The Bridal Contract

“I’m fine,” she said, unable to sound even marginally polite.

Chase’s gaze drilled skeptically into hers, then shifted to the side of her head as if he were searching for evidence of the painful swelling. The fact that his gaze checked the angle of her injured left shoulder then softened to move lingeringly down her chest to her waist before he took in the way she was favoring her left leg, sent a rash of feminine self-consciousness through her that gave her nerves another hard stir.

“Now’s a good time to get to town.”

“I’m not going to town,” she said tersely, shoving down the guilt she’d felt mere seconds ago.

He gave a solemn nod. “So you’re gonna tough it out, huh?”

“Yup.” She started across the room and into the hall to the back stairs, moving as normally as she could, but her left hip and knee were stiff enough to keep her stride short and uneven. At least she could walk, and she was never more grateful than now for her natural vigor and resilience.

“Maybe a hefty share of toughness comes in handy for a plan like yours,” he commented, and she rose to the bait before she could catch herself.

“What plan?”

“The plan to do yourself in.”

The blunt words made her falter and lose her balance just enough to step wrong. Her hip and knee gave out and she grabbed wildly for the wall. The sudden move sent agony through her strained muscles, but Chase caught her waist and kept her from falling.

“Damn, Fay,” he swore as she panted hard to keep a cry back, “that had to hurt.”

Oh, it did! Her lashes were wet, and she bit her lip as she waited for the pain to settle down. And then the gentle mockery in his gruff tone registered.

He must have been able to tell when it did, because he chuckled grimly. “Successful or not, I’d guess pain’s the biggest drawback of doing yourself in. You gotta be tough to face that.”

The outrageous comment startled a laugh out of her before temper roared up to stifle it. “I did not plan to do myself…in,” she panted, seizing the flimsy defense. She hadn’t planned.

“Glad to hear it, you bein’ so young and all. Your brothers woulda had a fit.”

The mention of her brothers made her see red and a fresh flood of ire rushed up, dulling the pain that gripped her.

“Don’t you dare—” she strained to turn enough to look him in the eye “—tell me what my brothers would have said.” That was the moment the memory of hearing their voices at the fence surged back.

No, Fay, run! Don’t do it!

Of all the things Chase might have said…

Chase looked down into fiery blue eyes a couple shades darker than his own, and felt a spark of satisfaction. Getting her anger into the open was better than letting it bubble inside and drive her to do crazy things. And clichéd as it was, she was beautiful when she was angry. That flare of temper had burned away the dullness in her eyes and sent a wild flush to her face. But he didn’t want her to hate him.

“I apologize, Miss Fay,” he said, meaning it. “I meant no disrespect to your brothers, or to your memory of them.” He searched her fiery gaze, hoping he could get past the anger he’d deliberately provoked and get her to listen. “But I did mean to shake you up and make you think. What you did out there wasn’t like you.”

He saw the tears that had sprung into all that fire after his mention of Ty and Troy, and he felt pity for the heavy grief she still carried. How she’d endured it this long alone was a testament to her strength, but it was time for her to get past the worst of it. She was too young and vital to stay cut off from life and locked into this kind of hurt. And then she surprised him. Her voice was husky and a little choked.

“You’re welcome to share supper. Margie always leaves more than enough for one.”

The tension he’d felt began to ease. “Thanks.”

She looked away from him. The invitation to share supper must mean she’d forgiven him for using her brothers to get through to her about today. Or maybe she was just repaying him for his help. But the way she straightened, casually managing to move his hands away from her waist, let him know the subject of doing herself in was closed.

He’d be glad to let it be closed, if today was really the end of it. He’d pushed—maybe too much—but she hadn’t told him to leave. Ironically, now that he’d said something that probably ought to get him thrown out, she’d invited him to stay.

