Branded by Firelight, page 14
But, while her wound was fresh, his was a deep, ugly scar that had never quite healed. The right time to tell him would have been the night she’d spilled about her affair with Tabitha’s father, a married man—and even then, she hadn’t been completely honest about how things had fallen apart.
She also could have said something the first night she’d slept with him and he’d told her about his parents. A third opportunity had come on the drive home from Bigfork.
But now...
Now she was terrified of how he’d react, because after having met his mother and spoken with her, Claire didn’t believe he’d react well. She couldn’t blame him. She’d been so absorbed with her own issues that she hadn’t paid enough attention to his. Patterson, who knew his friend best, had tried to warn her.
She scrunched her eyes tight, pressing her cold fingertips to the lids. She pictured Ben’s face, and the laughing eyes that were such a pale contrast to the darker tone of his skin. She saw the way his brown hair began to curl at the tips as it grew out of the short cut. She remembered the touch of his lips, and the gentle scrape of his work-roughened fingers as they explored every inch of her body, as if they’d happened seconds ago and not hours. She couldn’t get enough of him.
The sex was good. Fantastic even, as he liked to claim. And while it was important, it certainly wasn’t all she looked for in a man.
But Ben had been honest from the very beginning about what it was that he looked for from her. He’d wasted no effort on trying to charm her or flirt with her, the way he did most other women. They were friends first, which had been perfectly fine with her. She’d cut herself off from too many people when she and Dennis began dating. Then, when things fell apart, she’d been too ashamed to admit to anyone how completely stupid she’d been. Ben was the first person in more than two years that she’d allowed close.
The truth was, she’d fallen hard for him that day on the mountain, when he’d held her as she cried and didn’t ask any questions. He’d known what she needed. He made her feel so light inside, when she’d truly believed she’d lost her ability to smile, that she’d been too willing to take him at face value. If she’d told him how she’d given her child away before he’d told her about his mother, she might have stood a chance.
She still had to tell him. She owed him the same honesty he’d given her.
But she was afraid she’d left it too late.
Claire found him alone in the Bar-No’s private gym, pounding the sand out of a heavy boxing bag as if after a world title. He’d stripped down to a pair of tight-fitting boxers and worked up quite a sweat.
The gym was a small, one-room facility close to the main lodge and the cookhouse. It had separate showers for men and women, and a single sauna. Mirrors lined the far wall in front of the weight-training equipment. The front wall consisted of windows that faced the mountains. As well as the boxing bag and weights, the gym boasted two treadmills, two ellipticals, and two exercise bikes. The room smelled the way one would expect—humid and sweaty. Warning signs were posted in several locations, reminding guests that the weight bench should only be used when there were at least two people present. The floor was covered in rubber mats.
Ben hadn’t yet seen her, so she thrust her hands in her jacket pockets and leaned against the wall next to the entrance to watch him. A long, lean, muscular torso tapered to narrow hips and strong legs. The tight black shorts molded his rounded buttocks and granite-hard thighs. His skin glistened over upper body muscles bunching and stretching in tandem with the grunts punctuating each tireless blow to the bag as his wrapped fists tapped out a steady beat. The soft soles of his shoes whispered as he danced on the mat. Damp brown hair showed that hint of a curl. The trace of Native American must have come from his dad’s side. She’d seen none of it in his mother.
His chin came up as he paused to assess the bag he was in the midst of abusing, and he must have caught sight of her from the corner of one eye, or out of a mirror, because he turned his head in her direction. He dropped his fists and took a step back, breaking out of his fighting stance as he straightened. Two blue, super-charged rays of pure energy zeroed in on her face. Fire licked between them and her brain synapses misfired.
She said the first thing that popped into her head. “Patterson told me you’re an asshole.”
Ben’s gaze didn’t waver from hers as he began to unwrap the tape wound around his knuckles. “He knows me better than anyone.”
If a woman took him at his word, all she’d hear was good nature. But Claire was paying better attention to undercurrents than she had. Whatever was wrong did, indeed, have something to do with her. She had no idea what it might be, but that was her fault, not his. She’d made no effort to find out what went on inside him because she’d been too busy letting him make her feel good. A bobble worked in her throat. If he was ready to move on, if he’d gotten tired of her, then she knew the routine.
The packet of photos from his mother that was her excuse for tracking him down burned a hole in her pocket. She withdrew it, feeling like a seventh grader approaching a friend’s crush on that friend’s behalf. If you like me, send me a note back.
Then, with her head held high and her face a blank slate so he wouldn’t be able to tell how badly her feelings were hurt by his indifference, she skirted around a treadmill and a weight machine in order to deliver it to him.
He looked at the packet she pressed into his partly bound hand as if he’d never seen one before. A ribbon of tape trailed from his palm toward the floor. “What’s this?”
“Your mother asked me to give it to you.”
And she’d done it. There was no reason to stick around where she wasn’t wanted. She pivoted, careful to appear in no hurry. She wasn’t running from him.
Never from him.
He tossed the envelope to the mat, where it spun into a corner, and caught her by the elbow. “Hang on. I don’t want you talking to my mother again.”
