Cowboy in My Pocket (24 page)

MICHELLE QUIETLY opened the door to Lenore’s room, expecting to find the older woman asleep. She’d left Lenore in bed crying, totally devastated by Coop’s rejection.

Instead, Gramma Lenore was seated on a bench in front of a small dressing table, carefully applying her makeup. Her hair was neatly styled and she’d changed into a flowing house dress in a vivid shade of blue that did wonders for her eyes.

Michelle could hardly tell she’d been crying. “Are you okay?” She slipped on into the room. “I was worried about you.”

Lenore scooted over on the low bench seat and patted the space next to her. “I’m fine,” she said. “But what about you? Do you want to tell me about that good-lookin’ man sittin’ out in the kitchen sharing a drink with your husband?”

Michelle sighed and sat down next to Lenore. “You and I both know he’s not my husband. Tag doesn’t want to be married, especially to a woman from New York. You know how he feels about his mother and father’s relationship.”

“Jim and Maggie are not Michelle and Tag.” Lenore’s knowing gaze trapped Michelle’s in the lighted mirror. “You love Tag, don’t you? You’ve loved him from the start.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I loved Tag before I knew him,” Michelle said, knowing exactly how true it was. She laughed softly at her own foolishness. “I think all romance writers fall in love with their heroes in every book they write. Tag’s the hero in my last book. The minute I saw him, I knew who he was.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.” Michelle looked down at her hands, at the gold wedding band on her left ring finger. She carefully removed it and set it on the table. “He doesn’t want me, Lenore. He wants this ranch but not me. At least not forever.” Michelle turned and touched the older woman’s shoulder. “I think Tag loves me a little, but not enough to risk a permanent future. I love him too much to stay, knowing it won’t last.”

“You said he was your hero, the one you imagined,” Lenore said. “If he’s everything you want, aren’t you willing to fight for him?”

“The book got rejected, Lenore. By Mark Connor. That should tell you something.” She shrugged her shoulders, stood up and paced restlessly around the room. Rain splatted against the bedroom window and the wind howled around the ranch house. Michelle shivered even though the room was warm.

“Ah, your editor. Is he in love with you?”

Michelle paused to think about that for a moment. “I think Mark’s occasionally in lust with me, but only because he knows I’m safe. I don’t lust back.” She smiled, thinking about the disagreements and conversations the two of them had had over the years. “He’s been my editor for years and my friend just as long. I’ve talked him through two divorces and any number of failed relationships. No, Mark doesn’t love me, not that way. Sometimes I think he’s actually a little afraid of me.”

“I wouldn’t tell Tag,” Lenore said, carefully applying her lipstick. “Might help the boy make up his mind if he thinks he’s got a little competition to deal with.”

Michelle thought about that for a moment. Lenore might just know what she was talking about. There’d been a rather possessive gleam in Tag’s eyes when she’d casually rested her hands on Mark’s shoulders.

She didn’t like the idea of using Mark’s friendship to get Tag’s attention. On the other hand, she was still peeved that Mark had rejected her western. Of course, now she’d experienced western life and real cowboys, she had to admit he’d been right not to accept it as written.

Thunder rumbled high overhead, lightning flashed outside and the bedroom lights flickered but stayed on. Thank goodness she and Mark hadn’t tried to leave in this storm. “What about Coop?” Michelle asked, hugging herself. “He’s out in the bunkhouse, probably reading one of his romance novels. Are you going to try and patch things up with him? Is that why you’ve got yourself all fancied up?”

Lenore stiffened, then slowly turned to face Michelle. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were going to patch things up with Coop.”

“No, not that. You said Coop’s here? I thought he went over to Will Twigg’s. I thought he was gone.”

“Coop’s in the bunkhouse. He came back because the road’s washed out from the storm. No one can leave until at least Monday, I guess. I thought you knew.”

A huge grin split Lenore’s face. “No, sweetheart, I didn’t know.” She turned back to her image in the mirror. “It’s getting late. I should probably go start something for supper. I’m sure that old cowboy is pretty hungry after the day he’s had.”

“Do you think he’ll come up to the house to eat?” Michelle asked. “He still seemed awfully angry.”

