The Rancher's Wife. April Arrington
me, ma’am.” He placed his hands flat on the reception desk to still the tremors running through them.
The young receptionist looked up, smiled and eased closer to the counter.
“Your daughter sure is talkative,” she giggled. “I don’t think she’s drawn a breath in the last hour.”
“She’s not my daughter.” Logan’s throat tightened, a sharp pain ripping through his chest. “She’s my sisterin-law.”
“Oh.” Her smile slipped. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”
“I don’t mean to be a pest but I was wondering if Amy Slade has come in yet?”
Her forehead scrunched, confusion clouding her features. “Amy Slade? You mean Ms. Johnson, right?”
Logan swallowed hard, the wad of papers in his pocket burning through his jeans.
He nodded, forcing out, “Johnson. Amy Johnson.”
“Well, she had a lot of claims to document today. She was trying to squeeze in as many as she could before she left for vacation.” She grimaced in apology. “I thought she’d be back by now but it looks like she may not make it in. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been waiting a long time.”
“Can you give me her cell number?” His face flamed. “I’d like to give her a call. Let her know I’m here.”
“Sure,” she stated quietly. She held a business card out between pink nails. “I could...”
Johnson. Logan’s hand halted in midair. There it was. Her maiden name. In bold, black ink stamped in the center. Plain print. Thick paper. Such a harmless item. But it cut to the bone.
“Sir?” Concern contorted the receptionist’s features. “I could give her your number, if it’s an emergency? Ask her to give you a call tonight? Or tomorrow?”
“No,” he choked, ripping his hand away from the card.
He’d let four years of tomorrows slip by. He should’ve been here yesterday. His shoulders slumped. Four years of yesterdays.
“No, thank you,” he repeated. “I’d like to wait a little longer.”
A push of cold air swept in from the hallway, fluttering the papers on the desk. The receptionist glanced over her shoulder at the muffled clunk that followed.
“Back entrance,” she said, rising from her seat. “That might be her. I’ll go check.”
Logan strode around the desk to the mouth of the hall.
“Please give me a moment, sir.”
He drew to a halt at her raised hand and pleading expression. She cast anxious glances behind her.
“Just let me tell her you’re here. Please?”
Logan managed a stiff nod. She dropped her hand and moved down the hall, disappearing into a room on the left.
His legs tensed and his torso pitched forward. Wait.
He glanced back at Traci still slouched in the lobby chair then found himself inching down the hall despite his polite promise. His ears strained to capture the receptionist’s hushed tones and low words.
“...been here for hours. Very insistent on seeing you.”
“Who is he? Is he filing a claim?”
Logan faltered, his breath catching. Amy. There was no mistaking her soft, questioning tone. His steps quickened, the tips of his fingers slipping inside his pocket and curling around the papers in a crushing hold.
“I don’t think so. I think he might be...” Hesitancy coated the receptionist’s words. “I think he’s your—”
“Husband.” Logan clamped his lips together and flexed his finger against his wedding ring.
He’d reached the threshold. The view of the room remained obscured by the receptionist. She swiveled to face him, hands twisting at her waist.
His earlier reminder to Traci returned. We’re in public.
He issued a tight smile. “I apologize for not waiting. I didn’t mean to rush you but it’s important that I see her.”
Floorboards creaked. That quiet voice returned. It drifted around the receptionist’s tense frame. “It’s okay, Kimberly.”
The receptionist blinked and glanced back over her shoulder. “Would you like me to stay, Ms. Johnson?”
“No. You go ahead and start your holiday. I’ll lock up.”
The receptionist hovered briefly then nodded and slipped past Logan, the click of her heels fading.
A thousand thoughts had clamored in Logan’s head on the ride up here. A million words had vibrated on the tip of his tongue as he drove. He’d sifted through each one, preserving or discarding them with precision until he’d carefully arranged a select few that were the most important. The ones that needed to be delivered first. Ones that would give him a fighting chance.
One glimpse of Amy and every one of them dissipated. Just as they always had.
Amy had been a pretty girl from the start. Eight years old to his twelve when she’d first arrived at Raintree, she’d been all daring smiles and impish expressions. At nineteen, she’d been beautiful. That shiny length of black hair, and tanned legs that seemed to stretch on forever.
Now, as a woman of twenty-four, she was breathtaking. Curves replaced the coltish angles and a relaxed strength resided in her lithe frame.
“Logan.”
His attention shot to the lush curves of her mouth and the deep jade of her eyes. Both opened wider with surprise.
“I needed to...” His blood roared, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth.
Needed to see her. Touch her. Hold her.
Amy’s expression cleared. She regained her composure and took slow steps toward him, stopping when the toes of her shiny heels were an inch from the scuffed toes of his boots.
At well over six feet, Logan found it rare that anyone met him on his level. Amy, however, never failed to do so. Wearing heels, her slender frame reached almost the exact same height, her gentle breaths dancing across his jaw.
“It’s good to see you,” she whispered.
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say.
She rested her palms loosely on his shoulders, her smooth cheek pressing gently against the stubble of his. Her sweet scent enfolded him and soothed his senses. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, sliding his hands over her back to draw her closer.
She felt the same. Soft and strong. Only, now, the mature curves of her body met the hard planes of his, filling each hollow and reminding him of exactly how much he’d missed.
How the hell had he ever managed to accept her decision to leave? Encouraged it, even? And why had he waited so long to come? When all he had to do—
“You look well,” she said, drawing back.
She crossed the room to the other side of the desk and removed her jacket to hang it on the back of the chair. Smoothing a hand over the collar of her sweater, she adopted a welcoming stance. A patient countenance.
It wasn’t the empty expression she’d had years ago after the loss of their daughter. Or the defeated one she’d shown for months after several failed attempts at getting pregnant again. And it was a far cry from the rebellious one she’d worn as a girl, intent on challenging him at every turn.
This was something different. This was worse. It was the professional posture a claims adjuster assumed with a client. The polite demeanor a woman assumed with a stranger.
Logan balled his fists at his sides,