Wild Horses

Adam came into the room again, holding a blue glass misted with cold. He offered it to her. “Feel better?” he asked.

She took it. “Much better. Thank you.”

The drink cooled her aching throat. He watched her, concern still etched on his face.

“I really don’t usually do that,” she apologized.

He nodded, hooking one thumb in his belt. “I didn’t think so.”

“I—I’ve been holding it in. I didn’t want to break down in front of Caro. She didn’t need that. She was having a tough enough time herself.”

“I imagine she was.”

“This is her first grandchild,” Mickey said, feeling she owed him an explanation for her outburst. “She’s been planning for months. This really blindsided her. Did I mention Beverly’s her only child? She’s worried about her, too. Beverly’s wanted a baby for so long.”

He cast another look at Beverly’s portrait over the mantel. He no longer looked critical. “How long?”

“They’ve been married nine years.”

“I hope it all works out for them.”

“So do I,” Mickey said with feeling. “They’re good people. All of them.”

He looked suddenly troubled. “I shouldn’t impose on you at a time like this. I’ll go. I noticed a motel when I came through town.”

The motel, she thought dully. Oh, Carolyn wouldn’t want that.

“No,” Mickey said firmly. “You came all this way. You were invited to stay, and the invitation stands. Carolyn would be mortified if you checked into a motel.”

He said nothing. He stared down at the carpet, rubbed it with the heel of his scuffed cowboy boot.

Mickey was starting to feel more like her usual, efficient self. Or at least she thought she was. “Everything’s ready for you. The guest room’s waiting. Bridget’s got everything for supper…”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. Again she was startled by the vivid blue of his eyes. “Bridget?”

“She’s the cook and housekeeper,” Mickey said. “She lives here. We both do. And she likes company. She’s been looking forward to your visit.”

Mickey didn’t add that Bridget was the only one who’d looked forward it. But now she herself was determined to show Adam that the Circle T was a hospitable place, even in crisis.

Adam still looked conflicted, his mouth twisted with doubt.

“It’s a big house,” Mickey said. “You can have all the privacy you want. There’s a den with a TV and—things. And there’re horses, if you ride. Can you ride?”

His chin went up, and he seemed to stand taller. Any aura of uncertainty vanished. “Yeah,” he said. “I can ride.”

“Then it’s settled. Come with me. I’ll show you the guest room.”

A frown line appeared between his eyes, but he lifted the battered duffel bag and slung its strap over his shoulder. She led him down the hall, past Carolyn’s open office and her own. She noticed that he glanced in both rooms. He seemed to be observing the house with unusual keenness.

The guest room was a large, airy room with an adjoining bath. The white curtains had been pushed open, and the windows overlooked a garden of native Texas wildflowers. It was May, and they bloomed in profusion, the delicate gold of the daisies, the bolder gold and scarlet of the Indian blankets and the deep, tender blue of the bluebonnets.

Mickey had set a white vase of the flowers on the antique oak dresser with its framed oval mirror. Matching the dresser was a four-poster bed. It had a long white skirt and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.

A bookcase was filled with volumes old and new, from classics with faded spines to recent best sellers, their covers still crisp and shiny. A television sat on a low oak bench across from a pair of chintz-covered armchairs. Framed Audubon prints of songbirds hung on the walls.

She said, “The den’s next to the living room. There’s a bigger TV there, videos, more books and a pool table. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall in my office.”

She moved to the door and stepped into the hall. “Supper’s at seven-thirty. Since there’s just you and me, I thought we’d eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you.”

He looked her up and down, then nodded. “It’s fine.”

She had never before thought of the guest room as womanish. But in contrast to his masculinity, it suddenly seemed so. He looked out of place in the midst of the snowy curtains and polished furniture and delicately framed prints. He didn’t seem a man suited for chintz and flower arrangements.

With his faded jeans and work shirt, and his skin so burnished by the sun, he would have looked far more at home on the deck of a boat on a lonely sea, tugging ropes and raising sails. As she closed the door, she had the uneasy feeling that he was the sort who wouldn’t be comfortable shut up in any room. He gave off the air that he wasn’t quite tame.

What sort of person was he, anyway? Who was this man, really, suddenly sharing the house with her and Bridget?

WHAT THE HELL have I walked into? Adam thought, staring at the closed door. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage.

He’d known this trip was going to be hard. And he refused to lie to himself; he’d felt edgy about meeting Carolyn Trent. What sane man in his position wouldn’t?

During the whole trip, he’d hardened himself to face her. When he’d climbed the front stairs, his heart had pounded like a sledgehammer. He’d supposed she’d be polite—initially. After that, he’d been prepared for anything.

Except for this. The woman he’d come so far to meet was gone. Because of a sick, newborn baby. Maybe a mortally sick baby.

He swore under his breath and pitched his bag onto the bed to unpack it. He’d been thrown off from the first moment by the strange, starchy Mickey Nightingale.

When she’d first opened the door, she’d stared at him as if he were a freak. He supposed that in her eyes he was. She was neat as a pin. The creases in her jeans looked sharp as blades. Her long-sleeved white blouse was ironed to perfection. Almost everything about her radiated purity and order, except her tousled hair. And the wildly startled look in her eyes.

She’d even put on her glasses, as if to make sure of what she was seeing on Carolyn’s respectable porch. He supposed he looked like a bum.

Before he’d come, he’d thought about getting a haircut. He’d thought about buying new jeans, even a dress shirt. Then he’d remembered the maxim: Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes. To hell with upgrading his wardrobe.

He’d meant to show up as himself, not pretending to be anyone or anything else.

Yet he’d been immediately daunted by the Nightingale woman. She was attractive in an odd, unattainable way. In spite of her primness, there was something about her that was—only one word came to him—exquisite.

Her skin was so perfect he’d been tempted to reach out to find if it could possibly feel as smooth as it looked. She wore no makeup except for a touch of pink on her lips. Could her face really be so flawless?

Her hazel eyes were a rich, brownish gold. Her hair was brown slightly tinged with dark gold—a color as mysterious to him as autumn, a season that never came to the Caribbean. Her curls were rumpled, the only slightly untidy thing about her. Yet that one touch of disorder became her. It made her seem human, after all.

Otherwise she was the very essence of a proper, civilized, well-bred young woman. The complete opposite of him.

But as haunting as he found her looks, her manner had set his teeth on edge. She’d seemed snippy and stuck-up.

Or so he’d thought until the moment she’d burst into tears.

He’d been confounded by her news about Carolyn Trent and the ailing baby. He hadn’t noticed Mickey’s growing distress in talking about it. He’d been bewildered, wondering what in hell he was going to do now.