by Lisa Jackson
He scraped back a chair, straddled it and leaned forward, blowing across his mug. “I wanted to, but it wasn’t that easy.”
So there it was. He admitted it. This ranch that she and her father had worked their bodies to the bone for meant nothing to him.
“As I said, there’s a problem with back taxes,” he said. “Seems they’ve been neglected.”
“Money’s been tight.” A defensive note crept into her voice.
“So I’ve heard.”
“And Colton?” she asked, wondering about Denver’s brother. “Does he feel the same about this place?”
“I wish I knew.” Denver glanced pensively into the dark depths of his coffee. “Since he owns half the place, I need to know if he wants to buy out my share or put the whole spread on the market.”
“So, no matter what happens, you’re going to sell.”
“Right.” He took a swig from his cup, without the slightest indication that he felt one second’s regret.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She leaned closer to him, placing her elbows on the table for support, her wet hair falling forward. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to buy you out?”
His features froze. “You?”
“Right. And not just your share, but Colton’s, too.”
Denver’s mouth dropped open before he clamped it shut. “You don’t want this ranch, Tessa,” he said quietly. “You couldn’t.”
“Don’t you presume anything about me, Denver McLean,” she replied, her eyes serious, her voice surprisingly strong. “I’ve thought about it a long time. I’ve worked too hard on this place to have it sold out from under me.”
“Tessa, this is crazy—”
“I’m not kidding, Denver. If you’re going to sell McLean Ranch, I intend to buy it.” Before he could protest, she added, “I’ve got some money of my own, livestock I could sell if I need to, and I’ve already done the preliminary talking to a banker in Three Falls.”
“So you’ve got it all figured out.”
“Most of it.”
“Tell me,” he drawled, “how do you expect to pull a ranch that can’t hold its own back on its feet?”
“It can be done.”
“With a huge mortgage?” He shook his head and finished his coffee. “I don’t see how.”
“That’s the problem, Denver,” she said evenly. “You’ve got your eyes wide open, but you can’t see what’s right in front of your nose.” Feeling a hot lump forming in her throat, she whispered, “You never could.”
Denver’s fingers curled over his cup. Tessa was beautiful—too beautiful. He kicked back his chair, tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink and tried to ignore the firm thrust of Tessa’s jaw, the fire in her hazel eyes, the way her damp blouse clung to her skin. Her hair, though wet, shone beneath the dim wattage in the kitchen, and her face was flushed in fury, touching the forbidden part of his soul he’d hoped had smoldered to a cold death seven years before. “I think I’ll unpack.” He needed time to think, time to put everything into perspective, time to remind himself that she’d betrayed him and his family. Distance would help. Being in the room with her, feeling her accusing gaze still drilling hot against his back, wasn’t good.
What was the old saying? That there was a thin line between love and hate? Convinced he was walking that line, Denver realized he had to be careful—or he was sure to fall.
“You can have the room at the top of the stairs,” she said.
“I can have?” he asked, turning. She was still seated at the table, her eyes cool and distant, her face more beautiful than he’d remembered.
“It was John’s room.”
“I know whose room it was. I used to live here. Remember?”
She let out a little strangled sound, then cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, I could never forget.”
To his disgust, he felt his guts wrenching, that same horrid pain that he’d felt when Colton had convinced him that Tessa was involved with her father in Curtis’s scheme to fleece the ranch. To hide his weakness he leaned his hips against the counter and curled his fingers around the sharp edge. “What about my parents’ room?”
“I’m using it.”
“You?” he repeated. “You live here?”
“Yes.” Standing, she shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. “You can have any room you want, Denver. Just let me know, so I can move my things.”
“Hold on a minute. Why are you living here?” he demanded, hot, fresh anger searing deep inside. Tessa had lived under the same roof as John before his death?
“It was more convenient.”
“I’ll bet,” he muttered, imagining her with his uncle. A bachelor for life, John McLean had gained a reputation with the local women. But Tessa? Denver’s insides knotted. Repulsed at the image of John and Tessa making love, he closed his mind and gritted his teeth. He wanted to discard the ugly idea, and yet he couldn’t. He didn’t really know Tessa, not anymore. Maybe he never had.
“What do you mean?” she asked before she caught the message in Denver’s stormy eyes. “You’re kidding, right?” she whispered, lips twitching. “You don’t really think I was John’s—”
“Were you?”
Laughter died in Tessa’s throat. Denver was serious. Dead serious. And there was a possessive streak of jealousy lighting his eyes. “Think about it, Denver,” she taunted, wounded once again. “You tell me.” Her back so stiff it ached, she strode out of the room and ran up the stairs to her room.
How could he think that she would sleep with his uncle? The ugly thought made her sick! She threw open the closet and began stripping her clothes off hangers, hurling them onto the bed and kicking shoes into the center of the room.
One thing was certain, she thought furiously, she couldn’t stay here at the house with Denver. She yanked her suitcase and an old Army duffel bag from the shelf and heaved both onto the bed. Cheeks burning, she began attacking the drawers of her dresser with fervor.
