by Nora Roberts
of you. Why don’t you both leave? Now, at once!” She made a wild gesture at the door. “Out, out, out!”
“Just a minute,” Bret broke in, buttoning up the last button of his shirt.
“You keep out of this,” Hillary snapped, glaring at him. She turned back to Charlene. “I’ve had it up to the ears with you, but I’m in no mood for fighting at the moment. If you want to come back later, we’ll see about it.”
“I see no reason to speak to you again,” Charlene announced with a toss of her head. “You’re no problem to me. After all, what could Bret possibly see in a cheap little tramp like you?”
“Tramp,” Hillary repeated in an ominously low voice. “Tramp?” she repeated, advancing.
“Hold on, Hillary.” Bret jumped up, grabbing her around the waist. “Calm down.”
“You really are a little savage, aren’t you?” shot Charlene.
“Savage? I’ll show you savage.” Hillary struggled furiously against Bret.
“Be quiet, Charlene,” he warned softly, “or I’ll turn her loose on you.”
He held the struggling Hillary until her struggles lost their force.
“Let me go. I won’t touch her,” she finally agreed. “Just get her out of here.” She whirled on Bret. “And you get out, too! I’ve had it with the pair of you. I won’t be used this way. If you want to make her jealous, find someone else to dangle in front of her! I want you out—out of my life, out of my mind.” She lifted her chin, heedless of the dampness that covered her cheeks. “I never want to see either of you again.”
“Now you listen to me.” Bret gripped her shoulders more firmly and gave her a brief but vigorous shake.
“No.” She wrenched herself out of his grip. “I’m through listening to you. Through, finished—do you understand? Just get out of here, take your friend with you, and both of you leave me alone.”
Picking up his jacket, Bret stared for a moment at flushed cheeks and swimming eyes. “All right, Hillary, I’ll take her away. I’ll give you a chance to pull yourself together, then I’ll be back. We haven’t nearly finished yet.”
She stared at the door he closed behind him through a mist of angry tears. He could come back all right, she decided, brushing away drops of weakness. But she wouldn’t be here.
Rushing into the bedroom, she pulled out her cases, throwing clothes into them in heaps. I’ve had enough! she thought wildly, enough of New York, enough of Charlene Mason, and especially enough of Bret Bardoff. I’m going home.
In short order, she rapped on Lisa’s door. Her friend’s smile of greeting faded at the sight of Hillary’s obvious distress.
“What in the world—” she began, but Hillary cut her off.
“I don’t have time to explain, but I’m leaving. Here’s my key.” She thrust it into Lisa’s hand. “There’s food in the fridge and cupboards. You take it, and anything else you like. I won’t be coming back.”
“But, Hillary—”
“I’ll make whatever arrangements have to be made about the furniture and the lease later. I’ll write and explain as soon as I can.”
“But, Hillary,” Lisa called after her, “where are you going?”
“Home,” she answered without turning back. “Home where I belong.”
If Hillary’s unexpected arrival surprised her parents, they asked no questions and made no demands. Soon she fell into the old, familiar pattern of days on the farm. A week drifted by, quiet and undemanding.
During this time it became Hillary’s habit to spend quiet times on the open porch of the farmhouse. The interlude between dusk and sleep was the gentlest. It was the time that separated the busy hours of the day from the reflective hours of the night.
The porch swing creaked gently, disturbing the pure stillness of the evening, and she watched the easy movement of the moon, enjoying the scent of her father’s pipe as he sat beside her.
“It’s time we talked, Hillary,” he said, draping his arm around her. “Why did you come back so suddenly?”
With a deep sigh, she rested her head against him. “A lot of reasons. Mostly because I was tired.”
“Tired?”
“Yes, tired of being framed and glossed. Tired of seeing my own face. Tired of having to pull emotions and expressions out of my hat like a second-rate magician, tired of the noise, tired of the crowds.” She made a helpless movement with her shoulders. “Just plain tired.”
“We always thought you had what you wanted.”
“I was wrong. It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t all I wanted.” She stood and leaned over the porch rail, staring into the curtain of night. “Now I don’t know if I’ve accomplished anything.”
“You accomplished a great deal. You worked hard and made a successful career on your own, and one that you can be proud of. We’re all proud of you.”
“I know I worked for what I got. I know I was good at my job.” She moved away and perched on the porch rail. “When I left home, I wanted to see what I could do for myself by myself. I knew exactly what I wanted, where I was going. Everything was catalogued in neat little piles. First A, then B, and down the line. Now I’ve got something most women in my position would jump at, and I don’t want it. I thought I did, but now, when all I have to do is reach out and take it, I don’t want it. I’m tired of putting on the faces.”
