4

“GOOD PARALLEL ACTION,” Ellen whispered, whipping the Land Rover into a parking spot at Bernadette’s General Store in Miracle Mountain. Wyatt’s driving lessons had sure paid off. So had his guided tour around her fence line. Ellen still intended to confront that scoundrel Jackson West, but he had sold her a pretty piece of property, with lush timbered hillsides and a pond. Wyatt—who was so sweet, the complete opposite of what she imagined Jackson West would be like—had set up a bird feeder and a porch swing, from which Ellen had spotted a real live deer.

As for her contract—she’d promised she’d sign. For now that seemed enough. Abel’s new songs wouldn’t be ready to record for another month, and he’d agreed to cancel the Trash Cans’ pending stage engagements. Ellen just wished she could come to some decisions about her future.

Right now, her whole life seemed like a “before and after” picture. Before Jean and Wyatt Simpson she’d used her ice princess persona and tough hysterical front to keep people at a distance. Now she was opening up in ways she never had. For so many years, while her father was drinking, she’d been afraid to let people in. Later, when she was singing, so many people seemed jealous. Or they wanted something. All the men ever seemed to want was sex. But then, all men weren’t like that. Wyatt was interested in her. And because he had steadfastly ignored her temperamental outbursts—almost as if he knew how nervous he made her—Ellen now felt comfortable with him.

She stared through the plate-glass window of the general store, which was full of crafts and sundries, as well as barrels of bulk goods, dishes, bolts of brightly colored fabrics and handmade quilts. A few women milled around inside, and the place looked so homey that her heart suddenly ached. Just remember what Mrs. Simpson said. You need to get out more.

Maybe not, she thought moments later. When the string of bells attached to the doorknob quit ringing, the place was dead quiet. And everyone was staring at her. Ellen hazarded a quick glance down at her outfit—black opaque tights under cutoffs, pink combat boots, a lime green suede top she’d thought of as subdued only an hour ago, and a black leather jacket. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to remove her prescription sunglasses, letting them dangle around her neck by the leash. She wished she hadn’t worn quite so many necklaces.

When the whispering started, most of it came from three well-dressed women huddled in a corner near the fabrics. Ellen guessed they were as close to the Junior League as it got in Miracle Mountain, Montana. The heaviest of the women had artfully streaked blond hair, pulled back with a giant plaid bow that matched her skirt. There was a thinner blonde in a bright red sweater set, and a woman with an auburn bob, who was wearing a navy pantsuit. All three gaped at Ellen’s pink combat boots. She stared right back at their black pumps with the bows on the toes.

Just remember what Mrs. Simpson says. They’re no better than you are. But being sized up by such women took Ellen back to the years after her mother died, when well-intentioned community women kept visiting to see if Ellen was being mistreated. She’d felt so singled out, embarrassed and angry. All she’d wanted was to be left alone. Which was why she’d waited tables, saved money—and fled to New York and L.A.

Yes, just standing in the store brought all the memories flooding back. The gossip. Feeling like a misfit. How she always seemed to wear the wrong thing or say something inappropriate. Ellen sighed. If Abel hadn’t coaxed her onto a stage, heaven only knew what would have become of her.

Just do your shopping and ignore them. But the looks made her nervous. Even though she tried to modulate her voice, she wound up bellowing at a sweetlooking, gray-haired, bespectacled lady behind the cash register. “Excuse me—” Ellen pulled an index card from her back pocket “—but could you please direct me to your fruit relish?”

“Right there, dear.” The gray-haired lady pointed.

The woman was dressed in jeans and a wool sweater, and she was probably in her fifties. Even from here, Ellen could tell she had twinkling blue eyes behind her glasses. Compared to the Junior Leaguers, she looked really nice.

“Thanks.” Ellen headed down the aisle, wishing her combat boots didn’t have metal taps. New York was so noisy that she’d never noticed how much she jingled and clanked when she walked. She blew out a short sigh. Face it. You’ve had a tough life. You’re just not the girl-next-door type. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a good person. That’s what Mrs. Simpson would say.

