Читать книгу Three Kids And A Cowboy - Natalie Patrick - Страница 9

“What is going on here? Where are my parents? And why are you living in their house?” Miranda hadn’t thought herself capable of speaking. However, once she had dutifully followed Brodie into what had been her father’s den, the questions began to tumble out of her mouth.

She supposed they were a defense against the waves of emotion crashing down on her at the sight of Brodie, big as life, before her. She hadn’t thought seeing him again would be so…confusing.

Stabbing heartache fought with buoyant joy inside her. To complicate things further, as she watched him walking away from her now—a sight that could buckle the knees of any healthy woman—that old thrill rippled through her again.

She brushed her fingertips over the crisp cotton of her shirt, feeling her heart pounding through the summer-weight fabric. She wondered what was going through Brodie’s mind. Was he glad to see her, or angry that she’d dare to reappear as suddenly as she’d left a year ago?

Despite a flutter in her stomach, she gritted her teeth and told herself that Brodie’s reaction didn’t really matter. How he felt about seeing her wouldn’t change reality. For both their sakes, she had to put aside her questions and never let Brodie see any weakness he inspired in her. If he sensed her turmoil, he’d try to fix it.

In her present confused state, she just might be tempted to let him try. And what would that get her but a new crack in an already crumbling heart?

She tossed back her hair and angled her chin up. She’d come here to confront Brodie, and that was what she was going to do, as soon as he explained the strange set of circumstances in which she found him and her family home. Standing by the open door, her back pressed against the cool wall, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited for that explanation.

Brodie moved slowly, like a man recovering from a body blow, around the big desk dominating a room whose focal point had once been a wall of her photos. The photos remained, but they seemed overshadowed by the unfamiliar trappings of a ranch office now in place.

Behind the desk, he seemed to notice neither her nor the gaudy memorial her parents had made to her. His leather chair squeaked as he dropped into it. It squeaked again when he swiveled it frontward, then moved to take his Stetson from his head and place the bad-boy-black hat on the desktop.

The moments dragged by, forcing Miranda to make a study of Brodie, rather than get her answers and get gone, as she would have liked.

The last time she saw Brodie, he’d been fast asleep in their bed, naked except for a tangled sheet and that stealyour-heart grin on his face. She could still see his bare chest, well-muscled arms and long legs. He’d always been built like something out of a western fantasy, lean and clean-cut, with broad shoulders and a behind made to be caressed by faded denim. If anything, this past year had amplified those qualities.

Miranda shifted against the wall, well aware of the changes she’d gone though—inwardly and outwardly—since she last kissed her husband goodbye. She tugged at the front of her shirt, hoping to make it blouse over the top of her jeans enough to disguise the ten pounds she’d gained trying to assuage her misery with chocolate candy and pasta Alfredo.

He ran one of his big hands through the sun-streaked waves of his blond hair, which had grown considerably. He always did that when he took his hat off. Now he had a heck of a lot more hair to rake through.

He’d let his hair get shaggy before, but it had never been this long. To her surprise, it worked for him. Worked too damn well, she thought, trying to quell the stirrings in the pit of her stomach.

Miranda swallowed hard and touched her own soft hair. She wondered if he hadn’t bothered with a haircut because she wasn’t around to remind him to do it. Or could he possibly know how truly sexy and powerful the golden mane made him look? Could it be a calculated thing to attract women? Had he moved on that much?

Not that it mattered, she told herself. In fact, that was exactly what she hoped would happened. She’d left Brodie so that he could find another woman, and if he’d actually started to make himself more attractive for just that reason, well…

It stank. After all, he was still married to her. A tightening in her chest made her pull her shoulders square and tilt her head back. Only a jerk would go out looking for another relationship with so much unresolved.

That wasn’t Brodie’s style. Like a dog with a bone, he would have held on. He had held on. That was why she had come back—because one of them had to let go. And a year’s worth of silence told her it wasn’t going to be Brodie.

“This can’t go on, Brodie, and you know it,” she said aloud, to her own surprise.

He jerked his head up, and for the first time, his gaze penetrated her facade.

Miranda gasped quietly at the sheer power in his piercing blue eyes.

His thin lips went pale as he spoke through a tight smile. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Randi.”

“Don’t…” She glanced down at the tips of her favorite red cowboy boots and jiggled her foot. Telling herself she couldn’t afford to sound so distraught, she drew in a deep breath and went on softly, “Please don’t call me that, Brodie.”

