Maggie's Dad (8 page)

He started to speak, but apparently he couldn't find the words, either.

“At six,” she repeated.

He nodded, and this time he went through the doorway.

A
ntonia went through every dress she had in her closet before she settled on a nice but simple black crepe dress with short sleeves and a modest neckline. It reached just below her knees and although it had once fit her very nicely, it now hung on her. She had nothing that looked the right size. But it was cold and she could wear a coat over it, the one good leather one she'd bought last season on sale. It would cover the dress and perhaps when she was seated, it wouldn't look so big on her. She paired the dress with a thin black leather belt, gold stud earrings and a small gold cross that her mother had given her when she graduated from high school. She wore no other jewelry, except for the serviceable watch on her wrist. She saw the engagement ring that Powell had bought
for her, a very modest little diamond in a thin gold setting. She'd sent it back to him, but he'd refused to accept it from her father. It had found its way back to her, and she kept it here in her jewelry box, the only keepsake she had except for the small cross she always wore.

She picked the ring up and looked at it with sad gray eyes. How different her life, and Powell's, might have been if he hadn't jumped to conclusions and she hadn't run away.

She put the ring back into the box, into the past, where it belonged, and closed it up. This would be the last time she'd go out with Powell. He only wanted to talk about Maggie. If he was serious about the widow Holton, of whom she'd heard so much, then this would certainly not be an occasion he'd want to repeat. And even if he asked, Antonia knew that she would have to refuse a second evening out with him. Her heart was still all too vulnerable. But for tonight, she took special care with her makeup and left her blond hair long around her shoulders. Even thin, she looked good. She hoped Powell would think so.

She sat in the living room with her curious but silent father, waiting for the clock to chime six. He had ten minutes left to make it on time. Powell had been very punctual in the old days. She wondered if he still was.

“Nervous?” her father asked gently.

She smiled and nodded. “I don't know why he
wanted to take me out to talk about Maggie. We could have talked here, or at school.”

He smoothed a hand over his boot, crossed over his other leg. “Maybe he's trying to make things up with you.”

“I doubt that,” she replied. “I hear he's been spending time with the widow Holton….”

“So has Dawson. But love isn't the reason. They both want her south pasture. It borders on both of theirs.”

“Oh. Everybody says she's very pretty.”

“So she is. But Dawson won't have anything to do with women in a romantic way, and Powell is playing her along.”

“I heard that he was talking marriage.”

“Did you?” He frowned. “Well…that's surprising.”

“Mrs. Jameson said his daughter ran away when she thought he was going to marry Mrs. Holton.”

Her father shook his head. “I'm not surprised. That child doesn't get along with anyone. She'll end up in jail one day if he doesn't keep a better eye on her.”

She traced a pattern in the black crepe purse that matched her dress. “I haven't been quite fair to her,” she confessed. “She's so much like Sally.” She grimaced. “She must miss her.”

“I doubt it. Her mother left her with any available babysitter and stayed on the road until the drinking started taking its toll on her. She never was much
of a driver. That's probably why she went into the river.”

Into the river.
Antonia remembered hearing about the accident on the news. Powell had been rich enough that Sally's tragic death made headlines. She'd felt sorry for him, but she hadn't gone to the funeral. There was no point. She and Sally had been enemies for so long. For so long.

The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted her musings. She got up and reached the door just as Powell knocked.

She felt embarrassed when she saw how he was dressed. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt with a heavy denim jacket and old boots. If she was surprised, so was he. She looked very elegant in that black dress and the dark leather coat she wore with it.

His face drew in sharply at the sight of her, because even in her depleted condition, she took his breath away.

“I'm running late.” She improvised to explain the way she was dressed. “I've just now come back from town,” she lied, redfaced. “I'll hurry and change and be ready in a jiffy. Dad can talk to you while I get ready. I'm sorry…!”

