How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart (6 page)

“Are you okay?”

She ground her teeth. “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that lately, construction on my riding ring would start within the week.”

Clay put his hand on the railing beside her. “For Pete's sake,” he said irritably, “it's a simple question and there are lots of ways to be okay. It's not always about…it can just be because you ducked out. You know. Overwhelmed. An emotional thing.”

“You can't even say the word, can you?”

She finally turned around and looked up at him. Ah, there it was. The closed expression and the wrinkle above his nose that looked like she could slide a coin into it. He was so afraid of the word
cancer.

“What do you want from me, Megan?”

The answer rushed into her brain so quickly she had no chance to prepare.
I want you to hold me.
For the first time she truly understood what today was about. It wasn't about showing him. It was about reaching him, something she'd never quite been able to do. He was right here beside her but he'd never been so far away, either.

“Nothing. I don't want anything from you.” She went to skirt around him but he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

She looked up at him, feeling her temper rise. “Let go, Clay.”

He immediately let go of her wrist, but she didn't run away. “Why are we arguing?”

“I don't know.”

“I think you do.”

She deliberated telling him exactly what she thought and immediately dismissed the idea. Even if he were ready to hear it—even if she were ready to say it—now was not the time or the place. Not with people around. Not on his aunt's so very special wedding day. She let out a long breath, forced herself to relax. “Let's just enjoy the rest of the wedding, okay? The dancing will be starting up soon.”

Which brought out another problem—how could they possibly dance together now, when their emotions were flashing back and forth like a pair of stop and go lights?

“Meg…”

“Not now, Clay.” She looked up at him. “Please. Put on a smile and let's go inside. The last thing I need is more
people asking if I'm all right. We're supposed to have each other's backs tonight, remember?”

She just wanted to get the evening over with now. When they returned to the banquet room, the tables had been moved aside to make more room on the dance floor. A local DJ was getting ready to start things up and the lights had dimmed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!”

Meg watched as Stacy and Mike took the floor. Stacy's white dress swirled around her ankles but the true beauty was in her smile. After so many years alone, she'd finally found love and happiness. Meg got a lump in her throat watching them smile and turn through a waltz. Maybe Stacy and Mike were nearing fifty, but they'd seen their chance and they'd taken it. Meg curled her arm around her middle and felt her incision pull just a bit. She doubted that magic would ever happen to her now, doubted she'd ever be ready for it. There were too many uncertainties to contemplate taking such a leap.

After the first dance, Clay danced with Stacy so Meg latched on to Andrew, knowing Jen was finishing up duties in the kitchen. Tom Walker came to claim his dance, and then she circled the floor with Dawson, who point-blank asked her what was going on with Clay.

“Nothing.”

“My eye,” he responded, swinging her under his arm and bringing her back around.

“You're wrong.”

“You knocked his eyeballs out earlier,” Dawson said.

“Well, they're back in place now,” she replied dryly. “Things are predictably back to normal.”

Dawson shook his head. “Clay will never admit it, but he's watching out for you. More than usual. It's like he's everywhere.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It's not a real date. Not that anyone is buying that, but it's true.” She was still chafing at the idea that Clay felt the need to look out for her.

“I saw his face when he saw you, sis. I'll put money on this being a real date.”

“And you obviously have a problem with that.”

“Heck, yeah. Clay's my best friend, but that means I know him better than anyone. So do you,” he pointed out. “Clay's not the romance kind, Meg. He's a diehard bachelor and we both know why. I can't trust my sister's welfare to a guy who'll end up hurting her, no matter how much I like him.”

Trust his sister's welfare? The annoyance of earlier flared back to life. “Oh, you guys,” she said sharply, scowling. Dawson slid her under his arm again and she knew it was a deliberate ploy to put her off. When they came face-to-face again she stepped on his foot.

“Ow!”

“Newsflash, Dawson Briggs. I can look after myself. No one needs to watch over me or worry about my welfare. Stop interfering. Got it?”

Dawson muttered something about an ill-tempered snake and she nearly laughed. Nearly.

The song ended and the beat changed to something slow and romantic. Her shoes were new and her feet were beginning to ache but as she turned to leave the dance floor Clay was there, ready to take her into his arms.

“Dance, Squirt?”

She looked him up and down. The bow tie was gone, revealing the delicious V of his neck. His color was up from dancing and he'd rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt, revealing strong, tapered wrists. As much as she didn't want them to, Dawson's words were too fresh to ignore. Because he was right. Clay had always said he
never planned to get married. Even if something did spark between them, she'd be the last woman he'd consider taking on.

“I think I'll sit this one out.”

He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “It's a slow dance, Meg. And Lisa Hamm has her radar on full alert.”

“So?”

“So we had a deal, remember?” His slow, sexy voice sent ripples over her skin. “Come on, Meg. I promise it won't hurt.”

