A Home Of Her Own
Cathleen Connors
THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTERNo matter how far she roamed, Melodie Coleman had never quite shaken the dust of her Wyoming hometown–nor the bittersweet memories. Now, widowed and pregnant, she was back in high country for her mother' s funeral. Back to face a charismatic cowboy–and the truth about why she shattered his heart so long ago…For Buck Foster, seeing Melodie again renewed not just the pain of being jilted, but the spark of first love. As they shared a threadbare ranch house and an unexpected journey down memory lane, Buck realized Melodie truly sought forgiveness–from him, and from the Lord. But it was too late to reclaim what might have been…or was it?
Suddenly, Buck’s anger was overcome by a staggering sense of loss.
Had he not been holding so tightly on to his splintered ego, he might have made an attempt to reach out to this shadowy vision of his past, envelop her in his arms and offer her a measure of comfort on this sad, dreary day.
Bewildered by the idea, he abruptly announced, “I’ve got to feed the stock. Make yourself at home.”
“I’ll do that,” Melodie replied evenly, starting toward her old room, certain that nothing in this old house had changed at all.
But what she discovered behind that familiar closed door was enough to send her reeling.
CATHLEEN CONNORS,
a Wyoming native, teaches English to students in grades 6-12 in a rural school that houses kindergartners and seniors in the same building. She feels blessed to have married a man who is both supportive and patient. When she’s not busy writing, teaching or chauffeuring her sons to and from various activities, she can most likely be found indulging in her favorite pastime—reading.
A Home of Her Own
Cathleen Connors
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Jabez prayed to the God of Israel:
“Oh, that you may truly bless me
And extend my boundaries
That your hand would be with me
And that you would keep me from evil.”
And God granted his prayer.
1 Chronicles 4:10
To Joan, whose unwavering faith and gentle guidance have been a constant in the Connors family for as long as I can remember.
Dear Reader,
This book has truly been a labor of love for me. Numerous hurdles had to be overcome before it ever reached your hands. Know that I am honored that it has found a home with you. The theme of redemption explored in these pages gives meaning to my own life, and I dearly hope to yours, as well. May your sojourn with the characters who are such a part of my heart touch you as deeply as they have me. God bless you and keep you ever close to your dreams.
With sincere appreciation,
Cathleen Connors
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
The sound of snow crunching beneath Melodie Coleman’s boots echoed in the empty caverns of her heart. Details that accompanied each step along the familiar pathway seemed to leap out at her. It felt so surreal that had she happened past a mirror she wouldn’t have been much surprised to see herself as she looked at twelve years of age. A toothy tomboy clad in jeans, her twin blond braids slung carelessly over her shoulders. Eyes bright with hope. An irrepressible spirit as yet untouched by the perversity of fate.
Blinking against the spitting snow, she wondered how many snowmen she had erected in this same front yard only to see them dissolve into puddles over time.
Like her dreams.
Bending down as if to attend to one of the struggling flowers her mother insisted on planting along this pathway every spring, Melodie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. There were no blossoms, of course. It was snowing in the high country, and her mother would be planting no more seeds. Bulbs separated and nurtured by those gentle, hardworking hands lay as dormant beneath the frozen ground as Melodie’s faith in herself. And in God, for that matter.
Melodie! Melodie Anne Fremont! You get in here this instant. Your dinner’s getting cold.
Straightening at the sound of her mother’s voice echoing in her memory, she could almost see Grace Fremont standing in the doorway waiting for her. Despite the scolding tone of her voice, there was a smile upon her weathered face as wide as the open expanse of the wilderness abutting their property.
Oh, how Melodie longed to drop the vestiges of time and run headlong into that blithe memory, to bury herself in her mother’s forgiving arms and breathe deeply of the spices that always surrounded her. Instead she stood rooted to her spot, wishing only happy ghosts awaited her behind that closed door.
She forced herself to move forward. Each step was as leaden as her frame of mind. Fingering the key in her pocket, she halted on the front porch and contemplated the old brass knocker screwed into the front door. How strange it was to stand here wondering whether to knock or not. After all, the home in which she had been raised belonged to her now. Yet after so many years away, it felt presumptuous to barge right in.
What is the proper way to greet specters of the past?
I’m home, Mom, she wanted to call out. Like the prodigal son, she yearned to openly admit her mistakes and beg forgiveness. You were right all along. Marrying Randall Coleman was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m sorry for hurting you. For disappointing you. So very sorry…
Unlike the fortunate lad in the Bible, it was too late for Melodie to make amends. Too late to tell her mother how much she loved her. Too late to ask forgiveness for cutting off all but the most superficial of contact during her terrible bout with cancer. Too late for self-redemption.
Instead of the joyous reunion she had envisioned, Melodie was here to lay her mother to rest.
Snow on April Fools’ Day seemed truly fitting. Fool that she was, the wide-eyed girl who had left home so long ago to find a destiny broader than the piece of land that was her heritage stood upon her own stoop a bona fide failure. Failing not only in her marriage but also in her obligation to her widowed mother. Taking the cold, smooth metal of the knocker into her hand, she rapped twice upon the door certain that nothing in her life could ever be harder than facing her mother’s memory.
Nothing except being greeted by the man she jilted so long ago.
And had regretted losing every day since.
The door to her past swung open without so much as a creak.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he drawled in a way that haunted Melodie’s dreams to this day. “For quite some time.”
The irony of his words was not lost on either of them.
“Hello, Buck,” she said casually over the hammering of her heart. “You’re looking good.”
It was a gross understatement. Time had turned the gangly beau she remembered into as fine looking a man as could be found gracing the pages of any slick magazine ads. In truth, Buck Foster was far more appealing than any of those glistening boy toys with their fake smiles and steroid-enhanced muscles. His worn boots matched a pair of jeans that accentuated the fact that this was a real working cowboy. Melodie wondered if that Western-cut shirt he was wearing had been custom tailored to accommodate his well-muscled upper body. One good flex would surely rip the seams out.
You’ve filled out nicely, she almost blurted out. Not that such drop-dead good looks needed to be underscored by any such fawning observations.
Buck’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her as effectively as any bouncer intent on keeping riffraff out of an establishment. Hair the color of dark, spiced rum showed no hint of gray yet. It was styled just as she remembered it in a no-nonsense manly cut that made Melodie smile inwardly. Needless to say, an upscale salon like the one Randall had frequented would hold no allure for a man such as Buck Foster.
She stuck her trembling hands into her pockets.
How did I ever let this one get away? she asked herself.
Stupidity. Sheer stupidity came the resounding response.
Memories, long suppressed, washed over her. It was with a certain amount of embarrassment that she remembered how hard she’d worked just to get him to notice her all those years ago. If Buck had any awareness of her girlish crush on him back then, he’d never so much as given a hint of it. Melodie recalled with aching tenderness the times she perched herself atop the corral fence like some raucous love bird, chattering inanely. It was upon that splintery old fence that she had fallen hopelessly in love with her mother’s hired hand, the one that everyone in the community was so quick to condemn.
