Three Kids And A Cowboy

He laughed. It didn’t sound one bit as if he found her insistence amusing, though. It was a hard laugh. Cold.

Miranda shivered.

“That’s a hoot, Ran—uh, Miranda. You take off in the night, stay gone a year, then just show up on my doorstep and demand I tell you what’s going on.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said with false bravado. “And you can start by telling me why you call my mom and dad’s house your doorstep.”

“I call it mine because I bought this place from them lock, stock and your barrel-racing trophies over three months ago.” He looked away from her. “You’d know that if you had bothered to phone home more than once every blue moon, or if you’d given your folks some way to get in touch with you.”

“B-bought it?” Her shoulders slumped as all the pretense she had mustered drained out of her. “You own Robbins Nest Ranch?”

He shifted in the chair. “It’s the Circle S now.”

“You kept the name of the old ranch?” She blinked against the pain of the memory.

The Circle S. They’d decided to name their ranch after the symbol of unending love—the circle—on their honeymoon. Miranda didn’t know what to read into Brodie’s keeping the name.

“I didn’t keep the name,” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “I kept the ranch—expanded it to include this one.”

“But you’re living here?”

“I let the foreman and his wife stay in the old house.” His relentless gaze drove into hers. “I think it pleased your folks to know this house wouldn’t set empty.”

Guilt at the mention of her parents made her bow her head. “I never had much to say to my folks while I was gone. I called now and then to let them know I was okay. When I wasn’t able to reach them these last few times, I sent a note. Then I didn’t call at all this last month because I was planning on coming home and I wanted it to be a…” She glanced up at him, almost cringing as she finished in a hoarse whisper, “…surprise.”

“Well, you got your wish.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m surprised.”

“Me too.” She choked out the words.

“The question is, what do we do about it? It was pretty clear from the look on your face when I came through the door that you didn’t come home to me.”

A weak smile was all Miranda could manage to thank him for being the one to say it. She doubted she’d have had the strength. Right now, she wondered how she would get the courage to walk out the door again.

Still, she sighed and said, “I did come back to see you, Brodie, but I won’t pretend. It wasn’t to reconcile.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. For an instant, his eyes betrayed something—a flicker of pain, or was it resignation?—and then they went hard and distant, emptied of any emotion.

If only he’d let that emotion surface, Miranda thought, if only he’d yell and give her hell for leaving. If only he’d once crack open that facade enough to let her see what was inside, then maybe they could work things out. But as long as he kept it all locked up tight, she’d never be able to trust that he didn’t secretly resent, even hate, her for the fact that she couldn’t give him a child.

She forced her gaze away to sweep the room, hoping to draw comfort from the familiarity of her father’s den. The old green-and-gold wall paper remained, and so did the footstool of hand-tooled leather and the big bookshelves. She scanned the books’ spines, thinking the titles of old books of cowboy poetry would trigger a warm memory of the past, something she could cling to as she faced her future.

Making Babies: Modern Techniques in Aiding Conception. The Pregnant Pause: Why You Can’t Wait To Treat Infertility.

Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have to wonder in twenty years if Brodie would feel cheated. She knew now, just as she had known the night she left.

She blinked back the tears. She had to get out of there. She wiped one damp palm down the rough denim of her jeans and managed to speak. “Maybe it would be best if you just told me where I could find my folks and I’ll get out of your hair.”

A thin smile crooked his lips up on one side, and he scored his splayed fingers back through his hair again. “I wondered when you’d notice my hair.”

“Don’t, Brodie,” she croaked softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t what?” How dare he play it so calm, when they both knew this was shredding them up inside. She lifted her head in a flash of challenge. “Don’t bury your real feelings under that cowboy charm of yours. I’m not buying it anymore.”

He stood, sending his chair swiveling backward until it thudded into the photo-covered wall. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, get mad at me, darn it.” She pushed off from the wall and strode toward him. Slamming both hands on his desk, she tossed down the verbal gauntlet. “Throw me out of your house. Call me all the names I’m sure you’ve thought about me this last year. Vow to make me pay for the way I treated you. Tell me you’ve met another woman.”

With each suggestion, her voice rose in volume and intensity, until she demanded in a shriek of fury, “Tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

He planted his hands on the desk beside hers and leaned forward until the tips of their noses almost brushed.

Her nostrils twitched at the scent of his skin, of his cotton shirt, dried on the clothesline then starched and ironed. She pushed down the inevitable memories and met his gaze. His deep blue eyes held no clue as to what went on inside the man, and yet, gazing into them made Miranda tremble with pain and passion.

She wanted to withdraw, but didn’t dare show him that he could affect her that much. She’d never get through this if he saw what he still did to her with those eyes, that slow molasses-and-whiskey voice of his.

She wet her trembling lips and whispered, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

“No.”

If he expected her to feel flattered or relieved or even overwhelmed by his simple refusal, then he had her pegged pretty damned good. She felt all those things and more. She also felt like grabbing him and trying to shake some sense into his hard head. Instead, she looked to the ceiling and groaned her frustration, knowing her only hope was to get out of there and find a place to clear her mind.

Sighing wearily, she said, “Then tell me where my parents are.”

He relinquished the desk to stand straight and reply, “Phoenix.”

She blinked at him, the tense muscles in her arms relaxing as she asked, “Phoenix? Arizona?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

He gave a tight shrug that made his answer seem more angry than casual. “Retired.”

“You mean they went out there already, to that little retirement community they always talked about?”

“Yep.”

“They weren’t planning on doing that for another year,” she said, trying to make it all fit. “I thought I had plenty of time before…I mean, who just up and leaves like that?”

“You.” His gaze bored into hers. His tanned cheeks grew taut, and his hands gripped his lean hips.

As strong, silent types went, Brodie took the prize as the strongest and most silent. Many times he’d told Miranda that he didn’t want to “talk things to death.” She knew that meant he just wanted to get on with things by fixing them himself. But when talking was his only recourse and he resorted to one-word answers, she knew things had gone from bad to worse, in his estimation.

Suddenly Miranda realized how hard this must be on him, as well, and she wanted doubly to get out, to give him some time and space to deal with it.

She stubbed the toe of her red boot against the leg of the desk. “I guess they got tired of waiting for me to call and just decided to go ahead with their plans.”