Fortunately, Ellen easily found the fruit relish, also the spices and vanilla extract on her list. When she turned toward the cash register again, she caught one of the perky blond members of the Donna Reed club actually pointing at her. Her temper flared. She fought the wild urge to shout, Puh-lease. Doris Days of the world unite!

Not that Ellen had anything against Doris Day. She loved her movies. Especially the ones with Rock Hudson. And Ellen actually watched reruns of “The Donna Reed Show.” Unfortunately, she was usually looking for pointers in how to be more normal.

Biting back another sigh, she told herself things could have been worse. She could have worn her black lipstick. She raised her voice. “Excuse me again. Could you please tell me where to find brown sugar, chopped nuts and cornstarch?” Even as she spoke, she winced at her own vocal register. Some days, she thought she should carry earplugs to offer any strangers within earshot.

The gray-haired lady behind the cash register didn’t seem to notice. She frowned at the Doris Days, then, circling the counter, she said, “Here, maybe I’d better help. I’m Bernadette. This is my store. And you must be Purity.”

Ellen concentrated on lowering her voice to a reasonable level. Just be nice. As Mrs. Simpson always says, you have to give people the benefit of the doubt. “Well…my real name’s Ellen Smith.”

Bernadette smiled. “Really? Why, that’s a lovely name. Just…”

“So ordinary?” Ellen’s lips suddenly twitched. No doubt Mrs. Simpson would make a point of extending the olive branch. “And I’d just love to meet your friends,” she continued, having no illusions about making friends.

Predictably, the women turned their backs and pretended to discuss selections of cloth. Ellen shrugged. “Well,” she said loudly, “maybe when everybody’s done with their shopping, Bernadette.”

Lowering her voice, Bernadette whispered, “They don’t mean to be rude. We just don’t see many strangers—”

“And I imagine I’m strange,” Ellen said, not fighting her pique. “Even for a stranger.”

“Yes, well…” Bernadette glanced apologetically at the index card. “If you’ll show me your recipe, I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

“Thanks.” Ellen sighed guiltily, handing her the card.

Bernadette squinted. “Why, I’d know this anywhere. It’s Marilla West’s plum pudding recipe.”

In a town this size, probably anyone with the name West was related to Jackson the shyster. Maybe Marilla was his wife. “Oh, no,” Ellen said quickly. “This is Mrs. Simpson’s recipe.” Ellen had wanted to surprise Wyatt with his favorite dessert tonight, so Mrs. Simpson had gladly given her the ingredients for plum pudding. Of course, Mrs. Simpson had suggested Ellen try shopping in Silver Spoon, but—like a fool—Ellen had decided to come to town.

Bernadette was gaping at her. “Whose recipe?”

“Mrs. Simpson’s.”

A loud gasp sounded behind her. “Not Mrs. Jean Simpson’s!”

Ellen whirled around to find the three Junior Leaguers had stealthily approached. No doubt they were the most respectable women in town—and mean as rattlesnakes. She managed a cool nod. “Yes. I happen to be personal friends with Mrs. Jean Simpson, and she was kind enough to give it to me.”

“Have you all met…Ellen Smith?” Bernadette said.

The three pairs of eyes drifted slowly over Ellen’s clothes, then the women quickly shook their heads. They may as well have exclaimed, “Most certainly not!” One finally said, “We thought your name was Purity.”

“That’s just a stage name.”

“And you play for…the Can-Cans?”

Another said, “I think it’s the Cash Cans.”

Don’t let them goad you. Ellen mustered her grandest tone, as if she played daily at Carnegie Hall. “The Trash Cans.”

That seemed to be a real conversation stopper.

“Oh,” someone finally said, as if that explained everything.

Then Bernadette formally introduced Ellen to Marjorie Nelson, Christine Clay and Phyllis Lewis; they headed the garden club, welcoming committee and church choir respectively.

Ellen’s first thought was that the welcoming committee wasn’t making her feel very welcome. Her second was that she’d love to sing with a church choir. She almost inquired about joining, then imagined her combat boots peeking out from beneath a choir robe. No, they probably wouldn’t want her attending their church. Besides, with her luck, they thought heavy metal music was inspired by the devil himself.