She dashed back into the bedroom and closed the door. She could have died of shame. So much for her dreams of the sort of date they'd once shared. He was dressed for a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a fast-food joint, and here she was rigged out for
a restaurant. She should have asked him where they were going in the first place, and not tried to second-guess him!

She quickly changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and put her hair up in its usual bun. At least the jeans fit her better than the dress, she thought dryly.

 

Powell stared after her and grimaced. “I had an emergency on the ranch with a calving heifer,” he murmured. “I didn't realize she'd be dressed up, so I didn't think about changing….”

“Don't make it worse,” her father said curtly. “Spare her pride and go along with what she said.”

He sighed heavily. “I never do the right thing, say the right thing.” His dark eyes were narrow and sad. “She's the one who was hurt the most, and I just keep right on adding to the pain.”

Ben Hayes was surprised at the remark, but he had no love for Powell Long. He couldn't forget the torment the man had caused his daughter, nor what Antonia had said about Powell using his influence to open financial doors for him. All Powell's pretended concern for his health hadn't changed what he thought of the man. And tonight his contempt knew no bounds. He hated seeing Antonia embarrassed like that.

“Don't keep her out long,” Ben said coldly. “She isn't well.”

Powell's eyes cut around to meet the older man's. “What's wrong with her?” he asked.

“Her mother's barely been dead a year,” he reminded him. “Antonia misses her a lot.”

“She's lost weight, hasn't she?” he asked Ben.

Ben shifted in the chair. “She'll pick back up, now that she's home.” He glared at Powell. “Don't hurt her again, boy,” he said evenly. “If you want to talk to her about your daughter, fine. But don't expect anything. She's still raw about the past, and I don't blame her. You were wrong and you wouldn't listen. But she's the one who had to leave town.”

Powell's jaw went taut. He stared at the older man with eyes that glittered, and he didn't reply.

It was a tense silence that Antonia walked back into. Her father looked angry, and Powell looked… odd.

“I'm ready,” she said, sliding into her leather coat.

Powell nodded. “We'll go to Ted's Truck Stop. It's open all night and he serves good coffee, if that suits you.”

She read an insult into the remark, and flushed. “I told you I was dressed up because I'd just come back from town,” she began. “Ted's suits me fine.”

He was stunned by the way she emphasized that, until he realized what he'd said. He turned on his heel and opened the front door for her. “Let's go,” he said.

She told her father goodbye and went through the door. Powell closed it behind them, shutting them in the cold, snowy night. A metallic gold Mercedes-
Benz was sitting in the driveway, not the four-wheel-drive vehicle he usually drove. Although it had chains to get through snow and ice, it was a luxury car and a far cry from the battered old pickup truck Powell had driven when they'd been engaged.

Flakes of snow fell heavily on the windshield as he drove the mile down the highway to Ted's, which was a bar and grill, just outside the Bighorn city limits. Ted's sold beer and wine and good food, but Antonia had never been inside the place before. It wasn't considered a socially respectable place, and she wondered if Powell had a reason for taking her there. Perhaps he was trying to emphasize the fact that this wasn't a routine date. It was to be a business discussion, but he didn't want to take her anyplace where they might be recognized. So if that was the case, maybe he really was serious about the widow Holton after all. It made her sad, even though she knew she had no future with him, or with anyone.

“You're quiet,” he remarked as he pulled up in the almost deserted parking lot. It was early for Ted's sort of trade, although a couple of tractor trailers were sitting apart in the lot.

“I suppose so,” she replied.

He felt the unease about her, the muted sadness. He felt guilty about bringing her here. She'd dressed up for him, and he'd slapped her down unintentionally. He hadn't even considered that she might think of this as a date. She was as sensitive now as she had been at eighteen.

He went around the car to open her door, but she was already out of it and standing in the snow when he got there. She joined him at the fender and walked toward the bar. Her sneakers were getting wet and the snow was deep enough that it leaked in past her socks, but it didn't matter. She was so miserable already that cold feet just seemed to go with her general mood.

