Betting on the Cowboy. Kathleen O'Brien
for so long, closing off her heart. It had made her cold and selfish, and it had meant that loving her was dangerous. Marriage seemed to have mellowed her, but Bree was too cynical to believe the change was permanent.
Penny set her sketchbook on the end table and lay her pencil on top of it gently. She stretched, yawned and then rested her head on the arm of the chair, her luminous brown eyes gazing, doelike, at Bree.
“Ro seems absolutely blissful,” Penny insisted softly. “Everything’s going so well. The ranch has its soft opening in about a week.”
“I know.” Ten days, in fact. Bree kept tabs on the progress of the ranch more closely than Penny could imagine. It was their inheritance, too, and she didn’t intend to let Rowena lose everything.
Ro was passionate, sure, but she wasn’t good at the long haul. Every week, Bree half expected to hear that her restless, fiery older sister had grown bored, or fought with Dallas, or come down with her old gypsy fever. “Well, I guess they’ll have the opening...if she doesn’t get claustrophobic and run away again.”
The silence that followed Bree’s acidic comment made her flush uncomfortably. She heard how bitter and unforgiving she sounded. She wanted to take the words back, but that wouldn’t be quite honest.
She had tried to forgive and forget, to believe that change was possible. And yet...she still had a rough, scarred-over spot inside her heart where her trust in Rowena used to be.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to explain. “It’s just that...” But she couldn’t finish the sentence. She’d said it all before, and she knew Penny didn’t agree.
“Oh, Bree.” Finally, Penny smiled. “You know, if you really think you should try to be less judgmental, Rowena might be a pretty good place to start.”
* * *
OF HIS ALMOST thirty-one years of life, Gray had resided in Silverdell full time only about five—from the age of thirteen, when his parents died, until eighteen, when he went off to college. Before the accident, he lived wherever his dad’s newest doomed venture took them—a horse ranch in Crawford, a pig farm in Butte. After high school, Gray had never come back to Silverdell, not even when he had flunked out of college and his grandfather cut off all funds.
But those five years had been notable for their intense resentment and rebellion. And for the salt-of-the-earth Dellians, they’d apparently been unforgettable. He must have been even more obnoxious than he remembered, because he couldn’t find a soul in town willing to hire him to so much as change a lightbulb.
It was only noon, the Monday after his talk with his grandfather, and he’d already struck out at the hardware store, the brickyard and the ranch over at Windy River. Those businesses were all hiring. They just weren’t hiring Grayson Harper’s black-sheep grandson, who had always been a troublemaker and a wiseass and clearly had condescended to return to Silverdell only so that he could sniff around the old man’s will.
But Gray wasn’t giving up. In fact, the rejection felt like the kind of challenge he loved. There had to be someone in this town who didn’t hold his youth against him. Someone, perhaps, who wasn’t a fan of Grayson Harper and might be sympathetic to the orphan who had found himself under his dictatorial thumb.
Crusty old coots like his grandfather made enemies, and all Gray had to do was find one.
Meanwhile, the April sun was climbing up a cloudless turquoise sky, and Gray was hot, tired and hungry. Lunch and another study of the classifieds sounded perfect. Luckily, Silverdell had just about the best barbecue in Colorado.
He glanced down Elk Avenue, remembering that someone had said Marianne Donovan was back in town and she’d opened a café that was pretty good.
She might be the perfect place to start. Not that Marianne qualified as old Grayson’s enemy—far from it. Her mother had been Gray’s grandmother’s nurse, years ago, and the families were still close.
But Marianne had always had a soft spot for Gray, too, the way gentle good girls sometimes did when they met a certain kind of bad boy.
He began walking the main street, noting all the new storefronts, checking for her place. She’d been an instinctively domestic female, even as a teenager, so her restaurant was probably great. Besides, seeing her again would be a pleasant fringe benefit of this visit. She’d been such a nice kid—he had actually found himself being careful with her, treating her with a respect he rarely offered anyone during those angry years.
He almost walked right past it. The place was still under construction, and the sign hadn’t even been hung yet. It leaned against the front bay window, but at the last minute he registered its kelly-green letters in a Celtic script. Donovan’s Dream.
He backed up and took a look through the cute bay window, which was framed by white Irish-lace curtains draped over a shining brass rod. He spotted Marianne immediately, and smiled to see how little she’d changed. Still fighting those messy red curls and those extra five pounds. Still unable to fully hide the sprinkle of freckles she’d inherited from her mother. Still a well-bred, classic good girl, even though she was his age—pushing thirty.
She was taking someone’s order, listening intently to every word they said. But at the same time, her intelligent green eyes were alert to everything going on around her, as any good restaurant owner would be.
Within a few seconds, she noticed him at the window. He expected her to take a minute to recognize him, and maybe another minute to believe her eyes. But she didn’t look the least bit surprised to see him standing there. She simply smiled and extended her free hand, beckoning him in enthusiastically.
So...she had heard. Either she was still in contact with his grandfather, or the Silverdell grapevine was as dependable as ever. He nodded, returning her smile, and moved back toward the front door, which opened with a sweet cascade of bells he recognized as the first few notes of “Danny Boy.”
She met him at the threshold, holding out her arms for a hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Gray,” she said. She didn’t stint on the hug, and when she pulled back she gazed at him uninhibitedly. “It’s been so long. Too long. But you look every bit as gorgeous, you devil.”
He grinned. “So do you.”
To his surprise, she flushed and self-consciously put a hand to her hair. “Don’t be silly. I—” For a moment, her smile faded. “I don’t know if your grandfather told you about...well, it’s been a tough year. My husband died just before Christmas. And my mother lost her battle with breast cancer about a month later.”
Suddenly Gray felt as if he’d been gone a hundred years. Her mother, dead? He’d liked Eileen Donovan very much—and he’d always understood that his grandfather worshipped the woman from afar, his one grand chivalric gesture in a lifetime of rapacious greed and domineering chauvinism.
But Gray hadn’t even realized her mother had been sick. That’s what happened when you peeled rubber as you sped out of town, then tore off your rearview mirror and chucked it onto the asphalt at the county line.
He frowned. “No. He didn’t tell me. I didn’t even know you were married.”
“Eight years,” she said, lifting her left hand, which still wore a simple gold band. She folded her fingers into her palm, as if to feel the comforting squeeze of the ring. “We met in college.”
He touched her shoulder. And then, for the first time, he could see that she had changed after all. Her eyes, once as clear as clover, as simple as grass, held depths and complexities and pain. They looked more like his eyes now—although his had been this way since he was thirteen.
“I’m so sorry, Mari. That’s a heavy load, losing them so close together.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Of course, you understand better than most.”
But then, as if she knew he wouldn’t want to open that conversation, she smiled again. She hadn’t ever been one to wallow in self-pity, anyhow,