How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart (7 page)

“Of course I'm fine.”

Of course she was. Meg would never admit any differently, would she? He pushed away from the table and the chair legs grated against the floor, unusually loud in the awkward silence. He went to the door and she followed him, picking up her coat and hanging it on a hook while he paused with a hand on the doorknob.

“I'm sorry, Meg.” He was sorry for a lot of things and he hoped she'd let it go at that and not ask him to elaborate. He made himself meet her eyes. She was watching him with such soft understanding he felt about two inches tall. A coward.

“It's okay,” she answered. “It's a lot to handle. I knew it and I let things get out of hand.”

She was blaming herself? He stepped forward. “Not your fault. Not even a little bit, understand?”

Her cheeks blossomed prettily and Clay's gaze dropped
to her lips. But her breath had quickened and he saw the rise and fall of her chest. No, they had to leave things as they were. They had to stay friends for everyone's sake. “Let's just forget about it,” he murmured, opening the door.

“Good idea,” she answered.

He leaned forward and gave her a light peck on the cheek. “Good night, Meg.”

But she didn't answer as she shut the door behind him and he collected his tux jacket from the railing. Night had fallen completely and April stars were gleaming in a cold sky.

Maybe he should have stayed. He wasn't proud of himself and he couldn't help but think of his mother as he started the truck. She hadn't been able to handle his father's illness and had left them both. He'd always considered her weak and unfeeling. He'd always been so very determined not to be like her.

Now Meg undoubtedly thought he was, and he was surprised to find that it hurt. Her opinion mattered to him. For the first time in his life he realized that the real motivations behind his parents' split were possibly different than he'd always thought. After holding Meg in his arms, he found it possible to believe that his mother had loved his father but hadn't had the strength to handle watching him die.

It was no excuse, but Clay understood it. And he hated himself for it.

 

Meg rubbed Calico's neck as she let the mare walk to cool down. A year of inconsistent exercise had both of them out of shape, and she was toying with the idea of doing one more season before hanging up her rodeo hat for good. She had to have something other than the day
to-day running of the ranch. Maybe she just needed to do this one step at a time. Save what she could and build piece by piece.

She sat tall in the saddle, looking at the barrels. Trouble was, as good as she was at racing, she'd never felt like the rodeo royalty type and another year of the circuit sounded exhausting. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her competitive edge. Or perhaps she'd spent so much energy fighting her cancer that she simply didn't want to compete anymore. The last few days she'd been listless, unsettled. She told herself it had nothing to do with Clay but it did.

He'd disappointed her.

She had wanted him to proclaim that it didn't matter. That her scars meant nothing. Not that it would have changed anything, but she'd wanted to hear him say it anyway. He hadn't. She had been so right about stopping things before they truly got started. Now she just wished they could go back to the way things were before.

But they couldn't and thinking about it was hurting her brain. Calico tossed her head. What Meg really wanted to do this morning was ride. Forget about everything but the feel of the saddle and the wind in her hair. Calico was done for the day, so Meg rubbed her down and turned her loose. It was Dawson's mount she turned to as the spring sun spread its light down the barn corridor. She saddled up his gelding, Enforcer, instead.

Enforcer pulled at the bit until Meg had him outside the farmyard, and then she let him have his head. She gave a whoop as he leaped forward, eating up the earth with long strides. This was what she needed—full on, no-holds-barred. For several minutes they headed north along the fence line, then turned east along the creek that bordered Briggs' land and Gregorys'. In the distance she could see
small brown dots on the burgeoning green grass—Clay's herd. Far ahead of her was a lone rider. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was. Clay Gregory had a way of sitting a horse that was all his own.

Clay. Her heart did a little jump and settle thing every time she thought of him. She had been wrong trying to prove something to him considering how it had turned out. And yet she couldn't quite bring herself to regret it. Not when the few minutes in his arms had been so completely glorious. She'd hold the memory close for a long, long time no matter what happened.

She could tell when he spotted her—he straightened in the saddle and he altered his path, coming straight for her. She locked down the excitement that raced through her veins. Just because he sat a horse prettier than anyone she knew, just because…

Oh, forget it. It was a pointless exercise.

“Problems?” she called out as he approached.

Clay reined in and Meg admired not only rider but Sir Winston, Clay's mount. “Sir,” as they called him, was jet-black and had the bones and chest of a quarter horse and the height of a Thoroughbred. He was a giant, smart and even-tempered. Clay never let anyone ride Sir other than himself.

“Just checking out the fence line.” He nudged closer to her and looked down at her from beneath his hat. “You?”

