Cowboys Don't Cry Read online

  He didn't know how long he stayed in the creek. Long enough so that all those surging feelings of desire were well and truly cooled, long enough so that his skin felt numb and his fingers shriveled.

  He wasn't cold now so much as anesthetized. But when at last he stood and made his way carefully across the slick rocks to the bank, the cold breeze smote him.

  He grabbed his jacket and blotted himself dry. Then he picked up his T-shirt and pulled it over his head and stepped into his shorts. Then he reached for his soggy jeans.

  "I've brought you some dry ones."

  He jumped a foot, two feet—damn, he didn't know how high.

  "M-Maggie?" he croaked, glancing around wildly.

  There was a rustling from a thicket and Maggie stepped into the moonlight, holding out a pair of jeans.

  "I saw you head for the creek. I thought you might be going to wash off. So when I got back to the house I went down to the bunkhouse and got you some dry things." She stopped, still holding the jeans, standing perhaps five feet from him.

  The cold water had done no good at all.

  One word in Maggie's soft tones, one look from Maggie's green eyes, and all Tanner's hormones were standing at attention again. Literally.

  He muttered something desperate under his breath.

  "What?" Maggie's own voice had a faint, breathless quality. She stepped closer. Her hand, still holding the jeans, dropped to her side. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips. Her wide eyes caught him as surely as he'd ever caught a deer in the sight of his gun.

  Tanner's breath lodged in his throat.

  She took another step. And another.

  And then, when she stopped so close that their breath mingled and her breasts and his chest nearly touched, he couldn't help himself.

  He bent his head and, trembling, touched his lips to hers. He drank of her sweetness, tasted her, urged her mouth to open for him, to let him in. He didn't stop to think. God knew he'd been thinking far too much. For weeks all he'd been able to do was think. And it hadn't done him one bit of good. He'd certainly never been able to forget.

  From the moment he'd lain in the corral dirt and opened his eyes to see her standing over him, he'd wanted her.

  He wanted her still.

  And though he knew with just that one tiny shred of rational common sense that was left to him that what he wanted was wrong for both of them, right this instant he couldn't help himself.

  He needed to hold her, to touch her, to taste her. He needed it with every fiber of his being, with every singing nerve, and every clamoring cell.

  And Maggie didn't resist. On the contrary, she dropped the jeans and wrapped her arms around him, ran her hands up under the damp T-shirt against his back, stroking his shivering, burning flesh, making him shudder, making him need. He thrust himself against her, knowing it was all too obvious how much he desired her. There was no hope of denying it now.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair, her lips melded with his. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth and sent him soaring with desire. He held her to him in the cradle of his thighs, reveled in the brush of her worn denim jeans against his bare legs. Her hands skimmed down his back again, toyed with the waistband of his shorts. He arched forward, pressing his arousal against her, moving, throbbing, needing.

  "Yes," Maggie whispered. "Oh, yes." She feathered little kisses all over his face while he did the same to her, then their mouths met again with hungry desperation. "I love you, Robert. I love you."

  The words cracked like a bullwhip against his conscience, jerking him back to reality, to a time larger than now, to a world that would go on after his hunger had been sated.

  With every bit of resolve that he could muster, Tanner wrenched himself back, snatched his mouth from hers, held her body away from his. He gulped in great lungfuls of air, tried to calm the stampede of his heart, the thrum of the blood in his veins.

  "Stop," he said hoarsely. "Got to stop."

  Maggie stared back at him, dazed, as hungry as he, hurt etching her face, confusion filling her eyes. Her lips were parted in a tiny O so tempting that he wanted to kiss her again—and again—and never let her go.

  But it couldn't happen. He couldn't let it happen.

  "It's all right," Maggie assured him.

  "It isn't!"

  "But I do, you know, Robert," she said softly.

  He gave his head a little shake, confused. "Do?"

  "Love you."

  He shook his head fiercely. "No. You don't. You can't! You don't know..." he said, his voice tight with anguish. He turned away from her, snagged the dry jeans off the ground and, stumbling, tugged them on, wincing as he zipped them up.

