Rawhide and Lace Read online

  After a minute, he picked up her suitcase, locked the door, and followed her.

  Chapter Three

  It was all Ty could do to keep silent as he and Erin rode to the airport. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, to explain, to discuss. He wanted to apologize, but that was impossible for him. Odd, he thought, how much heartache pride had caused him over the years. He’d never learned to bend. His father had taught him that a man never could, and still call himself a man.

  He lit a cigarette and smoked it silently, only half aware of Erin’s quiet scrutiny as he weaved easily through the frantic city traffic. His nerve never wavered. Texas or New York, he was at home in a car even in the roughest traffic.

  “Nothing bothers you, does it?” she asked carelessly.

  “Don’t you believe it,” he replied. He glanced at her, his eyes steady and curious as he waited at a traffic light.

  “Six months,” she murmured, her voice as devoid of feeling as the green eyes that seemed to look right through him. “So much can happen in just six months.”

  Ty averted his eyes. “Yes.” He studied the traffic light intently. It was easier than seeing that closed, unfeeling look on her face, and knowing that he was responsible for it. Once, she’d have run toward him laughing….

  She turned the cane in her hands, feeling its coolness. Ty seemed different somehow. Less arrogant, less callous. Perhaps his brother’s death had caused that change, although he and Bruce had never been close. She wondered if he blamed her for his estrangement from Bruce, if he knew how insanely jealous Bruce had been of her, and without any cause at all.

  He watched her toying with the cane as he pulled back into the flow of traffic and crossed the bridge that would take them to the airport. “How long will you have to use that thing?” he asked conversationally.

  “I don’t know.” She did know. They’d told her. If she didn’t do the exercises religiously, she’d be using it for the rest of her life. But what did that matter now? She could never go back to modeling. And nothing else seemed to be worth the effort.

  “I didn’t expect you to agree to the stipulation in Bruce’s will,” he said suddenly.

  “No, I don’t imagine you did.” She glared at him. “What’s the matter, cattle baron, did you expect that I’d sit on my pride and let your whole crew lose their jobs on my account?”

  So that was why. It had nothing to do with any remaining feeling for him; it was to help someone less fortunate. He should have known.

  “You look surprised,” she observed.

  “Not really.” He pulled into the rental car lot at the airport and stopped the car, then turned toward her. “You were always generous—” his silver eyes held hers relentlessly “—in every way.”

  Her face colored, and she jerked her eyes away. She couldn’t bear to remember…that!

  “It wasn’t an insult,” he said quickly. “Don’t…don’t make it personal.”

  She laughed through stinging tears, a young animal at bay, glaring at him from the corner of her seat. “Personal! Don’t make it personal? Look at me, damn you!” she cried.

  His hand reached toward her, or seemed to, and suddenly retracted, along with any show of emotion that might have softened the hard lines of his face. He stared at his smoking cigarette, took a last draw with damnably steady fingers, and put it out carefully in the ashtray.

  “I’ve been looking,” he said quietly, lifting his eyes. “Every second since I’ve been with you. Would you like to know what I see?”

  “How about a burned-out shell; does that cover it?” she said defiantly.

  “You’ve given up, haven’t you?” he said. “You’ve stopped living, you’ve stopped working, you’ve stopped caring.”

  “I have a right!”

  “You have every right,” he agreed shortly. “I’d be the first to agree with that. But for God’s sake, woman, look what you’re doing to yourself! Do you want to end up a cripple?”

  “I am a cripple!”

  “Only in your mind,” he replied, his voice deliberately sharp. “You’ve convinced yourself that your life is over; that you can come down to Staghorn and draw into some kind of shell and just exist while everyone else prospers. But you’re wrong, lady. Because that’s something you’ll never do. I’m going to make you start living again. You’re going to pick up the pieces and start over. I’ll see to it.”

  “Like hell you will, Tyson Almighty Wade!”

  “If you come back with me, you can count on it,” he replied. He put a long hard arm over the back of the seat, and his silver eyes glittered at her, challenging, taunting. “Come on, Erin. Tell me to take my money and go to hell. Tell me to give Ward Jessup your half of the spread and put all those workers on unemployment.”

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to! But it was more than her conscience could bear. She glared at him out of a white face in its frame of soft dark hair, her green eyes alive now, burning in anger. “I hate you!” she cried.

  “I know,” he replied. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t blame you for that. You have the right. I’d never have asked you to come back.”

  “No, not you.” She smiled coldly. “But if I hadn’t, you’d probably have come rushing up here to kidnap me and take me back by force.”

  He shook his head. “Not now. Not after what’s happened.” He let his eyes wander slowly over her frail body.

  She eyed him warily. “Mr. Johnson told you about the wreck, I suppose?”

  He looked down at the cane. “I read your last letter to Bruce,” he said in a voice that was deep and quiet…and frankly haunted.

  Her spirit broke at his tone. She could take anything from him except tenderness. Guilt. His. Hers. Bruce’s. And none of it any use. A tortured sob burst from her throat. She tried to stifle it but couldn’t.