One day in particular stuck in her mind. It seemed it happened just yesterday. A wild-eyed bronco had just tossed Buck into the air like some rag doll, leaving him to take cover in the dust amid a flurry of hooves. Tears streaming down her face, Melodie screamed in alarm.
With all the dignity he could muster, Buck had picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off and limped over to where she sat clenching the rail fence in white-knuckle terror. She’d urged her heart to start beating again as he braced himself by placing both hands on either side of her trembling body. It seemed that the entire world was contained in the span of Buck’s loving arms. The scent of horseflesh and sweat and blood and pure cowboy filled her lungs. She feared she might actually swoon as he proceeded to brush aside her tears with the pad of his thumb.
“Don’t you worry about me, Little Bit,” he’d assured her. “I’m indestructible.”
Vowing to be the one to prove him wrong, Melodie threw her arms around his neck and whispered fiercely, “No you’re not. You’re far more breakable than you know.”
He’d laughed, and the sound had inflated her heart like a cheap red balloon.
“Thanks for your concern,” he’d said. “Nobody else ever much cared whether I lived or died.”
The memory alone still had the power to dust Melodie’s flesh with goose bumps.
Seeing her shiver, Buck reluctantly stepped out of the way.
“Since you own the place,” he growled, “I guess there’s no need to invite you in.”
Deliberately avoiding his eyes, Melodie trained hers on the middle button of his shirt—right where his heart used to be before she’d ripped it out and fed it to the wolves. It took every ounce of Buck’s self-restraint to keep from slamming the door right in her face. A face, he noted with a trace of all too human satisfaction, that looked far more drawn than he remembered it.
In comparison to his six-foot-two-inch frame, Melodie looked very small indeed standing there upon the front step like some stranger stranded in a freak spring storm. Little Bit he used to call her when she was just a tagalong pest clamoring for his attention. Buck could discern no sign of that impish child in the tired-looking woman standing before him. Years of bitterness and anger left him unprepared for the sight of her looking so vulnerable and still so darned pretty with snowflakes clinging to those unbelievably long eyelashes.
Something twisted painfully in Buck’s chest. He had once heard that amputees could actually feel an itch in their missing limbs. Maybe he was experiencing similar symptoms.
Hating himself for feeling anything at all for this woman, he donned a sardonic smile.
“Welcome home, Little Bit,” he said, gesturing as grandly as any of the butlers he’d seen portrayed on television. He was not, however, moved to carry the charade so far as to help her off with her coat.
She shrugged it off without comment and hung it on the wooden peg in the entryway. Though made of wool, the garment was inadequate for Wyoming’s harsh weather—much like its owner, Buck thought ruefully to himself. Its classic Southwestern design was slightly out of place as well, serving as a reminder that this native had abandoned her birthplace for the warmer clime of Arizona.
Melodie flinched at the sound of the old endearment that Buck flung so carelessly at her feet. She had forgotten how cold this little house could get, and the chilly reception she’d received nudged the temperature several degrees lower. Memories of her mother standing at the stove came back to her with all the pungency of Grace’s mouthwatering cinnamon apple pie. So strong was the image that Melodie almost stepped up to the stove to warm her cold derriere like she had in times gone by.
Unfortunately without her mother’s love to warm it, the little house was as frosty and unwelcoming as Buck’s eyes. Those amber orbs reminded her of a cougar warily sizing up its prey.
Focusing on her surroundings seemed safer than meeting those eyes directly. The faded floral wallpaper in the kitchen seemed as depressing to Melodie as the matching mail-order curtains that hung limply over the sink. Linoleum, scratched and freckled by the sun, was beginning to curl in the corners. Dusty knickknacks seemed glued to their spots on equally dusty shelves. Nothing much seemed to have changed since Melodie’s childhood—other than the fact that everything seemed smaller, colder, paler….
Like a corpse set out for viewing.
Melodie shuddered at the thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Sagging wearily into a pearl-colored vinyl chair, she rested her elbows on the matching dinette table and allowed herself a heartfelt sigh.
“Sorry to hear about Randall,” Buck offered, his voice flat.
Guarded.
Melodie glanced at him sideways trying to discern just how much he knew about her husband’s death. She so hoped to leave that heartache behind her in the deserts of Arizona. The last thing she needed right now was to be reminded that she was supposed to be a grieving widow when, in fact, it was her mother’s passing that truly left her feeling gutted and bereft. As tragic as Randall’s suicide several weeks ago had been, it had given Melodie a sense of freedom denied her throughout their complicated and troubled marriage. As it was impossible to gauge Buck’s sincerity, she merely nodded her head to acknowledge his proffered condolences. Genuine or not, she appreciated his civility under such strained circumstances.
“Would it be too much to ask for a cup of coffee?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject.
At the request, Buck’s expression tightened. He’d be hanged if he was going to wait on her. He wasn’t the same whipped, eager to please, little puppy she remembered anticipating her every whim.
“Do I look as if I have Maitre d’ stamped on my forehead?”
A smile twitched at one corner of Melodie’s mouth. “Not that I can see,” she admitted. Gesturing toward the coffeepot on the counter, she asked, “Mind if I help myself?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Accepting his open hostility with the tiniest of shrugs, she rose to her feet and crossed to the cupboards. It came as no surprise to find the cups exactly where she remembered them, lined up behind the jelly jars that served as juice glasses. Melodie felt a twinge of irritation. Where was the expensive set she’d sent her mother? Probably gathering dust in the back of a closet with the rest of her gifts or possibly rewrapped and recycled as a present for someone “more needy.”
Melodie picked up the mug closest to her. The words To Mother With Love were handpainted across the dull white enamel and emblazoned with foolish-looking tulips. It had been Grace’s favorite, a Mother’s Day gift from her second-grade daughter. The rim was chipped, the handle had been glued back on and much of the paint had not survived countless washings.
It seemed that her mother’s entire life was embodied in that sentimental mug. A life spent in selfless devotion to others. A life based on the principles of hard work and an unwavering faith in God. A life so filled with frugality that no two glasses on the shelf matched.
Accepting for a fact that she in no way deserved the love that her mother had lavished on her since the day she’d been born, Melodie pulled the garbage can out from its concealed space beneath the sink and dropped the mug in. One by one she tossed in every single jelly glass as well. It was doubtful that Buck would have attempted to extract them as Grace surely would have done, but Melodie was nonetheless determined that every glass shattered as it hit its mark. The sound covered a muffled sob. Her tears glistened amid shards of broken glass.
Seeing her shoulders shake, Buck conjectured the cause of Melodie’s distress. Once upon a time a mismatched table service would have held no shame for the sweet, guileless girl who had been raised within these four walls.
“Must be hard coming back here after living in a mansion,” he ventured.