  "You don't know," he repeated.

  "So tell me." She looked at him with gentleness, with warmth, with all the care he'd craved for so long.

  He shut his eyes, felt the cold air heaving in and out of his lungs, tried to get a grip on himself, didn't have much luck.

  So tell me.

  It sounded so simple. It was so damn hard.

  He pulled on the shirt she'd brought him, too. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, buying himself time. But he knew he owed her some explanation, at least.

  "You want a home," he began at last. "You said that from the first." His voice was ragged. He cleared his throat.

  "Yes."

  "I can't...do that."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know!" he said, anguished. "Maybe it's a genetic failing. No, probably not. My old man seemed to have managed. Hell, maybe it's just me!"

  "But how do you know you can't?" Maggie persisted.

  "Because...because I've tried."

  She looked at him, waiting, not speaking.

  "I've been married."

  There. He'd said it. Told her what he hadn't told anyone since he'd left Colorado. "And you can ask her," he went on bitterly. "She'll tell you I was lousy at it. She'll tell you I was never there when she needed me! Hell—" he took an angry swipe at his eyes "—you think I was negligent with this calf tonight. Clare was pregnant. She was having our baby. And I wasn't even there when she lost him!"

  He heard the sharp intake of Maggie's breath, then felt her move close, put her arms around him. He, should have shoved her away. God knew he didn't deserve her comfort. But he couldn't do it. He just stood there, trembling, aching, suddenly hurting more now for the loss of his son than he'd hurt fourteen years before.

  "Can you tell me?" she asked softly.

  And so he told her about coming home that night, about being relieved when Clare wasn't there. He told her everything about that day. It didn't come out at once. It came out in harsh, aching chunks. But he managed it all— until he got to the baby.

  "I never—" his voice sounded harsh and strange even to him "—I never even saw him!"

  It was the cry he'd never been able to share with Clare. He'd tried to be strong for her, to be tough and silent and forbearing, not saying a word lest she think he blamed her when he'd blamed only himself.

  "If only," he'd said to himself a million times as he fixed fences, herded cattle, doctored pink eye, cut hay. If only.

  But all the if onlys in the world couldn't bring back the son he'd never known, the home he'd hoped to make.

  For years he'd pretended it didn't matter. Cowboying was enough. Moving on was fine with him.

  Because he'd never given himself another choice. Meeting Maggie had forced him to face what he'd told himself he had no right to, forced him to confront the dreams he'd thought were dead.

  He pressed his face against her shoulder, felt a shudder shake him. Her arms tightened around him, held him fast and made him wish—Oh, God, how they made him wish—that he could risk a second chance.

  Finally he pulled back, scrubbing at the dampness around his eyes with his hand, embarrassed. "Sorry," he muttered. He jammed his fists into the pockets of his jeans, ducked his head. "I shouldn't have done that."

  "On the contrary," Maggie said softly, her han
d still on his arm, not letting him go. "I think it's high time you did."

  Tanner cleared his throat. "Maybe. But it...shouldn't have been you."

  "No," Maggie said. "It probably should have been... your wife. You never told her, did you?"

  "I couldn't. We didn't talk. We just..." He flushed, remembering what Clare's primary attraction was. "We were kids. Being married at that age, for us at least, was a joke. On us. We didn't know what we were doing. I had great hopes." He gave an ironic laugh at the young naive fool he had been. "But when—" his voice caught in his throat "—when the baby was born early, when he died... every thing just... fell apart. I couldn't stop it."

  "I know you, Robert. I'm sure you tried."

  "Did I?" How many years had he wondered about that? He gave a harsh half sob, half laugh. "Sometimes I think I was just glad to get out, glad that he died!" He looked at her, expecting to see mirrored in her face all the self-loathing he'd lived with for so many years. His own anguish was unbearable. "Do you have any idea what it's like, thinking you're the kind of person who's glad his own kid died?"

