How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart (10 page)

Clay realized his mouth had been hanging open and he shut it. He stared at Stacy and frowned. “Who said anything about Megan?”

Stacy laughed, came forward and patted his arm. “You could frighten small children with that scowl, Clay. And I know it's Megan because no woman can put that dark look on your face like she can.”

“She hasn't done anything.” The anger that had felt justified drained away after he said it. Megan hadn't done anything, it was him. All him. He knew it and didn't like it. He met Stacy's gaze. “And Megan does not put a ‘dark look' on my face, as you say.”

Stacy's smile slid away. “Yes, she does. I came to pick
up a few things I left behind, but they can wait. Mike is picking me up later, so let's go talk. You clearly need to.”

He had work to do. He had a thousand excuses he could give her, but he knew she'd see through each and every one. She always did. Stacy knew him better than anyone else. She'd been through it all with him.

They went out on to the back porch. Stacy handed him a bottle of beer and twisted off the top of her own. “Sit,” she said, and he knew it wasn't a suggestion. He could have put up a stink about being a grown man and so on. But Stacy was, for all intents and purposes, his mother. And she'd brought him up better than that. So he sat, twisted off the top of his beer, took a drink and sighed.

Stacy simply waited.

Clay closed his eyes and let the spring sun soak into his face. “Meg's sick.”

“Oh, Clay…”

“Not that sick. The flu. But, like you, I jumped to conclusions. I possibly overreacted.”

“Possibly?”

He couldn't help the chuckle that erupted from her dry, knowing question.

“I yelled at her. I issued ultimatums. I was a jerk.”

“Because?”

This was the hard part. He knew what the problem was deep down but admitting it was something else entirely. “Because the thought of her being sick again scares me to death. And because if she were sick again, I'd want to be there for her. And that's crazy, right? To put myself through something like that knowing what might happen.”

“And you lashed out, right?” When he didn't answer, Stacy sighed. “Oh, Clay, you always had a way of shutting
out those people who could hurt you most. Your dad. Your mom. Meg.”

“Not you.”

“Because you trusted me. It wasn't easy stepping in, you know. I knew if I ever let you down you'd close the door on me like you did them. Don't think it didn't cause me some sleepless nights, because it did. Especially in your teenage years. What did you say to Meg?”

“I told her she couldn't work on the expansion anymore. Threatened to call in the loan.”

“Clay Gregory!” Her bottle hit the patio table with a
thunk
.

“I know,” he groaned, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “She made me so mad, Stace. Here I was worried sick about her and she's…”

“She's what, Clay? Living?”

He swallowed.

“I didn't say I was right,” he added, taking a long pull of the beer. He swallowed and admitted, “She just knows what buttons to push.”

“Do you love her?”

She drove him crazy. She made him angry and made him laugh and the way she kissed set his blood on fire. If he left all the complications out of the equation, if he could manage to forget the issue of her mortality for just a moment he knew the answer. “I do.” He uttered a soft curse. “And it's wrong, all wrong.”

“Because of her cancer?”

“Not just that.” He remembered watching his father withering away. Remembered waking up and realizing his mother was gone. “Cancer's only part of it. I know that now. I'm so afraid of letting myself love her and then losing her.”

“Oh, Clay.” Stacy's voice thickened with emotion. “I'm
sorry you're hurting, honey, but I'm also so very glad. I was worried you wouldn't ever let yourself love anyone.”

A breeze fluttered across the porch, ruffling the newly sprouted poplar leaves on the shade tree. The truth was sitting right there in front of him. He could admit it. What he didn't know was what to do about it.

“I can't stop how I feel. Or how I worry. If I can't imagine life without her now, how much worse would it be if…”

“I know,” Stacy said simply.

Clay felt marginally better letting the feelings out. Not that a damn thing was solved, but things had been such a mess in his head and voicing it had helped.

“I got lucky the day I got you,” he said, looking over at her. She looked happy. She was nearing fifty but there was a sparkle in her eye that had been missing for too long and it had been reconnecting with Mike that had put it there. Clay had been afraid to care for someone too deeply for a long time. But lately he'd felt like something was missing. The only time things had clicked into place was when he was with Meg.

“You were the son I never had,” she replied, and smiled. “We've been in this together for a long time. Just be patient, Clay. Meg's been through a lot. And she needs you, whether she's willing to admit it or not. I saw her idolize you when you were kids. I saw you at the wedding dance. Don't give up. On her or on yourself. You are not your mother. You're made of much sterner stuff, I promise you.”

