Libby chuckled. “Yep. You were right, Char.” She looked around. “Love-struck.”
“No question.”
“Most definitely.”
“Busted.” The last came from Mac’s fiancée, Morgana. “I told Mac at the party it was like watching Beauty and the Beast when the enchantment lifts and, suddenly, the beast is beautiful again.” Her perfect skin turned a delicate rosy hue. “Can you tell I’ve been watching videos with Megan?”
Everyone laughed. The beautiful television star was dressed casually in jeans and a Sentinel Passtime sweatshirt, but there was no missing the sparkly diamond on her finger.
“We all fell a teeny bit in love with Rufus the other night, didn’t we?” Kat said, reaching out to squeeze Rachel’s arm. “And, believe me, Jack noticed and was very eager to impress me with his, uh, magic when we got home.”
Char made a face. “T.M.I., as my son would say. Too much information.”
Rachel wasn’t planning to talk about what happened between her and Rufus. She wasn’t the close girlfriend type. She had tons of friends, but none were true confidantes. Still, it was tempting to get another woman’s perspective. She’d never felt more confused and conflicted.
“Rufus and I aren’t speaking. Well, other than work stuff.”
“Whoa,” Char said. “You hit the skids awfully fast. Must be the holidays. Everyone gets a little crazy this time of year.”
Rachel wasn’t offended by her friend’s candid assessment. Char was nothing if not frank.
“Every new relationship has its crash-and-burn moments,” Morgana said. “I was absolutely positive Mac would never want to speak to me again after he found out the truth about my past. But we both worked through our issues. If you care about him, you owe it to yourself to try.”
“What if the person you care about doesn’t care enough about himself?”
“What do you mean?” Libby asked, her tone defensive. “Just because Rufus doesn’t go to the barber regularly doesn’t mean—”
“I don’t give a damn about his hair,” Rachel cut in, passionately. “I mean follow-up visits to a doctor. That’s what you do if you’ve been diagnosed with and treated for cancer. You can’t simply hide in the woods and hope you’re cured. It doesn’t work that way. I know. I watched my dad die from cancer, but it was the denial that killed him.”
Libby blanched. “Rufus has cancer? What kind?”
“Melanoma. Before he moved here,” she confessed, feeling guilty about sharing something private. She wondered if breaching this confidence might be one more nail in the coffin of their relationship. “I told you more than I should have. I’m sorry. He’s a private person, and he has every right to make his own choices. I’m sure he didn’t expect me to react the way I did, but—” She didn’t complete the thought. She couldn’t go through her rationale again—not when it brought memories she couldn’t bear to think about. Her father’s final days, the pain and indignity and fear.
“Maybe now would be a good time to talk about the book,” Kat said, attempting to smile. “I know you all think I was crazy to pick such a sad book at this time in my life—two women brutalized by the same man they both had the sad misfortune to marry. But I was inspired by the love and compassion the two women grew to have for each other. That was beautiful, wasn’t it?”
Rachel was grateful for the diversion and readily joined in the lively discussion. These women could be her friends, she sensed. And by the time they made one final toast—“May everyone we know and love find peace and joy this holiday season”—she felt almost whole.
“Even those of us who were foolish enough to set their wedding day between Christmas and New Year’s,” Kat murmured under her breath.
The conversation immediately switched to wedding plans as everyone pitched in to clean up. There was a short debate about whose turn it was to pick the next book and whether or not they should skip a month since Libby wasn’t going to be able to travel until after the baby was born. In the end they decided on a title and tentative date.
“You’ll come, won’t you, Rachel?” Morgan asked.
“Most definitely.” If I haven’t thrown in the towel and moved home with my mother.
Not that she planned to give up, but breaking up with Rufus felt like the last straw. Proof that her mother was right. Rachel really couldn’t read people, and she really did make the most awful choices for herself when it came to men.