  And then she was holding him again and he really was crying this time. There was no way he could hide it or pretend he'd gotten something in his eye or anything else. He felt like the world's biggest jerk, but he couldn't help it.

  Maggie didn't try to stop him. She just held him, rubbed her hands over his back, kissed his cheek, his ear, his hair. Then she fished in her pocket and handed him a handkerchief, as if it was a perfectly normal thing that he'd just done.

  "Lots of guys break down and bawl in your arms?" Tanner said after he'd cleared his throat and could talk again. She might not be embarrassed for him, but he was embarrassed as hell.

  "John did."

  Tanner stiffened at her mention of Merritt. "When his marriage fell apart?" he asked gruffly.

  "No. When we were in college his mother died."

  "Oh." He felt like an even bigger fool. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

  Maggie laid a hand on his arm. "John and I are friends, Robert. We have been for a long time."

  "You don't have to explain. It's none of my business."

  "Yes, it is," Maggie told him, "because I love you."

  "Don't say things like that." He turned away and, grabbing his wet clothes and pulling on his jacket, headed for his horse. Doggedly, Maggie followed him. "It's true. I think I fell in love with you the day I came. I watched you ride that black mare, watched her buck you off over and over—"

  "Swell," Tanner muttered.

  "—And I watched you get right back on. I admired you tremendously. You had guts, stamina, commitment."

  He swung into the saddle. "Yeah, where horses are concerned, I'm a regular marvel."

  "You sell yourself short."

  His teeth clenched. "I see myself realistically. Horses are one thing, love is Something else. I tried. It doesn't work. I don't work."

  "You were scarcely more than a child!"

  "Just the same," he insisted stubbornly, "I failed."

  "And you won't try again?" She stood there looking up at him, offering him her heart. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes. She offered him dreams and hopes, the promise of a future that he didn't dare contemplate no matter how much he wanted to.

  He shook his head. "I...can't," he whispered.

  Her chin jutted. "Can't? Or won't? Don't you want to, Robert? Or are you afraid?"

  He met her gaze defiantly. Then, seeing the love in hers, he looked away.

  "Don't push me, Maggie," he said, then touched his heels to the horse and rode off.

  Seven

  So now she knew.

  It wasn't something he'd ever wanted to talk about. Certainly not to Maggie. But maybe it was just as well.

  Now she wouldn't be thinking she loved him. Maggie MacLeod was no fool. It wouldn't take her long to realize she'd had a close call, that a relationship with a man like him would be the biggest mistake she could ever make.

  Tanner knew he ought to be glad it had happened. But sometimes—just sometimes—when he saw her watching him from a distance, looking at him sadly, it hurt. He tried not to think about it. He tried to do his job, to teach Andy, to stay out of Maggie's way.

  Why not? They had nothing to talk about except the ranch, and if he managed things right, he didn't have to say much to her about that. If she thought he was avoiding her, well, he was.

  And now she ought to understand why.

  But she looked at him so unhappily. Damn, did she think he wanted to be this sort of man?

  He was grateful when the time came for him and Andy to take the cattle up to the summer pasture. It would re-quire several days, days when he wouldn't have to see her watching him from a distance, days that his gut wouldn't clench at the sight of her, and his heart wouldn't ache because now she knew the worst.

  Ordinarily this trip was made during one of Tanner's favorite times of the year. He looked forward to being out on the range, to the wilderness, to the solitude, to the genial companionship of the one or two men who came with him.

  But going with Andy made it hard. The boy had learned a lot. He was quick and eager and determined, always asking questions, always trying to help.

  Like his sister. Too damned much like his sister. It was bad enough having Maggie constantly in the back of his mind. It was worse having Andy along to remind him even more of her.

  Tanner knew he was being curt with him, that Andy didn't know why, that he thought it was something he'd done that was making Tanner stay away from him as much as he could.

  Tanner couldn't help it. He excused it by telling himself it was better for the kid to learn how to handle things on his own.

  "Remember," he said, sending Andy in the other direction. "You learn by doing. I can't do it for you."

