Ever After at Sweetheart Ranch (19 page)

Then she sank down more firmly, and he half opened his eyes to see her unzipping the side of her dress, then shrugging the straps off her shoulders. He only got a brief glimpse of the bra before that was gone, too, and he was able to fill his palms with her breasts. He played with her until he had to taste, then he brought her forward and over him again so that he could lick her nipples again and again. He played between her legs, too, and the whole couch shook along with her shivers.

“I have a condom in my wallet,” he said, “but it's underneath me.”

“And I have one right in the coffee table drawer, just hoping you'd show up.”

“God, you're brilliant.”

She leaned over to the table, but he didn't make it easier, thrusting his finger inside her, using his thumb against her clitoris. She fumbled the condom and almost dropped it until at last he took it from her.

“Hurry, hurry,” she said against his mouth, before suckling his tongue with her own.

When he was suited up, she took him in her hands to guide him, then sank down, taking him deep into the hot depths of her. They held off as long as they could, joined together but not moving, kissing and caressing. He felt himself pulse inside her, listened to her breathing pick up and the little whimper that escaped. God, she turned him on. And her dress bunched around her waist was an erotic sight. At last he cupped her hips with his hands and lifted her. She needed no further urging, just surged against him and up, over and over. He was able to capture her nipple occasionally and suck it deep. When at last she came, he took their pace faster until he found his own pleasure.

She collapsed on top of him, and he cradled her against him.

“Damn, why am I still wearing a shirt?” he murmured against her hair. “I can't feel your skin.”

“You felt enough of it, believe me,” she said, chuckling.

He slid a strand of hair behind her ear, studying her face. “There are flecks of gold in your eyes,” he said softly.

They kissed again, lightly, gently.

“Come to bed with me,” she said at last.

He didn't hesitate at all. “Okay.”

And when he woke up in her bed at dawn, he realized he'd spent the night, the first time ever. He never slept in a woman's bed—­it was too intimate, too promising of a future he wasn't going to give. But he hadn't been able to make himself leave her. And as the first glow of the sun touched her closed eyes, her lips pinkened by his kisses, the brush burn from his stubble across her chin, he thought he'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

And that got him out of bed. He was dressed before she came up on an elbow and sleepily said, “I could drop you off at your car.”

“It's only a few blocks away. Go back to sleep until you need to get up.”

“I need to get up. The school year's not done yet.”

“Then I won't keep you.” He gave her another kiss, although even that was dangerous. The sheet only covered her to her hips, and her breasts might as well have been a magnet to his steel. He kissed her mouth, then each nipple. “Gotta go.”

And he felt like he was running away.

T
hough Lyndsay told herself this meant nothing, there was something about a guy spending the night that seemed more . . . serious. She floated through the next day in a happy haze, managing even to forget about having to eventually break the news about her book. It was the easiest buildup to end-­of-­the-­year tests, as it seemed nothing about her job could affect her good humor too much.

Dinner that night at the Sweetheart Inn French restaurant was fun. Mrs. Sweet didn't actually join them until dessert, so Lyndsay was able to spend an enjoyable hour looking at Will in a jacket and buttoned-­down shirt over his jeans. He was sort of embarrassed about it, complaining the jacket was too restrictive on the bulging muscles of his arms, which made her giggle.

They talked about everything from politics to world events to the sheep the Sweetheart Ranch planned to invest in next. They even exchanged stories about crazy exes, although never once did he bring up Brittany. But they were too public to talk about “the book.” She was both relieved and frustrated.

Wednesday afternoon, she met her 4-­H group at the ranch. Now that the kids were hands-­on working with the horses, there weren't any discipline problems, since even Alex and Logan wanted to learn to ride. Matias seemed particularly engrossed, and for once he forgot his shyness and asked a lot of questions. Lyndsay rode for a while and enjoyed showing off for Will.

After the kids left, she stayed in the barn and helped him oat the horses and put away all the equipment in the tack room. As he lifted another saddle and made to move past her, she said, “No helicopter questions today?”

He arched a brow. “I was smart enough to have it in the hangar.”

“I don't know,” she continued when he emerged again. “I still think the big kid in you is eventually leading up to rides.”

He didn't even crack a smile. “Nope, won't be happening.”

It was her turn to arch a brow, but she didn't argue with him. He did seem pretty serious about his resolve.

She wasn't certain whether to believe him. She hadn't always been good about judging the character of a man—­hence the disastrous long relationship with a guy who dumped her just when she thought he was going to propose.

