Wife for a Day (18 page)

She yawned, burrowing her head into the pillow. “That's a tough question, Jack. If you don't mind, I'll sleep on it and get back to you tomorrow or the next day.”

He chuckled to himself as he watched her fall asleep. Sam Jones didn't plan to cut him any slack at all. Hell, that was one of the things that endeared her to him. She didn't pull any punches. She didn't fall all over him, either.

She'd gotten all the money she needed and as far as she was concerned, that's all she wanted from him—except the comfort of his bed, which she firmly planned to sleep in alone. She'd carry out her end of their bargain and she'd hightail it back home.

But he had other plans. He wanted to make her dream come true, wanted to make her believe she belonged someplace.

And where he wanted her to belong was exactly where she was right now, with one difference. He wanted her to believe that he belonged next to her.

S
am woke to
the smell of woodsmoke and the crackling of a fire. At first she thought she was caught in the middle of a dream, one she'd had so many times as a child about waking up on Christmas morning in a house where a fireplace blazed and stockings hung from a mantel.

This wasn't a dream, though. Jack stood before the hearth, moving a log with a long-handled poker.

“Can't you sleep?” she asked, turning on her side and pulling the comforter around her shoulders.

“No.” He gave the log a shove, and it settled in between two others on the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney, and a gentle flame skittered over the wood. Jack put the poker in its stand, went back to his chair, and sat. “That bed seems to suit you,” he said. “You weren't
having any trouble sleeping at all.”

“It's not quite as cozy as the passenger seat of a VW,” she said, smiling, “but I know it's the best you have to offer.”

“When was the last time you slept in a real bed, Sam?” he asked in that warm, concerned-sounding voice that constantly caught her off guard.

“Six months ago, I guess. Why?”

“Is that when your mother died?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“It's the middle of the night,” she said, taking a quick peek at the clock beside the bed. It was just past 3:00
A.M.
, she wasn't tired any longer, but she'd never talked about her personal life with anyone. “Wouldn't you rather go to sleep?”

“I'd rather talk. Arabella and I never talked about personal things until it was too late. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I can't sleep, so why should you.”

She'd never asked him about Arabella, never really wanted to know about the woman he'd loved. Now seemed the perfect opportunity to ask. “Why did the two of you call it quits?”

“We didn't have enough in common.” He folded his arms behind his head and stared at
the fire. “Do you know anything about the stock market?”

“Me?” She laughed. “I know that stocks go up one day, down the next, but what that means is beyond me.”

“Do you know about mergers and acquisitions?”

Couldn't he ask her something simple, like whether or not she knew how to clean the grill at Denny's, make a hot fudge sundae, or drive a stick shift? She didn't want to look simple in his eyes, undereducated, but she couldn't hide what she was. “You already know I'm not too savvy when it comes to business, Jack. I'm the one who went to a loan shark for money, remember?”

“I remember.”

He closed his eyes, and she wondered if her inability to converse about business had bored him enough to put him to sleep.

“Do you like opera and the ballet?” he asked, his voice sounding relaxed, tired.

“I went to see
Phantom of the Opera
once and loved it, but I don't think true opera buffs consider that much of an opera.”

“No, they don't.”

“As for ballet, I once watched the
Nutcracker
on television at Christmastime. I liked that, too.”

“What about camping, Sam. Do you like
sleeping out under the stars at night?”

Rolling onto her back, she looked at the play of the firelight on the ceiling. “Mama and I lived outside one summer. We even stayed in the park a few times, until the police ran us off. But I remember looking up at the stars and thinking how pretty they were, that I wished I could reach out and touch them. That was an awfully nice summer.”

She'd revealed too much. She tilted her head to see if Jack was laughing, but he was standing beside the bed, looking down, smiling. “The stars are awfully big out here, Sam. They might be easier to touch than the ones in the city.”

“You think so?”

Nodding, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you feel like learning to ride tomorrow?”

“Think I can learn the right side to mount on?”

“Just remember that the right side is the left side, and you'll have it made.”

“Seems simple enough.”

