by Renee Reeves
'Oh no you don't. You still have a lot to learn about being my wife.’ Richard's voice came at her from above; right before his fist connected with her temple.
Morgan stared blindly into her tea glass, remembering that night and waking up in the cabin's bed much, much later with several white towels between her bleeding head and the pillow. That had been during their honeymoon cruise to Alaska. Richard had been very thorough in his lessons.
Stepford wife in public, slut in private. Every man's fantasy woman.
She'd had to stay in bed, barely able to move, until the end of their trip almost a week later.
Morgan shuddered; she had been so excited to see the Alaskan scenery, so excited to be Richard's wife ... but had ended up with memories of the cabin's white ceiling through blackened, swollen eyes.
And from then on the six years of marriage had been a private warzone, with no one to help, or to believe her except Lisa, and Richard had made sure her cousin had stayed away. Her only joy had been visiting her mother, but each visit, each time her mother hugged her and asked how Richard was doing, only reminded her of the awful life she was keeping a secret. Of how much she was hiding behind the makeup and expensive clothes. But battling cancer had been enough for her mother to deal with and she had died never knowing the truth.
Stop it Morgan.
Dropping her head into her hands Morgan let the tears she had held back all morning flow free. Considering the amount she had cried in the last two weeks she was surprised there were any left.
* * * *
The first flowers showed up eighteen days later, wrapped in cellophane and sticking out of her mailbox. Pale pink rose buds that had yet to open. Attached was a handwritten note that said only, ‘Sorry.'
Morgan bit her lip, torn for a moment and then stuffed the fragile buds into her unused paperbox. The second bunch, this time multicolored daisies, she found lying on her front steps a couple days later. Another note read, ‘Really sorry.’ She stuffed them in the box with the rose buds, ignoring the creeping regret when she saw the wilted pink flowers still struggling to survive.
Two days later her doorbell rang. Her postman was on the other side, mail in one hand, a bouquet of daffodils, along with the two bunches from her paperbox in the other.
"Mrs. Fletcher, these,” he handed her the daffodils and mail, “were stuck in the mailbox and I couldn't get any mail in. And these,” he held up the two bunches of drooping, lifeless roses and daisies, “were in the paperbox. They need some help ... fast.” He smiled at her, “Looks like you have an admirer. I hope you can save them."
Morgan thanked him and shut the door, feeling petty and mean for leaving the innocent flowers out there to die for no reason. Setting her mail on the hall table for later viewing, she carried the flowers into the kitchen and ran water in three vases, dropping an aspirin into each and hoping it wasn't too late.
Two days later a dozen blood-red roses in full bloom were waiting on her.
* * * *
Nick pounded the last nail into the wooden slat and straightened, glaring at the horse that watched him with complete and false innocence. Three days in his new stall near the feed room and already two boards had been knocked loose. Nick knew it was because he had yet to move Raina.
"The next time you kick this panel out I'm going to nail your hide, instead of the board,” he threatened, moving closer to stroke the old Arabian's silky chestnut neck. It was an empty threat and both he and Sultan knew it. Nick had owned the horse since being released from prison and could not count how many stall boards or pasture railings he had replaced over the years, but installing a layer of heavy duty rubber padding on the lower portion of the stall walls had helped some and had lessened any chance of injury for the horse.
"Eat your hay, cranky. She'll be up here as soon as I get that stall ready."
Thunder, heavy and low, rumbled in the distance. Giving the horse one final, affectionate pat he latched the door behind him, went to check on the two Appaloosa fillies that had arrived a few days before, and then left the barn, breaking into a jog as fat raindrops began to fall from the darkening sky, soaking him before he reached the protection of his screened back porch. He shrugged out of his shirt, using it to wipe the rain and sweat off of his head and upper body and then collapsed onto the bench by the back door, watching as lightning lit the sky over the mountains and rain ran in rivulets through the stableyard, the flowing streams reminding him of Morgan's tears.
