Undeniably Yours (17 page)

“It's going all right, I guess.”
I loathe it
. “Everyone's been patient with me.”

“Even Michael?” Lynn asked.

“Even Uncle Michael.”

“But?” Sadie Jo prompted. Empathetic Sadie Jo could sense a misgiving from fifty paces. Meg's feelings about her job were, she knew, no test at all for Sadie Jo's skills. Helen Keller could have deduced that Meg hated working at Cole Oil.

“I don't have a lot of . . . personal enthusiasm for the oil business,” Meg answered.

Sadie Jo and Lynn regarded her kindly as they ate their lunches. “Go on,” Lynn prompted.

“The work comes with a lot of pressure. It's competitive and fast-paced. There are all kinds of controversial environmental issues associated with oil that upset me. It's not . . . well, it's not what I would have chosen for myself.”

“You chose a job at an art museum, dear,” Sadie Jo said.

“Yes. So you see . . .” Meg raised her right hand. “Assistant art museum administrator.” She raised her left hand. “Majority shareholder of Cole Oil.” She moved her hands toward one another and then apart. “Not a lot in common between the two.”

“I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job at Cole Oil,” Sadie Jo assured her. “You're going to be the best president the company has ever had.”

Sadie Jo, God bless her, had filled Meg's ears with sentiments
like this for as long as Meg could remember. She cherished Sadie Jo's staunch love and belief. But she was most definitely
not
going to be the best president Cole Oil had ever had. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle the hedgehog was more likely to spring from one of the pieces of art and join them for dessert.

“It's the rare person,” Lynn said, “who loves their job. Most people just do what they can to make an income and support their families.”

Guilt nicked Meg deep. “You're right. I don't have any reason to complain.” She'd never had to worry about feeding her family, making rent, paying the utility bills. If only that head knowledge could instruct sense into her heart. Her heart and her gut still wanted to revolt every single time she walked through the brass-and-glass doors with the words
Cole Oil
etched on them.

“You're having a hard time seeing your way forward,” Sadie Jo said compassionately.

“That's true. I am having a hard time seeing my way forward. I inherited my job, just like my father and his father did. I only wish . . . I only wish it felt more right.” She couldn't shake the sense that God had not destined her, not ever, not even from the very beginning, for Cole Oil.

“You're still in a time of transition, dear.” Pale pink blush dusted Sadie Jo's super-soft wrinkled cheeks. “It's upsetting for any of us when we're not sure exactly how God's moving in our lives. I know I've been through times like that in my own life.”

Sadie Jo had lost her husband in the Korean War when they were both very young and before they'd had any children. She'd never remarried. Instead, she'd supported herself through her own hard work all her life. “Have you been through times like that, Lynn?”

“Absolutely. It's the not knowing that's the hardest thing.”

“The uncertainty,” Sadie Jo agreed. She reached across the table and covered Meg's hand with her own. “I don't think the Lord lets any of us get through life without some seasons like that. Otherwise, how would He grow our faith?” She squeezed Meg's hand. “Faith is moving ahead in obedience, dear. Just moving ahead one step at a time, trusting Him, until He shows you what's next. He'll make it clear to you eventually. Sure as anything.”

Meg kissed the top of Sadie Jo's hand. “Thank you.”

“Just wait on Him and then do what He says. That's truly your only responsibility. He'll take care of everything else. Now eat more of those chips. You're practically skin and bones.”

Meg laughed. “No I'm not.”

“Yes you are. Here, take my extra chips, too.” Sadie Jo grabbed a handful.

“You keep them,” Meg insisted. “You love chips.”

With a longsuffering sigh, Sadie Jo kept her chips.

Just then a middle-aged man pedaled a three-wheeled bike past where they were sitting. A pair of bright blue sunglasses shielded his eyes.

“Who's that?” Meg asked.

“Everybody calls him Three-Wheeler,” Lynn said. “He's sort of become a town mascot.”

“His name's Al.” Sadie Jo smiled at his retreating form. “He has special needs. Sweet, sweet fellow.”

“He works part time at Brookshire's, bagging groceries,” Lynn said. “Lives with his mother.”

“Where's he going?” The wire basket situated between the bike's two back wheels contained several odds and ends.

