If I Can't Have You

by Iris Morland

  She looked at him in shock. "Seriously? Not even as a kid? That is the saddest thing I've ever heard. It's one of my favorites."

  He grunted, looking uncomfortable. "I don't get cartoons. Anyway, do you need anything else? I need to get back to work."

  "Well, I guess, what do you want me to do? You are paying me. I guess you're my boss now."

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "Whatever you think is best. I'm not going to give you a list of tasks or anything." Before he left, he added, "And I'll pay you two thousand a week. That all right?"

  "That's fine," she replied, a little stunned.

  He nodded and left her alone again.

  If he were the beast in this scenario, he was doing a terrible job of it. Two thousand a week? He must be crazy.

  "Isn't he supposed to lock me up in his dungeon or something?" she asked both cats. "Demand that I stay with him if I want my dying father to go free? Not pay me an exorbitant amount of money to sleep in his guest room?"

  Wentworth ignored her and instead threw himself at the window screen when a bug flew past.

  Abby decided to explore. Once again, she thought of Beauty and the Beast, wondering if there was a west wing she should avoid. She wandered about, touching tables and furniture.

  Although it was a pretty house, she had to admit, it was impersonal. It didn't look like anyone lived here. If it weren't for the dishes near the sink or the boots inside the front door, she'd never know anyone lived here.

  When she got to Mark's bedroom, she looked over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't behind her. She shouldn't wander into his bedroom, but she also had an insatiable curiosity for mysteries. And at any rate, both cats were playing on Mark's bed, so she could say that she came in here to get them if he caught her snooping.

  "Don't rip that up!" She picked up Wentworth from trying to climb a curtain. The cat darted into the adjoining bathroom, and she heard a crash not soon after.

  "Out!" She picked up both cats and tossed them out of the bedroom, which earned her flattened ears and a few howls of protest. She shut the door behind her, and then she realized she was now in Mark's room with no real excuse for being there.

  You should leave, she told herself. A bedroom is a private place.

  Listening for footsteps, she decided that she could at least look, right? She wasn't planning on going through his underwear drawer or anything.

  His bedroom reflected him, she thought: straightforward, without fuss. He had a large bed built of dark wood, and it was easily the most expensive piece in the room.

  Abby couldn't stop herself from wondering what it would be like to be in that bed with him. She flushed, biting the inside of her cheek. Running a hand down the comforter, she smiled at how soft it was. So he likes nice bedding. She could appreciate a man who understood the importance of high-thread counts.

  The right side table had some books, an empty glass, and a pair of reading glasses. Abby read the titles of the books—all nonfiction about wars or horses—and wandered around the rest of the room.

  There was a dresser with a wooden box on it. A tall lamp in the corner. A basket, a bookshelf with a few more titles. It smelled like hay and cedar, but there were no pictures on the walls.

  The only photo was on his dresser, the first photo she'd seen in the house. It was of his entire family, including some of the Thornton siblings Abby had yet to meet. The resemblance between all six siblings was rather uncanny, she thought.

  Mark stood at the back, Harrison and Caleb beside him. Another Thornton brother—Abby didn't know his name—stood next to Caleb, and then the two sisters sat in front. Dave Thornton stood with his boys while Lisa sat with the girls. Dave had his hand resting on Lisa's shoulder, and although they both looked serious, the photo was a happy one. Abby noted that Mark didn't smile, though. When did that man ever smile?

  As she touched the frame, though, something slipped from behind it. It was another photo. Curious, she picked it up. This photo was of a woman. She was beautiful, with dark auburn hair and a bright smile; her smile seemed to be for the photographer. The woman sat in a garden, and she had a rose in her hand.

  A bite of envy tugged at Abby's heart. This wasn't a photo of a sister or a family member. Although the woman was fully clothed, the picture was almost sensual in its composition. And the woman gazed at the person behind the camera with love in her eyes.

  So why had Mark hidden the photo like this? Had he been the photographer? Had he loved this woman?

