The Cowboy Takes a Bride (29 page)

If she wanted to understand Joe, she had to hear what he had to say whether she wanted to or not. His history was what had made him. Ignorance was not an option. Not if she wanted something more.

And she did want something more.

It had been gathering for a while. These feelings.

Joe’s eyes flared darkly. Had she pushed too hard? Why was she pushing? A smart woman would just walk away. Once upon a time she would have just walked away. Why didn’t she just walk away?

She knew the answer before she even thought it—rhetorical question of the highest order. Joe was in pain and all she wanted was to ease his suffering, and if pushing and prodding would do that, then that’s what she would do. He’d pushed her when she’d been in physical pain, forcing her to go to bed when she’d stubbornly clung to her goal of painting the chapel. He’d been right then and she was right now.

Joe stood up, splayed his hands to the small of his back, and paced the floor. The sound of his feet on the hardwood filled the silence. “Becca was a pistol.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry.” He offered a small smile. “Cowboy term. She was a spitfire. Half the men in town were in love with her. She was tempestuous. Impossible to please, and I was crazy for her.”

Jealousy sucker-punched her.
You started this. You asked for it.
“Sounds like she wasn’t good enough for you.”

“You’ve got me up on some pedestal. I was no saint either. Don’t get me wrong. I never cheated on Becca. I might have been a hell-raiser in my day, but once I’m committed to a woman, I’m committed to her. But I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”

“We all have.”

He walked over, sat down, took her hand again, squeezed it. “You’re not built for Jubilee.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’ve got big dreams.”

“So do you.”

“But we’ve got different kinds of dreams.”

I can dream your dreams with you
, she wanted to say, but she didn’t dare. It would kill her soul if she let herself fully love Joe the way he deserved to be loved and then things didn’t work out between them.

“Becca had a way of making you feel more alive than you’d ever felt in your life,” he went on, “but it came with the danger of a downed power line. She was moody and driven. The only person I’ve ever known who was more driven than my wife was your father.” He flicked a gaze over her. “And you. I know you had your issues with Dutch, but like it or not, Mariah, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Mariah drew herself up. “I’m nothing like my father.”

“You’re exactly like him. Same dogged pigheadedness. Same need to believe in something bigger than yourself.”

“And you’re not?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t used to be. Not until, well, Dutch was my lifeline after Becca’s death, and without him and cutting horses”—Joe shrugged—“I don’t know where I’d be.”

“You’re healing.”

“I miss Becca,” he murmured.

Mariah’s hopeful heart frosted over. She tried not to feel jealous. How petty was that? Feeling jealous over a dead woman. “I can’t imagine.”

He stopped pacing, exhaled. “But I know it’s time to let go.”

Mariah held her breath.

“I want to move on.”

“That’s . . .” She trailed off. Anything she said could easily be misconstrued. She didn’t know what to say, so she just let the word lie there, exposed and orphaned.

“I loved Becca, but my wife was far from perfect. I think that you think she was perfect.”

“I haven’t made any assumptions.”

“The town has already done it for you. They’ve canonized Becca because she died young and beautiful and in tragic fashion.”

“It does make a good sad tale.”

“She was pregnant when she died,” he blurted.

Mariah brought her palm to her mouth. “Oh Joe, no!”

“I lost not only my wife, but the unborn child I didn’t even know she was carrying.”

“How did she die?” Mariah came right out and asked it. There was no easy way.

“You haven’t heard from the town grapevine?”

“I want to hear it from you. Things get embellished when they’re passed around.”

He drew in a breath so heavy his rib cage shuddered. “She died in a barrel racing accident. Championship-quality barrel racer. She was on her way to winning top honors.” He paused.

Mariah waited, understanding that he needed time to tell this story in his own way.

“It’s the main thing we had in common. Love of rodeo. We were on the road much of the year. Going from town to town, rodeo to rodeo. Most of the time she was in one place, I was in another.”

“I know how the circuit works,” Mariah said.

She thought of all the places they’d lived in when she was a child. How she’d always felt displaced. The odd kid out. To make up for her displacement, she tried to excel at everything—school, sports, social clubs. She was always wearing masks. Putting on the costume of whatever group she was affiliated with. Doing whatever she could to fit in. No, not just to fit in, but to be the best at whatever she tried, even if she didn’t enjoy it.

“It was an exciting life, an interesting life, but after a while, I wanted more.” Joe rubbed a hand over his thigh.

“More?”

“I felt . . .
insubstantial
. After you win a few tournaments, get several brass belt buckles, what else is there to prove? The glory fades pretty quickly.”

Mariah thought of Dutch. Cutting horses had not only been in his blood, they’d been his drug. It sounded like the same had been true of Becca. But what about Joe? On the surface, he seemed to be as consumed by cutting horses as her father had been. But on deeper inspection, was there much more to the man? Hope lurched, staggered, then picked up momentum.

“I wanted to settle down. Buy a ranch, start a family. But Becca was younger. She wasn’t ready.” He stared down at his hands. “I don’t think she would ever have been ready. Becca’s life force couldn’t be contained. Then I got injured, bought Green Ridge from my parents, but Becca wasn’t happy with that.”