“I don't think he goes anywhere, exactly,” Sadie Jo answered.

“He just rides,” Lynn said.

Exactly like me
, Meg thought, feeling a pang of kinship with Three-Wheeler. Long on exertion and pedaling. Short on destination.

A verse moved through Meg's mind.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

When their waitress returned to the table, the three ladies conferred, then ordered a slice of pecan pie to share for dessert. Once the girl had cleared their plates and left, Sadie Jo leaned toward Meg. “I've been meaning to ask you about Bo Porter.”

“Yes?” Meg did her absolute, valiant best to keep an unaffected expression on her face. Despite her efforts, she could feel a hot, double-crossing blush creeping across her cheeks. She looked down and rummaged through her purse, pretending absorption in finding her lip gloss and applying a few dabs.

“Isn't he handsome?” Sadie Jo asked. “Oh my. And such a nice young man.”

Meg straightened, cleared her throat, and looked to Lynn. Lynn looked back at her directly, one brow lifted in amusement. “Help me out here?” Meg asked her.

“You kidding? I'm fascinated to hear your reply.”

“Traitor,” Meg whispered, without any zing.

“I heard he beat up six guys last night because of you,” Lynn said.

“What?” Sadie Jo exclaimed.

Meg's jaw fell open. “How in the world do you know about that?”

“Holley's a small town,” Lynn answered. “At church this morning people were talking more about the fight than about Jesus.”

Meg just blinked. “It wasn't six guys,” she said at last.

Lynn smiled, clearly enjoying herself. “How many?”

“Three.”

“What?” Sadie Jo gasped.

They peppered her with questions, and Meg did her best to explain what had happened at Deep in the Heart.

Sadie Jo's eyes rounded with excitement. “Meg, you're interested in him, aren't you?”

Meg didn't want to lie, but she didn't want to fuel false hopes, either. Sadie Jo earnestly longed for Meg to marry (again) and have babies (for the first time). “I find him attractive,” Meg allowed. “Who wouldn't?”

“Yes, indeed!” Sadie Jo looked every bit as delighted as if she'd just happened upon a weekend marathon of
Murder She Wrote
. “Who wouldn't?”

“But he works for me. We're just friends.”

Sadie Jo's face fell.

“Are you still planning to close down his horse farm?” Lynn asked.

“Hmm?” Sadie Jo's face fell even further. “You're going to close down his horse farm?”

“That's what I told Bo I'd do on the very first day we met. I gave him six months to settle his accounts.”

Their pecan pie arrived, and Meg took a quick and desperate bite. “Almost as good as your pecan pie, Lynn. Can you remind me again how you make it?” It was an embarrassingly obvious tactic to change the subject, but effective, nonetheless. Lynn had never been able to resist an opportunity to share her expertise with recipes.

While Lynn answered Meg's question, Three-Wheeler zoomed past them again, this time in the opposite direction.

After lunch, Meg and Sadie Jo indulged in a pastime they'd shared since Meg's childhood: Neiman Marcus shopping therapy. Although, in their case, it could more accurately be called Neiman Marcus
admiring
therapy. They enjoyed their visits to the department store in the same way that a person might enjoy a visit to a museum. Lots of looking and little buying.

The whole time they chatted and browsed together, the question Lynn had raised over lunch, the one about closing down Bo's horse farm, circled at the back of Meg's thoughts.

When she returned to the guesthouse that evening, Meg made herself some tea, then poured her best lavender bath salt and foaming body wash into the tub as it filled. She lit as many candles as she could dredge up. And then, with a long sigh, she submerged herself in the hot and fragrant water.

She'd have loved to read her Monet biography, but every single night before bed lately she did Cole Oil homework instead. She picked up the company papers she'd set next to the bath and tried to concentrate on them.

Did she want to close Whispering Creek Horses?

No. Not really.

Why? Because she'd come to know and like Bo, and because she didn't want to be the reason that all those people in their carefully ironed WCH shirts lost their incomes.

So what to do?

This part became more convoluted.

She'd told Bo very clearly and with utter conviction that she would close him down after six months.

It would be awkward, but not impossible, to reverse her decision. But if she did, she—of all people—would be committing to own—of all things—a Thoroughbred racehorse farm.

