Читать книгу If Wishes Were Horses... - Judith Duncan - Страница 8

A gust of wind rattled the shades, sending more drops of rain spattering through the screen of the open window. The framed photo still in his hand, Conner tipped his head back against the wall and clenched his jaw. It was not a good night for memories. Or for remembering. But that didn’t stop the emotions piling up in his chest.

Forcing himself to let go of the air jammed up in his lungs, Conner turned, his gaze going to the remaining two pictures sitting on top of his bureau. He set the third one beside them, then turned back to the window, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

It had been one helluvah ride, all right. One that took him places he’d never expected to go. There had been times when his aloneness got so big, he felt buried by it. And he had figured he would go to the grave with that awful hole in his chest. Then something happened to change all that. Something that gave him a place to put everything he felt for his brother’s wife.

Abby and Scott had been married two years—and Conner had gone out of his way to keep his distance. It had been safer and easier that way. Then they had come home again for Christmas. Which meant that Conner had been pretty well trapped. Because as far as Mary was concerned, there was just no good reason for either of her sons to be away from home at that time of year. So for Mary’s sake, he had stayed.

There had been something different about Scotty—he was more quiet, always watching Conner, trying his best to be accommodating. Then on Christmas Eve, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Scotty tracked Conner down in the tack room of the barn, where he was restoring an antique saddle. And he had told Conner what was on his mind.

They had found out that Scotty was sterile, and they wanted to have kids—Abby was desperate for kids. And Scotty made it clear that there was no way he wanted to adopt—to raise some stranger’s kids. After coming at it from the long way around, Scotty got to the point, and dropped a bomb that rocked Conner’s world. He wanted to know if Conner would consider fathering a baby for them. He figured that they looked enough alike that no one would ever know any different, and Conner was the only man alive he would trust with this—the only man he would ever consider as a sperm donor.

It had knocked Conner for one hell of a loop. And he was never sure how long he’d sat there, staring at his brother, feeling as if solid ground had been blown out from underneath him. It was as if his mind had locked on Scotty’s words, and it had seemed like forever before he’d been able to get his mind in gear, to ask his brother how Abby felt about this. Scotty had assured Conner that Abby was fine with it.

Feeling as if his whole existence had been turned upside down, Conner had told Scotty he needed some time to think about it. And he had stayed up all that night, thinking what it would be like, knowing she was carrying his child, knowing that a part of him was lodged deep inside of her. It nearly killed him at first.

Then slowly, so slowly, the possibility of his being able to give her his child began to ease that awful hole in his chest—that hole that had become a part of him. And he had realized that part of the burden of loving her was that he could never do anything to validate it. And now he had been handed his chance. He could give her the baby she wanted so much. And slowly everything changed, and the thought of his child growing inside of her gave him the first peace he’d had in a very long time.

It had been as if Abby knew he’d spent the night wrestling with the request. Because long before anyone was up, she had come down to the kitchen, where he was hunched over the table, working his way through yet another cup of coffee. Her hair had been wild around her face, and she’d worn a fuzzy blue housecoat with the belt pulled tight around her. She had sat down across from him, and they had talked. And she had told him, with tears in her eyes, how badly she wanted a baby, and why. If he hadn’t already made up his mind, he would have taken one look at the desperate longing in her eyes, and he would have made it up then. With emotion cramping his throat, he told her he’d be honored to do it.

It had been one hell of an experience—when he flew to Chicago to visit their fertility clinic. And no one would ever know what it had been like, shut in that tiny room, doing what he needed to do, everything he felt for her spilling out in that single donation. He had been such a damned mess afterward, he had gone straight to the airport, phoning Scotty from there. John Calhoun had already been diagnosed with bone cancer, and Conner had used that as a cover, making an excuse that some problems had cropped up at the ranch, and he had to get right home. He hadn’t been able to face his brother. And he sure in hell hadn’t been able to face her.

Ten months later, Cody John Calhoun was born, and sixteen months after that, Sarah Jane Calhoun had arrived. And it had been as if those two kids had given Conner somewhere to place all the emotions he had been carrying around inside of him. He would have gladly laid down his life for either one of them, and somehow their existence made everything right. He had never permitted himself to think of them as his. They were Abby’s kids. Always Abby’s. They had been his gift to her, and because of that, he’d never allowed himself to think of them as anything but his niece and nephew.

