Sweet Nothings

  Molly no longer believed in true love and forever after. Aching in places she had refused to acknowledge for years, she stared up at his dark face. Wishing … wishing. The rumbling timbre of his voice suffused her with warmth, and the feeling frightened her half to death.

  Dipping her chin to break eye contact, she summoned a chirpy voice to say, “Well, this is done. I suppose I’d better get to work. I haven’t had time to make out a list of things to do yet, but I think it may be taller than I am when I’m finished.”

  “Forgive me for pointing it out, but that’s not saying much.”

  “It isn’t nice to tease people about their shortcomings.”

  “Lack of height in a woman isn’t a shortcoming. A lot of men think it’s attractive. I think it’s attractive.”

  He pulled the sink stopper. The water made a gurgling sound as it spiraled down the drain. Molly struggled to focus on that noise. It was real. Jake Coulter wasn’t. He was just a wish in her foolish female heart that could never come true.

  “Before you get started on cleaning, we need to go over how we do lunches.” He led the way to the pantry, stepping aside at the doorway so she might enter first. Waving a hand at the small coolers on the top shelves, he said, “On a ranch, it’s not always possible to come in for lunch at a specific time. It’s more practical to pack the midday meal in coolers so we can eat in the field—or wherever else we happen to be. We keep small packs of blue ice in the freezer. It keeps the food cool, even on a hot day. I know it’ll be a pain, fixing both lunch and breakfast so early, but on the plus side, it’ll free you up during the day to do household chores and get in some extra work outdoors.”

  “Ah. I wondered what all the coolers were for. I thought someone here on the ranch owned shares in Coleman.”

  He laughed. “They make handy lunchboxes. You can toss them in the back of a pickup or strap them on a horse, no fuss, no muss.”

  That explained why all the coolers sported ground-in dirt. Molly decided she would scrub them down with abrasive cleanser and do her best to keep them clean from now on.

  “What sort of things do you like for lunch?”

  “Sandwiches, chips, snack cakes. Nothing fancy. Just make sure you give each man plenty. They work their tails off.”

  Molly made a mental note to pack two sandwiches in each cooler. Believing that their conversation was concluded, she started to leave, but he blocked her way with his considerable bulk, bracing one arm against an adjacent shelf and leaning slightly toward her. It seemed to Molly that the log walls moved in closer and the air went thin.

  “Was there something more you wanted to tell me?” she asked.

  His unnerving blue eyes trailed to her hair. “You’re wearing a braid again.”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No. It’s a nice, tidy style for the kitchen.” A mischievous twinkle slipped into his eyes. “But when you’re not cooking, I hate to see you hide something so beautiful.” He reached over her shoulder to grasp her braid and draw it forward, his strong fingers sliding to its end, which lay over her breast. Moving his thumb back and forth over the elastic band, he smiled slowly. “I keep thinking how you look with it down.”

  The brush of his knuckles over the crest of her nipple made her stiffen. Uncertain if the contact was intentional, she pushed his hand away and made a fist over the braid herself. “Long hair worn loose in the kitchen is unsanitary.”

  He shrugged and trailed a fingertip lightly along her jaw. “Maybe, but you’d sure be a glory to look at.”

  Before she could think of a response, he turned and exited the pantry. Molly stared after him, still clutching her braid. When she felt sure he was gone, she touched a hand to her cheek, feeling oddly off balance, much as she had as a child after jumping off the merry-go-round. “A glory to look at?” On the one hand, she wanted to laugh, but on the other, oh, how she wanted to believe him.

  Jake. Over the next few days, it seemed to Molly that he was there nearly every time she turned around. When she arrived at the main house each morning, he was waiting for her in the kitchen and insisted that she join him for a cup of coffee before they began their respective chores.

  During those impromptu coffee klatches, he plied her with friendly questions in an obvious attempt to become better acquainted with her. Given the fact that he was true to his word and never pressed her for damning information about her past, Molly didn’t really mind. She worked in the man’s home, after all, and it was understandable that he wanted to learn all he could about her.

