Tell Me When It Hurts (28 page)

Connor stared at the packet for a moment, then chuckled ruefully to himself. “Beautiful timing . . . just beautiful.”

Connor threw the mail on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat and drove back to the house. Dropping the bundle on the front hall table, he hung up his hat, then picked up the pile of mail again, pawing through it to remove any bills. Stepping over to the trash bin in the kitchen, he tossed the rest and climbed the stairs to bed, Alice following closely behind.

Connor’s alarm clock rang at 4:30 a. m. For the hundredth time he wished he had gotten one of those CD alarm clocks—at least then he could wake up to Ella Fitzgerald, Vivaldi, or Sinatra. He folded the blankets back and ruffled the curly fur on Alice’s thick neck.

“
Come on, old girl,” he said. “Another day.”

He threw on his jeans, a warm turtleneck sweater, and a fleece jacket and headed down the stairs. Alice, not wanting to miss a thing, got up with a grunt and ambled down after him. In the kitchen, Connor opened the cupboard and took out his favorite mug, the ceramic one with a blue cow on it and “The End” written on the inside bottom, and filled it with coffee, thanking God for timers on coffeepots. Then he took his mug, grabbed a woolen throw for his shoulders, and went out to sit on the porch rocker. It was still dark outside and darn cold, but he took pleasure in looking out on his own land, which extended as far as he could see in every direction.

In an hour, it would be light enough to work. He rocked, sipped his coffee, and wondered what Archer was doing now. It was already almost seven at the cabin. Maybe she missed him. He had hoped she would call, maybe write. But nothing. Then he knew, it was over. At the end of his life, in a little compartment, would be his six months with Archer. No more, no less. Just six months, in a box all by itself.

Connor stood up and stalked back into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled the yellow envelope out of the trash bin, and brought it back out to the porch. He should at least look at the pictures. After all, the photographer
had
sent them as promised, much to his surprise.

He turned the packet over and peeled up the flap. It tore, and he ripped the top open. Inside was a small stack of photos.

“
Alice, if you could only get my glasses for me,” he commented to the black, hairy hulk lying at his feet. Alice looked up at him and wagged her stump at the sound of her name.

He got up and went into the front hall to get his glasses, then came back out and sat down. The first set of photos was in color. There were three poses. The first showed him and Archer raising their glasses to the anniversary couple. God, she was beautiful!

Connor sighed and shuffled on to the next photo. It was similar to the first, but their smiles were wider, more vibrant, more full-faced.

He flipped to the third pose and stopped breathing for an instant. Jesus! Was he that transparent? In that view, Archer was still facing forward, looking at the elderly couple, but he was looking at her. His eyes were soft, bright, totally in love. No mistake. Did one person
always
love the other more in a relationship? Was it ever equal? He wondered. Talk about capturing a moment in time!

He flipped to the next set of photos: two poses in black and white. Both were full-front views, less candid, with both him and Archer aware of the camera and playing to it. They looked happy. He sighed. She was something.

Connor put the photos back in the envelope and let it rest in his lap. Did he need this memory? He leaned back in the rocker and closed his eyes. Maybe he should return east and pick up where he left off. But he had a business, with others depending on him. And even if he could get away, Archer was still haunted—nothing had changed. She would resent his interfering with her warped idea of penance, which would doom their love. It would be unbearable to have things turn ugly, to turn something beautiful, though fleeting, into something tortured and ugly.
That
he couldn’t survive.

Connor was never one to force a situation. But was Jordan right? Should he fight for her?
No,
he thought,
you can’t make someone see things they don’t want to see. It’s doomed before it begins.
It was all impossible, and it always would be.

Connor got up and took the package inside. He took one copy of the photo of him looking at Archer and returned the others to the envelope.
My finest hour—hah!
he thought. A toast to a feeling as old as civilization—being in love. A cliché. But when it happened to you, it didn’t feel like such a cliché anymore. It felt sacred, startling, and brand-spanking-new, all at once.
And it also hurts,
he thought,
and I don’t have time for this
. He went upstairs to shower and dress for another day of haying.

* * *

The farmhands had assembled at the main barn, ready to work in one of the flat fields to the north. Before his trip east, Connor had always been there first, checking equipment and moving everyone else faster than they wanted to go. Since his return, more times than not, the men were there before him, leaning on the walls, scuffing their shoes, smoking a last cigarette if they thought they could get away with it before Connor arrived. Cigarettes were absolutely forbidden anywhere on the ranch.

“
So, what do you make of it, Felix?” asked Jake, a nineteen-year-old with a long blond ponytail halfway down his back. “You know him best. Don’t you think he’s really weird since he got back? What’d he say to you?”

“
Nothing. He just stares a lot and looks kind of dreamy. And then, he has that picture of him and that woman, the one who answered the phone out there. He’s all dressed up in the picture—hardly looks like him, but it is. Sometimes when I’m coming up to the office I’ll look in and see him just staring at it. Then he sighs and shakes his head, and that’s it—nothing else.”

“
Did he say anything about her? I mean, any fool can see he’s hurting. Anyone know a good therapist? When I lived in L.A., they were on every corner. Maybe we could do like . . . you know, an intervention kind of thing. Make him get some help.”

In unison, every head turned to look incredulously at Jake for a second—eyes narrowed, heads shaking, no words necessary—then back at Felix.

Felix continued. “I asked him once who she was, and you know what he said? He said, ‘A dream. She was a dream.’ Then he just went back to work. Nothing else. Isn’t that weird? A
dream
? She’s right there in the picture! I mean, yeah, he just meant she’s dreamy or something like that, but sometimes he talks in riddles, you know? He’s always been strange, but not this strange. I thought maybe he’d perk up after a while, but it’s been months.”

