Читать книгу Montana Dreaming: Their Unexpected Family / Cabin Fever / Million-Dollar Makeover - Judy Duarte - Страница 15

Mark gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. He didn’t want to fight with Juliet, but he didn’t want her getting chummy with his folks, either.

Not while he was still in town.

He wasn’t up for a family reunion. Not yet. And maybe not ever.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Juliet said. “Are you angry with me?”

“No, not really.” He was just frustrated, especially since he refused to share enough of his past to make her understand.

Years ago, Susan had tried to push him to reconcile with his family before their wedding, since Mark had refused to invite his parents.

“I don’t want to chance ruining a day that’s supposed to be happy,” he’d told her.

Like Juliet, his fiancée hadn’t understood the falling-out and had thought the absence of the groom’s family would look weird to people. When Mark had finally leveled with her, opening his guts and explaining why he and his parents didn’t have a close relationship, she’d backed down.

It might have been his imagination, but she’d never seemed to look at him the same after that. So, from then on, he’d intensified his resolve to keep his shameful secret to himself.

Still, Mark didn’t want something from the past to affect his relationship—or rather his friendship—with Juliet. “It’s your apartment, and you can socialize with anyone you want. But I don’t appreciate you inviting my parents to dinner without talking to me first. That’s all.”

She nodded, as though she actually understood his feelings rather than the filtered half-truth.

“I’m sorry it bothered you.” Juliet turned in her seat, facing him. “I should have waited to say something. But your mother seems very nice. And since I’m a new resident of Thunder Canyon, I like meeting people who live in the community.”

He could understand that, but he still didn’t like being pushed. Forced to do something that chapped his hide. “Why don’t you invite my parents to dinner after I’m gone?”

She didn’t respond right away, which made him think the conversation had died a slow death. Thank God. But as they neared The Hitching Post, she brought it up again. “I wish you weren’t so stubborn.”

He bit back a hard-ass retort. It wasn’t Juliet’s fault that he didn’t want to be around his parents. Well, his father, anyway. And she had no inkling of the kind of cruel accusations that had been slung at Mark years ago, accusations that still hurt, that still echoed in his mind.

You no good rebellious bastard.

You son of a bitch.

You let your sister die.

You killed her.

Get the hell out of my house. And don’t ever come back.

To this day, he could still feel the grief, the guilt, the pain of rejection.

There probably weren’t too many sixteen-year-olds who, after an outburst like that, would’ve dropped their heads and plodded to their rooms with their tails between their legs.

Mark certainly hadn’t.

He’d thrown a few belongings into a knapsack, grabbed his jacket and stomped off into the stormy night, determined to either escape the godawful guilt or die in the process.

But he hadn’t done either.

Around midnight, the sheriff found him thumbing a ride out of Thunder Canyon, sopping-wet and chilled to the bone.

“I can’t believe you’d run off at a time when your family needs you,” the uniformed officer had said.

Mark clamped down his shivering teeth, refusing to say anything in his own defense. And after a speech about minors and curfews, the sheriff had taken him back home.

It didn’t take an honor student or an Eagle Scout to figure out his dad wasn’t particularly pleased to see him walk in the front door, even though he hadn’t said a damn thing. The hateful scowl his old man had worn was an image Mark would never forget.

“Sorry to hear about the loss of your daughter,” the sheriff had told his parents. “It’s a damn shame.”

Jess Anderson had merely grunted, then climbed into the old family station wagon and driven down the mountain to the motel, where he’d holed up until the funeral.

His mother had burst into tears again, leaving Mark to face the sheriff alone. He’d actually wished the police officer would have pressed charges against him. Manslaughter. Negligent homicide. Something.

But he hadn’t.

Still, every time his old man looked at him, each time his mother went into his sister’s empty room and cried, whenever someone in the community whispered behind Mark’s back, a gavel in his head pounded out his guilt.

And he couldn’t blame them. It had been a tragic, rebellious mistake that couldn’t be corrected.

Mark slid a glance at Juliet, and a jab of remorse struck him in the chest. She didn’t know the demons he wrestled with, and he damn sure wasn’t about to reveal them to her. But she didn’t deserve the harsh words he’d lashed out at her. “I’m sorry, but my dad made it clear years ago that I was a disappointment to him. That he wanted me out of his house and his life for good.”

