Heart of Winter (29 page)

 

Not going to work was new to Carla. Since her eighteenth birthday, she'd had a job of some kind, even if it was only a summer one working for her father. But to see four walls day after day, no new faces, no people, was like slow torture. She kept the television on, but the soap operas were more than she could bear, and the radio got on her nerves after the second day.

There was too much time: time to regret her behavior, time to think about Bryan Moreland and his ultimatum that the paper fire her. How he must hate her. Not only had she betrayed him falsely, but he even thought her declaration of love was part of that betrayal, that she'd pretended affection for him solely to get a story.

She almost laughed at the thought. And he'd said that no normal woman would be interested in a middle-aged man. Didn't he realize how very attractive he was? How strong and charming and exciting he was to be with? Didn't he realize that she'd have loved him if he'd been totally gray and walked with a cane? Age didn't matter. Time didn't matter. She'd have given anything for just a few years with him—to love him, to bear his children, to grow old with him.

 

Tears blurred her eyes. The firing was a message, as surely as if he'd given it in person. He was telling her, in the most deliberate way possible, that he wanted her out of his city. And she had a feeling that if she approached any other news media for a job, the doors would all be closed.

It must have come as a tremendous shock to him, realizing that two of his most trusted friends had set him up as the scapegoat for their land deal. And to top it all off, to think that a girl reporter would lead him on and flatter his vanity just to get the goods on him…

“But it isn't true,” she whispered tearfully. “Oh, Bryan, it isn't true!”

She dropped down onto the soft cushions of the sofa and cried like a lost child. It was the first time she'd yielded to tears since her firing, but it seemed to ease the hurt a little.

 

By the end of the week, she was regaining some of her former spirit. She'd already decided that her only course of action was going home, but she wanted to wait until her father returned. That would be just another three or four days, and she couldn't spend them sitting in the apartment staring at the walls. She became a sightseer, taking buses all around the sprawling city to visit the park, the museums, the historic landmarks. It was all new to her suddenly, as if she'd gone around blind as a reporter and was just now seeing the city without her blinders.

The days went by quickly, and on the very last one she found herself retracing her steps through the ghetto she'd visited with Bryan Moreland. The slums were already being bulldozed down now, and signs were going up heralding the construction of new, modern apartments for low-income groups. She couldn't help feeling a surge of pride for the man who'd fought so hard to bring this dream to fruition. If only she could tell him how very proud she was.

Her slender figure looked even thinner than usual in the gray suit she was wearing. A pale green scarf around her throat emphasized her green eyes, and the braided coil of dark hair seemed even darker against it. The black coat and boots she wore seemed to fit in with the darkness of her mood as she walked aimlessly back toward the downtown business district, her sad eyes on the dirty, cracked sidewalk. She felt so miserable, so lost and alone. Her chest lifted in an aching sigh and she didn't notice where she was going until she ran head-on into another pedestrian. Strong hands came up to grip her arms, and she looked up with an apology on her lips. Then her heart leapt inside her chest.

Bryan Moreland's dark, angry eyes were looking straight down into hers, and she couldn't even manage a weak greeting, the shock of seeing him was so great.

S
he stood there looking up at him like a slender statue, without life or breath or strength.

His face was hard, haggard, and she searched its leonine contours with a drowning hunger, lingering on the curve of his mouth, the darkness of his narrow eyes.

“Excuse me,” she said finally, breathlessly, moving back as if the touch of his hands scorched her.

He let her go abruptly and pushed his big fists into the pockets of his beige overcoat. “I thought you were on your way out of town, Miss Maxwell,” he said roughly.

She nodded. “I…I leave tomorrow,” she managed. “The…uh, the slums…it's going to be quite a feat.”

“My going away present to the voters,” he remarked curtly. “I won't run for reelection.”

She dropped her eyes, feeling cut to the quick. “It was all my fault,” she mumbled. “Saying I'm sorry won't even scratch the surface, but I am, oh, God, I am,” she whispered fervently.

He laughed shortly, without a trace of humor. “Chalk it up to experience, honey,” he said sharply. “Maybe next time you'll be a little more cautious about your methods.”

She glanced up at his set face through her long, dark lashes. He looked as formidable as ever, only harder. Her heart almost burst at the sight of him.

“There won't be a next time,” she said absently. “I…I'm not going back into journalism.” She smiled wanly. “I hate the very idea of it, now.”

He scowled. “Guilty conscience, Miss Maxwell?” he asked mockingly. “A little late, isn't it?”

Tears blurred him in her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

He drew in a deep, harsh breath. “Just for the record, you'd never have gotten me as far as the altar. I wanted you pretty damned bad, but one night would have worked you out of my system.” His smile was cruel and mocking. “Too bad things worked out the way they did. Another date or two, and I'd have had you.”