  “Do you enjoy any sports, Molly?” he inquired one morning.

  “I used to love golf and played nearly every Saturday with my dad,” she replied easily. “I was never very good, I’m afraid. But we had a lot of fun.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being mediocre if you enjoy the game.”

  Mediocre had not been good enough for Rodney. Golf was a wealthy man’s game, he believed, and one’s skill was a reflection of one’s breeding. Her amateur performance on the course had been an embarrassment to him.

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t that passionate about it, I guess. When I grew older, I lost interest and didn’t care to play anymore.”

  “When you grew older? After you were married, you mean?”

  A cold, empty feeling filled Molly’s chest. “Yes, after I was married.

  Another morning, he said, “So, tell me, Molly, what’s your favorite time of year?”

  “I’d have to say autumn.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and nodded. “That is a gorgeous season.”

  “I loved the brilliant colors on the hillsides and the crisp chill in the air.” She felt a little embarrassed, but added, “Most of all, though, I loved the holidays—the anticipation, the get-togethers, and all the decorations.”

  He smiled as though he shared that sentiment. “Which holiday season is your favorite?”

  “Hmm, that’s a tough one. I enjoyed Halloween and Thanksgiving a lot, but I think Christmas was always most special.”

  “We usually have snow here by Christmas. There’s nothing more beautiful than cheery lights reflecting off the snowdrifts.”

  A picture flashed in her mind of his house, twinkling cheerfully inside and out with Christmas lights. She saw Jake at center stage, crouched before a gigantic tree with a dark-haired little boy at his side. In that moment, it was all too easy to imagine herself as a part of that homey scene. She quickly shoved the image from her mind.

  Another morning he was sitting at the kitchen table reading a novel when Molly walked in. “Good book?” she asked as she peeled off her green parka.

  He tossed down the paperback. “A whodunit. Nothing spectacular. The plot is pretty thin.”

  “Ah, a mystery buff, are you?”

  He nodded. “Do you like to read?”

  “I used to have my nose in a book all the time.”

  He grinned. “What was your genre?”

  Her cheeks went hot. She hung her coat on a dowel and moved into the kitchen. “I was crazy about historical romance in my younger days.”

  “Ah.” A mischievous glint warmed his eyes. “Romance is what brought us all to the dance. What made you stop reading it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Rodney felt that my reading love stories gave me unrealistic expectations of our relationship.”

  The amusement in his eyes became more pronounced. “Sounds to me like good old Rodney was afraid he wouldn’t measure up.”

  That was an understatement. Uncomfortable with the conversation, Molly bypassed having coffee and dove into the breakfast preparations. As she began peeling apples for the bowl of fresh fruit that she served without fail each morning, Jake came to lean his hips against the counter.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Molly had become accustomed to this question-and-answer game. “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Why do you always refer to yourself in the past tense?”

  She stared at him, bewildered, a
n awful, cold feeling clawing at her chest. The kitchen had gone unnaturally bright, the overhead lights glaring, the bits of chrome on the appliances flashing with blinding brilliance.

  His voice sounded far away as he added, “I really enjoy hearing about the things you used to enjoy. Don’t misunderstand me. But I’d also like to know who you are right now.”

  “Who I am now?” she repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, now. I know that you used to love to read and enjoyed playing golf. But what interests you now?”

  “I’m the same person. I haven’t changed.”

  “How long has it been since you read a romance?” he asked softly.

  It had been nine years, but Molly couldn’t bring herself to admit that. “A while,” she settled for saying.

  “How long has it been since you played golf?”

  Her only answer was a shrug.

  His expression grew concerned. “How long were you married, Molly?”

