Page 54 of Fairy Tale Husband

“Saddlehorn.” Jake tossed out theword.

“Yeah. Saddlehorn. That way the horse does the work and not the cowboy. But you have to wrap the rope around so’s you don’t lose no fingers. Dusty called it dal—Dal-something.”

“Dallying.”

Buster grinned at Jake. “Yeah, dallying. Will you teach me how to do it? Huh, Dad? Will you?”

His words stumbled to a halt as he realized what he’d said and he turned white as a sheet. Shooting a stricken look in Wynne’s direction, he turned and ran from theroom.

Jake swore beneath his breath. “I’ll talk to him,” he said to Wynne.

She caught his arm. “Please, let me.”

He gave a terse nod and, gathering Chick close, she followed at a discreet distance. She could hear Buster’s frantic sobs coming from his room and entered, crossing to sit on the bed next to him. Chick glued himself to her other side. Gently she ruffled her nephew’s sun-streaked hair. “Are you all right?”

“I didn’t mean to call him that,” Buster managed to say through his tears. “I know he’s not my dad. You told us we’re just staying with him for a little while. He’s a temp... Temp—”

“Temporary,” Wynne supplied regretfully.

“Yeah, atemporary husband. Iremember you telling us all that. About how marrying Jake is like a summer job except it’s during the winter. Only...” Tears threatened again. “Only I wish we didn’t never have to leave.”

“I know.” Those two simple words spoke volumes.

“Why can’t we stay?” He lifted his head to look at her. “I like it here. Chick does, too.”

Chick nodded, his pleading gaze matching Buster’s.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not fair to Jake.” She swallowed, struggling for composure. “You see, Ipromised that we’d only stay for a little while. Ican’t go back on my word. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Can’t you ask him to change his mind? If he says yes, that wouldn’t be going back on your word.” He threw himself into Wynne’s arms. “Please let us stay. We’ll be good. And we won’t make no more trouble. Ipromise.”

Hearing the desperation in her nephew’s voice, she closed her eyes. If she didn’t see his pain, perhaps she wouldn’t be tempted to give in to it. Because refusing Buster’s request was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, especially when she wanted it as badly as didhe.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting back tears of her own. “Please try to understand. Ican’t. When the time comes, we’ll have to leave.”

With a silent groan, Jake leaned against the wall, his hands balled in fists, his teeth clenched. This wasn’t what he’d planned. This wasn’t what he wanted. He’d never intended to inflict suchhurt.

Damn it to hell! Why did he destroy everything he touched? Just once in his life he’d like to be the fantasy man Wynne saw, rather than the man fate had dictated. Just this once he wished...

He straightened, his spine rigid, his mouth a taut line. Who was he kidding? Wishes weren’t for men like him. They never hadbeen.

They never couldbe.

Jake examined another receipt and checked the total, adistant sound breaking his concentration. He looked up briefly, before returning his attention to the invoices spread across his desk. Hours had passed since that incident in the hallway and he’d closeted himself in the library, focusing on a backlog of paperwork. It was a blessing not to think, not to feel, just to go through the daily grind like some computerized automaton.

The sound came again and he frowned, tossing his pencil onto the desk. Now what? He crossed to the door and opened it, the sound assailing his ears shocking him so badly, for an instant he froze.

Another heartbreaking sob sent him tearing down the hallway. He careened off the wall and skidded into the kitchen. Wynne sat crouched in the middle of the floor, her face buried in her hands, quietly crying.

Slowly he sank to his knees next to her, feeling as though he’d been sucker-punched. Except for that single, gut-wrenching tear she’d shed on their wedding night, he’d never seen Wynne cry before. Not like this. Not like her heart was breaking.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, afraid to touch her, searching frantically for an injury.

With a hiccupped sob, she thrust out her hand and shook it beneath hisnose.

He took her fingers gingerly in his. No cuts or abrasions, thank heavens. No swelling. No joints out of place. His brows drew together. “Talk to me, sweetpea. Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt!” she answered in tragic tones.

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