“Maybe time has changed things.”

“Not my memory.”

“What about your sister’s memory?”

His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands grew clammy as they gripped the steering wheel. “What about it?”

“Did your sister find it hard to forgive and forget, too?”

Juliet had no idea how badly the past haunted him. But he wouldn’t let on. He couldn’t. “No, my sister always got along fine with my parents. They favored her.”

And he could now understand why. Prior to her wedding, she’d always done whatever they asked, whatever was necessary to keep the home fires burning while they worked at the motel from dawn to dark.

On the other hand, Mark had resented being stuck on the mountain, so far away from town, especially when his dad could have made life easier by living within city limits.

“I’m sure your parents miss her,” Juliet said.

No doubt about that. His mom had been looking forward to being a grandma, even if Kelly wasn’t too keen on being a mother. But Mark didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to encourage Juliet’s curiosity.

“And since you’re all they have left,” she continued, “I’m sure they’d welcome a reconciliation.”

“For cripes sake, Juliet. You don’t know them. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about what tore our family apart.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But I’m just trying to help. Sometimes getting things out in the open gives a person a new perspective.”

He felt badly about snapping at her, but wouldn’t apologize. Why encourage her to push harder, to probe deeper? So he held his tongue, hoping to assuage the guilt. Hoping to end the conversation. But Juliet’s eyes drilled into him, lancing the wound and releasing a brand-new assault of pain, guilt. Regret.

“What did they do to hurt you like this?” she asked. “To make you hold a twenty-year grudge?”

“They didn’t do squat.”

“Then did you do something?”

The truth of her question pierced him to the bone, but he refused to answer. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Dammit, Juliet. Would you get off my case?”

The words had no more than left his mouth, when he cringed at the sharp edge, at the bark, at the way he’d hurled them at her.

God, she wasn’t going to fall apart on him and start sniffling, was she? He hoped not. He didn’t deal well with tears—especially when he couldn’t tell if they were real or fake. Susan, his ex, had been able to shed tears on demand.

When he snuck a glance across the seat, Juliet’s gaze slammed into his.

Sharpened flecks of topaz blazed in her eyes, as she pointed a finger at him and raised her voice. “Don’t talk to me like that. I only meant to help. Not stir the guilt you feel.”

So much for expecting her to fall apart.

He stole a glance in the rearview mirror, wondering how she’d come to that conclusion. Had she read the shame in his expression or his mind?

“If they didn’t do squat,” she pressed, “then I’m led to believe you’re the one who’s responsible for the rift.”

“Yeah. In a way, I am.”

“Your mother is hurting,” Juliet said. “And you’re hurting, too. Only you’re covering it with anger and an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude.”

She was probably right about his mom. And about him, too. But he wasn’t going to discuss what happened that night, nor was he going to relive it.

On his eighteenth birthday, he’d finally left that mountaintop prison Jess and Anne-Marie Anderson called home, hitched a ride to the bus depot and took the old gray dog to Bozeman.

Before this damned assignment, he’d never looked back. And resurrecting old memories and pain wasn’t something he intended to do now. Leaving home, leaving Thunder Canyon, had kept him from drowning in guilt. From reliving that fateful afternoon when a selfish decision on his part had led to his sister’s death.

He slid another glance at the young woman across the seat, saw her furrowed brow, the pretty lips turned into a frown.

She had to know he was looking at her, but she didn’t respond.

Well, so what?

He didn’t need her sympathy.

Or her unspoken verdict.

When they arrived at her apartment, she maintained her silence, striking another blow to their friendship—or whatever the hell it was.

And right now, a bus ticket to Bozeman looked pretty damn appealing.

As soon as Mark had escorted Juliet and the baby inside the apartment, he left.

He hadn’t said where he was going, and she hadn’t asked. Nor had she mentioned her frustration, which was out of character for her.

Juliet had never been one to mince words when it came to expressing herself or her emotions. Feelings existed, and she didn’t make a secret of hers.

Like her abuelita, she was quick with a hug when she felt love and affection. And she had no problem voicing an objection when crossed or slighted.