“You know what I'm most surprised about?” she said. “How good you are with kids.”

He followed her back outside to the corral, where they leaned their forearms on the fence and watched the horses graze.

“What's so strange about that?” he asked. “Kids are just little ­people, and I get along with most ­people.”

“Most? I've never met a person you
didn't
get along with. But kids? That takes a special patience, a real interest. It makes me wonder—­do you want kids of your own someday?”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she second-­guessed herself. Would he think she was pushing their relationship too far too fast?

He didn't say anything for a long moment.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That's very personal.”

He looked down at her, eyes squinting against the sun. ­“People talk about whether they want kids all the time. ‘I want two,' ‘I want three.' My answer has always been, nope, I'm not the settling-­down type, and kids need that kind of stability.”

She tried not to feel sad about it—­she knew who he was.

“Kids can drive parents crazy, like I did with my mom. I wasn't the easiest kid.”

“No!” she said with exaggerated disbelief.

He grinned. “I forgot rules, like remembering to come home before dark. I didn't really mean to be bad, I just got involved in something and lost track of anything else that should have mattered. My mom always had to worry about me, and I feel bad about that. Guess it's my turn to worry about her.”

“You mentioned she was getting forgetful.”

“I think I know why.” He hesitated. “I'm worried she's starting to drink too much.”

“You think she's an alcoholic?” she asked, stunned.

“No, not at all. Not yet,” he clarified, and he took a deep breath and let it out. “I've never seen her rip-­roarin' drunk, she's not horribly hung over in the morning, she doesn't have blackouts. But . . . she always has a wineglass with her every evening, and I didn't normally pay attention to how often she refilled. But now I'm seeing a lot of wine bottles in the recycling. I told my brothers, and they didn't want to believe me, but . . . Daniel's been doing things around the ranch for her because she's been too ‘sick' or sleeping in, or whatever. But it's adding up. I talked to her, and she blamed her overcommitment to her new partnership in the Mystic Connection, but I think she's just making excuses, even to herself. I finally went to my dad about it, since I wasn't getting through to her.”

“What did he say?” Lyndsay asked with concern. It had to be horribly difficult to see a problem with your parents, the ones who've always led your family and been the bedrock of stability.

“He goes to bed earlier than she does. He doesn't see her drinking that much. He said he'll start keeping track of the bottles in recycling. But Lynds—­I told her I noticed. If she really wants to hide her drinking, she can find another way to get rid of the bottles.”

“I'm sorry, Will. You've been worried about this for a while, haven't you?”

“How did you know?”

“You've occasionally seemed far away, a little distracted. I'm glad you finally talked to me about it. I think it helps to get these things out in the open. For what it's worth, I think you made the right decision, trying to talk to your parents about it.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “That helps, thanks. I'd told my brothers I wasn't going to ‘tattle' to my dad, but . . . I finally felt he had to know the truth.”

“And now both parents know your concerns. Maybe they'll talk to each other. Or maybe your mom will realize she's been sliding into a dependency that's not healthy.”

“Makes sense. Hope that happens.”

His smile faded as he suddenly stared hard at her. “It's pretty selfish of me to talk to you about my mom, when yours isn't here anymore.”

“Never think that. I have good memories of my mom.”

“I remember her a little, in a fuzzy kind of way. That must have been tough, losing her so young.”

“Cancer is hard to understand when you're nine. And I didn't realize how young my mom really was, only in her late forties. Since they were so much older than the other parents, someone thought she was my grandmother once. The chemo . . . she hadn't looked so good by then.”

“That was really thoughtless of that idiot,” he said and gave her hand a squeeze.

She shrugged. “The guy didn't know any better. And he was a guy—­he didn't notice stuff like that.”

“Guys don't notice things?”

“See, you're a guy—­and you don't even notice that you don't notice things!”

She met his gaze—­and burst out laughing. He had to join her.

When their laughter faded, he said, “You know, back to kids, I'm surprised how much I'm enjoying the 4-­H kids.”

“If you can take a kid at this age, who's immature but beginning to realize he has his own mind and can be rebellious, you can handle almost anything. And they start out so easy as babies—­they just lie there and want to be held—­not that I'm advocating having a kid, sorry. It's just . . .” She had to look away, because it was too painful. Her voice came out husky. “You'd be a good dad.”

Those words hung there between them, and she felt all the yearning of an impending broken heart. She wanted kids—­it was a real deal breaker with her. And then she decided to just be open.

