Staying Home (Roped by the Cowboy Duet Book 2), Page 3

  Flinching, Vivian tried to hide the hurt he’d caused.

  Nash being Nash, he loathed his own response to that look. He hadn’t expected to feel the same flinch inside himself, nor had he expected to feel a pinch of hurt as she had. He’d wanted to delight in her pain, knowing he’d given it right back. An eye for an eye.

  She had, after all, delivered a blow at that festival that Nash had yet to shake, so returning one of his own only seemed fair.

  At the time.

  Now he was struggling not to feel sorry and take back his words, which Miss Gretta had warned him more than once was an impossible task.

  Always think before you speak. Words can’t be unheard.

  Well, he’d already gone and stuck his big foot in his mouth, hadn’t he?

  “Are you ever going to allow me to explain,” she asked, her voice low and soft, “or are you just going to keep hating me forever?”

  “Hate is a strong word,” Nash said, avoiding her eyes and the question.

  “Well, isn’t that what’s going on here? I know I messed up by not being up-front from the beginning, but I think you have completely the wrong idea of the whole thing.”

  Nash knew he was doing precisely what he’d just told her he didn’t want to do, but he was finding it impossible not to answer, which meant, yeah, they were going to discuss this right now. Or at least some part of it.

  “What part do I have wrong exactly? The part where you were married or the part where you chose not to be honest?”

  If only he had a camera to document her reaction. Vivian’s eyes were comically wide, her mouth parted in a small o, and she wasn’t offering a word of explanation as she’d claimed to want to do.

  Such a simple question, too, and it’d left her speechless.

  That cynical side of Nash, that part that challenged her to prove him wrong—wanted her to prove him wrong—reared up and smirked. “That’s what I thought. Do me a favor, darlin’,” he said, lowering his voice so it stayed right there in the room, between the two of them, “next time you wanna ‘explain’ yourself, memorize the script. Ad-libbing just isn’t your thing.”

  Nash brushed by her, leaving Vivian to stand there alone and think about…whatever it was she thought about whenever they had their deliberately brief encounters. Probably coming up with more lies, he thought as he entered the kitchen.

  Gretta was, as always, behind the counter, working on her next offering. He swore sometimes that her life revolved around keeping the humans in her life fed and watered, just like her animals.

  “You should take a load off,” he lightly scolded. “Doesn’t do anyone any good if ya run yourself into the ground.” And considering her recent health issues, he was admittedly afraid she’d do just that. The woman didn’t understand the meaning of limits.

  She waved him off. “Does these old bones good to keep ‘em movin’. If I sit too long, I may never get back up.”

  Nash’s expression scrunched. He didn’t know how to take her meaning. Was it that she’d stiffen too much to move again, or was she implying she might die? She’d been struggling for a while now and her best days weren’t looking all that great lately either.

  Nash was constantly worried that today might be the day he’d lose her, but stubborn as she was, Miss Gretta woke up with that damn rooster every morning and was in the kitchen or someone’s business until the sun set every night.

  If Death was coming to take her, it seemed he might be waiting a while.

  “One of these days…” he threatened.

  Gretta issued him a hard stare that chilled his blood. “Care to finish that sentence?”

  Nash shook his head. “No, ma’am.” Now and then over the years, he’d said a cross word or two aimed in her direction, and that only happened when he had a moment of forgetfulness over what happened the last time he’d let his tongue get away from him. When he was a kid, it was a choice between picking the switch to tan his hide with or being assigned to the worst job on the farm.

  He’d caught the switch more than once. His mind wouldn’t even allow him to think on the times once he’d reached adulthood. Ms. Gretta had a creative mind.

  “I thought not.” Her lined lips puckered as she regarded him. “I don’t suppose you and my girl have made amends yet.”

  She knew they hadn’t. Nash gave one sideways jerk of his head, his countenance etched in stone.