“That’s Jean Simpson’s recipe?” the larger of the two blondes, Marjorie, finally asked.

Ellen nodded, feeling as if she were on trial.

The three women and Bernadette exchanged suspicious glances.

“Mrs. Jean Simpson’s?” Phyllis clarified nervously, tucking auburn hair behind an ear. “From up on Little Miracle Road?”

“Yeah.” That was the name of their road. Ellen glanced around, hoping they’d take the hint and leave, so she could finish shopping. She’d had about enough of the olive branch for one day.

“But Mrs. Simpson’s dead,” said Marjorie.

Ellen’s temper flared. What was this? Some kind of a test? “No she isn’t. She’s my housekeeper. I see her practically every day.” Except, of course, when she couldn’t make it, due to her lingering flu.

All the women gasped. And then they started talking a mile a minute, as if Ellen wasn’t even there. She knew it was a good opportunity to drift away from the group, but she was so shocked by what she heard that she stayed. Apparently, Mrs. Simpson hadn’t been seen in town for years, and it was generally assumed she had died from alcoholism.

Ellen leaned forward. “Mrs. Simpson was an alcoholic?” she finally said. No wonder Mrs. Simpson had tensed when Ellen mentioned her father and Abel.

Marjorie said, “Her son, Wyatt, is, too.”

“Oh, that’s not true!” Ellen declared hotly. “Wyatt comes over every day. He got all my appliances running. And you must have seen him in the store, since he’s been buying my groceries.”

Bernadette shook her head. “I can’t remember the last time I saw Wyatt. If he bought groceries, he must have done so in Silver Spoon.”

“Surely these are just ugly, vicious rumors,” Ellen continued stridently. Feeling determined to stand up for her new friends, she launched into a speech about all the Simpsons had done for her. The women were held spellbound.

“The Simpsons chop wood, build fires, cook and clean?” echoed the women.

Ellen nodded.

“Well,” Marjorie said, “Jean used to sing in the choir, didn’t she, Phyllis? And she was active in the garden club. But that was years ago, before the tragedy…”

Ellen’s heart lurched. “Tragedy?”

The woman started chattering again. And Ellen felt sicker by the minute. Mrs. Simpson’s husband Garrett was rumored to have had an affair with a woman in Silver Spoon, and the love triangle led to his tragic suicide. Then Mrs. Simpson disappeared, and it was said that both she and Wyatt took to heavy drinking.

“My word,” Ellen murmured in shock.

The next thing she knew, Marjorie was gripping her forearm. “Isn’t that the saddest story you ever heard in your life?”

Ellen peered at Marjorie, thinking maybe the woman wasn’t so bad, after all. “It is,” she agreed. “But I know for a fact that Wyatt and his mother don’t drink.” After what had happened to her father and Abel, Ellen knew how to recognize all the signs of a heavy drinker.

“Well, do you think they quit?” asked Phyllis.

“I guess,” said Ellen. She was barely able to process all this new information. Or that she was actually conversing with these women. She just wished her new friends, the Simpsons, had trusted her enough to confide in her. They’d fallen on hard times and become outcasts in their own community. It was no wonder Mrs. Simpson was so kind and empathetic. And that Wyatt, with his tousled blond hair and dreamy cornflower blue eyes, was so sensitive for a man.

“They’ve suffered,” Ellen finally managed. “But believe me, they’re fine now. In fact, they’re the nicest people I’ve ever met. Mrs. Simpson is…like the mother I never had while I was growing up. And…” Color flooded her cheeks. “Well, I guess you could say Wyatt and I are dating.” Oh, he hadn’t kissed her yet. But they had dinner together most nights now.

The woman were staring at her, appalled. “You’re dating Wyatt?” Marjorie said. “Wyatt Simpson?”

Ellen felt a rush of temper. The Simpsons had been so kind to her. Could she help restore their reputations? “Look…” Glancing down, Ellen took in the six, bowtoed pumps that formed a semicircle around her combat boots. For Mrs. Simpson and Wyatt, she decided she could do anything—including try to bridge some social differences. “Why don’t you all drop by sometime? I know Mrs. Simpson would love to see you.”

