Reuniting with the Rancher. Rachel Lee
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of her would always wonder.
Damn, when she had raced to get out here, she had assumed that she wouldn’t see Cliff. He’d steadfastly stayed away during her visits to Martha after their affair, and it hadn’t crossed her mind that it would be different this time.
But here she was, and Cliff wasn’t staying away. Not at all. Although if she was to judge by the way he had just left, he might not come back.
That would be for the best, she told herself. Much better if she never laid eyes on him again. Even after all these years, he could still roil her emotions and waken her passions, and she really didn’t need that. Not now, not ever.
* * *
Cliff steamed as he rode home, but he reserved his anger for himself. He’d been stupid to accept Holly’s offer of coffee. He knew that woman could sting him, but he’d put himself right in the line of fire. Nobody to blame but himself.
As for her being upset that he knew she had been attacked, what was that? It hardly amounted to a shameful secret, and both he and Martha had worried about her. Hell, Martha had often talked about Holly and her concerns. Who else was she going to talk to? Nobody else around here knew Holly.
At first he’d found it uncomfortable to talk about the woman who had torched his hopes, but time had made it easier. He wondered about Martha, though, and about this whole setup.
Martha was no fool. She must have guessed what was going on between him and Holly that long-ago summer. At their age, she’d probably guessed they weren’t just two friends who liked to spend long hours alone with each other. No, she had to have known, even though she’d never said a word.
Of course, she couldn’t have known why they broke up. Maybe she thought it had been reasonably friendly. That much was possible, and might explain the current insanity of his being executor of the estate.
But why tell Holly she couldn’t sell the house for ten years? And while being executor didn’t exactly burden him with things he had to do, it remained that he felt Martha had meant him to keep an eye on things. Keep an eye on Holly.
Hell.
He almost muttered under his breath. Sy was getting a little antsy, though, probably picking up on his mood. The light wasn’t so great yet, although the first signs of dawn rode the eastern horizon. Regardless, he slackened the reins, trusting Sy to choose his own pace and safe ground. He’d long since learned it was the safest way to let a horse open up. They seemed to smell prairie-dog holes well in advance, and to see other obstacles quickly.
With the lack of tension, Sy cut loose. He hit a full gallop across the rangeland, maybe half a mile, then settled into a comfortable walk again. Cliff leaned forward, patting his neck.
“Better, boy?”
Sy tossed his head.
“I guess so.” But it wasn’t better for Cliff. He hadn’t been the one galloping. The question remained: What had Martha expected of him? And if she’d expected something, why hadn’t she given him a clue? Apparently, she hadn’t given Holly any clues, either, except that stuff about finding her dream. That was certainly opaque.
He sighed, feeling the last of the night’s chilly air, and tried to corral his thoughts. He had a lot to do today, and no energy to waste on thinking about Holly. He’d deal with whatever turned up as it became necessary.
In theory she was going back to Chicago in just under two weeks. Back to the job she had always wanted. A job that he thought might be slowly killing her. But what did he know?
He rode around to the barn and turned Sy over to one of his hired hands. He usually cared for the horse himself, but this morning he didn’t feel like it.
Ruben took the reins from him. “You got company, Boss.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that comes in a sports car.”
“Out here?” Cliff’s brows raised. He tried to think of anyone who might have business with him, because his neighbors and friends sure didn’t drive those cars. Useless out here.
He walked in through the back door and mudroom. His housekeeper, Jean, was at the kitchen sink. She looked at him, and her expression held none of its usual welcome.
“She’s in the living room.”
“Who?”
“Go look.”
He shook his head, wondering what the hell was going on. “Coffee?”
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