Reunited with the Cowboy (6 page)

He heard Sugar yelp, saw a flash of brown and black, a wave of her plumed tail. The cows shook their heads, but moved away. John felt his heart surge with relief when he spotted Heather sitting in the dirt, her pants and coat plastered with mud, her hat askew and one glove missing.

She waved her hands at the cows, yelling at them, and John heard fear in her voice as he climbed over the gate.

The herd had moved a safe distance away by the time he caught her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

“My glove...” she said, her voice faltering.

“Are you okay?” he asked, scanning her for injuries.

“Yeah. I just slipped in the mud.”

John pulled off his own glove, straightened her hat, then gently wiped the mud from her face, his fingers lingering on her cool, weather-damp cheek.

Then he frowned as he saw what the mud had covered up. “You hurt yourself,” he said, touching a scrape on her cheek.

It was a small connection, but it sucked the breath out of him.

“It's nothing,” she said, pulling back ever so slightly. From the way her hands trembled, he wondered if she was as affected as him. “I...I should get my glove.” She sounded as breathless as he felt, and as their eyes met, it seemed as if the very air he was breathing was charged with emotion. As if the very center of his soul had opened up.

The bawling of the cows slowly reminded him of why they were here.

He dragged his gaze away and, looking down, spied her missing glove. He picked it up, then handed it to her, their fingers brushing, a spark of awareness following that simple motion. “Are you sure you're all right?” he asked, trying to cover up his reaction.

“I'm fine. Sorry I didn't deliver your five. I'll get right on it,” she said, slipping on her glove.

“We can take a break if you want,” he said, still concerned about the mark on her face. “You might want to get that cut cleaned out.”

“It's just a scrape. I'll wash up when we're done.” She shrugged off his concern, dirt still speckling her cheeks, loose tendrils of damp hair hanging around her face.

He remembered the Heather he used to hang out with. The Heather who used to race madly around barrels he and Lee had set up. The Heather who would help build tree forts and go riding out in the hills.

The Heather he had so easily fallen in love with. He felt a resurgence of the old yearning she could create in him, a crack in the defenses he had spent so long building up against her.

Irritated with himself and his reaction, John spun away. He was supposed to be immune to her. Years ago, Heather had chosen Mitch and a life that had taken her far away from Montana and Refuge Ranch. Far away from him. They were on completely different paths now.

Yet even as his heart kept pounding, he couldn't stop himself from glancing back at her over his shoulder. Heather was pulling her hat farther down on her head and untying Rowdy. In one easy movement she vaulted into the saddle, determined to finish the job.

The girl who hated working with cows, the girl who was always so careful with her clothes, was now slogging through the mud in her designer duds. She confused him and at the same time intrigued him.

With Heather, he knew that was always a dangerous combination.

By late afternoon, they got the last few cows processed. As he opened the head gate to let the last ones leave, he arched his back, working the kinks out. Thankfully, the drizzle had eased off and the clouds were bunching up, allowing glimpses of blue sky through.

“Guess we're all done,” Heather called out as she rode Rowdy through the double gates to get to the alleyway where John was standing. Sugar crawled underneath, in a panic to join her.

He grinned at the sight of her—hat askew again, hair damp, mud splatters on her face and vest. And her fancy blue jeans were unrecognizable under a sheen of mud.

“If the designer of those jeans could only see them now, ” John called as she rode closer.

Heather grinned, looking down at her filthy pants. “It's good, honest dirt from good, honest work,” she returned as she dismounted.

He gathered up the syringes and empty inoculation bottles, dropped them into the plastic container they always used, then jumped off the walkway. “It went good today,” he said, giving her an apologetic smile. “Thanks for helping. I'm still a bit surprised.”

“To see Princess Heather so dirty?”

“To see her so capable,” he replied, tucking the container under his arm. “And not scared of the cows.”

“Not so scared when I'm on a horse,” she said with a light laugh, looking past him to where a few cows still milled about, as if unsure where they were supposed to go. “Besides, I had something to prove.”

“To who?”

“Myself. You.” She angled her head to one side as she curled Rowdy's reins around her hand. “I didn't want you thinking I'm incapable of helping.”

He eased out a smile. “I'm glad you proved me wrong. It would have been too much work to handle all by myself, and would have taken me three times as long.”

Heather stroked Rowdy, then patted Sugar on the head, as if thanking her two companions for their contribution. “So that worked out well. I'm heading up to the house to clean up. Princess Heather can tolerate only so much dirt.”

