Love Somebody Like You (17 page)

Terry said, “Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever heard?”

“It is pretty sweet,” Sally said. She guided the two men to the tack room and showed them where to put the saddles.

When they were back, working on the bridles, Ben said, “Yeah, it's sweet. But man, think of those wasted years. If they loved each other when they were young . . .”

“I know.” Andrew paused in undoing the throat latch to gaze at Ben, his expression serious. “But times were different. To admit even to yourself to being gay was hard. Besides, they were really young. At that age, you can't really be sure it's a forever kind of love, can you?”

“If I'd met you when I was that young,” Terry said, “I'd have known.”

“Maybe. But society told them it was wrong. Granny Irene and her girlfriend Daphne figured that if they split up they'd, you know, move on. And they did, and had full lives, but they never found that same kind of love again.”

Ben helped Andrew juggle getting his horse's bridle off and the halter on. Curious, but not wanting to be rude, he said, “Your grandmother obviously had kids.”

“She married, but it wasn't a happy marriage. They split up. Granddad remarried, but she didn't, not until she and Daphne got back together.” He said, “Sally, you might know Daphne Haldenby. She taught fourth grade here for decades.”

“No, I only moved here seven years ago. But I do hope the two of them are happy. They certainly deserve it, after all that time.”

“They're totally adorable together,” Terry said. “They're another reason for us to move here. We're all, like, bosom buddies.”

“Nice,” Ben said.

“It is,” Sally said, a little wistfully. Was she thinking about her own family?

“Now we'll take the horses out to the paddock,” she said.

She and Ben gave the students the lead reins and guided them. Then the four humans leaned on the top rail of the fence, watching the dozen or so horses as they grazed and socialized. Ben could tell from the contented expressions on the two men's faces that they'd be coming back for more lessons, and likely would end up owning horses of their own.

He nudged Sally's elbow with his. When she turned, he cocked his head toward the guys and gave her a smile. Her return smile and slight nod told him she was thinking the same thing.

When the men had left, Ben said to Sally, “I need to make a trip into town. Is this a good time?”

“Sure. In fact, you should have a couple of days off. Corrie took Mondays and Tuesdays.”

Amused, he shook his head. “What would I do with days off? You think I'm going to laze by the pool and suntan all day?”

Her eyes twinkled. “There are lakes you could laze by.”

“Maybe I'll take a picnic lunch and ride out to one of them, spend an hour or so. That's all the lazing I can handle. Of course, if you want to come along . . .”

“Ben, you already talked me into having dinner with you. Let's not overdo, uh . . .”

“A good thing?” he teased.

Her lips twitched. “Whatever.”

“Okay, then I'll head into town. Need anything?”

Of course self-sufficient Sally turned him down.

Once he got to Caribou Crossing, he parked off the main street and strolled through the small, picturesque downtown. He noticed Days of Your, the thrift store Cassidy had mentioned. The window display was bright and interesting, and one mannequin sported a Western shirt that would look good on Sally. It was a casual, daytime shirt in blue and green checks, not one of the dressier ones with fancy stitching on the yoke and pearly snaps. He wandered into the store.

A curvy redhead greeted him with a friendly smile. “Hey there. Thanks for dropping in. It's been lonely here this morning. I'm Maribeth.”

“I'm Ben. I saw that checked shirt in the window. Thought my friend might like it.”

“What size does she wear?”

How the hell would he know? “Uh, I think you know Cassidy Esperanza?” That shirt of hers had looked just right on Sally.

“You bet! She's one of my best friends.”

“My friend's more or less her size.”

“Then you're in luck, Ben.” She selected a pink shirt off a rack and climbed into the window. She unbuttoned the checked shirt and handed it to him. “Don't want the poor girl flashing her wares in public,” she said cheerfully as she dressed the mannequin in pink. She backed out of the window. “What do you think? Is this for someone I might know?”

“No, I don't think so. Listen, if it doesn't fit”—or if Sally reamed him out for being presumptuous—“can I return it?”

“Sure. No problem.”

She folded the shirt and stuck it in a bag.

Whistling, he set off to shop for dinner. He decided on barbecued ribs, then dropped into the liquor store and asked the woman there to recommend a good red wine. He chose one with a name he liked: Jackpot Syrah from Road 13 Vineyards.

In no rush, he drove a different road back, a longer route that looped into the foothills. With the window open, he sucked in the scent. Light green; that was how the air smelled. Hay, a hint of cottonwood, a touch of cedar. He slowed to let two mule deer cross the road, and again a few minutes later to watch a bald eagle soar across the blue sky.

Oh yes, this was a fine place. He'd ride out here on Chaunce one day. See if he could persuade Sally to come along. That field of wildflowers on his right would make her smile.