She let the command slide. That was his inner nine-year-old boy lashing out. “She cornered me in front of the library. What was I supposed to do? Yell ‘stranger danger’?”
His mouth perked up at that. “I’d have paid money to see it.”
Her stupid, stupid heart fluttered at the fun in his smile. She’d never met anyone like him. He was good-natured even when he was being a jerk. She definitely got why so many women fell for him, although it was galling how she’d joined their ranks. But there was more to him than the good-natured veneer. She’d fallen for the shine, true enough.
She’d fallen in love with the kind, sensitive soul beneath it.
And then he made her heart flutter a little bit more, but for a far different reason.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said, in the same break-it-to-her gently tone he’d used to tell her a friend needed his help, and asked her to drive to Bigfork with him.
She played it cool, in case she was about to get the, it’s not you, it’s me speech. “For what?”
He maintained a solid grip on her elbow. She felt the pressure of his fingers through the thick, puffy sleeve of her down-filled jacket. “For not coming by last night. I wanted to. But I had a few things I needed to work through.”
Considering his aggressive attack on the heavy bag when she came in, it seemed he was still working on them, and wondering what those things were, was driving her crazy. She’d already told him about Dennis. There was no way he could know about Tabitha too. Only a very few people did, and not one of them would have breathed a word. Coworkers in Redmond hadn’t cared about her personal life or her pregnancy beyond asking after her health. Most of her interactions with them happened online. She’d told anyone bold enough to ask that she was a surrogate mother—which was true in a way.
He’d been fine when she got in the shower. What had gone wrong in the space of those twenty minutes?
“There’s no need to be sorry,” she said. “You’re getting up there, old man. I don’t expect you to have the same stamina you did in your youth. At least you’re still a good time.”
His eyes glittered. “My stamina’s just fine.” But he didn’t offer to prove it to her. He slid his hand down her sleeve to her palm and laced his fingers through hers. The ridge of tape scratched her skin and the hot, heady, man-smell of him had her losing track of what she was worrying about. “What did you think of Grace?”
The question was as loaded as his mood was uncertain. Claire saw no right way to answer, so she took a neutral path down the middle. “She seems very determined.”
“She’s certainly that.” Ben scrubbed at his hair with his fully-taped hand. He glanced at the packet he’d thrown on the floor. The rectangular, stark patch of white glared up from the blue rubber mat. “How much are you willing to bet those are pictures of her two other sons?”
“I’d say chances are good.” Claire clung to his hand, wishing she had more to offer the inner nine-year-old boy who wasn’t ready to forgive, or to hear his mother out, but she was in no position. “You don’t have to look at them, you know. You can throw them away. You can also save them for some other time when you don’t feel quite so angry with her. Or, you can look at them and then decide what you want to do next. Whether you look at them or not, you’re the only one who has to know which one you do.”
He was staring at her, a thoughtful frown in his eyes. “That’s true. Grace doesn’t have to find out that she finally got to me. I don’t have to tell anyone else about the photos if I don’t want to either.” He squeezed her fingers. “Unless I decide to open up to a friend. You know. For moral support. So I don’t have to sit in my truck drinking beer by myself.”
The small dig had her heart slamming her ribs with enough force to bruise. She sucked in a dizzying breath of funky gym equipment and hot, restless, pheromone-laden male. He knew. Somehow, he’d found out.
But that was impossible.
She pulled herself together. The floor quit revolving under her feet. Not everything was about her. Ben had his own issues to deal with.
“What you do is entirely your choice,” she said.
“Want to look at them with me?”
“Why not? You can bring them to my cabin when you’ve finished here.” She was amazed by how calm she sounded. Her past two years of pretending that everything was fine were really paying off. She only wished she could figure out what was going on in his head.
“I’m done.” He let go of her numb, nerveless hand and began to unwind the remaining tape on his knuckles. “Give me twenty minutes to shower.”
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty-eight minutes later, Ben’s boots bit into gravel as he approached the small log cabin via the spiderweb of narrow paths connecting the buildings on the Bar-No together. The night air was cold enough to freeze the ends of his hair, which was still damp from his shower. Claire had drawn the curtains closed, but faint warm gold seeped through them. She’d left the light over the doorstep on for him and it puddled over the plain wooden planks.
He didn’t give a damn about the photos crammed into his jacket pocket next to the can of bear spray. He was far more interested in the ones he’d found on Claire’s phone. He had to find a way to bring those up that wouldn’t put her on the defensive. He had to quit being a jerk.
But right or wrong, his need to know was trumping her right to privacy. Had she given her daughter away because she’d hated the father that much? Had she not wanted the constant reminder of him? If so, then why hadn’t she deleted the photos from her phone?
If Claire had made a mistake, and she kept the photos because she wanted her daughter back, then he’d do whatever he could to help her set things to right. He’d hate for her to become the same desperate woman Grace was—or for her daughter to turn out like him, unable to forget how she’d been cast aside as an unwanted reminder of mistakes her mother had made.