But this was different. She found it difficult to understand what had caused the ache in her chest or the tears that welled in her eyes. And she couldn’t explain the guilt she felt over losing something she’d never really had.

This cold war she and Mark had silently declared made her uneasy and sad. And that didn’t make much sense.

After all, Mark planned to leave Thunder Canyon as soon as his story was finished. Only the town fool, la tonta del barrio, would expect their relationship to continue. Besides, she’d only known him for a couple of weeks. The secretive man was still a stranger in many ways.

So why did it bother her to think she’d lost his friendship?

Surely it wasn’t because she’d fallen in love with him. She knew better than to let herself do something that crazy.

She just didn’t like seeing him hurt, that’s all. He’d proven to be a good friend—her only friend right now. And she’d only meant to help him in return. That’s why she’d tried to get him to reconcile with his family.

Okay, so he’d been right. It wasn’t her business. And her efforts had backfired. She knew better than to push him any more than she had.

But she cared for Mark, more than she dared admit—even to herself.

A lot more.

Oh, Dios mio.

Was it possible? Was she falling in love with the tortured, cynical reporter who had stepped in when she needed a friend the most?

It sure felt that way.

Great. Just what she needed. Another absent loved one.

Juliet put away her groceries—all but the items she needed for dinner—then soaked the pinto beans in a pot of water. Before she could do anything more, Marissa began to cry, announcing it was chow-time again and causing Juliet to prioritize.

Her baby needed her, and their mother-daughter relationship was the only one that mattered.

For the past twenty-five years, Juliet had gotten along fine without Mark Anderson in her life. She could certainly survive the loss of his friendship, even if that meant never seeing him again, never seeing that teasing, flirtatious glimmer in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in a rebellious grin. Never hearing his graveled voice, his baritone laugh.

Grief and regret tore deep in her heart.

But she wouldn’t let it mar her future or that of her daughter.

After feeding Marissa and getting an extraloud burp, Juliet laid the baby in the cradle she’d purchased at Second Chances, the thrift store down the street, and covered her with the light green covijita.

She marveled at the precious miracle that grew bigger each day and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then she caressed her daughter’s head, felt the downy fine hair. Duerme bien, mi angelita.

After leaving the bedroom and entering the kitchen, she put the beans on to cook, and lost herself in the sounds and aromas of a meal meant to be therapeutic. All the while she hummed a medley of mariachi tunes that Abuelita used to sing.

She prepared several chicken breasts, soaking them in a sauce of tomatoes and chilies, taking care to make the salsa especially mild. The lactation expert at the hospital said that if a food made Juliet gassy, it would probably do the same to the baby. Of course, the spices in this dish had never bothered her.

While the pollo marinated, she chopped additional chilies and tomatoes, along with onions and cilantro. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a meal she’d most likely eat alone, but it didn’t matter. She felt at home in the kitchen, and the scent of beans and fresh salsa reminded her of her grandmother. Of love and laughter on Sunday afternoons at home in the barrio.

Juliet might be the only one seated at the table, but she would prepare a meal that would make Abuelita proud. A meal that would heal her frazzled emotions and fortify her heart. After all, she was creating a new home in Thunder Canyon, one based on love, family values and a hint of Old World culture.

And she darn sure didn’t need a stubborn, globetrotting reporter to turn her life upside down.

Even if he already had.

An hour later, Mark stretched out on the king-size bed in his room at the Wander-On Inn. Using the remote control, he turned on the television set and surfed the channels, looking for something to take his mind off his work and the argument he’d had with Juliet. But he’d be damned if there was anything on that even came close to handing him an easy escape.

Watching the evening news made him long for another assignment, one that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives. One that would enable him to ride off in the sunset and leave Thunder Canyon in the dust.

A Gunsmoke rerun triggered thoughts of Old Town and of Juliet’s love of the Wild West.

Bowling For Dollars reminded him of her silly urge to visit Buckhorn Lanes and watch the Gutter Busters do their thing. Or—God forbid—join the league his parents belonged to.

Trading Spaces merely made him think about how badly Juliet’s apartment needed a remodel.

Dammit. He turned off the TV and stood. There wasn’t anything worth watching, anything that didn’t remind him of Juliet in one way or another.

He didn’t like fighting with her. Didn’t like stomping off and leaving things unresolved—a defense mechanism that had always worked well for him in the past.

