* * * *
He wondered how different things might have been if his parents had felt that way six years ago.
It was the end of spring break and, while his mother cooked Saturday breakfast, he was talking about his plans to work in Denver that summer in a law office. Then he made a casual comment about what he'd thought had always been understood–that somewhere down the line after he had a practice going, he and Matty would get married. Maybe it was on his mind because they were about to part again–heading off to the separate schools that had been his parents' and Grams Brennan's idea.
He'd been totally unprepared for his parents' reaction.
His father had surveyed him with a frown, then turned and said, "Donna?"
She put down the spatula she'd been using to keep the scrambled eggs from sticking, exchanged a look with her husband, then faced her son. "We're not sure that's a good idea, Dave."
"Not a good idea?" he'd echoed in shock. "Why? What have you got against Matty?"
His mother put her hands on her hips. "Not a thing, and you know it. I love that girl like she was my own."
"Then why the hell wouldn't it be a good idea?"
"You're too young."
"I know Matty's young, but we're not talking about getting married tomorrow. I want to get started in a practice. In fact, I haven't brought it up to Matty at all. But down the road when I think it's time–"
"Dave," his mother had interrupted, "I love you more than you'll ever know until you hold a babe of your own. And no mother could be prouder–you've got character and brains and compassion. But you could use a couple of slaps from the wide world to bring you a dose of reality. Both of you, I suppose, but you more than Matty. She's had her share of blows, with losing her parents young like that. But you... You're so sure all the time."
He'd been torn between irritation and amusement at this show of illogic from his parents. "You're the ones who always taught me to be confident. That carrying my tail between my legs was a sure way to get picked on."
"This isn't about getting picked on and it isn't about confidence. It's...it's..." Ed Currick had shrugged and looked once more to his wife.
"You get something set in your mind, Dave, and you won't see it any other way," she said. "If you weren't so easy-going in most ways, you'd be a real jerk."
He gaped at her. His mother, for heaven's sakes!
"Donna, don't you think maybe that's a bit hard on the boy?" His father's comment would have been more welcomed if it hadn't carried that phrase the boy. He was 23, a college graduate and doing well in law school–not a kid.
"Not if it keeps him from tying up Matty in a marriage when they're not ready for what it really means being a husband and wife."
"That's up to me and Matty. That's our decision."
"Is it? Is it up to you and Matty? Or do you really think that it's just up to you? You decide what's best–for you, for Matty–then Matty will go along with it."
"You make it sound like Matty's a puppy following at my heels, doing everything I say. If Matty didn't want to get married, she'd be hollering it from the rooftops. If Matty didn't love me..."
He hadn't been able to finish that thought.
"She does love you, Dave. Has all her life, one way or another–from the time she truly did follow you around like a little lost puppy those first years after her parents died. And that's just it. What chance has Matty had to know if she wants to marry you or not?"
What chance has Matty had...
He hadn't liked the taste of that question rumbling in his gut. Hadn't liked it at all, when he'd plunged out of the kitchen and caught a mount in hopes of a head-clearing ride. But his head hadn't been any clearer when he headed for the Flying W.
Matty hadn't been there. He'd felt oddly relieved, but decided it was only because he needed to completely digest his parents' strange reaction before he told Matty about it.
Instead, he'd ended up pouring out the whole conversation to Grams Brennan.
She'd listened silently to his complaint about his parents, especially his mother, then she'd looked at him square.
"Some might be taken in by the way her talking jumps around, but nobody with a lick of sense has ever said Donna Currick was a fool when it came to knowing people."
He'd been too stunned, felt too betrayed to say any more.
"I've lived a long time, boy, and there's three things I've seen in this world that seem to make a body happy or miserable. It's not money or health or any of those other things most people talk about. It's knowing where you fit in this world, being able to go after your dreams, and love. You and Matty say you're in love. Well, I'm not here to doubt you on that. But what about the other two?
"You've got your dreams, Dave. Some people are near born with 'em–and that's you. Born with your dreams and born with knowing where you fit in this world. Some would say you're pure lucky. I'm not so sure about that. Sometimes what you work for's better for you than what you're given. But what is, is.
"Now, Matty's another matter. She's latched onto this place like a lifeline since that accident took her parents. She's held on so tight I'm not sure she could see anything beyond it. And as for dreams... Well, why would she ever need to find her own when she has yours?"
"But Matty's always wanted to ranch, just like me."
"Just like you," she'd repeated, and the words had felt like a chain going around his neck. "Could be that's the road her life's meant to take. But if it's not, your dreams better be mighty strong, Dave, because they're going to have to carry two folks–along with any others you bring into this world–for a lifetime."
He'd spent a lot of the afternoon sitting on a ridge, staring at nothing and thinking about too much. They'd gone to a movie that night, but he hadn't heard a word of it. Matty asked what was wrong. He said he thought he might be coming down with the flu.
By the next day, he'd made his decision, and he and Matty had gone on their last ride.
His father had called him at school the next week to tell him Matty was transferring immediately to Tulane in New Orleans. He supposed she could have gone farther geographically, but she sure couldn't have picked a place more different from Wyoming.