Meg set aside her papers and submerged herself deeper into
the tub, so that only her nose, eyes, and forehead hovered above the water.

She had a crush on Bo. She did, undeniably.

But she didn't know how he felt about her in return. Was it really possible that he liked her as much as she thought he might?

Maybe, yes. He'd fought Sean and his buddies and proved with his fists that he felt something for her.

But then again, maybe no. Even after all this time, she still couldn't bring herself to completely discount the possibility that Bo might be doing a convincing job of
pretending
to care, exactly like Stephen had pretended to care. Bo had just as much motivation to manipulate her as Stephen had.

Her head urged caution with Bo. While her intuition continued, doggedly, to hope in his honesty.

Disgusted with herself, she swatted a mound of bubbles. Her intuition stunk! She couldn't hang her business decisions on intuition. Imagine if she kept the horse farm open only to have her friendship with Bo go belly up. Then, not only would she have to continue to support ninety horses and more than twenty employees, but—worse—she'd have to interact with Bo as he went on about his life. She'd have to meet with him in a professional capacity, hear about him eventually marrying someone else, learn about the births of his gray-eyed babies.

A stab of envy pierced her.
She
wanted to be the mother of his gray-eyed babies.

Meg sat up in the bath, sending water sloshing. She covered her cheeks with her sudsy hands. She couldn't let herself think like that. The fact that she'd so much as dared to consider gray-eyed babies filled her with fear. She was opening herself too much, leaving herself much too vulnerable.

The smart, impartial tactic? To leave her agreement with Bo unchanged, with the horse farm still slated to close. So that's exactly what she'd do.

Fool me once, Stephen, shame on you.

Fool me twice, Bo, shame on me.

She might be a softie. But she refused to be a softie and an idiot both.

O
ver the course of the next few days, Meg waited not so patiently to hear from Bo. Yes, she'd decided to go forward with her plan to close the horse farm. But she was still female. And after a meaningful evening with a man, all females required follow-up!

Her evening with Bo at Deep in the Heart had definitely been meaningful, so much so that after all that had gone down between them, she felt a little self-conscious about seeing him again and especially about being the one to initiate contact. Though they typically only saw each other at the paddock rail, she hoped for a phone call or a visit or
something
from him.

She checked her cell phone's battery, voice mail, and text message inbox repeatedly. She looked for him whenever she walked along the central halls of the big house. She took baths until her fingers and toes turned white and wrinkly. She tried to plan how she could ask him ever so casually to her cousin's engagement party. She worked out in the gym. She daydreamed about Bo during the long hours at work.

But . . . nothing.

No call. No sign of him.

She soldiered through Monday, Tuesday, and most of Wednes
day. But when Meg still hadn't seen or heard from Bo by Wednesday evening, she hit her limit.

She left behind the mountain of work remaining on her desk and drove home. Ignoring the chilly temperature, she grabbed Amber and Jayden and towed them to the stables under the pretext of visiting the baby horses and feeding carrots to them and their mothers.

Sure enough, four carrots and ten minutes after their arrival at the paddocks, she heard the unmistakable crunch of footfalls. A lump of foolish nervousness wedged in her throat.

Amber greeted him first. “Hi, Bo.”

“Hi.”

“Oh my gosh,” Amber breathed. “Your eye.”

Meg turned and found Bo already looking directly at her. His lip had almost healed; only a slight puffiness remained. But his eye was stained with purple and yellow, underneath down to his cheekbone and around the outside near his temple. His bruises looked absolutely awful . . . and perfectly beautiful.

“Hey,” he said to her.

“Hey. We brought Jayden out to see the horses.” Even to her own ears, it sounded like a transparent excuse for coming.

“I'm glad. How are you?”

“I'm . . .” She cleared her throat. “Well.”

“You've got a pretty bad black eye there,” Amber commented. “Have you been putting ice on it?”

Bo pulled his attention from Meg to answer Amber's question. “Yeah, I have been.”

Jayden squealed at Bo from his perch on Amber's hip.

“Hey, dude.”

The toddler reached his chubby hands toward the horses.

“Yeah,” Bo answered, “I see the horses.”

Jayden grinned.

Bo continued to chat with Jayden and Amber, giving Meg an opportunity, while he wasn't looking, to drink him in. All six-plus feet dressed in his usual work clothes, his straw Stetson, and the beige corduroy jacket with the sheepskin collar.