And along with that acceptance came something he had never expected. The hole in his chest had healed over. It didn’t mean that he didn’t get damned lonely at times, to the point where he would make trips out of town to find a little temporary companionship. And it sure in hell didn’t mean he had gotten over her. He would love her until the day he died. But it made a huge difference, knowing that he had given her the two babies she had wanted so much. It meant he could get through one day after another, almost content with his life. Almost.

The midnight chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway brought Conner out of his somber reverie, and he pulled the towel from around his neck and tossed it on a chair, then raked both his hands through his hair. It was going to be a damned long night.

Leaving his bedroom, he went out into the hallway, to the wood panelled closet under the stairs, and located a very expensive monogrammed leather garment bag. It always gave him a hollow feeling in his chest when he used it. And the only time he used it was when he went to Toronto—because Abby had been so adamant he have it. It had belonged to his brother, and it was the one Scotty had always carried on road trips.

Picking up the bag, Conner turned off the light and closed the door, his expression grim. Sometimes he wondered about the legendary luck of the Calhouns—it had definitely gone astray in this generation, that was for sure.

He took the garment bag back to his bedroom and tossed it on the king-size bed, then unzipped it, that same old feeling of grief unfolding in his chest. Ah, Scotty, he thought, you didn’t even know you had it all. And once again the history piled in, taking him down the path to old, painful memories.

The only good thing that had happened that year was wee Sarah’s arrival. The rest had all been bad. Abby’s parents had been killed in a car crash, then John Calhoun had died two months after his granddaughter was born. And shortly after that, Mary’s health took a turn for the worse, and the arthritis she had been fighting for years had finally taken hold. It was as if John’s dying had depleted her resources, and she got considerably worse. They hadn’t seen much of Scotty and the kids—Scotty was always on the road, and Abby, with a degree in business management, started working part-time, certainly not for the money. Mostly, Conner had suspected, to compensate for Scotty’s absences.

It wasn’t until Scotty got traded to the team in Toronto that the cracks in their golden life began to show. Inferences on sportscasts that Scott Calhoun was not performing up to snuff, rumors of trouble with the club. And when Conner had taken his mother to Toronto for a brief visit, there was something frenetic in Scott’s behavior. As if he were wired all the time.

Scotty had been a season into a five-year contract when he was abruptly dropped from the roster, and Conner had started to wonder what was going on. But it wasn’t until he saw Abby on a trip through Toronto that Conner knew something was seriously wrong. She had started working full-time, and she had been so strung out and tense, it was as if she were fine crystal ready to shatter. Concerned about her, he had taken her aside, telling her that if she ever needed anything, she was to call. Unable to look at him, she had locked her jaw together and nodded. And that had been that.

Until two years ago, when Abby had called him. And he had found out what was really going on. The reason Scotty had been let go was that management found out he was heavily into drugs, and she didn’t know what to do. Conner had been in the process of throwing his kit together for an immediate trip to Toronto when he got the second call from Scotty’s agent, telling him that Scotty was on his way to the hospital, suffering from a major overdose. It was almost as if Scotty couldn’t face Conner knowing the truth about him.

That was one of the hardest things Conner had ever had to do, to tell his mother what was going on and why he was taking the red-eye to Toronto. But she hadn’t been in any shape to travel then. So it had been up to him. When he got to Toronto, he’d gone straight to the hospital. The first thing he had discovered was that Abby was barely hanging on. And the second thing he found out was that Scotty was in an irreversible coma. There was nothing they could do.

It had been equally hard, five days later, standing by her during the huge, media-driven funeral, the news of Scotty’s overdose plastered all over every sports page in the country.

But the hardest thing of all was leaving her behind when it was time for him to go home. If he’d had his way, he would have bundled her up and taken her and the kids with him. But he couldn’t do that. She was his brother’s wife.

After Scotty’s death, he had made a point of going to Toronto every three or four months, but Abby had totally walled up. That once vibrant smile was like an accessory she pulled out and put on whenever it was required, and she was so brittle, it was hard for him to watch. He had been concerned about her for months—damned concerned. And he had told her countless times that if she ever needed anything, all she had to do was call. But Abby had a whole lot of stiff, chin-in-the-air pride. Rooted, no doubt, in the public humiliation Scotty had put her through.

