Undeniably Yours (21 page)

Once they'd reached Whispering Creek, he walked her to her door. Right at the moment when he expected her to disappear into her little guesthouse, she turned to him, rose onto her tiptoes, and gave him a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his neck near his ear.

He stilled, stunned. He only had time to soak in the impression of softness and the smell of roses before she let go and vanished. The door closed behind her.

He stood outside in the dark, holding himself motionless. That simple contact had thrown his body—which had been on edge for days—into howling chaos.

Aunt Pamela had always had a spooky knack for reading minds. Something she proved by calling Meg less than a minute after Meg parted from Bo.

She was unstrapping her heels when her cell phone started ringing. She pulled it from her purse and read Aunt Pamela's name illuminated across the screen. Her daily portion of tolerance for Aunt Pamela had already been spent. She pondered ignoring the call, but knew from past experience that doing so would only make it worse. “Hello?”

“Meg, it's Aunt Pamela.”

“Hello.” She lowered herself onto her wingback chair. Cashew jumped into her lap.

“Listen, I'm sorry if I offended you earlier with what I said about your date.”

As soon as her aunt had discovered that Bo managed Whispering Creek Horses, she'd wrinkled her nose and said, “Does he have two nickels to rub together?” Then she'd attempted to question Meg about his finances.

“You're the one,” Meg pointed out, “who insisted I bring a date.”

“Of course! But I thought you'd bring someone . . . more like yourself.”

What? Riddled with panic attacks?

“I'm concerned about you,” Aunt Pamela continued. “That's all. And you know why.”

“No. I don't know why.”

“Because now you have more reason to be careful than you've ever had before.”

“You mean now that my father's gone.”

“Exactly. Now that your father's gone and you've inherited an
incredibly
large fortune. You are not an ordinary girl.”

Funny, when she often felt very ordinary on the inside. Goodness, her family wearied her. If only she could throw her phone into the pool, drag Bo inside her guesthouse, and shut out everyone in the world but him. He had at least one tattoo she
really
wanted to check out.

“It's certainly fine to be friends with men like this Bo Porter, to bring them to events like Tara's party, to date them, even. But take my advice and make double sure that the fun ends there. All right?”

“Aunt Pamela—”

“There are a lot of fortune hunters out there.”

“I don't think Bo is one.”

“Yes, but you can't be certain, can you? I've been around awhile and I've gained some wisdom. The only way to be certain that a man isn't marrying you for your money is to marry someone who's already wealthy.”

Meg's bottom lip plopped open. She'd had no idea her aunt would ever speak to her so bluntly or stoop so low.

“A wealthy man will understand you better, Meg. It's important to have your upbringing in common, to share similar interests.”

“Like what?” Meg asked. “Yachting?”

“Meg,” her aunt scolded.

“I've known lots of rich men and frankly . . .”
I'd rather take my chances with Bo any day of the week
. “I find them to be some of the greediest people alive. How can I be sure that a rich man isn't going to marry me just to get his hands on more money?”

“Two syllables. Pre. Nup.”

Charged silence filled the phone like static. Meg's anger spiked, and she knew she needed to disconnect before she said something regrettable. “I'd . . . ah, better let you go. I need to
go take care of Cashew.” Her cat remained on her lap, already halfway into a coma.

“All right, then. We'll talk more about this later.”

“Bye.” Meg ended the call and flicked the phone aside. Carrying Cashew, she went to stand at the window that overlooked Mr. Son's artistry and the shimmery, satin-like surface of the pool.

Every single good thing about her evening had come to her because of Bo. His words, his smile, the searing thrill of her attraction to him, the deep reassurance of his friendship. Those things and those alone had salvaged the party for her. When she looked back on this night, those were the only gems of memory she'd savor.

