Blaylock's Bride. Cait London
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Frowning, Kallista read on.
“He would have never come after me like you did at the Bisque Café. He lets me make my own choices and I like taking care of him. I am expecting his child. I won’t be back. Do not fight the divorce, or I’ll tell your family that the marriage was all a sham. That you married me to protect me from gossip and that I couldn’t bear to have you touch me all these years. Debbie.”
In contrast to the shattering note, but in keeping with her light-brain personality, Debbie had drawn a smiley face. She also dotted her name’s i with a circle. The P.S. was hurriedly scrawled, an afterthought.
“Thank you for being a good father to John’s daughter. Michaela’s birth hurt too much for me to really love her. I took the mortgage payment.”
From Hannah, Kallista had learned that Roman’s three-year-old daughter had drowned in a shallow plastic swimming pool, a freak accident. Roman had been in the fields, working on the tractor, and had returned to find his daughter drowned. Debbie had said she’d just run into the house for a moment to answer the telephone. He’d been griefstricken for years, and Debbie, a fragile woman, had proclaimed to everyone that she was a good mother. Soon after the child’s death, Debbie had set about making a new life to please herself.
Kallista folded the note and let it flutter into a trash basket. A fat envelope caught her attention, and she scooped it from the trash. Four years ago, the day that Roman had swept angrily into the shop, the checking and savings accounts in the name of Roman and Debbie Blaylock had been emptied. Debbie’s handwriting was on both withdrawals, which left a balance of ten dollars. When pieced together, a torn overdue payment on Roman Blaylock’s mortgage revealed the bank’s foreclosure notice.
Though it was not the present, four years ago, Debbie’s shrill voice cut into the shadows around Kallista. “I told you I didn’t make the last payment because I needed the money for something else. No, I will not replace our savings, not even enough for the payments due. Sell a tractor or a cow, or something—”
Roman had suffered, but he had probably taken other women to his bed for comfort. He was certainly knowledgeable about how to touch lightly, gently, just a stroke of his fingertip to arouse... He’d showered and the scent of soap and man clung to him, his hands rough with work, strong, capable. The heat in his eyes could cause a righteous woman to melt and tremble.
Kallista wasn’t righteous; she was a survivor who knew that with soft looks usually came conditions and payments. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out into the gray predawn light to the knoll where Boone lay. Roman couldn’t be trusted and he had his big fists locked on Boone’s beloved estate. Cattle were milling in the pastures, sheep spread across the small knoll like a soft, creamy cloud, a dog barked, and Boone—the only man Kallista had trusted other than Channing Boudreaux—was dead.
She shivered, the empty house adding to the vacuum of her life. The impression of Roman’s hard tall body on top of hers sent a hot flush through her cheeks and another shiver through her body. He’d been aroused—and so warm, his shoulders sleek and wide, rippling with power. His chest had pressed against her breasts and his heart had raced, a pulse throbbing in his throat. That pulse had become an earthquake from his stomach down to his hips, his thighs heavy, taut, upon hers. Her heart had ricocheted the pounding beat of his and for just an instant as time stood still, a flood of desire wiped away her dislike of Roman. The denim of their jeans had not insulated the heat pouring from him—or was it her?
He knew how to look at a woman, to make her respond. More than likely, Roman hadn’t missed Debbie’s wifely affection. He was probably used to women coming to his bed on a regular basis. Boone’s bed. Kallista scrubbed her face with shaking hands. She’d come back for Boone, to make certain that his beloved treasures and his land were not sacked.
A key rattled in the door and Roman stepped into the shadows, followed by two leggy, thin dogs that moved quickly into the shadows. He lifted his black brows and tipped his Western hat on the back of his head. In the shadows, he looked like his Apache and Spanish ancestors—terrifyingly masculine, dominating, arrogant, an angular blend of sheer power. “Ma’am. You’ve had a busy night.”
Her head went back, ready to fight; she’d seen through those famous Blaylock ladykiller manners. The Blaylock men were known to be courteous and respectful of women—if they weren’t, their mother had applied a wooden spoon. “I can see why you wanted to move into Boone’s house.”
“It’s...convenient” He nodded slowly, watching her, and tossed his hat to the kitchen counter. Dressed in jeans, a work shirt and a battered flannel jacket, Roman’s shaggy black hair was rumpled, as though he’d been dragging his hands through it He glanced at the shadowy rooms and inhaled unevenly.
Kallista leaned against the kitchen counter and studied him. If he had weaknesses, this man of stone, she’d find them. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small apple and bottled water. She wiped the apple on her jeans and took a bite, studying him. After a sip of water, she asked, “You’re uncomfortable here. Why? It was your home, wasn’t it?”
“I built it for my wife. I thought it would make her happy.” The words were solemn, the promise of a man who took his marriage vows seriously. According to Jasmine gossip, Blaylock men held their marriages and their wives sacred. Boone had said that Blaylock men got moldy when they weren’t stirred up, and she intended to do a little stirring.
“Rumor has it that Debbie remarried quickly,” she pushed. She wondered just how much control Roman Blaylock possessed when tested.
“She did that. I wish her well.” Roman spoke too quietly.
Finished with her apple, Kallista pulled out a chocolate bar and peeled away the paper. Habit caused her to lick the chocolate tip before biting; she sensed Roman tensing and she cut right to his wound, sparing him nothing. “Come on, don’t hand me that. You were married for thirteen years. She was your childhood sweetheart. A professor of literature took her away from you. That had to hurt your pride.”
“You want it all, don’t you? To place all the pieces in a neat little picture? Well, lady, maybe the pieces don’t fit, no matter how hard you dig.” There was that dangerous edge, the lifted hackles, a warning of a private man as Roman ripped off his gloves and jammed them into his jeans’ back pocket. He crossed his arms, looking down at her, waiting.
Too bad. She wanted to know about Roman, to prove him unfit to be Boone’s executor. She munched on the chocolate bar, taking her time to nettle him. She retrieved a chip of chocolate with her tongue. “This house has been stripped.”
There was that quick intake of breath as though pain had sliced through Roman Blaylock’s big, lean, muscled body. “Debbie took what she wanted.”
The dogs moved restlessly; perhaps they sensed the prick of taut nerves, the clash of emotional steel...
“She left your daughter’s things and yours, the antique furniture.” By reading Debbie’s note, Kallista had insight into Roman’s life, one that the extensive Blaylock family had not known. She tossed her chocolate wrapper into the trash, covering Debbie’s note.
“Do you live out of that bag? What else do you have in there?”
“I travel light. I have what I need.”
Roman ran his hand through his hair and looked out into the predawn light. “Debbie had her own taste. My sister, Else, brought my share of my parents’ things here after Debbie left.” He scanned the house. “There was plenty of room. When Debbie...left, the bank came calling, I almost lost everything. Boone saw that I didn’t. I’m paying him back.”
“I’ll just bet. Several of his collections are gone. The miniature animals, his scrimshaw collection. How much did they bring when you sold them? Don’t tell me they’re in storage. I wouldn’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. Marsha Gerald took care of his nursing needs and he wanted her to have the miniature animals. And Boone wanted Slim Woodard to have the scrimshaw things to remember him.” The words were said