“Barbed wire,” she told him. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that. Tetanus shot?” he asked, also avoiding the obvious topic.
She nodded. “I’m a nurse.”
“That’s right.” Seth had heard she was a nurse. He’d heard she’d moved to Cheyenne, gotten pregnant by some doctor there. He vaguely remembered the whispers at church. He caught himself checking for a ring on her finger and wasn’t sure how he felt about not finding one.
She seemed embarrassed, tugging her hand away and avoiding his gaze.
He let go.
Reluctantly.
Rowan shivered in the gust of wind, and Seth slipped off his fleece-lined denim jacket. He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it. Instead, her eyes slipped past him, toward the bar.
“I left my coat inside.”
“Put this on while I get it.”
She hesitated.
“Rowan,” he said firmly, a trick he learned from Walker.
If you acted like the boss, you were the boss.
She finally took it from him and shrugged it on, giving him a wan smile as she tugged it closed in front of herself. She looked smaller now, outside here in the biting cold. As Seth watched, her lower lip quivered, and he knew it wasn’t from the chill. Instinctively, he reached behind himself and drew out his handkerchief.
As soon as she saw it, she started shaking her head, pushing his hand away. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re fine again,” Seth ordered.
Startled, Rowan looked up at him.
“You’re not fine, Rowan. And I’m damn sorry my hot-headed brother roughed you up in there, but you’re not fine. So stop saying that you are.”
For a moment, Seth thought she was not only going to stop saying fine but she was going to stop saying anything at all. But then her lips parted and words tumbled out so fast that he barely had enough time to piece them together. He caught father, heart attack, hospital, surgery. When she finally took a break and came up for air, he said, “Well, that’s…well, that’s a whole lot to deal with, sweetheart.”
“Oh God!” she gasped, having finally caught her breath. “Here I am whining when your dad died. Oh, Seth, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I made this all about me! God! I didn’t even think!”
Seth shook his head. “I don’t have a monopoly on suffering, Rowan. And it’s not a contest, either.” He touched the lapel of the jacket, because it seemed more appropriate than touching her. “How is he? How’s your dad doing?”
She sighed. “He’s stable. He should be out of the hospital next week.”
He frowned at her. “You’re not staying all the way out there alone, are you?”
“No!” she said quickly. “No. I mean, my sister, Emma, and her husband. They’re…they’re…helping. I mean, we’re all doing what we have to.”
She was a bundle of nerves, and Seth assumed she was bone-tired. It was a long drive from Cheyenne, even under the best circumstances. And coming home to a family crisis, well, that was never easy for anyone.
“Rowan!” someone called.
Seth turned to see Rowan’s older sister running toward them. She was eyeing Seth warily as she darted around him.
“Oh my God!” Emma cried. “Are you okay? Oh my God! I came back from the bathroom and you were gone. Someone said something about Court. Oh my God!”
“It’s fine!” Rowan snapped, cutting Emma off abruptly.
Seth scowled. There was that word again.
“It’s all fine. He wanted to talk. I said no. It’s fine.”
Emma turned on Seth immediately. “You tell your brother to stay away from my sister!” she demanded, jabbing her finger at Seth.
Rowan was less prickly about it but no less insistent. “Please,” she practically begged Seth. “Please, just keep him away. It’s…it’s hard enough right now. I can’t…I just can’t.”
Seth was already nodding, remembering how badly Court had treated her when they’d been dating. Sawyer had told him just enough to leave a sour taste in Seth’s mouth. It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t want to deal with him now. Or ever again. “All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ll keep him reined in. I promise.”
Tears sprang to her eyes again. Damn. Seth hated to see a woman cry. Even though she’d rejected it, he pressed the handkerchief into her hand again. “I’ll take care of it, Rowan,” he vowed.
Emma was pushing Rowan toward the car, leaving Seth standing under the street light, watching them go. It wasn’t until they drove away that another gust of wind reminded him she’d taken his jacket with her.
