by Angel Smits
But if she hadn’t come out here, she’d have missed out on the laughter and the fun. And this strange sense of belonging that had settled around her.
Last night, Wyatt had made such sweet love to her. She wanted—desperately wanted—more.
But the past had too strong a hold on her. The panic attack she was fighting off told her she was too messed up.
If things progressed between them, would she be able to live with the anxiety and pain? Would he?
Caretaker. That word came back to her. It was who he was. He’d want answers and he’d do his damnedest to fix it—fix her.
But he couldn’t—could he?
When he held her, when the house buffered her, she felt safe and at home. But the ranch was more than Wyatt and a house. It was animals, people and constant reminders.
She wanted more than that. She wanted to be part of his life. All of it. But those reminders too often triggered the anxiety attacks. That wasn’t fair to him.
Dare she try? The very idea scared her to death.
The sounds of the horses drew her attention again, and for the first time, she felt the yearning stir inside her. Carefully, Emily crawled out of bed. Maybe from here she could peer at the horses. They were far enough away...and Wyatt was here. The longing was too strong to resist. She swallowed and moved ever so slowly.
The T-shirt she’d worn last night was nowhere to be found, but Wyatt’s shirt was draped over the end of the bed. She grabbed it and hastily pulled it on.
Only part of the corral was visible through the trees’ thick branches. But she saw movement and flashes of white here and there through the leaves.
She glanced over her shoulder at Wyatt again. She was a fool to think anything could come of this. He lived here—she looked back at the corral just as Prism stepped into the open—with them.
The only way she could look forward was if she dealt with her past. Trepidation and anticipation warred within her. She hadn’t a clue where to begin.
* * *
WYATT STOPPED AT the screen door. A coffee cup in each hand, he looked down the long length of the veranda. There in the early-morning light, curled up on the porch swing, a blanket from his bed wrapped around her, sat Emily, staring across the yard and south meadow.
He’d awoken to find her no longer beside him, but the fact that her clothes remained scattered around the room, where they’d landed last night, told him she hadn’t gone far.
Still, he was surprised to see her out here, her eyes glued to Prism as he pranced and played.
He leaned on the doorjamb, just watching at first. She had that scared-doe look about her again, and the last thing he wanted was to scare her away.
“It was all misty on that ridge until the sun burned it off,” she said softly.
So she was aware of him. She seemed disappointed that the mist was gone.
“It does that this time of year.” Slowly, Wyatt pushed through the screen, and when he reached her, offered her one of the cups. He wasn’t a tea drinker, so he hoped he’d made it right. The strong scent of his coffee wafted around them, right and warm.
She didn’t grimace at the first swallow—good sign. She looked beautiful this morning. Her hair was still mussed from his hands, and was that his shirt collar peeking out of the blanket? He swallowed, knowing he’d enjoy taking it off her. The sunrise-tinged light painted itself all over her. Just like he wanted to do.
His heart picked up the pace as he breathed in her early-morning scent. “When was the last time you rode?”
Blushing, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “That’s an interesting morning-after line.”
He smiled back, thankful the spell that had held her was broken.
She shook her head and laughed. She leaned back and sipped the tea. “I’d forgotten how quiet the country is—no sirens or blaring engines.” She looked past him, her eyes glazing over again. “I could hear the horses.”
As if on cue, a horse’s whinny cut through the cool morning air. A playful sound meant to wake the world, yet somehow brought on god-awful pain in Emily’s eyes.
He leaned down and placed a kiss on top of her head before sitting beside her. Though she curled her legs up and made room for him, her fingers tightened around her cup.
“You should have woken me,” he said.
“Why?”
He looked away and she chuckled. She playfully kicked at him with her bare feet, setting the swing in motion again. He nearly spilled his coffee and this time, she laughed outright. Wyatt didn’t think he’d ever seen her so carefree. These glimpses of her sense of humor intrigued him.
The waking-up sounds of the ranch settled around them and they drank in silence for a long time. Half a dozen conversation starters ran through his head, but there was only one thing he wanted to talk about. He just didn’t know how to ask.
“I want you to know that you don’t have to worry, Wyatt.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “You’re doing a great job with Tyler. He’s happy and healthy here. This—” she waved her hand in the air between them “—doesn’t affect my decision to close the file.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what’s on your mind?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set his cup on the railing, reached over and plucked her cup from her hands, setting it beside his, and took her hand. “What’s next for us? Without the court-ordered visits, you don’t have to come out here every week.”
She curled her other hand tight into the soft blanket. “Do...” She swallowed. “Do you want me to visit?” Her dread was thick in the air.
Before he spoke, Wyatt reached over and dragged her across his lap. “After last night, you have to ask?” With his arms around her, he could tell the only thing she wore was his shirt—and the blanket. He swallowed hard.
And then there weren’t any other sounds in the morning, as he slowly kissed her.
* * *
“I—I NEED TO go home,” Emily whispered against Wyatt’s lips.
He didn’t say a thing, just pulled back and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “You move even an inch and everyone will see more than you want them to.”