“All right, then it’s time to stop. But I think there’s more to your decision to come home than you’re saying. Is there a man mixed up in all this?”
“That’s all finished,” Hillary said with a shrug. “I got in over my head, out of my class.”
“Hillary Baxter, I’m ashamed to hear you talk that way.”
“It’s true.” She managed a smile. “I never really fit into his world. He’s rich and sophisticated, and I keep forgetting to be glamorous and do the most ridiculous things. Do you know, I still whistle for cabs? You just can’t change what you are. No matter how many images you can slip on and off, you’re still the same underneath.” Shrugging again, she stared into space. “There was never really anything between us—at least not on his side.”
“Then he must not have too many brains,” her father commented, scowling at his pipe.
“Some might claim you’re just a little prejudiced.” Hillary gave him a quick hug. “I just needed to come home, I’m going up now. With the rest of the family coming over tomorrow, we’ll have a lot to do.”
The air was pure and sweet when Hillary mounted her buckskin gelding and set off on an early morning ride. She felt light and free, the wind blowing wildly through her hair, streaming it away from her face in a thick black carpet. In the joy of wind and speed, she forgot time and pain, and the clinging feeling of failure was lost. Reining in the horse, she contemplated the huge expanse of growing wheat.
It was endless, stretching into eternity—a golden ocean rippling under an impossibly blue sky. Somewhere a meadowlark heralded life. Hillary sighed with contentment. Lifting her face, she enjoyed the caressing fingers of sun on her skin, the surging scent of land bursting into life after its winter sleep.
Kansas in the spring, she mused. All the colors so real and vivid, the air so fresh and full of peace. Why did I ever leave? What was I looking for? She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. I was looking for Hillary Baxter, she thought, and now that I’ve found her, I don’t know what to do with her.
“Time’s what I need now, Cochise,” she told her four-legged companion, and leaned forward to stroke his strong neck. “Just a little time to find all the scattered pieces and put them back together.”
Turning the horse toward home, she set off in an easy, gentle lope, content with the soothing rhythm and the spring-softened landscape. As the farm and outbuildings came into view, however, Cochise pawed the ground, straining at the bit.
“All right, you devil.” She tossed back her head and laughed, and with a touch of her heels sent the eager horse racing. The air vibrated with the sound of hooves on hard dirt. Hillary let
her spirits fly as she gave the gelding his head. They cleared an old wooden jump in a fluid leap, touched earth, and streaked on, sending a flock of contented birds into a flurry of protesting activity.
As they drew nearer the house, her eyes narrowed as she spotted a man leaning on the paddock fence. She pulled back sharply on the reins, causing Cochise to rear in insult.
“Easy,” she soothed, stroking his neck and murmuring soft words as he snorted in indignation. Her eyes were focused on the man. It appeared half a continent had not been big enough for a clean escape.
Chapter Ten
“Quite a performance.” Bret straightened his lean form and strode toward them. “I couldn’t tell where the horse left off and the woman began.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Just passing by—thought I’d drop in.” He stroked the horse’s muzzle.
Gritting her teeth, Hillary slipped to the ground.
“How did you know where to find me?” She stared up at him, wishing she had kept her advantage astride the horse.
“Lisa heard me pounding on your door. She told me you’d gone home.” He spoke absently, appearing more interested in making the gelding’s acquaintance than enlightening her. “This is a fine horse, Hillary.” He turned his attention from horse to woman, gray eyes sweeping over windblown hair and flushed cheeks. “You certainly know how to ride him.”
“He needs to be cooled off and rubbed down.” She felt unreasonably annoyed that her horse seemed so taken with the long fingers caressing his neck. She turned to lead him away.
“Does your friend have a name?” He fell into step beside her.
“Cochise.” Her answer was short. She barely suppressed the urge to slam the barn door in his face as Bret entered beside her.
“I wonder if you’re aware how perfectly his coloring suits you.” He made himself comfortable against the stall opening. Hillary began to groom the gelding with fierce dedication.
“I’d hardly choose a horse for such an impractical reason.” She kept her attention centered on the buckskin’s coat, her back firmly toward the man.
“How long have you had him?”
This is ridiculous, she fumed, wanting desperately to throw the curry comb at him. “I raised him from a foal.”
“I suppose that explains why the two of you suit so well.”
He began to poke idly about the barn while she completed her grooming. While her hands were busy, her mind whirled with dozens of questions she could not find the courage to form into words. The silence grew deep until she felt buried in it. Finally she was unable to prolong the gelding’s brushing. She turned to abandon the barn.
“Why did you run away?” he asked as they were struck with the white flash of sunlight outside.
Her mind jumped like a startled rabbit. “I didn’t run away.” She improvised rapidly. “I wanted time to think over the offers I’ve had—it wouldn’t do to make the wrong decision at this point in my career.”