As soon as Bo wrapped up the conversation, he met and held Meg's gaze. Quiet lengthened. Amber glanced back and forth between them while Jayden strained toward the paddock. Meg knew she ought to say something, but her words had gone on strike.

The way he was looking at her! A whole conversation passed back and forth between them. His concern for her, her concern for him, her assurance that she was holding up fine under the gossip, his assurance that his injuries were minor and healing. Both of them telling the other one that they'd missed them.

Heady, intoxicating pleasure filled Meg's chest. This is what she'd been needing, she realized. The comfort of seeing him in person, of knowing that whatever they had between them still existed. His proximity brought her the same inner sigh of relaxation that it always had, plus a feeling of plain old rightness. A smile tugged at her lips.

“Uh, it's cool out tonight,” Amber said uncomfortably.

“Would either of you like to ride?” Bo asked. “I can get Zach to saddle up some horses.”

“Thanks, but Jayden and I can't tonight,” Amber answered. “We just came out real quick. It's dinnertime, and I need to take him back to the house. Some other time?”

“'Course.”

Jayden, who looked adorable in his tiny coat with the hood pulled up to encircle his face, seemed to understand that his mother's answer didn't match his own desires. He started kicking
his legs and wailing openmouthed. Amber countered by walking him along the fence and bouncing him to get him under control.

“What about you?” Bo asked. “Ready for your first riding lesson?”

“You know very well I'm not.” She indicated her suit and heels. “
Big
bummer.”

“How long are you going to use your work clothes as an excuse?”

“Has my grace period for that run out?”

“Officially, yes.”

“Time for me to pay up?”

“Time to pay up,” he confirmed, not unkindly. “A deal's a deal.”

“And you've been more than patient.”

“More than.” He gave a lazy half smile.

In response, her body flushed with heat. “What are you proposing I do, ride sidesaddle?”

“Go home, change, and come back.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.” Bo's eyes held a distinct challenge. “There's still a few hours of daylight left.”

She pointed to the low and overcast sky, which threatened to spit rain.

“It'll hold off.”

Meg chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to decide if she was willing to brave death by horse in order to spend more time with him. “Okay.”

“Good. Meet me at your father's horse barn, the one where Amber and Brimm rode that day, in twenty minutes.”

A queasy rush of apprehension hit her when she spotted Bo and a brown horse waiting for her in the pasture outside her father's stable. The sensation had nothing to do with Bo and everything to do with the fact that he expected her to RIDE THE BIG UNPREDICTABLE ANIMAL.

Bo spent a long time talking to her about the horse he'd picked for her (a female named Banjo), the bridle thing and how it worked, the saddle and how it worked. Patiently, and in simple terms, he explained how to steer with the reins and how to get the horse to go and to stop. Meg found it hard to concentrate, though, because her brain was thinking
yikes yikes yikes
the whole time.

She should have taken riding lessons from anyone but Bo. Then she wouldn't have cared if she acted like a colossal baby in front of her teacher. With Bo, she did care, so she pretended courage.

Finally, it came time to get on top of Banjo. She surveyed the horse's head, trying to judge whether she had evil intentions in her eyes and also to make sure her ears weren't flattened back. She'd heard somewhere that was a bad sign.

The horse looked completely calm. Ears in the upright position.

“Meg,” Bo said gently. He pointed to his own ear, and she realized she'd been spinning her earring back.

“Oh.” She lowered her hand. “I'm ready.”

“Look at me.”

She looked.

“I'd never let anything happen to you.” Clouds framed his face and dark birds took to the sky from distant treetops.

He said the words with such utter seriousness that tears sprang to Meg's eyes.

“Tissue?” He reached toward his pocket.

“No.” She drew herself up, smiled gamely. “I really am ready.” Total fib.

He bent over and cupped his hands. She put her boot—the only pair she owned and probably not at all correct for actual riding—into his palms, and he hoisted her upward easily. She swung a leg over Banjo's back and landed in the saddle.

In instant response, her throat tightened with fear and her pulse thrummed fast in her ears. She remembered this from childhood. This feeling of being at the horse's mercy.