A strange sound broke from her lips. It was like the end of a dream. She'd cradled the thought that at least he'd cared for her once. But now, she didn't even have that. Not even that! He'd only…wanted her!

Without thinking, she turned and ran away from him, the crowd blurring in her tear-filled eyes as she tore through it, deaf to the sound of her name being called roughly behind her.

She elbowed through a crowd waiting for a city bus at the corner and darted out across the busy street, too overwrought to notice that the pedestrian light was red. She never saw the taxi that turned the corner and sped straight toward her. She was dimly aware of a horrible hoarse cry from the curb and a sickening thud that seemed to paralyze her all over. Then there was a strange cold darkness that she fell into, swallowing her up in its veiled cocoon.

 

The first conscious breath she drew was incredibly painful. She felt a strange tightness in her chest and her hand encountered bandages under the thin nightgown she was wearing.

She couldn't remember what had happened. She was only aware of crisp sheets, medicinal smells and metallic noises all around her.

Her eyes slid open lazily, thick from drugs. They widened as Bill Peck came into view at her bedside.

“God, you gave us a fright,” he said heavily, rising with a weary smile to stand beside the bed and hold her hand.

“Have I…been here long?” she whispered.

“Two days,” he replied. “Give or take a few hours.”

“How bad am I?” she asked, wondering how she could even talk, she hurt so much. It felt as if every bone in her body was broken.

“You've got several fractures, three broken ribs, a concussion, and you're damned lucky the cab driver had lightning reflexes or you'd be dead,” came a rough angry voice from the doorway.

She turned her head, groaning with the effort, and found Bryan Moreland standing there, dark and forbidding, and looking as if he hadn't slept in a week. His sports shirt was open at the neck, his hair was ruffled, and he was plainly irritated.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she whispered miserably.

Some unreadable expression flashed across his face. “Who the hell said you have?” he demanded.

Bill Peck let go of her hand with a grin. “If you don't mind, honey, I'm going to get out of the line of fire. Get well, huh? And if you need anything, just call.”

“Thanks,” she said weakly.

He winked at Moreland and closed the door gently behind him.

Carla turned her eyes back to the wall, moaning softly with the pain. “What do you want now?” she asked wearily. “A leg?”

“I want you to get well.”

She bit her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. “I want to go home,” she said tearfully. “My father…”

“Is still on his cruise,” he finished for her. “He sent a cable the first day you were in here. Peck and I went to your apartment to get some gowns for you, and it was waiting under the door.”

“Oh.” She felt the tears wind down her cheek. She was hurt and she wanted her father.

“You're coming with me,” he said without preamble.

She turned on the bed, her eyes staring at him as he stood looking down at her, his dark face daring her to argue.

“I can't,” she told him.

“Maybe not, but you're sure as hell coming,” he said doggedly, his jaw going taut as he studied her young, bruised face. “Mrs. Brodie's going to live in for the duration, until I get you back on your feet.”

Her lips trembled. “You don't owe me anything.”

His face seemed to darken, harden. “You got hit because I upset you. I might as well have thrown you under the wheels myself.”

She closed her eyes. Would she ever be free of guilt? She wondered miserably. First hers, now his. She didn't want to be on his conscience. And most of all, she didn't want to go home with him, to have to see him every day, knowing that he hated her, blamed her, that he was only salving his conscience by having her around.

“I don't want to go,” she whispered.

He gave a harsh sigh. “I don't want you around any more than you want to come,” he growled at her, “but there isn't much choice. You can't go home with no one to look after you, and I'm damned well not going to let you stay with Peck!”

“Why not?” she asked sharply. “He'd take care of me.”

“So will I,” he said, his dark eyes unfathomable as they studied her thin form under the sheets.

Her eyes closed, and tears washed out from under her tight eyelids. “Please don't make me go,” she pleaded unsteadily. “Haven't you punished me enough?”

There was a long silence, and when she looked at him, his back was turned. He was staring out the window blankly, his hands rammed into his pockets. “It's only for a few days,” he said tightly. “Until you're back on your feet. We'll both grit our teeth and bear it. Then you can damned well go home and get out of my life.”

She turned her face back to the wall, hating him, hating what she felt every time she looked at him. It was going to be pure hell, and if there had been any way she could have talked her way out of it, she would have. But all the doors were locked behind her.

 

She studied the white fences and bare trees and chilly-looking Herefords as Bryan Moreland's sleek Jaguar wound up the farm road.

All her arguments hadn't prevailed against the brooding, irritable mayor. He simply silenced her with a hard look and went right ahead. Even Bill Peck wouldn't take her side against Moreland. It was as if every friend she had had deserted her. No one was willing to stand against Moreland.

