A Town Called Valentine: A Valentine Valley Novel (19 page)

There was a throw rug before the small couch and an upholstered wooden chair facing it. Though still spartan, the apartment was starting to seem more homey. He glanced at her swiftly, then away. What was wrong with him? He was usually the one so at ease, the one in control. And he
needed
that control, knowing his own weaknesses. But tonight . . .

“You must think I’m crazy to be decorating something that’s so temporary,” she said hesitantly.

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that . . . I like how it feels, having my own place. It’s mine, and I want it to look a certain way, without anyone’s influence. Valentine has helped me discover that.” She smiled and shook her head. “Can I get you something to drink? I have Dale’s.”

“My favorite beer,” he said.

“After you ordered it, I thought I’d give it a try. Go ahead and have a seat.”

She moved past him, and he inhaled her scent, saw the jiggle of her breasts, felt his control beginning to slip. He wanted her, he wanted to taste every part of her. Instead, he forced himself to sit down gingerly on the little couch, in case it creaked under his weight. Nothing happened, so he relaxed a bit, but not completely. He had a hard-on the size of Montana, and felt like a lumbering, growling bear in her pretty little apartment.

She emerged with a couple beers, and he didn’t say anything, just watched her set them on the coffee table. She gave him a curious stare but didn’t speak as she returned to the galley kitchen. This time she brought out a bowl of chips, salsa, and napkins. As she leaned over, the t-shirt gaped a bit, and he could almost see farther down her chest. To his disappointment, she straightened, put her hands on her hips, and studied him. Her breasts gave a bounce that was his undoing.

“Nate, what—”

He reached forward, caught her hand and drew her toward him, sweeping her legs out from beneath her and cradling her in his lap. She gasped, but didn’t protest, just looked up at him all wide-eyed.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day, heck for weeks,” he whispered, and lowered his mouth to kiss her.

To his relief, she flung her arms around his neck, which pressed her breasts against his chest, making him groan. He deepened the kiss, felt wild about her taste, and wanted to touch her everywhere. He licked and nipped his way down her neck, buried his face in her hair, used his hands to explore her lean back. He cupped the curve of her ass before moving up inside her shirt, along her ribs. Her heart pounded hard against his, and she seemed desperate as she cupped his face and brought their mouths together again. They kissed as if they’d never kissed before and might never again. She tasted like the sunrise to him, the promise of something new, fresh and full of possibilities.

And then his hand captured her bare breast, and her ragged moan made him shudder. He kissed her even as he trailed his fingertips across her nipple, over and over until she squirmed in his lap, gasping. Then he pinched her lightly before soothing her again.

He lifted his head and stared into her glassy eyes. “I want you, Em. Let me take you to bed.”

She rested her trembling hand on his chest. “I want you, too, but . . . it’s too soon for me.” She gave him a crooked smile. “We’ve only had one date.”

He groaned. “Doesn’t fixing fence count?” Her soft laugh made her breast jiggle in his palm. “Damn, you feel good.”

“So do you. Kiss me again.”

They kissed for a long time, and when her warm hands crept up under his shirt, he was the one who stopped it.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered huskily. “If you touch me much more, I can’t make any promises.”

Her eyes were soft with tenderness, even as she slid from his lap to sit beside him on the little couch. They were pressed together along their arms and legs, and he kept her hand in his.

They remained silent for a little while as he worked to get himself under control. He looked at the book beneath her lamp, a romance with a racy cover. The apartment was saying more and more about her. He liked being with her, whether it was putting up drywall or hiking up a mountain. And if she needed to wait until she was comfortable at the thought of sex with him, he’d be okay with that.

“So you’re not mad I came to the ranch today?” she suddenly asked.

He heard the hesitation in her voice, and it caught him by surprise, as he remembered this afternoon and her look of relief that he hadn’t been angry with her. “Why would you think I’d be mad?” he asked hesitantly, knowing he might be mad—if she were someone else. He worked so hard to hold women at a certain emotional distance, to not let them close—to keep them from being hurt.

Her gaze lingered on their joined hands. “Nate, you don’t exactly have a reputation as a man who brings women home to the family on a regular basis. And you might have thought it an . . . intrusion that I was there when you hadn’t invited me.”

“You made a flower delivery, Em,” he said. “And then my dad invited you for a ride. I’d never expect you to say no. But . . . I know what you’re saying, and I admit, my reputation isn’t without cause. It’s been pretty deliberate.”

“I get that impression,” she murmured, watching him.

He looked into those blue eyes, and knew he had to tell her the truth. “It’s because I know myself pretty well. I hurt women, Em. I don’t mean to, but it happens, and not just to women I’m dating.”

Though she’d stiffened at his first revelation, now she looked bewildered. “Nate, I know you’re not after any kind of commitment. I’m not either—I’m leaving Valentine soon. But surely the women around here know that you’re not interested in marriage. You made it very clear up front. And they still let themselves be hurt that you keep things casual?”

“That’s not why they get hurt,” he said, running his hand through his hair even as he leaned his head back against the couch.

She said nothing, only continued to look at him expectantly.

He had never talked about this with a woman, hell, with anyone. But he took a deep breath. “I . . . don’t know when to stop, Em,” he murmured. “When people need help, I . . . help them. Over and over again, until they don’t know when my
helpful
suggestions are doing more harm than good. I don’t know either, until it’s too late.”

He looked at her at last, braced for the worst, for her laughter or her disbelief. But she was studying him with intensity, with compassion.

“Tell me what happened, Nate,” she said at last, taking his hand.

He pulled away and stood up, beginning to pace. “The usual,” he said shortly. “Bad breakup with a girl I loved in college. Romantic baggage and all that. I learned my lesson.”