Her whole body blushed. Ranch hands and little kids were notorious for getting up early. Surreptitiously, she glanced around, hoping there wasn’t anyone watching. It wasn’t as if Wyatt hadn’t seen her...but she’d had the shadows to wear last night.
She felt the blanket slip and the slight morning breeze stole in, whispering over her skin. His palm was hot against her back. Gently he urged her to him. Looking up, she saw her indecision reflected in his eyes. It almost hid his desire.
“Don’t go, Emily,” he whispered. She heard him this time, loud and clear, and saw his lips moving. Closer. Caressing the softly spoken words just as they had kissed her lips, her body.
She told herself to pull away. “I can’t stay here. It’s... It’s...” How could she tell him it was too painful to be here when it wasn’t his arms or touch that hurt her? She couldn’t, wouldn’t burden him with her pain.
It was her pain, damn it. She had to figure it out before she let this go any further.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew herself well enough to know that she desperately wanted a hero, a man to come into her life and fix everything.
But this was life, not a fairy tale. There would be no knight riding into her life bringing all the privileges of contentment with him. Even if he did own the requisite white horse.
She stood, but found he’d wrapped the blanket around his powerful fist. Shocked, she glared at him. “Let me go, Wyatt.”
“Not yet.” The smile was gone. The resolve in his eyes caused her heart to race, and surprisingly, not in fear.
She’d never liked forceful men. Force reminded her too much of the
jerk she’d called stepfather.
But this was the kind of strength and power that encompassed, not engulfed.
“What are you afraid of?” he demanded.
“It’s not you—”
“I know that. But after what we shared last night, I deserve your honesty.”
His offer, given in words, with his protective instincts firmly in place, was nearly irresistible. She knew she could lean on him, trust him. So why was she so hesitant? Why did the very thought send a cold shiver through her?
Because all it took was one mistake and he’d see her faults, her failures. Her pain.
And then would he look at her differently? Would he grow weary of her? She couldn’t bear that. He mattered too much. She’d stayed last night because... Her thoughts stumbled, and yanking the blanket from his grasp, winding it around her own hand, she hurried inside and up the stairs.
She didn’t look back at him. She didn’t dare. He might see her heart. Dread rippled through her, and she hastily gathered her clothes from his room before stepping into the bathroom.
She had to go. Needed to return to the way things had been before she’d fallen in love with him. Emily froze. Love? Did she even know how to do that? Her heart pounding, she quickened her pace.
She dressed and pulled the bathroom door open to find him leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at her. She’d hurt him.
He didn’t speak—which she was thankful for. She didn’t think she’d be able to resist if he pushed her up against that wall again. If he touched her... Kissed her...
She also knew that if she left now, like this, she’d forever damage what they’d created. She couldn’t hurt him anymore when he’d given her so much. He was right. She at least owed him honesty.
“I’ll try to explain,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the open bedroom door to the jumbled covers on his bed. “But not here.”
She headed down the stairs.
* * *
WYATT WASN’T LETTING her leave. She was right about not having the conversation in his bedroom—he knew there would be no talking done. But she might never come back if he let her go.
Breakfast seemed like the safest suggestion. He was pleasantly surprised when she agreed to stay.
“You’ve asked about Mom’s arm.” She jumped right in, which told Wyatt how much she didn’t want to do this.
He almost stopped her, but decided it was best if she set the pace.
“And I told you about Sugar dying.” She stirred her tea for the third time, though she hadn’t touched the food he’d set in front of her.
“My stepfather, Earl, was abusive. He often hit Mom. The time she hurt her arm... Mom was teaching me how to make pumpkin pie. Like Grandma’s.” Emily’s voice was soft and singsongy, like a little girl. It was as if she simply wanted to recite it. Get it over with.
“How old were you?” he whispered.
“Thirteen.”
The silence stretched again. He waited.
“We were almost done when Earl came home. He’d been fired. Again. Mom was putting the pie in the oven when he came in.” Her voice grew weak. “He startled her and she spilled it on the oven door. To this day I can’t bear the smell of pumpkin pie.”
She shuddered, her eyes distant.
Gently, Wyatt placed a hand on her knee. She was trembling. Rather than push his hand away, she reached for him and curled her shaking fingers around his hand as if grasping a lifeline.
“He pushed her.” Tears cloaked Emily’s voice. “I can still hear her screaming when she hit that hot door. The pain was a living thing in her voice.”
“The pie at the coffee shop. That’s what upset you that day?”
She nodded.
“Did he hit you?” The anger at even the possibility had Wyatt seeing red. He clenched his jaw to keep from fisting his hand around hers.
She shook her head. “Not often. Mom usually stepped in and stopped him.”
She didn’t have to elaborate. He could guess that Helen had taken the blows for her.
“After a while, he realized there was a better way to hurt me.” Her voice was barely a whisper now and her gaze turned toward the barn where one of the horses neighed.
“My horse, Sugar.” Even she heard the wistfulness in her voice. “My dad bought him for me just before he died.” She didn’t speak for a long time and Wyatt waited. “Earl hurt Sugar instead of me.”