  “I thought not. You’re goin’ to have ta stop bein’ so damn stubborn before you miss maybe the last chance the good Lord is givin’ ya to be happy.”

  “He already took that chance away ages ago, and you know it.”

  Gretta propped her fist on her cocked hip. “Now you know that ain’t true. When one door opens—”

  “I have to get home. Chores,” Nash said, cutting her off. He’d heard that spiel a time or two and he wasn’t in the mood for another life lesson or lecture tonight. He wanted peace. That wasn’t a lot to ask. And lately, people had been asking an awful lot of him.

  Gretta sighed. “Patience never was your strong suit. You’ll come around,” she announced, sure of herself.

  Nash just shook his head, unable to prevent the smile from cresting his lips as he turned toward the door. Over his shoulder he said, “This may be the one time you’re wrong.”

  “I’ve been wrong about plenty of things in my years, but this ain’t one of ‘em.”

  “Good night, Ms. Gretta,” Nash called out as he pushed the screen door open and stepped outside.

  “Get some extra rest tonight,” her voice carried after him. “Sos you can think clearer in the mornin’!”

  Nash’s smile grew. The old woman was always one to push, and she did it so well, he often struggled—like he was now—not to bend to her will. She called him stubborn, but her stubborn streak was miles wider. Sometimes, he thought the sheer force of it strong enough to bend Fate to its will. More than once he questioned whether it was Fate, a lucky guess, or if she was psychic.

  He supposed only time would tell.

  By the time Nash stepped onto his own porch, the night was dark as pitch. The only things giving off any illumination were the full moon hanging in the sky above and the motion light he’d installed some time ago.

  When it flicked on at his approach, he could almost pretend that someone inside was waiting for him, happy he’d come home, but it was just wires and sensors and nothing more.

  Greeted by the usual silence, Nash walked inside and shut the door, not bothering to lock it because nothing salacious ever happened around there. Up the stairs he went, taking them slowly and methodically through the dark, no need for any lights because his muscles had memorized every twist and turn of the old place, even the little spot in the carpet runner that had a tendency to buckle for no good reason.

  It was a tripping hazard, but Nash never had any real company, least of which stayed long enough to go upstairs, so he wasn’t motivated to bother with it. Maybe someday…

  The bedroom Nash entered wasn’t the marital one but a room Carlene had decorated, which was true about all of the rooms in the house. Every inch of the two-story farmhouse bore her touch, right down to the doorknobs—antique tortoiseshell she’d found on Ebay.

  The room he’d been laying his head in lately was simple but feminine, one Carlene had spent the most time putting together. Although he could see none of it now through the blanket of shadows, he knew it had an old wrought iron bed covered in a pink, floral duvet, matching sheers on the windows, and outfitted with a hand painted blue dresser that one might not consider pairing with the pink, but somehow it just worked.

  Nash felt comforted in that room, as if a part of his wife still resided there. Then again, that’s probably why he held on so tightly to the house instead of selling it off. He could have left, sold it off, and gotten some distance so he could move on from it all, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with her memory. It almost felt like a dishonor to do that, to turn his back on all they’d had together just bec
ause it was difficult to face.

  He liked to pretend it made him stronger, but really, a part of him wondered if he was weakening himself instead.

  Passing on the hot shower his muscles called for, Nash unzipped his boots and pushed them off, one by one, with his toes, then rolled back onto the bed, leaving the blankets perfectly made beneath him. Folding his hands on top of his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling, or where he knew it to be, the room so dark that the only thing he could make out was the outline of the window beside the bed.

  That was the nice thing about the countryside: the peace and quiet. The bad thing, though, was also the peace and quiet. At times like this, his thoughts were unbearably loud.

  You should have just talked to her.

  Why are you still so mad?

  It wasn’t like she really lied.

  Lies by omission are still lies.

  You’re just making excuses because you’re afraid to move on.

  And there it was. Lying there in the dark, Nash was faced with his truth, the one he’d been trying to avoid from the moment he saw Vivian on the side of that road.

