Undeniably Yours (5 page)

Bo's breed? Unapologetically masculine. Too practical for designer clothes. Drove American-made trucks. Drank beer.

A breeze combed through the trees, lifting Meg's hair. As she glanced up to watch the clouds creep across the dusky blue sky, a faint sense that she'd misplaced something needled the back of her mind.

She'd stashed her glasses in one of her sweater's deep pockets. That must be it. When she fished them out and put them on, her view of the horizon turned from slightly fuzzy to clear.

Yet . . . no. That wasn't it. Something definitely
was
missing, though. What? She could feel her car keys still in her pocket. She'd left her purse at the big house.

And then it hit her. The thing that had disappeared?

Her anxiety.

Gone, like a wisp of smoke that had vanished into the air.

Her stomach? Easy. Nerves? Steady. Heartbeat, respiration, blood pressure? Normal. It had been months since her body or mind had experienced this peaceful, untangled, lightweight state.

Astonished, she moved her gaze to Bo. He'd stretched his arm over the fence, his fingers extended toward one of the baby horses. He spoke quietly to the young animal, encouraging it to come closer for a visit.

He'd
done this, she realized. Bo Porter had stilled the roiling inside of her. Or maybe some mysterious combination of the outdoors, the horses, and his nearness had done it.

She couldn't believe it! What therapy, antacids, breathing techniques, sudoku, and hours of self-talk had not been able to do for her, he'd done. This person she scarcely knew.

It mystified rationality, and yet she didn't want to overanalyze it. She only wanted to stand next to him and gratefully drink in the calm.

They chatted while the shadows lengthened and the sky turned bronze. When Meg heard the sound of a car starting, she turned to see it drive away and realized that hardly any cars remained. Almost everyone had gone home for the day.

“Well.” Reluctantly, she pushed away from the fence. “I'm sorry to have kept you so late. I'm sure you're eager to head home.”

“Not at all. We can stay as long as you'd like.”

Tempting. “I'd best be going. Thank you for giving me the tour and for talking with me.”

“You're welcome.” He escorted her around the side of the barn toward her car. “Would you like to come out to ride sometime?”

“Me?” Meg gave a soft laugh. “No, I don't ride.”

“I'd be happy to teach you.”

“My father tried to teach me when I was a kid. I was terrified and ended up falling off. Predictable story.” She shook her head, self-deprecating. “I haven't ridden since. I'd rather, I don't know, go to the dentist for a root canal.”

“In that case, you're welcome to visit the foals anytime you'd like.”

“That, I'd enjoy.” He had no idea how much. It couldn't hurt to return here from time to time, to chat with Bo and admire his horses . . . could it? Not if it had the same relaxing effect on her the next time as it had today.

Who'd have guessed it? She still couldn't get over it. The company of this even-tempered cowboy had the power to quiet the tumult of her spirit.

Once Meg had gone, Bo shut himself inside the barn's warm room. Instead of getting started on the work that waited for
him, he simply sat, his attention passing over the double sink, the shelves, the small fridge they used for employee lunches and horse medicines. Wooden table and wooden chairs. How could he be sitting here in such a normal way in this normal place? He looked down at himself, his chest, hands, legs. How could he appear the same when everything inside of him suddenly felt completely different?

He'd stood next to Meg at the paddock fence just now and shared a conversation with her. One conversation. They'd been together an hour and a half at most.

But it had been long enough. Long enough to shift everything within him, like a clock that had always run on one time zone and had just been reset to another.

The hold she had on him had grown in strength with every minute that he'd spent looking at her, hearing her voice, taking in her nearness. She was impossibly fine, like something that belonged behind ropes and glass at a museum. Fair and gentle. Refined, smart, and yet somehow desperately in need of an ally.

She drew at him so much that his attraction toward her felt like a physical pull. He'd been flooded with protectiveness, tenderness, desire. So much so that in her presence, he'd lost his grip on his goals for the farm. Which stunned and shamed him. The people who worked here were depending on him to do his best to keep the place running. He'd spent a lifetime working toward building a farm like this . . . it had been his everything.

Had been
.

Because, Lord help him, he was afraid he'd just come face to face with the one thing—
one person
—on earth he believed he could care about more.

He set his elbows on the table and dropped his head into
his hands. Why her? Megan Cole? Of all the women on earth, why had he reacted to Megan Cole this way? He could drive to Holley right now and point to any unmarried woman walking down the street or shopping for groceries or pumping gas—any woman at all. And no matter whom he pointed to, that stranger would make a more logical choice for him than Meg Cole.