He tipped his head to one side and flattened his hands on the desk in front of him. Sunlight from the nearby window made the wedding band on his left hand glint as he whispered, “You used to like it when I called you that.”

“Things change.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, his gaze still fixed on hers.

Miranda pressed her tight shoulders to the wall and swallowed hard. “No, you tell me about it. Tell me what’s going on…and I mean right now.”

He laughed. It didn’t sound one bit as if he found her insistence amusing, though. It was a hard laugh. Cold.

Miranda shivered.

“That’s a hoot, Ran—uh, Miranda. You take off in the night, stay gone a year, then just show up on my doorstep and demand I tell you what’s going on.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said with false bravado. “And you can start by telling me why you call my mom and dad’s house your doorstep.”

“I call it mine because I bought this place from them lock, stock and your barrel-racing trophies over three months ago.” He looked away from her. “You’d know that if you had bothered to phone home more than once every blue moon, or if you’d given your folks some way to get in touch with you.”

“B-bought it?” Her shoulders slumped as all the pretense she had mustered drained out of her. “You own Robbins Nest Ranch?”

He shifted in the chair. “It’s the Circle S now.”

“You kept the name of the old ranch?” She blinked against the pain of the memory.

The Circle S. They’d decided to name their ranch after the symbol of unending love—the circle—on their honeymoon. Miranda didn’t know what to read into Brodie’s keeping the name.

“I didn’t keep the name,” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “I kept the ranch—expanded it to include this one.”

“But you’re living here?”

“I let the foreman and his wife stay in the old house.” His relentless gaze drove into hers. “I think it pleased your folks to know this house wouldn’t set empty.”

Guilt at the mention of her parents made her bow her head. “I never had much to say to my folks while I was gone. I called now and then to let them know I was okay. When I wasn’t able to reach them these last few times, I sent a note. Then I didn’t call at all this last month because I was planning on coming home and I wanted it to be a…” She glanced up at him, almost cringing as she finished in a hoarse whisper, “…surprise.”

“Well, you got your wish.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m surprised.”

“Me too.” She choked out the words.

“The question is, what do we do about it? It was pretty clear from the look on your face when I came through the door that you didn’t come home to me.”

A weak smile was all Miranda could manage to thank him for being the one to say it. She doubted she’d have had the strength. Right now, she wondered how she would get the courage to walk out the door again.

Still, she sighed and said, “I did come back to see you, Brodie, but I won’t pretend. It wasn’t to reconcile.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. For an instant, his eyes betrayed something—a flicker of pain, or was it resignation?—and then they went hard and distant, emptied of any emotion.

If only he’d let that emotion surface, Miranda thought, if only he’d yell and give her hell for leaving. If only he’d once crack open that facade enough to let her see what was inside, then maybe they could work things out. But as long as he kept it all locked up tight, she’d never be able to trust that he didn’t secretly resent, even hate, her for the fact that she couldn’t give him a child.

She forced her gaze away to sweep the room, hoping to draw comfort from the familiarity of her father’s den. The old green-and-gold wall paper remained, and so did the footstool of hand-tooled leather and the big bookshelves. She scanned the books’ spines, thinking the titles of old books of cowboy poetry would trigger a warm memory of the past, something she could cling to as she faced her future.

Making Babies: Modern Techniques in Aiding Conception. The Pregnant Pause: Why You Can’t Wait To Treat Infertility.

Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have to wonder in twenty years if Brodie would feel cheated. She knew now, just as she had known the night she left.

She blinked back the tears. She had to get out of there. She wiped one damp palm down the rough denim of her jeans and managed to speak. “Maybe it would be best if you just told me where I could find my folks and I’ll get out of your hair.”

A thin smile crooked his lips up on one side, and he scored his splayed fingers back through his hair again. “I wondered when you’d notice my hair.”

“Don’t, Brodie,” she croaked softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t what?” How dare he play it so calm, when they both knew this was shredding them up inside. She lifted her head in a flash of challenge. “Don’t bury your real feelings under that cowboy charm of yours. I’m not buying it anymore.”

He stood, sending his chair swiveling backward until it thudded into the photo-covered wall. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, get mad at me, darn it.” She pushed off from the wall and strode toward him. Slamming both hands on his desk, she tossed down the verbal gauntlet. “Throw me out of your house. Call me all the names I’m sure you’ve thought about me this last year. Vow to make me pay for the way I treated you. Tell me you’ve met another woman.”