You left her crying her guts out and didn't do a damn thing but walk away. He slammed his eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge that little fact of truth. Instead he searched his brain, calling forth an image of her with no tears. That morning, before he had fucked things up so royally. She had brought him a drink, shyly offering it to him and her eyes had been clear then, anxious yes, but not bloodshot from crying.
Weariness seeped into his bones; he had been running himself ragged for days, weeks, trying to get her out of his mind. Not that it had done any good. Trying to do the best thing was really not working out for him.
'No good deed goes unpunished.’ If that wasn't the fucking truth then he didn't know what was.
Trying to do the ‘right’ thing was threatening to drive him mad. The days since had been hell. He had ridden through the woods by the stream almost every day hoping to see her, a fact that had had his brother laughing his ass off. She had never shown and he had since stopped.
He knew why, understood it completely. She was ashamed of her scars and what had happened to her. No matter what he said she thought he was just taking pity on her, playing with her. She clearly did not know how beautiful she was, even with the scars, and he wasn't certain, but he suspected she blamed herself for those scars.
And probably blamed herself for the abuse, each and every time her husband hurt her. He knew it was common among abuse victims, especially with domestic abuse. God knows he had heard his mother defending his father often enough.
Shit. Nick looked down at his broad, clenched fists with their huge knuckles. One blow from him would definitely break her jawbone, and she was so petite that he wouldn't even have to put much force behind it.
The thought sickened him.
He couldn't comprehend being violent with her on any level. The thought of hurting her in any way was physically repellent.
But he had hurt her anyway. He had gotten personal too soon, and, like the arrogant, opportunistic bastard that he could be, he had pushed and it had backfired. Hell, he had even gone as low as to tell her about his fully functioning penis. Great job, Nick. Just great. Exactly what she needed to think about while she's on the ground crying—you and your hard-on.
So what, you won't be seeing her again. The voice of reason spoke inside his head. Plus you've done this before, gotten involved where you really shouldn't have and all it did was land your ass in prison. Go get laid and get her out of your mind.
Sound advice, too bad he wasn't really listening. The only woman he cared about getting laid with lived on the other side of his pasture, which, since he couldn't have her, might as well be on the other side of the continent. Sure, his hands worked and his mind ran rampant with fantasies about her, but they were a piss poor substitute for the real thing and offered little satisfaction. He knew her body, had held it against his and that little bit had only fanned the flame. He wanted more, so much more. He wanted her soft and yielding in his arms, skin to skin, her body flushed, wet with desire, not tense and panicky.
And definitely no goddamned tears.
"Nick,” he muttered to himself, “you're too old for this adolescent shit."
Getting up he headed inside to the shower. Maybe a night out would do him some good. God knows it had been a long time. Some female companionship might be exactly what he needed to get him back on track.
The more he thought about it the more appealing the prospect became.
A few hours later he was in his truck and headed for the outskirts of town.
[Bac
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Chapter 14
The alarm clock blared at quarter to five the next morning; ‘Here Without You’ by Three Doors Down came on, piercing Nick's right eardrum. He groaned and slapped a hand over the radio, shutting off both the high-pitched beeping and the song, not needing to be reminded about lonely minds and dreaming about someone who wasn't there.
A quick, cold shower woke him up, but did nothing to relieve his mental exhaustion. He glared at himself in the mirror; bloodshot blue eyes stared back at him. Not a good combination. Looking and feeling like shit just confirmed the fact that last night's excursion hadn't helped. A fact that he layed firmly on Morgan Fletcher's slender shoulders.
The storm had passed during the night, leaving the morning misty and calm. Cool air clung to his face as he made his way from the house to the barn a little after six. Mud, thick and heavy, stuck to his boots, forcing a pit-stop by the wash-rack to hose them off before heading inside. Jake was already there, haltering the horses that would go out to pasture for the day according to the chalkboard schedule on the wall.