“You know, Will, you'd have to run for your life from me if you actually wanted kids.” She briefly put her hand on her forehead. “And I can't believe I'm telling you this.”

He eyed her impassively, saying nothing, but his jaw tightened.

She rambled on. “I'm thirty-­three years old. I'm sort of getting ready to find the right guy and settle down. But the right guy for me has to want kids. If you wanted kids . . . well, I'll be honest, I could get serious about you.”
My heart is already serious about you.

Her feelings were out in the open. And instead of saying anything, he stared at her, really studying her. She waited for a fake twinkle in his eye, that charming grin he seemed to put on when he wanted to keep his emotions private, but he stayed serious.

She put a hand on his arm. “You don't have to say anything, Will, honest. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't really feel a connection. I may have dated pretty regularly, but it was never just to have a man around. I had to really want to be with him.”

“And I'm flattered,” he said quietly. “But—­”

“No, it's okay, don't say it.”
I don't want to know that I'm not the type of girl you can ever love.
“I'm enjoying this just for what it is.”

She hadn't intended to be so blunt. And since she was being blunt . . .

She sighed. “If I'm going to make you uncomfortable,” she said, turning toward him, “I might as well go the distance. I need to tell you something else that I've been worried about.”

He sported a brief, crooked smile. “Gee, Lynds, should I run away now?”

She was glad that he was still able to tease after what she'd just confessed. “It's about Kate and the book.”

He looked at her with those piercing hazel eyes. “What did she say? God, it'll destroy Tony if she doesn't really love him. These last few days, I've been watching them at the tavern, and I'm feeling kind of sick about it all.”

“Kate and Tony are fine, so don't worry a bit about them.” She took a deep breath. “Kate didn't write the book. I did.”

 

Chapter 17

W
ill's first feeling was of intense relief that his best friend's fiancée wasn't fantasizing about him. “Jesus, that's good to know,” he said, letting out his breath in a long, slow exhale.

Lyndsay watched him closely, as if waiting.

And then he really looked at her. “
You
wrote it?”

She nodded, then lifted both hands as if to placate him. “You've got to understand that I've been writing for eight years now, Will, and I'd been rejected for
years
for my first book. I even wrote when I was a kid, but thought teaching was a more practical, safer choice.”

“You've been
that
serious about writing, and I never heard about it?” It seemed easier to concentrate on the facts of her secret, rather than truly think about what it meant to him.

“I never told anyone, not even my family. Writing is something I did . . . just for me. By keeping it to myself, no one was pressuring me about whether I was submitting, or how many rejections I'd received, or bugging me to read it. The merest
thought
of that kind of pressure gave me writer's block.”

“If you didn't want anyone to read it, why did Kate have the file?”

Lyndsay twisted her hands together. “Because ­people are going to read it now—­a lot of ­people. I sold it, Will. A publisher bought it.”

He couldn't help smiling at her. “That's really great, Lyndsay, congratulations. When does it come out?”

She watched him hopefully. “End of next week.”

“Wow, that soon.” But inside, his brain was beginning to pound with panic. Why had
Lyndsay
used parts of him and his life in her book? It didn't make sense—­he'd never gotten any kind of romantic vibe from her back in the day.

She briefly paced away from him and back. Two horses lifted their heads away from the grass and stared at them.

“I know you're thinking about my hero, Cody,” she said. “Kate assures me she wouldn't have had a clue that Cody had a little of your personality unless I'd told her.”

“But that scene I read, the one that was a lot like what I did for Brittany—­”

“Kate was having Tony read the scene, which is why it was open. Tony didn't even remember what you'd done back then, honestly, and if your best friend doesn't remember, no one will.”

He nodded, but he didn't know what to say.

“What you did for Brittany—­it was such a romantic gesture, Will,” she said quietly, staring at the horses, her gaze unfocused. “You were so young, and to have thought of that—­well, I really admired you for it. I remember Brittany showing us the necklace, and she was so happy that you'd done something so special for her. I never forgot it, and apparently neither did my subconscious. I didn't even realize what I'd based the scene on.”

It was so strange to talk about Brittany. No one talked of her to him—­he'd made sure of that—­except her family. He owed them anything they needed from him. It was his fault they only had memories of their daughter, and if it eased them to talk about her, he was always there to listen. But for him, it had always been agony. But . . . not with Lyndsay. She seemed so sympathetic and matter-­of-­fact, and she didn't act like she had to walk on eggshells about the sensitive subject.

