After moving away, she’d been too busy with medical school to allow Joe to invade her every waking thought, and the crush had faded—sort of. When she returned after her grandfather died, she had seen him at the funeral. After all these years, she still recognized him. Even the devil himself would have had the decency to offer condolences, but not Joe. She had expected more from him, but he was still the same selfish jerk he’d been in school, leaving without saying one word. Even in town a few months back, she had pretended not to see him and hurried the other way, fearing the snake was just waiting to make a joke of her again. When he had driven up this morning with his kid and his devilish charm, she’d frozen.
Now, as she gazed in the mirror, about to apply a hint of makeup, reality hit her like a blast of frigid air. The man had a kid with him, his kid, so of course there had to be a wife. How pitiful. Drooling over a married man—how low had she sunk? To him, this was a game, and he was winding her around his finger. Why, she could just imagine the laugh he was having at her expense now. Joe Wilde: Just the name said it all, just an average Joe, a redneck nobody from a small town in the backwoods USA. Hell, she was better than that. She had gone to medical school and worked herself to the bone, spending years surviving on catnaps and bad coffee, just to end up right back here.
She tossed her makeup back in the drawer and yanked a brush through the curls she’d spent the last hour styling into her hair. Short of washing it again, she didn’t have a hope of getting rid of them, and she didn’t have time to redo anything. She glanced at her small bedside clock and the rumpled unmade double bed covered with half the clothes in her closet. It was one forty-five, time to go. Margaret stomped her feet into her comfortable square-toed boots, the old ones that were cracked and faded, and caught a glimpse in the hallway mirror of the pristine crispness of her freshly ironed white shirt and brand-new jeans. She didn’t have time to change again, and the last thing she wanted was for Joe Wilde to think she’d dressed up and primped for him. The excuse that she had done it for the horse sure wouldn’t fly, so she grabbed an old brown sweater and shrugged it on, slung her cloth purse over her shoulder, and set the wide-brimmed hat she always wore on her head before hurrying out the door.
Angel nickered, and Margaret called to her: “I’m sorry! I won’t be long, and then I’ll take you out.” She rubbed the white star just above Angel’s eyes and then peeked over the corral into the red plastic water tub, half full. She took off at a jog around the square house, which her grandfather had built for his bride from the trees on the property. After her residency, when she’d passed the boards, she had bought herself a used black Lexus that now sat in the backyard. She had kept it even after returning to Post Falls, a town where all the residents drove pickups—another one of those damn codes she was breaking.
The five-mile drive to Joe’s farm down the backcountry gravel road added a few more nicks to the midnight black of her sports car. The entire way, her foot trembled on the gas pedal as she argued with herself to turn around, go home, and lock the door. She swore and told herself to suck it up and get the meeting over with. Don’t agree to anything he asks, she warned herself.
She slowed and pressed the brake as she rounded a bend in a cloud of dust, stomping the clutch and throwing the gear into neutral when she saw the house number staked at the side of the tree-lined road. Tiny branches and early spring leaves hid a portion of the rotted sign, which seemed to have been painted in red by a two-year-old. The narrow driveway flanked by heavy brush resembled a mud bog similar to those from monster truck shows. She would need a four by four to get through, but where could she leave her car on this narrow gravel road, and how far up was the house? In this part of the country, people had large spreads and mile-long driveways, houses always hidden way out back.
She pressed her head back against the headrest. If she turned around and went home, Joe would just show up again and catch her off guard, and she didn’t want that. No, she needed to get rid of him once and for all, set him straight. She didn’t work with horses. She couldn’t and wouldn’t help him, and she planned to say just that, telling him to leave her the hell alone. Margaret stomped the clutch and backed up, the wheels scraping the gravel. She gave herself a quick pep talk, because she would need to get enough speed to sail through the mud. She was determined not to think of the worst-case scenario: If she took it slow and easy, she’d sink faster than a rock in water and would be spinning her wheels to the end of time. The thought of being stuck anywhere in Joe Wilde’s clutches was enough of an incentive for her to rev the engine a couple of times, her foot hitting the accelerator as if she were at the starting line of the Kootenai County stock-car races, with testosterone pulsing all around her.