  His eyes lifted, holding hers. “I wish I could tell you how I felt when I knew,” he said hesitantly. “The things I said to you that day…”

  She swallowed, slowly gaining control of herself. “You…you meant them,” she replied. “Reliving them isn’t going to do any good now. You saved Bruce from me. That’s all you cared about.”

  “No!” he said huskily. “No, that’s wrong.”

  He started to reach toward her, and she backed away until the door stopped her.

  “Don’t you touch me,” she said in a high, strangled voice. “Don’t you ever touch me again. If you do, I’ll walk out the door, and you and your outfit can all go to hell!”

  His face closed up. It was the first time he’d ever reached out toward her, and her rejection hurt. But he struggled against familiar feelings of wounded pride, struggled to understand things from her side. He’d hurt her brutally. It was going to take time, a lot of it, before she’d begin to trust him. Well, he had time. Right now, that and the hope that she might someday stop hating him were all he had.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice steady, almost tender. “Want something to eat before we get on the plane?”

  She shifted restlessly, staring at him, eyes huge in her thin face. “I…didn’t have lunch,” she faltered.

  “We’ll get a sandwich, then.” He got out and went around to open her door. But he didn’t offer to help her. He watched her put the cane down and lean on it heavily. “How long has it been since they took out the rod?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. She hadn’t realized he knew so much about her condition. “A couple of weeks,” she told him.

  “Were you taking physical therapy?”

  She avoided his probing look. “I could use some coffee.”

  “Therapy,” he persisted, “is the only way you’ll ever walk without a cane. Did they tell you that?”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve…!” She glared up at him.

  “I busted my hip on the rodeo circuit when I was twenty-four,” he told her flatly. “It was months before I stopped limping, and physical therapy was the only thing that saved me from a stiff leg. I remember the exercises t
o this day, and how they’re done, and how long for each day. So I’ll help you get into the routine.”

  “I’ll help you into the hospital if you try it,” she threatened.

  “Spunky,” he approved, nodding. He even smiled a little. “You always were. I liked that about you, from the very beginning.”

  “You liked nothing about me,” she reminded him. “You hated me on sight, and from there it was all downhill.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, watching her curiously. “I thought women had instincts about men and their reactions.”

  “As you found out the hard way, I knew very little about men. Then.”

  He didn’t look away. “And as you found out, the hard way, I knew very little about women.”

  She flinched, just a little, then searched that gray fog in his eyes, wondering what he meant. It sounded like a confession of sorts, but it just didn’t jibe with the picture Bruce had painted of him—a womanizer with a reputation as long as her arm.

  “Pull the other one,” she said finally. “You’ve probably forgotten more about women than I’ll ever know. Bruce said you had.”

  His jaw tensed. “Bruce said one hell of a lot, didn’t he? I heard what you thought of my ‘fumbling,’ too.”

  She stiffened and froze. “What?”

  “He said you thought I was a clumsy, fumbling fool. That you described it all to him, and laughed together about it….”

  Her lips parted, and her face went stark white. “He told you…he said that…to you?”

  “Erin!” He leaped forward just in time to catch her as she collapsed. He lifted her, feeling the pitiful weight of her in his arms, feeling alive for the first time in months. He held her close, bending his head over hers, drowning in the bittersweet anguish of holding her while all around them traffic moved routinely and tourists milled indifferently on the sidewalks.

  “Baby,” he whispered softly, cradling her in his hard arms as he dropped into the passenger seat of the car and looked down at her. He smoothed the hair from her face, caressing her pale cheek with a trembling hand. “Erin.”

  Her eyes opened a minute later. She blinked, and for an instant—for one staggering second—her eyes were unguarded and full of memories. And then it was like watching a curtain come down. The instant she recognized him, all the life went out of her face.

  “You fainted,” he said gently.

  She stared up at him dizzily, feeling his warmth and strength, catching the scent of leather that clung to him like the spicy after-shave he favored.

  “Ty,” she whispered.

  His heart stopped and then raced, and his body made a sudden and shocking statement about its immediate needs. He shifted her quickly, careful not to let her know how vulnerable he was.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. “I feel a little shaky, that’s all.”

  He touched her hair, on fire with the sweetness of her being near, loving the smell of roses that clung to her, the warmth of her soft body against his.

  “Bruce didn’t say that to you—” she shook her head “—he couldn’t have!” There were tears in her eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. Here, are you all right now?”

  She sighed heavily. It was a lie. A lie. She’d never said any such thing to Bruce. She looked up into watchful gray eyes and tried to speak, but she was lost in the sudden electricity that arced between them.

  “Your eyes always reminded me of green velvet,” he said absently, searching them. “Soft and rippling in the light, full of hidden softness and warmth.”

  Her breath was trapped somewhere, and she couldn’t seem to free it. Her eyes wandered over his homely face, seeing the new lines, the angles and craggy roughness, the strength.

  “You won’t find beauty even if you look hard,” he said in a tone that was almost but not quite amused.