“Just out for a ride. I thought you'd have a quad for this stuff.”

“Dawson likes his toys. I still like horse work.”

Meg's lips twitched. Clay would deny it all day long but in many ways he really was old-school. She liked that about him. Clay never got caught up in new and shiny things. He was steady, reliable.

Predictable, she realized, her mood sinking. He had
reacted exactly as she'd expected, so why did she fault him for it? “I'll let you get back to it, then.” She turned Enforcer about and faced home.

“Something wrong with Calico?”

She stopped and twisted in the saddle to look back at him. “No, why?”

“You're on Enforcer, that's all.”

“I was working Calico this morning and gave her a rest.”

Clay's face changed, turning speculative. “Working her?”

“I'm considering doing one more season.”

“Is that what you want?”

Meg sighed, reined her horse lightly and went back to face him. Perhaps Clay had found it easier than she had to forget the other night. He was certainly adept at making conversation today as if she had never melted in his arms. “Not in a perfect world,” she answered. “But I haven't been able to find a way to make the stables happen. I considered asking if we could sell off a parcel, but the truth is, other than what we've rented out, we need every acre for a herd our size and I know it. And that's a sacrifice the family would have to make for me, which isn't what I want. But I have to do something with my time. So I'll do one last season while I figure it out, I guess.”

She knew she sounded less than thrilled and Clay's frown confirmed it.

“Ride with me,” he suggested. “I've been thinking and I might have a solution for you.”

“Will I like it?”

“Probably not.” He flashed a grin, reminding her of the old, easygoing Clay. Maybe they could put their mistake behind them. It was what she wanted. But she missed the
hot gleam in his eyes now that she'd experienced it aimed in her direction. She'd have to find a way to ignore that.

“Then why am I listening?”

He laughed. “Because it solves your problem.”

Meg wasn't convinced it was a good idea, but the tiny flash of hope she felt at his words couldn't be ignored. She turned Enforcer around so she and Clay were side by side.

“You mind if we ride along this fence line?” Clay nodded at the pasture on their right. “I haven't finished checking it yet, and I want to move the herd in a few days.”

The two families' land bordered each other all along this side and the idea of trespassing was completely foreign. Meg shrugged. “Wouldn't hurt for me to have a look, either. I don't know when Dawson was out last. If he's not in the fields he's in town
courting
.”

“Things are getting serious with Tara,” he stated.

“It looks that way.”

They picked their way along the property line. Clay cleared his throat and Meg looked over at him. The other night she'd been able to read his face. Today she couldn't. He'd closed it off completely.

“I've been thinking, and I know of a way you can raise the capital to start your business. I want to loan you the money for the ring and stable,” he said.

Meg nearly fell off her horse. Then she began laughing, the sound ringing in the air. Lord, no one had that kind of money just laying around doing nothing! “Oh, Clay, that's funny. Let's go raid your penny jar.”

“I'm not joking.”

She stopped laughing. His jaw was set like a chunk of glacier granite dropped in the middle of the prairie. He was serious. Dead serious. It had to be a joke. Because
if he meant it she got the uneasy feeling it was tainted somehow. Was he feeling guilty? Or was he trying to prove something? Either way, Meg didn't like that it felt like he was playing a game, with her future at the middle of it.

“Where would you get that kind of money? I know your place is doing okay, but it's not
that
kind of ranch, Clay. We both know that.”

“If I did have the money, would you take it?”

Temptation squeezed her heart. She didn't want money from Clay. She didn't know what she wanted, but the idea that he might think he had to buy her friendship stung. And yet if she took the money—if it was really offered—it could solve all her problems. “I don't know.”

His shoulders relaxed. “You want to.”

A sudden idea hit her. “You're not thinking of taking on any debt for this, are you? Because that would be an ‘absolutely not.'” Why on earth was he offering this to her now? She'd told him about the idea weeks ago. Unless…

She was right. He had to be feeling guilty. Or scared.

“I don't want sympathy money,” she said sharply, gripping the reins almost painfully.

Clay made a disparaging sound in his throat. “God, woman! You make it near impossible for anyone to help you. You think everyone's motives are exactly what you don't want, and then you feel very self-satisfied when you're proven right.”

She could feel his glare on her, sharp and accusing. Had she misjudged him? She was barely wrapping her mind around it when he spoke again, his voice harsh and unrelenting.

“You know what, Meg? I do pity you. Because the one dwelling on your cancer is you. You make it an issue no matter what. You're afraid. No one should see any sort of
weakness in Meg Briggs. Well, here's a tidbit. You don't have to be perfect. No one is, and no one expects it.”

