A COWBOY'S SECRET Read online

  She laughed. "I'll be gone at least all week. By the way, there's a calf in the pasture with Dancer."

  "A calf?"

  One of Lydia's? Now what? And why hadn't somebody told him. Calves, at least, he could do something about.

  "Kristen asked me if I'd take him. He was an orphan her boys bottle fed."

  "From Doug?" That was Kristen's rancher brother. At Lydia's nod he asked, "How come Doug didn't take him back?"

  "Doug would have made sirloin out of him."

  "And?" That was what ranching was all about, after all. "And I said we wouldn't. I said we'd talk to him. But I have to go to Helena for this trial so I wondered if you would."

  He stared at her. "Talk to a calf?"

  "He's very friendly," Lydia said. "And he gets lonely if no one comes to talk to him. His name is Wayne."

  "Wayne?"

  "The boys are hockey fans. So, will you? Talk to him while I'm gone?"

  "You want me to coddle some calf called Wayne?"

  She smiled hopefully. "Please."

  J.D. wanted to say, No way. He wanted to say, Calves aren't pets. He wanted to say, Wayne is hamburger.

  He scowled. Then he said, "Yeah. I guess."

  * * *

  No way.

  He wasn't talking to any blinkin' calf.

  He'd be laughed right out of Montana if he started talking to calves.

  Besides, he had plenty to do. He wouldn't have time to go check on any calf.

  But he did like cattle.

  He couldn't pass a cow without giving it a look-see. And, well, he supposed he ought to check on it, see that it was thriving, make sure it was getting along out there with Dancer.

  Not to talk to any damn calf called Wayne.

  But it felt kind of lonely in the house without Lydia. He'd never felt like this when Gus left.

  He was surprised – and annoyed. He thought it would be a whole lot easier with her gone.

  When she was in Helena, he wouldn't be tripping over her. He wouldn't be finding her stockings in the bathroom. He wouldn't catch a glimpse of shapely calves poking out beneath her bathrobe. He wouldn't hear her talking on the phone or see her typing on her computer.

  She'd be gone.

  But she wasn't.

  Not where it mattered.

  Not from his head. Not from his heart.

  She loved him. That's what she'd said.

  He hadn't believed it. Hadn't let himself believe it. Had tried damn hard not to believe it.

  But words, once spoken, hung around to haunt another day. And night.

  In this case, both.

  She was in Helena and he was glad – and he was lonely.

  He might as well check on her calf.

  It came right up to the fence the minute he got there. It had soulful brown eyes, and it stood there, chewing and watching him.

  Waiting.

  He scratched its ear like it was a horse or a dog or something.

  "Hey, Wayne. How ya doin'?"

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Lydia never shirked. She never cut corners. She dreamed many nights – and not unhappily – of cross-examinations.

  She wanted to go home.

  She relished the preparation for a case. She loved opening and closing arguments. She thrilled to the skillful use of the law's fine-edged blade.

  She very much wished she was home.

  She ate, drank, breathed and talked the law. She took joy in finding a precedent in the dustiest, least memorable case. It was all grist for the legal mill that was her mind.

  She wanted to be with J.D.

  All the time.

  Every day.

  She missed him.

  She still did her work. She was, she thought, every bit as competent and professional as she ever was. But she wasn't consumed.

  At least not with her case.

  She was consumed with J.D. She called him at night. She asked about Dancer. About the stable. About the cattle. About Wayne.

  Dancer was fine. The stable was coming along. The cattle were doing okay. He talked to Wayne.

  "Don't you breathe a word of that," he warned her. "I'll deny it. I'll say you don't know what you're talkin' about, that you're makin' up every blessed word."

  "I won't say anything," Lydia assured him, grinning like a fool, hugging the knowledge to herself. Of course she wouldn't say anything. The admission was too precious, too marvelous.

  He loved her.

  She was sure.

  Not that he said so. He didn't. She ended every telephone conversation with, "I love you," and he mumbled something completely unintelligible, and then he hung up the phone.

