Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (30 page)

She tried to fend him off, but laughter left her helpless.

When she freed herself from his grasp, she ran to the opposite end of the loft and threw hay in his direction. Mike tossed more her way, and before long hay covered both of them.

Minutes passed before Meg admitted another defeat. The particle cloud settled while she rested on a hay bale, trying to catch her breath.

A few feet away Mike sat on the floor and picked hay strands from his clothes.

Meg pretended to pout. “You said you’d let me win.”

“No. I told you not to touch my cast.” He dug hay from between his toes. “You should have known better than that.”

“I go out with another loss. Poor Meg.” She shook her hair, watching hay pieces fall to the ground. “I’m a mess.”

He scooted across the floor and pulled a piece from the end of her hair. “You look beautiful.”

Her eyes darted to his, so close to her own, as he concentrated on a tangle. She took in his dark-brown eyes, long lashes, and a faded scar—new to her—an inch below his eye. She traced it with her fingernail, catching his flinch.

He tossed a piece of hay to the floor, his movement pulling him from her touch. Leaning farther back, he surveyed her hair. “That’s as good as it gets. We’ll be picking hay out all day.”

“You mean I’ll be picking it out all day. You look fine.” She searched his face. What would he do if she responded to him the way he wanted?

“The advantages of short hair.” He grinned and pulled her to her feet.

She returned his smile, waiting for him to draw her into a hug.

Instead he headed for the ladder. “You want to stay awhile or keep going?”

She frowned at the distance he put between them. “We can move on.”

They descended the ladder and walked out of the barn into the sunshine.

Meg squinted against the sudden brightness. “Our hay fights always make me hungry. How about lunch?”

His stomach rumbled on cue. They laughed, and Mike draped his arm over her shoulder. “Sounds good. I forgot how hungry winning hay fights makes me.”

She elbowed him away and marched toward the Range Rover, chin up but a smile on her face.

Mike chuckled behind her.

At the Range Rover, she waited while he pulled a cooler and navy-blue-and-orange Chicago Bears blanket from the back. He slammed the door, stuffed the blanket under his left arm, and held the cooler with his good hand. “Where to?”

“I know the perfect place, but it’s a walk. Let me carry something.”

He shifted the blanket out of her reach. “Nope. Lead the way.”

She led them past the barns and followed the dirt path between the fields. The walk took five minutes, and by the time they reached the windbreak of trees at the edge of a cornfield, Meg held the blanket, which had refused to stay between Mike’s cast and side.

She spread it beneath a tree’s shade, and when the blanket lay flat and welcoming, Mike set the cooler down and leaned against the wide trunk. “This is nice,” he said.

She stood beside him, soaking in the view of the farmhouse and buildings, the cows, and wide open fields of waving, green crops. She breathed in the smells of animals and earth and listened to the subtle noises of nature drowned out in the rush and closeness of the suburbs. “I used to come here when I wanted to read or be alone, especially when the corn was tall. You couldn’t see anything else.”

He sent her an amused smile. “How appealing.”

“You never did catch the country bug, did you?”

“I tried my best to avoid them.”

“It’s all right.” She sat down, watching him pop the lid off the cooler. “Were you up all night cooking?”

“You’d be surprised.” With a flourish, he held up two bags. “Croissant sandwiches, made the way I hope you still like them.”

She took the Ziploc bag he handed her and pulled out the large, soft croissant filled with sliced turkey breast, lettuce, and cheese. She sniffed it. The cheese was provolone, and there was Dijon mustard in there. Perfect.

“Hold on. I forgot the plates.” From a blue plastic bag, he unwrapped a winter white china plate trimmed in sage and silver. He set it on the blanket before her.

“Our china,” she breathed.

“I forgot until a couple days ago that I still had that, somehow.” His smile was sheepish. His eyes focused on the plate. “I always liked your taste in decorating. Everything you touched turned out beautifully.”

Her throat clogged. “Thank you.”

