Chapter 45

The kite was a brilliant arc of red and yellow against the deep blue of the sky as it strained at the lines, pushed by wind that raised a steady chop on the wide expanse of the Columbia River. At Wyatt’s command, Melanie brought the kite up to twelve o’clock, almost directly overhead.

“Ready?” he asked, steadying the board in the chest-deep water as she maneuvered her body into a balanced position.

She muttered under her breath in response. “Don’t pull the kite; let the kite pull you. Don’t pull the kite…”

“You’ve got this.” He let go and stepped out of the way. “Remember, weight on the heel of the board.”

She gave the bar a slight tilt, and the kite swooped down to nine o’clock. As it began to drag her through the water, she bent her back knee and straightened the front, keeping her arms straight this time and letting the kite lift her up onto the board.

“That’s it!” Wyatt yelled. “Now bring the kite back up…”

She raised the bar and the kite shot into the sky, lifting her almost off the water before a wave caught the front edge of the board and smacked her facedown into the river.

She came up sputtering and swearing, but she did manage to keep the kite from nose-diving, too.

Wyatt swung onto the paddleboard he’d brought along and sat astride to row over and retrieve the board. “Time for a break,” he called out. “Body drag back to the beach.”

She did as instructed, steering the kite to a three-o’clock position so it hauled her to the sandbar where they’d started. This far up the river and on a weekday, there were only two other windsurfers in sight, both mere slashes of color near the far bank. Melanie found her feet and staggered onto the coarse sand, plopping on her butt and scraping tendrils of hair out of her eyes while she steadied the kite with the other hand.

“Flying this damn thing was a lot easier when we were standing in middle of a hayfield,” she said, panting from exertion.

“You’re doing great. Most people don’t even try a water start until the second or third day.” Wyatt beached the paddleboard and walked over to take the bar from her and unhook the line from her harness. “You were up for a few seconds that time, until you oversteered and did the nose dive.”

“Nice change from falling on my back.” She unclipped her helmet and pulled it off, letting it drop as she braced her elbows on bent knees. “I’m done. My arms and legs are like noodles.”

Maybe so, but they still looked exceptionally good in that wet suit, along with the rest of her.

The past week had been a miracle, filled with more joy than Wyatt had thought possible. He’d never imagined any woman could slip so seamlessly into every part of his life—from the training arena to bike rides through the fields and canyons to evenings at the athletic club, where Melanie threw herself into the pickup basketball games with savage glee, while Wyatt and his abused ankle stayed safely on the sidelines. They had long lunches at the Bull Dancer with Gordon and Louie, brainstorming promotions for the bar. Over late suppers, Helen regaled them with stories about Joe’s early days on the Browning ranch—providing Wyatt with hours’ worth of ammunition to torture him, because what were friends for?

More and more often, ranchers or old rodeo hands would wander over to join their bullshit sessions, or drag Wyatt out back to give him a few tips on roping the dummy steer. As expected, Wyatt’s debut at the saddle club had been the source of much hilarity—but he’d grudgingly found himself laughing along. And once he’d even caught something other than his own head.

Melanie’s introduction to kiteboarding had been considerably more promising, despite the wipeouts. With her athletic ability and strength, she could be skimming over the waves like a pro given another lesson or two—if they had time to get back out to the river again.

They hadn’t talked about the exact date of her departure, but she had provided him a detailed marketing plan, and every part of it that required her presence would be complete by the end of June. Eight more days. And nights. Sweet Jesus, the nights, and waking up with Melanie’s hair spilling across his chest as she rolled over at the sound of her phone alarm blasting out Jason Aldean’s “Crazy Town,” then burrowed sleepily into his arms.

She hadn’t said she would leave as soon as her work was done, but she hadn’t mentioned staying either—and Wyatt hadn’t asked. By unspoken agreement, they avoided all mention of Hank, or Laura, or Melanie’s plans for the future. Other than at his arena or the practice sessions at the saddle club, Grace kept a cautious distance, even though Wyatt knew she suffered from a distinct lack of female friends. He also knew her deliberate standoffishness bothered Melanie, but it was one more of those things they didn’t discuss.