“Yes, they do!” she shouted, and her voice echoed down the valley and over the creek.

Clay pulled Sir Winston to a stop and twisted in the saddle. She looked up into his face, half-shadowed by his Stetson. Lord, no matter what justifications she made in her head, she still wanted him. Still cared for him so very much. And he understood nothing. Nothing about the pressure she was under. Nothing about how to come to grips with it all herself while putting a smile on her face for everyone else's benefit. She was one of the lucky ones. She should be counting her blessings rather than thinking about her losses. She knew it, but, oh, sometimes it was hard.

And he knew nothing about how their error in judgment the other night had opened the door to a dream and then slammed it shut again.

“I have to hold myself together and them, too,” Meg said, quieter now.

Her heart was pounding and there was a sinking feeling in her stomach but she fought to ignore it. He couldn't be right. He wasn't right. She'd beaten cancer. She'd moved beyond. Why couldn't he see that? “I feel like I'm walking a tightrope and I have to be bouncy and happy and energetic all the time. It's exhausting, Clay. One slip and I'm off the tightrope and falling. I can't stand it. I can't stand the worry on Mom's face or the strain on Dawson's or the guilt on Dad's. He would do anything to be back out there with Dawson and me again. And all of them are looking to me, don't you see? So don't you dare tell me no one expects me to be perfect! Because if I'm not they're absolutely terrified. I mean look at you.

A few words from me the other night and you couldn't get out of the house fast enough!”

Clay looked at her for one long, torturous moment. She wanted him to say something. To disagree with her. Anything but the cold silence he was giving her.

But there was nothing. With a kick of his heels, he spurred Sir Winston on.

And he never looked back.

T
HE
last thing Meg wanted to do was knock on Clay's door and face him, but she did it. She rapped her knuckles three times on the screen door and stepped back.

Meg hated admitting she was wrong. But she'd ridden around on Enforcer for an hour thinking about what he'd said. He was right. She was standing in her own way and she needed to get out of it if she wanted to succeed. More than that, she'd been particularly nasty in her parting words and she was sorry for it.

She saw him through the screen as he came to the door. Saw the surprised look on his face as he approached and how he tried to hide it. He hadn't expected her to come. He'd expected her to run home with her tail between her legs.

She was happy to disappoint him, at least this time. But she still noticed the long length of his legs, the firm breadth of his chest, his tanned face. She wished the old longings had never been resurrected, but it looked like they were here to stay and somehow she had to deal with it.

He opened the door and held it.

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside.

She went inside and shoved her hands inside the front
pouch of her hoodie. He hadn't said a word—perhaps during the hour she'd spent thinking he'd been nursing his anger. He certainly seemed to have a lot of it. Maybe he'd simply given up on her. Her stomach did a little flip. “I turned my horse out with Sir. Hope that's okay.”

Clay's jaw tightened. “That's fine.”

They'd done such a thing tons of times in the past, so the fact that she'd asked for his approval felt weird—and the terse answer even stranger. Meg struggled to find words. “I rode around for a while and ended up here,” she said, as if it explained everything.

Clay nodded at her feet. “Take off your boots then and come in.” He hesitated. “I just took out a steak. Can take another out if you want.”

He walked to the kitchen, leaving her to follow.

The invitation was hardly heartfelt, and Meg wondered if she'd made a mistake coming here. But things were bubbling between her and Clay and they needed to clear the air. The words they'd shouted today couldn't be left to fester. Even if they'd backed off from anything romantic, the last thing Meg wanted was the complete disintegration of their friendship. Friends were too valuable a commodity to discard without a thought. After all these years they just had to try harder.

“Mom will be expecting me,” she called, shoving off her boots and leaving them by the door. She padded down the hall in her stocking feet, knowing that staying for dinner was a temptation she didn't need. “The joys of living at home,” she said, forcing her voice to sound light and cheery as she entered the cozy kitchen. “One of these days I'll have to see about getting my own place.”

“I think that'd be good for you.”

Clay stood at the sink as he scrubbed a potato. Meg noticed that it was fairly tidy considering he was living
here alone now without Stacy to keep things on track in the house. Meg had always liked his home. It wasn't big but it was comfortable, and Stacy had always ensured that people felt welcome in it. This moment was probably the most uncomfortable Meg had ever felt within its walls.