  But he loved her. She knew it. Because he talked to Wayne.

  And because he struggled to keep his hands off her. That was love. If he didn't respect her, if he didn't resist, well, perversely, it might not be love at all. Lydia's legal mind had a ball with all the twists and turns of J.D.'s version of upright behavior. She entertained herself at night, after they'd finished talking, by imagining him wanting to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

  It beat dreaming about cross-examinations, hands down.

  It made her vague and dreamy when she wasn't in the courtroom. Rance despaired of her.

  "What's the matter with you?" he complained during one late-nighter in the office. "It's like I have to say everything three times before you hear me! Are you obsessing about J.D.?" he asked with a long-suffering sigh.

  "I am," Lydia said. She was admitting it now. Once she'd admitted it only to herself and to Kristen. But when she'd finally told J.D. she loved him, when she'd finally determined that she wasn't ever getting over him, well, then she was ready to tell the world.

  "And is J.D. equally obsessed?"

  "Yes."

  Rance's face cracked into a grin. "Fantastic. Ellie and I reckoned he was that day when we came over. Who'd a thought it? You and J.D." He shook his head. "So, when's the big day?"

  "What big day?"

  "The wedding."

  "We haven't got that far yet."

  "He hasn't asked you to marry him?"

  Lydia shook her head. "This is all pretty new. That's why I'm so eager to get home."

  Rance nodded. "I know the feeling. I wasn't exactly into getting my casework done when Ellie and I were getting things sorted out."

  "I remember," Lydia said dryly.

  "Good deal, you and J.D. Now maybe he won't be so all-fired ready to leave."

  That was one of the things she and J.D. had talked about. She couldn't understand why he was still talking about leaving, but he was. He had some leads on places to go, he'd told her just last night.

  "My brother Gus is down at Taggart Jones's place, teachin' bronc riding. I'm thinkin' maybe Taggart might have some room for teachin' how to gentle horses, too."

  Lydia had made some mumbling sounds of her own there. He didn't really mean it, she assured herself. He was just waiting until she was home again. Then they'd really talk. He already talked to Wayne.

  When she got home, he could say, "I love you, too."

  * * *

  He liked talking to her on the phone.

  It was the best of all possible worlds.

  Well, maybe not the best. In the best he'd be able to read, and he wouldn't feel like he had no business lying back against his pillows letting her soft voice slide over him like warm honey. He'd be able to say those three words that she said all the time now.

  So okay, it wasn't the best world. But it was pretty damn good.

  Maybe he was a fool for letting himself enjoy it. But what was he supposed to say? "I don't want to talk to you? You make me want things I can never have."

  And then what? Explain?

  No way.

  So he let her talk. He liked listening to her talk. She didn't talk about her case because it was confidential. If she had, he might have stayed more fully aware of all that separated them. But she didn't. She talked abo
ut the ranch, about the cattle, about Dancer. And Wayne.

  He couldn't believe he'd actually admitted talking to Wayne!

  "I don't talk to him every day," he protested. "I just … drop by. Check on him, you know?"

  "You talk to him." She was grinning, he could tell right over the phone. "I won't tell," she promised.

  She darned well better not! She better not tell about any of the things they talked about. Not that they were real personal, but they felt personal. Their conversations were comfortable. Easy.

  J.D. was used to teasing women and laughing with them and bantering with them. But he rarely had a chance to be himself with them.

  He was pretty much himself with Lydia.

  Except, of course, he never told her he couldn't read. When she asked if he was keeping up with the trial through the newspaper, he said he didn't have a lot of time to read. He did sound like he knew some stuff because Skinny had had a paper the other day, and J.D. managed to worm out of him what the article about Lydia's case had said.

  Skinny had given him the paper after and said, "Here. You're so interested, you can read it yourself."

  So J.D. had the paper sitting on the kitchen table. Mocking him.

  He didn't even know which article it was. He wasn't even entirely sure how Lydia spelled her name.

  And still he couldn't bring himself to tell her he was too busy, too tired, too anything to talk.