John laughed, then glanced at the scrape on her face, frowning. “How's your cheek?” He resisted the urge to take a closer look.

Heather lifted one gloved hand, as if to check. “It hurts, but it's not a big deal.”

“It looks like a medium deal,” he said, still concerned.

She laughed. “Keira used to always say that.”

John smiled at that. “I know. That's why I said it. But you make sure you clean that up good. I don't want to be the cause of the famous Heather Bannister's disfigurement. I'm sure the designer of your jeans would be more upset about the mark on your face than the dirt on his pants.”

Heather released a harsh laugh. “Oh, don't count on it. The model is just something to hang the clothes on. Mitch always said I was easily replaceable.”

The hard note in her voice bothered John, as did what she said.

“That wouldn't be the first time that idiot was wrong.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't talk about your husband that way.”

“
Ex
-husband,” Heather corrected as they walked toward the barn, Rowdy plodding along behind her. “Very much ex-husband. And you can call him what you want. I've probably called him worse.”

Sadness braided with anger crowded in on John at the bitterness in her voice. He wanted to reach out to touch her. Connect with her. Try to find the old Heather buried in this new, harsh version.

Then she looked up at him, a shadow of the smile she had given Sugar and Rowdy lingering on her lips. “Thanks for letting me help. It was great to be riding again.”

He held her eyes a moment, catching yet again a glimpse of the woman he had once cared for so much.

“Make sure to look after that cut,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir,” she said, then walked away, her horse following behind her.

As he watched her leave, unable to keep his eyes from her slender form, he felt as if his emotions were a jumbled stew of memories, care and concern.

Then he shook them off. He had work to do. Heather was part of his past. He had to let it go.

Again.

Chapter Six

“W
ow, Heather, you look gorgeous.”

Heather glanced up from her makeup bag on the bathroom counter and gave her sister, who was standing in the doorway, a self-conscious smile.

“It's not too fancy for church in Saddlebank?” she asked, smoothing one hand down the skirt of the dress she had just finished ironing. The aqua-and-gold-leaf-printed garment was a gift from a designer who had called her in a panic, needing a last-minute runway model. It was a bright contrast to the simple blazer, white shirt and dark pants that Keira wore.

“No. It suits you,” her sister said, slipping past Heather and plugging in a curling iron. “You could always pull off clothes that would look too over-the-top on other people.”

“So are you saying this is too much? Should I change?”

Keira gave her a puzzled look as she pulled a brush out of one of the drawers. “Where is this coming from? The Heather I knew never cared much what people thought of her.”

It came from too many days of listening to Mitch criticizing her, Heather thought. Telling her not to dress like a rodeo princess, and to think like a model instead. Of hearing photographers and makeup people talking about which of her flaws they had to hide, and how to work with what they had.

“I just don't want to look too New York.”

“You look really nice,” Keira assured her. “And Mom and Dad won't care if you show up in Oscar de la Renta or Target. They're just glad you're coming to church with us.”

“Haven't done church for a while,” Heather admitted. “I feel like a fraud.”

“You know better than that,” Keira replied. “You know God is as happy to see you come to church as Mom and Dad are to see you back here at Refuge Ranch.”

“I'm glad to be home.”

“I know Rowdy sure missed you. What do you say to going for a ride when we come back from the cattle show in Missoula? We won't be home too late and I'll be ready to get out after all that driving.”

“Sounds good.” Heather smiled at the thought, swiping some blush over her cheeks. Then she leaned forward, checking out the red scrape that stood out on her cheekbone. She'd tried to cover it with foundation, but hadn't been able to hide it completely.

“That looks nasty,” Keira said. “Are you sure it's not infected?”

“No. It's just a skin abrasion.” She dabbed at it, her hand slowing as her mind flicked back to that moment when John had touched it and encouraged her to get it bandaged.

His hand on her face had stolen her breath. Had sent an anticipation thrumming through her that was as strong as it was unexpected. One touch and all the years between seemed to have slipped away.

Keira bumped her with her hip. “Hey, you. Coming back to me anytime soon?”

Heather blinked, suddenly self-conscious of her meandering thoughts, realizing that Keira had been asking her a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was going to ask you how it went yesterday. Needling the cows. You were in bed when I came back from Bozeman.”

“I was exhausted,” she admitted. “Not used to the physical work and spending so much time outside. But it went good. No major wrecks.”

