Page 44 of Wyoming True

The feel of his big hand holding hers made her feel awkward just at first, but it was warm and strong, and after a minute, she relaxed.

He felt that, smiling inwardly.

“I love the ocean,” she said softly. “I collect beaches.” She laughed. “My favorite was in Morocco. I spent a couple of weeks in Tangier. There were camels dancing in and out of the surf,” she recalled with soft eyes.

“I’ve been to Tangier,” he replied. “Fascinating city. Did you see the church that the Berbers gave to the Christians?”

She laughed. “Yes. It was a surprise.” She sighed. “But what I loved most about the city, even more than the bazaar and the wonderful food, was the call to prayer broadcast over the loudspeakers. I don’t know why, exactly. It was beautiful.”

The hand holding hers was suddenly stiff. She recalled that he’d fought overseas, probably fought some of the people who would have loved those calls to prayer. She stopped suddenly and looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes were like steel plates, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on the ocean, and he didn’t speak.

She never touched men voluntarily. Not since Bailey. But she moved, hesitantly, closer to Jake and slid her arms around him, laying her cheek against the soft chambray of his shirt. She held him, just held him. After a minute she felt something like a shudder go through his powerful body, and his arms closed around her a little roughly.

She didn’t mind. He was familiar to her, in a way that she didn’t understand. She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath.

He stood holding her, letting her hold him, while the anguish of memory slowly faded. His hand smoothed up and down her spine.

“You can’t live in the past,” she said after a minute. “No matter how painful it is, you have to keep moving forward.”

“You stole that line fromMeet the Robertsons,” he chided at her temple, because she only came up to his chin.

She laughed unexpectedly. “Don’t tell me you watch cartoon movies!”

He smiled. “One of my vice presidents had a little boy, about seven at the time. It was his favorite movie. I’d go to his home for supper occasionally, and the whole family gathered around to watch the movie with him.” His hand stilled. “He was the sweetest kid.” He broke off.

She drew back and looked up at him. “What happened?”

“His father was late getting to work. He jumped into the car and didn’t realize that the little boy was standing behind it.”

“Dear God,” she whispered reverently.

“He lost his mind,” he said. “Quit his job, left his wife, ended up on the streets and died of a respiratory infection one winter as an indigent. I tried to find him after he left my mining company, but he didn’t want to be found. He went back East to New York City and just lost himself in the crowds. He was identified through his fingerprints—I’d made all my employees submit theirs, so they were kept on file. It was a wrench. I had him brought back to Billings, where he was buried.”

“What happened to his wife?” she asked.

“She went to live with a sister in Phoenix,” he said. “She came to the funeral.” His face hardened. “I don’t think she ever remarried. She loved him, right up until the end. She forgave him. But he couldn’t forgive himself.”

She didn’t say a word. She put her cheek back on his shirt and just stood there, with the breeze whipping around them and the sound of the surf curling on the beach and the infrequent cry of a seagull.

“You’re restful,” he commented after a minute.

She smiled. “That’s a new adjective.”

He chuckled. “You have a knack for calming me down. I lean toward extremes of emotion.”

“I used to be like that.”

“What happened?”

“Ibuprofen,” she murmured dryly.

He didn’t laugh, as she meant him to. He drew back. “Is your hip hurting?”

She grimaced. “Just a little. No, I don’t want to go yet, please?” she asked. “I love beaches, too.” Her blue eyes pleaded.

“Okay. Just for a few minutes.”

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