Reason To Believe (18 page)

"I used to have this fantasy that you would—" the little laugh she permitted herself seemed to ease the stiffness from her shoulders "—steal mine sometime, and I'd look all over for it. And then you'd give it back, and I'd find a message engraved inside."

He'd never been good at guessing games. He always felt stupid asking for clues. But he did it anyway, because it seemed important to her.

"What message would you find?"

"I never decided. That part was up to you."

"I never knew you to take it off," he said, befuddled.

"I never did."

"So, in
this fantasy,
just how did I manage to steal the ring?"

"I don't know. I was asleep the whole time."

God, she was infuriating, but he had to laugh. He didn't know what else to do, since he'd be
damned
if he'd apologize for this one.

"If you wanted Prince Charming, why in the hell did you marry a cowboy?"

"Because for some strange reason I fell in love with a cowboy." She eyed him contemptuously, as though he'd forced it on her.

He draped his arm over his upraised knee and eyed her right back. "If you ever figure out what that strange reason was, could you clue me in? I know you loved me, Clara. I just don't know why."

He posted his chin on his arm and waited, watching her study her knees. Not only was she unable to come up with an answer, she didn't seem to know whether to take her jeans and sweater off and let herself be comfortable, even at the risk of letting him see more of the body he knew as well as he knew his own. Better, really. Loved infinitely better, which was why she was safe with him. Keeping her clothes on would make no difference.

"Do you ever take your ring off?" she asked quietly, without looking up.

"Sometimes, when I'm workin'." He wondered what kind of negligence he was inadvertently admitting to now.

"How about... when you're with someone else?" She glanced up, but her gaze ricocheted off his on the correction.
"Were...
with someone else."

He closed his eyes and turned his head, laying his cheek on his arm. His only answer was a soft sigh.

Determined to press him, she took a deep breath. "When you were having...
fucking
that other woman. Were you wearing your wedding ring?"

Now
she
was doing it again. Pressing him for details she neither wanted nor needed to hear. Backing him into the tight chute he'd erected for himself. It would always be there for her to herd him into with her questions. He could try to lie his way out, or he could tell it like it was. Either way, it was like bucking out a spinning bull. And his sweet Clara was no bull rider.

He lifted his head and looked her in the eye. "I didn't have anything to hide. She knew who I was. I was married." He uncurled his left hand and held it up for her. "I'm still married."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I still wear the ring. Is that okay?"

Fury flashed in her eyes, and he could tell that she was dying to say no. But she couldn't. Her shoulders jerked in a quick, spasmatic shrug. "I gave it to you. It's yours. I guess you can wear it to your grave."

"I'm gettin' cremated, remember? You can have it back then."

"Smart-ass," she grumbled as she lay back on the bed. "We can't go on like this indefinitely. It's only because of Anna that—"

"It's only because of her that we're goin' on this ride. Right? It only lasts two weeks. It doesn't go on indefinitely. We're gonna be together for two weeks. Can you handle that?"

"Yes." She stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

"Okay, then. It starts tonight. I'm gonna be right next to you, down here on the floor. Tryin' out for Prince Charming." He slid under the blanket, chuckling. "Protecting you from fire-breathing furnaces."

"I never said you couldn't be a hero when you wanted to be."

"At least I never kicked you out of bed. You've kicked me out of two now." He stuck his arms behind his head as he stretched out on his back. "But don't thank me. Just turn the damn light out and get to sleep."

She snapped the lamp off with a vengeance. Then she whipped her sweater over her head and dropped it on his face. "Use that for a pillow."

"Drop your jeans down here, too," he suggested tone-lessly. "Add a new twist to my fantasies."

She tried to ignore him the way she ignored the remark, not dignifying it with a response. Except that in the dark he seemed to fill the room. Without touching him, she could feel his lean, hard presence. His sheets felt soft and smooth beneath her back. Smooth because he'd worn them smooth. She had missed the warm, masculine smell of him, the comforting sound of his breathing, the security of knowing he was there to defend her against obscure shadows and inexplicable noises in the night.

She had missed
him,
her husband, the man who wore the ring inscribed with her promise to love him. And she had done that. God help her, she had loved him, and she was very much afraid she loved him still. Hot tears scalded her eyes, escaped the eyelids she could not quite seal shut, slipped along her temples and into her hair.

"Clara?"

Oh, God, why couldn't she keep this humiliation to herself.

"Are you crying?"

When she didn't answer, he started to get up. She gave a terrible, teary, tortured gasp. "Stay there, Ben, please."

"I just want to—"

"You can't." She closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath, struggling to steady herself inside. "If you touch me now, I'll fall apart," she confessed, instantly regretting the disclosure. She was leaving herself wide open again.

His voice closed in on her. "Just let me hold you until you fall asleep."

It was such a tempting offer. Some nights she'd missed that warm, safe feeling so desperately she'd called him, just to hear the sound of his voice. Then, of course, she'd hung up.

"I'm okay now," she whispered wretchedly. "Really. It's just that sometimes it still hurts a little... when I think about it."

"Aw, Jesus, Clara, don't think about it. I don't know why I said—" She shrank away when he reached for her. His hand fell to the edge of the bed and gripped a fistful of blanket. "—what I said about... you know, what I did. I never wanted to hurt you. Not now. Not then."

"But you must have known it would."

"I didn't think about it hurting you. Or Annie." He groaned miserably. "I know it sounds like a crock of shit, Clara, but I didn't think about what it would do to us."

It made no sense to her. It never had. "I think... if I just knew why."