The tone behind that simple observation was sharper than the icicle dagger he seemed intent upon driving through her back.
Fearing she might choke on them, Melodie chose her words carefully. “It’s not that. It’s just that she deserved better.”
“Yes, she did,” Buck agreed, biting back the oath scalding his tongue. “She deserved a whole lot better than what you gave her, and I’m not talking about a blasted set of dishes either!”
That cruel accusation caused Melodie to spin around on her heels. Eyes the color of a stinging winter sky snapped with indignation.
“And just what gives you the right to judge me? To sit as both judge and jury on my feelings for my mother?” she demanded.
Matching hers in intensity, Buck’s eyes threatened to burn a hole right through her.
“Years of being by her side, watching her scrimp and save to leave you a ‘respectable’ inheritance, months of holding her hand and watching her waste away from cancer and heartache as she waited for any scrap of attention you might deem to send long-distance.”
“Self-righteous words from the dutiful son my mother never had. Between her sainthood and your martyrdom, I doubt if there would have been enough room at her bedside for a sinner like me!” Melodie snarled in return.
Despite the vehemence of her response, Melodie’s shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her guilt. Sucker punched by Buck’s resentment, she turned aside to hide the depth of her pain. Placing both hands on the dated Formica countertop, she attempted to steady herself. Her hands were still trembling when she reached for the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. As if hoping to somehow warm herself all the way through with its meager heat, she wrapped her fingers tightly around it before turning back around to face her grand inquisitor.
What possible good would come from trying to explain that Randall wouldn’t let her come home? That juggling a demanding job and a manic-depressive husband simultaneously was all she had been able to manage at the time. The excuse sounded pathetic even to her own ears. Squaring her slender shoulders, Melodie strode back to the table with her chin tilted defiantly up. Taking her seat, she brought the cup to her lips to blow away the steam that rose like an incantation from the dark brew.
The silence was deafening. They looked at one another more as strangers separated by strands of barbed wire than as one-time soul mates. Swishing a sip of hot liquid around in her mouth, Melodie forced herself to swallow it along with yet another tough piece of leftover pride.
“Look, Buck,” she began, daring to meet his eyes dead on. “You’re certainly entitled to your feelings, and God knows I owe you a debt of gratitude not to mention a long overdue apology. But it’s unlikely that the years of hurt between us are going to be healed over any cup of coffee. Since we’ve both got a couple of hard days ahead of us, do you think we could postpone our mutual animosity until after the funeral?”
For the first time since she had stepped inside the house, his features visibly softened.
Taking in the hard line of Melodie’s jaw and the way her throat pulsed as it closed around unshed tears, Buck realized just how near she was to breaking down. After years of cherishing the idea, he was surprised to discover how distasteful the actual possibility was.
Unbidden memories tugged at his conscience as he recalled the last conversation he’d had with her mother.
Don’t be too hard on my little girl when she comes home, Grace had begged him on her deathbed. She was awful young when she hurt you, and you don’t know what kind of struggles she’s had to endure these past years.
Buck didn’t dare squeeze the frail hand that clutched his. Grace’s bones were brittle, her skin almost translucent, her eyes dark hollows of concern—ever filled with concern for the daughter who had abandoned them both.
I won’t, he had replied over the bile that rose in his throat.
There was little Buck could refuse Grace. Abandoned as a child by an alcoholic single mother with the morals of an alley cat, he spent years being bounced from foster family to foster family. Grace had literally snatched him off the road to the reform school when she offered him a job.
And a home.
And an opportunity to be accepted for who he was and what he had to contribute to their family. She had treated him as if he truly were her flesh and blood. Although she pleaded with her eyes, Grace had not openly asked him to forgive her daughter. Buck was grateful for that. Some things were simply too reprehensible to warrant forgiveness, and being cheated on was one of them. He wasn’t likely to ever forget the fact that Melodie had made a fool of him. A broken heart is hard enough to heal in private, but when a proud man is made the target of public snickering, it is often easier to simply discard his heart than to attempt resuscitating something damaged beyond repair.
While Melodie waited for a response to her request for a temporary truce, she stiffened her nerves with another shot of caffeine. She could almost feel the strong, black coffee eating away the lining of her empty stomach.
“Fair enough,” Buck conceded grudgingly. “I suppose the least either of us could do for Grace is call a cease-fire for the time being.”
“Thank you,” she said, rising on shaky legs. “I guess I’d better get started unpacking.”
Buck did not respond with so much as a grunt let alone an offer to help her bring in her luggage. Facing his past had proven harder than he’d imagined. In recurring dreams, he’d told this woman exactly what he thought of her, lashing out with brutal honesty until she melted into a puddle of remorse at his feet. Oddly enough, now that the moment had come, he found he simply didn’t have the heart for it. Grace had always maintained that vengeance should be left to the Lord. Maybe she was right. Looking into Melodie’s guarded eyes, Buck saw a glimpse of someone who’d been through hell on earth. He doubted whether anything he had to say would penetrate the protective mask she was wearing. That brittle facade was so firmly fixed in place that he wondered if behind it there remained a single trace of the sweet girl with whom he had once upon a time fallen so desperately in love.
Suddenly his anger was overcome by a staggering sense of loss. What was the use of venting so many years after the fact? What could possibly be gained by inflicting even more pain upon one another now? Having embraced Grace’s faith some time ago, he recalled God’s admonition to forgive others as we would have others pardon our transgressions. Had he not been holding so tightly on to his splintered ego, Buck might have made an attempt to reach out to this shadowy vision of his past, envelop her in his arms and offer her a measure of comfort on this sad, dreary day.
Bewildered by the very idea, he abruptly announced, “I’ve got to feed the stock. Make yourself at home.”
Melodie glanced at him sharply. Was the remark intended to be as caustic as it had sounded? Surely he wasn’t worried that she was going to throw him out of the only home he’d ever known? Or herself for that matter. While it was true that she had lived in finer places since she’d moved away, none had ever earned the privilege of feeling like a real home.
“I’ll do that,” she replied evenly, starting toward her old room with the same confidence with which she had approached the cupboards earlier, certain that nothing in this old house had changed at all.
But what she discovered behind that familiar closed door was enough to send her reeling.
Chapter Two
“I suppose you expected me to stay in the bunkhouse forever?”
Melodie snapped her jaw back into place before attempting to address the question. The way Buck was leaning up against the wall prejudging her was so patently insolent that she didn’t dare give him an honest reaction. She didn’t think she could endure much more of his scoffing.
“Of course not,” she lied.
It was, after all, a perfectly logical arrangement. Melodie simply couldn’t bring herself to accept the fact that her mother had actually moved Buck into her old room. So secure had she been in the belief that this little house was impervious to change that it unnerved her to realize all vestiges of her presence had been completely erased from the room that had at one time been the center of her universe.