  The truth was, he liked her. More than liked her, to be honest. But he felt guilty, as if moving on with his life was a betrayal to Carlene, even though he knew, logically, that wasn’t true. But when faced with an out, he took it without even thinking about it. Nash saw his chance to end the connection that was building between Vivian and him and he took it. Damn him, but he did. And now he wasn’t sure what to do.

  Did he really want to be in a relationship? Was he even ready for another one? Gretta was riding his back about making amends, and Vivian was trying her best to cross that bridge, but he wasn’t yet ready to meet her halfway.

  Nash had some serious thinking to do.

  FIVE

  There was a plate of freshly made scones on his doorstep when Nash opened the door to get the morning paper. He didn’t have to read the inside of the card to know who it was from.

  The cover that shouted in big, bold, black letters written in Sharpie that said EAT THESE AND SAY YOU’RE SORRY spoke for itself.

  Casting a look and a crooked smile toward Gretta’s property, he bent low and picked up the plate and newspaper and carried both inside to enjoy.

  The news wasn’t anything exciting. Just the same old stuff about current sales and deals in the shops in town. The real meat and potatoes was in the world events section, but that was just as depressing as his current state of living. Nash scanned the headings about the continuing war in the Middle East and the president’s negotiations for peace and trade deals, hurricanes hitting the Eastern Seaboard, and the endless chatter about global warming and the doom of all mankind.

  Nash set the paper aside and polished off two scones peppered with poppy seeds and thought to himself that he’d better drive extra careful today in case George, the sheriff, pulled him over and he tested positive for opiates.

  As much as he’d love to see the shock on the old man’s face, Nash didn’t want to give the guy a heart attack over one of his own being a proposed drug addict. That was a joke he thought best to pass on just this once. Still, the thought gave him a smile.

  After a brief shower and getting dressed, Nash was out the door. His old but like-new truck rumbled down the dirt road until it met asphalt, and then it was smooth sailing. He made one quick stop at the florist, and then it was another ten minutes’ drive until he reached the county line and the turnoff to his destination.

  The historic cemetery was serene, as they usually were. The county maintained the grounds to near perfection, ensuring the grass was well watered and green, the mature trees healthy, and the flowers and bushes groomed.

  It was an oasis, the perfect getaway from life outside its gates—the perfect residence for poets and generals and other historic figures. Nash came here one weekend every month to reflect, and of course, to pay his respects. The few members of his known family resided here, sprinkled around as if they could no more stand each other in death than they had in life, but just as most days, he wasn’t there to see them.

  Carlene’s final resting place was nice. Located near a large pond, it was sheltered by a mature weeping willow, its branches draping to the ground like fingers that danced across her headstone and swept away the errant leaf. He’d kept it small, the headstone just a small chunk of gray granite, her name and birth and death dates etched in block letters. She’d never been the flashy type, so it was the perfect compliment.

  Nash approached slowly, laying the bouquet of wild flowers down in front of the headstone. “Hey.” It was a nice day, sunny with bright blue skies and a few clouds. The grass beneath his feet was a blanket of green, and as he knelt down on it, he mused that it almost made him forget the pile of soft dirt that had been there for weeks after he’d put Carlene in the ground.

  How many times had he wished she’d chosen to be cremated so he didn’t have to have the morbid picture of her down there in the earth stuck in his head? But then where would he go to talk to her?

  “I still hate it here,” he told her as he reached out and brushed away a bit of grass from a recent mowing from the bottom corner of the stone. “Although I don’t know why. Your neighbors seem nice. Quiet. I hope they’re not givin’ you any trouble,” he teased in his offhand way.

  He sighed. “I suppose you know everythin’ that’s been goin’ on lately. That’s why I haven’t been around as much as usual.” He’d missed their last meeting, and he was still feeling a bit guilty about that. “I should have come by and told ya sooner. I just wasn’t feelin’ myself, ya know? But don’t worry, I’m still yours. Forever, right?”