Melanie hadn’t even asked why they spent so little time at his condo…mostly quick stops to pick up the bikes or a change of clothes for Wyatt. Knowing him as she did, he assumed she understood it was easier to keep reality at bay in the madam’s room, a place he’d designed to be a step outside of time.

She couldn’t suspect he feared that she would somehow sense Maddie’s presence, even though he’d taken care to hide any trace.

He grabbed his own board from the beach, attached the lines to his harness and adjusted them for his size and level of expertise. “I’m going for a spin while you catch your breath.”

She flicked a hand in a shooing motion, as if she was too tired to speak. Wading out until he was thigh deep, Wyatt tossed his board flat in front of him, sent the kite straight up so he was plucked out of the water, then with a slight twist of the bar, dipped down to drop onto the board and skip away across the waves.

“Show-off!” Melanie yelled after him.

And because he was, and he couldn’t help trying to impress her, he sent the kite high again and took flight.

* * *

She could have watched him all day. Soaring, spinning, swooping on the wind as light and easy as the gulls that seemed to dance with him. What would it be like, to fly like the birds?

If she stayed long enough, he would teach her. He might not want to keep her forever, but he was in no rush to see her gone, and she had no urgent business elsewhere. She’d only found one job opening that piqued her interest, and it was in the Tri-Cities…far too close to Pendleton for comfort or her limited supply of self-control. She couldn’t live thirty miles away and not come over to see Helen and Louie, and she couldn’t stand to be that close to Wyatt and not be able to touch him.

Worse, they could slip into one of those sporadic non-relationships that left her in constant limbo, waiting for his next call.

No. She had to make a clean break and put a few states between them. Someplace close enough to the Panhandle to spend a weekend at Violet’s when the mood struck, but far enough away to minimize the chances of bumping into Wyatt when he was visiting. Like shared custody, only of their friends.

But until she found that place and that job…

She watched Wyatt glide toward the beach and carve a deep, showy turn at the water’s edge before bringing the board to a stop and landing the kite in the shallows. Easy peasy.

Not.

“Had enough?” she asked.

“Never.”

He radiated pure physical joy as he waded toward her, shaking water from his hair and tucking the board under his arm. Another of a thousand heart-stopping moments she had accumulated over the past week, absorbing every scent and sensation to stash like the letters, photos, ribbons, and trinkets her grandmother had collected in a polished cedar box—the first thing her granddad had grabbed when the fire raced toward the ranch.

She took the kite bar from Wyatt so he could unzip his wet suit and peel it down to his waist, sending her pulse skipping at the sight of all that sleek, sculpted muscle glistening wet under the sun.

He took the kite bar with one hand and used the other to pull her to her feet and into a lingering kiss that tasted of cool river and the exhilaration of the ride. She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and felt his immediate reaction. His eyes were that hot Caribbean blue when he pulled back to flash her a wicked smile. “I have to be at the Bull Dancer at two o’clock to interview the new bartender, which gives us just enough time to stop by my place, drop off the gear…and grab a shower.”

Another of those pit stops where she barely had a chance to admire the view. But then, she had no real desire to wander around, trailing her fingers over the spines of books and admiring the abstracts on the living room walls. Since he’d come back from Reno, she’d consciously retreated to a tolerable level of intimacy—not too close, not too far—and being in his home, invading his most personal space, threatened to upset that delicate balance.

While he packed up the kite, she gathered the rest of the gear, stowed it in wet sacks, and hauled it to the car. She pulled an oversized T-shirt and shorts on over her damp one-piece swimsuit before digging her phone out of her purse to check for messages.

There were three texts, all from Shawnee.

The first was a link to the online edition of the Amarillo newspaper. The second said, Call me. The third said, CALL ME NOW.

Melanie clicked on the link first, and sucked in a breath when she saw the headline. “Amarillo Businessman Nabbed in Prostitution Sting.” The picture was of Leachman.

She called Shawnee.

“It’s about damn time!” Shawnee said by way of greeting.

“We’ve been out on the river all morning. Oh my God! I can’t believe they actually caught him, instead of some trucker from Cleveland.”

“Puh-leeze.” Shawnee’s tone was a verbal eye roll. “You think that was a coincidence?”

