by Kadi Dillon
Lane watched her ride off and slipped his hands into his pockets. No, she hadn’t been avoiding him, really. She worked herself like a horse.
As he walked back to the house, he thought of the fear and panic he had enticed from her. Yes, she was too young to be jaded. But she was jaded, nonetheless.
He hadn’t been looking for them, but there they were—lying in the closet in the spare bedroom he occupied. Stacks of photo albums neatly rested in the corner of the closet. Without a moment’s hesitation or regards to Alex’s privacy, Lane picked up the top three and set them on the bed.
The first page of the top album had glitter and cut outs glued in between the clear protectors. It said MADE BY ALEX MORGAN and had the year the album was put together.
Lane smiled at her clever drawings of caricature cows and horses. He flipped the page to see an eight by ten inch print of Alex.
She would have been a teenager, he mused. Her eyes were the same blue. Big and alluring, but they weren’t bright. Her lips were curved in a smile that her eyes didn’t show. She was a skinny thing, he thought turning the page.
There were more pictures of Alex with her horses, none the same as were out in the corrals now. He wondered idly if one of them was the horse she’d called Faith.
The next few pages were of Alex with a group of girls her age. They each had an arm slung around the girl next to them and they were all wearing blue tie dye shirts with black bandannas. Along with the group picture, there were pictures of Alex and each one of the girls separately.
She was a cute kid, he thought as he skimmed more pages.
He thought about what Tucker Cole had said to him before leaving the house that morning. She’d never had it easy. Now, looking at Alex’s young and incredibly innocent blue eyes throughout her girlhood, he could see the shadows and the sadness lurking in them.
Lane wondered what type of man Joshua Morgan was. Alex never spoke of her father. She didn’t even blame him for the Morgan’s current predicament. It was like, for Alex, he never existed.
Then, a sick rage overwhelmed him as he thought of the way she had cringed away from him that morning. And, he thought ironically, every time he had touched her.
If the man responsible for putting that wild fear in her eyes was still alive, Lane would see to him. He wouldn’t have her being physically afraid of him. If Joshua Morgan laid a hand on his daughter while he was alive, Lane would simply have to be patient.
Patience, Lane mused as he put the scrapbooks back in the closet, was never his strong point. But he was willing to be patient with Alex. He wanted her, God knew. But he could be patient—for now.
Now was the time for answers. Lane journeyed downstairs and found Linda quietly sewing in the den.
“Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Morgan?” he asked as he strolled into the room.
“Thank you, no.” She continued to sew.
Lane wondered idly how Alex could be so bright and vivid with a mother so dull and lifeless. During the week he had been a guest at Morgan Ranch, they had exchanged only a handful of personal words. Everything else had been business. Now, Lane was going to get personal.
“I need to ask you some questions about Alex.” He took a seat on the couch.
“Fine.”
“What was her relationship like with her father?” Her face didn’t change. He saw her hand freeze and her fingers tighten on the needle before she plucked it through the material.
“What has Alex said about that?”
“Nothing.”
“Joshua was a good man, Mr. Tanner.” It wouldn’t be Lane now, he mused.
“Did he ever abuse Alex?”
Now she looked at him with fire spitting out of her eyes. “Why would you think that? What did she tell you?”
“Alex has told me nothing, Mrs. Tanner, but actions speak louder than words.” He leaned back in his seat and narrowed his gaze on hers. “Since Alex is going to be my wife, I have the right to know what’s gone on in her life.”
“She was nothing but a trouble maker,” Linda spat. “She caused her father more grief than joy. She was never satisfied!” The blanket and sewing instruments were thrown hastily onto the floor beside her. “He died because of the stress she caused him and she doesn’t even care.”
Lane raised a brow and watched Linda gather her rigid control once again. It amused him to see her composure slip.
The fact that she would speak so horribly about her own child when her husband was already dead told Lane more than her words and more than Alex’s actions could tell him—Joshua Morgan was a brute and Linda Morgan turned the other cheek.
“I’m sorry to have upset you.” Lane rose. “Tell me, where can I find Alex this time of day?”
Linda bent at the waist to retrieve her sewing tools and straightened her shoulders. “It’s Friday night,” she said primly. “Probably running with Sam Brewster.”
Chapter Seven
Lane paid off the cab and strolled past the Morgan’s farm truck, straight into Brewster’s Pub. The town of Cedar Grove was small enough that the cab driver knew where exactly he could find “Little Alex Morgan,” as the townspeople referred to her as.
The smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol filled his lungs upon entering. The bar was packed full of people. Some were dancing; some were sitting at the bar. Lane looked around the dim room for Alex, but he couldn’t spot her through the crowd.
As he worked his way through the throng of people, he was amused by some subtle and not so subtle invitations thrown his way by the women of Cedar Grove. The juke box was busy rattling out a George Strait hit.
His lips curved when he finally spotted Alex sitting at the bar. She was wearing a tiny pair of denim shorts and a black halter top that left her milky shoulders bare and tied around the neck. Her ebony hair was loose and straight as a pin. His mouth watered.