Conner had known all along things would have to get really bad before she would call. And the feeling of unease never left him. He knew something was wrong. But unless she came to him for help, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do. At least a couple of times a week he would call, and she was always very upbeat on the phone, but he could hear the edge in her voice. She would never talk long—instead she would take the first opportunity to pass the phone off to one of the kids. There were nights when he’d lay awake until dawn, trying to hatch some plan to get through to her. But he knew Abigail, and he understood that stiff-necked pride of hers. And unless she opened up and told him what was going on, he was stymied. It wasn’t as if he could play some damned white knight and ride in to rescue her, especially when she didn’t want to be rescued. So he had resigned himself to her silence.

Never once had he ever considered that the call for help would come from another source—like his eight-year-old nephew. Which meant it had to be far worse than he’d ever dreamt. It hurt like hell, knowing she was suffering through something all alone—and wouldn’t come to him for help. All along he had told himself the only thing he wanted was for her to recover enough to get on with her life.

But as he packed the last of his gear and zipped the garment bag shut, he faced the fact that he would go to his grave wanting a whole lot more.

The sun had not yet reached high noon when the cab passed through a security gate and turned onto a heavily treed cul-de-sac in a very exclusive area of Toronto. His best Stetson settled squarely on his head, Conner took his billfold out of the breast pocket of his western sports coat, removed two bills and replaced the billfold, then stared down at the toes of his freshly polished boots. He felt as if he had an entire rock pile in his gut. He had been awake all night, trying to figure out the best way to handle this. But he was no closer to an answer than he had been ten hours ago. He’d debated phoning first, but then decided against it.

Disconnecting from that line of thought, he looked out the window as the cab pulled in front of his brother’s large and very pricey home. Somehow he was going to have to keep his personal feelings out of this. Somehow.

His face impassive, he handed the driver the two bills, then climbed out of the taxi, hitching the strap of the leather garment bag over his shoulder. He watched the cab disappear down the long curved driveway, then he climbed the steps to the ornate front door. Steeling himself, he pressed his thumb against the doorbell.

His jaw taut, he turned his head, watching a robin harvest worms in the lawn. Finally he heard footsteps from within, and the door opened.

He almost didn’t recognize her. Her thick blond hair was pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she had a tea towel draped over her shoulder. With her skin free of makeup and dressed in jeans and a faded Blue Jays sweatshirt, she didn’t even come close to the put-together woman he was familiar with.

Her hand on the door, Abby went dead still; then her face lit up with a spontaneous smile. “Conner! For heaven’s sake, what are you doing here? And why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” Her hazel eyes bright with genuine pleasure, she stepped closer, reached up and welcomed him with her customary hug. Conner swallowed hard and closed his eyes, permitting himself the brief luxury of hugging her back.

His voice gruff, he relinquished his hold on her and forced himself to smile. “I had some business I had to take care of, and figured now was as good a time as any.”

She laughed and grasped his arm, pulling him inside. “Well, this is the best surprise. The kids are going to be wild when they get home.”

She closed the door behind them, and he set his bag down in the wide, terrazzo tiled foyer. Keeping his face expressionless, he took off his hat and dropped it on top of his bag, then turned to face her. She was much thinner than when he’d seen her last. There were dark circles under her wide, hazel eyes, and there was a pinched look around her full mouth. But even dressed the way she was, she still had that air of class about her. And the same inner warmth. She grinned up at him, then slipped her arm through his, propelling him down the wide oak-panelled hallway toward the kitchen. “You’re one lucky camper, Mr. Calhoun. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, and they look as good as Grandma Mary’s if I do say so myself.”

Conner looked down at her, humor tugging at his mouth. He clearly remembered Abby and her first attempt at muffins. They had been so hard, Scotty had deemed them his very own cannonballs and made a big production out of pitching them into the creek. “Don’t try and kid me, lady. You make lousy muffins. You could use them for ballast.”

She grinned again and made a face. “Well, they aren’t as awful as they used to be. You can actually eat ’em now.”