She was the one shutting down his farm, for pete's sake. And she was his employer, which meant that no matter how he felt about her, the requirement of a respectful professional relationship between them would prevent him from ever asking her out, from touching so much as the back of her hand, from giving his emotions voice.

As if that weren't enough, he and Meg lived in two different worlds that didn't overlap at all. No matter what he did, he could never be good enough for her. Her family would be furious if they even suspected the direction of his thoughts.

His cell phone rang. He checked its screen. “Hey.”

“So?” Jake asked. “I heard you stayed out there talking with her for a long time. What do you think? Any chance she'll change her mind about closing the farm?”

“I'm not sure. As of today she's still planning to shut us down.”

“I don't think she's as stubborn or as strong as her father. She seems like someone who might be . . . I don't know . . . easier to sway if you give her enough incentive.”

Bo set his jaw.

“Well?” Jake asked.

“I just don't know.”

“We've got to keep the farm open, Bo. She has to change her mind.” What Jake had been through had nearly destroyed him, and Bo knew that Jake's job at Whispering Creek gave him the
only sanity, security, and purpose he had left. His brother needed Whispering Creek Horses. It terrified Bo to think what would happen to Jake without it.

“You're not saying much,” Jake said.

“I've got a lot on my mind.”

“We'll talk later.”

The brothers disconnected. Bo pushed to his feet, crossed his arms, and stared sightlessly at the floor. Even before meeting Meg for the first time, he'd thought up a hundred ways to convince her to keep the farm open if she decided to shut it down. Since their meeting, he'd thought up a hundred more.

But it turned out that Meg was more than William Cole's daughter. More than the person who held the power to decide whether Whispering Creek Horses lived or died. She was a person in her own right. A person who'd managed today to stop his heart dead in its tracks.

Guilt twisted Bo's insides, sickening him, because he'd do just about anything in the world for his brother and rest of his staff. But he already knew he wouldn't manipulate Meg. Not for the horses, not for those who worked for him, not for his own dreams, not even for Jake.

He still planned to work his hardest to earn back the money the farm owed. That, he could honorably allow himself. Maybe once Meg saw how profitable Whispering Creek Horses could be, she'd reconsider.

Beyond that, his conscience had whittled down his goals until only one remained: He would step into the breach for Meg and become, until someone better qualified than him took his place, the ally she desperately needed.

That night Meg enjoyed a restful dinner, a bubble bath, and a session with her Monet biography. Then she slipped into bed, flipped the covers over herself, and settled her head on her pillow.

When she closed her eyes, her mind pulled out and lingered over a pleasant memory of how Bo Porter had looked in his Stetson. Strong and relaxed, his hand on his horse's nose, his gray gaze reassuring.

For the first time in weeks and weeks, she fell right to sleep and slept soundly all the way through until morning.

Bo hardly slept at all.

M
oney could buy lots of things. Based on the evidence in front of Meg—she and Lynn were standing side by side in the living room of Whispering Creek's guesthouse—money had just bought her a completely inconvenience-free move from Tulsa to Dallas. She hadn't so much as lifted a finger to help with the transition, and yet it had been beautifully accomplished. “Wow, it's perfect.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

It was just past sunset on Saturday evening, twenty-four hours after Meg's therapeutic visit to the horse farm. As she'd gone about her day, her anxiety had come creeping back. Not as bad as it'd been before her time with Bo, but returning nonetheless and escalating every hour.

Apparently, the cowboy wasn't so much a one-time miracle cure as he was a medicine that needed to be taken in regular doses.

“How 'bout I show you around?” Lynn asked.

“Sounds good.” Carefully, Meg set down the animal carrier she'd brought with her and opened its little metal door. “We're home.”

Her cat, Cashew, didn't look as if she had any intention of disembarking.

“You want to come see the house with Lynn and me?”

Cashew averted her gaze and stared disdainfully at the wall of the carrier.

“Grumpy about all the change lately?” Meg tested an empathetic smile on the animal.

Cashew continued to give her the feline version of “talk to the hand,” so Meg and Lynn set off sans cat, moving through the guesthouse slowly, surveying all the changes.

Lynn had arranged for someone to remove the old furniture and someone else to paint. The color combo of warm ivory walls and bright white trim on the crown moldings and baseboards reminded Meg of a hot vanilla drink topped with whipped cream.

The moving company had packed every item in Meg's old condo, driven it to Holley, and unpacked it all. A Dallas interior designer had come earlier in the day. She'd positioned Meg's furniture, hung all the artwork, and placed each book, pot of greenery, lamp, and candle. She'd even set out vases filled with fresh-cut flowers and draped Meg's pink cashmere throw blanket over the edge of the sofa.