Mrs. Brodie was waiting for them at the front door, smiling and sympathetic. She reminded Carla of a loving, kind aunt, standing there in her white starched apron.

“There, there, you poor little girl, we'll soon have you back on your feet,” she cooed, following along behind Moreland as he carried Carla down the hall into a spacious bedroom with a blue and white French provincial color scheme.

“I could have walked,” she protested as he laid her down gently on the canopied bed.

He stared down into her eyes without rising, and she was aware that Mrs. Brodie had disappeared, calling something back about fetching Carla some hot chicken soup.

“And broken Mrs. Brodie's romantic heart?” he chided. His dark eyes searched her wan, bruised face. Reluctantly his hand moved up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You do look terrible, little girl,” he said gently.

The kindness in his voice brought tears surging up behind her eyelids. “Don't,” she whispered brokenly.

His face shuttered. Abruptly he rose from the bed and moved away. “Mrs. Brodie will bring you some soup, and I'll get your suitcases. You'll probably feel more comfortable in a gown.”

She stared at him with her heart in her eyes. The tears spilled over onto her flushed cheeks just in time to catch Mrs. Brodie's attention as she came in with soup and coffee on a tray.

“Oh, poor dear,” she murmured, setting the tray down on the bedside tale. “Does it hurt very much?”

Carla took the handkerchief she offered, and dabbed at her red eyes. “Terribly,” she whispered, but she wasn't talking about physical pain.

“I'll get you some aspirin directly. Right now, you eat this soup.” She placed the tray on the bed across Carla's slender hips. “Bless your heart, I'm so glad Mr. Moreland brought you to me. I wondered what was wrong, of course, but it isn't my place to pry. He's just been so bitter lately, and the way he rides that big black stallion of his, it's a wonder he hasn't killed himself.” She sighed, watching with maternal concern as Carla started sipping the delicious broth. “That dreadful King person. How could he do something so terrible to a man like Mr. Moreland?” She sighed, her ample bosom rising indignantly. “Pretending to be his friend, and all—can you imagine? Thank goodness someone took the time and trouble to get the truth.”

“Amen,” she breathed softly.

“It was your paper that did it, wasn't it?” Mrs. Brodie asked shrewdly.

She dropped her eyes to the spotless blue coverlet. “It was my paper that started it,” she said miserably.

Mrs. Brodie patted her shoulder gently. “It all came right, dear. Don't worry.”

Nothing had come right, but she only smiled. “The soup is very good,” she murmured.

And Mrs. Brodie beamed.

 

Moreland made a conspicuous effort to stay completely out of her way in the evenings. Naturally, his job kept him away in the daytime. But even when he came home, he found things to keep him busy. Farm business, paperwork, phone calls, anything, it seemed, to keep him away from Carla's bedside. Even Mrs. Brodie noticed it.

“Why, Miss Maxwell will get the impression that you don't want her here, Mr. Moreland,” Mrs. Brodie teased gently one evening when he made a rare visit to Carla's room.

Carla, who was sitting wrapped up in her fleecy white robe in an armchair by the window, only glanced his way. One look at the formidable, dark face, was enough to tell her how little he wanted to be in the same room with her.

“Mr. Moreland is busy, I'm sure,” Carla said with a gentle smile. “It was…very kind of him to let me come here to recuperate. I already feel I'm imposing, without his having to entertain me.”

Moreland's eyes were flashing fire. “Don't let her stay up too late,” he told Mrs. Brodie. He turned and went out the door, his face like stone.

“I just don't understand,” Mrs. Brodie sighed.

Carla did, but she couldn't begin to explain it and she wasn't going to try.

A few days later, she dressed in her jeans and a pale green T-shirt that matched her eyes. It was an effort just to stand, but once she'd dragged a brush through her long, waving black hair and washed her face she felt a little more alive. The bruises on her flawless skin were beginning to fade a little, to a purplish yellow, but she didn't bother with makeup. What would be the use? She couldn't attract Bryan Moreland again if she were the world's most beautiful woman. He hated her too much for that.

She made her way down the hall on unsteady legs, glad that Mrs. Brodie had driven into town to do the shopping. Being here on her own had given her some incentive to rush her recuperation. The sooner she was able to go home, the better. If only her father's arrival hadn't been delayed.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” came a startled, deeply angry voice from the direction of the study.

She froze in her tracks, half turning as Moreland exploded out of his study into the hall. He was dressed casually, too, in worn jeans and a deep burgundy velour shirt that she recognized with a blush as the one he'd worn during her last brief visit here.

“I…I was just going to the kitchen,” she said weakly.

He moved closer, towering over her. “You crazy child,” he said in a soft, deep tone.