"I wish I could give you a reason, but I still can't come up with anything but excuses." His low voice resonated in the darkness. She could feel his grip tighten, pulling the covers taut across her bare shoulders. "It was sick, Clara. I was sick. I was... I was so damn stupid. And a stupid man does stupid things."

"Oh, Ben..."

"Let me hold you." He touched her arm. "It's dark. You don't have to look at me. You can pretend—"

"There's no pretending anymore," she said evenly. "We're strictly on the level with each other now. Isn't that right?"

"That's right." His hand slid away.

He retreated, back to the cool floor, back to the pillow of his own arms. His gut was tied in tight knots, and he was exhausted. He'd have traded his winter jacket and the keys to his pickup for a double shot of whiskey. He wasn't particular about the brand. Anything strong enough to rot the knots in his gut would do him just fine.
If
he were a drinking man.

"Was it because you didn't want... didn't love me?"

Holy Jesus, would you tell her for me, please?

"Ben?"

"No. I swear, it wasn't that."

"I can't believe you still loved me then, Ben."

"I know."

But he knew he had. The decent part of him had always loved her. He'd screwed around with the other part, the part he didn't want touching her. The part that didn't love anything. She could never understand that, and he had no right to expect her to.

Her first thought when she drifted into the light of morning was,
Did I actually sleep?
The whisperings and the soft footsteps at the edge of her drowsy consciousness roused her gently. Part of her wanted to ignore them and burrow deeper into the covers. But the other part pried her eyes open.

Steam from a blue mug advertising a Cenex station misted Ben's smile. "We figured the best way to wake you up was to make you some coffee."

Clara braced herself on one elbow and accepted the offering. She was adjusting the blankets when Anna appeared at Ben's shoulder. "We've been loading the stuff into Auntie TJ's pickup. I brought your bag in from the car so you could get dressed." She gave
a
teasing grin. "Did the ghost run you out last night or what?"

Ben held up his hand. "I didn't say a word."

"You were both right. The place was a dump." She turned her wrist to get
a
look
at
her watch. "Are we running late? I'm sorry I slept so—"

"Relax," Ben said. "We're runnin' on Indian time today. It takes a while for people to gather up and hit the trail. If you wanna leave your car
at
the shop, I'll see it gets the tune-up it needs."

"Thanks." She glanced at the tattered overstuffed chair where her jacket and purse had ended up and noticed her sweater, neatly folded on top of them. "I think my keys are..."

Ben bounced them in his hand. "Always in your
coat
pocket, even though you thought you put them in your purse. How do you think we got your stuff out of the car?" A quick jerk of his chin directed her attention to the bag on the floor. He grabbed his black jacket off the hook by the door. "I'll pick up something for breakfast. Any requests?" He shot his arm into a sleeve, then raised
a
warning finger. "Keep it simple."

"Donuts," Anna said.

"Fruit," Clara added.

"Simple enough," Ben confirmed. "There might be three minutes' worth of hot shower in there for you, Clara. You kinda have to wash everything at once. Left you one dry towel. Only got two. See ya."

"How did I sleep through his shower?" Clara muttered to herself as he shut the door. Then she realized she was getting the cat-that-ate-the-canary look from her daughter, and she heaved a sigh. "Anna, it's not what you think. Dad slept on the floor last night. We're not..." She sat up, planting her feet on bare linoleum. Ben's pallet was gone.

"Jeez, Mom, I don't wanna know what you guys did last night. Puh-leeease. You're my
parents."

"I just don't want you to be misled by the fact that we spent the night in the same..." The disclaimer faded into one of Clara's nonplussed
tsks.

"You know what?" Anna moved Clara's bag to the foot of the bed. "Sometimes I want to hate you. And sometimes I want to hate him. But most of the time, I just have to feel sorry for both of you for getting yourselves so messed up."

Clara groaned softly. "Out of the mouths of babes."

"What are you gonna wear today?" Anna asked as she flipped the top of the bag open. "Old jeans, new jeans, or the jeans you have on?"

"I have a wardrobe game plan. Change underwear and tops every day, bottoms when the horses start mistaking you for one of them."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

It seemed strange to use a shower that was just Ben's, not theirs. She wondered how he managed to stuff himself into such a small cabinet, even though he'd never been one to complain about accommodations or shortages. He'd taught her a lot about making do with less and appreciating more. But she knew he had to be too tall for this shower. She tried to imagine him scrunching down under the spray. She squealed when it turned cold and shuddered noisily with her rinsing. Then she used the dry towel on her hair and rubbed the damp one over her own skin. The towel he'd used to dry his body. Nothing personal, she told herself as she surveyed his bathroom, looking for nothing special.

He was all packed, so his toothbrush was gone. So was his hairbrush. He always used a big brush. His hair was thick and coarse and so full-bodied that it was hard to resist touching it. She had rejoiced when Anna was born with her father's beautiful hair...

"The baby's crowning!" The freckle-faced nurse popped up smiling and peered over Clara's shackled foot, looking from Clara's dazed perspective like a woman just out of the shower—still wearing the cap—who'd dashed in to check on something in the oven and make a cheerful report. "So far, we know this one has black hair and lots of it."

"Oh, good," Clara gasped. The hair was good, but the pain was bad, bad, bad, even between contractions, when it was somewhat less bad but still awful.

She tipped her head back, searching for the handsome face of the man who'd caused all this. In the course of the last twenty-two hours she'd alternately proclaimed him an angel and damned him to the flames of hell for all eternity. But he'd stood by her side, held her hand, stroked her stomach and massaged her back, talked her through her pain and talked her out of her plan to kick the doctor into the river the next time he wanted to check the progress of her dilation.