"It's for the best," his father had said. "You'll see, it'll work out for the best."
And he couldn't argue. How could he argue with any of those sane, adult voices who'd said Matty was just going along with him, letting him be responsible for her future, making his dreams carry the both of them when she'd taken off like a coiled spring waiting to escape?
He'd been angry about that for most of the first year. The anger had faded. Even the hurt had faded some. And what was left after they were gone was the fact that he still loved Matty.
CHAPTER NINE
It was the Thursday night before the all-day session scheduled with his legal cohorts on Saturday.
Matty had gotten in enough supplies for a couple livestock conventions. He not only had the evidence of his own eyes, but Tim Balder from the Knighton Food Stop had stopped him in the street to announce with excitement that he'd gotten in the special ham Matty had ordered.
She'd scheduled Pamela Dobson for an extra session tomorrow, after having her spend time earlier in the week doing things like wiping baseboards, cleaning switchplates and polishing light fixtures.
"You never asked for such things. Course, you're just a man," Pamela had grumbled, managing to complain both that Matty had asked her to do that work and that he hadn't.
From Ruth Moski he'd learned that Matty had made another round of phone calls to the various office managers of those who would be coming–gathering a fan club along the way, apparently.
Matty had told him nothing.
What neither she nor anyone else needed to tell him was that she was doing all of this in addition to working rancher's hours–sunup to sundown–and rancher's work.
She'd fallen asleep at the dinner table last night, her head drooping lower and lower until her chin rested on her c
hest. He'd considered picking her up and carrying her to bed, then locking her in for a couple days of enforced rest. At least it would be rest if he made sure he was on the other side of the locked door.
Matty had jerked awake before he could act on that thought.
He'd vowed she would have a restful evening tonight, though locked bedroom doors would not figure into it. He'd gotten home at a decent time and had things all set up before he heard her coming in the back.
She looked like a walking soil sample. From the fine dust that added a reddish tinge to her hair, face and shoulders down to the muck of a well-fertilized bog up to nearly her knees, and with a long swipe of dried clay along her right side.
"What the hell–" He started toward her.
She held out a peremptory stop-sign hand.
"If you laugh, Currick, I'll be a widow before midnight," she started in a dangerous tone. And that reassured him no end. She wasn't hurt. She was spitting mad. "Juno picked up a stone and I tried that gray colt Henry supposedly trained. The wretched animal was a perfect gentleman until we got too far out to replace him. Then he did his best to run me into the ground."
"Why didn't Ruskoff–"
"Don't even say it. I heard enough of that from him. As if I couldn't handle a rotten-tempered, untrained, sneaky piece of male horseflesh."
Was it his imagination or had she emphasized the adjective "male"?
"Tell you what," he offered, "have some appetizers to get your energy up, take a shower while I cook dinner, and then we'll watch a video. How does that sound?"
She looked around the kitchen that clearly hadn't been disturbed since this morning's cleanup. "Appetizers?"
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the jar he'd stored there. "Voila! Chilled as you prefer, Madam."
"Cashews? Right before dinner?"
"If you'd rather have carrot sticks–?"
He'd barely started the motion of putting the jar back when she grabbed it.
"You think you're going to get away with waving cashews in front of me and then try to fob me off with carrots?"
He shrugged. "Up to you, Matty. Now go get cleaned up, and let a master work his magic."
Twenty minutes later she came into the kitchen with her wet hair slicked straight down her neck and wearing one of the casual outfits that often seemed to double as pajamas for her–long pants and a short-sleeve T-shirt, this time topped by a big cardigan sweater. She seemed to think it was the epitome of asexual propriety. When she was standing still she was almost half right. But when she moved... ah, that changed everything.
Half a dozen times he'd been tempted to tell her how the material flowed against her body whenever she moved, caressing the line of her thighs, the curve of her breasts, the indentation of her waist.
That temptation never lasted long. What, was he nuts? This sweater was bad enough. If he said a word, she'd cover up faster than a blizzard covered the grass.
Although, at this point she could wear her winter coat at all times and it wouldn't make any difference for him. The other night watching the movie on the couch, with the sensation of her foot absently stroking his hip still vibrating through his bloodstream, he'd had all he could do not to stroke his palm over the curves of her legs, and a lot of other curves. And she clearly hadn't had a clue.
Now, as she passed near where he was propped against the counter, waiting for the timer to ding, she drew in a deep breath.
"It smells heavenly," she said on the exhale.
His own breathing had developed a hitch after taking in the scent of her, clean and wet and with that Matty-smell that tormented him each time he followed her into the bathroom. "Heavenly" was the word all right.
"I hope you didn't ruin your appetite for dinner."
She chuckled. "I think I could eat half a side of beef right now and not ruin my appetite."
The oven dinged, and the next few minutes were a flurry of carrying dishes and glasses out to the family room, setting up the VCR and digging in.
Matty bit into the pointed end of a pizza slice with relish. "Mmm. Nobody heats up a frozen pizza like you, Currick."
"It's a gift," he agreed.
They ate in companionable silence, sitting almost hip to hip so they could reach the pizza, while Fred and Ginger danced. That lasted until a familiar song started.