She set her sandwich on her plate, cold from the cooler, and watched him separate silverware for them. She took hers and laid them on the linen napkin he set beside her plate. “This is too fancy for a farm picnic.”

He grinned, holding up a china cup and saucer. “Drinking lemonade from this should tone it down.”

Laughing, she took the cold china. “Mike, you’ve completely surprised me.”

“Don’t expect any more. I’m maxed out.”

Mike passed out the rest of her meal—red grapes for him and cantaloupe for her, along with cheddar-and-sour-cream potato chips, an old high school favorite.

When they were ready to eat, Mike surprised her again by reaching for her hand and bowing his head. “God, thank you for this food,” he said. “And thank you for Meg. Thank you that she didn’t beat me up on the way here.”

It had been tempting.

Nature accompanied them while they ate and talked. A breeze danced around them, and two butterflies flitted at the far edge of Mike’s blanket, the only living things to crash the party. Meg imagined them as sentinels keeping ants and bees away.

Conversation flowed, the topics safe and familiar. High school friends, Mike’s arm, Terrell’s latest loose tooth, Meg’s worst client, the rudest fan. By the time they finished eating, it was almost two o’clock. They let the few bits of leftovers sit before them.

“This is relaxing.” From his lounging position at the base of the tree, Mike looked across the waving stalks of corn. “Makes me want to buy a farm just for afternoons like this.”

“This is
so
the farmer’s life.”

A smile wormed across his mouth, and, without looking at her, he plucked blades of grass and tossed them in her direction.

She batted them away, laughing.

“Thank you for coming, Meg.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

He nodded. “I didn’t handle this morning the best. I should have asked you. I didn’t think about how disappointed you’d be not having the day with Jill.”

“That’s all right. Just remember you owe me.”

“That I do. You know what I’ve realized today?”

“What?”

“That I liked the farm more than I thought. I wish I’d come back with you more.”

“But you did today. It means a lot, Mike.”

“Good.”

He studied her, squinting a little. A struggle appeared on his face, as if he wanted to ask something that might ruin the moment.

Instead, he plucked more grass.

“What, Mike?”

“Nothing. Just…” He blew out a deep breath and sat up, his arms across the tops of his knees. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d swallowed my pride and really looked for you.”

“You’d have found me if you’d called my parents.”

“I was sure they’d chew me out, then hang up.”

“I told them to give you my number. There was a time when I hoped you’d call.”

But what would have resulted? The reunion of two selfish people, their past problems unaddressed. What could follow but more heartbreak?

“It’s probably best you didn’t call then,” she said. “Nothing about me had changed. I was so selfish.”

Was?
Who was she kidding?

She dropped her head to her knees. “I still am.”

What if she told Mike what she’d done wrong in the marriage? What if she took the fall?

The breeze toyed with her hair as her selfish nature battled for control. The need to protect herself remained strong after so many years of blaming her fears and insecurities on Mike.
He
was always the enemy, despite how she longed for him.

But the real enemy was this desire to please herself and do right only when it worked in her interest.

Or what she believed was her best interest.

When she raised her head, Mike flicked ants off the orange bear-face in the blanket’s center. She swallowed at the opportunity to let conviction pass beneath a joke.

“Mike.”

He lifted the leftover grape cluster, cringing at the ants clinging to it. “Hmm?”

How could she let him go on carrying the weight of their failed marriage? “I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

Her words swung his head around.

Meg closed her eyes at the anguished look on his face.

“When?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Our whole marriage. I was—I was wrong.” Many of their problems had been her own fault, and yet here sat Mike, trying to make up for things she’d invited into their home.

Why hadn’t she realized what she’d been doing?

He slid next to her, pulled her to him.

Meg leaned against his chest while tears slid down her face. “I loved you for what you could do for me. The whole time, I was just focused on me. I’m so sorry.”

She covered her face with her hands while the tears ran.

Mike held her tightly, the weight of his cast pushing on her ribs, and stroked her hair.

