Rawhide and Lace

“No particular length of time was specified,” he told her. “That leaves it to the interpretation of the people involved. And believe me, Mr. Jessup will interpret it to mean until you die.”

“I’ve heard that he’s quite ruthless.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I can be ready tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”

She sounded tired, and in pain. He felt guilty for pressing her, but he knew it couldn’t have waited.

“I’ll pass that information along. Meanwhile, Miss Scott, I’ll get the necessary paperwork done. You’re quite a wealthy young woman now.”

“Quite wealthy,” she repeated dully, and hung up.

She was sitting on a sofa that swayed almost to the floor, in a ground-floor apartment in Queens. The water was mostly cold, the heating worked only occasionally. She was wrapped in a thick old coat to keep warm, and no one who’d known her six months ago would recognize her.

Why had she agreed to go? she wondered miserably. She was in pain already, and all she’d done today was go back and forth to the bathroom. Her leg was giving her hell. They’d showed her the exercises, stressing that she must do them twice a day, religiously, or she’d never lose her limp. A limping model was not exactly employable, she reminded herself. But there seemed so little point in it all now. She’d lost everything. She had no future to look forward to, nothing to live for. Nothing except revenge. And even that left a bad taste in her mouth.

She couldn’t see those people out of work, she thought. Not in winter, which November practically was. She couldn’t stand by and leave them homeless and jobless because of her.

She stretched out her leg, grimacing as the muscles protested. Exercises indeed! It was hard enough to walk, let alone do lifts and such. Her eyes were drawn to the window. Outside, it was raining. She wondered if it was raining in Ravine, Texas, and what Tyson Wade was doing right now. Would he be cursing her for all he was worth? Probably. He’d been sure that she’d never set foot on Staghorn again, after the things he’d said to her. He wouldn’t know about the accident, of course, or the baby. She felt her eyes go cold. If only she could hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her. If only!

She could stay here, of course. She could change her mind, refuse the conditions of the inheritance. Sure. And she could fly, too. All those people, some of them with children, all out in the cold…

She lay back down on the sofa and closed her eyes. There would be time enough to worry about it later. Now, she only wanted to sleep and forget.

* * *

Ty. She was running toward him, her arms outstretched, and he was laughing, waiting for her. He lifted her up against him and kissed her with aching tenderness. He stared down at her, his eyes filled with love. She was pregnant, very pregnant, and he was touching the mound of her belly, his hands possessive, his eyes adoring….

She awoke with tears in her eyes. Always it was the same dream, with the same ending. Always she woke crying. She got up and washed her face, looking at the clock. Bedtime already. She’d slept for hours. She pulled on a cotton gown and went to bed, taking a sleeping pill before she lay down. Perhaps this time, she wouldn’t dream.

By early the next afternoon, she was packed and waiting for whomever Tyson sent to get her. Her once elegant suitcase was sitting by the door, filled with her meager wardrobe. She was wearing a simple beige knit suit that would have fit her six months ago. Now it hung on her, making her look almost skeletal. Her lusterless hair was tied in a bun, her face devoid of makeup. In her right hand was a heavy cane, dangling beside the leg that still refused to support her.

At two o’clock precisely, there came a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called from the sofa, only vaguely curious about which poor soul Ty would have sacrificed to come and fly her down to Texas.

She got the shock of her life when the door opened to admit Tyson Wade himself.

He stopped dead in the doorway and stared at her as she got unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily on the cane. The impact of his handiwork was damning.

He remembered a laughing young girl. Here was an old, tired woman with green eyes that held no life at all, no gaiety…only a resigned kind of pain. She was pitifully thin, and her face was pale and drawn. She stared at him as if he were a stranger, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he always had been, because he’d never really let her get close enough to know him in any way but one.

“Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.

She inclined her head. “Hello, Tyson,” she said.

He looked around him with obvious distaste, his silver eyes reflecting his feelings about her surroundings.

“I haven’t been able to work for several months,” she informed him. “I’ve been drawing a disability pension and eating thanks to food stamps.”

His eyes closed briefly; when they opened, they were vaguely haunted. “You won’t have to live on food stamps now,” he said, his voice rough.

“Obviously not, according to your family attorney.” She smiled faintly. “I imagined you screaming at the top of your lungs for an hour, trying to find a way to break the will.”

He studied her wan, sad little face. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Lead on. You’ll have to allow for my leg. I don’t move so quickly these days.”

He watched her come toward him, every movement careful and obviously painful.

“Oh, my God,” he said tightly.

Her eyes flared at him. “Don’t pity me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare!”

His chin lifted as he took a long, slow breath. “How bad is it?” he asked.

She stopped just in front of him. “I’ll make it,” she said coldly.

He only nodded. He turned to open the door, holding it as she brushed against him. She smelled of roses, and as he caught the scent in his nostrils, he struggled to suppress memories that were scarcely bearable.

“Erin,” he said huskily as she went past him.

But she didn’t answer him, she didn’t look at him. She moved painfully down the hall and out the open door to the street. She didn’t even look back.

After a minute, he picked up her suitcase, locked the door, and followed her.

Chapter Three

It was all Ty could do to keep silent as he and Erin rode to the airport. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, to explain, to discuss. He wanted to apologize, but that was impossible for him. Odd, he thought, how much heartache pride had caused him over the years. He’d never learned to bend. His father had taught him that a man never could, and still call himself a man.

He lit a cigarette and smoked it silently, only half aware of Erin’s quiet scrutiny as he weaved easily through the frantic city traffic. His nerve never wavered. Texas or New York, he was at home in a car even in the roughest traffic.

“Nothing bothers you, does it?” she asked carelessly.

“Don’t you believe it,” he replied. He glanced at her, his eyes steady and curious as he waited at a traffic light.

“Six months,” she murmured, her voice as devoid of feeling as the green eyes that seemed to look right through him. “So much can happen in just six months.”

Ty averted his eyes. “Yes.” He studied the traffic light intently. It was easier than seeing that closed, unfeeling look on her face, and knowing that he was responsible for it. Once, she’d have run toward him laughing….

She turned the cane in her hands, feeling its coolness. Ty seemed different somehow. Less arrogant, less callous. Perhaps his brother’s death had caused that change, although he and Bruce had never been close. She wondered if he blamed her for his estrangement from Bruce, if he knew how insanely jealous Bruce had been of her, and without any cause at all.

He watched her toying with the cane as he pulled back into the flow of traffic and crossed the bridge that would take them to the airport. “How long will you have to use that thing?” he asked conversationally.

“I don’t know.” She did know. They’d told her. If she didn’t do the exercises religiously, she’d be using it for the rest of her life. But what did that matter now? She could never go back to modeling. And nothing else seemed to be worth the effort.

“I didn’t expect you to agree to the stipulation in Bruce’s will,” he said suddenly.

“No, I don’t imagine you did.” She glared at him. “What’s the matter, cattle baron, did you expect that I’d sit on my pride and let your whole crew lose their jobs on my account?”

So that was why. It had nothing to do with any remaining feeling for him; it was to help someone less fortunate. He should have known.

“You look surprised,” she observed.