He already knew he was. Meg wasn't getting rid of him that easily. And he wasn't giving up. That wasn't the hard part. It was acceptance and letting go. Knowing that he really had no say in how all this played out. If he pursued something with Meg—something real—it meant
acknowledging that there were no guarantees. Willingly putting himself out there, knowing what might happen. Doing exactly what he'd promised himself he'd never, ever do.

“I owe her an apology,” he said quietly, putting his empty bottle on the table.

“I'm sure you do.” When he looked askance at his aunt she wore an impish expression. “You were probably a real idiot.”

He shrugged, the only confirmation she was going to get, but a ghost of a smile tipped his lips. “I won't be delivering it today. Today she's in bed resting.”

“Well, she's probably mad, too. A few days to cool down isn't necessarily a bad thing.”

They were sitting companionably in the afternoon silence when they heard a tap of a horn. “Mike,” Stacy said with a smile, putting her hands on the arms of her chair and pushing herself up to standing. “I'd better get going.”

“Aunt Stacy?”

He didn't often put the aunt in front of her name and when he did it was usually because he was being particularly serious. And he was. He hadn't told her how grateful he was very often.

He got up and went to her, folding her into a hug. “I love you,” he murmured, then let her go.

“And I love you.” She blinked several times and her smile wobbled just a bit. “You need anything—want to talk—you give a holler, okay?”

But Clay knew what he had to do, and he had to do it on his own. There were things to be faced that Stacy didn't understand. It wasn't just him standing in their way.

Meg might be determined to make a go of her project, but one thing still paralyzed her. And that was the
idea of anyone seeing the evidence of her mastectomy. Maybe he'd finally accepted the depth of his feelings for her, but Meg had a long way to go before she trusted him to stick. He couldn't blame her. He'd given her so many reasons to doubt him.

Maybe there were ways around roadblocks, and Clay considered himself a smart man, but he really had no idea how to solve that problem.

M
EG
stayed in bed the better part of two days. The fever broke and she felt immeasurably better, but exhausted. Linda fed her soup and toast and brought movies home from the video store. The two of them curled up in front of the television in the evening, Meg snuggled in a blanket and they watched chick flicks. Months ago she would have felt suffocated by the constant attention. But things had changed. She'd loosened up a little, and she could see beyond herself enough now to realize that her mom was only doing what good moms did. Trying to look after her kid.

She waited for Clay to call, but he didn't. On the third day she showered and dressed and went out to see what was happening with the barn. In just the few days she'd been off the scene the trusses were up and the roof finished. Lord, it was going up so fast, she thought, letting some of the old excitement revive her. There was so much more to do on the business front, too—business cards to order, advertising, setting up a website and registration for classes. She remembered a few weeks ago Clay had suggested she hold a grand opening to kick it all off. She'd loved the suggestion at the time and they'd thrown around some ideas, but nothing seemed the same now without him and the idea of a party had lost its luster.

They'd had words in the past but this time had felt so final. Even last year, when he'd told her exactly what he thought about her going away for treatment, it had still felt like a door was left open, just a bit. But not this time and Meg felt his absence keenly. From the beginning he'd been the one to support her venture, first in theory and then later as…what exactly? An investor? No, it was more than that. He'd gotten his hands dirty and they'd worked together. It felt good and she missed sharing it with him now. Missed more than that, too. Missed his teasing smile and sparkling eyes. Missed the way he moved and the sound of his voice. No doubt about it, she still had it bad.

The days passed by and still no sign of Clay. Meg ignored his orders to not work and defiantly finished the fence and constructed the picnic tables. She followed doctor's orders and went for a massage and booked an appointment to have her edema assessed. The hayfields turned green and began to grow tall as the month of May progressed. Dawson was out with Tara more often than not and Meg sat home alone. Even if they constantly butted heads, she missed Clay and she didn't like the way they'd left things.

Finally, as the holiday weekend approached, Meg had to do something about it. After dinner, when Dawson was headed out to meet Tara yet again, Meg walked over to Clay's with the chirpy sound of the peepers and the newborn scent of spring urging her along.

She found him beneath the mower, laying on an old piece of cardboard to keep him off of the damp earth. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past the elbows revealing strong, tanned forearms. His jeans were dirty and his boots scuffed.

She shouldn't have found him so desperately attractive, but she did.

“Tuning up for first cut?”

She could see his face through the spaces, the shadows on his cheekbones as the mellowing sun was blocked by the mower discs. His eyes showed surprise, then relief, and then she watched, intrigued, as both emotions were shuttered away and he turned his attention back to the mower.