The woman beside her was a small thing as well, only inches taller than Alex. She had golden skin, unlike Alex’s cream complexion and she wore her pale blond hair in a short cap. Her almond shaped brown eyes spotted Lane as he approached and she nudged Alex and whispered something in her ear.
Alex nodded and turned with a smile on her face. Her gaze locked with Lane’s and in that same instant, her smile faded and her eyes widened.
“Alex.” He bent down and gave her a quick, firm kiss on the mouth before taking the seat next to her. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Alex clamped her mouth shut before it fell to the floor and stared at Lane. “I need another drink,” she muttered and waved at the bartender. Manners had her asking Lane if he wanted anything.
“Scotch, please” he told the bartender as he slipped a bill on the counter.
“Who’s your friend, Alex?” The bartender poured a margarita for Alex. His gray eyes sharpened as he studied Lane with more than mild interest.
“This is Lane.” Alex took her margarita and licked salt from her thumb. Lane’s stomach knotted. “Lane, this is my friend Sam.”
“Sam Brewster. You own this place?”
“Yeah.” Sam handed Lane the tumbler of scotch and hollered at the other bartender letting him know he was taking his break. He skirted around the bar then came up behind Alex, plucking the lime from her cup.
“Hey,” Alex protested as Sam took a bite. He then proceeded to shove it in her mouth while she laughed. She shuddered from the bite, then guzzled half her drink.
Lane fought against the unfamiliar reaction of jealousy. This was the second time in his life he had felt this particular emotion and both times it had been provoked by this woman. He set his glass down with a clink and signaled for another. He stopped the bartender half way when he noticed Alex’s face was flushed from the alcohol she had consumed.
He tossed back the rest of his scotch and scooted closer to Alex.
“Where are your keys?”
“Sam has them.”
Lane banked down on his temper. “I took a cab here so I’ll drive us home.” He spoke delib
erately to Sam.
“What do you mean us?” Sam asked looking from Alex to Lane.
“He’s staying at the ranch for a couple weeks as my mother’s guest,” Alex intercepted giving Lane a look that clearly read keep your mouth shut.
“I see.” Sam pulled her keys out of his pocket. “You know you’re more than welcome to stay with me, Alex.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Lane pocketed her keys and shot Alex a grin. “Can you hold your liquor? I don’t want to have to pull over every mile.”
Alex, who was oblivious to the tension flowing between the two men merely smiled at Lane. “I hold my liquor, Tanner.”
“Hi, I’m Lindsay.” The little blond squeezed her way in between Sam and Lane and offered Lane her hand. He shook it and smiled.
“Lane.”
“It’s great to meet you. Can I interest you in a dance?”
Lane looked at Alex who was busy picking at her lime, her brows drawn together in puzzlement and grinned. He took Lindsay’s hand and led her to the dance floor as Patsy Cline came on the jukebox.
“They look cute together,” Alex commented when she and Sam were alone. “Want to help me hook them up?”
Sam smiled. He had known Alex since they were children. He had nothing but affection for her, perhaps now more brotherly affection. They had shared so much in the past including a one night stand that had brought them both a beautiful daughter for three months.
They had grieved together when they lost her and in the seven years since Faith, they had shared a close bond. He recognized Alex’s discomfort the minute she spotted Lane in the bar. He felt both compelled and responsible to look out for her welfare.
“Alex, tell me what’s going on.”
Alex dropped her gaze then brought it back to Sam’s just as quickly.
“My mom’s selling the ranch.”
“What?”
“I know, I should have told you. But I kept thinking it was just a whim. I thought she would realize how ridiculous it is to sell. But she’s selling. And Lane’s buying it. The papers are in Tuck’s office and… and—”
He took her hand when her eyes filled and pulled her outside into the warm September night. He wrapped his arms around her and held on.
“It’s all right, Alex. Go ahead, tell me.”
She couldn’t tell him about the marriage proposal. She was too ashamed to admit that she was considering it. But with the ranch on the line, she had to consider all of her options.
Her mother was right, however. She was ruined and would never receive a better offer. Alex took a deep breath and willed the unshed tears away. Stronger now, she straightened and smiled at her best friend.
“It’s just that I’m so tired. I’ve worked so hard to turn everything around after—”
“I know you have.” Sam placed his hand on her cheek and Alex let the tears come. She didn’t weep, she couldn’t. But tears came silently and abundantly.
“Sam, I can’t leave Faith there.”
Sam went rigid. How in the hell hadn’t he thought of that? Images of the perfect little girl he watched come into the world swirled into his mind. Instead of the pain and longing this time, anger came.
“I’ll buy that acre from you right now,” he said between his teeth.
Alex shook her head. “You know my mother won’t sell to you. Sam, he’s going to turn it into some kind of amusement park. I’ve tried everything. I can’t stop it.”
“We’ll think of something,” he vowed and kissed her forehead absently. “My break’s over. You should go home and get some rest.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sam.”
Alex waited for the door to close and drown out the upbeat tune that blurted from the club speakers before she slumped back against the building.