With each suggestion, her voice rose in volume and intensity, until she demanded in a shriek of fury, “Tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

He planted his hands on the desk beside hers and leaned forward until the tips of their noses almost brushed.

Her nostrils twitched at the scent of his skin, of his cotton shirt, dried on the clothesline then starched and ironed. She pushed down the inevitable memories and met his gaze. His deep blue eyes held no clue as to what went on inside the man, and yet, gazing into them made Miranda tremble with pain and passion.

She wanted to withdraw, but didn’t dare show him that he could affect her that much. She’d never get through this if he saw what he still did to her with those eyes, that slow molasses-and-whiskey voice of his.

She wet her trembling lips and whispered, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

“No.”

If he expected her to feel flattered or relieved or even overwhelmed by his simple refusal, then he had her pegged pretty damned good. She felt all those things and more. She also felt like grabbing him and trying to shake some sense into his hard head. Instead, she looked to the ceiling and groaned her frustration, knowing her only hope was to get out of there and find a place to clear her mind.

Sighing wearily, she said, “Then tell me where my parents are.”

He relinquished the desk to stand straight and reply, “Phoenix.”

She blinked at him, the tense muscles in her arms relaxing as she asked, “Phoenix? Arizona?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

He gave a tight shrug that made his answer seem more angry than casual. “Retired.”

“You mean they went out there already, to that little retirement community they always talked about?”

“Yep.”

“They weren’t planning on doing that for another year,” she said, trying to make it all fit. “I thought I had plenty of time before…I mean, who just up and leaves like that?”

“You.” His gaze bored into hers. His tanned cheeks grew taut, and his hands gripped his lean hips.

As strong, silent types went, Brodie took the prize as the strongest and most silent. Many times he’d told Miranda that he didn’t want to “talk things to death.” She knew that meant he just wanted to get on with things by fixing them himself. But when talking was his only recourse and he resorted to one-word answers, she knew things had gone from bad to worse, in his estimation.

Suddenly Miranda realized how hard this must be on him, as well, and she wanted doubly to get out, to give him some time and space to deal with it.

She stubbed the toe of her red boot against the leg of the desk. “I guess they got tired of waiting for me to call and just decided to go ahead with their plans.”

“Apparently.”

She took her hands off the desk and straightened. “Guess they also figured when I did call the ranch there’d be a familiar voice on the line to tell me where they’d gone. Right?”

Brodie cocked his head. A lock of blond hair swung onto his forehead.

Her fingertips burned to touch that hair. She squeezed her eyes shut to block it and him from her sight as she muttered, “I really goofed up big this time. I can’t think how this homecoming could have gotten anymore awkward or chaotic, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

A tiny rap came at the office door. “Daddy, it’s Katie. Come quick, the so-so circus lady is here!”

“You obviously need to stretch your imagination a little further, Miranda,” Brodie muttered.

He rubbed one hand over his face and tried to shoo away the fog that Miranda’s physical nearness created in him. As his callused palm dragged over his nose and down to his jaw, he slowly opened his eyes to face Miranda’s reaction!

“Daddy?” Miranda’s voice registered disbelief above the constant knocking at the door.

Yes, Daddy, he thought. It still startled him a bit to be called that. He wasn’t certain when it had started since Katie’s pronunciation of Brodie had teetered dangerously close to the “D” word from the beginning. Now that the child had slipped into the easy habit, he didn’t have the heart to correct her. Brodie sighed, shook his head, then strode from behind the desk.

As he passed her, Miranda tugged at his shirtsleeve and asked again, “Daddy?”

He moved forward so that his shirt slipped from between her fingers. Without looking at Miranda, he yanked open the door to reveal Katie, draped in a big, old robe, her hair soap-free but damp, standing barefoot in the doorway.

“The so-so circus lady is here.”

“That’s social service, darlin’, and I heard you the first time.” In the excitement of Miranda’s arrival, he had forgotten all about the social-service visit scheduled for today.

What was he going to do? This was his chance to make a lasting impression as a potential parent for the three kids who needed him so desperately, the kids he had come to care about enough to fight tooth and nail for them. He couldn’t let them down.

Their welfare had to take precedence over his own situation. Somehow he had to get Miranda out and then explain away the spilled groceries, the wet carpet, not to mention the fact that they hadn’t gotten Katie dressed yet….

He leaned down to the child and placed one hand on her head, “It’s okay, Katie. Tell Crispy to get her some coffee, and I’ll be right there.”

