Ethan. Diana Palmer
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“You should have listened to me about Miriam,” she said groggily.
“We won’t talk about my ex-wife,” he said coldly. “You’re coming home with me when you’re able to get around again. Mother and Mary will look after you and keep you company.”
“How’s my father?” she asked.
“I haven’t found out anything new. I’ll check later. Right now, I need breakfast and a change of clothes. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve got my men started at home. We’re in the middle of roundup.”
“What a time to be landed with me,” she said with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Ethan. Dad could have spared you this.”
He ignored the comment. “Did you have any clothes in the car with you?”
She shook her head. The slight movement hurt, so she stopped. She reached up with her free hand to smooth back the mass of waving dark brown hair from her bruised face. “My clothes are back in the apartment in Houston.”
“Where’s the key?”
“In my purse. They should have brought it in with me,” she murmured drowsily.
He searched in the locker on the other side of the room and found her expensive leather purse. He carried it to the bed with the air of a man holding a poisonous snake. “Where is it?” he muttered.
She stared at him, amused despite the sedatives and the growing pain. “The key is in the zipper compartment,” she managed.
He took out a set of keys and she showed him the right one. He put the purse away with obvious relief. “Beats me why women can’t use pockets, the way men do.”
“The stuff we carry wouldn’t fit into pockets,” she said reasonably. She laid back on the pillows, her eyes open and curious. “You look terrible.”
He didn’t smile. He hardly ever had, except for a few magical days when she was eighteen. Before Miriam got her beautiful hands on him. “I haven’t had much sleep,” he said, his voice sharp and cutting.
She smiled drowsily. “Don’t growl at me. Coreen wrote to me last month in Los Angeles. She said you’re impossible to live with these days.”
“My mother always thought I was impossible to live with,” he reminded her.
“She said you’d been that way for three months, since the divorce was final,” she replied. “Why did Miriam finally give in? She was the one who insisted on staying married to you, despite the fact that she stopped living with you ages ago.”
“How should I know?” he asked abruptly, and turned away.
She saw the way he closed up at the mention of his ex-wife’s name, and her heart felt heavy and cold. His marriage had hurt her more than anything in her life. It had been unexpected, and she’d almost gone off the deep end when she’d heard. Somehow she’d always thought that Ethan cared for her. She’d been too young for him at eighteen, but that day by the swimming hole, she’d been sure that he felt more than just a physical attraction for her. Or maybe that had been one more hopeless illusion. Whatever he’d felt, he’d started going around with Miriam immediately after that sweet interlude, and within two months he’d married the woman.
Arabella had mourned him bitterly. He’d been the first man in her life in all the important ways, except for the most intimate one. She was still waiting for that first intimacy, just as she’d waited most of her adult life for Ethan to love her. She almost laughed out loud. Ethan had never loved her. He’d loved Miriam, who’d come to the ranch to film a commercial. She’d watched it happen, watched Ethan falling under the spell of the green-eyed, redheaded model with her sophisticated beauty.
Arabella had never had the measure of self-confidence and teasing sophistication that Miriam had. And Miriam had walked off with Ethan, only to leave him. They said that Ethan had become a woman-hater because of his marriage. Arabella didn’t doubt it. He’d never been a playboy in the first place. He was much too serious and stoical. There was nothing happy-go-lucky or carefree about Ethan. He’d had the responsibility for his family for a long time now, and even Arabella’s earliest memories of him were of a quiet, hard man who threw out orders like a commanding general, intimidating men twice his age when he was only just out of his teens.
Ethan was watching her, but his scrutiny ceased when she noticed him standing beside the bed. “I’ll send someone to your apartment in Houston for your things.”
“Thank you.” He wouldn’t talk to her about Miriam. Somehow, she’d expected that reaction. She took a deep breath and started to lift her hand. It felt heavy. She looked down and realized that it was in a small cast. Red antiseptic peeked out from under it, stark against her pale skin. She felt the threat of reality and withdrew from it, closing her eyes.
“They had to set the bones,” Ethan said. “The cast comes off in six weeks, and you’ll have the use of your hand again.”
Use of it, yes. But would she be able to play again as she had? How long would it take, and how would she manage to support herself and her father if she couldn’t? She felt panic seeping in. Her father had a heart condition. She knew, because he’d used it against her in the early days when she hadn’t wanted the years of study, the eternal practice that made it impossible for her to go places with her friends Mary and Jan, Ethan’s sister, and Matt, his brother whom Mary had later married.
It was astonishing that her father had called Ethan after the wreck. Ever since Arabella had blossomed into a young woman, her father had made sure that Ethan didn’t get too close to her. He’d never liked Ethan. The reverse was also true. Arabella hadn’t understood the friction, because Ethan had never made any serious advances toward her, until that day she and Ethan had gone swimming at the creek, and things had almost gone too far. Arabella had told no one, so her father hadn’t known about that. It was her own private, special secret. Hers and Ethan’s.
She forced her mind back to the present. She couldn’t let herself become maudlin now. She had enough complications in her life without asking for more. She vaguely remembered mentioning to Ethan that day she and he had gone swimming together, when she was eighteen. She hoped against hope that he’d been too worried to pay attention to the remark, that she hadn’t given away how precious the memory was to her.
“You said I’d stay with you,” she began falteringly, trying to make her mind work. “But, my father…?”
“Your uncle lives in Dallas, remember?” he asked curtly. “Your father will probably stay there.”
“He won’t like having me this far away,” she said doggedly.
“No, he won’t, will he?” He pulled the sheet up to her chin. “Try to sleep. Let the medicine work.”
Her wide green eyes opened, holding his. “You don’t want me at your house,” she said huskily. “You never did. We quarreled over Miriam and you said I was a pain in the neck and you never wanted to have to see me again!”
He actually winced. “Try to sleep,” he said tersely.
She was drifting in and out of consciousness, blissfully unaware of the tortured look on the dark face above her. She closed her eyes. “Yes. Sleep…”
The world seemed very far away as the drugs took hold at last and she slept. Her dreams were full of the old days, of growing up with Mary and Matt, of Ethan always nearby, beloved and taciturn and completely unattainable. No matter how hard she tried to act her age, Ethan had never looked at her as a woman in those early days.
Arabella had always loved him. Her music had been her escape. She could play the exquisite classical pieces and put all the love Ethan didn’t want into her fingers as she played. It was that fever and need that had given her a start in the musical world. At the age of twenty-one, she’d won an international competition with a huge financial prize, and the recognition had given her a shot at a recording contract.
Classical