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Lucy wouldn’t hear Mia if she eased out of bed and snuck across the room. The door barely creaked anymore. She could be in Jack’s room, sliding under the covers, up against all that blanket-warmed bare skin, and Lucy wouldn’t even stir.
But she didn’t do it.
You’re a chicken, she told herself. A coward. You’re letting fear rule your life.
She flopped over onto her back.
He was changing; she could see it. But was it enough? Truly? Enough to risk her heart again? Every time she’d gone to one of those functions with him and she’d seen him light up at the sight of her, her heart had exploded with joy. But by the end of the night he’d be in a deep conversation with Oliver about the next project, and she’d once again be an afterthought.
He was focused on her now, and it was a heady delight to be on the receiving end of his attention.
But when his attention wandered—back to his work, his old life, some new project—she’d be an afterthought again. And not even she was tough enough for that.
She wished she could look into his eyes and see the truth. The future.
But there was no guarantee, and if she was going to be honest with herself, she knew that’s what she needed. Without it, she had to let him go. She had to. But was she really going to let him go without touching him one last time? Kissing him?
It seemed impossible.
She had the rest of her life to be alone and only a few more chances to be Jack’s wife.
She slipped out of the bed, glancing back at Lucy to be sure she still slept, and then crept out of the room. It was just past dawn. Jack might be waking, and if she was lucky she’d get him before he left his bed.
She’d only taken two steps into the hallway when Walter’s door opened and she froze like a thief.
Walter appeared fully dressed for a day of work. A denim shirt was rolled up over muscular arms and tucked into a pair of dark-brown canvas pants.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as if he’d stepped out of his room in a clown costume.
“Branding,” he said.
“So soon?” she cried. She’d figured that would be the first thing she’d organize once she was back up to full steam.
“Wanted to get it done before I left,” Jack said, and she turned. She hadn’t heard his door open. He stood in the new dawn sunshine in hard-worn blue jeans and a black long-sleeved tee-shirt. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mouth went dry, and the grief, the grief that buzzed around her head like a fly waiting to land, was deafening. Painful.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
He watched her for a long time, long enough that Walter grumbled something about breakfast and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“You won’t let me stay,” he said. “You won’t let me come back. You won’t let me help you.”
“I don’t need your guilt or your charity,” she said, sticking her chin in the air.
He stepped out into the hallway, taking up too much space. Too much air. “It’s not guilt,” he said. “Would you believe I like the work?”
“No.”
His smile was sharp. “Well, I do.”
“What are you doing with Walter?” she asked.
Jack shrugged and pulled his door shut. “He misses the work, and it’s easy enough to drive him up to the pasture. Let him hang out.”
“Hang out?” she asked, wondering if the whole world was upside down or just this ranch. “With your father? The man you haven’t talked to in years?”
“You told me I needed to deal with my past and that’s what I’m doing.”
Flabbergasted, all she could do was nod. “How…how is that going?”
His gaze lifted over Mia’s head to the kitchen at the end of the hallway, where they could hear Walter talking to Sandra. “Better than I thought it would. It’s still not perfect, but it’s better.”
Affection and pride flooded her chest. “I’m so glad.”
“What I’m wondering…” He leaned closer and tilted his head, smiling at her like a wolf. “Is what you’re doing outside my door at dawn?”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” she asked, feeling peevish and sad and confused. “You’re off to brand.”
His laugh rang bells all over her body. “It matters, Mia.” He touched her cheek, her lip. “I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured and left her stewing in her own frustration.
Jack and the men came in later than usual, but they had the easy-going laughs of men who’d finished a job.
“You’re kidding,” she said, when Chris told her the work was done. “All of them are branded?”
“I hired two seasonal guys,” Chris said. The men all filed into the room and sat down at the big table. Sandra had made spaghetti with meatballs and the men dug in like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. They’d eaten that way every night since Sandra had been back. Even Chris seemed to have put on weight.