“I hope not.” Lenore winked at Michelle. “I’d much rather deliver his supper in person. It’s impossible for a man to throw a woman out of his room when she comes bearing food.”

“I’ll remember that.” Michelle turned to leave, then stopped at the bedroom door. “Lenore,” she asked, wondering if she had a right to ask. “What’s it like, to know a man loves you enough to wait for you for sixty years?”

The silence stretched out so long, Michelle wondered if she’d just made the ultimate social blunder by asking such a personal question. Then Lenore rose quietly to her feet, walked over to the window and stared out into the gloomy storm.

“It’s exhilarating and frightening and terribly sad at the same time,” she said. “I never had a clue how Coop felt, but even if I’d known I’m not certain I would have done anything differently. I was so afraid of being poor and Ed had so much money and power. Unfortunately, I never realized how much I’d be giving up when I married him.”

She turned deliberately, walked across the room and grabbed both of Michelle’s hands in hers. “I am such a coward, Michelle. A selfish, self-centered coward. Coop has every right to be angry with me. I can only pray he’ll forgive me. I didn’t stop to think about his feelings when I told him that stupid story about dying. It was selfish and unfair and cruel and I will be apologizing to that wonderful man for the rest of my natural days. I am not, however, going to let him get away. Not when I’ve just found him. I had no idea, none, what it was like to be loved by a good man until Cooperton Jones came to me and to my bed. That’s a sad state of affairs, young woman, to have to wait almost eighty years to find out what real love is.”

Lenore took a deep breath and exhaled. She looked enraged, about to explode in anger. “Don’t you dare waste what you’ve got with my grandson,” she warned. “Don’t you dare.”

Speechless, Michelle stepped aside as Lenore swept by her and barreled out the door. The older woman’s parting words hung in the air.

What, exactly, did she have with Tag?

A marriage, maybe? A real marriage? Without considering the consequences, Michelle walked back to the dressing table, grabbed the plain gold wedding band and slipped it on her finger. It definitely looked right, like it belonged there. She wondered what Mark would say when he finally noticed.

She wondered what she would say when he asked.

Then she decided she’d leave the explanations up to Tag.

Smiling at the potential for a really good scene in this convoluted plot, Michelle headed back to her room to dress for dinner.

MICHELLE BARELY heard the light tap on her bedroom door. Expecting Tag, it was all she could do not to rush to open it. First she tightened the belt on her robe then fluffed her hair back from her face. She cracked the door open a couple of inches. Mark stood in the hallway, a self-conscious smile on his face.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Michelle stood aside and Mark stepped hesitantly into the room. “I’ve just heard a pretty wild story from Martin,” he said. His voice sounded strained, as if he controlled some powerful emotion. “It’s got all the elements of the worst romance novel ever written, and if anyone would know, it’s me. More clichés and stupid plot twists than . . .”

Michelle didn’t think she’d ever seen Mark looking as confused, distressed even, as he did at this moment. She placed her hands on his forearms and smiled. “Mark, it’s not . . .”

“God, Michelle. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Before Michelle had any idea what he intended, before she could begin to resist, Mark was holding her, kissing the side of her neck, muttering unintelligible somethings in her ear.

Shock and surprise gave way to indignation. “Mark. Stop it!” She pushed against his chest, managed to create a small gap, and finally shoved hard enough to get his attention. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He looked almost as shocked as she felt. In all the years she’d known Mark, he’d never once even made a pass at her. Their relationship had been businesslike and professional, though Michelle had long ago begun to think of him as her friend as well as her editor.

She smoothed the front of her robe, carefully closing the gap that had opened above the belt. The only other time Mark had ever seen her in a robe was when he’d stopped by to drop off a couple of cans of chicken soup and her galleys when she’d stayed home so sick with the flu she could barely see straight.

He’d made her cook her own soup and demanded she have the galleys proofread and corrected and back the next day.

“What was that all about?” She glared at him, wanting answers, explanations . . . definitely not wanting to anger him too much. He was, after all, her editor.

Good editors were hard to find. She certainly didn’t want him mad at her.