“What? But how…”

“You mentioned that he liked to stop by one of the truck stops to get serviced, and you’d told Violet that he and Jimmy Ray Towler had regular golf dates. Every time Delon hauls a load of cattle to Sagebrush Feeders, Jimmy Ray insists on buying lunch at his favorite café out on the interstate. He and Leachman being creatures of questionable habit, it wasn’t real hard to add up.” Her voice went pouty. “I wanted to do a stakeout in one of the Sanchez trucks with a big ol’ telephoto lens, but we’ve got a rodeo every week until the end of September, and Cole refused to hire someone to fill in for me. You know how he is about new people. I swear, I’m gonna be stuck picking up broncs until Beni gets old enough to take over.”

And she loved every minute of it.

“How did you get the cops to show up right on schedule?” Melanie asked, still having trouble believing her friends had pulled this off.

“Gil put a bug in a few ears, and all of the sudden, the police were flooded with complaints from drivers about these women banging on their doors when they were trying to get some sleep—which actually is a major pain in the ass for most of them. And if you’re the chief of police in Amarillo and you’re already planning a crackdown, why not earn some brownie points when a certain former U.S. senator suggests that you send a couple of officers out there on Wednesday around five o’clock?”

Melanie slumped against the side of the car, her already rubbery knees threatening to give out. “Unbelievable. Leachman has been slithering out of trouble for so long that I didn’t think his hide would ever get nailed to the wall.”

“He never messed with one of ours before. And as a token of our appreciation, we all went together and posted bail for the women they rounded up…after Tori sent a counselor from a safe house to give them the option to go somewhere other than back on the street.”

Good Lord. They’d thought of everything. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

“Tori called it plausible deniability. She said it was better if you could honestly say you had nothing to do with it when you come back to Westwind.”

“Wait. What? Come back…”

“They haven’t filled your position yet, and the board has already placed Leachman on administrative leave pending the outcome of this unfortunate turn of events.” Shawnee coated the words in a thick layer of false sympathy. “Someone has to take charge, especially with the senator putting together a deal to fund an employee buyout of the company.”

“Hold on.” Melanie slid down to sit in the dirt, her back against the wheel of the Camaro. “You lost me.”

“It’s pretty simple. In the process of spying on the place, Violet realized it really is a great investment. She sent her spreadsheets to Tori’s daddy, and he agreed. He’s presenting their proposal at the next board meeting—including a recommendation that they bring you back to handle the transition. It’ll go a lot smoother if it’s someone the employees trust, instead of an outsider.”

Melanie gave an incredulous laugh. “I…don’t know what to say.”

“I assumed you’d be jumping for joy.” Shawnee sounded annoyed. “Don’t tell me we did all this for nothing.”

“No.” Melanie shook her head, but that only rattled the pieces. “I mean, seeing Leachman get his is more than enough. And I would love to march back in that place and do a victory dance on his desk. I just…well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve sort of decided big business isn’t the direction I want to go.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Melanie scowled at a nearby patch of goatshead weed, its evil thorns still green and clinging to the vines. “Hey, you’re the one who dumped a pair of rope horses on me, so whose fault is it if I’ve lost my taste for eighty-hour workweeks?”

Shawnee’s triumphant whoop nearly split Melanie’s eardrum. “Welcome back from the dark side! When’s your first rodeo?”

“This weekend,” she admitted reluctantly. “There’s a jackpot right down the road in Arlington.”

“Damn. I wish I could see that. Make sure someone takes video, I miss my Roy. And by the way…I will be collecting the standard twenty-five percent for mount money.”

Melanie snorted. “I’ll have to win something first.”

“Right. You, riding Roy? Oregon isn’t gonna know what hit them.”

When Melanie hung up, she let her head fall back against the tire, still trying to take it all in. She thumbed the screen of her phone to bring up the headline and the photo of Leachman being led away in handcuffs, taken by a reporter who’d been conveniently on hand, no doubt thanks to a well-timed anonymous tip.

Lord. She was glad these people were on her side.

“Nice,” Wyatt said from above her, making her jump as always, the sneaky bastard.

She twisted her head around to find him leaning on the hood, reading over her shoulder. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Uh-huh. Like you had nothing to do with this. I don’t recall mentioning the prostitutes to anyone else.”