She had opened the door expecting to see everything in its place: her old stuffed animals, a prized collection of ceramic horses, a beloved Western doll with a leather fringed skirt and vest, her trophies lined up on the shelf along one wall, a coveted rodeo queen sash draped over the head-board of her twin bed, the embroidered quilt her mother had stitched with equal amounts of love and patience one Christmas when money was particularly scarce—all the special things that marked the passage of her youth.
Instead Melodie was met by stark walls devoid of anything more personal than a trophy fish mounted above Buck’s four-poster bed. The room was tidy enough, she’d give him that. As neat as an orphan’s scrapbook. She suspected that her mother was responsible for the only personal touch in the room: a handmade afghan folded neatly on the foot of a bed that quite simply overwhelmed the small area.
“Just tell me when you want me to move out.”
Startled by the straightforwardness of Buck’s overture, Melodie hastened to reassure him that she had no intention of uprooting him.
“N-never,” she stammered over the tripping of a heart too easily moved to sentimental palpitations. “I’ll just put my things in Mom’s room.”
Despite the glibness of her response, Buck’s occupancy in her old room did present Melodie with a new and unfathomable set of problems. She couldn’t imagine sleeping in the very next room to the man whose heart she had accidentally broken without ever fully explaining herself. A man who had every right to hate her guts. A man whose presence still had the power to make her very soul tremble.
For one thing, the walls were paper-thin! she thought to herself.
People were bound to talk, Buck thought to himself.
Indeed, gossip traveled faster than a brush fire in this small community where everything was everybody’s business. Pushing himself away from the wall, Buck came to stand within inches of Melodie. So close that he could smell her uniquely feminine scent. That haunting blend of leather and lace, sagebrush and musk, stirred memories of a time when the world was as new to them as to a colt surveying life for the first time on wobbly legs.
“Aren’t you worried about your reputation, Little Bit?” he queried, cocking an eyebrow at her.
Her reputation! Melodie almost laughed out loud. If he only knew how little that tattered rag mattered to her.
“You were always a lot more worried about that than I was.” Hearing the trace of bitterness in her voice, she hastened to add, “Besides I’m well past worrying what anyone else thinks, Buck.”
Even you, she silently added.
Once upon a time she had allowed concern for fickle virtue to throw away a life with the gentle man who refused to bed her for the manipulative opportunist who had. What she had endured throughout the travesty of her marriage left Melodie numb to the threat of public ridicule.
She risked a small smile. “What about you? Are you worried about a wicked widow besmirching your honor?”
Buck snorted his derision at the idea.
“Once you’ve been dragged through the mud down the streets of this one-horse town, you get used to it.”
Falling into his amber-colored eyes was like diving to the bottom of a glass of expensive bourbon, aged with pain. Melodie yearned to reach out and caress his rough cheek with an equally work-roughened hand, to smooth away his sorrows with a well-chosen, heartfelt apology.
I am so sorry, she longed to say, knowing she was the one responsible for his humiliation.
But sorry was such a useless word. It could neither bring back her mother, nor Randall, nor change the course of a life shaped by one horrible mistake.
Melodie opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out.
Buck left her standing there feeling rather like a guppy. The front door closed behind him with a sigh of regret. As if afraid of disturbing a single dust mote, she trod softly across what was now Buck’s room. Melodie took a deep breath before entering. Assailed by the trace fragrance of lilacs that had been Grace’s signature scent, she was instantly taken back to a vision of her mother as a young woman. Eyes the same vivid blue as her daughter’s twinkled in a face as yet unlined by time.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered crossing the room in a few short steps. Sinking into the old brass bed, she felt her mother’s ghost stir. Underlying the sweet, reminiscent essence of lilacs was the residual smell of medicine. And the lingering odor of death.
How could she possibly stay in this room?
Looking around, she found it more a shrine than a bedroom. The walls were covered with pictures of Melodie at all ages, each precocious stage immortalized on film. The only photograph in the room that did not prominently feature Melodie was Grace’s wedding picture. From the bedstand, the father Melodie could not remember was blissfully unaware of his impending death. Tromped beneath a rodeo bull’s hooves, this stranger had left his young wife and three-year-old daughter a rugged patch of land and little else.
Melodie was struck anew with awe for her mother’s fortitude. A single woman raising a child and managing a ranch by herself had been unheard of at the time. An unlikely feminist, Grace Fremont had instilled in her daughter a sense of self-reliance that Melodie prayed would see her through yet another difficult time.
Grace’s remedy for just about any given situation was a homemade concoction she’d perfected. The primary ingredients were tenacity, hard work and faith in God. In the end it hadn’t been enough.
Melodie winced. It grieved her to think of her mother dying on the same bed in which she’d given birth to her only child. An ungrateful brat the world denounced for abandoning her in her time of greatest need. It pained her to think of her mother struggling from the beginning to the end of her hard-fought existence with little more comfort than could be derived from her well-worn Bible. The school of hard knocks had taught Melodie that one might as well wish upon a star as put her faith in a God who allowed good people to suffer so horribly with emotional and physical cancers.
Not that she had any special bragging rights to a better life herself, coming home as she did without a job, a husband, or a child to call her own. Coming home without so much as a heart beating inside her hollow chest. At twenty-five, Melodie’s natural beauty, exuberance and religious beliefs had been tested daily by the elements and a loveless marriage that had left her feeling both undesirable and lacking.
Her eyes scanned the photographs lining the walls for happier memories. Her favorite was the one in which she wore a frilly prom dress looking far too much like a Southern belle to suit her tastes. The smile she wore was broad and genuine and filled with expectations of wondrous things to come. It was hard to remember a time when her smile wasn’t tight and forced.
She almost didn’t recognize the fresh-faced young man beaming beside her in his rented tuxedo. Gangly at twenty, Buck had not yet grown into his features. The look of unguarded affection etched upon that youthful face was so poignant that it caused a tiny whimper of pain to escape from some place deep inside Melodie.
She grabbed a pillow from the bed and hugged it tightly, willing herself not to cry. Stiff from the long drive, weary bones protested against being curled into a fetal ball. Her shoulders bunched into twin knots of tension.
How could she have been so careless with such a precious gift of love? Like forgotten friends gathered together for an unexpected reunion, memories crowded into the small room. A smile tugged at Melodie’s heart as she recalled that long-ago prom.
It had taken some doing to convince Buck to go as her date. To him she had always been Little Bit, his employer’s pesky kid. When she first approached him about the prom, Buck frankly told her that he hadn’t much interest in going to such fancy doings when he had been in high school himself. In his early twenties, such a silly rite of passage held even less appeal for him.
But when Melodie confided red-faced that no one had asked her, his resistance softened. An outsider all of his life, Buck could certainly understand how she wouldn’t want to go stag to her senior prom. He also knew that it would break her mother’s heart not to see her only daughter all gussied up in that frothy pink formal she had been secretly sewing for the last month.
Buck would have just as soon cut off a hand as to see Grace Fremont hurt.