  "What are you doing?"

  Abby yelped and in her haste to place the photo back where it belong, she hit her elbow on the corner of the dresser. She swore.

  Mark raised a dark eyebrow.

  She tried to find some kind of excuse, and the only one she could come up with was, "The cats were in here."

  He looked around. "They're not in here now."

  A blush climbed up her cheeks. Rubbing her bruised elbow, she tried to move past Mark, but he stayed her with a light touch.

  "What were you doing in here?" he asked again. He didn't sound angry. If Abby didn't know better, he sounded bored. Uninterested. Only his furrowed brows gave away that he was even slightly annoyed.

  It was the same voice he'd used when he'd given her his ultimatum. It was a tone that tried to hide how he really felt.

  His face darkened when he saw the photo of the woman. Opening the top drawer, he tossed the picture inside and closed the drawer in a quick movement. He leaned against the dresser now, unmoving.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have snooped. I was curious. That photo—"

  "Is none of your business." His tone brooked no argument. "I need groceries." He handed her a wad of cash. "Can you go get some?"

  "What do you want? Or need?"

  "Doesn't matter. Just get food. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  She smarted at his tone. She almost opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Mark was already walking away. She followed, feeling foolish and guilty. She'd poked the hornet's nest, hadn't she?

  "Wait!" She raced after Mark, following him outside. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried. It's none of my business who that woman was."

  “You had no right to look around like that. Can’t a man get some damn privacy in his own home?” he rumbled before stalking away.

  Abby sighed. Feeling a feline body curl around her ankle, she reached down to pick up Darcy, who'd followed her outside.

  "I guess we pissed off the beast, didn't we?" she said, wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into.

  5

  Mark worked until his arm ached like the devil. His head hurt, he was thirsty, and he needed to take another Vicodin. He didn't want to—painkillers made him loopy and sick to his stomach—but that was better than the fire burning in his arm.

  "You just had to throw me, didn't you?" he asked his horse Samson. Samson snorted and pawed the ground, not the least bit sorry for unseating his rider.

  Although Samson was young, he was usually an easy ride, but not when he ran into snakes. Mark hadn't even noticed the snake in their path before Samson had reared. Not expecting it, Mark had landed on his left arm, snapping the bone with a sickening cracking sound.

  Mark had been stubborn, not believing he'd broken it. It was a sprain; it would heal on its own. Until the pain had gotten so bad that he'd had to accept that he'd broken it, while Charlie had bullied him to go to the hospital.

  Now he not only had a broken arm in a cast and sling, but he had a beautiful nurse running about his ranch. That same nurse he'd been rude to earlier because he was as prickly as a hedgehog. He rubbed his temples as he entered the house, not sure if Abby would speak to him.

  He needed to apologize. When he saw that her car was still in the driveway, he had to admit, he'd been surprised. He'd expected her to leave without a goodbye. He'd acted like a total jerk, and over one measly photo.

  He inhaled the scent of cooked meat and onions, and his stomach rumbled. Had she reall
y cooked? His gut twisted with guilt. He didn't deserve that.

  After cleaning up and changing his clothes, he walked into the kitchen to see Abby cooking away like she'd lived here for years. Like a wife would.

  He didn't know what this feeling was in his chest—joy? Terror? She whistled off-key as she cooked, periodically shooing the cats off of the counter. It was a scene he never thought he'd see in his kitchen.

  He cleared his throat. Abby looked up, startled.

  "Oh, you're back." She wiped her hands on a tea towel, but then she seemed not to know what to do next. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah. It smells good in here."

  She shrugged. "You had no food, so I got as much as I could while in town. I didn't feel like eating microwave dinners. It's just chicken marsala—nothing fancy."

  She didn't sound upset, but then again, she didn't seem all that happy to see him, either.

  "You didn't need to cook for me," he said quietly.

  "I didn't. I cooked for myself. There just happens to be enough for us both."