Impulsively, he pulled to the shoulder of the road and got out. He hopped a ditch and leaned on the split-rail fence. The scent now was green plus flowers, sweet and a little spicy. Butterflies flitted here and there and the hum of bees made him think of wildflower honey.

After a glance around to make sure he was alone, Ben hopped the fence. No one would notice the loss of a dozen or so white daisies, spikes of orangey-red Indian paintbrush, blue lupine, and bright yellow flowers he didn't know the name of. The brilliant copper-colored hummingbirds that darted and whirred from blossom to blossom still had plenty to choose from.

Climbing back into the truck, Ben had to laugh at what he intended to offer Sally tonight: messy spare ribs, a forty-dollar bottle of wine, and a straggly bunch of wildflowers. But hell, he was a cowboy, not some urban sophisticate.

He arrived back at Ryland Riding just before noon, put away his groceries, and stuck the flowers in a glass of water. Carrying the shirt, he went in search of Sally. He found her in the barn office at the computer, with file folders and papers beside her and a frown on her face.

He tossed the bag down beside her. “Got you something.”

She gazed up curiously, but didn't touch it. “What? Why?”

“Saw it in the window of that shop Cassidy was talking about. It made me think of you.”

Her eyes widened, and she took the shirt from the bag. “Oh! Ben, that's . . . You shouldn't have.”

“D'you like it? I hope it fits.”

Hesitantly, she held it up. “It's really nice, but I can't let you do this.”

“Sally, it's used clothing. It cost a whole eight dollars. Don't make a big deal out of it.”

She stood, her chin lifting. “I'll pay you for it.”

He gave a disbelieving snort. “D'you realize how ridiculous that sounds? It's eight freaking dollars, Sally.” His voice was rising, so he took a breath and strove for a lighter tone. “Could you just say thank you and stop arguing?”

Her mouth softened. “Maybe I could.”

God, she was irresistible when she looked like that. “Go on,” he coaxed, “give it a try.”

She gave in to a smile. “Thank you, Ben. I really like it.”

He grinned, wanting so badly to hug her. “Now was that so hard?”

“Kind of.”

It was progress. He hoped that tonight, over dinner, he could get her to relax and finally open up to him. He needed to know what had happened to make her so wary of men. And he figured she needed to talk about it before she could move ahead and heal.

Chapter Fourteen

It had been a relatively slack day, but all the same Sally took a shower before dinner. These days, it was so warm that she got sweaty wearing her usual garb of a T-shirt under a long-sleeved cotton shirt.

Ben had been hot, too. He'd had his short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned for much of the afternoon, hanging loose over his jeans. After they'd turned the last of the horses out into the paddock, he'd hauled up the hem to wipe his sweaty face.

Making her already-dry mouth go even drier.

“How can you stand wearing so many clothes in this heat?” he'd asked.

“I'm perfectly comfortable,” she had lied. For years, she had layered clothing a size too large, to make sure men didn't look at her in “that way” and think she was coming on to them. Long sleeves, the cuffs done up, to hide the Pete-inflicted bruises.

Now, fresh out of the shower, she studied her reflection. One bruise on her forearm, from banging into the corner of a stall door. Her body was slim, maybe too slim, but her shoulders and arms were even more toned than when she'd barrel raced.

In the bedroom, she put on a plain beige cotton bra and reached automatically for one of her well-worn tees. She stopped, bit her lip, and instead picked up the checked shirt that lay on the bed. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, buttoned up the front, and looked in the mirror.

This shirt was the correct size and it skimmed her breasts then narrowed at her waist. The open neck framed her horseshoe pendant. She rolled the cuffs a couple of times, baring her wrists and the bottom of her forearms. What she saw was an okay-looking woman in a nice, gently worn shirt. Not a seductress. “Stop overthinking,” she muttered.

On the way out of the house, she collected three of this morning's eggs from the fridge. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, so the temperature was pleasant. A warm, dusty scent lingered, a reminder of the day's heat.

Ben had parked his trailer on a flat patch of stubbly grass with the entrance facing the view. A portable barbecue rested on a crate, a tempting aroma drifting from under the closed lid. Barbecue sauce? Two folding chairs sat on either side of a card table. The table was bare but for a water glass filled with a vivid bunch of wildflowers.

When Pete had brought her flowers, they were carnations or roses wrapped in plastic. Sally loved these wildflowers, so casual and outdoorsy.

“Ben?” she called.

“In here.” He came to the door.

His hair was damp and tousled. He must have forgotten to comb it, but she liked it this way. He'd buttoned his blue short-sleeved shirt, and she tried to convince herself she was glad.

She held up the small bowl of eggs. “I brought these for breakfast.” Quickly, she corrected herself. “I mean for
your
breakfast.”

His lips twitched as he took the bowl. “Thanks. I'll enjoy these. I'll get you a drink.”