“Okeydokey, Daddy.” She pivoted on her heel, kicked the long robe out behind her, then skipped off down the hall.

“She did say Daddy,” Miranda murmured.

“Guess it’s my turn to say ‘surprise,’ huh?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time for that, or for any more conversation. I’ve got to get out there and convince a pinched-faced social-service lady, who didn’t really even want me to take these kids into emergency foster care, that I should be allowed to adopt them.”

“Adopt?” Her voice sounded breathy—as if she’d just taken a sucker punch to the gut.

He inhaled the delicate scent of her perfume and held it while a thousand things raced through his mind. He thought of how to explain it all to her, of how to tell her of Travis and Donna’s death. He wondered if this news would change anything, and he wondered how he could walk out of this room, knowing she might well decide to run off again. Finally he thought of the children, and he exhaled slowly.

“Miranda, I…” He glanced out into the airy hallway and then back to Miranda. “I have to go.”

She pressed her full lips together. A mist softened the green of her eyes to a gleaming jade. She shook back her rich brown hair and dipped her head to the open door. “We’ll talk later.”

“Your folks’ new number is in the address book on top of my desk.” He put one hand on her arm. The urge raged in him to pull her close and fold her into an embrace that would comfort them both. Instead, he turned and headed down the hall. No time for personal problems today.

No time? he thought as his boots pounded the floorboards of the hall. Or no guts?

He might have considered it further if, just before he reached the end of the hallway, three young ragamuffins hadn’t spun around the corner and smacked straight into his legs.

“We saw her, Brodie,” Grace said, her eyebrows arched high and her mouth pulled down in an exaggerated expression. “It’s Mrs. Beetle.”

Grace stretched out the woman’s name so that it seemed to have four too many es in it. Brodie had to smile at that.

“Well, we suspected Mrs. Beetle might stay on the case, you know,” he told her as he slowly lowered himself to the children’s eye level, knowing it was up to him to put a good face on things. Too bad he didn’t feel as positive as he sounded when he said, “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

From the doorway, Miranda couldn’t help watching the scene being played out a few feet away. Tall, brawny Brodie hunkered down to talk to three children. Children with hair just slightly paler than his own and eyes almost as blue. If she’d seen them together on the street, she might never have guessed the kids weren’t his by blood.

An icy chill snaked through her, and she fisted her hand over her stomach, even as she heard the nearby conversation continue.

“How can we make the best of it?” the older girl whined. “Mrs. Beetle doesn’t like us.”

Brodie’s calm expression never wavered. “Don’t be silly, Grace. What’s not to like about three adorable kids like you?”

“I was trying to be nice,” Grace said, her eyes rolled heavenward. “What I really meant was, she doesn’t like you.”

“And she doesn’t like us living with you,” the boy added solemnly. “She says we have abandonment issues.”

What a big word for such a little boy, Miranda thought. Still, he said it as if he’d heard it often before. As if he fully understood its ramifications. The idea tugged at her already tender heart.

“She says,” the boy went on, “that they placed us with the Stones on account of they had a good environment.”

Brodie’s face went grim. He lowered his head and didn’t say a thing.

The smallest girl tapped Brodie on the shoulder. “Don’t you have a good varmint, Daddy?”

Brodie gave a soft snort of a chuckle. “This being a ranch, Katie, we got plenty of varmints.”

The children looked at him expectantly, needing more than Miranda suspected Brodie could give. They needed him to dig into his gut and give them emotional support about a situation that remained entirely out of his control. All it would take was a smile, or a look, or a touch that said, “We can tackle this together.” Experience told Miranda that Brodie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be able to do it.

Brodie glanced at the floor. He folded his hands together. His great shoulders lifted, then fell, and slowly he raised his head.

Miranda almost gasped aloud at the light that shone in the man’s once cool blue eyes. A teasing tenderness played on his smiling lips as he reached out and gingerly brushed the back of his hand along Katie’s pink cheek. “Don’t tell anybody this, darlin’—” He leaned in, and the children copied his action, creating a circle of blond heads “—but I half think Mr. Crispy is part varmint himself.”

A peal of giggles wafted down the hall. Brodie’s laughter providing a resonant undertone. He did it, Miranda marveled. He gave a little of himself to make those kids feel better. He didn’t just tell them that he’d take care of it and storm off to meet the social worker.

“The word is environment, anyway, Katie,” the boy they called Bubba said after the laughter faded. “Mrs. Beetle says she’d rather see us sent to separate homes than be together in a place that didn’t have the proper environment.”

