Rawhide and Lace

“I’ll amen that,” he told her. “You were a total failure, weren’t you? Why did you come down here, anyway? Bruce doesn’t come here anymore, and don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

“I’m not looking for Bruce,” she burst out. “Oh, Ty, I haven’t seen him since I left here! It’s you I came to see. There’s something I’ve got to tell you…!”

“I’ve got livestock to look after,” he said indifferently, dismissing her. “Get out of here. Go model a gown or something.”

Her eyes grew dull then; something died in them. She looked at him for a long, quiet moment, almost said something else; then, as if defeated, turned away.

“Just a minute,” he called after her.

She’d turned, an expression of hope on her face. “Yes?”

He smiled down at her mockingly, forcing himself not to weaken, not to let her get the best of him. “If you came to see me because you wanted another roll in the hay, I’ll let the cattle wait for a few minutes,” he offered. “Maybe you’ve improved since the last time.”

Her eyes closed, her face contorted as if in pain. “How could you, Tyson?” she whispered, then opened her eyes to reveal an anguish so profound that Ty was forced to look away. But the agony in her voice pierced his soul. “How could you? Oh, God, you don’t know how much I…!”

Almost. He almost abandoned his lacerated pride and went to her. His feet even started to move. But suddenly, she whirled and ran to her car, gunned it to life and raced frantically down the long drive, sending the small convertible sliding on the gravel as she shot it out onto the paved road. He watched the car until it was out of sight, feeling empty and cold and lonely….

* * *

That was the last time he’d seen Erin Scott. And now Bruce was dead. He wondered if she’d still been seeing his brother. Bruce hadn’t mentioned her. Of course, he’d hardly spoken to Ty in all those months. That had hurt, too. Lately, just about everything did.

He crushed out the cigarette. There were funeral arrangements to make. He thought about the roommate Bruce had moved in with and wondered if he knew. He got into the car and went directly to the apartment. It might help to talk to someone who knew Bruce, who could tell him if Bruce had ever forgiven him for driving Erin away. It was very nearly a need for absolution, but Tyson Wade would never have admitted it. Not even to himself.

Chapter Two

Bruce’s roommate was a rather shy accountant, a nice man without complexities and as pleasant as Bruce had always been. He was drinking heavily when Ty entered the apartment.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam Harris said with genuine feeling, raking back his sandy-blond hair. “I heard it on television just a few minutes ago. God, I’m so sorry. He was a great guy.”

“Yes,” Ty said quietly. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around the small apartment. There was nothing to indicate that Bruce had ever lived there except a large photograph of Erin in a swimsuit pose beside one of the twin beds. Ty felt himself stiffening at the sight of it.

“Poor old guy,” Sam said wearily, sinking down onto the sofa with a shot glass in his hands. “He worshiped that girl, but she never even let him get close.” He nodded toward the bed. “There’s a whole box of letters she sent back last week under there.”

Ty’s heart froze. “Letters?”

“Sure.” Sam pulled them out. There were dozens, all from Bruce, all addressed to Erin. All unopened. And there was one letter, from her, to Bruce. It was very recent. And opened.

“He went crazy when he read that last one,” Sam told him. “Just hog wild. I never had the nerve to sneak a look at it. And he changed after that. Raged about you, Mr. Wade,” he added apologetically. “He changed his will, made all kinds of threats…. I almost called you, but I figured it really wasn’t any of my business. And you know how Bruce got when he thought someone had sold him out. He was my pal, after all.”

Ty stared at the letters in his hand, feeling sick all over.

“There are some things of his in the drawers, too.” Sam gestured aimlessly, then sat down again. “I keep looking for him, you know,” he murmured absently. “I keep thinking, any minute he’ll open the door and walk in.”

“If you’ll pack his things, when you get a chance,” Ty said quietly, “I’ll send for them.”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to. I’d like to come to the funeral,” he added.

Ty nodded. “You can serve as a pallbearer if you like,” he said. “It’ll be at the First Presbyterian Church, day after tomorrow. There aren’t any living relatives, except me.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Sam repeated hollowly.