“You're feeling better,” he replied.

She gave his foot a nudge with her own. “I've been feeling better for weeks.”

He didn't answer and Meg was truly afraid now. Were things ruined between them for good? He was acting like he didn't care at all. At least before he'd cared enough to give her a hard time. His parting words echoed in her ears. “Love? Who said anything about love?” Maybe he wasn't in love with her, but she refused to believe he didn't care at all. That their friendship meant nothing.

She took a breath, determined to get him to talk. They had to clear the air somehow. She had to try. They were both stubborn and proud, but she'd sacrifice a bit of that to fix things.

“Since you haven't been policing my activity, I guess you decided not to enforce your ultimatum?”

He slid out from beneath the mower, his body making a shushing sound along the cardboard. He got up, put his tools in his toolbox and latched the lid. “It would take a freight train to stop you from doing what you wanted. I thought I'd save myself the time and pain of beating my head against a wall.”

He picked up the toolbox.

Meg couldn't help the hurt that pierced her heart. She was trying, and he was so cold. He'd put a wall around himself and seemed determined to keep it in place, shutting her out. “What did you expect me to do,” she whis
pered. “Say woe is me and give up? I don't know how to do that.”

She didn't want to give up on him, either. Their relationship, if it could be called that, was muddled and messy. But she didn't want it to be over. She wanted Clay in her life. In what capacity she still didn't know, but no Clay at all was inconceivable.

“I know,” he conceded. For a long moment he looked at her and she felt small. She hated feeling that somehow she'd disappointed him, let him down. At the same time the awareness she knew neither of them liked prickled along the back of her neck. His words came back to taunt her:
Not as over as we thought, then.
It gave her courage.

“Can we talk? I can't go on this way, Clay.”

He nodded. “Let me put this away.”

Meg waited for him outside the house. The rosebushes were budding and he'd already turned the earth in preparation for a vegetable garden on the south-facing side. In a month or two everything would be green and fragrant. Right now it seemed like it was holding its breath, waiting for the right amount of sun and rain to make it flourish. Clay came walking across the lawn and Meg swallowed. He belonged here. This ranch, this house—it was a part of him and he was a part of it. She realized that her fledgling business was her way of seeking that sort of connection for herself. As he came closer, her heart thumped heavily. That deep-rooted belonging, the confidence in his place in the world was incredibly sexy. She might as well admit it—there would always be a part of her that was drawn to Clay Gregory.

Once inside he took off his boots and she pushed off her sneakers with her toes, leaving them by the door. He offered her a drink and she declined. The sun was beginning to go down and the light came through the
windows of the kitchen, soaking the room in a yellowy glow. Nerves twisted her stomach into knots. She wished she knew how to begin. What to say. And the longer the silence drew out, the more difficult it became.

Clay put his hand on the back of a chair, and she watched, transfixed, as he lifted his head, squared his shoulders and turned to face her. His hands were dirty from working on the machinery and a stripe of brown swiped across the front of his shirt, drawing her gaze to the firm muscle beneath the fabric. Her breath seemed to lodge in her lungs as she lifted her gaze to his.

The moment their eyes made contact, something snapped. Clay stepped forward and without any prelude or finesse, pulled her close against his rock-hard body and kissed her.

Not the seductive, melting kisses that had produced a slow burn that night in her foyer. Meg's body kicked into overdrive at the effect of Clay, unleashed. His mouth slanted relentlessly over hers and she responded, gasping as he lifted her clean off the floor and deposited her on the countertop like she weighed nothing at all. Her legs wrapped around him and she felt the way their bodies matched up, reveling in the sheer physicality of it. Oh, my glory, she thought. There wasn't a single part of him that wasn't hard and muscled. And then any thoughts that would have followed were swept away as his mouth slid from hers and he nibbled on her earlobe, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

His mouth gentled, lightly nipping and kissing her neck, jaw, lips. Meg lifted her arms and looped them around his neck, twining her fingers in the rich thickness of his dark hair. Her eyes closed and she dropped her head back as he dropped a kiss on her chin. “I thought
you hated me,” she murmured, and then sighed as he slid his fingers over the column of her neck.

“Fear,” he murmured back. “Fear and anger, but not hate, Megan. Never hate.”

She opened her eyes. Her body seemed to be pulsing everywhere and it was in contact with his in several places. She tightened her legs, holding him against her, wanting to be even closer. Craving it. “What are we doing, Clay?” The words hung in the air, heavy with suggestion.