“Joe, you don’t have to say any more. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about her. There’s no—”

“No,” he interrupted. “You’re right. I haven’t spoken about her to anyone since it happened. Not even to Ila. When she comes over, we just drink and tell each other jokes and cry.”

“What
is
your situation with Ila?”

“She’s my oldest friend.”

“Have you two ever . . . um . . . hooked up?”

“No!” he said. “She’s like a sister, hell, a brother, to me.”

“Does Ila know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Ila’s in love with you, Joe.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. Denial. “She’s not.”

“Are you sure she’s not just been biding her time, waiting for your grief to abate? Waiting for you to notice her?”

He looked startled. “I don’t feel that way about Ila. She’s just a good buddy.”

“But Ila feels that way about you.”

“How do you know this?”

“The look on Ila’s face whenever she’s watching you and she knows that you’re not looking.”

“Crap.” He blew out his breath, looked unsettled. “I had no idea.”

“You have to tell her that you’re not interested. You can’t keep stringing her along.”

“I didn’t even know I was stringing her along. Shit, Mariah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Really?”

She nodded. “That’s why she’s so rude to me.”

“Because she knows you and I . . .” He let his words trail off, not defining what was going on between them.

You and I what? What were they?
Mariah’s mind spun, but she said nothing.

“Anyway,” Joe said. “After Becca died we learned she was six weeks’ pregnant.” His voice cracked and he blinked rapidly.

Mariah’s heart constricted. “Oh, Joe. You lost two loved ones that day.”

“Here’s the kicker,” he said in a husky tone. “She had a pregnancy kit in her purse. As if she knew she was pregnant, but she didn’t want to take the test until after the rodeo. She knew it would be her last chance to win. Knew that a pregnancy would sideline her for a long time. So she waited. If she’d just taken the test first, I know she wouldn’t have ridden. I’d still have her. We’d have a baby by now.”

The anguish on his face broke her heart into two pieces. Realization clawed at her. The man wasn’t ready to love again.

He might never be.

Chapter Sixteen

When you’re scared, there’s only one cure; cowboy up.

—Dutch Callahan

S
o that’s my sad story,” Joe said. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Any long-term relationships in your past? Boyfriends, lovers, husbands?”

“No husbands. I haven’t had many boyfriends. I’m not the most gorgeous woman in the world and I do work a lot.”

“There are all kinds of beauty, Mariah. Sure, some women might be supermodel-gorgeous, but you know what? They intimidate guys. I know. I was married to one.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

“But when I look at you, I see so much more than just a pretty face. I see the kindness in those brown eyes. I see warmth and compassion in your smile.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand to stop her.

“You
are
pretty. And I bet there were a lot of guys just waiting to date you.”

“There were a few guys,” she admitted. “But I didn’t want to get serious with any of them. I was so focused on my career. I was young and not really thinking about anything except making a mark for myself in the wedding planning business. I always wanted my own business someday.”

“And now you’ve got it.”

“Not hardly.” She grimaced. “I’ve booked one wedding and I’m doing that for free.”

“You have to start somewhere.”

“I’ve made a start,” she echoed.

“So tell me about Chicago.”

She pushed the round, wire-frame glasses up on her nose. He liked when she wore her glasses. It made her less intimidating, more approachable. A tattered, beat-up guy like him needed a woman who was a bit myopic.

While he was staring at her, she snagged the right corner of her bottom lip up between her teeth. He liked that too. The vulnerable, girlish gesture unleashed the protective guardian in him. He leaned toward her because the closer he got, the more stable she made him feel.

Her delightful smell addled his brain and it was all he could do not to sidle even closer.

“You loved your job. Didn’t you?” Joe asked.

“Yeah.” She breathed.

The wistful note in her voice muscled up his chest. She missed Chicago. Missed her home. Missed her career. She didn’t belong here. He knew it. She knew it, and yet here she was trying to make the best of the situation. He admired that about her. Adaptability.

“What did you love about it?” he asked.

“Making the fantasy real. Making people’s dream come true. If only for a day.”

“So what happened with the dream job?”

Mariah’s face colored. “I made a huge mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

She waved a hand. She had such pretty hands—long and slender, competent and strong. Joe had never thought of hands as sexy before, but Mariah’s hands turned him on. Hell, everything about her turned him on. That was the problem.

It’s just sex. And she reminds you a little of Becca
.

Physically, maybe a little. She was petite and blond, agile and compact, but there the resemblance ended. He wasn’t projecting his feelings for his dead wife on her.

Was he?

It was a confounding thought.

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t get away with that. I opened up to you, it’s time you opened up to me.”

“And tell you about my greatest failure?”

“We all fail.”

“I don’t. Not usually.” She bit her bottom lip again. “But it’s because I’m always wondering what people think of me. How I’m perceived, and I act accordingly. It’s worked well for me until, well . . . it didn’t.”

Joe waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t speak, he feared the iceberg was never going to thaw. Did she realize how she held herself apart from others, a little aloof, unobtainable in her perfection?

If only he could get her to talk. Discover who she really was beneath that smooth veneer. Find out the nature of the heart beating within her. But did he really want to do that? If she told him about herself, it would increase the bond between them. A bond that scared him. She had so much potential to hurt him. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the mask in place? Let things lie? Keep these feelings light and high?