Tonight it might be safer to avoid beer. “Water will be fine.”

“Coming up.” He disappeared, and a few seconds later returned to hand her two glasses like the one that held the flowers, these full of cold water.

She put them on the table and when she turned back to him, he was passing her two more water glasses half filled with what looked like red wine. “Ben, I—”

“It's called Jackpot Syrah. Taste it and see what you think.”

Since he'd already poured it, it would be rude to say no. She took a sip. Back in the days when she drank alcohol, she'd mostly had beer, and sometimes a shot of tequila. Champagne for a really big celebration. She was no connoisseur of wine, but hmm . . . She sipped again. Was that a hint of cherry? “I don't know those fancy words they use to describe wine, but it sure does taste nice. Kind of, uh, rich, if that makes sense.”

He stepped outside, took the other glass, and tasted. “ ‘Rich' sounds right to me. Think it'll go okay with barbecued ribs?”

“Mmm, I thought I smelled barbecue sauce. Yes, I'm sure it will.”

Ben opened the barbecue to turn the ribs. “Almost done. I have potatoes in foil cooking too, and I pillaged your garden for salad veggies.”

She sat on a folding chair. “I told you you're welcome to anything from the garden. If you can get it before the deer and bunnies.”

“You need a fence.”

“I know. When Corrie planted the garden, we didn't think about the hungry critters. She was embarrassed, since she'd worked in a garden center. But they don't get a whole lot of deer roaming around Vancouver where the center was located.”

“I could build you that fence.”

Every time she turned around, the man was finding something nice to do for her. That habit was almost as disconcerting as his physical appeal. “That's a kind offer. But even if I took you up on it, you'd be wasting your time. I'll be too busy to garden after you're gone.”

“You need a new assistant.”

“I know.” Glancing at his clean shirt, she said, “You can also help yourself to the washer and dryer in the mudroom. You must be running low on clean clothes.”

“I am. Thanks, that's great.”

She gestured at the makeshift vase. “Where did you find the flowers? They're so pretty.”

“I drove through the foothills. Nice country up there. Hopped a fence and stole these. Didn't figure anyone would notice. Don't go telling anyone, okay?”

“I can keep a secret.” The words slipped out teasingly, before she thought. They sent a dark echo through her mind. Oh yes, she had kept secrets. Bruises, cracked ribs, harsh words. The miscarriage Pete had caused when he punched and kicked her in the belly.

“Sally? Are you okay?”

She forced air into her lungs. “Fine. A little tired, I guess.”

“Relax, drink some wine.”

“Let me help with dinner.” She started to rise.

“Sit. You're my guest.”

Slowly, she sank back. This was a first: being waited on by a man.

Ben brought out a big bowl of salad, two plates, knives, forks. A roll of paper towels. Butter, in the wrapper. Salt and pepper shakers.

Automatically, her mind tallied the mistakes: no place mats; no proper napkins; no butter dish, and the butter would start to melt. Any one of those things would have earned her a slap from Pete. She eyed the wildflowers, so casual and vivid. The wine, a gorgeous purplish red in the sunshine.

Oh, maybe it was good, as a general rule, to take the care to set a nice table, to not waste butter, even to avoid alcohol. But not all the time. There was a lot to be said for a casual, picnic-style meal with a glass of wine.

Pete had been wrong about her family, too. Maybe they had pried and offered unwanted advice, but they'd done it because they loved her.

He'd been wrong to punch her when she confirmed she was pregnant. Wrong to burn her fingers when she forgot her engagement ring. Wrong about so many things.

She felt as if blinders had fallen from her eyes and she could see her marriage clearly.

Ben had taken the plates to the barbecue and was dishing out foil-wrapped potatoes and ribs slathered with sauce. He put a plate in front of Sally. “Look okay?”

He was waiting on her. Cooking for her. Caring about what she thought. He hadn't tried to sweep her off her feet with a fancy restaurant meal, as Pete had done. He'd put this together himself and everything was a reflection of him. He wasn't like Pete. She was sure—as sure as a woman whose judgment had failed her once could be—that Ben wouldn't go from romantic flattery to the smash of a hand in an instant.

“Sally?”

She glanced down at the meaty, spicy ribs and giant potato, and then beamed up at him. “Everything's perfect.” And she didn't mean just the food; she meant the handsome, generous, considerate man, too. “Thank you, Ben.”

“Taste it before you say that.”

“I can tell by the smell that it's delicious.” Gingerly, she unwrapped the hot potato, sliced it open, and added a dollop of butter, then salt and pepper.

They both dished out salad, and ate hungrily. After a few bites, she shared some good news. “Can you believe, I've already had some e-mails and phone calls about lessons and boarding from people I met at the Wild Rose last night?”

