by Nora Roberts
“Can’t you now?” His mouth tarried a moment in her hair. “That’s very interesting.” He brought his hand under her chin and lifted her face, his eyes moving over her features slowly. “You know, Hillary, that’s a very dangerous admission. I’m tempted to press my advantage.” He paused, continuing to study the fragile, vulnerable face. “Not this time.” He released her, and she checked the impulse to sway toward him. Walking to the table, he downed the remainder of his Scotch and lifted his coat. At the door, he turned, giving her his charming smile. “Merry Christmas, Hillary.”
“Merry Christmas, Bret,” she whispered at the door he closed behind him.
The air was brisk and cold, carrying the clean, pure scent that meant home, the sky brilliantly blue and naked of clouds. Hillary let herself into the rambling farmhouse and for a moment gave in to memories.
“Tom, what are you doing coming in all the way around the front?” Sarah Baxter bustled from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a full white apron. “Hillary.” She stopped as she caught sight of the slim, dark woman in the center of the room. “Well, time’s just gotten away from me.”
Hillary ran and enveloped her mother in a fierce hug. “Oh, Mom, it’s good to be home.”
If her mother noticed the desperate tone of Hillary’s words, she made no comment, but returned the embrace with equal affection. Standing back, she examined Hillary with a mother’s practiced eye. “You could use a few pounds.”
“Well, look what the wind blew in all the way from New York City.” Tom Baxter entered through the swinging kitchen door and caught Hillary in a close embrace. She breathed deeply, reveling in the smell of fresh hay and horses that clung to him. “Let me look at you.” He drew her away and repeated his wife’s survey. “What a beautiful sight.” He glanced over Hillary’s head and smiled at his wife. “We grew a real prize here, didn’t we, Sarah?”
Later, Hillary joined her mother in the large kitchen that served the farm. Pots were simmering on a well-used range, filling the air with an irresistible aroma. Hillary allowed her mother to ramble about her brothers and their families, fighting back the deep longing that welled inside her.
Her hand went unconsciously to the blue stones at her ears, and Bret’s image flooded her mind, bringing him almost close enough to touch. She averted her face, hoping that the bright tears that sprung to her eyes would not be observed by her mother’s sharp glance.
On Christmas morning, Hillary woke with the sun and snuggled lazily in her childhood bed. She had fallen into the bed late the night before, but, having slipped between the covers, had been unable to sleep. Tossing and turning, she had stared at a dark ceiling until the early hours. Bret had remained in her mind no matter how strenuously she had tried to block him out. His image broke through her defenses like a rock through plate glass. To her despair, she found herself aching to be close to him, the need an ache deep inside her.
In the morning, in the clear light of day, she once more stared at the ceiling. There’s nothing I can do, she realized hopelessly. I love him. I love him and I hate him for not loving me back. Oh, he wants me all right—he’s made no secret of that—but wanting’s not loving. How did it happen? Where did all my defenses go? He’s arrogant, she began, mentally ticking off faults in an effort to find an escape hatch in her solitary prison. He’s short tempered, demanding, and entirely too self-assured. Why doesn’t any of that matter? What’s happened to my brain? Why can’t I stop thinking about him for more than five minutes at a time?
It’s Christmas, she reminded herself, shutting her eyes against his intrusion. I am not going to let Bret Bardoff spoil my day!
Rising, she threw back the quilt, slipped on a fleece robe, and hurried from the room.
The house was already stirring, the quiet morning hush vanishing into activity. For the next hour, the scene around the Christmas tree was filled with gaiety, exclamations for the gifts that were revealed, and the exchange of hugs and kisses.
Later Hillary slipped outside, the thin blanket of frost crunching under her boots as she pulled her father’s worn work jacket tighter around her slimness. The air tasted of winter, and the quiet seemed to hang like a soft curtain. Joining her father in the barn, she automatically began to measure out grain, her movements natural, the routine coming back as if she had performed the tasks the day before.
“Just an old farm hand after all, aren’t you?” Though the words had been spoken in jest, Hillary halted and looked at her father seriously.
“Yes, I think I am.”
“Hillary.” His tone softened as he noticed the clouding of her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She let out a deep sigh. “Sometimes New York seems so crowded. I feel closed in.”
“We thought you were happy there.”
“I was … I am,” she amended, and smiled. “It’s a very exciting place, busy and filled with so many different kinds of people.” She forced back the image of clear gray eyes and strong features. “Sometimes I just miss the quiet, the openness, the peace. I’m being silly.” She shook her head and scooped out more grain. “I’ve been a bit homesick lately, that’s all. This layout I just finished was fascinating, but it took a lot out of me.” Not the layout, she corrected silently, but the man.