Ty hesitated, then shrugged his broad shoulders. “So am I. Good night.”

Just like that. He walked out, clutching the box of letters in his hands, more apprehensive than he’d ever been in his life. Part of him was afraid of what might be in them.

Two hours later, he was sitting in his pine-paneled den at Staghorn with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a much used glass in the other. His eyes were cold and bitter, and he was numb with the pain of discovery.

The letters Bruce had written to Erin were full of unrequited love, brimming with passion and proposals of marriage and plans that all included her. Each was more ardent than the one before. And in every one was at least one sentence about Ty and how much he hated her.

Those were bad enough. But the letter Erin had sent to Bruce tore at his heart.

“Dearest Bruce,” she’d written in a fine, delicate, hand, “I am returning all your letters, in hopes that they will make you realize that I can’t give you what you want from me. You’re a fine man, and any woman would be lucky to marry you. But I can’t love you, Bruce. I never have, and I never can. Even if things were different between us, any sort of relationship would be impossible because of your brother.” His heart leaped and then froze as he read on: “Even though the fault was partially mine, I can’t forget or forgive what’s happened to me. I’ve been through two surgeries now, one to put a steel rod in my crushed pelvis, the other to remove it. I walk with a cane, and I’m scarred. Perhaps the emotional scars are even worse, since I lost the baby in the wreck, too….”

The baby! Ty’s eyes closed and his body shook with anguish. He couldn’t finish the letter. She’d left Staghorn hell-bent for leather, and she’d wrecked the car. Her pelvis had been crushed. She’d lost the baby she was carrying, she’d been hospitalized, she’d even lost her career. All because of him. Because Bruce had told him a lie, and he’d believed it. And now Bruce was dead, and Erin was crippled and bitter, hating him. Blaming him. And he blamed himself, too. He hurt as he’d never hurt in his life.

And now he knew why she’d come to see him. She’d been carrying his child. She was going to tell him. But he hadn’t let her. He’d humiliated her into leaving. And because of him, she’d lost everything.

The baby would haunt him all his life, he knew. He’d never had anyone of his own, anything to love or protect or take care of. Except Bruce. And Bruce had been too old for that kind of babying. Ty had wanted someone to spoil, someone to give things to and look after. And he’d tried to make Bruce into the child he himself would never have. But there had been a child. And obviously Erin had planned to keep it. His child. He remembered now, too late, the hopeful look in her eyes, the softness of her expression when she’d said, “I have something to tell you….”

His hand opened, letting the letter drop to the floor. He poured out another measure of whiskey and downed some of it quickly, feeling a tightness in his chest that would not, he knew, be eased by liquor.

He stared helplessly at the whiskey bottle for a long time. Then he got slowly to his feet, still staring at it, his face contorted with grief and rage. And he flung it at the fireplace with the full strength of his long, muscular arm, watched as it shattered against the bricks, watched the flames hit the alcohol and shoot up into the blackened chimney.

“Erin,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Erin, forgive me!”

The sudden opening of the door startled him. He didn’t turn, mindful of the glaze over his eyes, the fixed rigidity of his face.

“Yes?” he demanded coldly.

“Señor Ty, are you all right?” Conchita asked gently.

His shoulders shifted. “Yes.”

“Can I bring you something to eat?”

He shook his head. “Tell José I need five pallbearers,” he said. “Bruce’s roommate asked to be one already.”

“Si, señor. You have talked with the minister?”

“I did that when I came home.”

“Are you sure that I cannot bring you something?” the middle-aged Spanish woman asked softly.

“Absolution,” he said, his voice ghostly, haunted. “Only that.”

* * *

It was three days before Ty began to surface from his emotional torment. The funeral was held in the cold rain, with only the men and Bruce’s roommate to mourn him. Ty had thought about contacting Erin, but if she’d just been released from the hospital, she wouldn’t be in any condition to come to a funeral. He wanted to call her, to talk with her. But he didn’t want to hurt her anymore. His voice would bring back too many memories, open too many wounds. She’d never believe how much he regretted what he’d done. She probably wouldn’t even listen. So what was the use of upsetting her?