“I may have said something to Gil, but that was all.” His proclamation of innocence would have been a lot more convincing if his smile hadn’t been quite so triumphant. “I was told to butt out, so I left them to it.”

She amped up the suspicion in her glare. “I suppose you also know nothing about the senator, and the employee buyout, and asking me to come back to Westwind.”

“Really?” Honest surprise flashed across his face, followed by something more complicated. “That’s great. You win on all fronts.” He pushed himself upright and dragged a silky, loose-fitting nylon T-shirt over his head, muffling his words—and concealing his face as he asked, “How soon do they want you?”

And there it was. The question they’d been so carefully avoiding. How much longer…

“It’s only a proposal at this point, so I don’t know…a month, minimum? And that’s assuming a lot.” Like whether she was even interested, which Wyatt seemed to take as a given. Why wouldn’t he?

But as he tugged the shirt down to his waist, she saw that slight loosening of his shoulders, the subtle release of tension. When he smiled, the warmth once again bloomed in his eyes. “We should celebrate…and I know just the place.”

* * *

Wyatt’s shower was a miracle of engineering and polished travertine tile, with six adjustable body jets, a rainfall feature set into the ceiling, a multifunction hand-held head…and gold-finished grab bars on the walls.

“Luxurious, and yet handicapped accessible,” Melanie commented as she stripped off her swimsuit.

Already naked, Wyatt stepped up behind her to nuzzle kisses into the curve of her neck while he removed the hair tie from her still-damp braid and began carefully working the strands free with his fingers. “Ever try to get in and out of the shower on crutches?”

As a matter of fact, she had. “I see your point.”

She pulled the remainder of the braid away from him, the better to free up his hands for other things. He obliged by running them over her, leaving ripples of pleasure in his wake as he revisited all of her most sensitive places…several of which she’d only recently discovered herself. She’d been on a slow simmer since before they left the river, and she moaned as his touch instantly brought her desire to a boil.

“Hold that thought,” he said, and stepped around her to adjust the angle and temperature of the jets.

She squeaked in surprise when he turned and scooped her up, his hands gripping her thighs. She grabbed his shoulders as he swung around to press her back against the cool tile, letting her slide down until her butt rested on one of the handrails.

“They also have other uses,” he said, and lifted her legs to wrap around his hips, everything hot and wet and hard as the water pulsed over them and he drove into her, pushing them both into an ascent as high and wild as a kite in a storm.

* * *

Melanie emerged squeaky clean and more than a little wobbly on her feet. Between the sex and kiteboarding, she might not have normal function in her lower limbs for days.

Clippers buzzed to life in the bathroom, Wyatt trimming the stubble he’d apparently decided to keep. She touched one of the tender spots it had left on her thigh the night before, and shuddered. He wouldn’t get any argument from her. And in a weird way, it made her feel as if she’d put her stamp on him, a visible change she had wrought.

She unzipped the pack she’d brought along and dug out jeans, underwear and bra, and a tank top. But dammit, no socks, and she’d grabbed her boots instead of running shoes. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of pulling them on over bare, waterlogged feet. Wyatt wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a pair. She pulled open the nearest drawer and found a rainbow of neatly folded polo shirts. The next drawer was T-shirts and those stretchy nylon jobs he wore under his pads. Her mouth went dry remembering him in transparent, skintight white. She found underwear next—boxers and briefs—and finally his sock drawer.

Wow. She’d never realized they came in that many varieties. The man owned a pair for every possible occasion, from black dress socks to that special shorty kind for biking. Fascinated, she picked through the drawer, trying to match the type to the occasion. Basic white crew socks for jeans and boots days—she tucked a pair of those under her arm—knee-high soccer-style in several colors and patterns for when he was in the arena, and near the bottom—

Her fingers encountered the corner of something hard and square. She frowned as she pulled out a picture that had been buried, as if he’d hidden it. She couldn’t imagine why. It was just an eight-by-ten of Wyatt and Laura standing on a stone bridge with a waterfall behind them. A stunning black woman leaned close on his other side, and he held a baby—around six months old, Melanie guessed, although babies all sort of looked alike to her from the time they could sit upright until they got old enough to have a conversation. Judging by her frilly dress, shiny patent leather shoes, and the colorful basket Laura held, this was why Wyatt had declined Miz Iris’s dinner invitation at Easter.