“Hillary, if you’re unhappy, if there’s anything on your mind, I want to help you.”
For a moment, she longed to lean on her father’s shoulder and pour out her doubts and frustrations. But what good would it do to burden him? What could he do about the fact that she loved a man who saw her only as a temporary diversion, a marketable commodity for selling magazines? How could she explain that she was unhappy because she had met a man who had broken and captured her heart unknowingly and effortlessly? All these thoughts ran through her brain before she shook her head, giving her father another smile.
“It’s nothing. I expect it’s just a letdown from finishing the layout. Postphotography depression. I’ll go feed the chickens.”
The house was soon overflowing with people, echoing with mixed voices, laughter, and the sound of children. Familiar tasks and honest affection helped to erase the ache of emptiness that still haunted her …
When only the echoes of the holiday lingered, Hillary remained downstairs alone, unwilling to seek the comfort of her bed.
Curled in a chair, she stared at the festive lights of the tree, unable to prevent herself from speculating on how Bret had celebrated his holiday. A quiet day with Charlene, perhaps, or a party at the country club? Right now they were probably sitting in front of a roaring fire, and Charlene was snuggled in his arms draped in that beautiful negligee.
A pain shot through her, sharp as the point of an arrow, and she was enveloped by a tortuous combination of raging jealousy and hopeless despair. But the image would not fade.
The days at home went quickly. They were good days, following a soothing routine that Hillary dropped into gratefully. Kansas wind blew away a portion of her depression. She took long, quiet walks, gazing out at the rolling hills and acres of winter wheat.
People from the city would never understand, she mused. How could they comprehend this? Her arms were lifted wide as she spun in a circle. In their elegant apartments looking out at steel and concrete they could never feel the exuberation of being a part of the land. The land; she surveyed its infinity with wondering eyes. The land is indomitable; the land is forever. There had been Indians here, and plainsmen and pioneers and farmers. They came and went, lived and died, but the land lived on. And when she was gone, and another generation born, wheat would still wave in the bright summer sun. The land gave them what they needed, rich and fertile, generously giving birth to acres of wheat year after year, asking only for honest labor in return.
And I love it, she reflected, hugging herself tightly. I love the feel of it in my hands and under my bare feet in the summer. I love the rich, clean smell of it. I suppose, for all my acquired sophistication, I’m still just a farm girl. She retraced
her steps toward the house. What am I going to do about it? I have a career; I have a place in New York as well. I’m twenty-four. I can’t just throw in the towel and come back to live on the farm. No. She shook her head vigorously, sending her hair swirling in a black mist. I’ve got to go back and do what I’m qualified to do. Firmly, she ignored the small voice that asserted her decision was influenced by another resident of New York.
The phone jangled on the wall as she entered the house, and, slipping off her jacket, she lifted it.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Hillary.”
“Bret?” She had not known pain could come so swiftly at the sound of a voice.
“Very good.” She heard the familiar mockery and pressed her forehead to the wall. “How are you?”
“Fine, I’m just fine.” She groped for some small island of composure. “I … I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is there a problem?”
“Problem?” he returned in a voice that mirrored his smile. “No permanent one in any case. I thought you might be needing a reminder of New York about now. We wouldn’t want you to forget to come back.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten.” Taking a deep breath, she made her voice lightly professional. “Have you something in mind for me?”
“In mind? You might say I had one or two things in mind.” There was a slight pause before he continued. “Anxious to get back to work?”
“Uh, yes, yes, I am. I wouldn’t want to get stale.”
“I see.”
You couldn’t see through a chain-link fence, she thought with growing frustration.
“We’ll see what we can do when you get back. It would be foolish not to put your talents to use.” He spoke absently, as though his mind was already formulating a suitable project.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something advantageous for both of us,” she stated, trying to emulate his businesslike tone.
“Mmm, you’ll be back at the end of the week?”
“Yes, on the second.”
“I’ll be in touch. Keep your calendar clear.” The order was casual, confident, and brisk. “We’ll get you in front of the camera again, if that’s what you want.”
“All right. I … well … thanks for calling.”
“My pleasure. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Yes. Bret …” She searched for something to say, wanting to cling to the small contact, perhaps just to hear him say her name one more time.
“Yes?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Shutting her eyes, she cursed her lack of imagination. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Fine.” He paused a moment, and his voice softened. “Have a good time at home, Hillary.”
Chapter Six
The first thing Hillary did upon returning to her New York apartment was to put a call through to Larry. When greeted by a feminine voice, she hesitated, then apologized.
“Sorry, I must have the wrong number …”
“Hillary?” the voice interrupted. “It’s June.”