Aunt Pamela didn't give Meg's judgment much credit. And to be sure, Meg had never given her own judgment much credit, either. But sometimes a person just knew, sensed, recognized the difference between a safe haven and a toxic harbor. Even though Meg was related to Aunt Pamela and had known her since childhood, Aunt Pamela was the toxic harbor.

And Bo was the safe haven.

Meg herself had been uncertain about Bo's motives in the past. But tonight—after the careful way he'd treated her, after the possessiveness that had overtaken her when she'd seen those two women salivating over him—she'd grown more certain of Bo than ever.

It might be time to put the last of her uncertainties away.

As was his habit, Bo worked most of the following day, Saturday. Finally satisfied with the state of things at the farm, he left Whispering Creek, pulled into the gas station, stopped at
Brookshire's for Dr. Pepper and groceries, then headed home. Ordinary.

As he drove up to his house, he spotted a gleaming black Porsche parked at the end of the drive. Not ordinary.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened because he didn't need to see the face of the man sitting inside the car to know who'd come to pay him a visit, and why. This was just like the other night all over again, when he'd arrived home and found his brother waiting. Same situation. Same reason. Different man.

Feeling much older than his years, he parked and crossed to the Porsche.

Meg's Uncle Michael climbed out of his car.

“Sir,” Bo said when he reached him.

“Bo.” They shook hands.

Bo stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and waited, grinding his back teeth so hard that pain shot along his jaw. He'd always taken pride in his land and his house, but he understood how plain and simple they must look to Meg's uncle.

“Sorry to interrupt your weekend,” Michael said.

Bo lowered his chin in acknowledgment.

“I came to talk to you. About Meg.”

T
his'll be fun,” Amber said.

“Mmm-hmm,” Meg answered, though she wasn't so sure. She pulled her Mercedes into a spot in front of All the Time Fitness and looked dubiously at the medium-sized gym, located at the end of a strip mall. All the Time was the first nationwide chain of gyms to have ventured into Holley. It offered the local residents something they'd never had access to before: the boon of exercise at midnight, or four a.m., or dawn.

Personally, Meg preferred to exercise during regular human hours in the privacy of her father's home gym. She'd tried to tell Amber that she needed to tackle her Cole Oil homework, but Amber had been dying to try out All the Time Fitness and had convinced Meg to accompany her. Pair that with Sadie Jo's insistence that she needed a Jayden fix this Sunday afternoon, and here they were. They walked together toward the gym's entrance, dressed in workout gear and carrying water bottles and hand towels.

“It's just so much better,” Amber said, “to work out with other people around, you know? I bet there'll be some cute guys in here.”

“We're going to a step class. I'm pretty sure that cute guys don't flock to step classes.”

“Not
in
our class, Meg! The cute ones will be lifting weights or running on treadmills. We can check them out as we pass by.”

“Oh.”

While Amber stopped at the desk to secure guest passes, Meg surveyed the interior. Amber's prediction had come true. Two cute guys were lifting weights. In fact, one of them looked a lot like Bo. Tingles and hope flowed over her and she took a few steps toward him, but when he turned, the tingles fizzled. Not Bo.

Her attention skirted past a smattering of people on the cardio machines before catching on a middle-aged guy on the mats in front of the mirrors. He was doing calisthenics, violent stretches, jumping, and martial arts moves. While Meg watched, he leaned over and executed a headstand.

Maybe there was something to be said for public gyms after all.

They made their way into the room used for group classes. Four other ladies and one not-cute guy were in the process of setting up their step benches by adding risers underneath. Amber and Meg went to work doing the same.

“Did you notice those guys by the weights?” Amber whispered to Meg.

“I did.”

“See? I told you!”

“Did you notice the guy doing the headstand?”

“What? No! How could I have missed it?”

A woman no younger than seventy years of age strode into the room wearing bright pink lipstick, a black T-shirt with a jeweled fleur-de-lis on the front, black shorts over spandex leggings, and jazz shoes. Her short, matte black hair looked like it
might have been aided by bald-spot spray—the stuff that had the consistency of the fake snow they sprayed on Christmas trees.

