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“Who ever heard of cleaning your nails with a dirty knife?” she countered with a vague shrug.
At the top of the stairs, he noticed the sliver of light showing beneath the door to the master bedroom. He felt the tightening of his nerves, an alertness that ran through him and chased out the last vestiges of spinning tenderness. He didn’t hear Cat’s low-voiced “Good night” as he reached for the doorknob.
The sitting room was empty, darkened except for a lone lamp that laid its light on the door. Ty walked straight through to the bedroom, where Tara sat in front of a vanity mirror, rubbing a moisturizing cream into her smooth facial skin. Her eyes met the reflection of his in the mirror, coolly confident.
The satiny fabric of her nightgown exposed her white shoulders and enticingly outlined her round, firm breasts, erect nipples making a button pattern under the material. It was a feminine sexuality so understated that it was blatant. It irritated him that she had not doubted he would return to it. But it always seemed to be there—this heat that burned all the good feelings.
Her calmness had convinced him that she hadn’t been waiting up for him. Ty believed it until he picked up the satin robe on the bed to move it so he could sit down and pull off his boots. The robe still held the warmth of her body, which indicated it had only been removed in the last few minutes. She hadn’t wanted it to appear that she had been waiting up for him—another of her games.
“I’m glad you came home before I went to bed, Ty,” she said and fixed the lid on the jar of cream. She straightened from the bench to walk toward him, all grace and slink. “I wanted you to know that I’m sorry for some of the things I said tonight. I was upset and spoke rashly.”
Ty barely looked at her while she made her carefully rehearsed speech, reciting the lines so well. He pulled off his boots and set them on the floor at the foot of the bed.
r /> Unable to endure his silence any longer, Tara laughed, exasperated. “I’ve apologized. Can’t you at least say something?”
“What would you like me to say?” He stood up and began tugging his shirttail out of his pants to unbutton it. “I’m sorry about a lot of things, but that doesn’t change them.”
“I hate it when we quarrel, Ty.” She moved in and began unbuttoning his shirt, so expertly coy and alluring. “Let’s kiss and make up,” she coaxed.
The heat of her kiss burned at the edges of his memory and taunted him with its closeness. It was always like this; he only had to be close to her to remember the fire of possessing this dream image. There was something blind about this desire.
And there was something about loving a person for so long a time that couldn’t be stopped. Seemingly of their own volition, his hands curved onto her silken-smooth shoulders, absently caressing them. When he kissed her, Ty felt the start of a response; then she pulled back and swung away from him.
He hesitated, but in the end he didn’t pursue her. Maybe she had tasted Jessy on his lips. Women had a knowledge of such things, he’d learned. He let out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair.
Inside, Tara was seething with rage. She didn’t understand this instinct that told her he’d come to her from the arms of some other woman, but she knew it. It was something in the way he kissed her, as if comparing. Only one woman came to mind—that she-bitch Jessy Niles.
“Ty—” She fought down the anger, smoothing out her voice.
“What?” She heard the heaviness in his voice.
“I—” Tara pivoted and watched his gaze travel down her. There was reassurance in seeing she still moved him. “I love you. This difficulty with your father ... I know somehow we’ll work it out.”
“I won’t go against him,” he stated flatly.
“No.” She could see that no amount of persuasion would make him do that. It was better if he didn’t, now that she’d had time to consider it. An estrangement between father and son might not bode well for the future. Chase Calder was just stubborn enough to leave this mini-empire to his daughter instead of his son. “I can’t ask you to do that, any more than you could ask me to defy my father. I realize that. But you don’t have to become involved in the fight—not in a public way.”
“I suppose not.” It was a compromise of sorts. He suddenly felt very old and very tired and very troubled.
21
In the two weeks after Dyson had left, the weather went bad. Everything was thrown at them, from sheeting rain to sleet storms, snow driven by fierce winter winds to subzero temperatures. One system would come through, give them a short breather, and the next one would hit them. There was no holing up and taking shelter until better weather came. It was calving season, a round-the-clock operation in brutal weather that took its toll on man and beast.
After two weeks of eighteen-hour days, Ty was haggard and bone-weary, his nerves frayed. He stared with an absent envy at the closed eyes of the foal, lying in a thick straw bed, its body blanketed. Each breath it drew was a rasping, labored sound. It had entered the world with premature abruptness a week earlier when its mother slipped on some ice and went down, fracturing both front legs. The foal had been taken from her before the mare had been put down.
Since the horse colt was only two weeks early and a supply of mare’s milk was on hand, there was a good chance they could have saved the foal. Then pneumonia had set in, and the chances for its survival were getting worse each hour as the foal’s condition deteriorated at a rapid pace.
While Ty watched, the noise stopped. It was a full minute before his fatigue-dulled senses noticed the silence in the stall, and he realized the foal had died. He lowered his chin to his chest and swore silently and bitterly. The loss of both mare and foal virtually eliminated any chance the breeding operation might have shown its first profit this year.
There was a rustle of straw behind him, and Ty wearily lifted his head, turning it in the direction of the sound. Long hours, with little sleep in between, made his eyes appear more deep-set and hooded, and his hat was pulled low on his forehead, the rolled point of its front brim shading more of his face and adding to the impression.
“How’s the colt?” His father came up to the stall, his breath making small puffs of steam.
“Lost it.” With a slow swing of his body, Ty turned away from the foal and let himself out of the stall to join his father. No comment was necessary or expected. There was too much other work to be done for valuable time to be wasted discussing the death of one foal. “Was there something you wanted?” His father had rarely left the house, directing most of the ranch’s operations from his desk or through instructions to Ty, white he worked on the land-title problem.
“I’m flying to Helena this afternoon. After so many postponements because of bad weather, the meeting with those officials from Washington has finally been scheduled for tomorrow morning,” he stated, then added, “Your mother’s coming with me. We’ll probably be back by the end of the week, weather permitting.”
“Okay.” That meant Tara would be alone in the house. Somehow he’d have to arrange to spend more time there, or at least take his meals there. It was no good to urge her to get out and visit with some of the other wives similarly housebound. Only in desperation would she do it, and she usually returned more discontented than before.