Of course it wouldn't. Clay was as smooth as a twelve-year-old scotch. Meg sighed. It would be far more telling if she refused him than to simply go through with it. “Fine.”

He took her hand and led her on to the floor. As he took her in his arms, Meg had the disturbing realization that in all the dances over the years, they'd never slow danced together. As her belly brushed against his cummerbund, she suddenly realized why.

He was holding her close and every inch of her skin was aware of him. Her left breast brushed his shirt and tingled at the contact. There was a certain sadness knowing the same sensation would never happen on the other side—not even if she had reconstruction. As their feet started moving she mourned the changes in her body just a little bit.

This slow dance might be all she ever had with Clay. She didn't want to be protected and babied as he was so determined to do. And the idea of revealing her scars to Clay was preposterous. The woman in the dress was a lie, a fantasy for one day. The scarred, imperfect body was the truth. She was Cinderella at the ball right now, but before long the clock would strike and the dress, the
shoes, the makeup would all disappear and she'd still be Meg. Dawson was worrying for nothing.

So she gripped the light fabric of Clay's shirt in her fingers and held on to his hand and closed her eyes. Two things had become so very clear to her today. One, she still cared for Clay way more than she'd thought. And two, she realized that they'd never suit. There was too much between them that was wrong. He wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap; she wanted to fly. He couldn't say the word
cancer;
it was a part of her everyday vocabulary. She was realizing she wanted a husband and a family and Clay would never settle down. There would never be a way for them to meet in the middle.

Even if she wanted them to.

Clay's body was warm and somehow they seemed to meld together. Her head rested on his shoulder and she felt his warm breath against her ear. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to. There was something in the dance that spoke for them. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of what was happening between them and what couldn't come of it. A depth of feeling tempered by impossibility.

Meg felt a sting behind her eyes.

The song ended and she pulled away, looking up at Clay. He was looking at her the same way he'd looked today when she'd said hello in the church vestibule. Shocked and aware.

“I think I'd like to go home,” she said quietly.

“It'll look…”

“I don't care how it looks.” Meg was suddenly so tired of it all. “I just want to go, Clay. Don't worry. You stay. My dad will take me.”

Clay took her hand. “No, I will. I asked you to come and I'll drive you home.”

Five minutes later they were in his truck heading for the Briggs ranch, and five minutes after that they were at her house. The porch light was on in the spring twilight. Meg opened her door to get out but before she could hop to the ground Clay was there, shutting the door behind her.

“You don't have to walk me to the door.”

“Shut up, Meg.”

He said it so softly she didn't argue, just listened to their footsteps on the gravel as they walked to the porch door.

“You really were beautiful today,” he said, as they lingered just that few extra seconds.

“Don't, okay?” She tried not to choke on the words. She didn't want the crumbs of compliments he was offering. “Thanks for the drive home and good night.”

She unlocked the door, but before she could turn the knob his hand covered hers. She turned and froze.

“Clay,” she warned, but it was too late.

His arm came around her, lifted her feet clear off the floor as he kissed her: hot, demanding, and all-encompassing.

H
IS
mouth was soft, hot and devastating. Megan let the shock ripple deliciously through her as she clutched his shoulders. There was a small
thunk
as the house key dropped to the step. Even through the layers of his tuxedo and her coat Meg felt the hardness of his body against her.

It was the most wonderful thing she'd felt in her whole life. His lips did terribly skilled things to hers as he moved ahead a step, then another half so that she was pressed against the door with nowhere to go. But the stability meant that she could have her hands free, and once liberated she slid them beneath his lapels and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. His mouth left hers just for a moment and they stood, chests heaving, in the circle of the porch light. Clay's eyes glinted darkly at her as he caught the jacket blindly and draped it in a haphazard clump over the railing.

“Open the door,” he commanded, and something seemed to zing from Meg's toes straight to the top of her head. She felt her eyes widen as she understood his intentions; when she said nothing he simply reached around her and turned the knob. She gave a little squeak as his hands spanned her waist and he lifted her over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him. “Clay…”

“Be quiet,” he commanded, and she swallowed but obeyed. He was looking at her as they stood in the shadows, the only light in the entryway coming from porch light shining through the windows. In the semi-dark he appeared even more dangerous, more forbidden. Mysterious, which to Meg sounded ludicrous considering she'd known him her whole life.

But not this Clay. Not the man who just now was reaching out, cupping her head in his wide, capable hand. She wanted this. She'd wanted it for so long, had given up any and all chances of it happening. Maybe another chance would never come. Maybe…she bit down on her lip as she looked at Clay. Cancer had taught her to live each day to the fullest. She was tired of being afraid. His thumb rubbed against her cheek gently. Why shouldn't she take just this much when it was offered?

So she released her lip and tipped her head up, silently inviting him to kiss her again.

