Undeniable (17 page)

The chair scraped over the dried-out linoleum when he pulled it from beneath the table, creaked when he settled into it, creaked again when he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

He squeezed the knuckle of his pinky with the thumb and index finger of his other hand. “How’re you liking ranch life? Gotta be a big adjustment after living up on the hill all these years.”

Where to begin? She’d had to sweep spiderwebs from the corners of the bedroom she’d claimed before she could use it. She’d had to mop the hardwood floor, soap the iron bed frame, wash the linens, and air the quilt on the backyard clothesline. She’d had to pull down the curtains, clean those as well as the window behind, and get Dax to install a ceiling fan.

And that was just to have a place to sleep, forget dealing with the scary dark depths of the closet for the clothes she’d had Marta, the Campbell family housekeeper, bring her. Or the bureau she’d emptied of old newspapers and tools that belonged in the barn and enough single socks to make fifty-plus mismatched pairs. Then the bathroom, ugh; it had taken twice as long. So, yeah. The adjustment had been huge.

“Honestly? I’m loving it,” she said, rinsing the leftover coffee from the morning’s pot and pouring fresh water into the machine. “I haven’t been still for a minute, and I ache from all the bending and lifting. But I can lie in bed at night and see the stars through glass I polished with a whole lot of my own elbow grease.”

She glanced at him then, almost wished she hadn’t. He was still, leaning forward the way he’d been when she’d last looked, but unmoving now, his hands, his eyes, even his chest all still as he waited to breathe. She didn’t know what he was waiting for, what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked at her, but dear
God
, the way he looked at her.

Her hands shook, and a flush blossomed between her breasts, tightening her nipples and rising up her neck to her face. She knew she looked like disheveled crap—which would thankfully explain away her blush—but his eyes told another story. And every fantasy she’d ever had of him ran on a movie reel loop through her mind.

Oh, boy.
Oh, boy.
Probably not the best idea to talk to Josh about lying in bed, about seeing stars. At least not to this Josh who seemed so full of purpose, so single-minded and focused.

Finally, he dropped his head, then straightened, sitting back in the chair and stretching out his long legs. He crossed them at the ankle, crossed his arms over his chest. “Not a lot of call for physical activity as an attorney, I reckon.”

Coffee. Filter. Mugs. Those were the things she needed to concentrate on. Not his eyes. Not his body. Not his big brass belt buckle that lay flat against his stomach. About the not-so-flat zippered fly beneath.

She measured the ground beans, spilling less than a quarter teaspoon on the counter, which she counted a success. “As sore as I am, it’s obvious I could’ve used a lot more. Maybe if I’d filed my own paperwork and shelved my own books, instead of waiting for The Campbell to realize I needed a clerk.”

“You been in touch with him?”

She shook her head, punched the button to start the pot brewing then reached into the cupboard for mugs. “He hasn’t been in touch with me either. I guess one of us will give in sooner or later.”

“Hardheaded bunch?”

A smile pulled at her mouth, and she turned, leaning against the counter as the coffeemaker gurgled and steamed. “The Campbell is. I suppose Dax and I inherited some of that. Or had it nurtured into us, as I’m not sure that’s a trait instilled by nature.”

“Is he handling your cases? Your father?”

“I dropped an email to Greg and asked him to take care of things for now. He hasn’t been back in touch except to say he’d let me know if he had any questions.”

“That’s good, yes?”

“Yeah. It’s good.” Or not. It could mean she was easily expendable, which she’d already decided was the case. She’d just yet to put it into words. It was hard enough thinking it after spending the
last decade of her life trying to be the son her father had always wanted.

She looked out the window over the sink, watching a cloud of dust rise in the distance from the direction Dax and the others had headed this morning, three cowboys on horseback looking like this was the only place they’d ever truly belonged. She was thrilled her brother was back, thrilled he’d done what he’d wanted with his life and was happy.

But it would be a whole lot easier to celebrate if his getting his way hadn’t ruined things for her. Except that wasn’t what had happened, and it was time she acknowledged that fact. The truth was she hadn’t been strong enough not to ruin them for herself.

