A Mother's Love (14 page)

They all laughed, but Leila wondered if he didn't mean it. Had he thought it was so important to her that he be here?

They walked in silence out of the hall. He was parked half a block away on the street. Even though it was evening, the days were long, the sun still warm. They stopped by his car, faced each other. He started to say something, but she'd already rushed into speech.

“The other night…there are things I didn't say.”

His expression went blank. Astonished, she realized he was bracing himself.

“What things?” he asked, voice neutral.

Leila took a deep breath for courage. “I don't know if you'll even want to hear this, but…” Oh, Lord, this was harder than she'd thought. Her heart was drumming.

He kept waiting.

“I'm in love with you.”

Mark jerked. Slowly, voice hoarse, he said, “You love me?”

She nodded. “I think I have almost from the beginning. I was just afraid to admit it, even to myself.”

“God.” His eyes closed, and the next moment he'd yanked her to him. Cheek against the top of her head, he held her so tight she felt his heart slamming inside his rib cage. “I love you. I've spent the whole day wishing I'd told you. Wondering if I'd imagined…”

“Imagined?” she whispered.

“That you felt the same. I know I'm not the kind of guy you expected to end up with, but… Damn it, I love you! That's got to mean something!”

“Not the kind of guy… Oh,” she realized. “You mean, when I said you weren't my type.”

He gave a grunt that might have been a laugh or might not have been.

“I was lying.”

Mark held her away from him so he could search her face. “Lying?”

“Maybe that's not the right word. I believed with all my heart that I knew what I wanted, but it wasn't true.” She hesitated, tremulous. “Just lately I've realized how afraid I've been for practically my whole life. Because of Cody and
because of my mother withdrawing the way she did and because of those couple of years when I thought my parents wouldn't stay together. Ever since, I've wanted to be safe more than anything else in the world.” She tried to smile at him, this man who had shaken that world. “But now I know I'd rather risk anything, even losing you, to have the chance to be with you.”

“Thank God,” he said again, voice husky. His eyes held a glow just for her. “Maybe I was afraid, too. Who wouldn't be? Deciding to trust someone else this much…”

“Especially after what happened with your dad. Because your mother must have always felt like he'd betrayed her trust, hasn't she?”

“That's what I figured.” Momentarily he looked thoughtful. “But after we talked a few weeks ago…I'm not so sure. I think maybe she knows he loved her but was ill and couldn't help himself.”

“I hope so.” Leila smiled, feeling it wobble on her lips. “I love you, Mark.”

He snatched her back into a bone-crushing embrace, his mouth hard and sure and hungry on hers.

The radio on his belt crackled. She couldn't make out what the voices were saying, but he did, because he stiffened, then with obvious reluctance set her away from him.

“I don't have time…” A muscle jerked in his cheek, and his gray eyes were intense, the expression in them oddly naked. “If we break this case tonight, can I come by your place? It might be late.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him and knew what she must look like.
Radiant.
“I won't be able to sleep until I know you're…safe.”
Home
was the word that almost slipped out. She knew he'd heard it from the way his expression changed.

“Then you can count on me.” He kissed her, all too briefly, and let her go. He circled the car, opened the door and gave her one last searing look over the roof, got in and drove away.

Leila stood on the sidewalk hugging herself, watching until the dark, unmarked car turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

Whatever was I afraid of?
she wondered. Not, surely, of a man who could say, “You can count on me,” and leave her in no doubt whatsoever that she could.

Smiling, she turned and walked back to her mother's wedding reception.

RaeAnne Thayne

To my three wonderful children, who give me lessons each day in the true meaning of courage, hope and joy.

“Y
OU'RE LATE
.”

The gruff words slammed through his headache like a Brahma bull making kindling of a flimsy fence, and Jace McCandless barely managed to hide a wince.

“I know. Sorry. I, uh, overslept.”

Though it was the truth—or most of it, anyway—it was a lame excuse, and he knew it. Worse, he was fairly sure Hank knew it, too. The old man raised one of his bushy gray eyebrows at him.

“This ain't the circuit, son, or one of your fancy Hollywood commercials. You're not a star here, just the hired help.”

Jace's laugh was short and pithy. “Hired help? You paying me now? That's the first I've heard.”

The other man patted him on the shoulder. “Who needs a paycheck when you're gettin' paid in blessings and goodwill?”

Jace snorted. “Fancy words for what amounts to slave labor.”

He wouldn't be here at all if not for Hank's wily skill at emotional blackmail. The man was slicker than cow snot. His grandmother's second husband had called him up the night before, with his unerring gift for finding and capitalizing on a man's weak moments.

Jace had no idea how Hank had known he was scraping emotional bottom, that he was haunted by cries of those he couldn't help.

Next thing he knew, the crusty rodeo promoter had been reminding him of the long ledger of favors Jace owed him from their days on the circuit together—and worse. With that same uncanny skill, Hank had managed to drive the blade into his insides and give it a good, sharp twist.

“You ever think that maybe you survived that hotel fire for a reason?” he'd said, and even through the phone line Jace could hear the bite in his voice. “I have to think sitting at home with a bottle ain't what God had in mind for Jace McCandless.”

