Judith Bowen - His Brother's Bride

They were at her motel. She’d have to say something....

She had her hand on the door of the truck. “Well, thanks—”

“Wait a minute. You going to be all right?”

“Me?” Abby was slightly bewildered.

“Yeah. You said you weren’t used to drinking.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, laughing weakly. “I’m not drunk, you know.”

“I’ll walk you to your room. Make sure you get in all right. Stay there.” He came around and opened the truck door for her and she scrambled out, in a fairly unladylike manner, she was sure.

He took her arm as they walked toward her door on the lower level, number 101. The sidewalk was frosty, and she was grateful for the support as the leather soles of her shoes slid a little.

“I’m fine now,” she said nervously. Did he expect a good-night kiss? What did a person a woman—do in a situation like this? Abby glanced toward the well-lighted front office of the inn. At least there were plenty of people around.

“Your friend, the one who never came back for you, she said you needed to take your mind off something. Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?”

This Canadian cowboy, this stranger, seemed genuinely concerned.

Abby stared at him, his eyes looking black under the artificial light of the streetlamp, and to her horror, she felt hot tears running down her cheeks. Something crumpled beneath her breastbone, something she’d clung to like life itself for nearly two years.

“Not unless you can undo the hand of God,” she whispered rawly. “Can you? My little girl was born dead. My husband died two years ago, before our baby was born,” she rasped, barely recognizing her voice. “That’s what Marguerite was talking about when—” Her voice ran out. It just stopped.

Abby swiped at her wet cheeks, suddenly angry that. this man had mentioned the one subject that belonged to her alone. She tried to jam the key into the lock.

“Oh, damn. Honey, I’m so sorry-” She felt his hand on her shoulder. He sounded shocked. “I had no idea-I’d never have mentioned it if I had. I thought it was some problem with your stock—”

Abby actually managed a strangled laugh. She jabbed at the lock again—damn this stupid key!—and then Jesse took it from her and unlocked the door himself. The door swung open, the room faintly redolent of air freshener and travelers’ shoes and damp carpet. If only it was a problem with the damn cows. If only it was something like a missing show halter or a lame foot or a digestive problem one of the heifers was having. Dysentery. Heaves. Hoof-and-mouth. Brucellosis. Mad cow disease. She felt hysteria rise within her. The quicker she could get rid of this cowboy, the better.

But he was right behind her. “You sit down, Abby,” he said, flicking on the lights and shutting the door. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Abby sat heavily on the bed, dropping her handbag to the floor. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She stared at the unfamiliar sight of the tall, handsome stranger, bustling about her motel room, ripping open the package of complimentary coffee, dumping it into the filter, filling the reservoir with water, turning on the miniature coffee machine, then assembling two mugs by fitting cone-shaped plastic inserts into the plastic receptacles provided. Disposable. Discardable. Sterile.

A dam burst in Abby. She sobbed, bolt upright on the bed, her hands in front of her face. She felt the bed sag as Jesse sat down beside her. She felt him put his arm around her, heard the helpless mutterings of manly comfort as he tried to calm her. What a situation for him to be in!

“Please go,” she said, pushing him away. “Please leave me alone. There’s nothing you can do. It’s over, it’s past. There’s nothing anyone can do—”

“I’ll leave. But I want to see you settle down a little first. Drink some coffee. Here, just get it all out, honey.” He put both arms forcibly around her and suddenly Abby collapsed into them. It felt good to lean on someone. Finally. She laid her cheek against his shirt and wept He stroked her hair awkwardly and kept muttering to her.

The relief. The terrible loneliness of weeping by herself... She was not alone now. She was with a strong, handsome stranger. A stranger who, oddly, cared what was happening to her. Of course, anyone would be flummoxed to have a woman collapse on him, the way she had....

“Look, honey. Let me get up and get you a cof fee. I think it’s ready.”

Abby sat upright again, stiff as starch, shocked at how she’d welcomed his arms around her. Briefly. She watched as he poured two cups—“Cream—this whitener stuff? Sugar?”

She nodded. “Cream.” She blew her nose loudly on the tissue she’d taken out of her handbag.

He stirred the coffee and brought it to her. He handed her one cup, then sat in an armchair beside the bed and carefully pulled the small bedside table toward her so they could share it. She set her cup down, too.

She tried to smile. “Thank you.”

“Hell.” He looked ill at ease. He took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Whew!”

She laughed. “That bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

They sat in silence again, as though the emotional storm of the past ten minutes hadn’t happened. Abby realized he wasn’t comfortable discussing it. She realized that, like so many men, he’d just as soon stick to the present, to the action possible in any situation. The coffee. The news. She thought she’d seen him glance longingly at the silent television in the corner. No way she was turning it on; he wasn’t a guest. He’d be on his way the instant he finished his coffee. She was fine now. She’d be okay. She didn’t know what had come over her.

Anyway. It was done. It was past. She felt a little better now.

Suddenly Jesse put his cup down and stood. “I’d, uh, I’d better be on my way now.”

Abby got up, too. She was only a short distance from him. She had to look up to meet his gaze. “I—I want to thank you—” she began.