Katie turned her big eyes on the boy. “What does that mean?”

Brodie dropped his gaze, and his shoulders slumped as if they were suddenly carrying the weight of the world. “It means she doubts if Crispy and I are enough to take care of you three. It means she thinks we need…”

“A mom,” Bubba concluded quietly.

“That’s not necessarily so, Bubba.” Brodie looked the boy in the eye, his gaze and tone upbeat, not contradictory. “Mrs. Beetle does think you belong in a house with two parents, but that’s not the law, it’s just Mrs. Beetle’s recommendation.”

“But what she says counts with the courts,” Bubba reminded them all, like a seasoned veteran of the system. “And I heard her say, Brodie, that she’s talked to folks around town, and unless you can prove you aren’t a grouchy old hermit like they all say, she’ll have us out of here so fast it’ll make our heads spin.”

Katie grabbed her curly blond head with both pudgy hands. “I get dizzy just going on the merry-go-round. I don’t want my head to spin, Daddy. Don’t let her do that.”

“I’ll try my dam—Uh, I’ll try real hard, darlin’,” Brodie said. “Unfortunately, I haven’t done much this last year to keep folks from thinking I am a grouchy old hermit.”

“Don’t you know anyone who can say different?” Grace asked.

“Just Crispy, and you can guess how much weight he’ll carry.”

Katie wrinkled up her nub of nose. “He’s too skinny to carry any weight.”

“My brother, but he hasn’t exactly got the kind of reputation that dazzles the family-values crowd. My in-laws would’ve stood up for me, but they’re in Phoenix. The only other folks who would have gone to bat for me are…” Brodie pressed his lips shut.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” Bubba filled in. “And they’re dead.”

Dead? Could that be so? From the looks on Brodie’s and the children’s faces, Miranda realized it must be.

Miranda had known Donna and Travis for years, but they had been in Brodie’s class in high school—three years ahead of hers—and she’d never been close to either of them. Still, it was a shock to learn of their passing.

When Miranda first discovered her infertility, Donna had rushed over, thinking that as two childless women they would forge a common bond. But Miranda had pushed her away, unready for that kind of reminder of her own failure. She had also feared that the Stones, who had tried everything and were considering adopting, would side with Brodie, forcing her into trying some extreme fertility treatment she simply couldn’t handle. And now they were gone.

Suddenly everything became crystal-clear—where the three children had come from and why Brodie had stepped in to care for them. He was determined to fix this, too. And by some strange quirk of fate these kids might just fix him, as well. They brought out something in him that she never could.

Even through her own hurt and confusion, she could see the risk that Brodie would be cheated out of the family he’d always longed for. Only this time, things were different. This time, it was within her power to give him that family—if she dared.

“Then if what Mrs. Beetle says counts a lot, we’re in big trouble,” Grace said, her blond head wagging back and forth.

“’Cause she’s the lady that said you and Mr. Crispy needed to live in a stable.”

“She said the household needed to be more stable,” Bubba corrected.

“She might have been right the first time.” Miranda smiled as she stepped into the hallway. The smile was a big, fat fake. Beneath it she was scared—no, terrified.

This was where her training on the pageant circuit came in handy, she thought as she walked purposefully toward the four stunned people gaping at her. Stopping in front of them, she placed her hands on her hips and tried to sound absolutely charming as she said, “I don’t know about Crispy, but this fellow here is sure more at home in a barn than almost anywhere.”

Brodie stood and towered over her, his eyes narrowed so that she could not see his reaction in their depths. “What are you up to, Miranda?”

“I’m up to about here,” she answered, slashing her open hand over her head. “And getting in deeper every second.”

Miranda swallowed. She was about to do either the stupidest or the smartest thing she had ever done. Either way, it would change her life forever. More important, it would change Brodie’s life—for the better. She owed him that much, after the year she’d just given him.

Her gaze dipped to the small children staring up at her, their mouths hanging open. It didn’t hurt that she was helping three sweet-faced orphans find a family, either.

She wet her lips and tilted her head back to fix her eyes on Brodie.

He cocked his head.

“Brodie,” she whispered, “I know this won’t make up for the way I left. I know it won’t change the fact that you will someday want your own flesh-and-blood baby, or that you’d need another woman to give you that. But for now, for you and these sweet kids, I’m offering to help you convince the social-service people that this is the best home ever, and you are the best parent in all of Texas.”