“Well, here goes,” she muttered. She stomped the clutch, slipped the gear into second, and pressed the gas. The car jolted forward, the wheels grinding into the slick muck. It skidded sideways, and, in a panic, Margaret cranked the wheel hard to the right and slid the other way. The radials spewed clumps of mud onto the windshield. Out of nowhere flashed a metal post, and she screamed, twisting the wheel, giving the car more gas. The car whipped around like a Tilt-A-Whirl, the front dipping down as the back end hit the post with the sound of grinding metal, jolting the car to a standstill. The shoulder strap dug into her shoulder, and Margaret gripped the leather steering wheel, sitting in a daze, her ears still ringing from the sharp sound of bent metal. The engine sputtered before her foot slipped off the clutch, and the car jerked forward and stalled.
“Well, that’s just great.” She yanked the handle and pushed open the door before thinking twice about stepping into the mud, which was now level with the floorboards. She crawled over the center console to the passenger side and slid down the window. The metal post was surrounded by the back panel of her car. Thick mud splattered the sides, and more paint had chipped away. She had almost made it another few feet to where the mud ended and the rest of the driveway began.
Margaret scooted back in her seat and slammed her door shut. She thought she could make it, so she cranked the engine and shifted into first, but the tires spun. She reversed, and the same thing happened, the wheels spinning her sideways and deeper into the mud. Just the thought of being found here had her jamming the stick shift again into first, then second, giving it plenty of gas. Mud splattered her face and inside the car from the open passenger window, and she stopped again. “No!” she cried, taking in the mud everywhere, over the seat and the places on her white shirt where her brown sweater hung open.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” a man shouted.
Her driver’s door was jerked open, and she glanced over all the mud and up into the questioning blue eyes of Joe Wilde. She didn’t know how she did it, but her foot somehow slipped on the clutch, and the car jerked forward, knocking Joe on the shoulder. All six feet of solid muscle landed on top of her.
****
Joe couldn’t believe what he’d found. He’d heard a car spinning its tires, and when he jumped into his big blue truck and stopped at the end of the driveway, he realized his mistake. He watched the black sports car spinning its wheels, the back end skidding from side to side, the driver crazed and wide eyed. What the hell was the matter with the woman? It was springtime, and the winter runoff created mud at every low point. His driveway, like most around here, wouldn’t dry out until summer.
Her car had collided with the metal post and stalled. Joe thought she was absolutely nuts. He started to call out to her when she popped her head out the rolled-down passenger window, but she closed her door and started the car again. Mud flew everywhere, and he waved his arms but could do nothing but watch in horror as the car sank deeper and deeper into the sticky mud. She skidded and spun, and then she shrieked, and the car stopped.
Joe raced over as quickly as he could in knee-high gumboots and slogged through the thick mud, yanking open her door. “Jesus, lady. What the hell are you doing?” he barked, staring in disbelief at the mud clumped and splattered ev
erywhere on her face, her shirt and hair, and the interior of the car. She turned those cinnamon-brown eyes on him, seeming dazed and helpless before the car jerked forward, knocking him off balance. He landed on top of her, those lush, perfect breasts pressing into his chest. His groin tightened, and he wondered for a moment if she had planned that. His mind raced over how easy it would be to peel back her shirt and run his tongue over that lacy white bra and the creamy plumpness underneath, but she would probably scream and squeal—the prude—and worry that he was getting her dirty. Fat chance of that happening. He would only humiliate himself, so he yanked her keys from the ignition and moved off of her, his hand accidentally brushing her thigh.
When he leaned in this time, he was scowling.