"Late start today?” Jake checked his watch, “I'm showing six-thirty six. I was here at a prompt six-fifteen."
Nick grunted irritably, not in the mood after catching only about an hours worth of sleep. “Put Raina and Sultan together in the dry lot with some grass hay. I'm going to switch her stall today and put her beside Sultan. We also need to worn everyone later. Don't let me forget."
"Sure thing, sunshine,” Jake muttered while slipping a halter over the lowered head of the sweet-faced Quarter Horse mare. “Thata girl Sarah.” In her heyday she had been a pretty good barrel racer, but a fractured coffin bone had ended her career early, so the owners, unable to afford proper medical treatment for the mare, had donated her to the farm instead of putting her down. Now her only job was to baby-sit the rambunctious yearlings that Nick sometimes got in.
"Hey. Nick...” Jake's voice was extremely gentle, “you okay?"
Nick rolled his eyes and raised an eyebrow, “What's on your mind Jake?"
"I saw your truck leave late last night."
Nick waited, “And?"
"And you didn't come back for several hours. Not to mention your oh so slightly bloodshot eyes. Did you and Morgan—"
"No,” he growled, “and I told you why."
It was Jake's turn to roll his eyes, “Yeah, I know, you're an ex-con. Not worthy of her. Give me a break."
Nick sighed, walked into the tack room and jerked a pail out of the pile in the corner. The sweet scent of oats mixing with the tanginess of well-used leather swept into his nostrils. The smell always soothed him, bringing him back from his mood swings to what was important. The farm, the horses.
He felt Jake's presence near the door behind him and busied himself with digging a handful of oats out of the container and dumping them into the bucket.
"I still say your reason is bullshit, Nick,” Jake said in a disgusted voice. “You're screwing yourself out of something that could be really good if you gave it a half a chance. And it might even make you more pleasant to be around."
"Look Jake, shut up.” Aware of his brothers close scrutiny Nick rubbed his eyes, then rolled his head on his shoulders, working out the kinks caused by a lousy night's sleep. “You want to know what I did? I'll tell you. I went to the bar outside of town hoping to find a woman who was short and had long dark hair so I could get a room, fuck her brains out until early morning and then send her on her way in hopes that maybe, just fucking maybe, it would get me back to normal."
He turned just in time to see shock flit through Jake's deep green eyes. Even though he was six years older than Jake, those eyes always had the power to make him squirm. The same way their mother's had when he was little and would get caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
Jakes mouth opened and closed. Opened. Before his brother could gather his wits together Nick continued, “But once I got there the idea seemed a little shitty, you know? Wrong somehow. So I sat back, thought of her, nursed two beers, politely refused the come-ons from women who were too drunk to know what they were doing or who they were doing, and then came home to sleep for about, oh, an hour. Now, I'm going to get that stall ready for Raina, and after that I'll be in the back working with the draft."
Leaving Jake to brood over that little disclosure he walked down the aisle past numerous stalls and through the short hallway that connected the main barn to the indoor arena. Off to the side was a smaller pen, now the temporary home of the gelding. Progress with the horse had been exceedingly slow, but nothing less than he had expected.
The horse was watching him, huge brown eyes alert with suspicion, reminding him of Morgan.
Christ, would it never cease? Pushing the distraction away he entered the pen. Instantly the horse began rearing at the rails, trying to break through, but Nick noticed the efforts were more half-hearted than the last time. Progress, no matter how small, was progress.
Finally, after about ten minutes of Nick not moving any closer the horse stopped and turned towards him, white chest heaving with each deep breath.
"Easy now. That's right...” Nick murmured. “You know I'm not going to hurt you."
He moved closer, slowly, keeping his eyes off to the side of the nervous horse so as not to threaten him. Trust would be hard-earned with this guy, but worth every struggling moment.