He followed her into the bright spacious kitchen. This room was Abby through and through. There were splashes of bright colors and lush, healthy plants everywhere, and the granite countertops were comfortably cluttered. The stainless steel fridge sported an array of Post-it notes, notices and what looked like Sarah’s artwork, and the ceramic pot by the phone was stuffed with a variety of pencils and pens.

The aroma of fresh muffins actually made his mouth water, and Conner allowed himself to be engineered into a chair.

Abby went over and opened one of the cupboards. “I’ll wager you could use a good cup of coffee right about now.” She glanced over at him. “Yes? No?”

He stretched out his legs. Even flying business class, he felt as if he’d spent the past four hours in a sardine can. He gave her a wry half smile. “Coffee sounds great.”

Slouching in the maple captain’s chair, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her as she prepared a fresh pot of coffee, his mind absently registering what she was saying, the knot in his gut tightening. She looked like hell. Her hair, now slightly darker than when Scotty first brought her home, had lost its luster, there was a hollowness to her finely sculpted features, and there wasn’t a speck of color in her face. Her jeans practically hung on her, and he detected an unhealthy energy in her. There was no doubt about it; something was seriously wrong here. Abby wasn’t the type to fade away to nothing without a damned good reason.

Compartmentalizing his observations in another part of his brain, he responded to her small talk, his gaze fixed on her the entire time.

She set the table, getting coffee mugs for them both, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, which was unusual for her. Abby was not one to chatter. Turning in his seat, Conner rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn’t herself, that was for sure.

Setting a basket of still steaming muffins on the table beside him, Abby reached for the drawer at the end of the large kitchen island and took out two linen napkins. She passed him one, then sat down kitty-corner from him and propped her chin in her hand. Sunlight caught in her long lashes and brought out the gold flecks in her hazel eyes as she studied him. “So what kind of urgent business would get you away from Cripple Creek this time of year? Aren’t you getting close to spring branding?”

Conner held her gaze for an instant, then took one of the muffins from the basket, broke it open and reached for the butter dish. He had never been good at subterfuge; he always figured the most direct route was the best way to go. Buttering his muffin, he met her gaze.

He stared at her a moment, then spoke, his tone very quiet. “You’re the urgent business, Abigail. I’m here to find out what in hell is going on.”

Her expression froze and she went so still, it was as if she wasn’t even breathing. There was a long, electric silence, her agitation almost palpable. Then she abruptly picked up a muffin and broke it in half. Her face carefully arranged into a non-expression, she spoke, her tone artificially bright. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Conner. Everything is fine.”

Conner ate his way through half a muffin, then took a sip of coffee, considering how to play his hand. Finally he brushed the crumbs off his fingers and looked at her. There was a hint of a smile around his mouth when he finally spoke. “You’re a lousy liar, Abby.” He paused, then spoke again. “And an even worse actress. So cut the guff, okay?”

Her head came up and her gaze riveted on his face, her eyes as wide as saucers; then she looked down again, her movements jerky. “I don’t have any guff to cut, Conner,” she said, her tone just a little snippy. “I think you’ve fallen off one too many horses.”

She almost made him laugh—Abby had always been able to make him laugh. And he had to admit that he was amused by the way she was maneuvering away from his question, but he wasn’t that easy to lose. Hooking his thumb in his belt, he leaned back and considered her a moment, and he could almost feel her squirm. He was also very good at maneuvering. He indicated the muffins. “These are very good.”

She lifted her chin, and gave him one of her cool looks. “Thank you. I think.”

He smiled, then leaned forward, braced his elbows on the table and laced his hands together. He studied her, not liking the awful tension he sensed in her. He decided then that their little game was over. Under the circumstances, he figured his nephew would understand. Using that same quiet tone of voice, he spoke. “Cody called me last night.”

She went very still again, and he caught a glimmer of alarm in her eyes. Satisfied that he had gotten her full attention, he continued. “He was pretty worried. He said that he thinks something is wrong with you—that you don’t go to work anymore and he hears you crying late at night, and that you forget things.” He shifted his clasped hands, then fixed his gaze on her. “So why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, Abigail?”