“Drop by?” the women repeated uncertainly.

Ellen nodded. “Most of the media’s gone, but if the sheriff’s there, have him call on his cell phone. I’ll tell him to let you through my gate. Mrs. Simpson usually comes in the morning.”

As the three women moved off, Bernadette winked. “None of us are very intimidating, not once you get to know us.”

“Maybe not.” Ellen swallowed hard. “But what would I serve them, if they actually show up to visit me?”

Bernadette chuckled heartily. “Don’t worry. I stock all their favorite tea cakes. And maybe I’ll visit, too.”

PULLING her fuzzy pink sweater tightly around herself to ward off the chill night air, Ellen leaned back in the porch swing and gazed up. “You swear you caught that trout, Wyatt?”

He chuckled, setting aside his dessert dish. “You swear you made this plum pudding?”

“Just for you,” she assured him, glancing around. She’d upended an orange crate and arranged a full box of tapers on top. Now, a dozen flaming tongues of fire flickered red and gold in the breeze, casting long shadows on the porch floor. The candlelight turned his skin a burnished copper.

Gingerly she leaned against him, and the warm heat of his hard body made her throat close, stealing her breath. If only he’d take the hint and kiss her. So many times now, they’d been this close.

Earlier tonight, as he’d shown her how to fillet the trout he’d brought, he’d snuggled right behind her, his arms around her waist, and his broad chest warming her back as his huge hand, closed over hers, guided the knife. While he took her through all the motions of preparing the fish, he’d explained each step in a soft, patient drawl that made her shiver with anticipation.

Now if only he would turn. And she would turn. And then she’d tilt up her face while he angled his down…

He was so easy to talk to, unless the subject was their relationship—if that’s what this was. If he weren’t such a good Christian—just as his mother had claimed—would he have hauled off and kissed her by now? Should she make the first move? But what if I’m wrong and he’s not even interested? Oh, just kiss him. The worst thing that can happen is that he’ll reject you.

Ellen’s heart hammered. What if they wound up in bed immediately? There was that kind of chemistry between them—at least on her side. She’d even mustered her nerve and bought condoms at Bernadette’s. Which meant everybody in town probably already knew she had designs on Wyatt—except Wyatt.

Putting his arm around her, he drew her closer; his jean jacket fell open and her cheek wound up pressed against his shirt. Beneath the warm plaid flannel, she could hear the steady beat of his heart.

“My, you sure look serious, sugar.”

“I…heard some rumors in town today about your family.” Her eyes searched his, hoping to communicate that he could talk about his feelings with her.

He merely looked cautious. “My family?”

She nodded. “But I told everybody that things were different now,” she said quickly. “I told them all you’d done for me around here…”

His expression was turning grim. She should have known he’d want to talk about his life in his own time. How could she have been so insensitive? “Sorry, Wyatt…” she murmured.

His arm tightened around her. “No, I’m sorry.”

The testiness of his tone made her hate every bad thing that had ever befallen him. No doubt, he felt as prickly about his past as she did about hers. She rubbed a hand soothingly over his chest, wrinkling his flannel shirt, then smoothing it.

Something flickered in his eyes, as if there were a thousand things he wanted to say and he couldn’t settle on just one. “Oh, El,” he finally sighed.

She loved his nickname for her. “Hmm?”

He turned slowly toward her, raised a hand and brushed his thumb lightly across her cheek. “Look, I’m…I’m not the man you think I am.” His lips were compressed in a tight line. Clearly he wanted to go on, but he simply couldn’t It always seemed so difficult for men to talk about their feelings. She decided it was probably even worse for cowboys.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she said.

“You’re not prying.”

Cradling her hand in his, he curled it against his chest. Then his dusty boot heels pushed them off, and they swung for a few minutes in silence. She became conscious of how the chill air was making her cheeks tingle, and of the night sounds from the hills—leaves rustling in the wind, wings fluttering as birds took flight, the whir of crickets and the hoot of an owl. Finally she said, “Well, did you guys finally get the rest of the cows down?”