  Nash settled in. For the next hour, he divulged all of his secrets in a series of confessions to his late wife, hoping she heard him and forgave him, as well as asking for help and maybe a bit of advice.

  “You know how I feel about liars. If there was anyone I might have considered moving on with, as much as I could possibly do anyway, I suppose it would have been her. But Vivian lied to me. She stood right there every day and lied to my face. Never once did she bother to tell me she was still married. I had to find it out from him. And in front of the whole damn town. I feel like a damned fool.”

  After that admission, Nash slumped back on his butt, the cool grass feeling damp through his jeans, as he let the weight of his words settle over him. Was that why he was really mad at Vivian? Had she bruised his ego?

  Well, whether she had or she hadn’t, she was still a liar and he didn’t tolerate them in his life.

  “I’m still mad at you, too, ya know. Goin’ and leavin’ me like ya did,” he muttered. His fingers flicked a blade of grass back and forth. “You were supposed to grow old with me, but you went and checked out early.”

  Of course, that was his fault. Had he been diligent, she never would have been out on that road when she was and that driver never would have hit her.

  It all came down to Nash and his inability to do what needed to be done at the time. If he’d taken care of the horses… If he’d spoken up and asked more questions… If he’d only… He could sit there and place blame all day long, but at the end of it, the real blame rested on his shoulders.

  As Pete once said to him, quoting the great Les Brown, “Accept responsibility for your life.”

  Nash’s life was his own and he could no more expect someone else to live it than he could himself. He needed to stop pointing fingers and accept his role in everything.

  “I’m done being angry,” he announced. “From now on, I’m just going to live my life and be happy for the small things ‘cause I can’t spend my days sour.” That’s how people became bitter—dwelling on the negative. Nash didn’t want to be an old codger that everyone steered clear of.

  And that’s how Nash ended up eating toast and eggs for dinner rather than spending an hour of his evening at Gretta’s enjoying her beef stew and homemade dinner rolls.

  Kicked back in his worn-out recliner, his empty dinner plate was bala
nced on his abdomen while he watched a strange mash-up movie about cowboys and aliens. He wasn’t much for either, as outlandish as it was. Nash was far more into the Sasquatch and zombie stuff.

  If only someone would put the two together… Now that would be a true blockbuster hit!

  “Christ, man,” he muttered to himself, “no wonder you’re still single.”

  Hey, he could lie to himself. Especially since no one was there to correct him.

  As soon as he thought it, the porch light kicked on, its soft glow shining through the thin curtains, alerting him to someone’s arrival.

  Nash waited, staring at the soft yellow fabric until he heard the visitor’s gentle knock on the door. He didn’t possess x-ray vision or the gift of sight, so he couldn’t possibly know who stood on the other side of that door, but as Nash set aside his plate and climbed to his feet, his stomach had begun the process of twisting itself into knots.

  He knew. He didn’t know how, but he knew who he would find when he opened that door.

  Nash denied that knowledge every step of the way, hoping that the power of wishful thinking might change his fate, but when he flipped that lock and swung open that door, and his heart dropped the rest of the way into his stomach, Nash gave up the fight.

  There she stood, pretty as ever. Vivian hadn’t put much effort into her appearance. In fact, it looked as if she had one foot already in bed, dressed as she was in a pair of light cotton, sky blue pajama pants with puffy white clouds on them and a white tank top that accentuated her perfect, round breasts.

  As he looked her over, Nash’s eyes kept getting pulled back to those tight little buds beneath the thin cotton, and he wondered if she knew that her nipples were showing or if it was purely innocent, her showing up in the middle of the night looking as edible as whatever she was carrying in that dish she cradled to her midsection smelled.

  A nervous smile crept across her face. “Gretta gave up waiting for you to come to dinner. She wanted to make sure you ate.” She held out the covered earthenware dish.