He lifted one of her curls, wrapping the spiral around his finger. He watched her, and she could see the warmth of the fire mirrored in his eyes. She was afraid he was going to kiss her. Afraid he wouldn't—because she'd told him earlier that when they were alone he couldn't touch her.

Oh, why had she said such a crazy thing? She wanted him so darn much she ached.

He leaned toward her, resting an arm on the pillow beside her head. “This bed's big enough for two, Sam. You wouldn't reconsider sharing it, would you?”

“No.” She'd thought about saying “yes,” but her common sense stepped in and rescued her.

He grinned, her negative answer obviously not surprising him at all. “Could you at least give me a good-night kiss?”

That would be a very foolish thing to do, and she knew it, but her common sense had already retreated. She touched his cheek, feeling the stubble on his face as he moved toward her. His lips touched hers lightly. They lingered only a moment, long enough for her to smell the scent of soap on his skin, to hear him draw in a deep breath before he drew away, long enough for the beat of her heart to quicken.

“Good night, Sam,” he whispered.

She watched his back as he went to the chair. He didn't look at her again, but seemed to relax as he watched the fire. Slowly, his eyes closed, his breathing deepened, and she hoped she wasn't imagining it, but it seemed as if he'd fallen asleep with a smile on his face.

 

Sam bounded down the stairs at five minutes until ten the next morning, shocked that she'd slept so late, upset with herself that she'd missed the sunrise and most of the morning. She wasn't going to have much time at the ranch, and she fully planned to take advantage of every moment she could.

The black cowboy boots she'd found in one of the suitcases fit her like a glove, and they clomped on the wooden stairs, echoing throughout the house. Jack had done a good job picking out jeans, too, but she'd ignored the suitcase full of pretty blouses and sweaters, opting for one of Jack's big flannel shirts instead. It felt comfy, secure, and was the next best thing to being swallowed up in his embrace.

She found Crosby in the kitchen, stooped over the sink slowly washing pots and pans. “Good morning.”

“Mornin'.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Coffee's on the stove. There's eggs, bacon, and biscuits warming in the oven.”

Leaning over the coffeepot, she savored the scent of Crosby's brew. “Smells like you doubled the amount of beans.”

“I did. You want it different, you gotta make it yourself.”

“My mama always told me strong coffee's good for the soul.”

“I don't know much about souls, but I do know coffee, and I like it strong. Of course, ain't no one else around here feels that way.”

Sam poured herself a cup and leaned against the kitchen cabinet, taking slow sips of the scalding liquid. “Where's Jack?”

“He left right after breakfast—a good three hours ago. Went huntin' coyotes.”

“Will he be gone long?”

“No tellin'. Said he would have taken you with him, but you was out like a light.”

“I don't know what possessed me to sleep so late.” She opened the oven door and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate. “It's not like me at all.”

“You ain't late. Miss Lauren won't be out of bed till at least noon, maybe later. Pampered socialite is what she is, but it sure does make me feel good seein' her here.”

“Did you spend much time with Jack and Lauren when they were little?”

“Yep.”

“What were they like?”

“Trouble. Both of them.”

“That's it?”

“You want to know more, you gotta ask them. I ain't never been one to tell tales about others.”

“I knew there was a good reason to like you.”

Crosby looked away from the sink and grinned. “You ain't so bad, either.”

Sam rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. “Want some help?”

“Almost done here.”

“Then tell me where you keep the cleaning supplies.”

“Jack would have my hide if he knew I was lettin' you work around here. Besides, we got a maid who comes once a week to do the cleaning. Course, he don't like her touchin' his office. Don't trust her, I guess. If you're so all-fired ready to do somethin', s'pose you could tackle that room since you're gonna be family.”

“If Jack gives you any grief, you tell him to see me. I know how to handle him.”

How's that for a big, whopping fib?
she asked herself. If she knew how to handle Jack, she wouldn't be here in his house preparing to have her heart broken. He was too darn gentlemanly, too nice, too anxious to make her happy. The men in her life didn't act that way—maybe that's why none of them had ever come close to even touching her heart.