She slammed the top drawer. It banged hard against its casing, rattling the mirror. “Argumentative, insensitive beast!” she muttered through clenched teeth just as she caught sight of Denver’s image, staring at her from the mirror over the dresser.
He surveyed her scattered clothes expressionlessly. “Don’t let me stop you,” he drawled.
“You won’t!” She threw her clothes haphazardly into the suitcase and stuffed the remainder into the duffel bag. “Believe me.”
Not everything fit. Corners of blouses and sweater sleeves poked out of the bag and she had trouble closing the lid of the suitcase. Finally it snapped shut. Lifting her head high, she said, “I’ll be back for the rest in the morning.”
With the suitcase swinging from one arm and the duffel bag tucked under the other, she strode across the bedroom and waited, the toe of one boot tapping impatiently, for him to move. “If you’ll excuse me,” she mocked.
“No way.”
“Move, Denver.”
“Not until you explain what you were doing in this room.”
Her hazel eyes snapped. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, do I? You left me without a word—not one damn word! I don’t owe you anything.”
His mouth tightened, but he was wedged in the doorjamb and she couldn’t get around him.
“This is stupid, Denver.”
“Maybe.”
“Let me by.”
“As soon as you tell me why your father lives down at the ranch foreman’s house and you live here.”
The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but her pride kept her silent. She glared up at him, willing her heart to stop beating like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, praying that he couldn’t see the pulse leaping in her throat or notice that her knuckles had clenched white around the handle of her battered old suitcase. “As I said, Denver, it was more convenient. Think what you want, because I don’t really care.”
She attempted to brush p
ast him then, but as soon as she stepped one foot over the threshold, his arm snaked forward and captured her waist. So swiftly that she gasped, he dragged her against him. Feeling every hard muscle in his chest, watching the fire leap in his eyes, she knew she was trapped—pressed tightly against his hard frame.
Outside thunder cracked. Rain blew through the open window. The curtains billowed into the room. Yet Tessa couldn’t do anything but stare into Denver’s eyes. “What do you want me to say?” she rasped, barely able to speak. “Do you want me to say that your uncle and I were lovers?”
A muscle leaped to life in his jaw, and his lips flattened over his teeth.
“Or do you want me to say that he was just one in a long line—a line you started?”
His arm dropped suddenly, and she nearly fell into the hallway. Disgust contorted his features, but she couldn’t tell if he was revolted at her or himself. “You can stay,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll take the room at the end of the hall.”
“I don’t want to stay.”
He plowed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the old wainscoting in the corridor. But his face remained drawn, his muscles rigid. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s none of my business.”
“You’re right, but it is your place.” Wrestling up her bags again, she said, “I’ll go down to Dad’s house.” She dashed down the stairs before she could change her mind.
“Tessa—”
“I’ll move back when I own the place.” Shoving open the back door, she felt the rain and wind lash at her face. She took two steps toward the garage before she remembered she had no car. Her father had the pickup, the station wagon was in the shop, and her brother, Mitchell, had borrowed the old flatbed.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, soaked to the bone almost before she started walking. If she cut through the fields, the trek was only a quarter of a mile—if she took the road, the distance tripled.
She glanced longingly back at the farmhouse. The windows glowed in the night—warm, yellow squares in the darkness. Setting her jaw, she shoved open the gate and started across the wet fields.
Before she’d gone ten yards, she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder and spin her around. “You little idiot,” Denver shouted.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until you’re back in the house!” He snatched her bags with one hand.
“I’m warning you—oooh!”
Hauling her off her feet, he threw her, fireman style, over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around her ankles in an iron vise.
“Let me down right now! This is ridiculous!” Damn the man. But he didn’t heed her muttered oaths or flailing fists as she pummeled his back.
“Denver, put me down! I mean it.”
Tightening his grip on her suitcase and bag, he strode purposefully back to the house. Mortified, she had to hang on to the back of his shirt for fear of sliding to the sodden ground. Her hair fell over her eyes, rain drizzled from her chin to her forehead, and she silently swore that when she was back on her feet again, she’d kill him. He hauled her up the steps and into the house.
“There you go,” he said, depositing her unceremoniously on the floor, once they were back in the kitchen.
“Of all the mean, despicable, low and dirty tricks—” she sputtered, planting her fists firmly on her hips.
“And what were you planning to do—ford the stream?”
“There hasn’t been a drop of water in the creek for over a month.”
“Why were you walking?”
She didn’t bother with an answer. Still fuming, she raked her fingers through her wet hair and hoped to hold on to the few shreds of her dignity that were still intact.
He glanced to the floor, where the duffel bag and suitcase sat in a pool of water on the cracked linoleum. As if noticing the Army bag for the first time, he bent on one knee and fingered the tags still tied to the duffel’s strap. “Private Mitchell Kramer?” He stared up at her, his brows drawn into a bushy line. “Your brother is back?”
She nodded. The less she said the better.
“I thought he left after the fire.”
