Part 9 (1/2)
He watched as her gaze s.h.i.+fted toward the front door, as though to send him out that way, before she realized his truck, with the Bitter Creek brand painted on the door, was parked out back. Sam already knew he was there.
A moment later Ren's eldest son rolled himself into the kitchen in his wheelchair. Blackjack had to admit there was a startling change in the boy-the man-since the last time he'd seen him, two years ago. Sam must be all of thirty-two or thirty-three now. He'd been in a wheelchair since he was eighteen, when Blackjack's son Owen had tackled him at football practice and broken his neck.
He seemed bigger somehow, broader, stronger. Blackjack realized Sam was no longer using an electric chair. He'd wheeled himself into the room with his own powerful arms and shoulders. Blackjack could almost see Sam's neckhairs bristle when he noted how close his father's mortal enemy was standing to his mother.
”What is he doing here?” Sam said, glancing from his mother to Blackjack and back again.
”I'm here to see Ren,” he replied.
”If you've got ranch business, you can call me later. I'm busy right now,” Sam said.
It was a dismissal, pure and simple.
Blackjack felt his own neckhairs hackle.
Ren placed a tentative hand on his arm and looked into his eyes, begging for understanding.
He understood, all right. Sam Creed was his stubborn, bullheaded father all over again. Blackjack wasn't about to let some pup's growl spook him, when the big, bad barnyard dog had never scared him away.
”I'm not here for-”
”Sam has taken over the day-to-day business of the ranch,” Ren interrupted. ”So I have more time to work with the horses.”
Blackjack had employed Ren ever since Jesse's death to raise and train his quarter horses for cutting horse compet.i.tions. It had given him a reason to visit Three Oaks. He considered making up some business excuse for why he'd come, as Ren obviously hoped he would, to avoid the confrontation with Sam. But that was only postponing the inevitable.
The boy-he had to stop thinking of Ren's grown son that way; there was nothing boyish about him-might as well get used to the way things were going to be. He met Sam's distrustful gaze and said, ”I came to see Ren for personal reasons.”
”You have nothing to say to my mother that she wants to hear,” Sam retorted.
”That's your mother's call.”
Sam turned to his mother, apparently expecting her to agree that he should leave. ”Mom?”
”I want Jackson to stay, Sam,” she said in a quiet voice.
Blackjack breathed an inward sigh of relief but kept his satisfaction to himself. This showdown was between Ren and her son.
Sam turned to his mother and said, ”He doesn't belong in this house. Dad would roll over in his grave-”
”What happened in the past is over and done,” Ren said.
”Not for me,” Sam snapped.
”If you feel you can't stay, Sam, I'll understand,” she said.
Blackjack saw the astonishment flicker in Sam's eyes before he said, ”You're siding with a Blackthorne over your own family?”
”I hope you won't make that necessary,” she said.
”Luke isn't going to be any more pleased about-”
”Luke isn't here right now,” Ren countered.
Sam wheeled his chair over to Blackjack, stopping with his knees only inches from Blackjack's, and said, ”I want you out of my father's house.”
Blackjack resisted the urge to back up. He could see the corded muscle on Sam's forearms where his Western s.h.i.+rt was rolled up, see the veins throbbing in his forehead. He was glad Sam didn't have a gun handy. He looked mad enough-mean enough-to kill.
”I'm here at your mother's invitation,” he said. ”When she tells me to leave, I'll leave.”
”I'm telling you to leave. Now.”
Blackjack perused the man-it was no boy who glared back at him-wondering what Sam would do. What kind of physical threat could Sam exert from a wheelchair? On the other hand, you never hit a man when he was down. How was Blackjack supposed to fight someone who wasn't able to stand and face him?
Blackjack glared back, unwilling to fight, unwilling to retreat.
In the end, it was Ren who blinked.
”Jackson,” she said. ”Please. We can talk later.”
He could see how upset she was, how much this was tearing her apart. He could afford to be the bigger man and leave. This business with Sam was just a little wrinkle that needed ironing out. ”All right, Ren. I'll go. I'll call you later.”
When he saw the smug look on Sam's face, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something he'd regret. That boy didn't know it yet, but his reign in this household was coming to an end.
Blackjack turned to Ren, uncurled her balled hands and held them in his own. He wanted to say I love you, but somehow he couldn't get the words out with her son watching. He wanted to kiss her, but her eyes said Don't.
He squeezed her hands, then let them go. Sam was in his way when he turned to leave.
”Don't come back,” Sam said. ”We don't want you here.”
”Get out of my way.”
Sam backed up the wheelchair and made a mocking gesture toward the door. ”Be my guest.”
Blackjack stopped at the hat rack and settled his Resistol carefully on his head, then pushed open the groaning screen door and let it slam behind him. He resisted the urge to turn and say, I'll be back. In the Terminator movie, it was the villain who'd uttered those words, and he'd returned to wreak havoc.
Blackjack didn't want to ruin anything. He just wanted to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved. But as he cranked the engine on his pickup, he stared at the two figures highlighted through the screen door and muttered, ”I'll be back.”
Chapter 6.
SUMMER STARED AT THE RING FINGER OF HER trembling left hand, which was bare of the four-carat square-cut diamond engagement ring which had sat there for the past year. ”I didn't think it was possible to get married so quickly and simply,” she said to Billy. ”No blood test, just a license and a few words said by a magistrate.” No wedding band. Not even a kiss at the end of the ceremony. But that would have been a travesty since the entire marriage was a sham.
She'd been chattering since the moment the ceremony ended and Billy had hustled her into her Silverado and headed for the Castle. Her pickup had air-conditioning, but Billy had said he needed the fresh air and rolled down all the windows. She felt hot and sweaty, and the scorching wind, heated by the unrelenting sun on the asphalt, whipped her hair into her mouth every time she opened it to speak. And she couldn't seem to shut up.
She caught her lower lip in her teeth to stem the tide of nervous words and stared out at the mesquite trees in the pasture, their roots running hundreds of feet beneath the ground, doing battle with the gra.s.s for the scarce water that was sufficient to keep only one of them alive. She bit at a cuticle, then heard her mother's voice in her head telling her what an uncouth habit it was. She dropped her hands into her lap, then loudly cleared her throat, hoping Billy would say something, maybe ask if she was all right.
At which point she would tell him no. She had no idea why she felt so agitated, but Billy was doing nothing to allay her anxiety. Right now, he was busy imitating a stone statue.