At the mention of ranch work, he looked relieved. “Yeah, but I found some of Logan Hatcher’s cattle mixed in with the Herefords. I can’t believe roundup’s already over. By January, I’ll be awake all night, between the calving and the branding.”

“I hope it’s not as cold as last winter.” He’d already told her countless stories about how the previous harsh winter had affected the herd.

“Me, too. I swear, last year it was everything we could do to keep those cows warm. Shoot, me and the boys even took some sick calves inside the house. A bunch lost their ears and tails to frostbite…”

Ellen smiled, loving the faraway look he got in his eyes when he talked about ranching. Jackson West apparently owned a large herd, and Wyatt could talk a full hour about one specific cow. He was a born cowboy, and she wished he didn’t have to work for Jackson. He deserved his own ranch.

“Ellen, you don’t really want to hear about a bunch of old cows.”

She smiled. “Are you kidding? I love it when you talk about brush hogging and the perils of larkspur poisoning.”

When he chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and the candlelight brought out the blue fire of his eyes. “That’s how I talk sexy.”

Ellen, he wouldn’t say something like that if he didn’t feel some attraction to you. And he wouldn’t cuddle with you on the porch swing, either. But she had trouble trusting her emotions. And a lifetime with her unpredictable father had made her skittish when it came to reading other people’s behavior. She edged closer. “Ever dream of having your own ranch?”

He merely squinted, as if wondering what she was talking about, then awareness flooded his eyes. “Uh…sure.” Instead of elaborating, he quickly continued. “C’mon, cows can’t be nearly as interesting as playing in a band. I bought your records, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You listened to them?”

He nodded. “I liked the couple of slow songs the best. I could hear you sing better.”

She smiled ruefully. He meant songs such as “Ballad of a Bad Man.” Songs in which her voice had to work, circling flat notes, stretching for high ones. Those songs were the reason she practiced scales for hours every day. She sighed wistfully. “I wish Abel would write more ballads. If I was a songwriter, I would.”

“But you were writing songs in the bedroom that day…”

Her cheeks, so cool from the night air, warmed with inner heat. She laughed. “I lied. I…was embarrassed and shy around you, and I didn’t want you to know I was just hiding out in the bedroom whenever you came over. I never wrote a song in my life. And before you tell me I should try, please take my word for it. I don’t have the talent.”

He frowned. “Could you record songs for somebody else?”

“I don’t know. Most people record their own songs. I guess I could do commercials, but I’d be taking a step backward.”

“Not if that’s what you want to do.”

It was so like something his mother would say. She shrugged. “I like heavy metal. But I hate the clubs.” Pain suddenly twisted inside her, and she tried to find the words to explain. “I mean, I really hate them. I hate the smoke, the smell of booze, all those loud people.” Her throat constricted with emotion. “I guess it’s…always reminded me of my dad. Before he died, I used to have to track him down in bars. He drank in dives, too, and they were always smoky, full of leering guys. I guess that’s why I don’t drink at all. And maybe it’s why, unless I’m singing, I get nervous when men look at me…”

His voice was heartbreakingly tender. “Does my looking at you make you nervous, El?”

A little. “At first. Not now.” She sighed. “Funny, that I wound up singing in bars…”

His voice was tender. “You think it’s ‘cause they were familiar to you, sugar?”

She relaxed, feeling the soft rocking of the swing. “Maybe. But it’s more like, by throwing myself into that environment, I get the illusion I can control it. It’s just an act, a performance, and with everybody watching, I’m in control…”

“I think I understand.”

Her eyes searched his. “I know this sounds weird, but when I sing on stage, I feel as if none of the bad things ever happened—as if my mother’s still alive. And my father never started drinking. But I do know it’s only an illusion.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re not rarin’ to sign that new contract. Maybe you’re changing. Maybe you don’t need illusions anymore.”

He was so perceptive. It was funny how that was often true of people who’d suffered the most. People with tragic lives were usually the quickest to laugh, too. “I guess being in the general store today made me think about all this stuff, because the women intimidated me. Maybe I didn’t turn out to be the plaid skirt and navy blazer type, but I tried to do the best I could for myself, given what I had.”

