you.”
“I know,” she acknowledged and turned away again.
He wanted to call out to her, to ask her again to stay. Instead, as silent as the wilderness, he watched her go.
At the far shore, she stopped and raised a hand. It was then the storm for which the land waited lashed out in a blinding bolt of lightning and a rumble of thunder. When the world was quiet again, the path was empty. Marissa had gone from his life.
Heavy rain was falling when Jefferson paused at the edge of the clearing. Through the downpour, his gaze sought the half-hidden bower where he’d made love to Marissa Claire Alexandre.
His sketch pad shielded by his body, a keepsake folded against his heart, he committed to memory this place. He would paint it, melding sketches and memories. Someday.
Rain fell harder, spattering over the pond like stones in a wishing well. “One wish is true, Marissa.”
Lightning flickered, thunder growled. As quickly as it came, the rain stopped. As a mist shrouded the land, Jefferson waited for one more glimpse that never came. It didn’t matter.
“I won’t forget.”
When he turned away, though the wilderness had been an abiding part of his life, he knew it could never be the same.
He wouldn’t come again.
One
“Well, hello, handsome.” The greeting, addressing the lone patron at the bar, was lilting and feminine. Teasing a favorite customer.
Setting his glass aside, a hand automatically going to his Stetson, Jefferson Cade smiled. A brush of his fingers tilting the tan brim accompanied a pleasant greeting as teasing. “Afternoon, Miss Cristal.”
As she laughed in pleasure at the Western gallantry spoken in a Southern drawl, Cristal Lane slipped her arm through his. “What brings a Southern gentleman like you into town today?”
In this land of old ranches and older family names, with time measured in half centuries, if not centuries, Cristal was counted as new to Arizona. But Jefferson considered the remark conversation, not a question, for she’d owned the most popular saloon in Silverton years enough to know the spring stock show held annually in the town attracted ranchers from miles around. As it had drawn him from the Broken Spur of Sunrise Canyon.
But Cristal was also familiar enough with his reclusive lifestyle to believe the show, itself, would not merit one of his rare visits. As she silently signaled for the bartender to refresh the drink he’d hardly touched, Jefferson wasn’t surprised when she suggested, quietly, “Someone must be offering a spectacular horse to tempt you from your hideout.”
“Think so?” Shifting his gaze from her, he nodded his thanks to the bartender, then folded his hands around the glass.
Her shrewd study drifted away to assess the needs of customers. Satisfied everyone was content, she looked again at the handsome Southerner, and inevitably at his hands.
As with everything about Jefferson Cade, his hands were intriguing. Weathered, callused, the hands of a working man, an artist. A mix of rugged elegance and gentle strength. One of the times he’d been in town and stayed late to walk her home after closing, she’d teased him about his hands. He’d only laughed when she’d called them fascinating, saying it was natural that any living, breathing female would wonder about his touch.
He’d asked what female? For in the four years since he’d returned to Arizona to work for Jake Benedict at the Rafter B, then Steve Cody at the Broken Spur, he’d done no more than speak a few pleasantries to any woman. Beyond the routine associations of ranching, he was happiest living his reclusive life.
“Do I think so? Yes,” she murmured to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “It must be one helluva horse.”
Her use of the rare profanity recalled a late-night talk when she’d ventured another startling opinion.
It must’ve been one helluva woman who spoiled all the rest of womankind for you, Jefferson Cade. She’d made the statement, then never mentioned it again. But he knew she was remembering the night and her words as her eyes probed his.
Jefferson held her gaze for a long moment, then turned his face away. A virile face maturity had made more attractive, and the new touch of silver in his dark blond hair only complemented. His mouth was solemn now. Beneath the brim of the Stetson, his downswept lashes shielded his eyes. But if his head had lifted and if his lips tilted in a smile that touched his eyes, it would still make an attractive man startlingly handsome.
He was immune, not a fool. He knew he’d caught the attention of a number of the female population of Silverton in the early days of his return. But he never acknowledged the most blatant flirtation with more than a courtly smile and a pleasant greeting. He became a master at making the most brazen feel he was flattered and perplexed by the advances, a gallantry that, at first, had an opposite effect than the one he wanted. But through the years, as even the most determined found him ever elusive, his would-be lovers became friendly acquaintances, if not friends.
Though she teased about his charm, Cristal’s interest was platonic. As he recognized her honesty and wisdom, she became a close friend. A rare and trusted confidante.
“If not for a particular horse, you wouldn’t be here, would you, Jefferson? There’s nothing else in your life. You won’t let there be, because of a woman.” Cristal voiced a long-standing concern, exercising the privilege of friendship.
Only the narrowing of his eyes signaled this subject was off-limits. For once, Cristal wasn’t to be deterred. “Do you ever get her out of your mind or your heart? This woman you loved and lost…do you ever stop thinking about her? Can you stop? Or do you spend each waking moment remembering how she looked, how she smiled, the way she walked? The fragrance of her hair?”
Jefferson didn’t respond. Then, pushing away from the bar, his expression unreadable, he looked down at her. “What I’m thinking and remembering,” he said as courteously as if she weren’t prying, “is that it’s time to see a man about a horse.”
Fingers at his hat brim, a charming smile, a low, “Miss Cristal,” and she was left to watch him walk away. Long after he stepped through the door and disappeared into the crowd, no less concerned she stared at the space where he’d been.
“Cristal,” a raucous voice called. “How about a song?”
“Sure, Hal.” She didn’t need to look around to recognize a regular customer. “What would you like to hear?”
“No preference, honey,” he answered. “Just sing.”
With a last glance at the empty doorway, Cristal crossed the room. Despite the tightening in her throat, leaning over the piano player, aptly named Sam, she whispered in his ear. When he nodded, she looked over the room, her smile touched with sadness for a lonely man. “How about this one? An oldie for a friend.”
As the melancholy chords of the introduction ended, wondering what intuition dictated the old tune, she sang of a lady’s choice to leave the man who loved her.
“Easy girl. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not anymore.” In a soothing singsong, Jefferson coaxed the nervous mare