Grabbing a napkin from the table, she took a few more pieces of bacon and headed off to explore the house. It didn't take long to discover that the entire place, not just Jack's bedroom, was devoid of frills. The furniture in the
living room was leather and tweed, the tables heavy oak. A moose head hung over the fireplace mantel, and the other walls bore the trophies of pronghorn, elk, and deer.

The entire place needed a woman's touch. The animals could stay, but the rooms needed sprucing up. Throw pillows, rugs to warm the hardwood floors, a vase or two brimming with flowers. If she lived here…She let the thought slide right on through her head.
This is temporary, Sam. Only temporary
.

She wandered down a hallway off the living room. Through one of the doors she found a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and knew she could get lost in a room like this. She'd never had time to read, but she could easily imagine curling up in one of the big leather chairs set on either side of the brick fireplace.

After thoroughly perusing the books on the shelves, she left what could easily become her favorite room in the house. She crossed the hall and went through the closed but unlocked door. Definitely Jack's office.

The familiar fragrance of cigars and aftershave wrapped around her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scents, picturing Jack in front of her. His smile, the lift of his brow. She could almost feel him tugging her toward him, lowering his mouth, and kissing her slow and gentle.

Leaving his home—and leaving Jack—would be one of the most difficult things she'd ever had to do. But she'd been through tough times before, she'd known heartache, and she'd always bounced back.

Of course, this time it might be different. This time she might not recover.

She leaned against the bookshelves, studying Jack's office. It was neat, organized, and unadorned, but it seemed to match the rest of the house, not to mention his personality. He didn't go for frills, for the trappings most rich people seemed to love. He liked the wide-open prairies and the small, sometimes underappreciated things in life like sunrises and sunsets.

Her mama definitely would have liked Jack Remington—even with his faults.

Sweeping her fingers over the bookcase, checking out the titles on the shelves, she found a brown-leather photo album with a gold-leaf border wedged in the far bottom corner. She knew she was snooping, but she couldn't resist taking a peek. After all, it was only a photo album. Jack might not approve of her looking at something personal, but it seemed an easy way to get to know a man who was short on words.

She opened the album, and the first thing she saw was a wildflower pressed beneath the
plastic page, with the photo of a pretty young girl above it. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, with straight blond hair and a wide smile.

Turning the page, she was treated to even more pictures of the same girl, but a boy was in the photos with her, and in most every one they were hand in hand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thin. He had a cowboy hat tilted low on his brow and even though Sam couldn't see the eyes, she could see the off-kilter smile, and knew it was Jack.

He was good looking in a boyish way. He was obviously in love, she could see it in every picture. He had that special smile, that warm gleam in his eyes—the same look she'd seen on his face during the night.

No, no. That wasn't true. That was the look she'd wanted to see, nothing more.

Once more she flipped a page. The young girl was leaning against a tree, her hands resting on her swollen belly. She must have been eight or nine months pregnant, and even though she was far too young to be a mother, her face held a certain glow. On the bottom of the same page, the girl held a bundle in her arms. Jack knelt beside her, looking down at the baby, smiling.

There were no more pictures of the girl after that. No more photos of Jack. Instead, there
were fifteen pages, each with one, single photo centered beneath the plastic sheets. They showed the steady progression of a baby growing into a toddler, a child, a teen. They were nothing more than wallet-sized school portraits, the kind kids exchange with friends. They weren't personal. There were no snapshots taken when the boy took his first step, when he blew out the candles on his birthday cakes, when he opened presents at Christmas.

But the pages were worn, the corners dog-eared, as if Jack had looked at the collection nearly every day for sixteen years.

She closed the album and held it against her. Suddenly, she felt as if she'd trespassed on Jack's heartache, and it became clear to her that he'd wanted to be a father—but for some reason, he'd never been given the chance.

Shoving the book back into its place in a far corner of the shelf, she wiped the tears from her eyes and walked across the room. She stood beside the window that looked out toward the barn. A chair had been dragged across the floor, as if Jack had been in here recently but wanted to look outside rather than concentrate on work. She wondered what he looked at—and then she knew.