Since Rachel lived the closest, she volunteered to load the dishwasher. She wished she was going home to the cabin where Rufus was probably still hard at work. But she wasn’t. If he was in remission and the cancer came back, she’d support him. What she couldn’t do was facilitate his denial.
“Do you think Rufus’s cancer may have spread?” Libby asked when they were alone.
Rachel shook her head. “No. He seems healthy, but melanoma isn’t easy to beat. I did a little research.”
Libby folded a couple of extra napkins and put them away. “I’m sure you did. I’d want to know everything I could about the enemy that was trying to take away someone I loved.”
Rachel didn’t correct her friend’s assumption. Rufus was worthy of loving, even if she couldn’t bring herself to commit her heart.
“You know, Rachel, every life—and death—is different. I never gave that much thought until I lost Gran. But now I know that as hard as it is to watch someone you love die, that’s the price you pay to be with them for as long as you can.”
Libby’s words stayed with her as Rachel gathered up her book and jacket and walked home. Watching her father’s slow decline had been intense, brutal and emotionally devastating, but in a way that one-on-one time with him had been a gift. Something hers alone.
Libby was right. Love wasn’t free. And relationships weren’t easy. Rachel had married Trevor because he made it seem all fun and games and she’d been looking for an escape. But the cost to her pride and self-esteem had been too high.
Rufus was different. He didn’t ask anything of her. He wasn’t ill at the moment. And he certainly didn’t need a caretaker. He was strong, vital, fiercely independent and loyal to the max. Look at his dedication to his late brother’s legacy. But the moment she heard the word cancer, she’d split. Why?
She kicked a clump of snow, drawing some satisfaction as it exploded in a fine powdery mist. She’d blown it. Overreacted. Panicked. Not at his perceived fallibility, but because of what he made her feel. Sex she could write off as basic need or hormonal folly. But getting a glimpse of the human being behind the facade was something else.
“Run, little girl, run,” her father had called when she was a child, chasing her older brother. At what point in her life had she starting taking that advice literally? She’d run from her marriage without even attempting counseling. She’d run from her job the first chance she got. She’d left Denver with barely a conscious thought of what awaited her in Sentinel Pass. And now, she was running away again. From Rufus—or from the feelings he made her feel?
He had cancer. Okay. If he mattered to her, she’d deal with it.
He had a past that she knew practically nothing about. So…who didn’t? He had the ability to make her head spin with desire and lust and…yes, damn it, love. When she was in his arms, she lost control in a way that felt both liberating and empowering.
But that wasn’t possible. Her mother had always maintained that true power came from self-control.
“Think, Rachel,” she murmured softly as she walked the rest of the way to her little bungalow. “Think.”
By the time she’d walked inside, she’d made up her mind. She was going to do whatever it took to survive Christmas. If that meant avoiding Rufus, so be it. She’d get the last of his orders in the mail then turn her focus on her family and the wedding. After the first of the year, she’d take a hard look at her life and her business. Everything had been so rushed when she left Denver, she hadn’t even found the time to do a detailed budget and cost-benefit analysis.
“Enough of that laissez faire attitude,” she muttered. “In business and in my personal life.”
At least someone would be happy. Mom.
RUFUS GRABBED HIS MUG and took a large gulp.
“Crap,” he sputtered a second later, leaning over the sink to spit out the leftover taste in his mouth.
Cold tea he could tolerate, cold coffee made him ill. And he’d been drinking coffee again because the smell of it reminded him of Rachel.
He bent and cupped some water from the faucet. Anger made his hand shake. He was royally pissed off. Not about the coffee, but that was part of it.
Rachel had left her mark and he couldn’t escape it. Not in his house, where he found her hair tie, her pen, a sketch she’d made of some early version of his Web design. And certainly not in his shop, where she continued to work every day. Productive, efficient, self-contained.
It wasn’t that she ignored him. She smiled pleasantly. She brought the dogs treats and lavished them with attention. But she made it clear she intended to keep her distance with him. And the fact that she could turn off her emotions so easily really burned. Because he couldn’t.