  “You were so different from Bruce,” she whispered. “Always so different. Remote and alone and invulnerable.”

  “Except for one long night,” he agreed, watching the color return to her cheeks. “Will you at least believe that I regret what I did to you? That if I could take it all back, I would?”

  “Looking back won’t change anything,” she said wearily, and closed her eyes. “Oh, Ty, it won’t change anything at all.”

  “I’m sorry…about the baby we made,” he said hesitantly, his voice husky with emotion.

  She looked up at him, startled by his tone. She saw something there, something elusive. “You would have wanted it,” she said with sudden insight.

  He nodded. “If I’d known, I’d never have let you go.”

  It was the way he said it, with such aching feeling. She realized that he meant it. Perhaps he’d wanted a family of his own, perhaps there had been a woman he’d wanted and couldn’t have. Maybe he’d thought about having children of his own and taking care of them. He wasn’t anything to look at; that was a fact. But he might have been vulnerable once. He might have been capable of love and tenderness and warmth. A hundred years ago, judging by the walls he’d raised around himself.

  She looked away and struggled to get up. He let her go instantly, helping her to her feet, steadying her with hands that were unexpectedly gentle. Guilt, she thought, glancing at him. He was capable of that, at least. But guilt was one thing she didn’t want from him. Or pity.

  “I’m all right now,” she said, easing away from him. The closeness of his body had affected her in ways she didn’t want to remember. She’d given herself to him that night with such eager abandon. With joy. Because she’d loved him desperately, and she’d thought that he loved her. But it had only been a lie, a trick. Could she ever forget that?

  “It’s all right,” he said gently, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, who found it oddly evocative to see the thin, crippled young woman being comforted by the tall, strong man.

  “I’m so tired,” she whispered wearily. “So tired.”

  He could see that. Thinking about all she’d been through made him feel curiously protective. He touched her hair in a hesitant gesture. “You’ll be all right,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything now.” He straightened. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  It wasn’t home, but she was too exhausted to struggle with him. She only wanted a place to rest and a little peace. So much had happened to her that she felt like a victim of delayed shock. She couldn’t cope just yet with the memories or the future. She wanted to close her eyes and forget that either even existed.

  Ty took her arm to lead her toward the tarmac, and she followed him without protest.

  That simple action hit him so hard that his face would have shocked her, had she been able to see it. Erin had always been a fighter, a little firecracker. He’d admired her spirit even as he’d searched for ways to beat it out of her. And now, to see her this way, to know that she was defeated…was profoundly disturbing. She’d been crippled, had lost the baby he’d given her, and he knew that she could never forgive him. He wondered if he could forgive himself. He only knew that he was going to see to it that she left Staghorn whole again, no matter what it took. He was going to give her life back to her, regardless of the cost. He was going to make her well enough to walk away from him.

  And he hadn’t realized until that moment that it was going to hurt like hell.

  * * *

  The plane was a big twin-engine Cessna, a pretty bird built for comfort and speed. There was more than enough room for Erin to sit or stretch out in the passenger space, but she wanted to see where she was going.

  “Could I sit up front with you?” she asked.

  It was the first bit of enthusiasm she’d shown since he’d found her at the apartment. “Of course,” he replied. He ushered her into the seat beside his and helped her with the seat belt and the earphones.

  She watched, fascinated, as he readied the big plane for tak
eoff and called the tower for permission to taxi. She’d never flown in his private plane before, although Bruce had invited her once. Ty had objected at the time, finding some reason why she couldn’t go with them. He’d never wanted her along. He’d never wanted her near him at all.

  He flew with a minimum of conversation, intent on the controls and instrument readings. He asked her once if she was comfortable enough, and that was the only thing he said all the way back to Staghorn.

  The ranch was just as Erin remembered it—big and sprawling and like a small town unto itself. The house was a creamy yellow Spanish stucco with a red roof, graceful arches and cacti landscaping all around it. Nearby were the ultramodern stables and corrals and an embryo transplant center second to none in the area. Ty’s genius for keeping up with new techniques, his willingness to entertain new methods of production, were responsible for the ranch’s amazing climb from a small holding to an empire. It wasn’t really surprising that he was so good with figures, though. He was geared to business, to making money. He was good at it because it was his life. He enjoyed the challenge of business in ways he’d never been able to enjoy anything else. Especially personal relationships.

  Erin was fascinated by how little the ranch had changed since she’d seen it last. In her world, people came and went. But in Ty’s there was consistency. Security. At Staghorn, very little changed. The household staff, of course, was the same. Conchita and her husband, José, were still looking after the señor, keeping everything in exquisite order both inside and out. They were middle-aged, and their parents had worked for el grande señor, Ty’s father, Norman.

  Conchita was tall and elegant, very thin, with snapping dark eyes that held the most mischievous twinkle despite the gray that salted her thick black hair. José was just her height, with the same elegant darkness, but his hair had already gone silver. Rumor had it that Señor Norman himself had turned it silver with his temper. José was unfailingly good-natured, and such a good hand with horses that Ty frequently let him work with the horse wrangler.