other wives, too, though Devlin hadn’t known them since he’d been disowned by then. Yet, just as Marti had pointed out, Phillip had remarried Tiffany in the end.

  Marti. He shoved his hand through his hair.

  “I didn’t have a chance, either, Tiffany,” he said. “If Phillip had wanted us to have one, he’d have made it happen. I think we both know that.” And it was past time they admitted it.

  She slowly twisted her wedding band. “He wasn’t an easy man. But then, I wasn’t an easy woman.” She looked up at him, her lips twisting. “No pun intended.”

  Devlin shrugged, letting the moment for the cheap shot pass.

  She sighed and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to rain again.”

  “Probably.”

  She unfolded the newspaper she held. “I’ve been coming here to read him the headlines. Silly, isn’t it.” Her voice thickened.

  “Are you going to be all right?” There was a time when he’d have choked over the words. Now, they held only a bitter tang.

  “He didn’t leave me entirely destitute,” she said. “And, as second-rate as I was, I did work for a long time. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  She was just a person who’d let ambition cloud out everything else. It was the unmitigated truth, but Devlin didn’t voice it. What was the point? Tiffany was suffering enough.

  Marti’s words again. He shoved away the thought and looked at the woman who had been a major factor in his life whether she’d intended to be or not.

  She lifted the paper again. “It’s a good one today. Bedford Mills was finally arrested. Your father always said his resorts were a cover for something else. Turns out he was right. Take a look for yourself.”

  Devlin took the paper and rapidly scanned the article. Drug running, money laundering. It was all recounted. The Feds, when they finally arrested Mills, wanted an airtight case, and according to the paper, they’d—for onc
e—achieved their goal.

  Which meant that Marti’s article for the Colman Courier was trumped. There’d be no byline, because there’d be no point in printing a minor expose of the man hiding behind a consortium that was purchasing property on the key for the purpose of turning it into a singles’ resort. The wire services already had the real story, and it went way beyond charming little Colman Key. Marti had had only a hint of the iceberg.

  She’d be crushed.

  He handed the paper back to Tiffany. “Keep reading him the headlines,” he said.

  She blinked, and glanced away for a moment. Then took a breath and managed a faint smile. “I will.”

  He barely heard. He was striding back to his car. The bridge was up when he reached the crossing a few hours later, and he waited an interminable half hour for it to slowly, creakingly lower once the trio of sailboats that were passing through had crossed.

  There were several cars parked in front of Grammer’s house when he arrived. A Lamborghini was just pulling away. He thought he caught a glimpse of Deanna in the passenger seat as he maneuvered his rental car into the space the other vehicle had left. He looked at the house. At least there was no sale sign in the yard; probably a result of Marti and her sisters’ inventive methods in slowing down a possible sale.

  He hoped.

  If her grandmother’s house had sold, Marti would be even more devastated.

  He vaulted up the steps but stopped short when it was yanked open before he even had a chance to knock. Marti stood inside, poking her finger into the chest of a tall, gangly man. “I don’t give a damn that you’re in an awkward position, Steven,” she said. “You had plenty of opportunities to use my talents before you fired me.” Her gaze passed her former boss and fell on Devlin.

  Marti sucked in her breath, her heart climbing into her throat as she spotted Devlin.

  “Marti, darling, this is your chance.” Steven Potter was using his most wheedling tone. If she hadn’t been reeling from the sight of Devlin standing on Grammer’s porch behind Steven, she’d have thoroughly enjoyed the moment of her obnoxious former boss groveling to save his hide. “You’ll have a regular column—”

  “Monthly?”

  “—quarterly, to start.”

  “Goodbye, Steven.”

  “All right, monthly.”

  What was Devlin doing there? “I’d like to say I’m sorry, Steven, but I’d be lying. You fired me. I can’t help it if you’re in the hot seat now because of it.”

  “But—”

  “Goodbye, Steven. You should probably get across the bridge quickly. You never know when it’ll go out and you wouldn’t want to get stuck on Colman Key.”

  “But—”

  “The lady said goodbye, Potter.”

  Steven whirled around at the sound of Devlin’s voice. He looked rather green when he finally headed down the steps.

  Which left only Devlin and Marti.

  She wrapped her hand around the door handle, and hoped it didn’t show that she felt unsteady enough to dissolve right through the floorboards.

  “What was the weasel doing here?”

  She didn’t even have it in her to smile at Devlin’s unaffectionate nickname for her former boss. “Offering me my job back. A, um, a column, I mean. The article that got me fired got me hired again. Or would, if I agreed.” She sounded like an idiot. “I…well, you heard me.”

  “You’re not going back.”

  “No. And not just because Steven said he was in danger of losing his job if he didn’t produce me.”

  “You have your vindication, then.” His dimple deepened.

  She looked away. “I suppose.” She wished she were wearing something more adult than denim cutoffs and a red bikini top. It wasn’t even a nice bikini top. She’d found it stuffed in one of her drawers. She’d vaguely remembered it from her high school days. But it had suited her purpose of staying cool while she helped Grammer in the garden out back. She dragged at her thoughts, trying to focus.

