Slow Waltz Across Texas. Peggy Moreland
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to stay put while you go off and do whatever it is you do when you’re gone. I’m a woman, and I have feelings, needs. I—”
She felt the tears coming and clamped her lips tightly together, refusing to give in to them. When she was sure she had them under control, that she wouldn’t humiliate herself by crying in front of him, she dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. “You don’t care anything for me, Clayton. You never did.”
“I married you, didn’t I! I gave those kids my name.”
She staggered back a step as if he’d struck her, the blood draining from her face.
Realizing too late that he’d hurt her with the carelessly spoken words, he dropped down onto one of the patio chairs and, groaning, buried his face in his hands. He dug the heels of his hands into his forehead, then slowly raked his fingers up through his hair as he lifted his face to look at her. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Rena.”
“Yes, Clayton,” she whispered, unable to keep the tremble, the hurt, from her voice, “I think you did. For the first time in your life, I think you said exactly what you feel.” Flinging off his jacket, she turned on her heel and strode for the patio door, slamming it behind her.
Rather than ask Rena’s parents for permission to stay in their guest bedroom so that he could be near his wife and kids, Clayton settled his horse in a stall at a boarding facility he’d used once before on a trip to Oklahoma, then checked himself into a motel on the edge of town. The accommodations weren’t anything fancy, nothing like the guest bedroom in the Palmers’ home with its canopied bed and luxurious private bath. But the sparse motel room had one thing going for it. He could rest there, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone around watching his every move, analyzing his every word and finding him lacking.
Feeling the frustration rising again, he shrugged off his jacket, then dropped down on the bed and yanked the jacket across his spread knees.
I married you, didn’t I? I gave those kids my name.
Bracing his elbows on his thighs, he dragged his hands slowly down his face, groaning, as he remembered his words to his wife. Why was it that, lately, every time he opened his mouth around Rena, it seemed he stuck his foot in it?
He propped his chin on his fists and stared at the bare wall opposite him. He didn’t have an answer to the question. Hell, he thought, surging to his feet and tossing the jacket aside. He didn’t have any answers at all. He paced the length of the room and back, a hand cupped around the base of his neck, massaging at the tension there.
The voice mail she’d left him informing him that she was leaving him had come as a shock. But that blow hadn’t been anything compared to the one he’d received when he’d returned to their ranch and discovered Rena and the kids were already gone.
He stopped in front of the door and gulped back a sob, hearing again the eerie silence that had greeted him when he’d stepped inside the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps in rooms once filled with his children’s furniture and toys, the squeal of their laughter.
Rena had been right, he admitted miserably, in saying he’d never been around much. Riding the rodeo circuit left little time for visits home. But in spite of his absences he’d always found comfort in knowing that his home was there for him, as were Rena and the kids, waiting for his return. And for a man who had never had a home or a family, the ranch had provided a sense of security he’d desperately needed.
A security it appeared he was about to lose.
He couldn’t lose his home and family, he told himself, feeling the panic squeezing at his chest, the loss already weighing heavy on his heart. He couldn’t. Rena and the kids meant everything to him. They were his life, his reason for living.
Without them he was nothing.
Nothing.
Rena lay on her side, her knees drawn to her chest, a corner of the sheet pressed tightly against her lips. Hot, silent tears saturated the pillow beneath her cheek.
She’d done the right thing, she told herself. She’d had to leave Clayton. She couldn’t go on living with him the way things were and continue to pretend that nothing was wrong. Not with him gone all the time and her left alone on the ranch with the children.
Not without his love to keep her company during the long, lonely nights when he was away.
She felt a sob rising and pressed the sheet more tightly against her lips to choke it back.
He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. If he did, he would come home more often, would want to spend more time with her and the twins. As it was, he was gone weeks at a time, never even bothering to call and check on her or their children. And even when he was at home, she reminded herself tearfully, he wasn’t there, at least not emotionally. Not for her.
When he was at the ranch, which seemed to occur less and less frequently, he took care of what business needed his attention, then he’d leave again. And while he was there, he never looked at her, never talked to her, nor did he ever listen when she tried to talk to him.
And he never touched her anymore…except when they were in bed.
As a result, she felt empty inside, drained, as if she were a well that was drawn from time and time again, but with no one to replenish her emotional supply. She was dry, empty and felt as if she had nothing left to offer those who needed her most. Her children.
She rolled to her back, clutching the sheet to her breasts, and stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling overhead. Was it so wrong to want Clayton’s attention? she asked herself. To need it? To even demand it? She was his wife, after all, and there was no one else to give her the things she needed. And that realization was what had finally pushed her into leaving him, she knew.
She had no one.
Yet she still had needs.
She felt the familiar ache in her breasts beneath the weight of her arms. How long had it been since he had touched her there? Swept his tongue across her nipples? Suckled at her breasts? How long since he had lain with her, the heat of his body warming hers, his comforting weight pressing her more deeply into the bed they shared so rarely? How long since he’d buried himself in her? Filled her with his seed?
The ache spread, throbbing to life between her legs. Biting back a sob, she rolled to her side again.
Yes, she thought as the tears scalded her throat.
Rena Rankin still had needs.
Stretched out on one of the cushioned lounge chairs beside her parents’ pool, Rena crossed her legs at the ankles and took a sip of her lemonade.
“So, are you going home with him?”
Rena shook her head at her friend Megan’s question, then set her glass of lemonade on the wrought-iron table between them. “No, that wouldn’t solve anything.”
Megan drew back, looking at Rena in dismay. “Surely you aren’t planning on staying here with your parents?”
Rena cast a glance over her shoulder at the stately two-story mansion behind them with its glistening mullioned windows, the long stretch of French doors that lined the curved patio, the carefully manicured shrubs that hugged the mauve stone walls and the urns spilling with brightly colored flowers, which changed almost magically with the seasons. Wealth. Perfection. Success. Those were the images her parents’ home drew; the same images to which they had tried to make their only daughter conform. The same images she’d wanted so desperately to escape as a young, single woman. With a shudder she glanced away. “No, not permanently. Just for a few days.”
Megan stretched out a hand and took Rena’s, squeezing it within her own. “Oh, Rena,” she murmured, her eyes filled with concern, “are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Honestly?” At Megan’s earnest nod, Rena sighed and withdrew her hand from her friend’s. She pressed her head back against the plump cushions and stared blindly up