There was an instant, just an instant, where she sat staring at him, almost as if she were paralyzed, then she abruptly covered her face with her hands, a low sound wrenched from her. Experiencing a fierce, painful cramp in his chest, Conner forced himself to keep his hands laced together, the need to touch her almost unmanageable. Sometimes it was damned hard playing big brother around her. Too damned hard.

Unable to watch, Conner looked away, his face feeling like granite as he ran his thumbnail down a pattern carved in the ceramic mug. The sounds coming from across the table were tearing him to shreds inside. But there was nothing he could do. At least not without crossing a line he’d sworn he would never cross.

He had just about reached his limit when Abby finally lifted her head and quickly wiped her face with the napkin, her face swollen and red. She let her breath go in a shuddering sigh, then she began fiddling with the napkin. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him, a depleted expression in her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she whispered. “It’s all been so awful.”

Resting his clasped hands against his jaw, he gave her a small smile. “Then why don’t you just start talking and we’ll see where it takes us.”

She managed a smile, then she pushed her plate away and began folding and refolding her napkin. “It was more than just a drug problem,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sensing that she was preparing herself for the telling, he waited, his gaze locked on her face. Finally she drew in a deep shaky breath and straightened, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I didn’t find out until months after he died just how bad it was.” She turned her head toward the window, her profile stark against the bright light. “I didn’t find out until then that he had a serious gambling problem as well—a very serious gambling problem. I knew he gambled, but I really thought it was strictly recreational.” She finally looked at Conner, her gaze bleak. “He owed hundreds of thousands of dollars. And when the people started calling his loans, I couldn’t believe it at first. He had borrowed from everyone. His teammates, his friends, the kids’ educational funds. I found records for all those personal loans in his safety deposit box. I used all our savings and his insurance money to pay off his friends, and I thought I had it under control.”

She clutched her arms tighter, then tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. “Then I started getting calls from a string of his bookies. And there was another huge loan from a loan company in the States— I found out later he’d borrowed that to pay off another huge drug and gambling debt.” She closed her eyes, the muscles in her jaw working; then she let out another sigh and looked at him. “To make a long story short,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion, “I had to remortgage the house, and I sold off every piece of art we had, my jewelry, his cars—anything and everything that had any kind of value.” She held up her naked left hand. “Even my rings. But I got the bookies all paid off, and I had to cut a deal with the loan company for me to pay them back. Everything was gone—the equity in the house, all our investments…everything. Thank God the kids’ school tuition is covered by a trust fund from my parents’ estate, or I would have had to pull them out.”

As if everything was crowding in on her, she got up and went over to the patio doors and stood staring out, her arms still clutched in front of her. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then spoke, her voice barely audible. “I had managed to pay back most of the last loan, except there’s still twenty thousand dollars owing. I knew, given time, I’d get it paid off. Then I lost my job. The company I work for was part of a merger, and my position was eliminated. I got a decent severance package, but that was it. Kaput.” She lifted one shoulder in a small, defeated shrug. “When the loan company found out, they called their note.” She turned and faced him, giving him a wan smile. “Of course I couldn’t pay it, so now they’ve threatened to take me to court.” Her face ashen and her hands visibly trembling, she came back over to the table and sat down, not a trace of animation in her. She clasped her hands together on the table, rubbing one thumb against the other. Her attempt at a smile failed. “It’s been a bit of a bitch, Conner.”

He had forced himself to remain disengaged during her telling—not allowing any kind of feeling to surface. But now, as she sat there, her animation gone, the vibrancy beat right out of her, he experienced a rush of rage. She was out of a job, just about out of money, and her once-perfect life was a total mess. He wanted to kill somebody.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and Conner could see tears gathering in her lashes. Her despair cut him to the quick. And something gave way inside him. He had only ever initiated touching her twice before—once when he’d kissed Scotty’s bride after the wedding. And then the night Scotty had died, when he’d pulled her onto his lap like a small wounded child, and held her as she wept for their awful loss. That time had been about offering comfort, and nothing more. This time, though, would be about something entirely different.

Knowing he was stepping across a very dangerous line, and sharply aware of how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, he reached across the table and grasped her cold, thin hands between his. The feel of her was almost enough. Almost.