But she was watching him too closely. He hated pity and didn't want to see it in her dark eyes—­didn't want that from
her.

“You know,” she said softly, “you made her last years very special. There are women who never find that in their lifetimes, and Brittany had it.”

He just stared at her. He couldn't speak, or he'd blurt out all his recriminations, his guilt, the fact that Brittany would never get married or have babies or achieve her dreams.

“As for my book,” she went on, “I didn't even realize at first that Cody looked like you, and maybe had some of your . . . charming attitude and way with women.”

“But you did realize it at some point.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, “although not until just a few weeks ago, when a blogger asked me if I based my hero on someone, and the truth just . . . hit me. I'll be honest, Will. Back in high school, I had a crush on you for a while. You'd always been so nice to me.”

He blinked at her in confusion. “I thought we were just friends.”

“We were! You had Brittany. Tony was so weirded out by the thought of me dating his friends that he made me promise not to. But when I was having a bad Valentine's Day, you bought me a friend carnation. You probably don't remember—­”

“I remember.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You do?”

“Sure. You looked so upset and I just wanted to cheer you up. But I didn't mean to lead you on.”

“You didn't. It was all in my head, and I got over it. Or at least I thought I did. And then . . . somehow . . . parts of you became parts of Cody.”

She looked chagrined and embarrassed, leaving him confused.

And terrified. His heart felt all strange and tight that this gorgeous, smart woman saw him as . . . some kind of hero. He wasn't a hero; he felt like a fraud. She was all wrong about him, and in the end, he'd disappoint her.

She took a deep breath. “Just so you know, Cody isn't
really
you. He just has some of your characteristics. . . . and he sort of looks like you . . . and yes, he's a cowboy—­but it's Montana!”

“You're right, ranching in Montana is
nothing
like Colorado,” he teased. He could feel the genial mask settle back into place like an old friend. The mask that had made his family feel better after Brittany died, the one that kept hidden all his guilt and doubts.

To his surprise, he saw Lyndsay's gaze focused on him as if she saw the difference. But she couldn't, he knew that. No one ever did.

“I promise,” she continued, “that I won't ever say a word about my inspiration. Heck, I hate to talk about my writing process anyway.”

“Were you keeping the publication a secret from everyone because you didn't want to tell me?”

“No. I'm proud of my work, but . . . I'm a teacher, Will. There are going to be ­people who might be upset that I wrote it, who won't know how to talk to their kids about it. I just want to delay any kind of announcement until school is over. That's the end of next week. Then the kids and their parents will have the entire summer to get used to it, so hopefully it won't be an issue in the fall.” She let out a shaky breath. “I'm sorry, Will. I've been afraid of your reaction—­heck, I'm afraid of the whole reading public's reaction, like I'm really a fraud and don't know what I'm doing and my editor made a mistake—­sorry, I'm rambling. But, regardless of my recent realization about Cody, I am still so thrilled beyond measure that my dream of being an author has come true.”

He tipped his hat back and gave her a genuine smile. “I'm really proud of you, Lynds. There aren't many ­people in the world who can stick with a dream for years and make it happen.”

Her smile trembled a bit, but she didn't say anything. Almost as if in silent understanding that the conversation was over, they turned back to the corral and rested their arms on the fence once more. But they didn't touch.

After about ten minutes, Lyndsay said, “I guess I should go. Work night, and all.”

“Okay, I'll walk you to your car.”

The air was cooling, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. Behind them, the horses nickered to each other, and magpies called from the trees. It was a peaceful beauty he was used to, but he never took it for granted. Now, tension as murky as a swamp was so thick that he should have been able to see it.

When they reached her car, Lyndsay gave him a searching look, then a quick kiss. “Good night, Will.”

As she drove away, he watched her, hands in his jeans pockets, until the cloud of dust in her wake disappeared. He went on with his evening chores like a good cowboy, while his mind swirled with so many contradictory thoughts. But one stood out. He was filled with dread, knowing he could never live up to the man Lyndsay had created “Cody” to be. He couldn't change who he was.

Or had he never wanted to change?

By the time he was lying in bed that night, sleepless, staring at the shadows on the ceiling from the open window, he came to a kind of conclusion, not that he felt good about it. He was going to have to cool things off with Lyndsay. He wasn't the man she seemed to think he was, and he'd only disappoint her and lead her on, when they had no future. But they had another date already planned, the first birthday party for Olivia Thalberg at the Silver Creek Ranch. He'd wait to talk to Lyndsay until after that.

But it didn't give him any peace.