  And if Andy sometimes looked at him a little warily and a little sadly, too, well, that was just too bad.

  The kid was learning. He was like his sister that way, too. Tanner knew that Maggie would have made Abby proud of her. She'd be proud of Andy, too. He didn't stop to consider what she'd think of him.

  Watching the kid now, as they herded the last cow across the track and up through the forest into the high, verdant meadow, Tanner thought he'd done all right.

  Andy shut the last gate, then leaned back in the saddle and took off his hat, surveying with proprietary pride the settling herd. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead with one grimy hand and grinned, then glanced over at Tanner. His gaze was still a little wary, as if he was unsure of Tanner's approval.

  "That's it?" he asked.

  "That's it."

  "So we did it?"

  "We did it." Tanner rode over to the creek and slipped out of the saddle to dip his neck scarf in the water and wipe his face. The icy water tackled down his neck.

  Andy joined him and did the same, then he clapped his hat back on his head and whooped loud and long.

  "What was that for?"

  "'Cause I'm finally a cowboy." Andy grinned, tasting the word, savoring it on his tongue. Then he stopped and glanced hesitantly at Tanner. "Aren't I?"

  Tanner nodded. "You could say that."

  "Would you say it?"

  Tanner looked at the young, freckled face, at the green eyes so like Maggie's. In them he saw hope and faith in the future, purity, innocence and self-esteem. All the things he'd once had. He hoped to hell Andy got to keep them. "Yeah, Andy, I would."

  "It's 'cause of you, Tanner. Learn by doing. I do everything you do."

  "Don't, for God's sake, do everything I do," Tanner said gruffly, swinging back into the saddle.

  Which was good advice, because moments later, he fell off his horse.

  "Tanner what?" Ev's eyes bugged. He stared, stupe-fied, first at Andy, then at Tanner riding into the yard slowly, his face white and pained, his left arm wrapped tightly against his chest and held in place with Andy's shirt.

  "The cinch broke," Tanner muttered, embarrassed beyond belief.
/>   He saw Maggie come out on the porch, take one look at him and start running. He cursed under his breath.

  "Hold his horse," she instructed Billy, then she looked at Tanner. "I'll help you down,"

  "I don't need help." He clenched his teeth, clutched the saddle horn for balance and swung down. White-hot pain shot through his arm and shoulder as his foot hit the ground. He couldn't stop the expletive that passed his lips as Maggie's arm slipped around him.

  "Easy," she soothed. "Give me a hand, Ev. We'll get him to the truck."

  Tanner made a feeble effort to shake them both off. But he was light-headed, almost groggy with pain. He winced as Ev helped him into the pickup.

  "Where to?" Maggie asked Ev.

  "Casper. He's prob'ly broke something."

  "I dislocated my shoulder."

  "Again?" Ev grumbled.

  "Does he do it often?" Maggie asked.

  "Usually I can pop it back in. This time I...couldn't."

  Maggie turned to Ev. "Call ahead and tell them we're coming."

  "Ev can—" Tanner began.

  But Maggie just slid behind the wheel. "Let's go."

  In terms of sheer pain, the trip to Casper was less awful than riding down the mountain. But sitting next to Maggie for an hour, trying desperately not to disgrace himself by puking or fainting, was sheer hell.

  He was just congratulating himself on having made it when Maggie opened the door of the truck in front of the emergency entrance and he put his feet on the ground. The world begin to shift. From a long way off he saw Maggie move toward him and heard her say, "Wait a sec—"

  The world didn't wait. It came up to meet his face.

  There was apparently no end to the ways he could make an ass of himself in front of Maggie. But why, he wondered, if he was going to faint, didn't he have the good sense to stay out for the duration?

  Why did he have to come around as nurses and orderlies were picking him up, as Maggie was saying, "Mind his shoulder," as some helpful busybody was unbuttoning his shirt and undoing the snap of his jeans to help him breathe?

  He struggled against them, but the pain stopped him dead. He sagged and shut his eyes as they lay him on the cart.