How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart Page 7

  Lily and Noah moved off to chat with other guests, leaving Meg and Clay alone. Clay made himself forget the way the dress fit her gentle curves and focused on the task at hand. “You seem to be managing okay. No awkward questions, I take it?”

  “A few.” The flirtatious gleam he’d seen in her eye tempered. “I just keep reminding myself that people mean well. For the most part,” she amended, looking at a pair of gray-haired women who were standing by the punch bowl, heads together.

  Clay felt a flare of irritation on her behalf, glad to be talking about old ladies rather than besotted young men. “Some people aren’t happy unless they’re criticizing or spreading doom and gloom.”

  Meg lowered her head and he heard an indelicate snort. “Oh, you poor dear. I do hope you stay looking so well,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “They actually said that?” He was appalled.

  “Of course. They feed on the possibility of catastrophe,” she remarked lightly.

  It was no laughing matter to Clay. More than anything he worried about her cancer coming back, not that he’d say so to her face. He wouldn’t take away from the happiness of her recovery by admitting such a thing. She was one of the strongest women he knew, and he reached out to take her hand. “Don’t you listen to them,” he ordered. “You’re healthy as a horse and you look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Clay.” A pretty blush touched her cheeks and his chest swelled.

  “I’ve got your back, remember?”

  “I remember,” she replied softly, and his heart did a little shiver against his ribs. This wasn’t keeping it simple or purely friendly.

  “If anyone bothers you, let me know.”

  “Anyone like who, in particular?” She’d cocked her head to the left, as if trying to figure him out. He clenched his jaw.

  “Oh, like Tom Walker. Or Jason Callow. Or…who-ever.”

  “Interesting,” she said speculatively, her eyes narrowing as she examined him. He couldn’t escape the feeling she was laughing at him on the inside. “Are you jealous, Clay?”

  He dropped her hand. “Just wanted you to remember our agreement, that’s all.” He had to come up with another distraction. “Here’s Jen and Andrew,” he suggested, tilting his head toward the couple who had just come in. “Good safe people for both of us, right?”

  He didn’t want to touch her too much so he merely put his hand beneath her elbow as they started across the parlor. Jen and Andrew greeted them with hugs and handshakes and it wasn’t long before they were joined by Lily and Noah and Dawson and Tara—the old wing night crowd that Megan had avoided for so long. Now she was a shining star in the midst of them. He couldn’t take his eyes off her animated face. How difficult had it been for her to come here tonight? he wondered. However challenging, she’d made more than one conquest already. She looked like a woman who could accomplish anything. He ran a finger over his bottom lip. Offering her his arm tonight was a small favor when all was said and done. He wished there was some way he could help her with her expansion plans. He’d have to give it some thought, see if he could come up with a solution. There was always more than one way to skin a cat.

  “You did a wonderful job on the dress,” Jen commented to Lily. “You look like a movie star, Meg. I had my doubts about velvet, but you and Lily were right.”

  “And you were right about the accessories, Jen,” Lily said generously. “But Meg, the shoes. The shoes are to die for. Who helped you pick them out?”

  Meg grinned. “I picked them out myself.” She turned her ankle, showing off the impossibly high slingback heel. Clay’s gaze caught on her very fine, toned calf. “I know I’m a bit of a tomboy, but I’m not totally oblivious.”

  Was she sure about that? Because she seemed to be completely oblivious to what she was doing to Clay with her soft laughs and knockout body. Nothing was working as a distraction. He looked up as Stacy and Mike came through the door, laughing and smiling. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tom talking to his dad, but with one eye watching Meg constantly. Clay didn’t want to leave her side, but he did have official duties to perform. He let his hand rest proprietarily on the small of Meg’s back, the heat of her skin warming the velvet against his palm. “They’re here,” he announced, sounding a little sharper than he intended.

  “I need to head back to the kitchen and check up on things,” Jen said, handing her empty glass to Drew.

  “I suppose we should begin to be seated.” Clay put his glass down on a nearby tray. “Meg, you’re at the head table with me.” There’d be no chance for Tom to move in now.

  He saw Tara and Lily exchange significant looks and set his jaw. He hoped they didn’t have any ideas of matchmaking. Meg had been right after all. People were seeing a romance where there was none—even if Clay did feel like he’d been hit by lightning. Even if he did feel an absurd need to put his mark on her tonight.

  He was in a heck of a jam—being Meg’s date, being hugely attracted. He was feeling proprietary and he had no right. It shouldn’t matter that Tom had his eye on Meg. Tom was a good guy. But it did bother Clay and that put him on edge, because while he could be friends with Meg it could never be anything more.

  It was enough to give him a headache.

  Throughout the meal Clay was painfully aware of Meg at his side.

  “Could you pass the butter, please?” Meg leaned toward him slightly.

  “Oh. Sure.” He picked up the dish of perfectly formed butterballs and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him and something strange and electric shot from his fingers to his elbow. Meg’s gaze snapped up to his and he took his hand away. The air around them changed as she lowered her eyes and her lips pursed as she carefully put a ball of butter on the side of her plate.