He took a deep breath. So deep his chest expanded, drawing Michelle’s attention to the broad musculature visible even through his tailored white shirt. She immediately compared Mark’s carefully sculpted build with Tag’s rangy, lean muscles.

She almost licked her lips, thinking of Tag, not Mark. “Well?” she insisted.

“I’m sorry, Michelle. It’s just . . .” He ran his fingers through his carefully styled blond hair and rubbed the back of his head in obvious frustration. “A week ago, I expected to hear from you. You didn’t call and I figured, okay, she’s just really mad at me for sending her off on this trip and she’s going to make me worry about her, just to teach me a lesson. So, I thought, two can play this game. I didn’t call you, either.” He began pacing back and forth across the small room.

Michelle sat on the edge of the bed to get out of his way.

“Then I started to get worried, so I casually dropped by your apartment, figured I’d catch you hiding from me, I’d give you a bad time, maybe forgive you . . . we’d have a good laugh. Obviously, that’s not what happened. Your neighbor was down by the mailbox, collecting your mail and hers. She said no one had heard from you, that you were almost a week overdue from your trip.”

He stopped pacing and stared despairingly at Michelle. “I think that was the precise moment, standing there in that little foyer, that I realized I loved you. I loved you and you were gone and no one knew where you were.”

“Mark. I . . .”

“Let me finish.” He grinned at her, the self-deprecating look of a man not used to dealing with strong, most likely unwanted, emotions. “It gets better, believe me. I raced back to the office and my phone was ringing. It was the Colorado State Police calling to report that your car had been dragged out of the river, but you were missing. There’d been no report of a body.”

At that point, his face crumpled. Michelle fought every impulse she had to throw her arms around him and give him comfort. She couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t.

Not after what he’d just said. She sat quietly and listened.

“I had to come out here,” he said, pleading with his eyes, his words. “I had to find you, tell you how I felt. Michelle, when Will Twigg put that old codger on the phone and he told me you were alive, I figured it was an omen. It was telling me you’d been saved because I loved you, because you love me, and we were meant to be together.”

He grabbed her hands in his and knelt before her on the worn bedroom carpet.

Michelle thought he looked terribly out of place in the old-fashioned room. Terribly out of place and way off base. “Mark . . .” She hesitated over his name, wanting nothing more than to pull her hands out of his grasp.

“Mark,” she repeated. “We’ve been friends for a long time, good friends, but . . .”

“Michelle, sweetheart, don’t say it. You’ve had a terrible couple of weeks and . . .”

“It hasn’t been all that terrible,” she said, tugging her hands. He grasped them tighter. Suddenly he frowned.

“What’s this?”

“A wedding ring. Tag told you the story, about the marriage, right?”

“Well, it’s not a real marriage.” Mark twisted the ring and tried to work it over her knuckle.

“Mark, don’t,” she said, finally pulling her hands free. “Didn’t Tag explain? It is a real marriage, recorded and everything. We signed a legal license, said our vows in front of a real minister.” She gave him what she hoped was a convincing smile and tried to forget that just a few hours ago she’d told Tag it wasn’t real, that since she’d signed a false name it would never stand up in court.

Mark sat back on his heels and scowled. “Tag said it was a sham marriage, that the two of you only pretended to be married.”

Mark’s blunt words cut, deeply, painfully. Michelle took a deep breath, successfully finding control. “Tag was pretending,” she answered honestly. “I wasn’t. When I signed the license, I didn’t know who I was, but I really thought we were married. I wanted to be married. Until we get it all straightened out . . .” She stood up, distancing herself from Mark.

He didn’t take the hint. “You can’t honestly be in love with that . . .” He paused, as if searching for the perfect disparaging description. “That cowboy. Good Lord, Michelle, you’ve lived in New York since you were eighteen years old! You love the plays, you go to the opera. You’re a writer. You can’t expect him to just up and move to New York City, can you?”

“Sneering is so unbecoming, Mark.” Michelle glared at him. “Why would he expect to move to New York? The obvious thing would be for me to live here.” Who was she kidding? Michelle could literally feel her heart sink. Tag didn’t want her here. He didn’t want anything to do with her.

“Has he asked you?” Mark wasn’t sneering, but Michelle knew the sound of triumph in a man’s voice when she heard it.