Powell noticed, though, and his lips compressed. It was already a bust of an evening, and it was his own damn fault.

They sat down in a booth and the waitress, a big brunette named Darla, smiled and handed them a menu.

“Just coffee for me,” Antonia said with a quiet smile.

Powell's eyes flashed. “I brought you here for a meal,” he reminded her firmly.

She evaded his angry eyes. “I'll have a bowl of chili, then. And coffee.”

He ordered steak and salad and coffee and handed the menu back to the waitress. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt as helpless, or as ashamed.

“You need more than that,” he said softly.

The tone of his voice brought back too many memories. They'd gone out to eat very rarely in the old days, in his old Ford pickup truck with the torn seat and broken dash. A hamburger had been a treat, but it was being together that had made their dates perfect. They'd wolf down their food and then drive out to the pasture near Powell's house. He'd shut off
the engine and turn to her, and she'd go into his arms like a homing pigeon.

She could still taste those hot, deep, passionate kisses they'd shared so hungrily. It was amazing that he'd had the restraint to keep their dates innocent. She'd rushed headlong into desire with no self-preservation at all, wanting him so much that nothing else had mattered. But he'd put on the brakes, every time. That hadn't bothered her at the time. She'd thought it meant that he respected her enough to wait for the wedding ceremony. But after he'd called off the wedding and married Sally, and Maggie was born seven months later, his restraint had made a terrible sort of sense. He hadn't really wanted Antonia. He'd wanted her father's influence. She'd been too much in love to realize it.

“I said, you need to eat more than that,” he repeated.

She looked up into his dark eyes with the memories slicing through her. She swallowed. “I haven't felt too good today,” she said evasively. “I'm not really hungry.”

He saw the shadows under her eyes and knew that lack of sleep had certainly added to her depleted health.

“I wanted to talk to you about Maggie,” he said suddenly, because it bothered him to be with Antonia and remember their old relationship. “I know she's given you problems. I hope we can work out something.”

“There's nothing to work out,” Antonia said. “She's done her homework. I think she'll adjust to me eventually.”

“She had a lot to say about you last night,” he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. “She said that you threatened to hit her.”

She looked him right in the eye. “Did she?”

He waited, but she didn't offer any defense. “And she said that you told her that you hated her and that you didn't want her in your class, because she reminded you too much of her mother.”

Her eyes didn't fall. It wasn't the truth, but there was enough truth in it to twist. Maggie certainly was perceptive, she thought ruefully. And Powell sat there with his convictions so plain on his lean face that he might as well have shouted them.

She knew then why he'd invited her here, to this bar. He was showing her that he thought too little of her to take her to a decent place. He was putting her down in a cold, subtle way, while he raked her over the coals of his anger for upsetting his little girl.

She managed a smile. “Does the city cab run out this far?” she asked in a tone that was tight enough to sound choked. “Then I won't even have to ask you to take me home.” She started to get up, but he rose, too, and blocked her way out of the booth.

“Here it is.” The waitress interrupted them, bringing steaming black coffee in two mugs. “Sorry I took so long. Is anything wrong?” she added when Powell didn't move.

“No,” he said after a minute, his eyes daring Antonia to move as he sat back down. “Nothing at all. But we'll just have the coffee, if it isn't too late to change the order.”

“It's all right, I'll take care of it,” the waitress said quickly. She'd seen the glint of tears in Antonia's eyes, and she recognized a kindling argument when she saw one starting. She put down the cream pitcher and wrote out the check. If she was any judge of angry women, there would barely be time for them to drink their one cup each before the explosion.

She thanked them, put down the check and got out of the line of fire.

“Don't cry,” Powell said through his teeth as he stared at Antonia's white face. “Don't!”

She took a steadying breath and put both hands around the coffee cup. She stared at it instead of him, but her hands trembled.