“And that change was at your own request,” he reminded her, sliding his fingers into the back pockets of his trousers, as though that were the safest place for them to rest.
Her hands clenched, and she shot him an angry look. “I don’t want to hear a discussion of what went on in my bedroom. Please, say whatever you came to say, and then leave.” And then anger twisted her features. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind about even that. Just get on your horse and go, Max.”
“It’s not that easy,” he said sharply. “There are things to be settled, papers to be signed and…” He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath. “Can we just have the day together, Faith?”
“So I can sign papers for your divorce?” she asked.
“Divorce?” He repeated the word slowly. “What makes you think I’m here for a divorce?”
“That would be the logical reason for you to come calling.” She tilted her chin, only too aware of the effect he had on her, conscious of her trembling hands, of the rapid beating of her heart, and worst of all, her yearning for the brush of his lips against her own.
“Well, that isn’t the reason. Far from it, in fact.”
His statement was flat, with certainty underlining each word.
“I’d think you’d want to get on with your life,” she said curtly. “Marry again, have a family.”
“I’m already married,” he reminded her. “And my wife has shown herself capable of giving me a family.”
The pain was sharp, quick and urgent, and she clutched at her waist as if wrapping her arms around the aching emptiness would alleviate the knife thrust he’d dealt. “I gave you a child, and then proved incapable of being a good mother.” Her stomach ached as if a giant fist clutched at it, threatening to empty its contents. “Our baby died, Max. And it was my fault.”
“I never said that,” he said quietly.
“Didn’t you?” Her laugh was forced and harsh, and held no semblance of humor. “Perhaps not.” She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “But others did.”
“My mother?” he asked, watching her closely. “If it came from her, I can only say she’s difficult to please, and she was hurt by the loss of her first grandchild.”
“Is that supposed to fix everything? Your mother was hurt?”
“Let’s not get into this right now,” he suggested mildly. “There are other things we need to decide. I know this is painful for you, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart? I think not,” she said sharply. “You lost the right to call me that a long time ago.”
Her eyes were like daggers, he thought, stabbing in an attempt to draw blood. In fact, this woman bore little resemblance to the wife he’d last seen almost three years ago. Never had Faith aimed such venom in his direction. Seldom had she even shown a sign of anger, and rarely had she disputed his word or challenged his opinions.
A new light shone from her blue eyes, a sharp, knowing glance aimed in his direction, as if she judged him and found him wanting. Her hair was loose around her face, soft tendrils clinging to her forehead and temples. The ends were caught up in a braid that failed to subdue the curls and waves of gold.
A golden hue almost matching the color of her horse, he noted, glancing from woman to mare. The woman who had been his, the woman he’d called his sweetheart.
“Pain is what I feel when you deny my touch, Faith. When you glare at me with distrust and hatred in your eyes.”
“You call that painful?” she asked, a subtle undertone suggesting wry humor. “You don’t know what painful is, my friend. And neither does your doting mother.”
“And you, Faith?” he asked, aware that her eyes held not a trace of softness. “Have you suffered? Or has leaving our home alleviated your pain? Were you able to leave the past behind and get on with your life?” He hadn’t meant the sarcasm to be so biting, and he sighed, wishing those final words unsaid.
And so he apologized once again. “That was uncalled for. I recognize that you’ve carried scars.”
“Really?” Her own sharp retort revealed her doubt about his sincerity. “What would you know about my scars, Max? Your main interest in life is your business and the money you’re capable of adding to your bank account.”
“Is it? Was I so bad a husband, then?”
Her brow furrowed, and he recognized the signs. Faith was cogitating, developing an answer. And, he feared, the longer she considered her words, the worse the picture she would paint of him.
“Look,” he said quickly. “Can we put this whole rehash of things on the back burner? At least long enough for me to have a cup of coffee. Maybe even a bit of breakfast?”
She swung her gaze from the horses, which had run in tandem to the far side of the pasture, to meet his again. “You haven’t eaten this morning?”
He shrugged. “I saw the sheriff as soon as I got up. The man at the hotel pointed him out to me as he was leaving the dining room there. By the time we spoke, and he had me put my signature on his ridiculous piece of paper, I knew he was pulling my leg. There was no doubt in my mind he knew exactly who you were, once I described you in detail.
“I decided to follow him, but it took me a few minutes to get a horse from the livery stable on the other end of town. Then it was a chancy thing, staying far enough behind him so he wouldn’t look around and see me dodging among the trees and taking shortcuts through the brush.”
Max lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not at my best when I’m hungry, Faith. Will you take pity?”
Her look was scornful, and her sigh told of patience at its end as she led the way to the house. “A piece of toast and a couple of eggs wouldn’t be beyond me, I suppose,” she said, climbing the steps before him.
Her slender form was garbed in heavy cotton, and yet she was as appealing as she’d ever been when dressed in silk and lace, he thought. Possibly even more so. There was a maturity about her that held his interest, a beauty gained by the years, perhaps even abetted by the struggle she’d undergone in this place. He’d admired her three years ago, and been smitten by her lovely face and figure before their marriage began. How could he help but be even more intrigued by the woman she had become since he’d last seen her?
She’d been young, twenty-two years old, with the promise of acceptance from Boston society and a husband who held her in highest esteem. And yet she’d still been not much more than a girl, hurt by circumstances that fate dealt out in a cruel fashion, and unsure of herself and her place in the world in which they lived.
She’d changed, he decided. Faith was a woman, full grown. The promise of beauty she’d worn like a shimmering shawl of elegance had become a deep-seated, golden radiance that illuminated her as if sunshine itself dwelled within. Her eyes were intelligent, the small lines at the corners adding a certain maturity to their depth.
Her hair had lightened considerably, probably from hours spent in the sun, he thought. And she was lean, her youthful curves