Forgiving the girl she’d been at sixteen wasn’t hard. She’d been too young to understand what she was doing, but by twenty-five, walking across the UT stage to accept her law school diploma, she’d been all too aware.

Now here she was, six years later, hating that she’d spent a decade of her life working to take her rightful place in the family, when it had never been hers to claim.

Swallowing the lump of emotion sitting in her throat like dry bread, she poured coffee into both mugs then carried them to the table, setting Josh’s—black, because she remembered—in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching forward and pulling the mug closer, his hand skimming over hers as she let go to fetch the carton of milk from the fridge, sweetener packets from the pantry.

She joined him at the table, though she sat on the other side, her fingers trembling from his touch, his warmth, his calluses and rough skin, imagining it touching more than her hand. She poured her milk, stirred sweetener into her drink, then waited until his mug was at his mouth, and asked, “So who’s minding the store?”

“Dad,” he said after swallowing. “Made it clear he doesn’t care about doctor’s orders. He can sit behind the counter at the store just as easily as he can sit in the recliner in front of the TV. And he’s damn tired of TV.” He looked down, staring into the mug he held between his hands. A lazy grin lifted the edges of his mouth, cut dimples into his cheeks, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “’Course, he didn’t use those exact words.”

“I can imagine,” she said, lifting her coffee to sip. She was, unfortunately, well acquainted with Henry Lasko’s vocabulary. But knowing the father didn’t for a moment diminish what she felt for the son—though what she felt was too complicated to explore when he had come to see her and she was still hung up on that.

At the sound of another vehicle arriving, she frowned, canting her head. Another car, the low thrumming engine sporty and foreign and not belonging to anyone on the ranch. Ah, the dust cloud she’d seen earlier.

Her stomach clenched. Unless someone had lost their way or the boys had a visitor, she could hazard a guess as to who was behind the wheel. And if she was right, well, Josh was wrong. This wasn’t a good thing at all.

“Excuse me a sec.” She went to the window over the sink, took a deep breath, watched the black Audi skid to a stop next to her car. Nope. Not a good thing at all.

Deciding to get the bad news over with, she headed for the back door. Shading her eyes with one hand, the nails of the other biting into her palm, she stood on the porch and watched her second guest of the day exit his car and approach. “Greg? What are you doing here?”

Her coworker wore dark sunglasses, dark suit pants, a dark tie flung over the shoulder of his crisp white shirt. His shoes, once dark, were now covered with the dry dirt that served as the ranch house yard.

“Darcy.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Josh.”

“Greg,” Josh said from behind her. Strange how having him there made what was to come easier to face.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets, looked off toward the corral. Even from this distance, Darcy could see the tic in his jaw as he obviously chewed on the words he’d come to say. Something made her want to let him off the hook. This wasn’t his battle, and he didn’t deserve the shitty end of the deal.

“It’s okay, Greg. Just say it.”

He turned back, left his sunglasses on. “I cleaned out your desk. I’ve got a box in the car with your personal things. Wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with it.”

So simple. A decade of her life reduced to a box that fit in a sports car’s front seat.

She glanced at Josh. “Is my car unlocked?” He nodded, and she looked at Greg again. “Just put it in my car.”

He slung his key ring around on one finger and palmed the keys as he circled his car to the passenger side. She watched the transfer of the box, hugging herself tightly, seeing a nearly laughable symbolism in the opening and closing of the doors.

That done, Greg returned to his car, hesitating before climbing inside, finally removing his sunglasses and looking up, his eyes a brighter blue than Dax’s. “I’m really sorry this happened.”

“Me, too.” It was an automatic response. She wasn’t even sure if she meant it. She was pretty sure she didn’t feel it, or anything else for that matter.

He gave a single nod then slid behind the wheel, waiting until he was a hundred yards from the house before punching the accelerator and stirring up another wall of dust and dry dirt.

Josh cleared his throat. “Looks like you got your answer.”

She stood where she was until Greg’s car disappeared, then turned and walked into Josh, purposefully this time, wrapping
her arms around him and hoping he didn’t care that her tears were ruining his perfectly laundered khaki shirt.