  “Steven’s offer doesn’t matter, anyway. The Bedford Mills thing is toast, but the paper’s offered me a column, too. Sort of the young adult’s perspective on various issues. So it wasn’t a completely lost cause. It’s a small offer—the paper comes out only three days a week, but it’s a start. Ironic.” She managed to smile. “I’ve spent the past few months thinking I’d never be offered a job on my own merits, and now I’ve been offered two.”

  “It was only a matter of time, Marti.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I could have told you that a long time ago if I’d ever let myself notice.”

  She didn’t want to cry in front of him again. “What are you doing here, Devlin?”

  His amber eyes searched her face. “I saw the wire.”

  “Ah. Yes. I was scooped in a major way by the big boys.” She lifted her shoulder, grateful that she’d already had time to adjust to the shock she’d felt at learning about Bedford Mills’s fate. “Stuff happens. I’m glad I was headed the right direction with the article, even though I didn’t fully realize it. Makes me think my instincts aren’t completely off base. And it turned out okay in the end.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her throat ached. How many levels of a broken heart were there? “That’s why you came here. Because you felt sorry for me.”

  “I felt sorry for me.”

  She didn’t know what to make of that, but he’d lifted a hand. She watched him pull a square of paper from his pocket and unfold it. It looked like a letter.

  Her heart stuttered, then raced. “Devlin—”

  “I never knew what love was,” he said, his eyes focused on the paper.

  Marti froze.

  “Not until you offered it. And maybe that’s why it took me so long to recognize it. But I recognize it now.”

  Her hand slipped on the door handle. She renewed her grip. The door was the only thing holding her up.

  “I know you’re tired of hearing it, Marti, but you do have your entire life ahead of you.” His gaze took her in. All of her. From tumbled hair to outdated bikini top. “And I’m as selfish as I’ve always been, because I want you to spend it with me. I don’t even have a home because I’m on the road so much. I live out of hotels and suitcases, and ninety percent of the time when I’m on assignment, hotel is a grossly glorified term. It’s not much to offer, but it’s what I’ve got.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “Oh, Devlin.”

  “Let me finish.” His voice turned raw. He looked back at the paper he held. “I thought I could work you out of my head. Get my life back on track to what it was before we met. I didn’t realize that if I worked you out of my heart, there was no heart left in anything. And what I had before you was nothing I wanted to get back to. Not without you. Expecting the unexpected was all good and fine. But I never expected you. I never expected love.” He looked at her, his eyes searching. “Come with me.”

  She’d wanted to hear such words from him for so long. “And do what? Fetch your coffee?” She hated the hollow pit in her stomach that made her ask.

  “Do whatever you want. Write. Don’t write. But it’d be a shame if you didn’t, because you’re too good not to. Just don’t leave me again. I’ll teach you everything I know—as long as you’re willing to share your love with me in exchange. I can uncover facts, but you delve at the heart of it all like nobody I’ve ever known. You always have.”

  “So…I sleep with you, and you’ll help me be a better journalist?” She shuddered. Had he learned nothing?

  “No. You marry me and I’ll spend the rest of our lives together trying to be worthy of you. You’re not Tiffany and I’m not my father. I can finally see that. You’ll be a good journalist on your own…all you need is to believe in yourself and time to find your own groove. The truth is I need you a lot more than you need me. You’ve got job offers on the table, offers you deserve, and—”

  “Stop.” She swiped at the second tear, and the third. Then gave up and let them fall as hope edged out
despair.

  “I left it too late, didn’t I.” His voice turned flat. He took a step down from the porch. “Hurt you too many times.”

  She let go of the door and stepped toward him. Even standing on a lower step, he was taller. She reached out and laid her palm along the hard angle of his jaw.

  “Love can hurt,” she whispered. “But it can heal even more. And I do love you, Devlin Faulkner.” She swallowed, her throat going even tighter with emotion when she saw the wet gleam in his eyes.

  “You are insightful and impassioned, and your writing has wrought changes around the world. But I want you to understand one thing, and understand it well. Otherwise, I’ll spend the next fifty years or so beating it into your head, if I have to. I admire your career, and can only aspire to having one myself that is a fraction as meaningful.

  “But it is you—” she pressed her hand over his heart and felt the heady beat of it against her palm, “—the man that I love. It is the man whose ring I’ll wear, whose children I’ll bear. And I’d do that, whether we’re overseas, in New York, or Tallahassee, or Timbuktu. The only thing I want in exchange, is your love.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Never state in two words what can be stated in one. The advice from one of her favorite professors came to her. She smiled into his eyes, seeing more than she’d ever dreamed of seeing. “Yes.”

  His dimple deepened, his stark expression finally softening. He slid one arm around her waist and caught her fingers that splayed over his heart with his other hand. “Your whole life is ahead of you, Marti Colman, and I’ll love you every single day of it.”

  The paper he’d held drifted to the ground as his lips met hers. Marti didn’t even need to see the blank sheet to know that he hadn’t had to write down his love letter, at all.

  He’d only needed to finally read what was written on his heart.

  CAUGHT BY A COWBOY