Not My 1st Rodeo (15 page)

Chapter Eight

He hadn't packed anything. Not even a toothbrush. He'd gone to the trouble of making sure that Jim from the next ranch over would be able to feed the horses, but he hadn't packed an overnight bag.

Yeah, he wasn't exactly on the ball here.

While Karen got cleaned up in the bathroom, he got dressed in yesterday's clothing. His legs ached—hell, his butt ached from all the thrusting—and he was spent. As late as he'd slept, he could easily roll back under those covers and sleep for another few hours.

But she'd suggested breakfast, and the day wasn't getting any younger—just like he wasn't either. So he got dressed and, as he did that, he thought about what would come after breakfast.

Something had happened this morning, something that had pushed him to a place he might have known once, a long time ago—back before the kids and the cancer, back when he and Sue were two kids crazy in love and unable to keep their hands off each other.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever told Sue he was going to fuck her hard, or if she'd ever told him to do that to her. They'd done some pretty crazy things—including not always using a condom, which had lead to a few anxious months here and there. But…had they talked like
that
? He didn't know. He didn't like not knowing—not being able to remember that about him and Sue. He didn't like it all.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots with more force than he technically needed. That's not what this night with Karen had been about—forgetting Sue. He didn't
want
to forget her. She was his wife and he still loved her.

Last night—this morning—it'd been about…

Well, lust. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

But if there wasn't anything wrong with it, why did he feel so
not
right? Why did he feel like he'd betrayed Sue?

He was going around and around with himself when Karen came back out of the bathroom. Instead of the stunning red dress, she wore a pair of jeans and the kind of turtleneck sweater where the neck part hung low, so he could still see a few small marks that he'd left on her. Her hair was still down, still hanging in long, loose waves around her shoulders.

Something inside shifted as he stood and stared at her. Like…like last night, she'd been out of his league, the kind of woman he could safely lust after because there was just no way that someone as refined and classy and impulsive as Karen Thompson would ever fit into his quiet world of early mornings, earlier evenings and a whole lot of cows.

The woman standing before him now with a wide and happy smile on her face was still Karen. Even after less than twelve hours with her, he felt like he'd know her anywhere. But this version looked like a woman who might want to spend a little time out in the middle of nowhere that was his part of Montana. Like she might be comfortable with an old man like him.

She looked like she would belong.

That made everything worse.

Her smile faltered a little. “You okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” He forcibly shook the mess of thoughts out of his head. “My head, it's still a little fuzzy from sleeping in so late.” Yeah, fuzzy. That was one way to describe it. He tried to give her a grin. “And other things.”

She looked at him a little bit longer. He didn't miss the hint of worry that pulled at the corners of her eyes. “Do you still want to grab some breakfast? I know you probably need to get home.”

Her voice was level when she said it, but he heard it anyway. The sound of a woman who was used to disappointment getting ready to deal with more of the same.

And despite the fact that he wasn't actually sure if he was okay or not—that there was something about this whole experience that left him wondering what the hell he was doing—he couldn't disappoint her. Not her.

So he closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms and held her. It wasn't sexual, not really. It was…

Intimate
. And that, more than anything—that scared him. Because he'd only ever been intimate with one other woman.

What he was feeling wasn't panic, because Mack Tucker did not panic, for God's sake. He hadn't panicked when Sue had been diagnosed, and he hadn't panicked when she'd gotten sicker and sicker. Well, not much anyway.

So whatever this was, it wasn't panic. Absolutely not.

Which did not explain why, instead of saying the smooth thing, the thing that Tommy would probably tell him to say, something like I've got time, he said something else entirely. “I need to get back.”

She was stiff in his arms for a second, as if his words had stabbed her right in the back.

“It's a long drive,” he went on stupidly, because more talking could only make this worse. “And I'm sure you need to get to work soon too.”

She sighed and, for a brief moment, she hugged him back. “I understand. I…I had a wonderful time, Mack. This was good for me. I hope…” she took an even deeper breath, “I hope it was good for you too.”

He leaned back and looked down into her eyes. There was so much there—hope and worry and caution. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I'm still—” He sighed. He wasn't sure he could explain anything at this point. The first rule of holes and all that—when you're in a hole, stop digging.

So he kept it simple. Or tried to anyway. “I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out.”

“I know.” She turned and kissed his palm. “When you get a little bit more figured out, you can call me. If you want.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “If you want to see me again.”

That hit him low, like a punch to the gut, because he was disappointing her. Hell, he was disappointing himself, and that went against everything he believed. Because he'd taken a beautiful, vibrant woman to bed and now, in the cold light of a cold day, he was going to cut and run. That wasn't the kind of man he was.