  He talked. He listened. He yearned. He told himself he would be able to walk away when she came home.

  God, he was such a liar.

  If he'd had any warning, he'd have been able to, he assured himself. Hell, if he'd had any warning, he'd have been gone.

  But he came home, dusty and dirty, bone tired from sorting the last of the cattle for shipping, and there she was – standing on the porch, waiting for him.

  If he'd been quicker, he might have skidded to a stop before she spied him. Then he might have backtracked, headed out. Run for his life.

  But he was thinking about her calling that evening, about how he'd get himself a shower and some grub and get cleaned up and then he'd stretch out on the bed and wait for her to call so he could talk to her, listen to her, live the life he wanted in his dreams.

  And then, damn it to hell, the dream became reality and rose up to smack him in the face.

  She spotted him and was waving madly. Practically jumping up and down. And, hell's bells, she leaped right off the porch and came running toward him.

  He felt a stab of panic, stamped on the brake, and the truck fishtailed in the gravel as he slid to a stop in the yard.

  "What the hell! What're you doin'? What's wrong?" He sounded angry. He knew it. He was angry. How dare she come back and not even warn him.

  "I'm finished!" She was smiling all over her face. Laughing. Tugging the door of the truck open. "I won!"

  Oh. Well, at least that was why she was so excited. It had nothing to do with him. And of course she won. Why wouldn't she? She was the smartest woman – smartest person in Montana, for heaven's sake.

  "Good for you," he said gruffly as she grabbed his arm and pulled him right out of the cab of his truck, then wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight.

  His body leaped in response. His heart kicked over. His teeth clenched. He shut his eyes. Hell. Oh, hell.

  "Lydie." He tried to struggle to get free. But she held on. She lifted her face to his and kissed him. And damn it all, he kissed her in return. He was an idiot. Absolutely crazy. Had no brain. No sense of self-preservation at all.

  Her tongue was in his mouth. He jerked back in shock. "Lydie!"

  She giggled, smiling into his eyes. "I've missed you so much. Oh, God, J.D., I've missed you. It's so good to be home." And then she was hugging him again, holding him tight.

  And he swallowed hard, willed himself to resist and managed only to savor. He couldn't exactly thrust her away, could he? He'd back off, but he'd have to do it slow and easy. He didn't want to hurt her, after all.

  "Let's celebrate," she said.

  "Celebrate?" He echoed numbly.

  "My winning." She shrugged. "But mostly my being home. Us being together."

  He ran his tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth. No words came out.

  "We'll go out to dinner. Let's go to Lewistown."

  "Lewistown? That's miles!"

  "Not so far. Kristen and Jerry go there sometimes. There's a really good restaurant." She looked at him pleadingly. "To celebrate, J.D."

  How the heck was he supposed to say no to that?

  He went in and took a shower, and all the while he tried to think of some reason not to go. And then he thought maybe it was better to go. They'd have one last meal together. A celebratory meal.

  And a farewell meal.

  Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. He could have this one last evening – and then he'd say goodbye to his dream.

  * * *

  Bittersweet.

  J.D. could think of no other word to describe the evening.

  Every moment was sweet in itself – and bitter in its brevity. To drive to Lewistown with Lydia snug against him, to have her turn her head and smile at him as she talked, to have her touch his arm, his thigh, to have her hair blow against his cheek in the breeze – it was all wonderful.

  Enjoy it, he told himself. Store it up. Savor it. Savor her.

  Because the pain would come. This wouldn't – couldn't – last.

  The restaurant Lydia chose was one J.D. had never been to before. A lawyer friend had recommended it, she said. It was on the upper end of the restaurant scale as far as Lewistown went, catering less to locals than to the hunting and fishing tourist crowd.

  Its mellow pine walls had blown-up photos with rivers running through them. There wasn't a faded print of a Charlie Russell cowboy painting anywhere to be seen. The tables had tablecloths, not oilcloth. The light was candle, not fluorescent, and the waitress didn't plunk a cup of strong black coffee in front of him the minute he sat down the way they did at Bette's and the half a dozen other cowboy-oriented cafés he knew.