He cradled her face in both his hands now and Meg fought for breath as his mouth descended, not with the crash and fury of the first kiss but slowly, deliberately. He took his time now, teasing, tempting, settling into the contact with a sense of inevitability that rocked her world and made her yearn for far more than a good-night kiss or a single night to remember.

“I've wanted to do this all day,” he confessed, and Meg's body came alive hearing the soft but urgent words. His mouth was on hers again, making her weak in the knees. She pushed away the warning that sounded in her head when Clay lowered his hands and unbuttoned her coat. It was just a coat. It was fine. She let it fall to the floor and curled a hand around his neck, pulling him closer, tasting. He tasted like the chocolate mousse from the dessert, flavored with a hint of tart raspberry coulis.

Clay slid one hand over her left shoulder and down, his fingertips sliding over her breast. At first Meg shuddered, feeling utterly feminine and sexual for the first time in months. But as Clay made an impassioned sound in his throat Meg came to her senses. He didn't know, couldn't know what surgery had cost her. It was too risky, too frightening. What if he'd used the other hand? He would have slid his fingers over something that wasn't real. Clay mattered. For the sake of their friendship, it had to stop here.

She pushed against him, making enough room that she could slide past his body and into the warmth of the kitchen. She hugged her arms around herself. How could she have forgotten so easily? Meg felt the color drain from her face as her body chilled. It was an embarrassment she had no desire to endure.

“Meg.” Clay followed her into the kitchen. Just the way he said her name, soft but with a bit of wariness, put her on edge.

“I can't do this,” she said quietly, knowing he had no idea how much saying it was tearing her apart. The peace she'd made—with herself, with her disease—evaporated, leaving her angry and full of self-loathing. Now, when she finally had what she'd always wanted in her grasp,
who
she wanted, she had to push him away. “You don't want this,” she said, stronger now. “You don't want me. You should go.”

He reached over and turned on the kitchen light, flooding them in brightness. Meg hated the glare. Hated the idea of being so
visible
, inside and out.

“What the hell just happened?” He frowned at her, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion.

Meg knew what he meant and deliberately misunderstood. “Why don't you tell me? You were the one who
insisted on walking me to the door. Who wouldn't let me open…”

“That's not what I mean.”

She looked away. There was irritation in his eyes but there was something more. Clay looked
hurt
. How could that be? “Why did you kiss me?” she asked, lifting her chin. Anything to keep him from searching for the real answer to his question. Anything but the humiliation of having to explain.

“Because I wanted to,” he replied.

They were both stubborn but Meg was no fool. “Now who's deliberately dodging? You know what I'm asking. Why did you
want
to?”

He took a step closer and Meg backed away, skirting around the table and putting it between the two of them. Clay's face looked suddenly tired. “Good Lord, Meg. I'm not going to hurt you.”

But he would. He would if she let herself believe in this fantasy. She knew his reasons and it was all her fault. He had to know them, too. Had to say them so he could see how foolish it all was. “Why did you want to kiss me, Clay?” She repeated the question, her hands braced on the back of the chair before her.

“Look at you,” he admitted roughly. “You walked through the church today and every eye was on you. You have to know that.”

“So it's just physical?”

“Of course not!” His shoulders straightened.

She was relieved and not relieved at the same time. If it wasn't just physical, then there was more. Friends with benefits? She knew Clay too well for that. He had to see how wrong this was. Even as her lips still hummed from his kiss, she knew in her heart that in the end someone
was going to get hurt. Or both of them. “So you have feelings for me,” she dared.

Clay paused. “It's not that simple.”

She knew it wasn't, and that was the point. “Because if you're going with physical attraction—” she braced herself for the next words, knowing they had to be said “—you're going to be sorely disappointed.”

“What are you talking about?” His gaze darkened. “Don't tell me you don't feel it, too. I felt you in my arms. You practically melted.” He put his hands on his hips. “I might have started it, but you were right there with me. And then you pushed me away like I did something wrong. Unforgivable.”

He really didn't know. She let that bit sink in for a few moments, trying to figure out where to go from here. It explained a lot. She'd guarded the details of her treatment well, and so had her family. The knowledge warmed her just a bit. They'd stood behind her even when what she'd asked hadn't been easy.

Clay truly didn't know the extent of her surgery. She had to think about how to say it just right.

“This…” She swept her hand down at her dress. “This is not the real me, Clay. It was a mistake for me to pretend. You asked me to go with you and I had some silly idea to go all out and prove a point. But the makeup and dress and high heels…it's an act. If you'd left me at the door I'd be in flannel sleep pants and a T-shirt by now.”

“And that'd be sexy as hell,” he answered. “Good God, Meg, give me some credit. I've known you for years. I know this isn't normal for you. Maybe that's why it hit me so hard.” He smiled, a sexy little upturn of his lips. “Discovering you're a girl was more than I bargained for.”