He stepped forward and put his arms gently around her. He pushed back a strand of hair that stuck damply to the side of her cheek. His eyes didn’t meet hers. He seemed to be studying her, as though committing her features to memory. “You’re a fine woman, Abby Steen. A fine beautiful woman.” His voice was rich and deep.

“Oh—”

“Listen to me. It’ll come out all right in the end. Believe me. I know you’ve heard that kind of thing before, but it’s true. You’ll, uh-” He met her gaze then and stared at her for a second or two. It seemed like a very long time to Abby’s overstretched nerves. “Troubles are bad but uh, you’ll—” he began again. He stopped and swallowed.

“Oh, damn,” he whispered, then leaned down and brought his mouth to hers and Abby took a long, deep, shaky breath and kissed him back. It felt good, it felt right. It had been so very long since she’d had a man’s arms around her, pressing her against him, as though imprinting every curve of her body on his, as though he ached for her as she ached for him. For someone.

He kissed her deeply, and she felt the vibrations of what was happening right down to her calves, along her thighs, the inside of her thighs, her breasts.... She clung to him, eager to meet his kisses, to taste all of him.

Then she felt his fingers, strong and expert, on the hook of her bra, through her blouse, pinching, succeeding... yes, she exulted silently as she felt her bra loosen and her breasts spring free. Just as I dreamed, just as I imagined...

Just as I so desperately need to wipe the pain away. For a few hours. A night, a day. Maybe forever.

“Don’t leave me,” she heard herself whisper. “Stay with me. Please.”

CHAPTER TWO

Glory, Alberta

March

THE LAYOUT OF THE Lazy SB, home of Winslow Herefords, was a little unusual. You approached the ranch by following a long grade that led from the flat of the prairies, smack against the sky, to the broad valley of the Horsethief River.

Once at the end of the short graveled lane that led from the secondary highway, you came upon a fairly new, white-sided prefab building of modest size, perhaps twelve hundred square feet. That was where Jesse Winslow lived. To the south, a little up the hill from the river, was a trailer, an older model measuring less than thirty feet. That was where the Winslows’ uncle, Brandis McAffrey, had lived until he died three years before at the age of eighty-four, dividing his share of the ranch between his two nephews. The trailer had been empty since then.

A little higher again, on a gentle knoll, was the old Winslow family home. It was built of clapboard, somewhat weathered now, and stood two stories, square and proud, on the knoll overlooking the ranch corrals and barns and the Horsethief River in the middle distance. A fancy-cut veranda, the style of a previous time, wrapped itself around the house, and old-fashioned deep pink roses, long gone wild, small of bloom and long of thorn, climbed up to the roof on two sides. That was where Noah Winslow lived.

The brothers got along fine; they just preferred to live separately. The arrangement suited them. There’d been a third brother, Casey, but he’d died at the age of twelve of a ruptured appendix. Doc Lake had seen to him when Jake Winslow had rushed him to town, after pooh-poohing the severity of the boy’s “bellyache,” but it was too late. Casey had died four days later of the massive infection that had set in, and the loss of her middle son had hastened Macy Winslow’s decline. She’d suffered for many years from a sort of mysterious palsy that incapacitated her. No one knew exactly what it was, but one day, about two months after Casey’s death, Macy had gone down for a nap in the afternoon of a bright spring day and had never woken up.

The neighbors had talked. It was a small community, Glory and the surrounding farm and ranch district. People had wondered at the sudden death of a woman in midlife who only trembled a bit, enough that she couldn’t hold a teacup steady. There were whispers of suicide—not just because of Macy’s losing a son like that but having to live with a man like Jake Winslow. A hard man. Some said a violent an.

But the doctor’s certificate had read “unknown natural causes” and that was good enough, as far as the remaining Winslows were concerned. She’d been buried in the churchyard up on the prairie, a church that only she of all the Winslows had ever attended. There was singing at the grave site and purple martins looped overhead as Macy McAffrey Winslow was lowered into the rich brown prairie soil. It was the only time, outside of his wedding, that Jake Winslow had ever been seen at church. Six months later, he’d sold his interest in the ranch to his brother-in-law, Brandis McAffrey, Macy’s half brother, and had disappeared. No one knew if he was dead or alive.

Since then Noah and Jesse and their Uncle Brandis-until his death-had been running the Lazy SB. Neither Noah nor Jesse ever talked about the disappearance of their father. Not many people in the area believed he was missed, even by his two boys.

Neither had married. Nor had Uncle Brandis ever married. Noah was close to his mid-thirties and Jesse was twenty-seven. If Casey had lived, he’d be thirty-one.

SPRING HAD COMB early to the northern range this year. By late March, the snow had cleared or blown away and most of the newborn calves had a pleasant and peaceful introduction to the world on the Lazy SB. No blizzards. No sudden March northwesters bringing freezing rain. No deep winter snow on the ground to weary the lumbering mothers. Noah and Jesse had ridden the range all month, watching for cows with problems. There’d been a few, but this year they’d lost fewer calves than ever before. Noah was pleased. A dead calf was money lost on a working ranch. Not just the loss of what the calf would have brought, as a feeder or a finished steer, but money lost in feeding the mother for a year without a calf to show for it. Ranch economics were tough and tight.