“I think it would be good for me, too.” She picked up the thread of what he'd last said. The idea of having her own space was more attractive than he could imagine, yet another one of the things on her list she simply couldn't afford. She paused and Clay put down the potato and picked up another. She really needed to apologize and get it over with. “Are you going to look at me, Clay?”

He did. She knew her hair was standing up on one side from the wind and her face felt ruddy and chapped from the cold, but she stood her ground. She remembered the way he'd looked at her in her red dress. The difference was clear. The real Meg was right in front of him, in jeans and a navy hoodie and stockinged feet. As ordinary as ditch water. And Clay wore old jeans and a gray T-shirt—a complete departure from his debonair tuxedo. But now she knew. She knew the sound of his breathing in the dark. The taste of him. The way he cupped her face, at once gentle and commanding. They were supposed to go back to the way things were before, but for Meg it was impossible. The best she could hope for was amity. Perhaps understanding. She needed Clay. He was the only one who'd been completely honest with her since her return—even when it hurt. There was no pretending with him, not anymore.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her gaze not leaving his. “I'm sorry for shouting at you and unloading on you.”

Clay's tongue came out to wet his lips and he opened his mouth to say something, hesitated and finally said,
“I didn't mean to go off like that, either. I just want to help.”

“You were honest with me, Clay. It was hard to hear. But I rode around a long time being angry and thinking about what you said. My feelings aren't wrong. I do feel like I have to be perfect. But you're right that I'm getting in my own way.”

“You're putting so much pressure on yourself. But your family—your true friends—are big boys and girls. We can handle it.”

She met his gaze, knowing she had to say all the words she'd thought while riding over the fields. “I want to think that. But if I admit a weakness to them, I might have to admit it to myself, you see?”

And admitting weakness meant letting in fear. How could she do that? She'd spent months being strong, looking forward toward the only acceptable goal—recovery. “I don't know how to be vulnerable. I don't know how to deal with the worried looks on their faces if I have so much as a headache. I don't know how to do it, Clay. Sometimes I want to scream. Can you imagine if I just let loose? Mother wouldn't know what to do with herself.” She fiddled her fingers around each other. “I thought beating this thing would make the rest of it easy, but it's not at all, and I can't seem to figure it out. And that's why I yelled at you this afternoon and I'm sorry.”

“That couldn't have been easy for you to say,” he said quietly, putting down the potato and wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “I was too hard on you. I owe you an apology, too. I was just…frustrated.”

Frustrated. She knew the meaning of that word. Ever since he'd kissed her the frustration within her only seemed to build, putting her more on edge. Unsatisfied. Off balance. It was shocking to think that along with
everything else she was feeling sexual frustration. Was it the same for him? It didn't seem to be. He seemed absolutely calm and in control.

“I did scream today,” she admitted. “Once. When I was sure you were out of earshot.”

Clay chuckled way down low, and it sent a delicious spiral rippling through her body. “And how did you feel, afterward?” he asked.

“Ridiculous,” she admitted, and suddenly the angry tension surrounding them dissipated, adding a level of comfort. But these days being comfortable together held a tension all its own. Dancing with Clay, kissing Clay—it had changed everything. At least for her. What pushed them apart before was now drawing them together.

He picked up the potatoes again and put them in the oven. “You're spinning your wheels, that's all.”

“Yes.” It felt so good to say it. “And then the other night, at the wedding, I felt so in control. But it was an illusion.” Them being together was an illusion, too. It hurt to admit it; but it was the truth.

“Things got screwed up,” he said, but his voice took on a husky quality. Meg looked into his eyes and felt such a strong pull to walk into his arms, to rest there for a little while. Even after all that had happened—how absolutely messed up it all was, she wished she could just do that. Be safe in the circle of his arms for a minute or two.

“I still want to build this expansion,” she said, clearing her throat. They had to get back on track before she did something really stupid. It was, after all, the real reason she was here. She wanted to hear what he had to say. “I jumped all over you before instead of listening. If you have a solution, I'd like to hear it. And make a rational decision.” She smiled up at him. There was no need to
admit she'd been emotional—she knew she'd been all over the map.

Clay gestured toward the table with a hand. “Then have a seat and let's talk.”

 

His mind spun as he went to the fridge to grab a couple of drinks and gather his thoughts. He hadn't meant to say all that to Meg in the meadow. He'd thought long and hard about his offer and how best to present it to her. But she hadn't even heard him out. She'd thrown out the pity word and he'd lost it. Told her exactly what he thought and the hell with sparing her feelings.