****
Margaret was stunned, unable to comprehend how things had gone from bad to really stupid. She was sure he was about to tell her to take a hike. The way he glowered at her with those stormy blue eyes, she was sure she was the last person he’d let near his kid or horse. She was absolutely incompetent. Those were the exact words a father had screamed at her in the waiting area of Harborview Trauma Center after she’d botched what was supposed to have been a routine removal of a benign tumour on the temporal lobe of his seven-year-old boy, leaving him unable to communicate. Even worse, the boy could no longer recognize his father. The contempt showered on her by his parents had hollowed her to the point that she was filled with self-loathing.
“Are you okay?” Joe said. He clutched her keys, and she could feel a cold sweat bathing her face and back. He wiped her cheek and she flinched, and he pulled his fingers back as if he’d been burned. Squeezing his hand, he glared again as if he wanted to punch something. “Sorry, you’ve got mud on your face. Just what the hell are you doing, coming through here in a car? Everyone has a four by four in these parts. You don’t live out here unless you do.”
“Yeah, well, didn’t have a chance to pick one up,” she said. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, and horror filled her eyes. There was mud splattered on her face, in her hair. She wiped her cheek and then brushed away some of the clumps of mud dotting her white shirt, but she only managed to make it worse.
“Look, I’m going to have to tow you out of here. I’ve got a winch on my truck,” he said, tapping the roof of her car as he leaned in. “Mud’s deep. You got anything decent on your feet?”
“My riding boots,” she replied, wiping her cheek one more time and sliding around to step out.
Joe scooped her up and lifted her in his arms. She shrieked, more out of shock and disbelief than anything else. No man had ever carried her, certainly not just to keep clumps of mud from her feet.
“For the love of God, woman, hang on,” he barked out as he tossed her a bit to get a better grip.
She linked her arms around his neck, and the next thing she knew, he had yanked open the passenger door of his truck and dumped her on the seat.
“I’ll come back and fish your car out. Ryan’s waiting for you up by the house to show you his horse,” he said, shoving her door closed. Margaret watched him through a dusty, grimy windshield as he walked around the front of the truck. His mood seemed dark as night. He didn’t even glance her way when he knocked his big rubber boots against the side of the truck before sliding behind the wheel.
He started the truck and threw it in reverse, tossing his arm over the seat back and spinning the truck around so fast that she slid across the seat and bumped his arm. She grabbed the handle above the passenger door as his truck bounced over the ruts, which he didn’t take slow and easy. Bouncing around, she silently kicked herself for not wearing her clunky sports bra instead of the silky thing that left nothing to the imagination. She tried to hang on and hold her sweater closed with her other hand, and she was so thankful to finally see the house, and the barn, and Ryan.
Ryan stood off to the side, near one of two square corrals. A pure black horse was alone in one, and the other held a palomino and a silver dapple. Joe braked sharply, and Margaret realized she would’ve landed on the floor if she hadn’t been holding on. He jerked open his door and jumped out, slamming it so hard the truck shook. Margaret did a quick check: Her white shirt was ruined, and she’d only fastened two buttons on her sweater when her door was jerked open.
“You done powdering your nose, or are you coming?”
Boy, was Joe ever in a bad mood. Margaret realized she was batting zero with this guy. Why the hell had he shown up at her place to begin with? With the way he watched her, she wondered if he remembered what a hopelessly awkward misfit she had been all through school, never fitting in.
“You drive like an idiot,” she blurted before sliding around. She went to step on the running board, but the mud coating it was slick, and her heel skidded. She would have tumbled face first in the dirt if Joe hadn’t been there. Once again, she found herself in his arms, nose to nose this time, so close he could have leaned in and kissed her with those firm red lips. She had no doubt he knew how to kiss a woman properly and thoroughly and that he had plenty of practice. Any focus she had completely scattered as her face heated, because for one awkward, delirious moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She wished he’d lean in and press his lips to hers, but instead he loosened his arms enough that she slid down, feeling every hard male part of him, before he released her and stepped back.
He cleared his throat. “Ryan, get over here,” he said. Even in her rattled haze, she didn’t miss the sharpness in his tone. Yup, he was pissed, all right. She crossed her arms, because so was she.
