Rawhide and Lace

“Ty…”

“Lie down and rest for a while. I’ll have Conchita make you some hot chocolate. That should warm you up and put you to sleep as well. The thermostat’s over here, if it gets too cold for you.” He indicated the dial on the wall near the door.

“Will you stop ordering me around!” she burst out, exasperated.

He studied her face, seeing the sudden color in it, the missing vitality. “That’s better.” He nodded. “Now you look halfway human again.”

Her eyes sparked at him. “I don’t know why I came here!”

“Sure you do. You’ve saving my people from bankruptcy.” He opened the door. “Ring if you want anything.”

“I want…” She lowered her voice. “I’d like to go and see Bruce’s grave.”

His face didn’t change, but it seemed almost to soften. “I’ll take you out there later. When you’ve had time to rest.”

She studied his face, musing that nothing ever showed on that hard countenance. If he had emotions, they were deeply hidden.

“Do you miss him?” she asked curiously.

He turned. “I’ll have José bring your suitcase in later.”

He closed the door behind him. Yes, he thought bitterly as he moved off down the hall. He missed his brother. But he missed what he’d lost even more: he missed the life he could have had with Erin. Christmas was only a month away, and he was tormented by images of how he might have been celebrating it if Bruce hadn’t poisoned his mind. It seemed such a short time ago that Erin had come running toward him, laughing, her black hair like silk around an elfin face. And he’d melted inside just at the sight of her, gone breathless like a boy with his first real date. It still felt like that, despite her scars, her limp. In his heart, he carried a portrait of her that would withstand all the long, aging years, that would leave her young and unscarred for as long as he lived. Erin. How beautiful life might have been, if only…

He made a rough sound in his throat and went quickly out the front door.

* * *

Bruce was buried in a quiet country cemetery just ten minutes’ drive from Staghorn. Erin stood over his grave while Ty sat in his big Lincoln smoking a cigarette and watching her.

It was sad, Erin thought, the way Bruce had ended his life. He’d never seemed reckless. At least not until he’d started dating her. Once she’d realized that he was expecting more than she could give, she’d eased away from him. She hadn’t known how competitive he was with Ty, or that he’d only been using her as a tool of revenge against the elder brother who dominated him. She’d been his crowning glory, his mark of achievement. Look, he’d said without words, showing her proudly to Ty, look what a beauty I brought home. And she’s all mine.

She smiled wistfully. She’d been blissfully unaware of the fact that Ty’s father and mother had separated years ago and that each had taken one of the boys. Norman Wade had raised Ty, without the weakness of love to make him vulnerable. Ty’s mother had raised Bruce, making sure that he was protected from life. The outcome in both cases had been predictable—but not to the parents.

She glanced at the other graves in the plot where Bruce was buried. His parents were there. Norman and Camilla Harding Wade. Side by side in death, as they’d been unable to remain in life. Oddly enough, despite all their difference, they’d shared a deep and lasting love. Neither of them had ever dated after their separation. And it was the last request of each that they be buried together. Erin felt tears burn her eyes as she stared at the single tombstone that marked both their graves. Love like that had to be a rare thing. She wondered why it had all gone wrong for them.

Ty, sensing the questions, got leisurely out of the car and came toward her. He was back in his familiar denims, with high leather boots and the beaten-up tan Stetson he’d worn ever since she’d known him.

“Why couldn’t they live together?” she asked him, curious.

He shrugged. “He was a cold man, she was a hot woman,” he said succinctly. “That says everything.”

She flushed as the meaning penetrated, and averted her eyes.

“What brought that on?” he murmured, and actually started to smile. “I only meant he never showed his feelings, and she wore hers on her sleeve. I don’t know how they were in bed. I never asked.”

The blush deepened. “Will you stop that?” she muttered.

“And I thought I was old-fashioned,” he said. He took a draw from his cigarette and sighed heavily as he stared at the three graves. “I’m the last one, now,” he mused. “Funny, I thought Bruce would outlive me by twenty years. He was the one who loved life.”

“And you don’t?” she asked, lifting her eyes.

“You work yourself to death trying to make a living, and then you die. In between, you worry about floods, droughts, taxes and capital outlay. That’s about it.”

“I’ve never known a man more cynical than you,” she told him. “Not even in New York.”

“I’m a realist,” he corrected. “I don’t expect miracles.”

“Maybe that’s why none ever happen for you,” she said. She leaned on the cane a little and stared down at Bruce’s grave. “Bruce was a dreamer. He was always looking for surprises, for the unexpected. He was a happy man most of the time, except when he remembered that he was always going to be second best. You’re a hard act to follow. He never felt that he could measure up to you. He said that even your mother talked about you more than she did about him.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that. She seemed to hold me in contempt most of the time. We never understood each other.”

Her quiet eyes searched his face, the hard lines around his mouth. The iron man, she mused. “I don’t think anyone will ever understand you,” she said quietly. “You give nothing of yourself.”

His jaw tautened and his pale eyes kindled through the cloud of smoke that left his pursed lips. “Now that’s an interesting statement, coming from you.”

It was the emphasis he put on it. She saw with sudden clarity a picture of herself lying in his arms by the firelight, moaning as he touched her breasts….

“I didn’t mean…that kind of giving,” she said uneasily, and dropped her eyes to his broad chest. It strained against the denim, rippling muscles and thick dark hair that covered him from his collarbone down.