Meg's shabby chic furniture, all of it old and weathered, looked right at home in its new environment. Her fabrics—the pink floral on half the throw pillows, the green stripe on the other half, and the checked fabric on the armchair—soothed and charmed her the way that they always had. Her old-fashioned hooked rug with the pink peonies and pale green leaves warmed the floor.

Even her antique crystal chandeliers had made the trip. Someone had already installed them over the dining table, in each of the two small bedrooms, and the one bathroom.

“What do you think?” Lynn asked when they'd finished the circuit.

“I think that a girl can never have too many chandeliers.”

“Words to live by,” Lynn said dryly. “Is there anything you'd like to have done?”

“No, it's just right. I'm really happy with it.” From earliest memory, the guesthouse had felt to her like an oversized, cozy dollhouse. During her childhood, she and Sadie Jo had sometimes come here for tea parties and sleepovers. On special occasions, she'd been allowed to bring friends here to play.

All these years later, it still suited her well. Certainly far better than the big house ever had or would. “Well, what do you think, Cashew?”

The cat, who hadn't budged from the rear of the carrier, emitted a contemptuous yowl.

The intercom system beeped. “This is George,” came a voice, “with Britton Security. Can Lynn Adley please respond?”

Lynn frowned at Meg.

“What do you think that's about?” Meg asked.

“I don't know.”

Britton, a private security company, protected everything inside the great brick wall that ran around the boundary of Whispering Creek. They staffed the guard station next to the main entrance gate around the clock.

Both women made their way to the intercom. Lynn pushed a button. “This is Lynn Adley.”

“Ms. Adley, we have a visitor at the gate. A young woman. I've checked her ID, and her name is Amber Richardson. She's traveling with a child.”

“Do you know her?” Lynn asked Meg.

“No.”

“She's not expected,” Lynn said. “You can send her on her way.”

“There's just one other thing. She says that she knows Stephen McIntyre. She's asking to speak to Ms. Cole about him.”

That name.
Stephen McIntyre.
It struck Meg with disastrous force, like the tail of a whip straight to her chest, an awful shock. Weakly, she moved to the nearest dining room chair and lowered into it.

Lynn, who'd known Stephen, regarded Meg with a grave expression.

Stephen.

Meg tried never to think about him, let alone say his name out loud or hear it spoken. What could this Amber Richardson want? Surely nothing good. If she was a friend of Stephen's, she was no friend of Meg's.

“Give us a moment,” Lynn said into the intercom.

“Yes, ma'am.”

In the background behind the guard, Meg could hear muffled wailing. “Is that a child crying?” she asked.

“What's that noise behind you?” Lynn asked the guard.

“The woman's baby is crying.”

Meg's stomach, already shaky these past weeks, clenched into a tight ball. She grew very aware of her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

If she sent the woman away, she'd have to wonder about her, the crying baby, and why they'd come. She'd have to push all those concerns into a trunk in her heart marked
Stephen
, a trunk already full to bursting with stuffed-down memories, scars, and furies.

She met Lynn's gaze and recognized that once again, right at the moment when she needed someone, God had placed His
person beside her. Meg drew on Lynn's sturdiness, using it to help her gather her nerve.

“I'll meet with her,” Meg decided. “Have him frisk her and search the car for weapons.” If Amber Richardson meant to hurt her, the wounds would only be emotional. “If she's clean, ask him to accompany her to the front door. While I'm speaking with her, I'd like him to run a background check.”

Meg waited on the threshold of the big house, the light from inside spilling out onto the flagstone landing and the pots full of ivy topiaries and flowers. Gas-lit flames from the two decorative lanterns flanking the front doors danced and whipped inside their glass cages.

For privacy's sake, she'd asked Lynn to wait in the nearest of the indoor sitting rooms. Close by, if Meg needed her. But not so close that she'd overhear.

The guard's car pulled up first; a plain white unmarked vehicle. Then came a maroon Sentra that looked to be on the downhill side of its life expectancy.

The woman driving the Sentra parked and hurried around to open one of the car's rear doors. As soon as she did, the sound of angry sobbing filled the air. The woman lifted a little boy—more of a toddler than a baby, really—out of the car and into her arms. Blessedly, his weeping began to calm.

The guard escorted Meg's visitors up the walkway toward Meg, who waited at the top of a bank of shallow stone steps. “Thank you, George,” Meg said to him.

“You're welcome, ma'am.” He moved off as the woman and baby closed the remainder of the distance.

Meg held her body still, her face expressionless, and struggled to brace herself emotionally.

