That Kind Of Girl

He gave her a sheepish grin that made her heart do a slow flip, and started working the buttons to his shirt. Becca beat it inside before she made a fool of herself by staring.

He did as he was told. She joined him on the porch a few minutes later, but only after giving in to ridiculous curiosity. Powder-blue boxers.

He sat in her favorite chair, one hand clutching the quilt closed at his neck, the other curled around her china cup. His bare white feet and shins poked out from the bottom. He was doing a pretty good job, she decided, of looking like he didn’t feel ridiculous.

He had toweled his hair, and it stood out in unruly black curls around his head. Becca sat down opposite him and tried not to laugh.

“Okay, want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“Sure. In a thunderstorm. I believe that.”

Colt sighed and hitched a shoulder. “I couldn’t get any more work done today, and I couldn’t—didn’t want to just hang around there. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Now there’s an answer I believe.” She sipped her tea, telling herself that it didn’t bother her to be the last resort. What else were friends for? She openly studied the haunted look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath. He hadn’t shaved that morning, either. “It’s hard for you to be in that house,” she said.

He drew his head back. “It isn’t hard. It just hacks me off to have to clean up after his mess.”

“Why don’t you cut your losses, then? You could sell the house like it is, even if it doesn’t bring much. I know you don’t need money. I’ve seen your face endorsing everything from work gloves to shaving cream.”

“No, I don’t need the money.”

“Then, why are you doing it if it makes you so angry that you grind your teeth? Why not just pay someone else to deal with it, and get back to your life?”

“I keep asking myself the same thing.”

He stared at the hot tea cupped between his palms, and she could see his mind working.

Then he said quietly, “I may not have a life to go back to.”

She leaned forward, more alarmed by the tone of his voice than his words. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I banged up my back. I got tossed…”

“By Rascal. At Jackson Hole.”

He nodded.

“I saw on television. The announcer said you’d just had the wind knocked out of you. But I wondered.”

“I asked them not to let anyone know. I didn’t want everyone knowing Doff had done it to me again.”

Again, Becca asked, “What do you mean?”

But instead of answering, he stood and paced, clutching the quilt in front of his chest. “I don’t know for sure that I won’t be able to ride again. There was a surgeon in Portland I went to, and they say he’s really good. He gave me a lot of exercises to do, and I do them—” his upper lip curled “—most of the time. But he said my spine was like a stack of wooden blocks right now. Another toss could put me in a wheelchair. And wouldn’t Doff just love that.”

Becca didn’t know what to say to that, so she sat quietly, letting him talk. And hurt for him.

He stopped and blew out a gust of breath. “So, there’s your answer. The only one I have, anyway. It’s not as if I have a long list of pressing engagements waiting for me elsewhere. Until I get the okay from the doctor, I might as well keep busy. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He stopped, then turned to face her, his brow drawn low. “I don’t know how you do it, Becca. I know you wanted to get away from Aloma as much as I did. But you stayed, here in this house. Doesn’t it all bring back memories that—” He clenched his jaw and made a fist. “That just make you crazy?”

She hadn’t intended to stand, didn’t realize she was doing so until she was before him, one palm against his stubbled cheek. His eyes met hers, and for what felt like a long moment she saw something there, something desperate, and pitifully grateful. And she allowed herself the thought that he was here because she was here.

Then they shifted, and the moment was gone. He took her wrist and pulled her palm away.

“I don’t need your sympathy, Becca. And I don’t want your comfort.”

“What do you want, Colt?”

“I want—” He broke off and looked out at the pouring rain. “Damn it, I wanted revenge.”

“You got your revenge, Colt. You were successful. More successful than he ever dreamed you’d be, I’m sure.”

“I wanted to beat him. And I wanted him to watch me beat him.”

“And that would have made a difference? That would have taken back every hateful thing he ever said? Every punch he ever threw?”

He shook his head and rubbed his jaw. “I guess I’ll never know, now.”

The rain slackened, tapering to a steady pour that patted on the grass beyond the porch. Thunder rolled again, softer and more distant. Inside, she could hear the metallic clink of the buttons on Colt’s jeans as they tumbled in the dryer.

“No. You won’t ever know. Not for sure.”

He turned and leaned against the porch rail. The blanket drooped, and he pulled his arms free and balled it at the center of his chest. “You didn’t answer my question. How can you stay here? Why did you even come back?”

“Mama got sick right before I got out of college. She needed someone to take care of her. I tried hiring people, but she kept running them off.” She tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “She could be a little hard to get along with at times.”

Colt snorted but refrained from comment.

“So I moved back home and took care of her. When she died, she left the house to me.”

“Didn’t you want to sell it and get the heck out of here?”

“This is my home, Colt. By the time she died, I had a job, friends here. And while I grant you I have a few unpleasant memories of my childhood, they’re really not any worse than the average, I think.”

“Still, when we were kids you said you were going to see the world.”

“Which is a great dream for a kid to have. I’m not a kid anymore, Colt.”

His gaze stayed on hers for a moment, then drifted to her lips and back up again. “Yes, I noticed. Still, you could have—”

“Colt.” Becca laid her hand on Colt’s arm. “Just because you went out and pursued your dreams doesn’t mean it was that easy for the rest of us. For some people it’s just not meant to be.”

“Who decides what’s meant to be? There are always choices.”

“What choice was I supposed to make, Colt? To abandon my own mother? I know she wasn’t easy to get along with. She had problems of her own that made her difficult at times. But she was my mother. She was all I had.”