The Parent Plan Part 3. Paula Riggs Detmer

dressed in old jeans and an outsize University of Colorado sweatshirt the color of a strawberry roan colt he’d once had.

      The shirt he could handle. It was too baggy to do more than whet a man’s imagination. But those damn jeans—now, they were giving him big trouble. Something about the way they cupped her backside and caressed her thighs, he suspected, wrenching his gaze to her face.

      He’d accepted his sexual need, but his craving for her affection and warmth just seemed to grow stronger the longer they were apart. He thought he’d had this leftover ache tucked safely away, but he’d been wrong.

      For a lot of years he’d fooled himself into thinking it was strictly sex he wanted, and sex he offered. But now, even as his body stirred and swelled behind the barbed constriction of his button fly, he knew that he would take a vow of celibacy for the rest of his life if she would look at him with love in those pretty gray eyes just one more time.

      Before either of them had a chance to speak, he picked up the mug he’d just filled with coffee and silently held it out to her. He knew her fingers would brush his, told himself he was braced to feel her touch. Even so, when her fingertips whispered against his, heat raced through him like a fever, leaving him weak and wanting inside.

      “Thanks,” she said, drawing the mug to her so quickly a few drops slopped over the side and onto her shirt where the big C curved over her breast. His mouth went dry, and he focused his attention on tasting his own coffee. He waited until she took a greedy sip before suggesting that they sit.

      “You look exactly the way I felt earlier.”

      “Actually, I feel as though I just might shatter if I breathe too hard,” she said, pulling out a chair. “And you?”

      “Like I’ve been kicked so hard my belly button got shoved into my backbone.” He took the chair opposite and dragged it back far enough to allow room for his long legs. Maybe, with the width of the table between them, the need to hold her would settle. Or maybe not, he realized as he tried to adjust his large frame to the medium-size chair.

      Beyond the sunny bay window his mother-in-law’s garden was bursting with color and life. There were flowers on the table, too, yellow trumpety things with long stiff stalks like the ones Kari had planted beneath the bedroom window. One of the frilly petals had a torn edge, as though it had been attacked by some garden pest.

      “Her penmanship is atrocious,” she said finally, breaking the silence.

      “Especially since she printed most of it,” he drawled, his throat so tight it was a miracle he could draw breath, let alone speak.

      Her smile was a ray of sunshine, but before he felt its warmth reach his cold face, it was gone, swallowed by the torment reflected on her face. “Imagine, promising to give up her allowance forever if we got back together.”

      “Take my advice, and take her up on it. It might be your only chance.”

      “You’re probably right.” Eyes downcast, Karen fiddled with the mug’s thick handle, turning it one way, then another. Since reading Vicki’s plaintive words, she’d been heartsick. A wry smile bloomed in her mind for a brief span at the layman’s terminology.

      Heartsick. Heartbroken. Heartsore.

      Words coined by poets to describe the feeling that now filled her to bursting. And yet, she knew that the human heart was incredibly resilient. Even hers.

      And Cassidy’s? Had his past layered his heart with so much bitterness it was no longer capable of doing anything other than pump blood?

      She hunched forward and pressed her hands around the mug. The daffodils were new, and she realized her mother must have picked them after Karen had seen Vicki off to school and gone back to bed.

      “I’ll talk to her.” She lifted her gaze to his hard, unreadable, beloved face. “Unless you—”

      “You read the article, Karen. I’m not exactly her favorite person at the moment.” His words were raw, his expression savage. “‘My daddy won’t let my mommy be a doctor and that makes Mommy sad. And he says I can’t be a rancher ’cause I’m a girl, which is the most special thing I can be.’” He shook his head. “Guess that pretty much sums it up.”

      “Children see things in simple terms, Cass. When she’s older, she’ll understand.”

      “Maybe. But she’ll always carry scars.” His mouth twisted. “How’s that for irony? I was trying to protect her from hurt, when all along, I should have been protecting her from myself.”

      “Time will help her heal. That and knowing we love her.”

      Cassidy saw the faith shining in his wife’s eyes and wished he had the same trust. But life had taught him a long time ago that trust was a trap. “Yeah, well, she’s not real sure about that right now, is she.”

      Her face twisted and tears welled in her eyes. “I hate to cry,” she grumbled, wiping them away with hurt, stabbing gestures.

      He slid his own rough, range-ruined hands from the tabletop and fisted them on his thighs. “You’re entitled.”

      She glared at him across the fussy tips of the ridiculous-looking flowers. “Men always say that when a woman breaks down in their presence, but they never do it themselves.”

      “Some do. Depends on the man.”

      The fire was back in her eyes. For now, anyway. Fury he could ride out. It was the hurt that tore him apart. “What about you, Cassidy? When was the last time you cried?”

      Across the table Karen saw a trapped look come into his eyes and allowed herself a tired smile. What was the use? Cassidy was never going to trust her with anything more than his scorn—and, maybe once upon a time, his affection. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”