She’d flounced in, turned his life upside down, then sashayed out as if the emotional connection they’d shared never happened. He would have hated her if he didn’t love her.
He turned off the faucet and looked out the window. The morning sun sparkled on the newly fallen snow. He hoped it would be melted by the time he got to Rapid City, where he would probably find a swarm of last-minute holiday shoppers. He felt a little sick thinking about it, but he refused to give in to his agoraphobia. He’d lived in freaking New York City, for heaven’s sake. He could handle the second largest city in South Dakota.
He had another objective, too. He planned to buy a cell phone and call his ex-agent, Marianne. Something he’d put off for far too long. For the past few days he’d felt a nagging urge to reexamine what happened at the very end of his career. Not because he had any desire to return to his former life—even if that were possible—but certain questions haunted him. Did I give up too easily? If I’d had the reconstructive surgery, would I have had a few more good years?
He didn’t know what Marianne would say. Maybe he simply needed to reassure himself that he’d done the right thing by leaving. One thing he could count on from Marianne was the cold, hard truth.
He rinsed his mug and turned it upside down on a towel. “Do you guys want out?”
To his surprise, when he started toward the front of the house—the entrance he commonly used—the sound of twelve paws following didn’t happen. He looked over his shoulder and spotted all three dogs sitting by the back door—the door Rachel used when she brought them a little treat each morning on her way to the shop. A secret she didn’t think he knew about.
“Sorry, guys. Today’s Sunday,” he told his pets. “She isn’t coming. No mail. No reason to be here.”
That sad fact hurt him a lot more than it did his dogs. In the week since their blowup, he’d thought of little else. He loved her. He’d fallen for her that first day at Char’s shop. He’d denied his feelings for a huge host of reasons that hadn’t much changed. He wasn’t worthy of her. Forget the cancer, he was too ravaged by life to make a good mate. She was wise to end it when she did.
He knew that, but the facts didn’t make him want her any less. He still craved her voice, her smell, her smile. He’d tried to fill the void with work, and he’d been surprisingly successful. Maybe a lifetime of faking his emotions finally served him well. Every morning when Rachel arrived, she found a dozen new Dreamhouses to package up and mail.
Twelve a day. A quota he knew he couldn’t sustain. His entire body ached, and his hands were so sore he could barely make a fist. But the cutoff date for taking orders was almost here. And her last report told him he’d already made enough money to finish furnishing Stephen’s House.
“Orders will probably fall off after the holidays,” she’d told him. “But you might find demand is still high enough to hire part-time office help.”
He took that to mean she wouldn’t be applying for the job. He was well aware of the fact that she’d stopped unpacking boxes of her personal items. He didn’t know if that meant she’d changed her mind about opening her Web design business in Sentinel Pass or if she simply planned to find a new office.
So many questions he couldn’t ask. Why? Because she’d made it clear the only way he could be a part of her life was by doing the one thing he abhorred. The day after his last chemotherapy infusion, when he’d been barfing his guts out, he’d promised himself he’d take whatever time surgery and chemotherapy had bought him and live it well—in harmony with nature and relative peace.
Did that make him a fool? Probably. But she was wrong about one thing. He wasn’t in denial. He didn’t believe he’d truly beat the big C. But he’d fought one battle…and won. For now.
Of course the smart thing would be to see a doctor for regular checkups. But since he couldn’t imagine mounting a second defensive, why bother? If his cancer came back, so be it. He would have accomplished what he set out to do. His brother’s memory would live on.
That should have been enough. And it might have been…until he met Rachel.
He ran upstairs, dressed quickly and hurried to the front door to pull on his snow boots. The dogs were waiting, tails wagging. “Sorry, my friends, no dogs allowed in the stores.”
Chumley cocked his head and let out a low growl. The other two immediately went ballistic, jumping at the door. Confused because he hadn’t heard a car pull in, Rufus yanked open the door.
