Rawhide and Lace. Diana Palmer
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avoided his probing look. “I could use some coffee.”
“Therapy,” he persisted, “is the only way you’ll ever walk without a cane. Did they tell you that?”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve…!” She glared up at him.
“I busted my hip on the rodeo circuit when I was twenty-four,” he told her flatly. “It was months before I stopped limping, and physical therapy was the only thing that saved me from a stiff leg. I remember the exercises to this day, and how they’re done, and how long for each day. So I’ll help you get into the routine.”
“I’ll help you into the hospital if you try it,” she threatened.
“Spunky,” he approved, nodding. He even smiled a little. “You always were. I liked that about you, from the very beginning.”
“You liked nothing about me,” she reminded him. “You hated me on sight, and from there it was all downhill.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, watching her curiously. “I thought women had instincts about men and their reactions.”
“As you found out the hard way, I knew very little about men. Then.”
He didn’t look away. “And as you found out, the hard way, I knew very little about women.”
She flinched, just a little, then searched that gray fog in his eyes, wondering what he meant. It sounded like a confession of sorts, but it just didn’t jibe with the picture Bruce had painted of him—a womanizer with a reputation as long as her arm.
“Pull the other one,” she said finally. “You’ve probably forgotten more about women than I’ll ever know. Bruce said you had.”
His jaw tensed. “Bruce said one hell of a lot, didn’t he? I heard what you thought of my ‘fumbling,’ too.”
She stiffened and froze. “What?”
“He said you thought I was a clumsy, fumbling fool. That you described it all to him, and laughed together about it….”
Her lips parted, and her face went stark white. “He told you…he said that…to you?”
“Erin!” He leaped forward just in time to catch her as she collapsed. He lifted her, feeling the pitiful weight of her in his arms, feeling alive for the first time in months. He held her close, bending his head over hers, drowning in the bittersweet anguish of holding her while all around them traffic moved routinely and tourists milled indifferently on the sidewalks.
“Baby,” he whispered softly, cradling her in his hard arms as he dropped into the passenger seat of the car and looked down at her. He smoothed the hair from her face, caressing her pale cheek with a trembling hand. “Erin.”
Her eyes opened a minute later. She blinked, and for an instant—for one staggering second—her eyes were unguarded and full of memories. And then it was like watching a curtain come down. The instant she recognized him, all the life went out of her face.
“You fainted,” he said gently.
She stared up at him dizzily, feeling his warmth and strength, catching the scent of leather that clung to him like the spicy after-shave he favored.
“Ty,” she whispered.
His heart stopped and then raced, and his body made a sudden and shocking statement about its immediate needs. He shifted her quickly, careful not to let her know how vulnerable he was.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. “I feel a little shaky, that’s all.”
He touched her hair, on fire with the sweetness of her being near, loving the smell of roses that clung to her, the warmth of her soft body against his.
“Bruce didn’t say that to you—” she shook her head “—he couldn’t have!” There were tears in her eyes.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. Here, are you all right now?”
She sighed heavily. It was a lie. A lie. She’d never said any such thing to Bruce. She looked up into watchful gray eyes and tried to speak, but she was lost in the sudden electricity that arced between them.
“Your eyes always reminded me of green velvet,” he said absently, searching them. “Soft and rippling in the light, full of hidden softness and warmth.”
Her breath was trapped somewhere, and she couldn’t seem to free it. Her eyes wandered over his homely face, seeing the new lines, the angles and craggy roughness, the strength.
“You won’t find beauty even if you look hard,” he said in a tone that was almost but not quite amused.
“You were so different from Bruce,” she whispered. “Always so different. Remote and alone and invulnerable.”
“Except for one long night,” he agreed, watching the color return to her cheeks. “Will you at least believe that I regret what I did to you? That if I could take it all back, I would?”
“Looking back won’t change anything,” she said wearily, and closed her eyes. “Oh, Ty, it won’t change anything at all.”
“I’m sorry…about the baby we made,” he said hesitantly, his voice husky with emotion.
She looked up at him, startled by his tone. She saw something there, something elusive. “You would have wanted it,” she said with sudden insight.
He nodded. “If I’d known, I’d never have let you go.”
It was the way he said it, with such aching feeling. She realized that he meant it. Perhaps he’d wanted a family of his own, perhaps there had been a woman he’d wanted and couldn’t have. Maybe he’d thought about having children of his own and taking care of them. He wasn’t anything to look at; that was a fact. But he might have been vulnerable once. He might have been capable of love and tenderness and warmth. A hundred years ago, judging by the walls he’d raised around himself.
She looked away and struggled to get up. He let her go instantly, helping her to her feet, steadying her with hands that were unexpectedly gentle. Guilt, she thought, glancing at him. He was capable of that, at least. But guilt was one thing she didn’t want from him. Or pity.
“I’m all right now,” she said, easing away from him. The closeness of his body had affected her in ways she didn’t want to remember. She’d given herself to him that night with such eager abandon. With joy. Because she’d loved him desperately, and she’d thought that he loved her. But it had only been a lie, a trick. Could she ever forget that?
“It’s all right,” he said gently, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, who found it oddly evocative to see the thin, crippled young woman being comforted by the tall, strong man.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered wearily. “So tired.”
He could see that. Thinking about all she’d been through made him feel curiously protective. He touched her hair in a hesitant gesture. “You’ll be all right,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything now.” He straightened. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
It wasn’t home, but she was too exhausted to struggle with him. She only wanted a place to rest and a little peace. So much had happened to her that she felt like a victim of delayed shock. She couldn’t cope just yet with the memories or the future. She wanted to close her eyes and forget that either even existed.
Ty took her arm to lead her toward the tarmac, and she followed him without protest.
That simple action hit him so hard that his face would have shocked her, had she been able to see it. Erin had always been a fighter, a little firecracker. He’d admired her spirit even as he’d searched for ways to beat it out of her. And now, to see her this way, to know