His heart lumbering, he tightened his hold, rubbing her hands between his, trying to infuse her with his warmth. Then he drew in a deep, uneven breath and spoke, his voice very gruff. “You could have called me, Abby,” he said quietly.

She opened her eyes, tears catching in her long lashes. “I couldn’t,” she whispered. “You had lost him, too. I couldn’t dump this in your lap.”

Holding her gaze, he managed a lopsided smile. “Well, consider it dumped.” He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Between us, we’ll straighten this whole mess out. But the first rule is that you’re not to worry anymore, okay?”

She stared at him, more tears damming up, and the look in her eyes almost did him in. Disconnecting from the feelings rising up in him, he gave her hands another squeeze, prompting an answer. “Okay?”

She managed a wobbly smile and nodded, and he rewarded her effort with a smile of his own. “Okay.” He gave her hands another reassuring little shake, then released her. Leaning back in his chair, he scrutinized her. “How much sleep have you had in the past couple of weeks?”

Some of the old Abby resurfaced. She managed an almost real smile. “Good grief, Conner. Don’t you know anything? No one sleeps when you’re lost in the swamp and up to your armpits in alligators.”

He rewarded her effort with a soft chuckle, then he stood up. “Well, I’m here to drain the swamp, lady. So go to bed and get some sleep.”

“I can’t. The kids are home early from school today, and…”

Conner broke his self-imposed rule for the second time that day. He grasped her hand, pulled her to her feet, then pushed her toward the front foyer and the stairs. “Damn it,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it, “don’t start arguing with me already, Abigail. For the rest of the day, I’m the boss.”

She turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him, a faint glimmer appearing in her eyes. “All right. I’ll give you today, Calhoun. But tomorrow is mine, and don’t you forget it.” Catching him totally by surprise, she gripped his arm, then stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Conner,” she whispered unevenly. Then she turned and went up the stairs, and Conner watched her go, his lungs suddenly so tight it was impossible to get air into them.

A rush of emotion jammed up in his chest, and he anchored his hand on the heavy oak newel post. God help him, he had to keep his head on straight. And he had to do right by her. Because, in the end, that was all he could ever give her.

Beginning to feel the effects of a sleepless night, he returned to the kitchen and poured himself another coffee, then went out and stood on the raised deck, staring out over the expensively designed landscape. Right now a half-hour nap would do wonders, but he knew he’d never sleep with her trapped in his head. Clamping his jaw shut, he forced himself to concentrate on other things, like how he was going to get her out of this pickle without walking all over that damned pride of hers. But he really didn’t have a whole lot of options. Yeah, Abigail Allistair had put on a brave face, and she didn’t expect anyone to bail her out, but he could tell that she was damned near at the end of her rope. There was no way he could walk off and leave her in this mess. So that gave him only one alternative. He was stepping in whether she liked it or not. And it was too damned bad if he tramped on her pride.

His expression set, he went back into the house. For his own peace of mind, he needed to check on her—she was just too eaten up by stress and strain, and far too thin for his liking.

The master bedroom door was ajar, and Conner pushed it open with one finger. She was curled up on the bed, very soundly asleep, her hands tucked under her face. Resting his shoulder against the door frame, he hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans, his expression fixed as he watched her sleep. She was far too thin, but what bothered him more than anything was that her special effervescence was gone—that rare kind of energy that could light up a whole room. It was as if her bright spirit had been extinguished, and she just looked so fragile. He’d give anything if he had the right to hold her, to wrap her up and keep her safe.

Ever since she’d appeared that long-ago Christmas, she had been his still center, and in spite of the emptiness in his life, he wouldn’t know what to do without her there. Just knowing she was alive fortified him somehow.

Abby stirred, curling up tighter, and Conner suspected she was cold. Careful not to make a sound, he went into the room, picked up a throw off the wing chair by the bed, then carefully covered her with it. Some of her hair had come loose from the ponytail, and he very gently lifted the strands away from her face and tucked them behind her ear. His throat cramping up, he let his hand linger just a moment—just a brief, perfect moment before he tucked the cover under her chin. Feeling as if he’d just got punched in the gut, he turned and left the room, soundlessly pulling the door shut behind him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep, uneven breath. He had let himself get far too close. But it wasn’t nearly close enough.