“Emily, I’m sorry.”
Almost as if he’d never spoken, she went on. “When I was about fifteen, Earl came home one night. Drunk again. He headed to the barn and I noticed a horse trailer hitched to the back of his truck. I ran out into the rain to stop him. He said he’d sold Sugar.”
Part of Wyatt thought that was probably a good thing, at least for the horse. Emily’s anguish told him it was horrible for her.
“He picked up a pitchfork... Oh, Sugar.” Tears streamed down her face. “I let him go. I made that poor, frightened horse run out into the rain, into the desert.”
Wyatt pulled her into his arms and held tight. Every nerve in his body ached to shush her, to tell her he didn’t need to know any more. But he couldn’t leave her to face the memories alone.
“There was blood all over Sugar’s coat. I saw it in the rain. That bastard cut him at least three times.”
How many times over the years had she relived this memory? Once was too much.
“I never saw Sugar again.” She hiccuped. “I’m sure he died out in the desert, all alone, in pain.”
And then she cried. Wyatt let her. Let her tears fall all over his chest. He ignored all the thoughts and questions in his mind. Finally, when her tears were spent, he took her upstairs again. This time to sleep.
* * *
NORMALLY ON SATURDAY, Emily spent the morning at her office before visiting her mother in the afternoon. Instead, yesterday she’d slept most of the day away—in Wyatt’s bed. He hadn’t pushed her to talk anymore, and she still felt the strength of his arms when he’d let her cry. She didn’t even want to know how he’d explained her presence to everyone. Thankfully, Tyler had been so excited to spend the day with Chet in the barn, he hadn’t commented.
“Mom?” Emily called from the doorway Sunday afternoon.
“Yes?” Helen sat unmoving in the big old wing-backed chair. Mom seemed to be in that chair a lot these days, especially late in the day, like now.
Emily slowly walked into her mother’s room, not quite sure of the reception she’d receive. She brought with her the photo frame, cleaned and polished, with a color copy of Dad’s old picture. The staff had told her not to bring the original old photo—it was back at her townhouse, safely tucked away. This one looked nearly as good. She hoped Mom couldn’t tell the difference.
Helen looked up at her, not saying a word as Emily settled in the facing chair. “How are you today, Mom?”
“What’s that?” Helen’s voice was soft and apprehensive. “I didn’t ask for anything.”
Emily frowned, half-afraid to show Mom the photo. But the last time she’d been here, Helen had talked about Dad and she’d liked the idea of having his picture. Had her emotions changed? Maybe the picture would help.
“I brought you a present.”
“It doesn’t look like a present. Presents are pretty.”
Emily had to agree, the brown paper wrapping wasn’t exactly pretty. “I think you’ll like what’s inside.” She extended the package to Helen with trembling fingers.
Helen grabbed it, and Emily wondered when her mother’s hands had gotten so thin. All of her was thin, she realized. Emily’s eyes misted. She missed her mother’s strong, warm hands. The ones that had bandaged scraped knees, wiped pain-filled tears—and had fought off Earl’s blows.
These clawlike hands ripped the paper, the sound loud in the tiny room. Helen tossed the sheet of paper onto the floor as if it would fade away all by itself. And stared. Her eyes wide, her fingers curled around the frame, her knuckles white.
“It’s Dad, Mom,” Emily whispered.
Helen looked at Emily then, a deep frown on her brow. For the longest time, that stare bore through Emily. She swallowed the hurt that bubbled up from somewhere. From the past? Was this Mom?
The loud crash startled Emily as Helen dropped the picture. Emily shot to her feet. Helen was standing, too, and there they were. Face-to-face.
“No,” Helen mumbled. “No,” she said louder. She started to pace, the pieces of the broken frame crunching under her feet. “No!” she screamed.
At a loss, Emily was saved by Rose appearing in the doorway.
The aide breathed a sigh, her hand on her chest. She slowly stepped into the room. “Helen?”
She walked right past Emily, and Emily knew she wasn’t being rude. Her first concern was Helen.
“Emily,” Rose asked softly. “Can you grab a broom from the janitor’s closet down the hall?”
Glad for something to do, Emily hurried to the small door near the front desk. When Mom had first moved in they’d shown her around and explained all the various locks on the top of the doors in case she ever needed anything. Her fingers fumbled but finally she got it open and found the broom and a dustpan hung inside. She hurried back to her mother’s room.
Rose had managed to guide Helen away from the mess and Emily started to carefully sweep. Her vision blurred as she looked at the jumble of metal and glass. She bent down and picked up the photo, thankful it wasn’t the real one. A deep scratch cut across her father’s cheek.
“No,” Helen cried again and hurried over to Emily. She snatched the picture from Emily’s hands and hastily backed away. Helen hugged the picture to her thin chest as she sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, she lowered the photo and softly ran her hand, almost like a caress, over John Ivers’s image.
Emily’s heart hurt and she suddenly realized Rose had taken the broom and disposed of the broken frame without her even knowing it.