  Instead she smiled prettily, handed them each a menu and said she'd be back to take their order.

  J.D. fingered it uncomfortably. Lydia opened hers at once and began perusing it.

  J.D. perused her. He did his best to memorize her. To trace with his mind's eye the fall of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth. He wanted to be able to remember later—

  "What are you going to have?"

  He jerked. "What?"

  She laughed. "You're staring. Did you forget what I looked like?"

  No, he hadn't forgotten. He didn't ever want to forget. He rubbed the back of his neck. He shook his head.

  "You haven't even opened your menu," Lydia chided. "Don't tell me you're not hungry?"

  "I'm hungry." But not for food. Not just for food.

  For her. God, he wanted her. Wanted just a taste. Just one taste.

  But he knew better. Food was all he would get. All he would ever get.

  Dutifully he opened the menu and stared at the gibberish. At the letters he could recognize, at the words that made no sense.

  "Ready to order?" The waitress reappeared, beaming at them.

  Lydia pointed to an item on the menu. "I'd like the duck," she said. "With the twice-baked potatoes and the green beans. Salad, not soup. And with ranch dressing on the side."

  The waitress wrote it down, then looked at him.

  He said, "I'll have a steak. Medium rare." Then he opted for all the stuff Lydia had just said.

  "How about some wine with dinner?" the waitress asked.

  Lydia smiled brightly. "Shall we?"

  And he thought, Oh, hell, why not? and nodded his head.

  The waitress handed him a wine list.

  Damn.

  He stared at it helplessly. He knew how to deal with restaurants. He ordered a steak and that was that. Beer was easy. He picked a brand he knew or took what was on draft. He'd never orde
red wine in his life.

  He swallowed now. His fingers felt suddenly damp.

  "Duck and steak," Lydia mused. "What would go with both?"

  He didn't have a clue. And he couldn't read to see if they had it even if he did. He passed the menu to her. "You choose."

  Lydia studied the menu, made her decision and told the waitress what they wanted. When she brought the bottle, though, she poured out a glass and gave it to him to taste, not to Lydia.

  He tried to act like he knew what he was doing. It wasn't rot gut, that was for sure. "Fine," he muttered, waited until she poured both glasses, then lifted his desperately to his lips.

  Only to catch Lydia smiling at him over the top of hers. She raised her glass toward him. "To us," she said.

  Time stopped.

  His mind spun. To us. Oh, God, he wished…!

  He sucked in a harsh breath and clinked his glass against hers. "To you winnin' your case," he said hoarsely.

  "That, too," Lydia agreed. And then she took a sip. He did more than sip. He gulped. He needed a little fortification. A lot of fortification. He would've liked to chug the whole damn bottle. And then another.

  Being drunk wouldn't solve anything. He knew that. But it might have made the rest of the night easier to get through.

  * * *

  Anticipation.

  The glorious notion of – soon.

  The savoring of the moment and, at the same time, the expectation of something even better, sweeter. Later.

  Lydia wallowed in it. The food. The wine. The ambience. The man.

  Especially the man.

  She would have given up any of the rest without an instant's consideration as long as she could keep J.D.

  It was even more wonderful, though, to have it all, to share it with him.

  She offered him a bite of her duck, then fed it to him off her fork. She watched him eagerly, avidly, hungrily.

  Nervously.

  Because she was Lydia, after all, and even though being allowed to be honest was liberating, it wasn't stress free. She could still worry. What if he didn't like the food? What if the wine was bitter? What if he didn't like what he saw when he had her naked? What if she was no good at lovemaking?

  That last thought alone was enough to make melt-in-her-mouth duck turn to petrified fowl.

  She had scarcely any hands-on experience. And while she'd read her share of how-to books, somehow she was convinced that this was one thing that couldn't be mastered by reading about it. The test wasn't going to be true-false, multiple choice or even one of those essays she had always been so very good at.