The woman must be Laura’s wife. Melanie leaned in closer, studying both her and the little girl. Adopted, she assumed, or a foster child. Wyatt had said Laura didn’t dare try to have a baby, and with her feathery brown hair and fair skin, odds were this one wasn’t the other woman’s natural child. But there was something familiar about that grin and sparkle of mischief in her eyes—

She might never have made the connection if Wyatt hadn’t stepped out of the bathroom, seen her with the photo in her hands, and cursed.

Suddenly it clicked, each piece dropping like frozen lead into the pit of her stomach. She saw with horrible clarity what she hadn’t been able to bring into focus. The connections that were now so obvious. Laura. Grace. This baby.

Hank.

The confirmation was written on Wyatt’s face in stark, devastating lines. He didn’t try to speak, just stood there in nothing but a towel, braced like a man facing his executioner.

She lifted the photo. “You…did this?”

He gave a single, barely visible nod.

It all made horrible sense. Grace trying desperately to talk to Hank on that awful New Year’s Eve. Wyatt’s obsession with keeping track of him. The way Laura had looked at Melanie as if she somehow knew her. That part of Wyatt’s relationship with Grace she’d never been able to grasp. In true Wyatt fashion, he’d rescued Grace and given Laura her heart’s desire in one fell swoop. A daughter.

Hank’s daughter. Melanie’s niece.

Wyatt’s secret.

She moved slowly, deliberately, setting the photo on the bed as if it were a ticking bomb that might explode her hands. She held Wyatt’s gaze, her body winding up to flee if he made any move to touch her as she edged around the end of the bed.

His face was so rigid that his lips barely moved when he spoke. “Don’t blame Grace,” he said. “She did what she thought was best.”

Not I’m sorry, or Please let me explain. That would have meant Melanie mattered at least as much as the people in that photo. Or even Grace. She could only stare at him. That was it? No explanation, no excuses, not even an attempt to apologize?

But then, it would have just been one more lie, so why bother?

She scooped up her boots and her damp clothes and headed for the door on legs that threatened to give out. Hell. She didn’t even have her car.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asked in that same flat voice.

She didn’t slow down, look back…or answer.

* * *

If he hadn’t been paralyzed, he might have been stupid enough to try to stop her. Instead Wyatt stood frozen, the edges of his vision going white, all of the color in his world fading and shrinking until there was nothing left but the picture that stared up at him from the bed.

He had played this moment in his head every day, in a thousand different ways. This was more terrible than the worst he’d ever imagined.

He had to move. To do…things. His mind creaked, the gears seized up by a shock so deep the pain couldn’t filter through—yet. But some tiny part of his brain was still functioning, if only at a whisper. Not just about you. Have to tell the others. The voice nudged at him, becoming more insistent. Grace. He had to warn her.

The realization jolted him into action. He fumbled his phone out of the pocket of the jeans he’d kicked aside on the way to the shower and punched up the number. Answer. Answer. Answer, dammit…

“Hel—”

“Melanie knows.”

The silence was an echo of his own shock.

“How?” Grace asked breathlessly.

“Me. I screwed up.” In so, so many ways. The brain that had been stalled began to spin, faster and faster. He couldn’t let Melanie find Grace, for both their sakes. Words that were said in the heat of this moment could never be taken back. “Get out of your house, and go someplace where she can’t find you. If she calls, don’t answer the phone.”

“Okay.” Grace’s breath shuddered in his ear. “What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t know. She took off out of here, and I…don’t know…” The anguish closed his throat.

“Can’t you stop her?”

No more than he could stop an avalanche he’d triggered by stepping onto what he’d always known was a treacherous slope. His gut clenched, the pain so intense he wondered vaguely if his ulcer had finally burst. He staggered over to the bed and sat, his towel falling unnoticed to the floor, beside a pair of socks Melanie must have dropped.

“I’ll do what I can.” But they both knew that once Melanie was on a tear, that wasn’t very damn much. “I am so sorry, Grace.”

There was a long beat of strained silence. Then she whispered, “Me, too.”