  Pain lanced through her skull, and the cold feeling in her chest moved through her whole body. Where are you, Molly? Where have you gone? That frightening little voice that had taunted her so many times when she looked in the mirror was now a singsong in her mind as she looked into Jake Coulter’s eyes. In those blue depths, she glimpsed dead dreams, and she wanted to run from him. Big problem. His ranch had become her only sanctuary.

  “Why are you asking me all this?”

  He searched her gaze. “Because I want to know you better.” He folded his arms loosely across his chest. “Not who you used to be, but who you are right now.”

  She shook her head. “That’s silly.” Her voice sounded hollow even to her. “I’m the same person.”

  “Are you?” He let that hang there for a moment. Then he whispered, “Molly?” He said her name softly and reached over to cup her chin in his hand. Jerked from her confused thoughts, she stared up at him with growing dread, unable to shake the feeling that he was parting curtains in her mind that she might never again be able to close. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said huskily. “I don’t mean to upset you.”

  How could he hope not to upset her when he was asking such disturbing questions? Who are you, Molly? She no longer really knew. It was as if something inside her—a very vital something—had been obliterated. A few mornings ago, he had told her that everyone felt this way after a divorce and she would get over it in time. But she didn’t think so. There were no bleeding wounds within her to heal. There was only emptiness—an awful emptiness.

  He trailed his thumb over her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forget I said anything.”

  He pushed erect and glanced at the clock. “I’d better get cracking, I guess. The cow won’t milk herself.”

  Listening to the sharp tap of his boot heels on the oak floor, Molly let the partially peeled apple slip from her numb fingers. The fruit fell into the bowl with a soft plunk and rolled onto its side. In the time that she’d stood there holding it, the ripe pulp had already begun to turn brown in places. Intellectually, she knew that the discoloration was a chemical reaction of some kind that occurred when the fructose was exposed to the air. Emotionally, she likened it to the first stages of rot. If left exposed for too long, all that was good and sweet and wholesome within the apple would turn sour.

  Jake paused at the back door to turn on the radio. When the reception came in, he tuned in to a station that played popular oldies. As it happened, that morning they were doing an 1980s top-hit countdown. The very first song was an almost-forgotten favorite of Molly’s from her high school days.

  When she heard Jake step out and close the door, she stared woodenly at nothing, her eyes filling with tears. It had been eight years since she had listened to that song.

  That afternoon when Molly went out to spend her obligatory hour with Sunset, she saw Jake in the adjoining pasture, working with a baby horse. Over the course of her stay so far, she’d noticed that he rarely worked with the cattle, choosing instead to devote the majority of his time to the training program.

  A smile touched her mouth as she watched him rub a saddle blanket over the young animal’s body. Most people would have done it a couple of times and been done with it. Not Jake. He repeated the process again and again, flapping the blanket near the foal’s head occasionally, which startled the little fellow.

  Some fifteen minutes later, Jake vaulted over the splitrail fence and came striding toward her, the thick wool hooked over his thumb to ride his shoulder.

  “What was that all about?” she called.

  He grinned. Even at a distance, his eyes were a blaze of blue. “That was blanket flapping 101.”

  She laughed. “I see.”

  Drawing ever closer with those long, seemingly lazy strides of his, he said, “Having a man chase you with a blanket can be a pretty scary proposition.”

  Molly could well imagine that it might be, especially if that man could move as swiftly as Jake Coulter could. She turned her gaze back to the foal, which was now romping in the grass, delighted to be free again. “So you’re teaching that little guy not to be afraid?”

  “You got it.” He joined her at the fence and drew off his hat. His dark hair was depressed where the band had rested. He raked his long, sturdy fingers through the chocolate-colored strands, then resettled the Stetson on his head. “All creatures are instinctively afraid of some things.” He turned a thoughtful gaze on her. “The only way to overcome fear is to face it repeatedly until the thing that frightens you no longer seems scary.”

  Molly averted her gaze. Though she knew him better now, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that he read more in her eyes than she wished him to sometimes. “That’s an interesting thought.”

  “A true one.”