“Other than that scrape on your cheek.”

“Minor injury. Good thing I'm not modeling anymore. I'd get into the usual trouble for that.”

Keira looked at her reflection, holding her gaze.

“What?” Heather asked, brushing more powder over her scrape.

“I sometimes wonder if you really enjoyed that work,” Keira said.

Heather's hands slowed as her thoughts slipped back to that erratic and confusing time of her life. “It was hard always being seen as simply a clothes hanger. I was thankful I wasn't doing haute couture. I wouldn't have survived trying to keep myself so emaciated. Even for the work I did, I was forever watching what I ate, weighing, measuring, never feeling like I was good enough. Mitch didn't help.”

“I got the feeling that things weren't good between you two well before you divorced.”

Heather tapped the remaining blush off her brush and put it back in her makeup bag. “I should never have married him. It was a mistake.”

“Why did you? Marry him?”

She slowly zipped up her bag, then sighed. “I'm not ready to talk about it. Not yet.”

“You keep saying that.” Keira crossed her arms over her chest. “One of these days you'll have to tell someone. I know there're things you aren't saying that I wish you would trust me with.”

Heather toyed with her makeup bag, pulling the zipper tab back and forth, back and forth. “It's not a matter of trusting you,” she finally said. “It's a matter of shame.”

“Shame about what?”

“Mitch used to beat me.”

The words dropped from her lips as if they had a life of their own. As if they had been waiting for this moment to be released. And right behind them came the usual shame. As if she should have done something to stop him.

“What?” Keira's mouth fell open and she stared at her.

“That's why I left him,” Heather continued, leeching all emotion out of her voice. This was only the partial truth, but she felt she had given her sister enough for now.

“Oh, honey. You never said...we never knew...” Keira slipped her arm around Heather's shoulders and pulled her close. “I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell us?”

“Because I was too ashamed to admit it. Because I kept hoping that his promises to stop were true.” She slowly exhaled, a release of some of the tension that had held her since she'd signed the final divorce papers. “I should never have believed him.”

“And that's why you divorced him?”

“Partly.” She caught the question in Keira's eyes and hastily added, “Mostly. Like I said, I should never have married him. I knew he wasn't a good person.”

“Oh, honey. I feel bad that you had to deal with this alone.” Keira touched her cheek. “We Bannister women do like to keep things to ourselves, don't we?”

Heather knew her sister was referring to her own secrets. “Well, you didn't have any choice in what happened to you,” she said.

“Neither did you.”

Heather shook her head. “No. I'm not a victim. I don't want to be seen as a victim.”

“Honey, none of us want to be seen that way. I certainly didn't. But the reality is that sometimes life beats us down. We have to find a way to get our feet under us. The way it happened for me was to trust that God loved me as I was, even when I was crushed and lying in the dirt.”

Keira's words alighted on Heather's wounded soul and she let them settle, not sure she believed them yet, but also not sure she wanted to dismiss them out of hand.

“I know that on one level,” she admitted. “I've been told it enough. Just hard to feel, sometimes, like I'm worth it.”

“You are. In God's eyes, we all are.” The conviction in Keira's voice made Heather smile.

“Thanks, honey. You're a treasure.”

“So are you. Remember that.” Keira shook her finger at her sister and Heather laughed. “In spite of the scratch on your face.” Keira touched it again, shaking her head. “I feel bad that I wasn't around to help process the cows, though. And I'm still surprised you were willing to do it.”

“Didn't have much choice.”

“Of course, it probably didn't hurt that John was around.”

Heather couldn't stop the faint blush creeping up her neck. “I just helped because no one else was available,” she said, maybe a bit too forcefully.

“Of course you did.” Keira gave her a condescending smile and Heather just sighed.

Trouble was, if she were to truly examine her motives for helping, she knew she would find bits of truth in what Keira was saying.

But Heather wasn't going to do that right now. She had to get ready, physically and mentally, for church.

And John was going to be there.

* * *

The guitars, drums and voices of the worship team were the first things Heather heard as she stepped into the foyer of the Saddlebank church. The happy and upbeat sounds were a contrast to the usually somber music that Laura McCauley often coaxed out of the old church organ.

“Things have changed,” she said to her sister as they hung up their coats. “I didn't think Laura would ever give up her spot as organist.”

“She hasn't,” Keira said. “But she doesn't play as often.”

“So the prodigal daughter has returned home.”

