Beauty & the Beasts (23 page)

And how could he ever ask her?

Worse yet, why—despite his uneasiness—had he gotten so sexually excited? She was a beautiful woman. Was that all it took to push his buttons?

Hell. Maybe he was as shallow as Madeline had accused him of being.

By the time the sun rose and his alarm clock buzzed, he hadn’t found any answers to his questions. He wasn’t sure he liked himself any too well this morning, either.

To Eric’s surprise, Garth emerged for breakfast, even though it was a Saturday.

“I have to work today,” Eric said, probably unnecessarily.

His son nodded. “You always work on Saturdays.”

“Teresa and I switch sometimes.”

Garth picked up the empty milk carton and shook it. “Do we have any more?”

“Hmm?” Eric set down his coffee cup. “Oh.
Yeah. Sure. In the fridge.” He watched the boy opening cupboard doors. “Last night okay?”

Garth’s shoulders hunched, but after a moment he gave a jerky shrug. “Yeah. Mark and I played computer games and just talked and stuff.”

“Good,” Eric said without expression. He didn’t dare say anything that might be construed as “I told you so.”

“He wants to see Ron and Chev.”

“He’s welcome any time.”

“Yeah, he might come over today.” Garth poured milk on his cereal, then dumped several spoonfuls of sugar on for good measure.

Eric raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he said, surprising himself, “You’ve met some of the women I’ve dated. Were they all beautiful?”

Garth stared. Milk sloshed out of the bowl. “Yeah, pretty much,” he said, after apparently giving it some thought. “I mean, weren’t they?”

“It’s not the only reason I dated them.” And who the hell was he arguing with?

Garth gave him an odd look and set the bowl down on the table. He turned the chair around and straddled it. “Sure, Dad,” he agreed with the air of a nursing-home, attendant pacifying a senile resident.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t really
know
them,” Garth said reasonably. “Except Madeline.”

“And?” Eric found himself leaning forward.

“Well?” His son. looked at him with eyes too shrewd for a kid his age.
“You
oughtta know why you like her. How should I?”

Good point. One that stuck with Eric all day. It was his turn to make farm calls, primarily pregnancy checks on dairy cows. While he stood ankle-deep in liquid manure, hand squeezed in a big bony Guernsey’s rectum as he felt for the pealike growth in the ovary, his thoughts continued stumbling through the maze he’d become lost in last night.

Had
he chosen women for their beauty rather than their character?

This was a hell of a moment for a memory to come to him. Danielle…something. Her last name eluded him. She was short, a little plump, mousey-haired; not homely, exactly, but no beauty, either. They’d been in 4-H together, and he’d really liked her, but now he cringed at how dismissively he’d rated her. “Nice” hadn’t cut it. They’d become friends, and eventually he’d become aware that she expected him to ask her out. She’d been watching him when she hadn’t thought he’d noticed. He’d become aware of her as a girl, too. She’d had nice breasts; he’d done his own share of staring. But she hadn’t been pretty enough to be seen with. He started being busier with other friends. He’d dropped her flat.

Shortly afterward, he’d begun dating Cindy Hawcroft, a cheerleader and, ultimately, a homecoming queen. Dumb as an Irish setter, but as pretty as one, with hair the same shade of red. The two of them hadn’t had a damned thing in common. Apparently that hadn’t mattered to him then.

Shamed, he left the Eide farm and headed for the next. During the drive, he ran through all the girls he could remember dating in college. Pretty, every
one. There’d been others, but friends only. He didn’t date a girl who wouldn’t excite the envy of his friends, however much he liked her.

He still didn’t. Beautiful women awakened his hunting instincts like a weak calf did a wolfs. Had he ever seriously considered asking out a woman who was merely pleasant-looking?

He couldn’t remember a one.

Eric parked his truck in the next farmyard, got out and automatically began suiting up in rubber overalls and vest and a new plastic sleeve.

His first reaction to his self-analysis had been to decide he was scum, but now he decided it was worse than that. He was pitiful. So concerned about what other people saw when they looked at him, he’d married a woman he had nothing to say to. And he hadn’t even learned from that mistake!

The farmer came up behind him and slapped him on the back. “How’s Dr. Hughes?”