  She nibbled the inside of her lip. “Fear isn’t always unfounded. Sometimes the things we fear will do us great harm if we don’t avoid them.” She immediately wanted to call the words back. That feeling intensified when she met his gaze again. He was studying her with a thoughtful frown.

  “And sometimes,” he said softly, “there’s nothing to fear at all. If you’re afraid of something and don’t face it at least once, how can you ever know if your fears are real or only imagined?”

  Molly straightened away from the fence. “Good question.” She hugged her waist and stared hard at Sunset. Hoping to change the subject, she said, “He’s growing more at ease with us. Have you noticed?”

  A hint of a smile played at the edge of his hard mouth as he joined her in regarding the stallion. “He still gets antsy when I enter the pen. The courtship period isn’t over yet.”

  “The courtship period? Is that what you call it?”

  His twinkling gaze met and held hers. “Moving in, backing off. Much of horse training is a courtship of sorts, slowly overcoming shyness and fear to build a relationship of trust. Sunset would just as soon pass, but he’s cornered and doesn’t have a choice. In time, he’ll come to realize I’m more stubborn than he is and accept the inevitable.”

  Molly felt cornered as well, and she quite often got the feeling that he was playing the same game with her. Moving in, backing off. Only to what end? He was a handsome, virile man who could have his pick of beautiful women. Why would he waste his energy on someone like her?

  She wanted to tell him that her situation was nothing like Sunset’s, that she was free to leave anytime she chose, but even as the thought slipped into her mind, she knew it wasn’t true. She was trapped here for now, held fast by the velvet manacles of safety that she could find nowhere else.

  She glanced at her watch. “My goodness. I didn’t realize the time. I need to get dinner started.”

  “And I’ve got two more horses to put through their paces before I quit for the day.”

  “I guess we’d both better get back to work.”

  As she struck off for the house, Molly could feel the heat of his gaze on her. Her back tingled, her butt tingled. She wanted to whirl around and tell him to stop staring. Instead she hurried
up the steps, anxious to escape into the house. At the doorway, she threw a searing look over her shoulder, only to find that her target had vanished.

  He hadn’t been watching her at all. It was only her imagination.

  As she let herself inside, Molly wondered if everything else was her imagination as well. Maybe she was making mountains out of molehills, reading hidden meanings into things he said and did that he never meant to convey.

  That was it, she decided with some relief. That had to be it. Jake Coulter was so far out of her league, it was ludicrous to think he would ever even give her a second look, let alone plot ways to seduce her.

  Of an evening, when Molly finished her work for the day, Jake always walked her home. That night, Molly vowed to walk at a fast clip. Whether it was all her imagination or not, this man did things that made her nervous. He seemed to look too deep and see too much. She was a woman with secrets she didn’t dare reveal. She needed to be careful, and the most surefire way to do that was to keep her distance.

  To her dismay, he veered right toward the creek instead of walking her directly home. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  His teeth gleamed blue white in the moonlight when he smiled. “I thought it might be relaxing to take a little stroll.”

  That was the last thing she wanted to do, but his firm grip on her elbow brooked no argument. “I hope you don’t plan to stroll too far. I’m tired tonight.”

  “You’ll rest better for the dose of fresh air.”

  Once at the stream, Molly was so charmed by the tenebrous beauty that she forgot to feel tense. A breeze whispered in the lofty pines, the sound surreal and melodic. Moonlight shone through the swaying boughs in misty beams, making the water look like molten silver spilling over the rocks. Near them, the frogs, frightened by their presence, had grown quiet, but farther downstream, their voices were still raised in a raucous cacophony.

  “Why do you reckon frogs croak?” Jake suddenly asked.

  Molly suppressed a smile, wondering how it was that this man could so easily work his way past her defenses. She’d been so determined not to talk with him tonight, and now here she was, about to engage in a conversation about frogs, of all things. “I have no idea. Maybe they’re conversing with each other.”