The woman—medium height, pretty face, perfect body—couldn't have been more than twenty-three. She had on a tight white cotton shirt, pink hipster sweat pants, and flip-flops. Her long dark hair, currently pulled back into a jumbled ponytail, had been striated with several big strips of blond. “I'm Amber, Amber Richardson.” Her mascara had smeared. It looked like the baby hadn't been the only one in the car who'd been crying. “Are you Megan Cole?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm real sorry to show up out of the blue like this and disturb you.” She released a shuddering breath. “Real sorry.”

“It's all right.” Though, of course, it wasn't.

The little boy clutched at his mother's shirt, his expression apprehensive as he took in the night sky, the house, and then Meg. He had a broad forehead, big eyes, cheeks slick with tears, and a gently curling cap of light brown hair. His navy T-shirt and mini jean shorts looked faded, his chubby feet bare.

“Wow, what a house,” Amber said weakly, glancing at the facade.

The ranch house had been built to impress even the most jaded millionaire, with beige stonework and brickwork, darkly stained wooden beams that soared to tremendous heights and stretched from the eaves, and iron double doors complete with hand-forged scrollwork.

“I've never seen anything like it.” Amber bit her bottom lip. “I had no idea when I set out to find you that I was coming to a place like this, that there'd be a guard and all. . . .”

“How can I help you?”

Amber swallowed hard. “I need to find Stephen McIntyre. Were . . . were you married to him once?”

The answer stuck in Meg's throat. Hard to voice. Hard to admit. “Yes, I was.”

“I only know because I've been online searching for him, and I came across the information there.”

Meg nodded.

“Stephen was my boyfriend, and this is his son, Jayden.”

Meg stood still, thinking everything and nothing at the same time. A sound, like a rushing north wind, filled her ears.

“Not that Stephen's been a daddy to Jayden, because he hasn't. He took off as soon as he found out Jayden was on the way, which makes me so angry every time I think about that I could just—” She frowned, jerked a chunk of hair behind her ear. A thousand despairs raged in her eyes, and Meg knew them all well. “Sorry about that.”

“It's okay. I understand.”

“Well, Jayden and I were doing fine without him, really fine. I was working a couple of jobs and managing to pay for day care. But then my roommate moved out and I lost one of my jobs, and I couldn't hold on to the apartment by myself. So, see, I need to find Stephen now. He has to help me support Jayden.”

The rushing wind in Meg's ears howled louder.

“I've been looking and looking for him, but no luck. I'm kind of about to lose it, you know? I can't think who else to ask, so I decided to come to you because I've been hoping that—that maybe you know where he is.”

“I'm sorry. I haven't known Stephen's whereabouts for five years.”

Meg could sense Amber's hope escaping like air hissing from a balloon.

Jayden started whining. Amber rocked him, but in her agitation the motion looked more like a jostle than a rock. His little lips started to tremble.

Compassion turned within Meg. “Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“Come inside and let me get you something to eat.”

“You don't have to do that—”

“I insist. Come on in.” Meg ushered them into the house and introduced them to Lynn. Lynn guided them toward the kitchen, murmuring about whipping together a meal of bread, salad, and leftover spaghetti.

Meg made her way past the sunken den with its three-story-tall stone fireplace, seating areas, cowhide ottomans, and massive antler chandelier. She shut herself inside the library and called George at the guard station. He'd already run a background check and was able to tell Meg that Amber had a few minor parking violations and speeding tickets, but nothing more sinister on her record. He'd pulled up a list of her past residences and employers.

“Can you call her most recent employer for me?” Meg explained the details Amber had given to her, about Stephen's abandonment before Jayden's birth and how she'd worked to support them both. “I'd like to know if her boss can confirm her story.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And is it possible to get a look at her son's birth certificate to see who's listed as the father?”

“Absolutely.”

“I'd like to know that information, too.”

“You bet.”

“I appreciate it.” Meg disconnected. She didn't think Amber had lied to her, but she'd feel better once she had proof. She recognized her own tenderheartedness for what it was: her best quality and also her greatest weakness.

While she waited to hear back, Meg clicked on one of the
room's lamps, perched on the edge of an aged leather chair, and stared at the nap of the carpet. The shock of Amber's unexpected arrival had sent her anxiety skyrocketing. Why didn't she carry Tums with her wherever she went? She should carry Tums.

Her father had paid Britton Security to be fast and thorough, so it didn't surprise her when George called back just minutes later. He reported that Amber's employer at the restaurant where she'd been waitressing had known Amber since before Jayden's birth and been able to confirm every detail of her story. And the individual listed as Jayden's father on his birth certificate? Stephen McIntyre.