“Hello, everyone!” she called. “Let's get ready to rock out!”

“Is this our teacher?” Meg asked Amber under her breath.

“I don't know. I . . .” Amber, who'd been so confident about coming, suddenly looked doubt-riddled.

The woman slid a CD into the stereo.

“I guess she is,” Amber said.

Maybe they'd accidentally happened into a class for senior adults. If so, this class would be way too easy, since Meg had been hitting the elliptical and the weights with such regularity. She glanced at their fellow participants, all decades younger than the teacher. Couldn't be a class for seniors.

“SexyBack” poured from the wall-mounted speakers. “Come on!” their pink-lipped teacher called out. “Let's do it!”

Before Meg knew it, she was following the woman's sprightly steps through a warm-up. Their teacher had no risers under her bench. It just sat, flat on the floor. And it didn't take Meg long to realize that the two risers she'd stuck under each end of her bench may have been a little ambitious. She rallied the inner cheerleader she'd never been, and determined to do her best.

“‘Get your sexy on,'” their teacher chanted in time to the lyrics. “‘Get your sexy on.'”

Pink Lips would demonstrate the steps with her bandy little legs and then, once they were all in the rhythm of the pattern, leave her bench to walk around the room tossing out cheerful encouragements. When satisfied that the group had killed themselves enough with one set of steps, she'd show them a new set, then walk around again.

“How're you liking this?” She stopped in front of Meg as Meg bounced up and down. “Getting a good workout?”

“Yep.” She didn't have enough breath to heap further reassurances on the woman.

Had she actually worried for a split second that this class would be too easy? My word! She spared a look at Amber, who appeared to be weathering the class better than Meg. Apparently, the job of chasing a toddler all day rendered a person admirably fit.

“‘I'm bringing sexy back!'” their teacher sung.

Way back
, in Pink Lips' case.

Meg's face flushed a light, bright red. Her lungs pumped heavily. Sweat stung her eyes and dropped off her chin. At one point, she thought she might have to throw up. Her body screamed at her to stop, that she couldn't do it.

But something stubborn inside of her disagreed. She
could
do it. It hurt, but it wouldn't last forever. These muscles and bones of hers had to answer to her will. Her heart could seize with a heart attack if it wanted, but she
wasn't
going to stop. She clenched her teeth and gutted it through.

When a new song began, and the steps changed to something marginally easier, a surge of energy mounted inside her, strong and heady. She'd heard the term “runner's high.” Goodness knows, she wasn't a runner. Her chest was too big, for one thing. And then there was the fact that she, well, hated running. But maybe this was her version of a runner's high.

She glanced at herself in the mirrors. A curvy blonde of medium height and medium attractiveness. Short tufts of hair had escaped her ponytail. Perspiration had caused her eye makeup to smear. Her skin had turned blotchy with exertion.

Despite all that, she liked the Megan Cole in the mirror because this Megan Cole was no weakling. This woman wasn't frozen with fear, self-doubt, or panic attacks.

She didn't know if exercise had made her thinner, or gotten her heart into shape, or added muscles that burned calories. What had it done for her? Tested her determination. Every time she'd faced it and bested it, she'd grown in strength. Working out had put her in touch with something she'd lost her grip on years ago and wanted back: her God-given power.

“Lookin' good!” Pink Lips hollered. “Work it hard, ladies and gentleman. C'mon!” She did a couple of big overhead claps. “Let's do it!”

Meg swiped sweat from her forehead. God had been patient with her for a long time now. She'd all but buried herself five years ago. Yet somehow, in His incredible strength, God had pulled her through the heartbreak, betrayal, divorce, and crushing anxiety.

Jesus had been buried once, too, after all. But He hadn't stayed that way. He'd risen, alive and victorious. He'd overcome. All along the way He'd whispered to Meg that He could do the same for her, that in Him, she, too, could overcome.