In truth, Melodie had known that Buck agreed to go to the prom with her more out of concern for her mother than for her. She never bothered telling him that she had, in fact, turned down two other young men who had sought her for their prom dates. Everything changed between them, however, when she came out of her room wearing a dress that showed off her budding curves, her flaxen hair swept up in a fashion that made her look older than her sixteen years. She watched a change come over Buck.
Little Bit was no more. In her place had stood a young woman who had every intention of making this man fall in love with her.
“Your boutonniere is outside,” she’d told him shyly after he’d pinned a corsage to her dress. She hoped he wouldn’t be embarrassed by such a simple token of her affection.
After Grace had taken her quota of photographs, Melodie had drawn Buck out of the house and into her mother’s garden. While she selected a perfect white rosebud from her mother’s prized blooms, she made him stand beneath the trellised archway that she hoped would someday be the focal point of their wedding. Beneath a rising moon and surrounded by the fragrant blossoms of a late spring, Melodie pinned the boutonniere to Buck’s lapel. So strong and broad and appealing was his chest that she could not resist running her hands across its width.
“Kiss me,” she had implored in a whisper so soft she wasn’t sure he’d even heard it.
His arms reached around her lithe, young body and drew her near. Slowly he’d lowered his mouth to hers to brush her lips with a tender kiss.
Brushing blond tendrils from her glowing face, Buck had admitted his own vulnerability. “If you ever hope to get to that prom, we’d better get going. I’d hate to do anything to betray your mother’s trust.”
The knowledge that Melodie could exercise womanly powers over a creature so much bigger and stronger than she was heady stuff indeed.
Feeling like a real-life Cinderella, she claimed all of Buck’s dances that magical evening as both reveled in the knowledge that before the sun set on the next day, everyone in town would know that they were a serious couple.
Nothing could have made Grace happier.
That summer after Melodie graduated and turned eighteen was truly enchanted. That was the summer they frolicked like colts and took every opportunity to steal kisses under a warm and gentle sun. That was the summer Melodie was crowned rodeo queen in the proud tradition of her mother and her grandmother before her. That was the summer Buck made up his mind to propose—but not before he could offer Melodie a lifestyle he felt she deserved. He put every dime he earned towards a ring at the local jeweler’s and simultaneously made plans to build her a dream home with his own capable hands.
Buck had restrained his masculine desires, respecting the tenets of the religion Grace had worked so hard to instill in them both and vowing to wait until he could legally make her his bride.
Melodie punched the pillow she was holding and, in the fading light of her mother’s bedroom, considered the aged water stains on the ceiling. How frustrated she had been that summer! In her mind she was all but throwing herself at Buck. Not coquettish by nature, she had employed every feminine wile in her limited power to let him know how desperately she wanted him. To no avail.
Rolling onto her stomach, Melodie rebuked herself for indulging in such sweet torture. Clinging to such tender memories all the while shaking her fist at the universe and reminiscing over what should have been served no useful purpose. No amount of wishful thinking was going to change history. She was here to make her amends with the past, to accept her responsibility in shaping it and to face the new day as her mother always had—bravely.
Dawn poked its rosy fingers through yellowed lace curtains and gently awakened Melodie to a new day. Eyes sticky with sleep, she was at first disoriented by her surroundings. It took a moment for her to discern that she had fallen asleep fully dressed upon her mother’s bed and that somebody had thoughtfully covered her with a blanket. Undoubtedly the same somebody who had brought her luggage in from her vehicle and deposited them at the foot of the bed.
How curious it was to wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs! And how odd that it made her feel suddenly queasy. During the course of her married life, if Melodie failed to rise to the challenge of such simple chores, she simply went without eating. Randall had been hard-pressed to prepare anything more complicated than a bowl of cold cereal for himself. Melodie felt a twinge of guilt at the uncharitable thought. The poor man was dead. That she felt more relief than remorse at his passing was surely sinful in itself.
As if merely wishing for release from the bonds of his possessive love had somehow been the cause of his death.
Rubbing her eyes in hopes of erasing such irrational thoughts, Melodie dragged herself out of bed, ran a brush halfheartedly through her hair and decided that her rumpled state would simply have to do. She hadn’t come home to compete in a beauty pageant. Besides, she’d wager Buck wouldn’t give her a second glance if she walked into the kitchen wearing a diamond tiara. If ever there had been any doubt in her mind that he might still be yearning for her after all this time, his reaction to her yesterday set the record straight once and for all.
The old house wasn’t pretentious enough to boast a dining room. Melodie opened the door of her mother’s bedroom and walked the short distance to the kitchen where Buck greeted her with a civil, “Good morning.”
She responded in kind, minus the good.
My, how that man could fill a room with his mere presence. Instinctively her hand went to her hair, making Melodie feel six shades a fool for even caring what he thought of how she looked.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, handing her a plateful of steaming food.
Crooking an eyebrow at the polite inquiry, Melodie studied her scrambled eggs for any trace of arsenic.
“Fine,” she answered sliding into her place at the table. “Thank you for breakfast. And for bringing in my luggage. You didn’t have to do that. I was planning on getting to it first thing this morning.”
Buck made an attempt at a smile. “I decided that you’re right about putting our differences aside until after the funeral. After all, today’s bound to be hard on you.”
“And on you,” Melodie allowed over the ball of emotion clogging her throat. “You know, I would understand if you want to take your own vehicle to the funeral rather than going with me.”
The way he dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand was nothing short of mesmerizing. He’d always had such marvelous hands. Unlike Randall’s manicured hands that had been fit more for a pencil than a pair of reins, Buck’s hands were big and strong and marked by honest labor.
“That won’t be necessary,” he assured her. “We’re both grown-ups. Your mother would expect no less of us than to put aside old grudges today, so if you don’t mind, I’ll drive us both to the church.”
Melodie could do no more than nod her head gratefully. It was too much to hope that his offer was motivated as much out of concern for her as out of respect for her mother. Separated only by the expanse of a scarred, old table, it was hard not to ponder how different her life would have been had she married Buck like her heart had instructed her instead of Randall as dictated by her conscience. A conscience shaped by the rigid dogma of a religion that had somehow convinced her that eternal occupancy in hell could be purchased by one youthful mistake. Had she but been able to turn her back on that conviction, Melodie wondered if all her days might have started out with coffee and conversation instead of her usual dosage of censure and silence.
Uncomfortable with the faraway look in Melodie’s eyes, Buck bolted down his breakfast and hastened to leave, stating that he had to look after the livestock. Melodie envied him. She longed to take comfort in the kind of hard physical labor that had characterized her life. Buck wouldn’t hear of it as he bade her get ready for the long day ahead.
After lingering over a breakfast left mostly untouched, Melodie considered the black suit that she intended to wear for this sad occasion. She had purchased it a short time ago and worn it only once—at her husband’s funeral.
