If Wishes Were Horses.... Judith Duncan
And why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” Her hazel eyes bright with genuine pleasure, she stepped closer, reached up and welcomed him with her customary hug. Conner swallowed hard and closed his eyes, permitting himself the brief luxury of hugging her back.
His voice gruff, he relinquished his hold on her and forced himself to smile. “I had some business I had to take care of, and figured now was as good a time as any.”
She laughed and grasped his arm, pulling him inside. “Well, this is the best surprise. The kids are going to be wild when they get home.”
She closed the door behind them, and he set his bag down in the wide, terrazzo tiled foyer. Keeping his face expressionless, he took off his hat and dropped it on top of his bag, then turned to face her. She was much thinner than when he’d seen her last. There were dark circles under her wide, hazel eyes, and there was a pinched look around her full mouth. But even dressed the way she was, she still had that air of class about her. And the same inner warmth. She grinned up at him, then slipped her arm through his, propelling him down the wide oak-panelled hallway toward the kitchen. “You’re one lucky camper, Mr. Calhoun. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, and they look as good as Grandma Mary’s if I do say so myself.”
Conner looked down at her, humor tugging at his mouth. He clearly remembered Abby and her first attempt at muffins. They had been so hard, Scotty had deemed them his very own cannonballs and made a big production out of pitching them into the creek. “Don’t try and kid me, lady. You make lousy muffins. You could use them for ballast.”
She grinned again and made a face. “Well, they aren’t as awful as they used to be. You can actually eat ’em now.”
He followed her into the bright spacious kitchen. This room was Abby through and through. There were splashes of bright colors and lush, healthy plants everywhere, and the granite countertops were comfortably cluttered. The stainless steel fridge sported an array of Post-it notes, notices and what looked like Sarah’s artwork, and the ceramic pot by the phone was stuffed with a variety of pencils and pens.
The aroma of fresh muffins actually made his mouth water, and Conner allowed himself to be engineered into a chair.
Abby went over and opened one of the cupboards. “I’ll wager you could use a good cup of coffee right about now.” She glanced over at him. “Yes? No?”
He stretched out his legs. Even flying business class, he felt as if he’d spent the past four hours in a sardine can. He gave her a wry half smile. “Coffee sounds great.”
Slouching in the maple captain’s chair, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her as she prepared a fresh pot of coffee, his mind absently registering what she was saying, the knot in his gut tightening. She looked like hell. Her hair, now slightly darker than when Scotty first brought her home, had lost its luster, there was a hollowness to her finely sculpted features, and there wasn’t a speck of color in her face. Her jeans practically hung on her, and he detected an unhealthy energy in her. There was no doubt about it; something was seriously wrong here. Abby wasn’t the type to fade away to nothing without a damned good reason.
Compartmentalizing his observations in another part of his brain, he responded to her small talk, his gaze fixed on her the entire time.
She set the table, getting coffee mugs for them both, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, which was unusual for her. Abby was not one to chatter. Turning in his seat, Conner rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn’t herself, that was for sure.
Setting a basket of still steaming muffins on the table beside him, Abby reached for the drawer at the end of the large kitchen island and took out two linen napkins. She passed him one, then sat down kitty-corner from him and propped her chin in her hand. Sunlight caught in her long lashes and brought out the gold flecks in her hazel eyes as she studied him. “So what kind of urgent business would get you away from Cripple Creek this time of year? Aren’t you getting close to spring branding?”
Conner held her gaze for an instant, then took one of the muffins from the basket, broke it open and reached for the butter dish. He had never been good at subterfuge; he always figured the most direct route was the best way to go. Buttering his muffin, he met her gaze.
He stared at her a moment, then spoke, his tone very quiet. “You’re the urgent business, Abigail. I’m here to find out what in hell is going on.”
Her expression froze and she went so still, it was as if she wasn’t even breathing. There was a long, electric silence, her agitation almost palpable. Then she abruptly picked up a muffin and broke it in half. Her face carefully arranged into a non-expression, she spoke, her tone artificially bright. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Conner. Everything is fine.”
Conner ate his way through half a muffin, then took a sip of coffee, considering how to play his hand. Finally he brushed the crumbs off his fingers and looked at her. There was a hint of a smile around his mouth when he finally spoke. “You’re a lousy liar, Abby.” He paused, then spoke again. “And an even worse actress. So cut the guff, okay?”
Her head came up and her gaze riveted on his face, her eyes as wide as saucers; then she looked down again, her movements jerky. “I don’t have any guff to cut, Conner,” she said, her tone just a little snippy. “I think you’ve fallen off one too many horses.”
She almost made him laugh—Abby had always been able to make him laugh. And he had to admit that he was amused by the way she was maneuvering away from his question, but he wasn’t that easy to lose. Hooking his thumb in his belt, he leaned back and considered her a moment, and he could almost feel her squirm. He was also very good at maneuvering. He indicated the muffins. “These are very good.”
She lifted her chin, and gave him one of her cool looks. “Thank you. I think.”
He smiled, then leaned forward, braced his elbows on the table and laced his hands together. He studied her, not liking the awful tension he sensed in her. He decided then that their little game was over. Under the circumstances, he figured his nephew would understand. Using that same quiet tone of voice, he spoke. “Cody called me last night.”
She went very still again, and he caught a glimmer of alarm in her eyes. Satisfied that he had gotten her full attention, he continued. “He was pretty worried. He said that he thinks something is wrong with you—that you don’t go to work anymore and he hears you crying late at night, and that you forget things.” He shifted his clasped hands, then fixed his gaze on her. “So why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, Abigail?”
There was an instant, just an instant, where she sat staring at him, almost as if she were paralyzed, then she abruptly covered her face with her hands, a low sound wrenched from her. Experiencing a fierce, painful cramp in his chest, Conner forced himself to keep his hands laced together, the need to touch her almost unmanageable. Sometimes it was damned hard playing big brother around her. Too damned hard.
Unable to watch, Conner looked away, his face feeling like granite as he ran his thumbnail down a pattern carved in the ceramic mug. The sounds coming from across the table were tearing him to shreds inside. But there was nothing he could do. At least not without crossing a line he’d sworn he would never cross.
He had just about reached his limit when Abby finally lifted her head and quickly wiped her face with the napkin, her face swollen and red. She let her breath go in a shuddering sigh, then she began fiddling with the napkin. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him, a depleted expression in her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she whispered. “It’s all been so awful.”
Resting his clasped hands against his jaw, he gave her a small smile. “Then why don’t you just start talking and we’ll see where it takes us.”
She managed a smile, then she pushed her plate away and began folding and refolding her napkin. “It was more than just a drug problem,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sensing that she was preparing herself