He couldn’t say for sure which of them was more surprised—Rufus or Rosaline Treadwell. “Dogs, hush.”
The barking stopped.
“Hello,” he said, poking his head out to look around. “Where’s your car?”
She pointed toward the shop. “Rachel told me you spent your days—and most of your nights—in your workshop. Since no one answered my knock, I left my car and walked up.” She stomped her feet, which, to Rufus’s surprise, were encased in honest-to-goodness boots.
As if reading his thoughts, she looked down and said, “My grandsons are taking me to a local ski resort this afternoon. I asked a friend to help me buy weather-appropriate clothing.”
“Oh.” Made sense. He gave her credit for trying. In fact, he never would have guessed she cared enough about Kat’s sons to make an effort. Not based on the way she’d basically ignored them at Libby’s holiday party.
“May I come in?”
He hesitated. “I was headed out myself. But my truck is parked beside the shop. We could talk as we walk.”
“Okay.”
He grabbed his gloves and keys and, after giving his dogs a quick pet on the head, closed the door.
“You didn’t lock it,” she said, pulling on her gloves.
“The dogs won’t let anyone in.”
“Except my daughter.” A statement, not a question.
He made sure she didn’t slip on the steps before he told her, “Rachel is always welcome here, but I’m not expecting her. She doesn’t work on Sundays.”
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please. Wait. I know I owe you an apology. My son gave me quite an earful the other day on the phone. It was long overdue. My late husband had a tendency to spoil me. He deferred to my wishes and made our children follow suit. Rachel was the most acquiescent child until her father died. Since that time, we’ve butted heads constantly.” She held up a gloved hand as if anticipating his protest. “Don’t misunderstand. She’s a wonderful daughter and one of the most genuinely caring people you’ll ever meet. I know she loves me, but she’s also very mad at me.”
He was surprised by her candor. Shocked speechless, actually. They kept walking, but more slowly than before.
Rosaline sighed. “You heard a little of this the other night at the party. Believe me, it’s not easy admitting you’re an overbearing busybody. I should have learned my lesson wh
ere Trevor was concerned, but I didn’t. I nearly made the same mistake again with you.”
He didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but it hardly seemed relevant. “Rachel and I are not together,” he said, hoping that would end their conversation. She seemed far more likeable than the witch she’d been the other night, but if he and Rachel were history, then he might as well go back to his life of isolation.
She surprised him further by throwing back her head and laughing. “Perhaps because she’s moping around her little cottage and you’re doing…well, frankly, not what I expected. I got the impression you never left this place.”
She looked around as if seeing his home and shop for the first time.
“Even a hermit can find some use for a cell phone.”
“Rachel said you were smart. I should have trusted her judgment. Again,” she stressed. Instead of an accompanying sigh, she made a little sound that hinted at stifled emotion.
Good grief, he thought, Genghis Khan cries?
They’d reached the shop, so he quickly hustled her inside. “Suppose you tell me why you’re here?” He said, crossing his arms to face her.
“I’m a terrible mother. I was a good wife. Maybe not great, but I loved my husband. More than my daughter knows. Rachel thought I abandoned him in his hour of need. What she didn’t understand was I couldn’t bear to watch him die. It killed me inside. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have bought stock in tissue companies becaused I went though so many boxes. Does that sound heartless to you?”
“No. But I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Because I think my daughter is love with you, and I’m afraid that unless you and I make peace, I will never see her again.”
“That doesn’t sound like Rachel. She’s generous and forgiving.”
“She gets that from her father. He had the biggest heart of any man you ever met. It nearly—no, it truly did ruin him. His generosity was his downfall, and I have to admit that I was angry about that for a long, long time. We forgave each other, of course, before he died, but I don’t think Rachel believes that.” She took a breath then admitted, “I wasn’t at his side when he passed away.”
Until He Met Rachel Page 17