Eric accepted the greeting as it was meant. Selecting vials of drugs he might need, he inserted them into slots on a tray. “Fine. Another month to go.”

“Irene is knitting some little thing for her. Hat and booties, I think.”

“I’ll tell Teresa.” Preparations complete, Eric said, “Well, I’m all set.”

When he got home at five-thirty, he phoned Madeline. She sounded subdued, reticent

“You okay?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Me?” Her voice held a false note of surprise. “Just tired. You must be, too.”

“Long day,” he agreed.

“And a late night.”

“An incredible night,” Eric said warmly.

“Yes.” The note of constraint sounded again. “Yes, it was.”

He gripped the receiver more tightly. “You’re not sorry?”

The pause chilled his soul. “No, of course not.”

“You’re free tomorrow?”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.

“Remember that trail ride we planned? Garth’s counting on it.”

“Oh, no! I’d completely forgotten! Let me think.” He heard a muffled conversation. She came back on the line. “What time?”

“We’d better not make it too long a ride if you want to still be walking Monday. Say, we leave here about ten?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be at your place by then.” She drew an audible breath. “I’d better go. See you to-morrow, Eric.”

Frowning, he hung up. No
I love you. I can hardly wait to see you. Did you dream about me?
Just, “See you tomorrow.”

Great. Not only did he have to doubt his own motives, now he had to wonder about hers, as well.

Had she gotten cold feet? Or had the real Madeline Howard come to, looked around and recoiled from what her alter ego had done in bed with him last night?

T
HAT MORNING
, Madeline had been waiting for the hot water to boil when her mother came into the kitchen. Their eyes met for one stark pain-filled moment before Madeline looked away.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did last night.”

“Maybe you should have said it years ago.”

“Why?” Madeline blindly poured boiling water over the tea bag in her cup. “What’s the point? It doesn’t help to whine about the past. All I did was hurt you.”

“As I apparently did you.”

Madeline faced her again and was shocked by how much older her mother looked this morning. Wearing a bathrobe, she had yet to put on her “face,” as she called it. The real face was carved with lines of exhaustion and age. Her pale lips were pinched, and traces of gray showed at the roots of her hair. She must have stayed here longer than she’d intended, or she would have had her hair done right before she’d come. Madeline had never seen her mother show her vulnerability as she was right this minute, in the kitchen at nine in the morning.

On a rush of remorse, Madeline said, “Can I pour you some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please.” Mrs. Howard sat down heavily, as though her legs had given way. She said nothing about the detrimental effects of caffeine.

“Mom…”

“Madeline…”

They both stopped. After a defenseless moment Mrs. Howard said quietly, “I think I ought to go home.”

Yesterday her mother’s announcement would have been welcome. Now, the idea of her mother going— and with things left like this between them—upset Madeline.

“You don’t have to,” she said, and then realized how graceless that sounded. She took a breath. “I’ve been wondering about this visit. Something has been different about you.”

How delicately put! Not quite a question, but begging for an answer nonetheless.

“Yes.” Mrs. Howard concentrated on stirring nonfat creamer into her coffee. After a long pause she said, “Lately I seem to have been thinking a lot about my life. Something to do with my age, I suppose.” Still she stirred the coffee, the action meaningless, something to fix on. “No, that’s not quite true.” She looked up at last and visibly braced herself. “I’m getting married. At least I’m considering it. I haven’t decided.”

Getting married? Her mother? Not so long ago, Madeline had wondered why she never had. So why was the idea so shocking now?

She sank into a chair. “Why didn’t you say?”

“There’s a good deal we haven’t said to each other, isn’t there?” Mrs. Howard’s smile wasn’t very successful. “In this case…well, I suppose I’m so undecided I felt I ought to keep it to myself. Or perhaps I was just waiting for the right moment.”

Instinct had Madeline reaching across the table to cover her mother’s thin hand with her own. Gazing at the sight—women’s hands both, now—she realized how seldom they touched. She gave a gentle
self-conscious squeeze and let go. “Why are you undecided? Don’t you love him?”

A soft smile transformed her mother’s face. For an instant she looked thirty years younger. “Yes, I think I do.” She sounded almost surprised. “It’s not that. It’s me.” The creases and sags of age reappeared on her face. “I haven’t exactly been a success at relationships. Your father of course. And…I wasn’t much of a mother apparently.”