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but by the time he hung up fifteen minutes later Jace was fairly sure he had promised the man a whole host of things he hadn't intended, including helping out at the equine therapy center Hank had started after retiring from the rodeo ring, marrying Jace's grandmother and moving her to his spread in this dusty, quiet corner of Utah.

That ought to teach him not to answer the phone when he was drunk off his butt.

“You ready?”

Jace glanced at the bright red steel building behind Hank. His insides tightened, but he couldn't have said whether it was nerves or his lingering hangover.

He hoped to hell it was the latter. During his time on the circuit he developed a reputation as a broncobuster with steel guts and a cool head. He wouldn't like to think he was losing either after only eighteen months away from the business.

“I guess,” he mumbled.

Hank grinned, showing off the perfect, blindingly white dentures that were such a contrast to his raw, craggy features. “You are in for a real treat, son.”

He highly doubted that, but he still obediently followed the man into the building.

Even with his sunglasses, it took his tired, gritty eyes a good three minutes to adjust from the brilliant spring sunshine outside to the dimmer arena lights.

When he could see again, he immediately wanted to bolt right out the door. What the hell was he doing here?

He even started to turn around, but Hank stood between Jace and the door, almost as if the old man guessed at the thoughts of escape racing through his brain.

“Hey, Mr. Hank! Look at me! I can go fast.” One excited youngster waved from the back of a swaybacked nag that looked as though it should have been sold for glue about two decades ago.

Hank—the same crusty old rodeo promoter who had a reputation for chewing up greenhorns and using their bones for toothpicks—grinned right back at the kid.

“You're doing great, Toby. Just great. You won't even need the lead line in another few weeks.”

In response, the kid smiled as big as Texas as he was led around the dirt-floor arena.

“So what do you think of the place? Terrific, ain't it?”

Jace didn't quite know how to respond as he gazed around the ring, which was filled with about a half dozen kids in riding helmets atop placid-looking horses. Each rider was accompanied by spotters, one on each side of the horse, and at least one girl rode tandem with an adult who helped support her weight.

These weren't normal riding lessons, Jace knew. And
they weren't regular kids. Toby—the one who had waved to Hank—and another girl had the broad, distinctive features of those born with Down syndrome.

Two more had tightly contracted muscles that he thought might indicate cerebral palsy—not that he was some kind of expert—and yet another boy of about twelve rode past wearing opaque sunglasses and receiving visual cues from one of the spotters, so Jace figured he was probably blind.

Jace did
not
belong here.

His head throbbed in time to the plodding hoofbeats of each horse that passed him, and he fiercely wanted to push past Hank, head back to the ranch he had bought right after he retired and visited exactly twice and climb back into a bottle.

But he thought of the grim mood that followed him wherever he went, the survivor's guilt that somehow seemed darker when he was alone, and decided maybe this wasn't such a bad place after all.

He cleared his throat. “You look like you've got plenty of staff. What am I doing here?”

Hank's rusty laugh echoed through the open space.

“Right now, looks like you're getting them thousand-dollar boots covered in horse crap.”

Jace made a face. “What do you want me to do?” he clarified.

“I've got a special job in mind for you. One I think will be perfect. We've got a new client coming in a few minutes. For her first few times around she's probably gonna need somebody strong enough to ride up behind her and support her in the saddle while the physical therapist does an assessment to figure out what would help her most. You up for that?”

Though he wanted—quite fiercely—to give in to the headache and tell Hank no way just before slipping past him out the door, Jace knew he couldn't.

Unpaid debts were a major pain.

Instead he nodded tersely. “Whatever you need.”

Hank chuckled. “Until Hope and Christa Sullivan show up, why don't you just watch the action for a few minutes. I've got things to do and can't sit around babysittin' you all day.”

He didn't leave him much choice, Jace knew, so he nodded and leaned against the railing that encircled the arena, the smell of leather tack and manure heavy in the air.

Jace sure wouldn't have believed Hank would spend his retirement running an equine therapy center for kids with disabilities if he hadn't heard it from his grandmother, who never lied.

Hank had a reputation as a hard-ass. But when Jace had been a stupid eighteen-year-old with empty pockets at odds with his big dreams and bigger ego, Hank had spied potential in him. Without him, Jace would never have made it as far as he did. Hank had shown him the ropes, hooked him up with the right people who could help him figure out what the hell he was doing and guided him behind the scenes through those rocky early days.

In return, when Jace's career had taken off, he hadn't forgotten. Hell, Jace had introduced Hank to his own grandmother, who had turned out to be the love of the old man's life, apparently. Who would have thought?

He knew he owed him. Without Hank, he would probably have given up after the first few months of mistakes and gone back to trying to make a living out of the dirt and sagebrush of the few acres left of his grandmother's tiny Nevada spread.

Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing, since his current situation wasn't anything to write home about.

The door behind him opened, letting in sunlight. He instinctively turned and found a woman fumbling her way through the door, trying to maneuver a wheelchair over a low threshold. He stepped forward, extending a hand to hold the door that opened outward so she could make it through.