There was so much about Claire that he didn’t get. Things had started out so well between them, but he saw now that it had all been pretty damned superficial. She held too much back. A daughter was a pretty big chunk of her life.
He wanted to know the real Claire. What made her tick. He wanted to know why.
Maybe it would help him understand his own mother better.
She opened the door the instant he knocked, meaning she must have been watching for him. She wore denim leggings that fit her like gloves, suede moccasin boots, and a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that brought out the honey in her hair and the sky blue of her eyes.
A fist clenched his heart. It had only been a little more than twenty-four hours since he was last here, and yet he’d missed her so much it felt as if days had gone by. An hour spent pounding a heavy bag had done nothing to release his frustration.
He wanted her to tell him herself about those photos he’d found. If she didn’t trust him enough to share something so personal, then he didn’t see how they could progress beyond the point they were now at. He didn’t want to be friends-with-benefits with her. He’d only agreed to the “for-right-now” addendum because he’d wanted more. He still did. And that required a level of honesty and trust on both of their parts.
He’d gladly begin.
She stepped back to let him in. The cabin had already begun to soak up her unique feel. It glowed with her warmth. It felt like a home. She’d managed to light a fire in the fireplace. She’d run the washing machine. The scent of her laundry detergent filled the air, along with a sauna-like quality from the delicate articles she’d hung to dry on a rack near the fire.
Everything about her was always so neat and tidy. It frustrated the shit out of him. If not for that day on the mountain when she’d fallen apart, he’d stop wasting his time. But something inside her was damaged, if not outright broken, despite the effort she expended to hide it. And he couldn’t leave it alone.
I don’t need to be rescued. She’d waved that at him like a red flag at a bull. Because yeah. She did. She just didn’t know it. And he couldn’t resist trying.
He stooped slightly to give her a kiss. And then, because he couldn’t resist, especially when it came to Claire, he cupped her ass in his hands and went back for seconds. He swiped his tongue along her lips, then teased it between them for a little taste, and she let him. She could be so sweet when she wanted.
She also knew how to stand firm. When he came up for air, he didn’t get a chance to go back for thirds. She put a hand on his chest and pushed a chasm of space in between them. He’d hurt her feelings by standing her up and she wasn’t quite ready to forgive—although she’d never come right out and say so.
“Let’s have a look at what’s in the envelope,” she said, turning away.
He retrieved the packet, and after hanging his jacket up, parked himself on the rickety old sofa. Georgia had ordered new furniture for the cabin as soon as she’d learned Claire would be moving in for the winter. It had to be replaced anyway, especially since the cabin would be used by paying guests when next summer arrived.
But summer was months away yet. Fall wasn’t more than half over. He didn’t want to think about Claire leaving.
She sat beside him, close but not touching, and he tore open the packet.
There was a note written on a sheet of loose-leaf wrapped around the photos. He balled it up and threw it in the fire without reading it. Claire made no comment and he appreciated that.
He relaxed after he saw the first photo. It showed two teenage boys with their arms around each other’s shoulders, wide grins on their faces. They looked happy, content, and best of all, nothing like him. Another lie, Grace.
He flipped through about twenty photos in total. She had written the names and the dates on the backs. Most were of the younger boy—the one Grace claimed wanted to take up rodeo riding—on a sorry excuse for a horse. Whether the boy or the horse had any talent was no matter to him. Grace’s agenda was clearly to get Ben to take him under his wing and that wasn’t going to happen. He felt kind of bad for the oldest boy, though. Did he get any attention from his mother at all?
Claire watched him with eagle-eyed attention as he went through the photos again. Her thigh butted up against his. How or when that happened, he had no idea. He liked it though. He liked it a lot. She was always so Zen.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About these?” He tucked the photos back in the envelope and set them aside. “Nothing one way or the other. I don’t feel any connection. We’re strangers and they can thank their mother for that. She did nothing to try and include me in their lives, at least until she thought I might be useful. But if they ever want to find me on their own,” he conceded, “I won’t turn them away.” They weren’t to blame for their mother abandoning him.
He had to keep reminding himself of that.
The room was silent aside from the occasional snap, crackle, and pop of the fire. The rise and fall of her Claire’s chest as she breathed transmitted through her shoulder to his. When had she gotten so close to him? Which one of them had moved?
“Have you lost any ability you might have had to forgive her?” she finally asked.
Had he? The possibility was there. But for him it wasn’t about forgiveness, despite what the pop psychologists claimed.
“Forgiveness isn’t for everyone,” he said. “I don’t need that kind of closure. I’m all about moving on. I would like to understand though. That’s what’s been eating at me for years. I don’t know why she walked away, or why she didn’t take me with her.” He took a gamble and broached the real topic he’d hoped to discuss with her. “Do you think I reminded her too much of my father? Did she want to be completely done with him, and she was afraid that if she took me with her she might have to see him again?”
That last was a real stretch. His dad had paid almost no attention to him, either before or after Grace left. There would have been no long, drawn-out custody battle or visitation rights to arrange. His best guess was that he’d been an expense Grace couldn’t afford. All he’d tried to accomplish by raising the questions was to give Claire an opening.