“June?” she repeated, confused, then added quickly. “How are you? How were your holidays?”
“Terrific to both questions. Larry told me you went home. Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, I did. It’s always good to get home again.”
“Hang on a minute. I’ll get Larry.”
“Oh, well, no, I’ll …”
Larry’s voice broke into her protestations. She immediately launched into an apology, telling him she would call back.
“Don’t be dumb, Hil, June’s just helping me sort out my old photography magazines.”
It occurred to Hillary that their relationship must be moving along at light speed for Larry to allow June to get her hands on his precious magazines. “I just wanted you to know I was back,” she said aloud. “Just in case anything comes up.”
“Mmm, well, I guess you really should get in touch with Bret.” Larry considered. “You’re still under contract. Why don’t you give him a call?”
“I won’t worry about it,” she returned, striving to keep her tone casual. “I told him I’d be back after the first.” Her voice dropped. “He knows where to find me.”
Several days passed before Bret contacted Hillary. Much of the interim she spent at home because of the snow, which seemed to fall unceasingly over the city, alternating with a penetrating, bitter sleet. The confinement, coming on the heels of the open freedom she had experienced in Kansas, played havoc with her nerves, and she found herself staring down from her window at ice-covered sidewalks with increasing despair.
One evening, as the sky dropped the unwelcome gift of freezing rain, Lisa arranged to have dinner and spend a few hours in Hillary’s company. Standing in the kitchen, Hillary was separating a small head of lettuce when the phone rang. Looking down at her wet, leaf-filled hands, she rubbed her nose on her shoulder and asked Lisa to answer the ring.
Lifting the receiver, Lisa spoke into it in her most formal voice. “Miss Hillary Baxter’s residence, Lisa MacDonald speaking. Miss Baxter will be with you as soon as she gets her hands out of the lettuce.”
“Lisa.” Hillary laughed as she hurried into the room. “I just can’t trust you to do anything.”
“It’s all right,” she announced loudly, holding out the receiver. “It’s only an incredibly sexy male voice.”
“Thanks,” Hillary returned with deep sincerity, and rescued the phone. “Go, you’re banished back into the kitchen.” Pulling a face, Lisa retreated, and Hillary gave her attention to her caller. “Hello, don’t mind my friend, she’s just crazy.”
“On the contrary, that’s the most interesting conversation I’ve had all day.”
“Bret?” Until that moment, Hillary had not realized how much she needed to hear his voice.
“Right the first time.” She could almost see the slow smile spread across his features. “Welcome back to the concrete jungle, Hillary. How was Kansas?”
“Fine,” she stammered. “It was just fine.”
“Mmm, how illuminating. Did you enjoy your Christmas?”
“Yes, very much.” Struggling to regain the composure that had fled at the sound of his voice, she spoke quickly. “And you? Did you have a nice holiday?”
“Delightful, though I’m sure it was a great deal quieter than yours.”
“Different anyway,” Hillary rejoined, annoyed.
“Ah, well, that’s behind us now. Actually, I’m calling about this weekend.”
“Weekend?” Hillary repeated dumbly.
“Yes, a trip to the mountains.”
“Mountains?”
“You sound like a parrot,” he said shortly. “Do you have anything important scheduled from Friday through Sunday?”
“Well, I … ah …”
“Lord, what an astute conversationalist you are.” His voice reflected growing annoyance.
Swallowing, she attempted to be more precise. “No. That is, nothing essential. I—”
“Good,” he interrupted. “Ever been skiing?”
“In Kansas?” she retorted, regaining her balance. “I believe mountains are rather essential for skiing.”
“So they are,” he agreed absently. “Well, no matter. I had an idea for some pictures of a lovely lady frolicking in the snow. I’ve a lodge in the Adirondacks near Lake George. It’ll make a nice setting. We can combine business with pleasure.”
“We?” Hillary murmured weakly.
“No need for panic,” he assured her, his words heavy with mockery. “I’m not abducting you to the wilderness to ravish you, although the idea does have some interesting angles.” He paused, then laughed outright. “I can feel you blushing right through the phone.”
“Very funny,” she retorted, infuriated that he could read her so easily. “I’m beginning to recall an urgent engagement for the weekend, so—”
“Hold on, Hillary,” he interrupted again, his words suddenly brooking no argument. “You’re under contract. My rights hold for a cou
ple more months. You wanted to get back to work; I’m putting you back to work.”
“Yes, but—”
“Read the fine print if you like, but keep this weekend clear. And relax,” he continued as she remained silent. “You’ll be well protected from my dishonorable advances. Larry and June will be coming with us. Bud Lewis, my assistant art director, will be