  So she was upset. He frowned.

  Silence fell. Mark stuffed his hand into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. Staring up at the ceiling, he said, "Look, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. In my bedroom. I was out of line."

  When Abby didn't reply, he looked at her face, wondering what she was thinking. She'd moved to lean against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest.

  "You were rude," she said bluntly. "I shouldn't have been snooping, but you could've handled it better. You acted like I tried to kill your dog."

  He winced.

  "Look, when I said I'd help you, I meant it. But I'm not going to stay if you snap at me. I don't care if you tell everyone that we're not dating. I have my pride, too."

  He had to respect her for her honesty. Most women would've been in tears, but not Abby. She looked at him straight on, unafraid and unintimidated. He couldn't stop the smile creasing his face.

  She didn't reply for a moment. He waited, impatiently, expecting her to say she'd pack her things right then and there.

  "You know why I really said yes to this?" she asked.

  He shook his head.

  "One, because I don't want my mom to know that I lied to her. And two, you're like a puzzle I can't figure out."

  "A puzzle?" He didn't know if he should be amused or offended.

  "You insult me, snap at me, and then you tell my ex that we're together to get him off of my back.” She looked up at him, and her gaze hit him square in the chest. "So, yeah, you're a puzzle."

  He struggled with how to explain his motives. Finally, he muttered, "I'm not good with people."

  Her lips quirked up. "I figured."

  She didn't say anything else, and it drove him insane. What was she thinking? Why was she silent when she hadn't been silent since he'd met her?

  She shrugged. “Well, I think I will stay, if it's all the same to you. I needed a change of scenery, you're paying me, and I like mysteries. Let's call a truce."

  Smiling a little, he said, "Truce."

  "Good. Just FYI, you look like hell. Are you in pain right now?"

  He wanted to deny it, but she could see right through him. He nodded.

  "Eat something before you take a Vicodin. It'll help with any nausea. I bought some apples. Eat one of those and have a glass of water. You're probably dehydrated as well."

  He didn't know whether he should smile or roll his eyes at her tone, but he couldn't deny that he liked that she cared. That she wanted to stay. That he hadn't screwed everything up like he always did.

  When he was about to sit down for dinner, he almost didn't see the cat on the chair. It didn't help that the cushions on the kitchen chairs were black, and so the cat was all but invisible. It was only when the cat opened its eyes, golden and sleepy, that he noticed the feline curled in a neat ball.

  Abby saw his predicament and laughed. "You can pick him up and move him. He won't bite."

  Mark stared at the cat; the cat stared back. Then the cat stretched its paws, extending its claws, and Mark decided he'd sit somewhere else.

  "Do you mind if they sit on the furniture? I didn't even think to ask." Abby set down platters of food, and Mark inhaled the amazing aroma. "I'm so used to cats everywhere I forget other people don't like it."

  "I don't mind." And he didn't. It was nice to have company, feline included.

  "They'll probably try to follow you into the bathroom and your bedroom if you close the door. Cats hate closed doors."

  "Why?"

  She laughed. "Who knows. Cats are weird. They hate the idea that they're missing out on something. Or that you dared to keep them out."

  "Isn't everybody like that?"

  She blinked. "I guess so. Nobody likes to get left out, do they?"

  Mark grunted, rather wishing he hadn't said anything.

  They began eating, not talking much. Abby seemed like she didn't know what to say, while Mark struggled to find something to talk about. He could always talk about his horses, his ranch, his work, but would Abby want to listen to that? He doubted it. Most women would find talk of farm work tedious at best, painful at worst.

  "So did you grow up here in Fair Haven?" he asked her after he'd sorted through one question after another, trying to find a suitable one.

  She finished swallowing a bite of chicken. "No, I grew up in eastern Washington, near Spokane. I moved here when I got my position at Fair Haven Memorial."

  "How long have you been here, then?"

  "About five years. You grew up here, right?"