"I'd forgotten this is the movie with 'A Fine Romance' in it," Matty said.
"How 'bout that." So had he, until he'd dug through his mother's collection looking for the song he'd teasingly told her at the reception was "theirs."
As the stars sang the ironic lyrics to each other in a fake snowstorm, the atmosphere in the family room seemed to have become tropical. He sure hoped he wasn't alone in having the phrases about no kisses and no embraces reminding him that there had been kisses and embraces between them since he'd sung the words to her.
The rest of the movie was nowhere near enough to divert his mind from that train of thought. Not when each breath brought her scent to him, not when each twitch pressed his hip against hers. And not when the movie shifted to a song called "Just the Way You Look Tonight."
She looked like the woman he'd never stopped wanting to make love to. Tonight, and every night.
He shifted slightly to see more of her, and felt a clutch of fierce response when he saw the points of her breasts straining against the fabric of her top.
As if he knew the line were coming, he tuned into the movie in time to hear Fred sing a reminder to Ginger of how he'd held her when they danced, but this time they weren't going to dance, and Dave's mind was swamped by images of how he could hold Matty as if they were going to dance, and what they might be doing that wasn't dancing. Neither of them moved except to breathe, deep and fast.
Thirty seconds later, the movie ended and the screen went blank.
She jolted to her feet.
"It's late, I better get to–uh, get some sleep. Going to be another full day tomorrow. I'll just..."
She bent, reaching for the dishes on the chest. The motion dropped the V-neck of her top at the same time the fabric snugged across the points of her breasts. Another few inches and–
"Don't."
She froze at his guttural order, her eyes wide on his face. He saw recognition hit her because it was followed by a wave of color appearing at the point of the V, then sweeping up her throat and into her cheeks.
"Don't bother," he managed in a more natural voice. "Dinner was my treat, so I'll clean up, too."
She straightened and turned away in a jerky motion. "Thanks. In that case, I'll say good night."
He watched her go. She paused at the doorway to the west room, reaching into the dimness to flip on the light. It backlit her, shining faintly through the fabric of her outfit, outlining her body.
For her sake, he thought, he hoped she'd have a more restful night than it was going to be for him.
* * * *
Dave came out of the master bathroom at noon Saturday to find Matty pulling a pillow out of the narrow linen closet tucked into the corner of the bedroom.
"What's that for?"
"Randy's back. I want to make sure he's comfortable."
From the minute his fellow lawyers had started arriving, she'd been pouring coffee, tea and juices and handing out donuts, pastries and fruit like the Salvation Army after a flood. Any time one of the group out there looked as if he might consider vaguely wanting something, she jumped up and got it. When he'd tried to tell her to let them get it themselves like usual, she'd shushed him and kept on.
What she'd kept on with was the two-pronged presentation she and Taylor had made this morning about the grant regulations. And if he hadn't been irked at her fussing over the legal wolves scattered around the family room, he would have had only admiration for how they handled the group, stirring their interest, challenging them, and winning them over one by one. Before this lunch break–while they scarfed down gourmet ham and roast beef sandwiches, potato salad, and vegetable salad–th
ey'd agreed by a vote of 10 to 1 to use the grant regulations as this year's project. The dissenter was Bob Brathenwaite.
"The only way Randy could be more comfortable is if you stood over him and fanned him like a slave girl for the pasha," Dave growled.
But she'd already disappeared into the bathroom.
"What? I couldn't hear you, Dave."
"I said–" He started loudly, then she came back into the room with a box of tissues. No doubt for Phil's cold. "Never mind."
"I'm forgetting something." She snapped her fingers and started back into the bathroom. "Oh, Dave, don't you..."
Her words faded off in the creaking sound of the medicine cabinet being opened. "I can't hear you, Matty."
"I said–" She poked her head out of the doorway. "–don't you think it's going well?"
"Going well? If you mean for..." But it was no use, she'd disappeared back into the bathroom. He strode in after her, and leaned back against the counter beside the sink. She hardly seemed to notice as she moved around him to get to the medicine cabinet, where she hunted for something elusive.
"Now where on earth can the aspirin be?"
"Who's it for?"
"Kyle has a headache."
"You mean a hangover. He's been on a bender ever since his wife left him. She had good cause from what I hear," he added darkly.
She withdrew enough from the cabinet to meet his eyes around the edge of its door. "Really? Why didn't he say so. A hangover calls for something else entirely."
And then she disappeared into the cabinet again, apparently without absorbing a single word of his veiled warning about Kyle and his womanizing. Hadn't she noticed how Kyle had been flirting with her?
While she put the bottle on the counter, she nudged at the cabinet door with her elbow. It stopped short of closing completely, but she was washing her hands, paying no attention. He turned, and watched the motion of soapy water over her long, straight fingers and the way the gold ring glinted.
The ring looked good on her hand. As if it belonged. He hoped Kyle and any of the other wolves in the pack out there in his family room had noticed how natural the ring looked, too. But just in case, he might do some reminding after this little break.
"I really do think it's going well. They're digging into the issue, aren't they? I don't know all the legalese, but I can tell you guys think you have a good chance of getting this revised regulation passed."