Slipping into the cool, black silk, Melodie relived that terrible day. Since her own mother had been too ill to travel the long distance to be at her side, she suffered through the ceremony alone. A few of Randall’s engineering associates had shown up to pay their respect as well as some of the hired hands from the dude ranch that she had been managing. The modest gathering meant a great deal to Randall’s parents who were so bereft at the loss of their only child that they could barely acknowledge his widow, a woman they had felt all along was beneath their son. They felt little need to offer Melodie any more than their condolences.
On some subconscious level, she felt herself entitled to little more. Beneath her black veil, Melodie was secretly relieved that the hand of fate rather than a legal document had dissolved her marriage. Not only was she convinced that Randall would have fought with all his might against a divorce, Melodie herself had been raised that once you make your bed, you sleep in it—crumbs and all. So she did her best to graciously accept the sympathy offered her without shattering anyone’s image of a marriage that had always looked better from the outside than the inside.
Their duty done, Randall’s friends scurried self-righteously back to their fancy Tucson offices to embrace the little calculators that ruled their world. Her in-laws returned to Denver to pick up the silken thread of their social lives, and Melodie proceeded to tender her resignation before the end of the week. Although far from feminine or traditional, her job was something she enjoyed and was good at. It also helped pay for all those expensive toys that Randall accumulated in a futile effort to look richer than he really was.
Melodie’s boss, Peter Hamlein, hated to see her go. Initially he hadn’t thought a woman capable of acting as head wrangler, but he’d been in a bind and decided to give her a chance. Melodie had proven him wrong, working long hours beside the men beneath the blistering Arizona sun and treating every aspect of the operation as if it were her own. Peter assured her that the work ethic she brought with her from Wyoming was in short supply in this snowbirds’ paradise. In addition to her excellent horsewoman skills, Melodie was the best people person he’d ever had in the position. An important part of the job required placating the rich dudes who spent a fortune to be waited on hand and foot for the entirety of their vacations. Pete offered her more money in hopes of getting her to stay on, but she was clearly anxious to get home to her ailing mother. Melodie could offer him no more than a couple of weeks’ notice to help him get things in order for her replacement.
She had been in the process of packing her bags when she received news of her mother’s death.
Certain she couldn’t make it through another funeral as bleak as Randall’s, Melodie took comfort in the fact that many old friends and neighbors were sure to be in attendance today. Grace had been well liked and respected in the community as one of their most stalwart pioneers. Forcing her feet into a pair of dark pumps, Melodie walked over to her mother’s cloudy mirror and surveyed her appearance. The dead look in her eyes came as no surprise. She pulled her long blond hair into a severe bun, pinned it down with forceful jabs, and waited for Buck to tell her it was time to go.
Chapter Three
Buck looked handsome in a Western-cut black suit that emphasized his lean muscularity and made him look rather like the CEO of an up-and-coming company on the verge of a hostile takeover. Ever the gentleman, he opened the passenger door of his pickup for Melodie and helped her in.
Feeling suddenly awkward in anything other than a comfortable pair of cowboy boots, Melodie struggled to gain her seat without revealing any more of her legs than necessary to the man, who even in this moment of deep apprehension, made her so totally aware of her long-forgotten womanly allure. Tensing beneath the tawny scrutiny of his eyes, she still felt his helping touch. Had he noticed how bow-legged she had become from living in a saddle?
Buck wasn’t aware of any such imperfections as he allowed his gaze to trace the lines of the slender legs in question. Despite her efforts to make herself look plain, Melodie was as pretty and fragile as a china doll. Unadorned with anything other than naturally long lashes, her eyes appeared so large and luminous that a man could fall into their vulnerable depths and never find his way out. A sudden longing to free a single blond tendril from the captivity of that tight bun startled Buck. For the briefest fraction of a second, he considered reaching out to take the hands folded so demurely in Melodie’s lap and offering her the solace of human touch on this sad day.
The thin gold band she still wore on her finger was an effective deterrent to that foolish impulse.
It rankled him to see her still wearing that ring.
Over the years Buck had come to conclude that the only thing that milksop Randall had over him was money and breeding. The money part didn’t bother him much, but he was mighty sensitive about the fact that his mother had abandoned him as easily as she might have dumped a stray off at a shelter.
Thinking Melodie had jilted him for status and money, over the years Buck had taken perverse comfort in casting her motives in a bad light. That she continued to wear her dead husband’s ring indicated that she might have actually loved him. He wondered if that disagreeable taste in his mouth wasn’t the lingering extract of jealousy.
Grace hadn’t expounded about her son-in-law’s untimely death when she informed him that Melodie was quitting her job managing that fancy dude ranch and finally coming home. They’d had a long, unspoken agreement never to mention Randall’s name in each other’s presence, and Grace wasn’t one to break it—even if the fellow in question was dead. Buck was left, however, with the definite impression that Grace would not grieve his passing one iota more than he himself did.
A thin drizzle of rain spit against the windshield as Buck drove the short distance to the church where Grace had spent every Sunday morning since he had known her. And where he had accompanied her for the better part of the last two years. To his surprise, he found more peace within that humble little church than he had in all the years of trying to prove himself to a world he once thought completely against him. Framed against the backdrop of the majestic Pinnacle Mountains, the white chapel took on the modesty and serenity of a nun. Though Buck would have preferred mingling Grace’s ashes with the loam of her beloved mountains rather than boxing her into a formal ceremony constrained by four walls, he knew that the community needed the chance to publicly mourn the passing of one of their most faithful members.
He intentionally arrived early so that both he and Melodie could say their private farewells to the woman who meant so much to each of them.
Once inside, Melodie drew a sharp breath at the sight of the coffin positioned at the front of the church where she had been both baptized and confirmed. Inexplicably exhausted by the miles she had traveled, she had been in no shape to stop by the funeral home to pay her respects yesterday.
Buck squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. “You okay?”
Eyes wide with pain bespoke Melodie’s trepidation at the task before her. Though Buck’s presence beside her was reassuring, she nonetheless flinched at his touch. How could he be so kind to her in light of the way she had treated him?
The flash of hurt in his chiseled features indicated that her aversion to his touch did not go unnoticed.
“I’ll give you a moment alone,” he murmured, turning away before she could stop him.
For the sake of her sanity, Melodie concentrated on details of her surroundings as his footsteps faded away. Gathering clouds outside let little light through the stained-glass windows, lending gloominess to an already dismal day. She noticed that a soft green Berber had replaced the ugly gold shag carpet she remembered so well. Compelling herself up the center aisle one step at a time, she stood at last before the open coffin.
A suffocating sense of déjà vu grabbed her by the throat. Other than the fact that Randall’s casket had been closed because of the manner in which he’d chosen to die, the scene itself was horribly familiar. Peering timidly over the side of the casket, Melodie struggled to keep from screaming, What have you done with my mother?
The withered body lying before her bore little resemblance to the vibrant woman Melodie remembered. She reached out to touch those loving hands folded so peacefully as if in prayer. And instantly recoiled from the icy contact with death.