Chapter Eight
‡
Rowan sat in the passenger seat of Emma’s car, just staring at the Stop’N’Save’s neon sign. “He wanted to talk,” she said numbly.
Emma shrugged. “Okay, so he heard about Dad and wanted to offer his condolences. It’s the least he could do. I mean, we sent a card when Mr. Barlow died.”
Rowan shook her head. “No. He wanted to talk, Emma. He didn’t know about Dad. Seth hadn’t heard about it from anyone. Court wanted to talk. Can you believe that? After all this time? He wants to talk. He has something to say.”
Emma sighed. “Well, you know, Rowan, if you’re going to live here, you’re going to have to face this. You can’t put it off forever.”
Rowan’s gut clenched at her sister’s words. “I’m not ready. It’s not time. I want to wait until Dad is better.”
Emma was silent.
“What?” Rowan demanded.
Still no response.
“You think I should’ve told him?”
Emma bit her lower lip.
“How?” Rowan demanded. “How would I have done that?!”
“I don’t know,” Emma replied.
Rowan stared at her. “But you think I should have.”
“I said, I don’t know, Rowan! Okay? I just…I mean, maybe you should just do it now, as soon as possible. Just get out in front of this thing. Call him up, tell him you have something to say. Arrange to meet him if you don’t want to do it over the phone. Or, hell, I don’t know, hire a lawyer to tell him.”
Rowan scoffed. “Oh, come on, Emma. I can’t afford a lawyer. I can’t tell him. Not right now. It’s just not time,” she insisted. “I’m not—”
“Ready. I got it. But Rowan, I don’t think you’re ever going to be ready.”
Rowan didn’t want to hear any of this, any more accusations about how this was her fault. She got out of the car, slammed the door, and stalked into the Shop’N’Save, where at least they wouldn’t have to discuss it for a few minutes. She slammed items into the shopping basket, paying for them with her credit card, the balance of which was steadily rising.
Child support might have helped, but it came with strings. Very large, very long strings that would have been difficult to sever should things go to shit, which they always seemed to do where Court Barlow was concerned. She’d have to tighten the purse strings again, but she’d done it before.
Back at the house, Rowan left Emma to put away the groceries, which was a shitty thing to do, but she was still so pissed off that Emma had taken Court’s side. Part of that was Rowan’s own fault. She hadn’t wanted to burden Emma with all the painful details of their breakup all those years ago. Emma didn’t know what she was saying. She should have told Court. Yeah, right. Like it was just that easy.
Rowan headed upstairs, carefully edged open the door of the spare bedroom, and watched her daughter’s chest rise and fall softly as she slept. It would be hardest on Willow. Rowan could never explain, never even begin to try. How did you explain to your child that you’d made a mistake but that she wasn’t a mistake? How did you tell her that her daddy wasn’t lost, he just didn’t care? At least not about anyone but himself. She looked down and imagined her arm burning where Court had held her, refused to let her go. How ironic that now it was him chasing her. If Rowan had her way, Court would be chasing her for the rest of their lives, never able to catch her.
She walked to the window to pull the curtains together tightly to keep out the air. It was pitch black and freezing outside and seemed to perfectly mimic how she felt these days. The sheep were tucked away safely in the barn for the night, unaware of the predators circling them in the dark. Also exactly how Rowan felt, like the truth was closing in on her, making it difficult to breathe.
She traced her finger along the windowpane, following the pattern of frost while huddling deeper into the jacket before she remembered it wasn’t her own. Dipping her hands into the side pockets, her fingers found a pair of leather gloves. She pulled them out and inspected them in the soft glow of the nightlight beside her. They were supple and worn and had scratches all over. They were work gloves, belonging to a man who maybe never rested, judging by the hole over one of the knuckles. He certainly didn’t stop long enough to get himself a new pair. At the hospital, Rowan’s gloves were made of latex, but she worked just as hard in them.
It somehow felt comforting to have met a kindred spirit.