L
yndsay was surprised to find that she dreaded a little girl's first birthday. She couldn't even imagine sitting in a car with Will, knowing she'd have to look at his deliberately pleasant expression, so she said she had to work late and would meet him there.

His face—­she'd seen it completely change after he'd heard about Cody; he'd just wiped away the confusion and concern and replaced it with that smiling-­cowboy expression. She hadn't realized how much he'd actually trusted her with his emotions until he'd taken that intimacy away again.

Her fears about what he'd do when he learned about her book had been well founded. He was pulling away from her. Now she'd have to consider what should happen next.

And then there was another flyer from the widows. She'd seen it when she'd gone to buy a gift bag for Livvie's present. It had more bold lettering about the soon-­to-­be-­famous local author—­and this time, an excerpt of the first page of the book had been included! At least it was about her heroine, rather than the hero . . .

When she got to the Silver Creek Ranch just before dinner, there were cars and pickups parked along the gravel drive heading toward the main barn, and the big log house, and the yard between, which was full of tables and chairs. Colorful lanterns, still dim in daylight, were strung around the border. As she walked closer, she could see tables of food inside the barn and, just inside the entrance, a two-­level cake wrapped in pink lace with a big white bow—­all icing, she knew—­with little puppy dogs on top surrounding the number 1. Lyndsay leaned closer to gape in amazement.

“Didn't Em do a great job?” Monica Shaw asked, linking arms with her.

Monica's black curls sprung out from her head like fireworks in a night sky. She was slender, with hollowed cheeks and dark, almond-­shaped eyes.

Heather came to stand on the other side. “Em just gets more brilliant all the time. Pretty soon, she'll be in such demand, she won't be able to find time for my catering business.”

Lyndsay nodded. “I'm always so impressed—­and mostly because regardless of the creativity, everything always tastes so good.”

“Come on and sit with us,” Monica said. “Heather and Chris are with us—­I'm sure we've got room for you and Will.”

If Will wants to sit with me,
Lyndsay couldn't help thinking.

Out in the yard, a tall centerpiece of balloons towered over each table, with Hershey's Kisses scattered about. Monica and Heather showed her to their table, where Chris and Travis were deep in discussion but stood up to offer hugs when she joined the group. Travis was Monica's boyfriend, a tall ex-­Secret Ser­vice agent with auburn hair in a short military cut.

Lyndsay popped a chocolate Kiss in her mouth and studied the dozens of ­people, all of whom she knew well, except perhaps for Chasz, Whitney's brother, and her parents, jet-­setters Vanessa and Charles Winslow, who kept a condo in Aspen so they could visit often. To Lyndsay's surprise, she saw Will holding the birthday girl. Livvie was in a pink dress the color of her cake, with a big bow in her dark wispy hair and little white shoes on her chubby feet. Will was talking to her earnestly, wearing a big smile that made hers blossom, and Lyndsay felt another one of those sharp pangs of regret and loss she was becoming too familiar with.

She'd told him he'd make a great dad; she'd told him she wanted kids; she'd told him about Cody. Yeah, that was all going to work out just fine.

He saw her and waved, and he looked nothing but pleased to see her. But oh, she knew him too well, and how good he was at making even those close to him see what he wanted them to see.

Lyndsay excused herself and went to him, a moth to the flame, a glutton for punishment—­oh, she had to stop these mental clichés.

“Happy birthday, Livvie!”

Livvie stuck a finger in her mouth and clutched Will a little tighter around the neck.

Lyndsay had to tease Will. “She's a girl; of course she's fascinated with you.”

Will chuckled, but he glanced back at Livvie rather than meet Lyndsay's eyes.

“I forgot to ask where the gift table is,” she said, holding up her bag with purple and white tissue paper exploding out of it.

He gestured to a table set up next to the barn, where gifts were already piled high.

“Thanks. Do you have a place to sit?” she asked. “Monica and Heather said there was room at their table.”

Will frowned. “Sure.”

She studied him, unable to stop the surge of sadness that must have shown in her eyes.

“Sorry, just thinking about Chris,” Will said. “We got into a little argument yesterday. I don't want everyone to be bothered by the tension.”

“What happened?”

“The damned helicopter again. I sort of said if he wanted to use it in search and rescue, he should learn to fly the damned thing, unless he was afraid.”

Lyndsay winced. “I bet that went well.”

“It did, which made it worse. Chris didn't even take offense, kind of laughed it off and agreed that he just didn't like the idea of doing it himself.”