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“Milly usually gets here around nine-thirty. She makes lunch and supper for the hands, then leaves about seven. I may as well warn you now, you’d better not tangle with her. You might own this place, but she definitely considers the kitchen her turf.”
“I’ll remember that.” He stared at her again with that same stripping gaze that stole the breath from her lungs. “There’s something else I wanted to say.”
Here it comes. “Oh?”
“Last night got a little bloody.”
“You noticed,” she said dryly.
“I said some things I didn’t mean.”
She lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but let him continue, hoping he didn’t notice that her pulse was doing somersaults in the hollow of her throat.
“I was out of line.”
“Way out of line.”
He grimaced. “Right.”
“Forget it,” she said, trying to sound casual, as if nothing he said had wounded her so deeply that she hadn’t slept a wink.
“Then we can start over?”
Her heart skipped a beat and her hands trembled. Start over. If he only guessed that for years she had prayed for just that—to start all over—from the beginning. Before the fire, before the lies, before he had turned away from her forever. She couldn’t answer, but nodded quickly, hoping to find her voice as she cleared the table.
Denver set his cup on the counter and Tessa saw his hand. A few dark scars webbed across from his wrist to his fingers, the difference in skin tone barely discernible.
He, too, noticed the ugly reminder of the tragedy and shoved the disfigured palm into his pocket. “It never lets me forget,” he said, his jaw growing taut.
Instantly she pitied him, and the hard look in his eyes told her he must have recognized her pity for what it was. “Maybe we can’t start over—not completely over,” she said uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “But at least we can back up a little and ignore what happened last night.”
“I doubt it,” he ground out, shoving his hand under her face. “This”—he shook his palm under her nose—“won’t let us.” His eyes blazed, and any trace of tenderness had left his features. “I don’t want your pity, Tessa. I don’t want anything from you!” He shoved his hand back into his pocket and strode out of the room, his footsteps ringing up the stairs.
Stunned, Tessa decided to put as much distance as she could between herself and Denver. She slammed the back door as she strode through the porch and down the steps, away from that man and his mercurial temper. One minute he’d been kind and caring, the man she’d once loved—the next he’d once again become a bitter stranger.
Outside, the air was clean and clear. There wasn’t a trace of the storm, not one solitary cloud to wisp across the blue Montana sky. The hills seemed to gleam, and the grass smelled fresh with the earthy scent of dewdrops clinging to the dry blades.
In the pastures, spindly-legged foals frolicked near their mothers, kicking up their heels and nickering noisily. In the larger fields, cattle grazed, moving lazily across the lower slopes of the surrounding hills. Tessa breathed deeply, slowly counting to ten, willing her emotions under control.
She paused near the barn and leaned against the fence. Brigadier whistled at the sight of her. His eyes ablaze with mischief, he tore from one end of his paddock to the other, his fiery red tail unfurling like a banner behind him.
“Show-off,” Tessa whispered. She watched as the sleek chestnut trotted to the fence and shoved his head into her empty hand. “I’m sorry, boy, nothing today.”
Disgusted, Brigadier snorted against her palm, tossed his head and raced to the far end of the paddock.
“You’d sell your soul for an apple,” she called after him.
Boots crunched against the gravel.
Denver!
“And what would you sell yours for?” he asked.
“That,” she said through clenched teeth, “is my secret.”
He touched her shoulder and she moved quickly away. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” She faced him then, saw the remorse etched across his features.