“I don't know,” he admitted. His eyes glowed nearly black in the mellow light, holding a dangerous, sexy edge of promise. “But I don't want to stop.”

But how far could they take this? Meg thrilled when he kissed her again, but the warning was beginning to beat in her head. When Clay's hands began to roam, she reached for his wrists as the familiar panic rushed into her veins.

“I can't,” she whispered, and then hated herself for it. Hated that she said it, hated how her body looked. Hated that she wished for something she could never have—her perfectly shaped, whole body back.

She thought he would step away, but he didn't. He twisted his wrists so that they slipped from her grasp and then held her fingers within his own, squeezing them reassuringly. “I stayed away,” he said softly, “because I knew this would happen, and I knew you weren't ready. I wanted to give you time.” He sighed, and when he looked at her this time she thought she saw sadness soften his eyes. “But I don't think time is enough to fix this, is it?”

She was so afraid. Of moving forward, of losing Clay forever. “What do you want, Clay? You think you want something but you don't really know. You've conveniently glossed over the reality that is me. You think that this time
is different, right? Your mom left but you're not like her. We both know that.

“But you don't know what you're asking. You don't really know because you haven't seen. You don't know because you've never sat in the doctor's office and heard the diagnosis. You couldn't even handle a simple virus without losing it. Hearing truly bad news is a million times worse. If you looked…really looked at it, at me, at the disfigurement, you'd be gone. And, God help me, I don't want to lose you.”

“So what happens? We stay this way forever? More than friends but not lovers? Kissing but never making love?”

The words sent a shiver over her.

“Because I do want to make love, Meg. I've wanted to since the wedding, and I'm tired of fighting it.”

For one tempting, temporary moment she indulged in the fantasy. Clay's eyes glowed at her, his hard, muscled body within her reach. All she had to do was touch and he could be hers. But the fantasy was interrupted—as it always was—by the reality she couldn't escape.

“I can't go on that way,” he said flatly. “And you can't, either.” He stepped away from her and she missed the heat of his body nestled against hers. “It isn't fair to either of us.”

Was this how it would be her whole life? A half existence, with one foot in and one foot out? And if she did take the risk, she'd be opening herself up to too much. As much as she wanted to believe he would be there for her, always, she couldn't quite buy into it. She had to let it go.

“I want you, Meg. I l—”

“No.” She cut off the word before he could form it. She couldn't bear to hear him say the words and then
lose him later, as she surely would. He wasn't thinking clearly. Never mind her scars. There'd be a spot on an X-ray or a change in her blood work and it would be too much for him to handle. Then where would she be? “We need to end this, now. It is not what you think, Clay. And you can't ride in on your steed and rescue me and pretend it's all better forever.”

“That's not my intention.”

“You don't want me. You want the idea of me. But you can't buy guarantees, Clay. You can't control the future. You want to save me like you couldn't save your dad.”

He stepped back as she flung the words at him.

“You're right. I couldn't save my dad, no matter how I tried. But you're wrong that I want to save you instead. You want to know why this has been such a mess? Because I know that no matter what I do I
can't
save you, Meg. I'm helpless. It was easier to keep my distance, tell myself that if we were just friends I could still handle it. But I was wrong about that, too.”

She hopped down from the counter; she felt way too exposed up there. “I'm sorry, Clay. I didn't come here to fight. I came to put our friendship back together. But it doesn't seem to be working. We always argue.”

“Why do you think that is?” he asked. He put his hands in his pockets and the movement made his shoulders raise and lower. She was constantly aware of his physicality. He was so perfect. And she was not. She never would be.

What would it take to make him understand? The answer came to her instantly and she recoiled. No. She couldn't show him, couldn't make herself that vulnerable.

But logic nagged at her. If he wanted more, eventually they would come to this crossroad. She could talk until she was blue in the face but until he truly saw the evidence, he had his mind made up. It was time to get
off the merry-go-round. She could do this. She had gone through worse times and come through. And maybe then they could stop this dance they were doing and find some level ground where they could salvage their friendship. At the rate they were going there would be nothing left but the ashes, and it was impossible to think of her world with no Clay in it.

She reached for the top button of her blouse.

“Meg, you don't have to…”

“Yes,” she replied gently, “I do. This is what keeps this horrible push and pull thing going on. Let's just get it over with, Clay.”

Clay's gaze never left hers as one by one she undid the buttons. When the last one was gone, she shrugged out of the shirt and let it drop to the floor. She took a shaky breath. This should have been a moment filled with anticipation and desire and the difference nearly broke her heart. All she felt was dread and self-loathing.