How sad it was that she had nothing to give this woman who had given so much of herself. Not even her tears. Years of stoically keeping her feelings to herself had dried up any public display of emotion. Had she any faith left in God, Melodie could have offered her mother a prayer, but she knew only too well there was nothing she could do now to make up for the pain she had caused this dear woman.
No amount of pleading over a dead body would buy her the forgiveness Melodie was seeking.
Staring at her mother’s age-blemished hands, it occurred to her that she did have a token to offer Grace after all. Years ago, her mother had expressed the desire to be buried with her wedding ring. Even in this small request it seemed circumstances had conspired against her. Ultimately the ring had been pawned to pay bills. With a sudden ferocity of intent, Melodie wrenched the gold band from her own finger and slipped beneath the hollow of her mother’s folded hands the only thing of value Randall had left her.
“Rest in peace, Mamma,” she whispered. “Nobody deserves it more than you.”
The ceremony was brief and poignant, the small church filled to overflowing. A carry-in sponsored by the local church ladies followed in the basement that was as dark and drafty as Melodie remembered. Apparently recent attempts to raise money for a new parish hall had been met with complaints about the economy and flagging cattle prices. The good news was they had enough money in the fund last fall to do the groundwork and pour the foundation. Concerned members left the rest in God’s hands. The condition of her surroundings mattered little to Melodie who was anxious to express her appreciation to those present for taking the time to pay their respects. Despite the sad circumstances of her homecoming, it was good to be back in the tight-knit community where she had been raised, and she was looking forward to reestablishing ties with old neighbors and friends.
Extending a hand to the woman who had been her mother’s closest neighbor—a mere three miles down the lane—Melodie tried to keep her emotions in check. “It was very kind of you to come, Mrs. Linn.”
As if fearing she would somehow be contaminated by Melodie’s touch, the old woman pulled her hand away.
“I’m surprised you could be bothered to come home for your mother’s funeral,” she rasped. “I never held out any hope you’d get back here before they laid poor Gracie in the ground. As far as I’m concerned if you hadn’t treated her so abysmally, your mother would have likely found the will to outlive us all.”
Too stunned to respond, Melodie gasped at the outrageousness of the accusation. She fought the impulse to bend over double from the impact of the blow. How could a professed Christian be so cruel?
As Cora Linn limped away, Melodie felt other angry eyes upon her. Did everyone present interpret her extended absence as intentional neglect? Could she expect that her lack of tears would brand her an unfeeling monster as well? Her mother had always maintained that just because there weren’t any teardrops on the outside didn’t mean it wasn’t pouring on the inside. Whatever her personal demons, Melodie wasn’t about to display them publicly. She supposed that after so much time away she shouldn’t have expected to be accepted back into this community as anything other than an outsider.
Cora’s verdict that she was a negligent daughter wasn’t anything Melodie hadn’t already labeled herself. Like the virulent Mrs. Linn, she too suspected that had she only been there to offer support, her mother might still be alive today. Nonetheless the thought of Grace actually confiding her disappointment in her daughter to her outspoken neighbor made Melodie bite her lip so hard it caused a drop of blood to appear.
Buck didn’t know what Cora Linn said to upset Melodie, but from her reaction he guessed it shied away from being charitable. The instant the cantankerous old biddy turned away, he saw the slump of Melodie’s shoulders as she wavered by the dessert table. Unexpected feelings of protectiveness knifed him. Cursing himself as the world’s greatest masochist, he crossed the small reception area in a few long strides and slipped an arm around Melodie’s waist.
She heard someone behind them gasp.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Melodie demanded through clenched teeth.
“You look like you’re about to faint. Why don’t you let me help you to a chair?”
As compliant as a block of marble, she whispered bitterly, “You’d better be careful what you do. It might be socially precarious to be seen with me.”
Precarious indeed!
Buck had felt temporarily safe in Melodie’s presence only as long as there was some distance between them. The instant his arm went around her slender waist, he could no longer allow himself to pretend that he was anywhere near being over this woman.
Faking an imperturbability he did not feel, he asked, “What did old lady Linn have to say?”
“Nothing I haven’t thought myself.”
Though her face remained a perfect mask of composure, Buck could feel Melodie tremble. The piercing look he gave her coaxed an abbreviated explanation from her.
“Let’s just say she wasn’t glad to see me.”
The good manners Grace had taught him did not desert Buck now. It hadn’t been all that long ago when the fine folk of this town had ostracized him. He recalled how Grace and Melodie had both stood beside him, stubbornly refusing to listen to the rumors people circulated about him. Labeled a born troublemaker, he remembered only too well how it felt to be treated like an outsider. It had taken three full winters of shoveling Cora Linn’s sidewalk for free before she finally accepted that he wasn’t going to slit Grace’s throat in her sleep and run off with all her valuables. Not that she had any.
“I’ve charted these waters before,” Buck told Melodie with a wry smile as he scanned the room for approaching sharks. “Why don’t you let me help you navigate them today?”
Stiffening against Buck’s touch, Melodie kept her back ramrod straight and fought the urge to lean against him for support. How strange that those same neighbors who once labeled him trash were now trying to protect him from her! The hard glances directed at her from among those gathered today were clearly as much for Buck’s benefit as for the deceased. Perhaps they thought by casting stones at her, they were showing support for the man she had jilted so long ago.
The irony was laughable. Melodie remembered how long it had taken Buck to penetrate the conservative, cautious nature of those ranchers who clung as tenaciously to their land as to their values. That he had somehow been elevated to a high rank within the church that had made her feel treasured in her youth came as quite a surprise. As she recalled, Buck used to feel about organized religion the same way she had come to regard it. Years of self-inflicted heartache pointed to the likelihood that God was an invention of a patriarchal society designed to keep their members alternately lashing themselves with whips of guilt and shame.
Everyone who came to the services made a point of stopping by to offer Buck their condolences. While many expressed sympathy for Melodie, others used the opportunity to reveal their contempt by ignoring her completely or giving her scornful looks that said they were swayed neither by the fancy talk nor big dollars that had once wooed her away. They did, however, seemed impressed with the man Buck had become. A staunch friend to each and every one of them in an emergency. The son poor Grace never had.
“You sure couldn’t tell that blood’s thicker than water by the shameful way that girl treated her mother,” pronounced Phyllis Brockridge as she added yet another cookie to the neat pile on her plate. Although directed at her equally chubby sister, the comment was loud enough for Melodie to overhear.
Buck knew it wasn’t deliberate. Mrs. Brockridge was hard of hearing and thought no one could hear her unless they were standing right beside her. Acknowledging her with a neighborly nod of his head, Buck called the old woman over.
“It was awful nice of you to come today, Phyllis. You were a good friend to Grace, and I know she would appreciate any kindness you could show to her daughter while she’s here. You do remember Melodie, don’t you?”