Heather glanced over to see Brooke Dillon hurrying toward them, arms open wide. Her old friend grabbed her in a bone-crushing hug, then pulled back, holding Heather by the shoulders as her brown eyes danced up and down her dress. “My goodness, I should have checked before I hugged. That looks expensive. Any designer I know?”

“A young up-and-comer,” Heather returned. “I like the hair,” she said, fingering Brooke's ombré-toned locks. “Very chic. What does George think?”

“The hair is a work in progress,” Brooke said, tucking her arm in Heather's. “And we're not talking about Mr. Bamford at all.”

Her angry voice told Heather that the ongoing infatuation Brooke carried for the owner of the Grill and Chill was on the wane.

“So, you'll have to tell me all about New York and your glamorous life,” Brooke enthused. “Keira showed me the magazine spread you were featured in.
Très
cool.”

Just like old times, she kept up a steady stream of chatter as the three of them made their way into the church.

“I imagine we'll have to save a spot for Tanner and your parents,” Brooke said.

“Tanner took his mom to see his aunt in Bozeman,” Keira said with a sigh. “And Mom wasn't feeling well this morning so Dad stayed home with her. She wanted to make sure she was rested up for the trip to Helena tomorrow. So it's just us three.”

“Awesome. We can go out for coffee afterward.”

“To the Grill and Chill?” Heather couldn't help asking, happy to keep the attention off herself.

Brooke just rolled her eyes as the two of them followed Keira up the aisle.

Heather's steps faltered when her sister stepped into a pew, excusing herself as she walked past the lone occupant.

John.

Had she done this deliberately? Heather wondered.

She had no choice but to follow her sister and Brooke. John stood as first Keira, then Brooke walked past him, leaving Heather to sit beside him. Her eyes shifted toward him, only to find him looking at her.

“Your scrape looks better,” he said, giving her a cautious smile. “Glad it didn't get infected.”

His concern created a surprising warmth. “It's fine. Now I feel more like a country girl.”

“You don't look like one,” he said. “You look more like a...”

“Like a model,” she finished for him, unable to suppress the prickly tone that crept into her voice.

John narrowed his eyes and she immediately felt bad. She didn't need to be so defensive.

Then the pastor came to the front of the church, a handsome young man with thick black hair, unusually bright blue eyes and a warm smile.

“Welcome to the members of Saddlebank Church and to anyone who might be visiting. We hope and pray this will be a time of fellowship and encouragement.”

Heather caught a few people glancing back at her. Some were familiar faces, smiling in welcome, some seemed more curious about why Heather Bannister was back after such a long absence.

She wondered what they saw. Beryl Winson's natural daughter? Monty and Ellen's messed-up, adopted daughter?

Then the music started up again, and as Heather looked toward the front of the church, a fragment of memory returned. It was of the first time she had come to church with the Bannisters, the day after the social worker had dropped her off. Though she'd never been in church before, she'd known enough to dress up, so she'd worn her best skirt and top. Trouble was, the skirt was short and tight. The top was a sequined halter one her mother had bought her. She'd put on the makeup her mom had given her and thought she looked nice.

She still couldn't believe that Ellen had said nothing at all about her clothes. When they got to church, Heather had realized how poorly she had chosen. She'd felt suddenly self-conscious and self-aware.

The next day Ellen had taken her clothes shopping and made some diplomatic suggestions as to what she might want to choose.

Heather had gotten the unspoken message that the clothes she'd owned weren't entirely suitable. She'd never made that mistake again.

The minister asked them to turn to Isaiah 49, and as he read the passage, Heather followed along in the Bible she had taken from the pew in front of her. Then her heart skipped a beat at the words.

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you. See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.”

Pastor Dykstra read on, but Heather returned to the initial passage, her finger tracing the words as they settled into her soul.

The thought of Beryl resurrected an old ache and a forgotten feeling of betrayal. And intertwined with that, the old anger. She was more than thankful that the Bannisters had rescued her from that life, but living with Monty and Ellen and their unconditional love had showed her what she'd missed those first ten years of her life.

She read the words again as Pastor Dykstra began expounding on the passage. She lifted her eyes and heart, and listened.

“...We forget we're a work in progress,” Pastor Dykstra said. “Like the Israelites Isaiah was speaking to, we're never done. We turn away from God and return again and again, a spiral of pushing away and being drawn back. We can be frustrated with ourselves and where we are going...or not going. But we need to know that our lives are ever before God. He is building us. Patiently remembering us.”