“I see.”
Unsure whether the mockery in his voice was real or a figment of her imagination, she spoke dismissively. “I’ve got work to do. My mother needs me in the kitchen.”
The fates, however, seemed to be against her as her mother opened the back door and stepped out to meet them.
“Why don’t you show Bret around, Hillary? Everything’s under control here.”
“The pies.” Hillary sent out rapid distress signals.
Ignoring the silent plea, Sarah merely patted her head. “There’s plenty of time yet. I’m sure Bret would like a look around before supper.”
“Your mother was kind enough to ask me to stay, Hillary.” He smiled at her open astonishment before turning to her mother. “I’m looking forward to it, Sarah.”
Fuming at the pleasant first-name exchange, Hillary spun around and muttered without enthusiasm, “Well, come on then.” Halting a short distance away, she looked up at him with a honey-drenched smile. “Well, what would you care to see first? The chicken coop or the pig sty?”
“I’ll leave that to you,” he answered genially, her sarcasm floating over him.
Frowning, Hillary began their tour.
Instead of appearing bored as she had expected, Bret appeared uncommonly interested in the workings of the farm, from her mother’s vegetable garden to her father’s gigantic machinery.
He stopped her suddenly with a hand on her shoulder and gazed out at the fields of wheat. “I see what you meant, Hillary,” he murmured at length. “They’re magnificent. A golden ocean.”
She made no response.
Turning to head back, his hand captured hers before she could protest.
“Ever seen a tornado?”
“You don’t live in Kansas for twenty years and not see one,” Hillary said briefly.
“Must be quite an experience.”
“It is,” she agreed. “I remember when I was about seven, we knew one was coming. Everyone was rushing around, securing animals and getting ready. I was standing right about here.” She stopped, gazing into the distance at memory. “I watched it coming, this enormous black funnel, blowing closer and closer. Everything was so incredibly still, you could feel the air weighing down on you. I was fascinated. My father picked me up, tossed me over his shoulder, and hauled me to the storm cellar. It was so quiet, almost like the world had died, then it was like a hundred planes thundering right over our heads.”
He smiled down at her, and she felt the familiar tug at her heart. “Hillary.” He lifted her hand to his lips briefly. “How incredibly sweet you are.”
She began walking again, stuffing her hands strategically in her pockets. In silence, they rounded the side of the farmhouse, while she searched for the courage to ask him why he had come.
“You, ah, you have business in Kansas?”
“Business is one way to put it.” His answer was hardly illuminating, and she attempted to match his easy manner.
“Why didn’t you send one of your minions to do whatever you had in mind?”
“There are certain areas that I find more rewarding to deal with personally.” His grin was mocking and obviously intended to annoy. Hillary shrugged as if she were indifferent to the entire conversation.
Hillary’s parents seemed to take a liking to Bret, and Hillary found herself irritated that Bret fit into the scene so effortlessly. Seated next to her father, on a firm first-name basis, he chatted away like a long-lost friend. The numerous members of her family might have intimidated anyone else. However, Bret seemed undaunted. Within thirty minutes, he had charmed her two sisters-in-law, gained the respect of her two brothers, and the adoration of her younger sister. Muttering about pies, Hillary retreated to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she heard: “Such domesticity.”
Whirling around, she observed Bret’s entrance into the room.
“You’ve flour on your nose.” He wiped it away with his finger. Jerking away, she resumed her action with the rolling pin. “Pies, huh? What kind?” He leaned against the counter as though settling for a comfortable visit.
“Lemon meringue,” she said shortly, giving him no encouragement.
“Ah, I’m rather partial to lemon meringue—tart and sweet at the same time.” He paused and grinned at her averted face. “Reminds me of you.” She cast him a withering glance that left him undaunted. “You do that very well,” he observed as she began rolling out a second crust.
“I work better alone.”
“Where’s that famous country hospitality I’ve heard so much about?”
“You got yourself invited to dinner, didn’t you?” She rolled the wooden pin over the dough as if it were the enemy. “Why did you come?” she demanded. “Did you want to get a look at my little farm? Make fun of my family and give Charlene a good laugh when you got back?”
“Stop it.” He straightened from the counter and took her by the shoulders. “Do you think so little of those people out there that you can say that?” H
er expression altered from anger to astonishment, and his fingers relaxed on her arms. “This farm is very impressive, and your family is full of warm, real people. I’m half in love with your mother already.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, turning back to her work. “That was a stupid thing to say.”
He thrust his hands in the pockets of slim-fitting jeans and strolled to the screen door. “It appears baseball’s in season.”
The door slammed behind him, and Hillary walked over and looked