Or was he? Because he also wasn't the kind of man who took a woman to bed, not anymore.

Or he hadn't been. Not until Karen Thompson had walked into his life.

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

But he couldn't let go of her yet either, because once he let go, that was it. That was him walking off into the sunrise. So he kissed her and she kissed him back. Not the fevered kissing that had made him lose his mind this morning, but something sweeter. Like she knew how hard he was trying and she appreciated the effort.

Then the kiss ended.

She stepped away from him. She didn't meet his gaze.

And damn it all to hell, he couldn't just walk out the door. He couldn't be a callous bastard, but he didn't want to throw off a half-hearted, “I'll call you,” because he couldn't make a promise to her he couldn't see his way to keeping.

But he owed her something, something more than a goodbye kiss. “Let me get your bag.”

Her lips pulled down into a frown, but then she nodded. She shoved her things into the bag and grabbed her coat, he snagged his hat and they walked out into the hall in silence.

The elevator—the same elevator where he'd pinned her against the back wall and touched her through her panties—was a special kind of hell now. And because he couldn't look at her and not think of all the ways he'd touched her, he shifted the bag to his other hand, took hold of her hand and held it tight, as if that was the riskiest move he'd made all night.

She held his hand back, which he decided meant that she didn't hate him for not exactly turning out like the cowboy of her fantasies. Not much anyway.

They walked out of the hotel like that, like a couple heading out for a big day together. She led him to her car, a little sedan that didn't look rated to Montana winters, and he put her bag in the trunk.

This was it—the last possible moment he could redeem himself. He could still take her to breakfast. He still could say something.
Anything
.

“Karen,” he began before he could talk himself out of it.

She paused and turned to look back at him. “Yes?”

And he wanted to tell her everything, how he couldn't remember if he'd ever talked dirty to Sue and he was too old for her anyway and this was all too much for him because he loved his dead wife. Because it was just too much for him.
It was
.

But he couldn't.

He cleared his throat. “I had a real nice time too.”

That got him something that was supposed to be a smile and just didn't make it. Not even close. “Good. I'm glad to hear it.”

Then she got in her car and he turned to his truck and began the long drive home.

Alone.

Chapter Nine

“Karen?”

Karen paused on her way back to her little office in the rear of Bergman's Floral Creations. But she didn't turn around. Flo was a genius with baby's breath but a bit overbearing, in a motherly sort of way. Which was exactly the kind of thing Karen was not in the mood for. Not after watching Mack drive away from the hotel without a look back. “Yes?”

“Everything okay?”

Karen steeled herself and tried to wipe the disappointment off her face. No, actually, everything was not all right. She'd just spent the night in the arms of a man who made nearly every single one of her fantasies come true—except for that one about sex in the back of a pickup truck—and she didn't think she'd ever see him again.

“Fine.” She turned and gave Flo what she hoped was a sympathetic smile. “Have we gotten confirmation on the rose order? Valentine's Day is coming up fast, and I don't want to be left empty-handed.” There. That was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, especially because Flo hadn't quite let her forget that during her first year as the owner of this store that was exactly what had happened.

Flo stared at Karen. Flo's hair was in the permanent helmet of old-lady curls and the same work apron she'd probably been wearing for the last thirty years was tied around her waist. “Bad date?”

Bad? No. It'd been a wonderful date. The only bad part had been when it ended.

She would have thought that rejection wouldn't sting this much. After all, years of living with the realization that Roger didn't love her, had never loved her, had trained her well. Not to mention that string of bad first dates with losers and creeps. She should be a pro at rejection. It shouldn't hurt at all. But it still did.

“I don't think we'll be seeing each other again.” Which neatly sidestepped the goodness or badness of the date itself and stuck to the facts. “He's a widower and I don't think he's ready to move on.”

Flo shrugged. “Widowers are tough. Some move on too fast, some never get over it.”

Then the phone in her office rang and Karen gratefully hurried to answer it. It was the flower wholesaler, calling to confirm her rose order.

Karen was grateful for the distraction of work. She threw herself into the pre-Valentine's Day preparations with a vengeance. Which was how she normally handled the holiday. Work kept her from reliving the lousy Valentine's Days she'd muddled through with Roger—with the
expensive
piece of jewelry in a Tiffany box that had invariably proven to be the $99 cheap mall-store special that he'd transferred into the bright-blue box on his own, the dinner where he'd boldly and loudly professed his love in front of the rest of the diners but never when they were alone. Oh, and the way his phone would
always
ring at some point in the evening and he'd hurry out of earshot to talk to a
client
who was always his latest girlfriend, calling to tell him how much she loved him.