Feelings, ha. He had asked himself plenty of times over the last few days what he wanted from Megan. Each time the answer had come back—and it was always an answer he didn't want to hear. He couldn't want
love
. He didn't want her to love him and he didn't want to love her. There were too many risks involved.

The problem was he was already in over his head. If it had just been a fancy dress and a fine pair of legs in high heels he could have moved on, just as he'd always done. A flirtation was fine but he never let himself get serious about anyone. But this was Meg. She was different. It didn't matter if she was dressed to the nines or like she was today—adorable and oh-so approachable in her jeans and soft sweatshirt. He knew her inside and out—why else would she make him so angry? He couldn't just hold her in his arms and walk away. He had to be careful.

But he also knew it would never work. He wasn't the marrying kind. Dawson called him The Bachelor like the reality TV show of the same name, and quipped him about whether or not he was going to institute his own rose ceremony to send the ladies on their way when he broke their hearts. For a long time Clay had laughed at
the comparison. But lately it had been wearing thin—both the name and the meaningless dating.

And Meg was…

Well. Meg was a mess and she deserved better than him. She deserved someone who would be there for her in ways that he couldn't. The last thing he wanted to do was complicate things further when she was struggling so much. The idea of opening his heart to her only to have it tramped on was not the most attractive option on the table. It would end badly, no doubt about it. So, yeah, maybe he was feeling the smallest bit guilty about Saturday night. He'd started something that could never be finished.

All he knew was that he valued her friendship too much to mess around with it. Loaning her money was the one thing he could truly do to help, while at the same time keeping his heart wrapped up nice and safe.

He took out two cans of pop and put one in front of her; then he took a seat, popping the top of the can. He looked at her from across the table and wondered how to broach the subject better this time, so she didn't see it as some pity party.

“Look, Meg. I know that if it weren't for bank policies you'd already be on your way to making this a reality. Clearly you're strong and healthy, right?” He ignored the niggling voice in his head that persisted in chirping about risks and reoccurrence rates. “And you know what you're doing. You've been around horses all your life. It's a crying shame that you keep coming up against the word no.”

She couldn't argue with any of that, he reasoned. She took a drink of her pop and said nothing, which was encouraging.

“The only thing keeping this from going ahead is capital. I have it. It's yours.”

He watched as Meg's finger circled the lip of the can. Finally she looked up at him. “This isn't about feeling guilty about the other night?”

Her question was aimed true and he took the hit. He pushed his pop aside, swallowing roughly. “Guilty?”

He had felt guilt. About letting her mistakenly believe he was turned off by the changes in her body. About losing control and hurting her. But enough to want to make restitution with money?

“Pardon me,” he said dryly, “but I hardly think that what happened between us is cause for
that
much guilt. And I'm a little insulted that you think I'd try to buy you off.” Even as he said it he felt the little slide of uneasiness knowing he still wasn't being completely truthful. But how on earth could he say, “I can't love you as you should be loved so here's your consolation prize”?

“Okay, okay. I didn't mean to imply…” Her eyes looked distressed and she moved to tuck her hair behind her ear, only it wasn't long enough. She was nervous. They'd never been nervous around each other before. “I'll shut up now,” she whispered, and Clay let out a breath. He didn't want to fight with her. Somehow they had to find their feet. Put things on an even keel again.

“This is a friend to friend offering, Meg. Neighbor to neighbor. I want you to have it.”

“As a loan,” she said.

Clay ran his hand over his hair. She wasn't going to make this easy, was she? Why couldn't she just accept it as a gift and go?

Because she was Meg. Because, to a certain extent she was right. People did count on her. Meg always paid her way. She always did things right. Maybe she
had
felt
more pressure than any of them had realized so they could all feel a bit more secure, reassured. She could hardly be responsible for everyone's feelings, could she?

“I meant it as a gift, but you won't accept it that way, will you?”

She shook her head. Her face was uncompromising and she coolly took another drink. He felt like smiling then. She was a heck of a negotiator, even when she didn't have the upper hand.

“I want to know how you happen to have all this money lying around. And why you haven't put it into your own place.” Her brows pulled together. “Any farmer worth his salt either puts his money back into the operation, or it's his rainy-day safety net if the worst happens.”

Clay pursed his lips. The story was old history, especially now that Stacy was gone, but he still held the resentment deep in his heart. He hadn't even wanted to accept the money to begin with, but Stacy had convinced him, telling him it would come in handy someday. The irony wasn't lost on him. His mother had left it to him and it had felt like a payoff for all the love she'd deprived him of as a boy. Now he was offering it to Meg instead of offering himself. He could never confess such a shortcoming to her.