He was solid. A rock. He didn’t move except to place his hands on her shoulders and squeeze.

“I never wanted to be an attorney, you know,” she told him, her fingers making a wrinkled mess of the fabric at his back where the shirt hung loose above his tightly cinched belt.

“What did you want?”

“For my mother to pay as much attention to our family as to the ones she did for show. For my father to stop drinking long enough to remember he had a daughter.” She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight, took a deep shuddering breath. “For my brother to come home.”

Josh stepped back, claimed her chin with one hand and waited for her to look up. She did, her vision blurry but clear enough to see there was no question in his eyes, no request for permission, nothing but the certainty he wanted her to see.

Her heart fluttered and anticipation rose the hair at her nape and—
oh, God
—his head came down, his mouth opening before he pressed it to hers, and she thought she might very well die.

He kissed her softly, held her face with his hands, used his tongue against hers, used his lips, too, and his teeth, nibbling and nipping, leaving her mouth to explore her jaw, her neck, coming back and threading his fingers into her hair to keep her still.

She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. He was gentle, caring, and kind, and she held on for dear life, scared by the idea of letting him go. And because of that she had to. She could lean on him, but she had to stand on her own two feet or she’d never find her way.

Knowing that, she allowed herself one more minute to indulge, to step into him, to press her body against his and feel his thighs
along her thighs and his belt buckle against her belly, and the lines of his ribs hard on her breasts.

She rubbed his back—his spine, his shoulder blades, his waist—slipping just the tips of her fingers between his shirt and his jeans, and only for a moment, then she brought her hands to his face, smoothing her thumbs over his cheeks before breaking the kiss.

“Thank you,” she whispered, still tasting him… coffee and warmth and Josh. “For being here. For coming to see me. For picking up my car. For lending—”

“Enough,” he said, his eyes glittering, his lashes, pale and thick, sweeping down. A vein pulsed at his temple. His jaw clicked as he ground it. But finally he let her go, her hair sifting slowly through his fingers, his fingers lingering on her shoulder, then her arm, until he found hers and laced their hands and squeezed. “I want to see you.”

She didn’t insult him by pretending not to know what he meant. She just nodded, smiled, and told him, “Okay.”

D
AX REINED HIS
horse to the far left, Boone rode the middle, and Casper, on Remedy, held to the right. Along with Bing and Bob, the Daltons’ aging border collies, the three men brought up the rear as they moved the small band of cow-calf pairs from the pasture they’d grazed the last few weeks to the next in the rotation.

The early morning sun was blinding, the temperature already on its way to triple digits. But the view, as brown as it was, left Dax totally blissed, and for not the first time wondering why he’d felt the need to cowboy anywhere else.

There was nothing like the dome of sky blue that covered Texas, high and wide and endless. Or the mountains of white clouds suspended there, still as their rocky counterparts, puffed like kids’ cheeks in a spitting contest.

Hell, what he’d give for their big daddies to roll in, monsters in gray and black, vomiting thunder and lightning and gallons of
lifesaving rain. He wanted to stand in the wide-open spaces when it finally happened, head back and arms spread and open mouth catching the downpour until he drowned.

In the meantime, he’d sweat and bake and turn as crisp as everything around him, and do a whole lot of praying. Moving the pairs as often as they were going to need to wasn’t the most efficient way to run an operation. Dave Dalton and sixteen years had taught him that. But Mother Nature hadn’t left them much choice.

If this was a good year, a wet year, grass growing and creeks running high, their acreage could easily support the cattle Tess had left them—as well as the head she’d had little choice but to sell at the beginning of this six-month drought.

This wasn’t a good year. Wells were near to dry. Grass wasn’t growing as much as dying. The state of things made it easy to understand Henry Lasko being hell-bent on getting his hands on their land, but it wasn’t going to happen.

Overall the animals looked healthy, maybe a bit on the thin side, but the hay Tess had lined up weeks before he and the boys took over made up for the shortage of grass, and kept them from having to sell off any more of the herd.