Her head was pounding now from the margarita’s she had drunk. She never drank, she berated herself. Her father loved his liquor more than anything else and look where it had gotten him. She wasn’t her father, she told herself and jerked up right when the bar door opened and Lane stormed out. He looked murderous, she thought. Warmed by several margaritas, however, she just couldn’t be bothered to care.
Wordlessly, he walked up to her and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“What the hell happened?”
Alex wiped her face with the back of her hands and sighed. “Nothing. I just want to go home.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Sam? No, Sam would never hurt me.” Alex walked around him and climbed into the passenger seat without a backwards glance.
It was nearly midnight by the time Lane pulled the truck into the driveway. Alex was asleep in the passenger seat. Instead of waking her, Lane rounded the truck and cradled her in his arms.
Alex burrowed into his chest and made a sleepy sound that had Lane’s muscles tightening with desire. He carried her into the house and upstairs into her room.
With his elbow, he flicked on the light switch and then gently laid her on her bed. He carefully removed her boots and saw a pink and white patch quilt bunched up beside her head. Taking it, Lane spread it out over her.
He walked over to her window and pulled the curtains closed so that the morning sun wouldn’t wake her. Taking advantage of her unconscious state, Lane walked idly around her room.
It was simple, he mused, without any frills or femininity. Her walls were painted a clover green and framed photos of horses hung throughout the room.
A small black desk sat in the corner littered with papers. There were no personal pictures anywhere in her room just as he had noticed there were none throughout the house.
He wanted answers, he thought pacing. Things inside him were progressing much faster than he anticipated. She mattered too much not to know, he realized.
He wanted to shake her until she woke up, then shake her until she gave him the answers he wanted. But as any businessman knows, Lane knew how to bide his time. But time, Lane thought—pressing a kiss to Alex’s forehead—was running out.
Alex awoke with a jolt and shot up into a sitting position. Her skin was clammy as it always was after a nightmare. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head on them. Concentrating on breathing, she waited for the tremors to pass.
It was always the same, she thought. She could hear her father’s voice. Loud and deep, he would call her those filthy names. Then he would raise his hand, or his belt. Sometimes, he hit her with both. She would run, oh she would run as fast as she could. But in every door she would open, in every hall she would turn, he would be there waiting.
With one last shudder, Alex stood up from her bed and turned on the lamp. She was still in her clothes. Lane had taken her boots off, she realized with a smile.
She remembered how he carried her all the way from the truck when she had been drifting in and out of consciousness. She remembered feeling protected and taken care of for the first time by a man other than Sam.
She pinned her hair up and changed into a pair of flannel pants and a tank top, then slipped into her tennis shoes. With a backwards glance at the clock on her dresser, she knew she had about three hours before Jerk made his first call before the sun rose.
She grabbed her quilt, the one she had made for Faith years ago and walked to the barn.
She lit a lantern and dimmed the flame before climbing onto her cot and bundling Faith’s blanket in her arms. Gently, she ran her hand over the material. She hummed absently as she would to a child as she recalled the nights she had stayed awake while she was pregnant, sewing that quilt.
She remembered how her belly swelled and grew ripe with her child. How it felt to have her baby kick her from inside her womb. She remembered the worry she had over the prospect of labor and delivery. It turned out to be easy for her, she mused with a small smile. Ten hours with no complications was more than she could have hoped for at sixteen.
So long ago, Alex thought desolately. She was so young, so inexperienced. She had dreams and plans. Hopes and fears. With a sigh, A
lex dropped her head into the blanket and breathed in the familiar smell of jasmine soap.
She wondered longingly if she would ever have any more children. If she were to consider Lane’s business proposal for marriage, would he allow her to have a baby? Would she want to bring a child into a cold, loveless marriage?
As if the thought of him brought him to her, Alex jolted when the barn door opened and Lane stepped in. He wore the same clothes as he did to Brewster’s, she noticed. He must not have gone to sleep, and followed her out to the barn.
Alex stood up, gripping her quilt in her rigid fingers. It wasn’t fear. She told herself she wouldn’t be afraid of him. It was awareness, caution that had her backing up a step.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He closed the door with a thump, slid the lock into place, and walked slowly into the room. “I was going to ask you the same question. Are you intending to sleep out here?”
The way he worded the question and the tone of voice he used put her back up. “I sleep in here often, actually,” she told him defiantly.
A muscle worked in his jaw while his eyes seared into hers. She reminded him of the way she looked that morning when she’d learned of the marriage proposal. This time, however, she looked like a cat backed into a corner, ready to hiss and scratch him at any minute—not a tiger on the prowl.
Banking down on his own temper from the fact that he had just found out why he never saw her in the house, Lane closed the distance between them.
“Why do you sleep out here?”
She jerked a shoulder and fiddled with the straps on her tank top. “I always have.”
Deciding he liked the way he made her nervous, Lane touched a finger to the underside of her wrist where her pulse was scrambling. He hated that he had scared her the other day, but her nerves were a pleasant surprise. With the lightest touch, he trailed his finger down to her elbow then back up to link his hand with hers. With his free hand, he brought her chin up and held her there. Her eyes closed; her lips parted and waited for his.