“Here. I've got this.”

“Thanks.” She backed the wheelchair into the arena, and as she passed him, he smelled the light, delectable scent of strawberries.

She was amazingly pretty, with sun-streaked shoulder-length blond hair and the most incredible green eyes he had ever seen, and for a moment he could only stare at her, struck dumb.

“Doorways can still sometimes be tricky business, I'm finding,” she said. “They're never wide enough and they usually have that stupid threshold that's a serious pain in the butt when you're trying to get a wheelchair through.”

She rose from the chair and turned to face him, and he was struck by two things. One, that the girl in the wheelchair had to be her daughter. They looked alike, except the younger girl's hair was a few shades lighter and much shorter.

The second thing he saw was that the mother was no longer blinking at the contrast in light from outside, and now that her eyes had apparently adjusted, she didn't seem particularly happy to see him, which wasn't a reaction he was used to in women.

“I guess this is where we're supposed to be.” The original rueful smile she had given him when she first came in had faded, and he would have to say she had turned downright cool. “Hank told us to come straight to the arena.”

“If you're here for equine therapy, this is the right place,” he answered.

The girl's head had been tilted to one side as her mother had pushed her in, long, dark lashes flat against her cheeks. He assumed she was asleep or something—what did he know?—but as soon as he spoke, she squinted up at him, then her eyes suddenly widened.

She made an indistinguishable sound, and her muscles tightened so much he was afraid she would fall right out of her wheelchair.

He studied her, awkwardness burning through him. He wasn't at all sure how to act with her and decided his safest bet was to treat her just like any other teenager.

He smiled. “Hi. I'm Jace.”

She didn't answer for several seconds, long enough for her silence to stretch painfully. Her mouth moved laboriously, and it seemed to take an extreme exertion of energy before she could answer him.

“I'm Hope,” she finally answered, the words slightly slurred.

He grabbed her fisted right hand and shook it. “It's a real pleasure to meet you, Hope. You ready to go for a ride?”

She gave him a brilliant smile that slammed into his gut as if her mother had just shoved the wheelchair right into him.

It was the lingering effects of the hangover, he told himself, but somehow the explanation rang hollow.

“Where's Hank?” the mother asked, her voice as cool as an ice cube trickling down his back. What was the deal with her? he wondered. They had never met—he was positive of it. Surely he would have remembered those stunning green eyes. So why this instinctive dislike?

Before he could ask, though, Hank returned. “I'm here. Sorry, Christa.” He gave his too-white smile to both females. He reached out to hug the mother—Christa—then bent down to squeeze Hope's hands.

“You've got your boots on, I see, Miss Hope. Looks like you're all set for some trail ridin'.”

“Yep. I'm ready.” She looked as if she wanted to climb right out of her chair and onto the back of a horse, but her mother rested a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Not yet, baby. We need to figure out what's going on first.”

She didn't look any more thrilled to be here than he had been, Jace realized. Her skin was slightly pale and her hands seemed to clench and unclench convulsively on the handles of the wheelchair.

One of the riders passed them, waving frantically at them, and while Hope was distracted watching the horse, her mother pulled Hank aside.

“I still don't know about this,” she murmured in a voice too low for her daughter to hear. “I really don't. I'm just not sure she's ready.”

“Whether
she's
ready or whether
you
are?”

She made a face. “Either of us. Okay, me, probably. Hope isn't worried about a thing. She's been over the moon ever since my mother suggested it—and that was before she knew
he
was going to be here.”

She didn't look at Jace, even when Hank gave that rusty-saw laugh of his and nudged Jace with his shoulder. “Don't blame me for that. You can blame Ellen and Junemarie. They cooked it up between them. Your mom figured Hope might work harder for McCandless here than for a washed-up old rodeo hound like me.”

Reality was slow to sink through his aching head. When it did, Jace straightened from the arena railing. The whole time Hank had been laying on the guilt the night before about all the chances Jace had been given and how maybe it was time for a little payback, he'd thought the old man was just looking for general labor. He didn't realize Hank had a specific mission in mind for him—to be the carrot for some poor teenage girl.

He had been played, he realized grimly. And he had been too stupid or too drunk to realize Hank had been setting him up.

 

H
E WAS ANGRY AT
H
ANK
, for some reason.

Christa had barely met Jace McCandless, but she could sense it in the tight set of his wide shoulders and the sudden steel in his dark blue eyes.

She had no idea why he was here, but she had the sudden impression that he didn't want to be.

Join the club, Mr. McCandless,
she thought. Actually, she didn't mind being here. But she didn't want Hope anywhere near those horses. Not yet.

This was a crazy idea, and Christa wanted to push Hope past both men and back into the spring sunshine, away from this arena that smelled of the painfully familiar scents of leather and horses and the sweet tang of hay.

Now she didn't know which was stronger: the nerves skittering through her at the idea of her medically fragile daughter on one of those big horses or embarrassment that Jace McCandless—Jace McCandless, for heaven's sake!—had been dragged into her family's problems.