  He considered. That was a loaded question. His family had lived in Fair Haven for decades. The Thorntons were like the royal family of Fair Haven; they were the wealthiest and most influential in the town and general area. Mark had always hated the snobbery of his family, and he'd never lived up to his parents' lofty expectations.

  "I was born in Fair Haven like the rest of my siblings. Went to high school there and all that."

  "And college?"

  He swallowed, the memories rising. College meant Tina. The old pain resurfaced like it always did. He shrugged it off with a grim smile. "College at Western, then I came back to start my ranch. That's about it."

  Abby raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

  "I don't want to talk about me, though. I'm boring." He sipped his water. "Tell me about you."

  Abby wondered where to start. She thought again about Beauty and the Beast, when the Beast had ordered Belle to eat with him and she'd refused. In the fairy tale, she hadn't refused, but instead had gone to dinner with him. At dinner each night, he'd asked her to marry him. And every time, she refused—until one night when she didn't.

  Mark, though, wasn't a beast. He was gruff and he wasn't good at small talk. But she had a distinct feeling this was due to shyness.

  What was it about him that she found so intriguing? After he'd been rude to her earlier, she should've run back home. She'd known that, and yet she'd gone to buy groceries with the money he'd given her. And then she'd made dinner.

  She'd been angry with him as she'd shopped for food. She'd wanted to hit him with something very hard, or at least, demand an apology.

  Her anger had faded when she'd seen him in the kitchen, looking so forlorn.

  In all honesty, Abby wanted to uncover his mysteries, to unlock whatever was inside this aloof man. It didn't help that he was so attractive, with his chiseled jaw and arresting features, his eyes a deep green.

  Was it merely her hormones at play? Was she so easily led astray by a handsome man?

  She didn't think so. His good looks aside, she wanted to know him. She wanted to understand what was underneath all of those layers and walls.

  Now he wanted to know about her. Well, that was better than him growling at her for looking at a photo. She wanted to know about the woman in the photo, but she sensed that would need to wait.

  "Let's see, I was born in a place called Tripton. It's a tiny town thirty miles outside
of Spokane. I grew up there for the most part, although we lived in Spokane for a few years when I was a teenager. I did my nursing program at Gonzaga, and then got my current job. That's about it."

  "What about your parents?"

  "My mom lives in Fair Haven now as well. I'm an only child, and my dad died when I was four. So it's been us two for as long as I can remember."

  "She never remarried?"

  "No, and not because she was so in love with my dad. She just wasn't interested." Abby shrugged. "I think with a daughter to raise and having to work multiple jobs, dating wasn't on the table for her."

  Despite her insistence on Abby marrying, Fiona had given up on remarrying for her own sake. She told Abby she was too old now. Any man her age would be a divorcé or a widower, and she didn't have time for that kind of baggage. Men her age wanted younger women anyway. So instead of focusing on her own love life, she focused on Abby's.

  "But she wants you to get married." He watched her, his brows furrowed. "Why?"

  Abby tried not to blush, mostly out of embarrassment. "She doesn't want me to be alone, I guess. She's kind of old-fashioned. She thinks there's no way I can be happy without a man."

  "And can you? Be happy without one?"

  Now she raised her eyebrows. "That's quite a question to ask somebody that you don't know, isn't it?"

  "I think we're past being acquaintances, aren't we?"

  Had they passed that point? There was still so much about Mark she didn't know. She'd only begun to peel back the layers to find who the man was within. Right now, he remained a cipher, the details hazy and his motives even hazier.

  "Ever since I broke up with Derek," she said, "my mom has wanted me to start dating again. She was probably more devastated over our breakup than I was."

  Mark grunted, his attention now on cutting the chicken on his plate.

  "And now, a year after my breakup, I get to hang out with you," Abby said. Her tone was sunny, teasing, and it elicited a small smile from him. "Since I've bored you with the details about myself, I want to know about you. No, you don't get to say no this time. Why did you want to start a ranch?"