And he damn sure didn’t like thinking that their relationship—or whatever the hell it was—had been irrevocably damaged.

He probably ought to go to her place and tell her he was sorry. Not about being stubborn and refusing to socialize with his parents, but about snapping at her.

She’d only meant to be helpful.

But apologies didn’t come easy for Mark.

He strode into the small bathroom and turned on the spigot, setting the shower in motion. Then he stripped off his clothes and climbed under the steaming spray.

The steady pulse of water helped some, but not enough. As he toweled himself dry, his thoughts remained on the argument they’d had, on the way Juliet’s eyes had flashed in anger. And on the pain he’d spotted in her gaze when he’d taken her home. That last, sorrow-filled glance that had nearly torn him apart.

He blew out a ragged sigh. Damn. He didn’t want her angry. Or her feelings to be hurt.

Against his principles, he threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t see any need to shave.

Five minutes later, he stood at Juliet’s door, feeling like a kid who’d hit a baseball through his neighbor’s window, asking for the ball and promising to replace the glass with a hard-earned allowance.

He knocked, and several moments later, she answered, wearing a pair of black slacks and a pink blouse, its buttons pulled taut by her breasts.

A shy but pretty smile made him momentarily forget why he’d come, so he just stood there. Their gazes locked. Caught up in something he couldn’t explain.

The scent of peach blossoms and spice taunted his senses, making him take a second whiff.

And a third.

She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, and sexual awareness slammed into his chest, taking his breath away, along with the words he’d intended to speak.

She swung open the door, allowing him inside.

A part of him wanted to rewind, to start over. To head back to the Wander-On Inn and pretend he hadn’t come to talk to her.

But he had. And he realized how much he’d missed their easy banter, their camaraderie. How much he’d missed her.

“I…uh…came to…” Oh, for cripes sake. Why couldn’t he just spit it out? Why this awkward, adolescent reaction to the sight of her?

Her hair was loose and hung like a veil of silk past her shoulders, the glossy strands begging to be touched.

She didn’t speak and merely stared at him in the same way he looked at her. Why wasn’t she making this easier on him?

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice coming out soft and hoarse at the same time. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”

“I’m sorry, too. My brother used to get mad at me when I didn’t mind my own business. It’s tough to keep quiet, though, when I care about someone and want to help.”

He raked a hand through his hair, realizing now wasn’t the time to tell her he didn’t need anyone’s help. He was ready to put this argument behind them. For good.

“Go ahead and invite my folks to dinner,” he said. “That is, if you want to.”

“And you’ll come, too?” Hope glistened in a bright-eyed smile that dimpled her cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come, too, just as long as it’s on my last night in town.”

She didn’t respond to the stipulation he considered a hell of a compromise. Still, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

Once inside, the warm, fresh aroma of chilies and spice waylaid him, and his stomach growled in response.

Had she expected him? Had she made enough for two? Would she ask him to stay?

His stomach growled again, this time too loud for her to have missed.

“Dinner will be ready in a minute or two. Will you join me?”

Maybe she was just trying to be polite, but right now, he didn’t care. The meal smelled incredibly good, and he was too hungry to be sensitive. “Yeah, I would like to eat with you. Thanks.”

He watched in silence as she set the table. Then, taking a seat across from her, he relished one of the best chicken dishes he’d ever had. The sauce was on the mild side, but it was tasty just the same.

Throughout dinner, they seemed to tap dance around the sticky subject of his parents and the rift they’d had, which was a big relief. Mark preferred to glance up from his plate and see her smile, rather than frown.

After they ate, she stood and began to clear the table.

He reached for her arm and stopped her. “Let me help.”

“All right.”

They carried plates, silverware and glasses to the kitchen, and when they got to the sink, they reached for the faucet at the same time, fingers brushing, gazes locking, hearts pounding. Awareness flaring.

Time seemed to stand still, and a megadose of adrenaline blasted his libido, sending it into overdrive.

Mark didn’t know why he did it. Didn’t know why he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. But he wanted to kiss her in the worst way.

And in the best way.

He cupped her jaw, his thumbs caressing the silky skin of her cheeks. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t step away.

So he drew her mouth to his.