  This was not going how he’d planned. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t touch her and yet he didn’t want anyone else to, either. How on earth was he going to get through the rest of this evening?

  Meg broke a piece off her roll and concentrated on spreading a bit of butter on it so she wouldn’t have to look at Clay. What was wrong with him? Granted, she’d wanted to blow him away today and by all accounts she could tell she’d succeeded. Not just with Clay. So many people had been friendly. Heck, Tom Walker had overtly flirted and asked her for a dance later.

  But the old teasing Clay was gone and in his place there was an awkward stranger. He couldn’t even hand her the butter dish, for heaven’s sake! And he’d barely said two words through dinner. She thought back over everything they’d talked about today. There was nothing she could think of that might have made him angry or standoffish. But ever since they’d met up with the rest of the gang he’d closed up tighter than a clam.

  “Could you pour me some more wine, please, Clay?” she asked sweetly, lifting her glass. It was still half full but she wanted to try something. As he reached for the bottle, she moved her glass closer until her arm brushed the fine fabric of his white shirt.

  He immediately pulled away.

  No touching then. Meg pasted on a smile for the table’s benefit, said a polite thank-you and took an obligatory sip of the wine even though the liquid had no appeal to her now.

  Maybe he’d been momentarily dazzled by her appearance today but the shine had obviously worn off. And maybe she’d let herself believe in the old crush once more—maybe it was the sentimentality of the wedding or something equally foolish—but that wasn’t real. She would not make an idiot of herself. And if Clay ended up giving Lisa Hamm a turn on the dance floor tonight, well bully for him. It was no more than he deserved.

  When guests rose to get pictures of the couple cutting the cake, she picked up her purse and slid out the side door. It was early April and the wind held a chill; she chafed her arms with her hands and savored the brisk crispness of it. She’d had to escape the perfection. It was all around her today—the romantic setting of the Victorian-style inn, the pretty dresses, the happiness in Lily’s eyes and the contentedness she sa
w in Jen’s as Andrew rested a hand on her rounded tummy where their baby grew. It was too much when Meg’s life held so much uncertainty. Maybe someday she’d be ready for love, but it wouldn’t be easy as a survivor. It stung that everywhere around her were reminders.

  It was like starting the game at a deficit, and most of the time she did okay with it. But today the proof lurked in every corner. She rested a hip against the porch railing and looked out over the fields, still dotted here and there with clumps of stubborn snow. This was what was real. The ranch land, the herds, the never-changing mountains. This was her life—not the muted laughter and music she heard coming from inside. It had been fun to pretend for a few hours, but the girl in the red dress and high heels and makeup—that wasn’t Meg Briggs. That was Meg Briggs trying to prove something. Now that she had, it felt empty.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Clay’s voice came from behind her—a surprise. She didn’t turn around. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “How could I avoid you when you were sitting right next to me?” He chuckled but she heard the tightness in the sound. She stared at a circling hawk and shrugged.

  “It sure seemed like you were trying.”

  There was a long silence, and then the sound of his boots on the wood floor. “I didn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

  She got the feeling he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it anyway. “And what idea is that?”

  “That we’re…you know. Together.”

  Would that really be so bad? She bit back the words. Maybe she’d been wrong about everything today. Maybe the look on his face at the church had just been surprise and not… She thought for a minute. Not what? Attraction? Desire? Boy, she’d really gotten swept up in it, hadn’t she? Sure he’d told her she looked beautiful, but wasn’t he sort of obligated to say that? His behavior at dinner told the true story. Even if there was something—she’d felt it when their hands brushed—Clay would never admit it. Never act on it. A sound of frustration escaped her throat.

  “Are you okay?”

  She ground her teeth. “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that lately, construction on my riding ring would start within the week.”

  Clay put his hand on the railing beside her. “For Pete’s sake,” he said irritably, “it’s a simple question and there are lots of ways to be okay. It’s not always about…it can just be because you ducked out. You know. Overwhelmed. An emotional thing.”

  “You can’t even say the word, can you?”

  She finally turned around and looked up at him. Ah, there it was. The closed expression and the wrinkle above his nose that looked like she could slide a coin into it. He was so afraid of the word cancer.

  “What do you want from me, Megan?”

  The answer rushed into her brain so quickly she had no chance to prepare. I want you to hold me. For the first time she truly understood what today was about. It wasn’t about showing him. It was about reaching him, something she’d never quite been able to do. He was right here beside her but he’d never been so far away, either.

  “Nothing. I don’t want anything from you.” She went to skirt around him but he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

  She looked up at him, feeling her temper rise. “Let go, Clay.”

  He immediately let go of her wrist, but she didn’t run away. “Why are we arguing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  She deliberated telling him exactly what she thought and immediately dismissed the idea. Even if he were ready to hear it—even if she were ready to say it—now was not the time or the place. Not with people around. Not on his aunt’s so very special wedding day. She let out a long breath, forced herself to relax. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the wedding, okay? The dancing will be starting up soon.”

  Which brought out another problem—how could they possibly dance together now, when their emotions were flashing back and forth like a pair of stop and go lights?