The day she'd been thrown, the last time she'd sat in a saddle, the horse had bucked, twisted, and veered underneath her. She could remember scrabbling for control, terrified, before she'd fallen.

She thought back to when she and Bo had baby-sat Jayden together. What had she been thinking? She should have changed the two dirty diapers. Horseback riding stunk way worse than toddler poop.

Bo kept up a steady stream of reassurance and teaching. He positioned the reins correctly in her hands, fitted the stirrups under her feet. “If it's okay with you, I'm just going to lead her around at a walk.”

Meg nodded tersely. She'd left the recommended amount of slack in the reins, but that didn't stop her from gripping the leather strips ferociously.

Bo had clipped a length of puffy rope to Banjo's bridle. He didn't need to pull on it to make the horse follow him. As soon as he started walking, the horse walked alongside.

Bo looked back repeatedly to measure the look on her face while he kept on talking in that easy way, telling her about when he'd learned to ride, and then about her father's favorite horses and why they'd been his favorites.

His conversation helped. He didn't ask a lot of questions, which she appreciated, since all her concentration was tied up in staring at her horse's ears. She couldn't quite get accustomed to the elevation off the ground or the way the saddle tipped side to side with Banjo's gait.

They walked for what seemed like a long time, making two gradual circles around the pasture. Meg kept trying to make her muscles relax, but no luck. They'd tightened like piano wires.

Couldn't horses smell fear? Or was it that they could sense fear?
It was one of those, she was pretty sure. Unfortunately, telling herself not to be afraid because the horse would know didn't help. It's hard to scare oneself into not being scared.

At one point, Banjo did a quick side step for some reason, and Meg barely managed not to yelp.

“It's all right,” Bo whispered to her. “You're fine.”

She nodded at him, because somehow
he
had the power to make it bearable. He'd said he wouldn't let anything happen to her, and she believed him.

Such a seductive idea, the idea of having someone assured and strong and knowledgeable to rely on. It almost tempted a person to think that if they had someone like that beside them, they could face anything. Even the death of a parent, panic attacks, and the demands that came with the role of majority shareholder.

Eventually, Bo brought them to a stop and helped her off. “You did really well.”

When her boots landed on solid ground, relief spiraled through her.
Thank you, God
. “I was terrible.”

“No you weren't. You're just new at it. That's all.”

She tilted her face to regard him, standing there with his hand draped idly over Banjo's neck, his fingers playing with the horse's mane, his handsome face marked with bruises. She'd
never have climbed onto a horse for anyone but him. She feared, in fact, that she'd do whatever crazy thing she could to make him happy, if he asked.

You can't, Meg. You can't afford to trust him so easily. No matter how good-looking, how seemingly honorable.
“Well, I . . . I'd better be going. Thank you for the lesson.”

“Am I going to be able to convince you to come back for another?”

“As you said earlier, a deal's a deal.”

“So you'll come back one more time.”

“Yes, but can I have a few days to recover first? At least until my next death wish?”

He smiled. “Sure. I'm going to be gone until next week anyway.”

“Oh?” Her thoughts dipped at the prospect.

“Yeah, I've been wanting to tell you. I'm flying to Florida tomorrow.”

“On business?”

He nodded. “There's this Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders seminar that I committed to attend months ago. Also, I've got a trainer who's been racing some of our horses down there that I need to check on.”

“I see.”

They walked to the mouth of the barn together, then hesitated. She'd be heading to her car from here; he'd be returning the horse to its stall. This was good-bye.

I'll really miss you
, she thought. Everything she wanted to say bunched up in her mind.
I don't think I'll feel at peace again until you come home. A hundred books and a hundred baths aren't going to be enough. Would you be willing to come with me to my cousin's engagement party
? “Have a safe trip.”

“I will.”

“Let me know when you get back in town?”

“Sure.”

She turned to go.

“You were brave today, Meg.”

She paused, then looked back at him. “Thanks.” She'd been a mammoth coward. But she didn't want to correct him, not when he was looking at her with admiration, as if she'd done something sterling. “By the way,” she said, before she could lose her nerve.

“Yes?”

“No, ah, pressure or anything, but my cousin is having an engagement party next Friday night. I was wondering if you'd be willing to come with me. That is, if you're back from your trip in time.”