“I don't want…”

The smile faded. “Don't want me? You did a damn good job making it seem like you did.”

Frustration began to bubble. “Stop finishing my sentences. You've got it all wrong, don't you see? It's not just the dress that's not me, it's…it's…”

Her lip wobbled. He truly hadn't seen her as a woman until today. And it had taken her pretending to be someone else to make it happen. She felt old dreams shatter, the pieces dropping around her feet. Clay would never love her, and she had to stop this insanity now. If she couldn't have all of him, she at least wanted to keep his friendship.

“Dawson said this would be a mistake.”

Clay's eyes glittered dangerously. “Leave your brother out of this.”

Meg ran her tongue over her lips. “But I can't, Clay, because he was right.” It pained her to admit it but it was true. She swallowed, blinked, breathed. “We don't want the same things, and I'm not prepared to take any gambles right now. The Meg who went away…not all of her came back. There are parts of me that'll never come back. Some more obvious than others.”

She pressed a hand to her right breast and saw the moment Clay understood. Any teasing, any sexual frustration he had been feeling fled and he looked both fascinated and horrified.

“You mean…all of it?”

“Yes. No lumpectomy. Full mastectomy, and a few lymph nodes for good measure.”

His ruddy cheeks blanched. “So you…I mean…”

He was so uncomfortable that she felt pity for him. But she'd been right to push away. What if he'd touched her without realizing? It would have been too humiliating. No matter what anyone said, a breast form was far from
the same thing. Not for him and not for her. And judging by his reaction now, the only thing she would share were the words. He could barely handle those. He wouldn't be able to handle the scars, or the sight of her as less of a woman. The idea of letting herself be that vulnerable and watching him turn away nearly stole her breath. She couldn't do it.

“I wear a prosthetic—a form inside my bra.”

Clay uttered a curse word, pulled out a chair and sat down.

Meg let out her breath. She'd said it. She pulled out the chair beneath her hands and sat across from him. “When we were outside tonight, at the inn, I said you couldn't say the word. If you can't say it, Clay, you can't handle this. And so I stopped you before it could blow up in our faces. You got caught up in it today, just like me, that's all. You'll thank me later.”

She wanted to believe that was true, but all she wanted was to feel his arms around her again. He wasn't the only one who got more than he bargained for today.

 

“I can say it,” Clay protested, his lips a thin, grim line. “I just didn't think you wanted to hear it. You hate it when people bring up your illness. You want to pretend it didn't happen.”

It was only a partial truth. She did hate it, but she was right. He hated cancer. He
was
afraid of it. It was merciless and didn't discriminate. Tonight he'd wanted to forget about it. Meg was so gorgeous, so alive in his arms. When she'd rested her head on his shoulder as they'd danced she'd started something that he'd finished on her porch step. He was attracted to Megan Briggs and he'd conveniently forgotten all the reasons why he should stay away. He hadn't been able to help himself from taking
her in his arms, kissing her. It was the damnedest thing. What shook him right to the bottom of his shoes was that it felt so
right
.

It had felt like everything was clicking into place until the moment she'd frozen in his arms. In a way he was glad she'd put on the brakes. The last thing Clay wanted was to play games with Meg, and what else could it possibly be? He wasn't interested in anything serious, and it was impossible to be anything else with Meg. He knew her too well. They'd shared too many secrets as friends. That type of connection wasn't something he could be careless with.

As he looked at her now, he knew it was more than just their friendship on the line, too. Meg was scared. For all her protests to the contrary, Meg was still scared to death and pushing her into something based on hormones and attraction would only hurt them both. He had to tread very, very carefully so that nothing was broken irreparably.

“I could never pretend it didn't happen.” She folded her hands on the table. “The experience is a part of who I am now. The trouble starts when people think that's
all
I am.”

“You had cancer, Meg. You could have died.” She hadn't, but the spectre was always there. “People worry about you. I worry about you, okay? I don't want to lose another person I…”

Her head came up and her gaze pierced his. “You what?”

“I care about,” he finished. He wanted to think that what she'd revealed tonight didn't matter. That he didn't care about scars, that he was a bigger man. But in his head he kept seeing the surgeon's knife and it made him feel light in the stomach. She was right. It was better that
they stop things right where they were. She might think it was about her scars but for Clay it was so much more. He had his own scars to deal with, the kind that didn't leave physical proof. And now those scars were somehow tied to the one person he was coming to realize he'd always counted on. Her.

Tonight he'd nearly ruined everything by getting carried away. If it meant letting her believe he was repulsed by her appearance, he'd take the hit to his character. It was difficult enough being her friend, but it was nothing compared to being her lover. Friends…lovers…two very, very different things carrying vastly different risks. Love changed things. Love was like taking your heart out of your body and putting it in someone else's keeping. It required a faith he didn't possess.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “If you're okay, I should go.”