“
Hey, shut up, here he comes,” someone said.

Connor’s truck pulled up to the barn. He clattered to a dusty stop, opened his door, and stepped out. “Hey, let’s go, ladies. What is this, a coffee klatch? We’ve got to finish that field and get everything up in the loft today. Rain’s coming tomorrow . . . let’s move it. John, Caleb, Bob, Tony, Big John, George, Josh, Kit, you go with Felix. Joe, Cal, Gregorio, Todd, and Edwardo, you come with me. Let’s hit it.”

CHAPTER 31

Connor sat on an airplane on his way to Edinburgh, Scotland. It was July. Shearing and lambing had been over for several months. Sales and contracts had to be firmed up and business expanded, if possible. He was thinking of hiring a farm manager—something he wouldn’t have dreamed of a year ago. He’d been a control freak all his life. Now . . . well, he still cared, but it was different. Sure, the guys noticed, and he knew it bothered them, but he couldn’t help it.

Then there was the photo. They couldn’t seem to keep their hands and eyes off that photo.

Connor had positioned it on his desk, tucked discreetly behind his phone, with piles of books and papers obscuring it. These guys, who wouldn’t have noticed an eight-foot grandfather clock with neon hands and a fifty-decibel gong, suddenly had acquired the most acute powers of observation. They had noticed the photo in no time and couldn’t seem to get enough of it. It wasn’t enough that they looked at it; there usually was some running commentary accompanying the viewing.

“
Nice tie, Mac.”

“
Now, where was this taken, Mac?”

“
Is that a tuxedo or a dinner jacket, Mac?”

“
That your girlfriend, Mac?”

“
How’d you meet her, Mac?

“
Why didn’t she come back here with you?”

“
Did she dump you, Mac?”

Some would actually pick up the photo, turning it this way and that, going to the window to view it in better light, until Connor would finally grab it back.

“
Her name’s Archer, and she lives back East in the Berkshires.”

When the man would look blank, Connor would say, “Massachusetts. You know, where Boston is? Celtics? Patriots? Red Sox?”

“
Oh, yeah, sure, I know Massachusetts, Mac. I’m not ignorant, you know. It’s near New Jersey, right?”

“
Not really,” Connor would mutter under his breath.

After two months, everyone in the county knew that Connor had a photo of a woman named Archer in his office, and half of them had found an excuse to stop in and see it. The other half got a full report on it; then they talked more. Though Connor saw through the pretense, he figured it was part of small-town life.

“
She looks pretty nice, don’t you think?” said Ray, who ran the feed store.

“
Yeah, and Connor looks gone on her,” replied Charlotte, working the lunch shift at the diner.

“
Yeah, but where is she? Why didn’t she come back out here with him?”

“
Maybe she didn’t want to live on a ranch. Some women don’t.”

“
I think there’s some secret, Felix said to anyone who would listen. “Something happened, and Mac’s not inclined to talk about it.”

* * *

Connor landed in Edinburgh on a Monday and found the city bustling. It was odd doing business on the Fourth of July, a day he associated with barbecues, picnics, and swim parties. He had a room at Gleneagles in Perthshire. He had stayed there before and liked it well enough, though he usually found that a simple B and B met his needs just fine.

Gleneagles was in a beautiful rural setting, with four restaurants, shops on the premises, several world-class golf courses, and stables. Although Connor played no golf and cared little for shopping, a few days of anonymity with some pampering at this full-service resort trumped the cozy but chatty ambience of a bed and breakfast.

After checking in, he changed into jeans and headed down to the barns. They were clean and professionally managed. Connor hoped a few riders were still in the arena, working their horses.

As he entered the lobby, a young woman called out in a heavy Scottish brogue, “Sir, are you a guest of the hotel?”

“
Ah, yes, I am,” said Connor, digging into his pocket for his key and approaching the counter. He showed it to the woman—Jane, according to her name tag—and she noted it on her pad.

Smiling, she nodded. “Go right in, sir. Have a nice stay.”

Connor pushed open one of the stable doors and ambled down the concrete aisle. Horses nickered, and some hung their heads out to sniff at him. He stopped to pat one on the nose.

In the indoor arena, he leaned forward against the half-wall separating spectators from riders and took off his Stetson, resting it on the ledge as he watched. There were only three riders, but they were impressive. One young man took several four-foot jumps with ease and grace. A teenage girl skillfully managed a feisty thoroughbred that tried twice to run off with her. Last was a blond woman in her thirties—tall, willowy, lovely, on a sleek chestnut warmblood—prancing in an extended trot to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on the speakers. All went beautifully until one of the barn workers dashed across the ring to get a shovel, and the chestnut spooked and bolted across the arena. Its rider cursed loudly but stayed on. Catching Connor’s look of amusement, she laughed and walked the nervous horse over, holding out her hand.

“
So glad you got to see that. Hi, I’m Fiona Ferguson. Please tell me you’re the new trainer,” she said, leaning forward to shake his hand. Her blond hair curled out from the bottom of her riding helmet, and her blue-green eyes crinkled as she smiled.

Connor shook her hand. “Hi. Connor McCall,” he replied. “And no, I’m truly sorry to say I am not your new trainer, ma’am.”

“
Well, you are clearly not Scots,” Fiona noted, leaving it unclear whether that was a good or a bad thing.

“
I’m from Boston, Massachusetts, in the States . . . well, actually I’m now from Wyoming, out west. Are you a guest here, too?”

“
God, no. I train here, you know, with Mark Phillips. He’s not here too much, but he’s the best, so . . . it’s my last chance to try for the British Olympic team, so here I am for my second year. This fall is the tryout, so we’ll see. I live in a cottage down the road.”

“
Ambitious goal,” Connor commented. “Is that the horse you’ll be entering?”