She'd trusted Him, and He'd been faithful. He'd helped her when she couldn't help herself. And gradually, she'd begun to leave the devastation behind. Thanks only to Him, she'd grown in strength until, for the first time in years, she thought she might be ready to stand tall and handle the demands of her life.

With her recovery came His call to help others just as He'd helped her. Full circle.

I'm willing
, she told him.
Let's move forward together—you and me. I'm ready. Just show me the way.

On the way back to Whispering Creek, Meg and Amber pulled into Sonic. They didn't dare order anything calorie-laden after
the workout they'd just endured, so they opted for half-price happy hour iced teas sweetened with Splenda. They settled across from one another at an outdoor table, covered in cooling sweat and the satisfaction of cardio survived.

“Remember how Brimm and I were working on the search a few nights ago?” Amber asked.

“Yes.”

“Well . . . we found Stephen.”

Meg stared.

Amber fiddled with her straw.

“You did?” Meg kept her face and voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah. He's in Phoenix, going by a different last name. Brimm was able to give me his telephone number and address and everything. Brimm's amazing.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Anyway, it was strange because as much as I've wanted to find Stephen, once I had his number, it made me kind of sick to think about actually calling him. You know?”

Meg nodded. Just thinking about Stephen had the same effect on her.

“I finally dialed his number yesterday. One of those recorded messages from the operator came on, saying that the number had been disconnected.”

“Oh.”

“I guess I should have been disappointed. But I was sort of . . . glad. I mean, I did what I wanted to do: I found him. And I had the guts to dial his number. But when that recording came on, I took it as a sign. I think I oughta put him behind me like you have.”

“Oh, Amber.” Relieved tears sprang to Meg's eyes.

“Living at Whispering Creek, being around all of you nice
people, has helped me. I don't feel so empty and furious anymore. I feel . . . you know, peaceful. I have a good thing going. I don't need to find Stephen like I did before.”

“You know I was ready to support you no matter what, but I'm glad to hear that. Come here.” Meg hugged the younger woman, then kept hold of one of her hands when she released her. “I think you're right.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I think you're doing the right thing for both you and Jayden.”

“Leave him in the rearview mirror, right?”

“Leave him in the rearview mirror,” Meg agreed.

“That doesn't mean I won't still tell him off if I get the chance though, Meg. If I ever seem him again, believe me—I'll tell him off good.”

Later that afternoon, Meg drove along Whispering Creek's narrow back lanes. She hadn't seen Bo since the party Friday night and she missed him.

She checked her lip gloss, even though she'd spent twenty minutes primping before she'd left the guesthouse. It looked the same as it had the last time she'd checked it—ten seconds ago. “You've officially lost it over him,” she said to the empty interior of her car. “Officially. You realize this?”

As usual when she arrived at the farm, she spotted a groom inside the stable and exchanged greetings with him before making her way outside to the paddock. She took up her usual position at the fence and waited, not very patiently, for Bo.

The little foals had grown taller and bulkier over the past month and a half since she'd started coming. She'd given them
all names. Tonight, little Fifi and Bartholomew were outdoors with their mothers. While she looked on, they took off on a game of chase, running with their long legs stretching, their bushy tails extended high. When they stopped, they reared a few times facing one another, then kicked up their back heels, then launched into what looked like baby equine wrestling.

Meg smiled. She might not like riding horses, but she sure did enjoy viewing them from firm land at a safe distance.

At length, she checked her watch. Strange. Every other time she'd come to the farm, Bo had arrived sooner than this. It was Sunday, but that had never stopped him before. Was it possible that something was the matter with him . . . or between them? She scanned the parking lot and the roads beyond for a sign of Bo's truck. Nothing.

She thought back over their evening at the party. She couldn't think of anything he'd said or done to indicate that their friendship had changed in any way. On the contrary, he'd been incredibly kind to her during the car ride home.