The extra irony was that he wasn’t sure why he’d been so hell-bent to keep poking into her life when she treated him with about the same enthusiasm she would have given someone who’d tracked in something smelly from the barn. And yet what had started out as neighborly concern had turned into a challenge he hadn’t been able to leave alone. Maybe Fay wasn’t the only one who needed to look at what she’d done and think.

When they reached the kitchen, Fay had little choice but to allow it when Chase took over getting the food from the warming oven. As she’d said, Margie had made more than enough for one, and tonight it was a large meat and pasta casserole in a heavy glass dish. Two vegetable salads in the refrigerator, one sweet and one tangy, completed the meal. Fay took down an extra place setting to add to the one Margie had left on a tray for her, but Chase carried it to the table.

As she got out a bottle of analgesic and took two tablets, Fay watched Chase set the table and open the thermos to pour coffee. He’d never seemed very domesticated to her, so it was interesting to see him managing the small kitchen tasks with only a little awkwardness.

Fay sat down across the table from him, bracing her good hand on the edge of the tabletop to ease herself down. It was all she could do to keep from showing how much it hurt to bend her body, but she was desperate to sit. She was light-headed and her knees were shaking. The confrontation upstairs had drained her even more but she felt an odd peace inside, as if a dam had broken relieving her of some nameless pressure.

“I could’ve helped you sit down,” Chase said as he finished with the coffee and pulled out his chair.

“I’ve been sitting down without help most of my life,” she said as she pulled the napkin from beneath her silverware and dropped it onto her lap.

He didn’t respond to that as he used the metal spatula to cut a generous square of casserole from the pan and put it on her plate. She mumbled a soft thanks and started eating. She’d been ravenous, and the more she ate, the better she began to feel.

Neither of them spoke while they ate, which in both their cases was habit. Their work was physically demanding and the days were long, so at mealtimes food was the priority. Talk came later, and she was both relieved and wary. Relieved because the talk she’d dreaded had already come in the upstairs hall, wary because she didn’t know what else they could possibly talk about.

The resentment she’d felt toward Chase these past months, particularly today, was gone, and having him at her table was starting to affect her. She’d hated eating alone here, and rarely had the past year. She hadn’t been able to bear seeing the boys’ empty places, so she either ate at the kitchen counter or fixed a tray of food and took it with her to the den to do paperwork. Tonight it felt almost pleasant to sit here, in spite of the circumstances and the company.

Her heart cautiously tested that as she glanced toward Ty and Troy’s empty chairs. The ache she expected was soft instead of sharp, and she glanced briefly across the table at Chase before she looked down at her plate to finish her meal. Was it because someone shared the table with her, or was it because that someone was Chase?

“You’ve got color in your cheeks,” Chase commented as he sat back with his coffee. Fay set her fork down, and reached for her own coffee.

“I was starved.”

“You’ve got a healthy appetite. That’s a good sign.”

“Stop looking for signs,” she told him. “I’ve got nothing more than a bump on the head, strained muscles and some colorful bruises. Been there, done that, and so have you.”

“Have you got someone who can stay the night?”

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” she scoffed as she set her napkin next to her plate.

“Head injuries are nothing to mess with.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She’d made that sound neutral, but she suddenly didn’t know how to handle his persistence. It made her realize she’d kept him at bay with irritation and resentment and sarcasm so long that she wasn’t sure how to deal with him any other way, which was why she had a hard time being polite to him, even now.

The silence went on for several moments, long enough to renew her hope that he’d go home.

“Think you can make it up to bed under your own power?” The question meant he’d leave soon, but the relief she’d expected didn’t come.

“I want to watch TV a while. I might even sleep down here. Sometimes the recliner’s more comfortable than lying flat.” There. She could speak to him in a more friendly tone, but she started to regret giving him the small encouragement when he went on.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone, and there’ll be more storms. You might have to go to your storm room, and there’s always the chance you’ll start to feel worse.”

“I’ll know what to do,” she said, trying not to make that sound too grouchy. In other circumstances and with someone else, it might have been amusing to see Chase Rafferty play mother hen.