Nick set the small pail of oats down in the center of the pen and crouched beside them. Immediately the gelding's ears pricked forward. He moved a step closer, stopping when he saw that Nick was not moving away. Nick knew he was waiting on him to leave the pen before coming to find out what kind of treat was in the bucket. He kept his eyes cast off to the side, his body loose, shoulders relaxed and unthreatening.
"Sorry boy, I know you don't like it but I'm staying for awhile.” The horse's ears swiveled anxiously back and forth, monitoring the sound of his voice. “But I promise, no whips, sticks, or whatever the hell else the bastard used on you."
* * * *
Heart pounding and palms sweating on the steering wheel Morgan maneuvered her car carefully onto the tree-lined dirt and gravel driveway. Nick's place was nothing like what she expected, although she didn't really know what she had expected. A huge sign labeled ‘Evanoff Farm’ hung above the drive, assuring her that she had the correct place. As she cautiously maneuvered around a sharp curve Morgan caught sight of horses grazing in the pastures on either side of her. She slowed her car to almost a stop and rolled her window down for a better look. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, lifting several flyaway strands and she angled her head up to catch it more fully in the face. Several of the horses raised their heads towards her, ears flicking back and forth in curiosity. They were all so beautiful, their sleek gleaming hides showcased against the backdrop of darkly wooded mountains. Absolutely perfect for her Majestic Montana series. The artist in her surfaced, eager for fresh material. Morgan put the car in park and reached over to the dash compartment, searching for her camera. The camera wasn't there.
Crap! The compartment door shut with a sharp click and a quick glance at the backseat told her the camera wasn't there either. If only ... But memory would have to do and besides, a photo op had been the farthest thing from her mind when she had gotten in her car less than half an hour ago.
Which brought her back to her original reason for being here.
Biting her lip she put the car back into drive and slowly pressed the accelerator, barely reaching ten miles an hour as she followed the fenced drive around. A rectangular two-story beige brick house with burgundy shutters finally came into view and behind it an enormous white with green trim barn. The large double-doors were open and Nick's huge black Dodge truck was parked off to the side, looming large and ominous in her line of sight.
"Oh God,” she muttered, “what am I doing here?” Her foot faltered on the accelerator and her heart hammered, beating loud in her ears.
Giving herself time to gather some
much needed courage she looked around and spotted another house, this one smaller and made of red-brick, a little ways behind the barn. Beside it was a tin-roofed shed housing a black and tan four-horse trailer and two smaller ones. She could also see the tail-end of some type of motorcycle sitting inside. Probably a Harley. Of course a man like Nick would go for a Harley. And don't forget the half-naked biker babes that would go with it.
No ... she didn't want to think about that. She looked around again, examining everything in an effort to dismiss the absurd feeling of jealously.
Apparently having heard her car approach, a black lab came racing full speed around the corner of the barn, barking and nipping her car's tires, announcing her arrival. Figuring her time to escape was now gone Morgan pressed the gas and maneuvered carefully, half afraid she'd run over the animal, and parked near a fence.
A rider on the far side of the ring beside the barn drew her attention and for a moment her stomach flip-flopped, but then she recognized Jake's lighter hair under the baseball cap he was wearing. He was mounted on a muscular paint horse and as they got closer she realized he was riding bareback with only a halter. Easy and relaxed he and the horse moved together as one, hypnotizing in their graceful beauty.
Morgan cursed her hormones, wondering why they couldn't have picked this brother, the safe, charming one, to go all googly over.
Just when she was again contemplating putting her car in reverse and getting out of there he saw her, threw his hand up and loped the horse over to the gate. She watched, amazed, while in one smooth motion he leaned down, unlatched the gate, maneuvered the big horse through it and latched it back. She got out of the car, keeping one eye open for signs of Nick, and waited for him to ride over.
"Hi,” she said shyly when he was within a few feet of her. “I was, um,” she tapped her nails on the car door and swallowed, hard, “...looking for, ah, Nick."