  “Meg…”

  “Not now, Clay.” She looked up at him. “Please. Put on a smile and let’s go inside. The last thing I need is more people asking if I’m all right. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs tonight, remember?”

  She just wanted to get the evening over with now. When they returned to the banquet room, the tables had been moved aside to make more room on the dance floor. A local DJ was getting ready to start things up and the lights had dimmed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!”

  Meg watched as Stacy and Mike took the floor. Stacy’s white dress swirled around her ankles but the true beauty was in her smile. After so many years alone, she’d finally found love and happiness. Meg got a lump in her throat watching them smile and turn through a waltz. Maybe Stacy and Mike were nearing fifty, but they’d seen their chance and they’d taken it. Meg curled her arm around her middle and felt her incision pull just a bit. She doubted that magic would ever happen to her now, doubted she’d ever be ready for it. There were too many uncertainties to contemplate taking such a leap.

  After the first dance, Clay danced with Stacy so Meg latched on to Andrew, knowing Jen was finishing up duties in the kitchen. Tom Walker came to claim his dance, and then she circled the floor with Dawson, who point-blank asked her what was going on with Clay.

  “Nothing.”

  “My eye,” he responded, swinging her under his arm and bringing her back around.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You knocked his eyeballs out earlier,” Dawson said.

  “Well, they’re back in place now,” she replied dryly. “Things are predictably back to normal.”

  Dawson shook his head. “Clay will never admit it, but he’s watching out for you. More than usual. It’s like he’s everywhere.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a real date. Not that anyone is buying that, but it’s true.” She was still chafing at the idea that Clay felt the need to look out for her.

  “I saw his face when he saw you, sis. I’ll put money on this being a real date.”

  “And you obviously have a problem with that.”

  “Heck, yeah. Clay’s my best friend, but that means I know him better than anyone. So do you,” he pointed out. “Clay’s not the romance kind, Meg. He’s a diehard bachelor and we both know why. I can’t trust my sister’s welfare to a guy who’ll end up hurting her, no matter how much I like him.”

  Trust his sister’s welfare? The annoyance of earlier flared back to life. “Oh, you guys,” she said sharply, scowling. Dawson slid her under his arm again and she knew it was a deliberate ploy to put her off. When they came face-to-face again she stepped on his foot.

  “Ow!”

  “Newsflash, Dawson Briggs. I can look after myself. No one needs to watch over me or worry about my welfare. Stop interfering. Got it?”

  Dawson muttered something about an ill-tempered snake and she nearly laughed. Nearly.

  The song ended and the beat changed to something slow and romantic. Her shoes were new and her feet were beginning to ache but as she turned to leave the dance floor Clay was there, ready to take her into his arms.

  “Dance, Squirt?”

  She looked him up and down. The bow tie was gone, revealing the delicious V of his neck. His color was up from dancing and he’d rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt, revealing strong, tapered wrists. As much as she didn’t want them to, Dawson’s words were too fresh to ignore. Because he was right. Clay had always said he never planned to get married. Even if something did spark between them, she’d be the last woman he’d consider taking on.

  “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “It’s a slow dance, Meg. And Lisa Hamm has her radar on full alert.”

  “So?”

  “So we had a deal, remember?” His slow, sexy voice sent ripples over her skin. “Come on, Meg. I promise it won’t hurt.�
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  Of course it wouldn’t. Clay was as smooth as a twelve-year-old scotch. Meg sighed. It would be far more telling if she refused him than to simply go through with it. “Fine.”

  He took her hand and led her on to the floor. As he took her in his arms, Meg had the disturbing realization that in all the dances over the years, they’d never slow danced together. As her belly brushed against his cummerbund, she suddenly realized why.

  He was holding her close and every inch of her skin was aware of him. Her left breast brushed his shirt and tingled at the contact. There was a certain sadness knowing the same sensation would never happen on the other side—not even if she had reconstruction. As their feet started moving she mourned the changes in her body just a little bit.

  This slow dance might be all she ever had with Clay. She didn’t want to be protected and babied as he was so determined to do. And the idea of revealing her scars to Clay was preposterous. The woman in the dress was a lie, a fantasy for one day. The scarred, imperfect body was the truth. She was Cinderella at the ball right now, but before long the clock would strike and the dress, the shoes, the makeup would all disappear and she’d still be Meg. Dawson was worrying for nothing.

  So she gripped the light fabric of Clay’s shirt in her fingers and held on to his hand and closed her eyes. Two things had become so very clear to her today. One, she still cared for Clay way more than she’d thought. And two, she realized that they’d never suit. There was too much between them that was wrong. He wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap; she wanted to fly. He couldn’t say the word cancer; it was a part of her everyday vocabulary. She was realizing she wanted a husband and a family and Clay would never settle down. There would never be a way for them to meet in the middle.

  Even if she wanted them to.

  Clay’s body was warm and somehow they seemed to meld together. Her head rested on his shoulder and she felt his warm breath against her ear. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to. There was something in the dance that spoke for them. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of what was happening between them and what couldn’t come of it. A depth of feeling tempered by impossibility.