But this was different. She wasn't trying to drown out the memories of being neglected, misled and ignored. She was trying to not think about the way Mack Tucker had watched her swim, the fire in his eyes when he'd made her cry his name. Because to think of that would be to want it—him—again.

The days turned into a week, then two weeks. Every time the phone rang, she stupidly hoped to hear his rough voice on the other end, asking to see her again. Telling her he couldn't stop thinking about her. That he missed her.

Mack didn't call.

She knew he wouldn't.

Mack turned on his phone, saw the text messages from all three of his boys as well as all the missed calls, and shut that sucker right back down.

He knew what they wanted. They wanted to know how his big date had gone and whether or not Mack was getting on with his life.

He didn't want to talk about the date. He didn't want to talk about Karen. He didn't want anyone to know how he'd tucked his damn tail between his damn legs and run like a coward.

He didn't want to tell his sons that he'd almost forgotten about their mother.

So he kept his phone off. He didn't turn on his computer, just in case one of the boys tried to video-chat with him or whatever the kids were calling it these days. He let the machine pick up his landline.

He didn't tell anyone about the date. He didn't even go to church for a few weeks because he didn't know how he was supposed to sit in the house of the Lord and listen to the preacher talk about sin and forgiveness.

He didn't even turn on the television, aside from catching the weather because impending blizzards were something that no rancher in his right mind would ignore. But instead of leaving the TV on all the time just to fill the silence, Mack turned it right back off.

The silence was punishing, but he deserved it.

Karen probably hated him, but he deserved that too.

One snowy day, when he'd made sure his cattle had water and feed and that was all he could do, he couldn't take it anymore. He dug out the shoeboxes full of photos, the album his mom had put together when he and Sue had gotten married. He flipped through decades of snapshots.

He started spreading the photos out over the kitchen table, organizing them by year and by memory, forcing himself to remember everything that he might have forgotten.

There were the photos of his senior prom. They'd slow-danced to every single song, unwilling to part for anything, even a catchy tune. They'd already been having sex for about four months then, and he'd decided that night that he was going to marry her just as soon as he could, because he knew it was never going to get better than this.

And the photos of her senior prom, then their wedding photos from just two weeks later. Her prom dress had been her wedding dress because her momma had refused to spend more money on another dress so soon, so she'd gotten married in that. It hadn't mattered to them. They'd been adults and they couldn't wait a minute longer. The rest of their lives had been waiting for them.

The rest of Sue's life anyway.

He stacked the pictures of Sue's growing belly when she had Mark, then the ones of her with a big belly and a toddler in her arms. Nicky. And then Tommy, a squalling little ball of red in her arms in the hospital, with Mack leaning over them both, his arm around Sue. Years of Halloween costumes and Christmas mornings and new boots for the boys.

He found the professional photo they'd had done for their tenth anniversary, because Sue had lost as much of the baby weight as she could and was finally ready to have her picture taken again. He'd felt ridiculous being posed by the photographer, but even he had to admit the results were worth it.

Slowly, order was restored to the piles of photos, but Mack couldn't bring himself to put everything back into the boxes. He
had
to look at all the photos now—the table was covered in them. He
had
to remember. He couldn't allow himself to forget.

There was one last box he pulled out from under the bed. It wasn't overflowing like all the other boxes had been.

Mack sat down at the table and opened it.

There weren't as many photos in this one. Instead, there were bracelets from hospital visits and a copy of the first clean doctor's report, followed by the results from a year later that the cancer had come back. The scarf Sue had used to cover her baldness was in here.

And down at the bottom was a photo. He didn't remember seeing this one before. Sue was in her hospital bed, wires and tubes and death lurking at every corner of the frame. Mack was in bed with her, his strong body curled around her weak one.

She'd turned her face to his and their foreheads were touching. Her hand, the one with the IV lines running into it, rested on top of his. Their eyes were closed.

Tears ran down Mack's face as he studied the picture. He didn't know when the photo had been taken, but it couldn't have been more than a few weeks before she died.

And Sue…was smiling. She was
smiling
in the picture. Her eyes were closed and half-sunken into her head and she was about to die and leave him for forever, and still, she smiled. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. Of her.

Something made him turn the photo over. There, on the back, was Sue's handwriting. It was jagged and slanted, none of her normal strong curves to be seen, but he recognized it anyway.

“See how happy you make me? Be happy, Mack. Be happy.”

“I don't know how to be happy without you, babe,” he whispered to the photo.

It didn't answer him. Of course it didn't, because there was no answer to be had.

Mack put his head down on the table and cried.