Madeline closed her eyes, guilt stabbing deep. How many times had she hinted that visits remain short or begged off completely? Made excuses to herself for not calling? “I…haven’t been much of a daughter, either.”

“Parents bear the responsibility.”

“Do they? I’m an adult, too.” In theory. Maybe children never did become adults where their parents were concerned.

“You weren’t during the years that counted.”

“Mom…” Madeline wasn’t ready to let go of her bitterness altogether, perhaps it didn’t happen that way, like a floodgate opening, but rather in a slow trickle, like a crack in a dam. Maybe a little of her stored anger had leaked out already. “Mom,” Madeline said again, “if you did the best you could, what’s to regret? I was a child—I didn’t understand what you faced. I promise I’ll think about what you said last night. But you shouldn’t let any…coolness between us keep you from making a commitment to a man.”

Her mother lifted elegant brows. “Haven’t you?”

“All I’ve asked for is a man to see beneath the surface. It has nothing to do with you!”

“I’m not so sure,” her mother murmured.

Madeline let it pass. Not certain she wouldn’t regret this, she said, “I wish you’d stay a little longer, Mom. Maybe, now that we’re talking, we should do some more of it. You’ll have to tell me about my future stepfather.”

She was shocked to see tears spring into her mother’s eyes. Madeline had never seen her cry. But Mrs. Howard dabbed them with a napkin and said with quiet dignity, “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

Madeline couldn’t be sorry she’d suggested it. Tomorrow she might be, but not today.

Who knew? She and her mother might even become friends. Miracles happened.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
ADELINE GRABBED
the saddle horn and held on for dear life as Honey’s powerful hindquarters bunched. With a lurch, the horse propelled herself up a steep four-foot bank.

“You can open your eyes now,” Eric said, amusement a husky undertone in his voice.

Madeline did, cautiously. He waited on top of his borrowed gray Arabian, arms crossed as he leaned negligently against the saddle horn. Boots scuffed and dusty, denim shirt rolled up to show lean brown forearms, he looked at home on a horse. Behind her, leather creaked and the bay mare Garth rode let out a grunt of effort as she, too, mounted the bank.

Acres of grassy land planted with tiny seedling Douglas firs stretched out ahead. Right now, the grass and wildflowers dominated, daisies and tall purple spires of fireweed and a few delicate bright blue blooms that looked like flax. The-well-beaten trail they’d been following widened to the width of a logging road here and wound in long swoops between the rows of seedlings.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Madeline said with pleasure. The sun felt gloriously warm on her face and bare arms; she found she even liked the smell of
leather and horse sweat mixed with the tang of the deep forest from which they’d just emerged.

According to the sign at the entrance, this enormous tree farm was open to walkers, cyclists and horseback riders, but closed to motorized vehicles. Half-a-dozen horse trailers had been parked outside the gates when Eric had backed his own trailer into one of the few remaining slots. The drive from White Horse hadn’t taken more than half an hour. Garth had told Madeline that last summer he and Garth had trailered up here every week or two, usually with Teresa and her kids. The place was so big—stands of fifty-year-old trees alternating with those the size of Christmas trees—they had yet to see any of the other riders.

Now, eyes bright, Garth announced, “We can gallop here. It’s really cool! We just go and go.”

“Gallop?” she echoed nervously.

“Garth can gallop,” Eric corrected. “You can go any speed you want.”

The disappointment on the twelve-year-old’s face made her feel like a killjoy. “I’ll try cantering,” she decided.

Eric grinned, teeth flashing in his lean tanned face. “You can always close your eyes and just hold on tight.”

“Well!” She pretended to take offense. “Is that how you think I handle stress?”

He didn’t answer immediately, although his gaze didn’t leave hers. He said at last, slowly, “Plenty of people do.”

Much as she’d like to, Madeline couldn’t deny she
might be one of them. The other night, for example. She’d been standing in front of her closet thinking about what to wear for their dinner date when this impulse seized control of her. She’d put on a dress that had been untouched in her closet for years, used makeup with all the skill she possessed, reached for the highest heels she owned. Not even a moment of revulsion when she looked at herself in the mirror had stopped her. No, she’d spent the evening being someone different—someone flirtatious, at ease with her sexuality, bold.