“He did.”
“So when did he show up?”
“Six months ago. You’ve been gone a long time, Denver. Mitchell’s hitch was over last year. He’s going back to school in a few weeks.”
Frowning, he studied the name tags then straightened. “So where is he?”
She shrugged. “Around. Probably in town tonight. It is Friday.”
“Still raising hell?” Denver asked.
Bristling, she snapped, “That was a long time ago, Denver. Mitchell’s changed.”
“Has he?” Denver asked sarcastically.
Tessa couldn’t begin to explain about the mixed emotions she felt for her brother. He’d stood by her after the fire, when Denver had left her aching and raw—lost and alone. It was true that Mitchell had joined the Army soon after the blaze, but he was back, and for the most part, he’d straightened out. The hellion he’d been after high school had all but disappeared. “Mitchell’s been through six years in the Army. He’s grown up. If you haven’t noticed, a lot of things have changed around here!”
“That they have,” he said quietly, his gaze lingering in hers. “That they have.”
Tessa’s heart started thudding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it.
“Look, why don’t you go upstairs, put those”—he motioned to the bags—“away. You said something about a hot bath earlier.”
Tessa was chilled to the bone. A soak in a tub of warm water sounded like heaven. But she wasn’t convinced that staying in the same house with Denver McLean would be smart or safe. “And what about you?” she asked.
“As I said, I’ll move into the room down the hall.”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“This is my house,” he reminded her. “And it’s only for a week. Two at the most.”
Knowing she was making a mistake, Tessa relented. Wet, dirty and just plain tired of arguing with him, she decided one night wouldn’t hurt. In the morning, after the shock of seeing him again had worn off, she’d decide if she should move out.
“Just for tonight,” she said, hoisting her bags.
“I can take those,” he offered.
“No thanks.” She hauled her bags up the stairs, and unpacked her nightgown and robe. Feeling like a stranger in her own home, she hurried to the bathroom, locked the door and stripped off her wet clothes.
Steam rose from the tub as she glanced in the mirror and groaned. Her hair was lank and wet, her face smudged with mud, her skin flushed from the argument. “This is crazy,” she told herself as she stepped into the hot water. “Absolutely crazy!”
* * *
Denver poured himself a stiff shot. His second. Nervous as a cat, he paced the study, listening as the ceiling creaked. He knew the minute she dashed down the hall to the bathroom, heard the soft metal click of the lock, felt the house shudder a little as she turned on the water and the old pipes creaked.
Closing his eyes, he imagined Tessa stepping into the bath and wondered if her body had aged, or if it was still as supple and firm as the last time he’d been with her. Groaning, her image as vivid as if their lovemaking had been only yesterday, he gritted his teeth. “Forget it, McLean,” he warned himself, tossing back his drink.
Swearing loudly, he dropped into the chair behind the desk and started working on the invoices. But he couldn’t concentrate. Aware of the water running, he listened until the old pipes clanged and the hum of the pump stopped suddenly. Gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles showed white, he leaned back and listened as she unlocked the bathroom door and padded softly to her room—his parents’ old room.
Why the devil was she living in the house? He wanted to believe that she’d moved in after John died, to manage the old house and keep it running. But he knew better. She had admitted as much.
Had she been John’s mistress? H
e doubted it. Yet uncertainty gnawed at him. She hadn’t denied having an affair with the old man, but Denver wouldn’t let himself believe her capable of making love to a man more than twice her age. He couldn’t. Though, all things considered, it was none of his damned business. He’d given up any claims on her when he’d accepted the cold truth that she’d betrayed him.
He reached for the neck of the Scotch bottle again, intent on pouring himself another, then twisted on the cap. After shoving the bottle back in the drawer where he’d found it, he stood at the window and stared out at the night.
Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the ridge near the silver mine, the ridge where he’d first discovered how exquisite making love to Tessa could be. There had been women before and since, of course, but none of those brief experiences had been as soul-jarring as that one suspended moment in time when he’d made love to Tessa Kramer.
Angry with the turn of his thoughts, he yanked down the shade to blot out the picture, but it snapped back up again and the ridge was there again, knifing upward against the sky. He’d been a fool to return to this damned place; he’d known it and still he’d come back.
Tessa was just upstairs, lying in his parents’ wedding bed of all places.
How, he wondered, fire burning hot in his loins, would he get through the night?
Chapter Three
As the first streaks of dawn filtered through her open bedroom window, Tessa tossed back the covers on the old brass bed. She’d barely slept a wink. Because of Denver.
“You’re a fool,” she muttered to herself as she tugged on a pair of jeans and buttoned her work shirt. Plaiting her red-blond hair away from her face, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and grimaced as she snapped a rubber band around the end of her braid. “You don’t love him anymore,” she tried to convince the hazel-eyed woman in the mirror. “And he never loved you—so just get through the next week and pray that he’ll leave.”
An old pain spread through her and she set her brush on the bureau. Denver had left before. Without a word. She could remember that night as vividly as if it had been twelve hours before.