“One bad breakup in college?” she asked with quiet disbelief. “ ‘Romantic baggage’? Don’t trivialize whatever happened. She doesn’t deserve that.”

He winced and closed his eyes, remembering Lilly’s face, the uncompromising fury and bewilderment in her voice when she called to tell him she wasn’t coming back to school, that she didn’t love him anymore. “I didn’t see what I was doing,” he said, his voice harsh. “Over and over I helped her with every aspect of her life, from her classes to her homework, to what sorority she might enjoy. I never let her do anything on her own, to the point that she depended on me, and when I couldn’t be there, I let her down.”

Emily came and stood in front of him. “So you’re saying she resisted all your helpful advice.”

“No, never.”

“You were helping her when she asked for your advice, and that was wrong?”

“I was
smothering
her,” Nate said, feeling the cords in his neck go taut as he ground his teeth together. “I should have seen what was happening. But I didn’t, until she dropped out of school because she felt like such a failure.”

Emily put her hand on his arm and he let her, though he felt tight with tension.

“Nate, that wasn’t all your fault. It sounds like she didn’t know what she wanted. I’ve been there—we’ve all been there. To blame you was wrong.”

“I know what you’re saying, Em, but if it was just that, then okay. But it kept happening over the next couple years. It’s like I couldn’t distance myself, I couldn’t see where other people ended, and I began. And it wasn’t just the women I dated. My cousin came to visit for a summer to work on the ranch, and he was so lost on what he wanted to do with his life. He followed me around like my word was gospel, and we mapped out a plan together because I thought for certain he wanted the discipline and life of a soldier.”

She winced.

“You can see it coming, though I didn’t,” Nate said bitterly. “He
hated
the military, almost got himself dishonorably discharged, but held it together until his enlistment was up. Good old Nate jumped right in to solve every problem.” He stared down at her. “Sound familiar?” He waited for her to deny it, but when she hesitated, he could only sigh. “I fight it, Em, and I win that battle now.”

She put up a hand. “Stop talking and listen to me. All I wanted to say was that I can see your kindness, Nate, and how much you care about people. But you haven’t stepped over your bounds with me, and I won’t be letting you. I spent years of my life ignoring the warnings I kept telling myself—I’ll never do that again. I make my own decisions, and I have enough ‘romantic baggage’ that started in college, all of my own making. And if you lend me tools or your knowledge, or kiss me senseless, it’s because I’m allowing it. And your girlfriends and your cousin? They didn’t know themselves yet, and I’m sure they learned to stand on their own two feet. I did.”

“It’s nice of you to say that, Em.” But he didn’t believe he was blameless.

“Then we’re okay?” she asked.

“We’re okay.”

To his surprise, she leaned against him and rose to her tiptoes for a kiss, as if he hadn’t just warned her off.

“Guess you better go,” she said. “Scout will be worried.”

At the door, he cocked his head. “Aspen?”

“Aspen,” she answered dreamily, surrendering to another kiss. Then her eyes snapped open. “Aspen! Our next date.”

He chuckled. “What about tomorrow?”

“I have to work until after lunch. You could pick me up at two, unless you think that’s too late. I can skip painting for a single day.”

He couldn’t stop touching her, fingers caressing her waist, or down her soft arm. He almost forgot what they were talking about, so he linked their hands together. “That’s fine. We can wander town for a few hours, then have dinner.” He bent down to kiss her one last time. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered against her lips.

When Nate had gone, Emily leaned against the door and contemplated what he’d told her. It would be so easy to feel like a giddy teenager again. But she was a mature woman of thirty who knew her own mind, and he was a mature man who’d made mistakes and wouldn’t repeat them. All the better for her. His attention, his sweet consideration of her feelings, and the way he made her feel like the most desirable woman ever to inhabit the planet . . . those things were a balm to her spirit. The fact that he had such a weighty reason not to go any further reassured her.

But she felt sorry for him, too. He was still hurting about things that weren’t all his fault. She’d tried to tell him, but she guessed he didn’t believe her, not after long years of thinking the worst.

With a sigh, she sank onto the love seat and let her mind drift back to the moments spent in Nate’s arms. Then she shook herself, saying aloud, “Get yourself together, Emily Murphy. Emily Strong. Whoever you are.”

She might have had a different last name, if things had turned out differently. That put her back to the three men who might be her father—and if she were honest, there could be other candidates, but she couldn’t think about that right now. She’d almost told Nate about them, but decided to stand on her own two feet for a while and do her own investigating. Good thing, too, after what he’d just confided. There were only three likely men, after all, one of whom she’d already met. When she went in for more paint supplies, she would talk to Hal Abrams, try to get a feel for him. As for the other two men—she’d have to subtly ask questions.

She thought of the yearbooks then, and went to look at the black-and-white pictures of each. Fresh eager faces, and Hal Abrams looked different without a beard. Neither he nor the other two men seemed familiar to her at all, as if their genes might be part of hers. She couldn’t believe there was nothing here to give her a clue. With a groan, she flipped open one of the middle-school diaries and riffled the pages, Delilah’s handwriting a blur of schoolgirl penmanship. But right at the end, just before the book closed, she saw different ink, different writing.

Surprised, she opened it back up to the last written page. It was Delilah’s handwriting, but not the same. And the date—the date was April of her senior year. For some reason, she’d added an entry to her old diary. Even the page before was dated four years earlier.

Excited, nervous, Emily spread the book wide on her lap and began to read. It was about a boy, and her mother almost gushed about meeting him in secret down by the creek, or in a barn. But she never said his name! Over and over, she melodramatically mentioned his blue eyes seeing into her soul.

Blue eyes, just like Emily’s, but not her mom’s. There was only the one entry. Closing the book, she put her hand against it, and said, “Thanks for the clue, Delilah. At least it’s something.”