He deserved better than what she’d given him. No wonder he’d wandered—she’d been the one to leave first, really. Deep inside, he’d known how little she cared. “Everything that happened—it’s my fault.” She wiped her face and sat up. His damp eyes locked with hers. “Everything.”

“No.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t blame you for what you did.”

“
I
was the one who left the marriage.
I
abandoned you. Nothing you could do would make that right.”

“But if I’d put you first, you wouldn’t have felt alone. You wouldn’t have left—”

“Meg—”

“Your child wouldn’t have died. You and I would be together, and Terrell would have always had his dad. I brought it on myself, Mike.”

“Stop it.”

“No. I have to tell you—I forgive you.” She hadn’t expected to hear the phrase, yet once said, she knew she meant it, and the relief of letting go of Mike’s painful wrongs confirmed her choice.

Why had she fought God?

Tears rolled down Mike’s cheeks. Meg wiped them away with her fingers. He closed his eyes and held her hand against his face.

“Please forgive me?” she whispered.

He nodded, face crumpling, and pulled her into a bear hug.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder while his broad chest shook, the muscles beneath her arms convulsing from his fight to gain control. She closed her eyes, crying with him despite the smile on her lips.

Gradually her tears stopped. Her breathing returned to normal, and Mike’s shoulders stilled. Meg sniffed and wiped moisture from her cheek.

He kissed her hair above her ear. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She nodded. They stayed in each other’s embrace, the sound of a distant tractor mingling with the rustling corn and leaves.

Mike finally broke the silence. “Meg?”

“Yes?”

“We need to move. I think this blanket’s on an anthill.”

The moon sat big and bright in the night sky when Mike turned onto his street. Today had gone so much better than he’d hoped. Not only had Meg forgiven him but she’d admitted her part in their problems and asked his forgiveness. And for the rest of the day she’d left herself open while they explored more of the farm before driving into Dixon for dinner at Phillip’s, their old hangout. There, in the same corner booth in which they’d always sat, he’d asked her for a date. That slow smile he loved had said yes before her words did.

On the way home, she’d again fallen asleep. Her head had tilted in his direction, and her dark-blonde hair had spread around her shoulders and over the seat. Mike glanced now at the bits of hay in the empty passenger seat, proof that everything he’d wished for had happened.

He signaled for the turn into his driveway, turning the steering wheel slowly. No way would he be going to sleep any time soon. He might as well stay up and plan this second first date—

His headlights illuminated something on the garage door.

Mike touched the brakes. What was that? A piece of paper? He put the Range Rover in park and hurried out.

His silhouette from the headlights shrunk as he neared the garage. Plain white paper was held in place with duct tape. Centered in the middle of the page in small computer print was a message.

Have a good trip?

Mike gritted his teeth, his eyes locked onto the message. Somewhere this moron had to be watching him, waiting for some sign that he was mad or scared. Mike held still, even though everything in him longed to rip the paper from the door and tear it until it was confetti.

Yes, had a good trip. Thanks for ruining my night.
Maybe he should write a reply. Curiosity would draw this scumbag from his hole, and Mike could beat him senseless with his cast.

Instead, he returned to the Range Rover and turned off the engine. He’d call the police and while they looked it over, he’d plan tomorrow night’s date with Meg.

This creep wasn’t going to ruin the most perfect day he’d had in years.

A date with Mike—how had this happened again?

Meg pulled back from her mirror as the doorbell rang. Either Mike was early, or she was late. She glanced at her clock and cringed. “Terrell,” she called, “would you get the door?”

“Sure, Mom.” Terrell’s feet thudded against the foyer floor. The front door swooshed open, then Mike’s voice carried up to her.

Anticipation slid over her.

She forced a bobby pin into the mass of curls on her head and arranged them until they rested in the casual knot she wanted. “If I’m late, I’ll make it worth his wait,” she told her reflection.

Her mind drifted back to the previous day. A wall that she hadn’t realized existed had disintegrated after her confession. They’d spent the afternoon walking hand in hand around the farm, with Meg unable to shake the feeling that time had reversed itself and she was eighteen again.