Ryan walked over in the most unhurried, aggravating way, dragging his heels, slouching his shoulders in an old jean jacket. His long hair covered his eyes, but his behavior let his dad know how miserably unhappy he was about doing anything he was asked.
“Which one’s your horse?” Margaret said, using the moment to stifle the tension that had erupted between father and son. She was sure Joe had been about to plant his foot in Ryan’s backside, something her own grandfather had done to counter her smart-mouthed teenage attitude.
“The black one, alone in the corral. We can’t put any horses in with him because he’ll kick them,” Joe barked. “Don’t either of you set a foot in there until I get back.”
Margaret watched the range of emotions on Joe’s face—frustration, irritation—unsure whether they were for her or Ryan. Then he was gone in his truck, spinning around, the engine roaring, dust and gravel following him back down that long, rutty driveway.
When she glanced at Ryan, she saw he stood a little straighter and brushed his hair from his forehead as if an invisible weight had been lifted from him. Then again, she had breathed a little easier, too, but for a different reason. Margaret glanced back at the trail where the truck had disappeared and took a minute to do the one thing she was good at, listening and paying attention to what wasn’t being said, particularly between father and son.
“He’s beautiful. How long have you had him?” Margaret asked. She strode to the corral and leaned against the rough bark post, watching the horse on the far side. The corral was dirt with thick mud at one end where it sloped down, uneven, holding a wood hay trough and a blue plastic water barrel.
She didn’t look directly at Ryan but caught the sharp shrug of his shoulders. Margaret waited until he stepped closer again, his hands still deep in his pockets.
“Dad got him for me the year after Mom died.”
His mother had died? Her heart broke for him, and she swallowed her unshed tears. “How long ago did she die?” she asked, watching the horse head to the fence on the other side of the corral. It refused to give any attention to Ryan, its ear twisting to her when she spoke and then away.
“I was five when she died. I hardly remember her now.”
“Your dad never remarried?” she said. She couldn’t believe she had asked him that, and she suddenly wished to take it back. “I mean…”
“No,” he snapped.
She needed to change the subject fast, but s
he was torn between her sorrow for the grieving boy and her frustration at the spark of joy she had felt at hearing Joe was single. What was wrong with her? She wanted to kick herself hard, because any fantasy about her and Joe would only get her heartbroken and humiliated again. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen. Well, almost. My birthday’s coming up.” He was now right beside her, staring at the horse and glancing awkwardly at her.
“When’s your birthday?”
“Next week,” he said.
She did the quick math: Joe was her age, thirty-two, so he had to have been eighteen when Ryan was born. Margaret had graduated early, and she didn’t remember who he had been seeing, but he’d always had some spunky good-looking girl hanging off his arm. Margaret had left Post Falls right after that, and she hadn’t followed any of the gossip, not that her grandfather had tried to keep her abreast of the happenings in town.
Ryan was about as talkative as she was, and Margaret had gone weeks without human contact or conversation with anything other than her horse. She was terrible at small talk, and obviously, so was Ryan, so the awkwardness lingered.
“So, tell me about your horse and what’s going on,” she said. She brushed away some dried mud from a spot on her forehead that had begun to itch.
“He steps on my foot if I try to get a halter on him. He’s charged me, tried to bite me, bumped into me. I can’t get a bridle on him. He tosses his head every time I try. If I manage to get the halter on and over his ears, I can’t get the bit in his mouth. He won’t open it, and I’m afraid he’ll bite me.”
“When was the last time you rode him?” Margaret asked. She could see there was nothing easy about this horse.
“The last time I tried to get on him was about a month ago, and he threw me. I never saw it coming. He was tossing his head back and forth, wiggling around, and next I knew, I had landed on the ground. Dad saddled him then for me. He fought Dad, too,” Ryan said.
The One (Book 1, of The Wilde Brothers, A Contemporary Western Romance) Page 2