“Your friends are right—in a community like this it pays to mingle.” He studied her across the card table. “I'm surprised you and Pete didn't do that.”

She wouldn't give Ben the old excuse about how she and Pete had wanted to be their own self-contained unit. Standing, she picked up the empty wineglasses. “Why don't I get us some more wine?” She'd give Ben a refill and herself a splash more, and then she'd find a safe topic of conversation.

 

 

Ben stretched back as much as the folding chair would allow. He hoped another glass of wine would help Sally share some of those secrets she seemed so determined to keep.

A shattering crash came from inside the trailer, followed by, “Oh, no!”

He leaped to his feet and dashed in. The wine bottle lay on the floor, red wine streaming over the dark fake-wood laminate. The two glasses had shattered and Sally flung herself down on the floor amid the spilled wine and shards of glass, grabbing at the wine bottle.

“No!” he shouted. “Sally, no, stop!” He gripped her shoulders and hauled her to her feet, pulling her away from the mess.

She jerked away and cringed back, eyes full of terror, raising her hands as if to ward off a blow. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to,” she babbled. “The bottle slipped and I grabbed for it and knocked over the glasses. I'll clean it up, let me clean it up!”

Oh, shit. Now Ben was sure it was Pete who had abused her.

Keeping his voice calm as he would with a terrified horse, he said, “Sally, it's okay. I only grabbed you because I don't want you getting cut by broken glass.” He stepped back.

For a long moment, she didn't respond. Was she in shock, so that his words hadn't penetrated? Then her hands lowered slightly and she eyed him warily. “I'll clean it up. I'll buy new glasses and another bottle of wine. Let me fix this.”

“It was an accident. Don't worry about it. We can clean it up together, but we need to be careful of broken glass. I'll get a broom and dust pan.”

Her gaze was fixed on his face, anxious and disbelieving. As if she suspected a trap. “You're not mad?”

“Of course not.” He tried a small joke. “It's not worth crying over spilled wine.”

She didn't smile. Her taut muscles didn't relax.

“You don't trust me,” he said. “You don't believe what I'm saying, do you?”

Slowly, she shook her head and whispered, “I want to.”

He swallowed, aching for her and furious with the man who'd turned her into this fearful, cringing person. “I'm not him. Whoever did this to you, I'm not him. I'm not mad. I'm not going to hit you. You have nothing to fear from me.” God, he hated seeing her stricken expression. Softly, he asked, “Who was it? Was it Pete?”

Tiny muscles in her face quivered.

“Sally, you need to stop keeping secrets. They're hurting you. Tell me. Let me help.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She choked back a sob.

He took off the inhibiting sling and cautiously reached out to capture a tear that had overflowed. She tensed. He put his good arm around her and eased her stiff body closer to his own. “Let it go, Sally. Let go of the fear, the secrets. You're safe with me.”

“I don't cry.” She spoke so low he could barely hear. “When I cried, he hit me.”

It took all of Ben's willpower to keep his body from clenching with anger. “Cry all you need to, sweetheart,” he whispered. Not that he liked to see a woman cry, but she had a lot of tears and pain bottled up that needed to come out before she could begin to heal. “I'm never going to hit you.”

A shudder wrenched her body, as if something was letting go. Releasing, or maybe breaking. She made a choky, hiccupping sound. And then she clung to him, her arms tight around his back, her head on his chest, sobbing.

“Let it out, Sally. Let it all out.” He wrapped his arms around her and stroked slow circles on her back.

She cried for a long time as they stood in the hallway of his trailer. Wrenching, body-wracking sobs that made him wish Pete Ryland were still alive so Ben could show him what it felt like to be beaten and terrified. Then quieter, whimpering sobs, and eventually sniffles and shudders. She cried hard enough that his shirt was soaked, long enough that his shoulder ached from supporting her.

Finally, she muttered against his chest, “I'm s-so em-barrassed.”

“Oh, sweetheart, no. Don't be embarrassed.” He bent his head and kissed the top of her head. The gesture was unthinking, but the softness of her curls against his lips made him realize it was the first time he'd kissed her. Although he hated the circumstances, he was glad she'd finally opened herself to trusting him. “You needed to cry.”

She eased out of his arms and he let her go. Head down, she raised an arm and wiped the sleeve of her shirt, the one he'd given her and had delighted in seeing her wear, across her eyes and runny nose. Slowly, as if it took huge effort, she lifted her head and gazed at him. Her eyes, her nose, even her forehead, cheeks, and chin were blotchy. Her lips wobbled. “Did I need to b-break your glasses and spill your wine?”

The fact that she felt comfortable enough to try for a joke made him smile and say gently, “I think you did. Or you'd have kept all the pain inside, eating away at you.” He touched her arm and she didn't flinch. “Tell me what he did. You won't be free until you do.”