A flush of crimson climbed over the woman’s white collar at the subtle reproof. “Yes, of course,” she said, balancing her plate with one hand and extending the other to Melodie. “So nice to have you home—at last.”
Melodie thanked the woman for coming. Perhaps being seen talking politely to one of the town’s most influential citizens would take some of the chill out of the room. She knew only too well that many people had taken offense at the perception that she had tossed Buck over for a big-shot engineer who whisked her out of state just as fast as he could after their justice of the peace ceremony. When Grace became ill and her only daughter didn’t come rushing home for so much as a holiday visit, their disapproval hardened to rocklike condemnation. The judgmental souls who populated the Friendly Valley of Warm Winds would not easily forgive such disloyalty.
That Buck would so chivalrously come to stand beside this traitor in their midst was a surprise to everyone.
Especially him.
Melodie was sure Buck’s actions merely confirmed to the churchgoers among the group what an upstanding Christian he had become despite all the many obstacles life had put in his way.
“Lean on me if you’re feeling faint,” Buck instructed, his voice a sultry command that sapped Melodie of the remaining strength she had intended to use to walk out of this rattlesnake pit. She was secretly longing to take refuge in those strong arms, and her knees wobbled beneath that tempting suggestion.
Pride was all that kept her standing on her own two feet.
“The absolute last thing I want from you is pity, Buck Foster,” she whispered angrily,
“That’s not what I’m feeling right now,” he murmured into her ear.
The warmth of his breath against her neck raised goose bumps beneath the sleeves of her black satin dress.
“Revenge, then?” she guessed warily.
Buck’s eyes revealed neither pity nor revenge. Instead what Melodie glimpsed within their golden depths left her quaking beneath the hitherto unthinkable possibility of restoring a relationship with the man she had never been able to stop loving. It was akin to straddling a fault line and hearing the ground rumble beneath her feet. On second thought, being swallowed whole into the bowels of the earth was less frightening than what Melodie was feeling at the moment.
She had to stop looking in his eyes. She had to remember where she was and for what purpose.
Melodie strove to remind him thickly, “This is neither the proper time nor place to—”
“Relax, Mel. Relying on me for a few minutes during a stressful time shouldn’t compromise you much.”
The hint of a smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. “I suppose you’re right. And I obviously don’t have to worry about compromising my reputation with any of the good folk here either.”
Buck raised a wicked eyebrow. “We could always give them something to talk about.”
“Haven’t we given them enough in the past?”
Buck’s teasing left Melodie feeling no longer chilled. If this unexpected flurry of brash attention was intended as a diversion to help her get through the next hour of agony, it was working wonderfully. Even in somber garb, devoid of makeup, and wearing her hair in a style befitting a spinster, Melodie felt more aware of her femininity than she had in all five years of her marriage. That she could feel anything but numb at such a sorrowful time was shocking.
It occurred to her that Buck might just be setting her up for some kind of public humiliation. Surely it was too much to expect forgiveness from one whom she had hurt so badly. To simply wish away one’s mistakes. To imagine something beautiful coming from the smoldering ashes of their love.
Pulling her eyes away from his, Melodie forced herself to think rationally. For heaven’s sake, if a single, respectful arm around her waist provoked such feelings, what would happen if she actually succumbed to the urge to tuck his other arm securely around her, lean up against that granite-hard body and allow another human being to be strong for her for a change?
Like forsaking all reason and attempting to fly off a cliff by simply flapping one’s arms, she figured.
Melodie decided that she liked it better when Buck was mean to her. At least then she knew what to expect of him—and of herself.
“I don’t know about you,” Buck drawled softly into her ear, “but I’ve had just about enough of polite society as I can stand for one day. What do you say I go get the vehicle and pick you up out front?”
Gratitude flowed from every pore of Melodie’s body. “I’d be eternally grateful. It shouldn’t take me too long to say my final goodbyes.”
Without Buck at her side, Melodie suddenly felt as vulnerable as Lady Godiva. Instead of covering up, however, she lifted her chin proudly in the air and stood her ground as he made his way out the door. Hurt by the reaction of those she’d long considered her friends, Melodie decided if anyone wanted to talk to her, they could darn well take the initiative to approach her.
She didn’t recognize the tailored, painstakingly coiffed woman making a beeline straight for her. Perhaps they had gone to school together. The passage of time certainly hadn’t helped her limited ability to remember names and faces any.
The lovely redhead confirmed her suspicions. “You don’t know me,” she said in a polite, tight voice. “But I think I should introduce myself.”
“Were you a friend of my mother?” Melodie asked.
“No.”
That single word hung between them, flapping like a red flag hung out to dry on a blustery day. Melodie raised an eyebrow in confusion. Why would someone who knew neither her nor her mother attend the funeral? Intuition kept her from extending the woman her hand. She had a funny feeling she might just withdraw with a bloody stump if she did.
“I’m Judy Roes,” the lady stated with a smile that went no deeper than her lipstick. Green eyes glittered with disdain as they perused Melodie from head to toe.
Melodie shook her head apologetically. “Sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Pushing a manicured hand through her hair, the woman responded in a voice so sweet one could have glazed a Christmas ham with it. “I don’t believe for a minute that Buck hasn’t mentioned me.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Melodie explained, “We really haven’t had much time to visit.”
As Judy Roes chewed on this bit of information, Melodie came to realize that they were the focal point of everyone’s attention. It seemed every eye in the room was staring at them. She apparently was the only one in the dark as to this woman’s identity and purpose.
“Look,” Melodie said, jumping to the first reasonable explanation that popped into her head. “If you’re interested in buying my mother’s estate, I’m not selling. And certainly not today.”
It was hard to imagine the gall of some people. She liked to think that decency would keep the buzzards from circling for at least a couple of days.
Judy threw her head back as if Melodie had slapped her. Her eyes narrowed into thin cat slits as she hissed, “I’m not interested in buying anything. I’m Buck’s fiancée!”
Chapter Four
Melodie pasted a cardboard smile on her face and ventured a weak, “Congratulations.”
What did it matter that the woman had just run a bayonet through her gut? Courtesy demanded a polite exchange before any public execution. She wondered whether contact lenses were responsible for turning the woman’s emerald eyes such an impossible color. Better that than jealousy.
Judy pulled a smile tight over blinding white teeth. “I’m truly sorry about your mother. Hopefully it won’t take you long to get your things in order so you can move on.”
“It might take a little time to get my life in order, if that’s what you’re asking,” Melodie admitted candidly.
The smile affixed to Judy’s face didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s a shame. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to stick around here long. After living in that big southwestern mansion we’ve all heard so much about, it must be humbling to come back to your poor roots.”
Melodie bristled at the remark. “Actually it’s wonderful to be home,” was her only response.
She couldn’t imagine how Judy managed to widen that painful smile. Perhaps for the benefit of the crowd Buck’s fiancée thought she could mask the undercurrent of animosity flowing between them with those blinding-white teeth.
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