He slowly stroked her hair. “Sugar, you turned out to be as close to perfection as it gets.”

Her voice caught with emotion. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh…” She traced a nonsensical pattern on his shirt with her fingernail. “You know, we’ve had a lot of fun lately.”

He nodded, as if wondering where she was heading. “Yeah.”

Licking at her lips, she forged ahead. “Well, don’t take this wrong, but I’ve never been around a guy so long who didn’t try to kiss me. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but aren’t you…even the least little bit attracted to me?”

He looked stunned. “Of course.”

She swallowed nervously. “And is my personality okay?”

His lips twisted in a thoroughly bemused smile. “El, I love hanging out here. Swinging and talking until late at night…”

“But you’d just like to be friends? Is that it?”

She wasn’t really sure, but she thought he looked faintly uncomfortable. “Well, friendship’s important. And I never really was good friends with a woman. I mean, I’ve been trying to be friends.”

“So, you’re not interested in…more.”

Warring emotions crossed his face. His lips parted, as if he might say something, then compressed into another thin line. “You…don’t really know me.”

So that was it. He wanted to tell her about his life, but he wasn’t ready. Her throat felt so dry now that she could barely talk. “Wyatt, I…I know you as well as I need to.” To kiss you.

He seemed to know exactly what she meant. And he shook his head firmly. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, then, tell me whatever I need to know.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Believe me, if you found out about me, you’d run me off your property with that rifle in there.” He loosed a low whistle. “In fact, now that I’ve taught you to shoot, I figure I might wind up with a bullet in my backside, sugar.”

Her lips quirked. He was so sweet. “I think that’s a bit dramatic, Wyatt. This is me. Purity. Lead singer of the Trash Cans. Whatever it is, I think I can handle it.”

He shook his head again.

Well, he’d admitted to liking her looks and personality. So she’d just have to take the bull by the horns and get aggressive with this cowboy. She pressed herself against his side, slid her palm around the back of his neck and lowered her voice so that it came out breathless and throaty. “Wyatt, is it because you’re a Christian? I mean, even really good Christians kiss, you know. Even Billy Graham. Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

He was starting to look stricken. “Uh…yeah.”

Her pride was definitely taking a back seat to her heartfelt attraction to this man. She gazed soulfully into his eyes. “So why don’t you? I swear I won’t bite.”

“El, this just…just isn’t right.”

“Please.”

He swallowed so hard she heard it. Looking faintly embarrassed, he said, “Making our relationship physical is a big step. I want you to think about it.”

She wasn’t backing down. “It’s all I ever think about.”

Looking more worried, he edged away—until he seemed to realize she had him trapped in the corner of the porch swing. It’s just rejection, she thought. No big deal. You’ll live. “I thought you said you liked me.”

“I do.” His eyes cast around, as if desperately searching for the words to best explain his feelings. He finally settled on, “Sugar, I think you’re the best thing since sliced bread.”

Not exactly eloquent, but it would certainly do. Still, if it was true, he’d kiss her. Which meant he probably just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “It’s okay. I understand.”

He gave a frustrated sigh. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do. And it’s fine.”

“It is not fine.”

“Enough said. Just drop it.” Edging away from his chest, she felt hot color sting her cheeks as she turned to face him. Her voice started to rise. “Please. Let’s just forget everything I’ve said tonight. In fact, I can’t believe I bared my soul this way. How humiliating. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. You’re probably just putting your arm around me to be nice—”

“To be nice?” he gasped.

Muttering a sudden oath, he abruptly hauled her against the hard muscles of his chest as his mouth crushed down on hers. The warm, honeyed spear of his tongue followed, swift and sure. And as it delved deep, making slow heat start to dance in her veins, Ellen could merely cling to his neck, shuddering against him.

She’d known it would be good, but nothing like this. Never like this. The urgency of his mouth made her whole body burn for him—made her breasts feel full and heavy, aching for the touch of his hands. She might not have much experience. But she’d been wrong to assume he didn’t want her. That much she knew now. His kiss was proof he’d just been holding back.

When he drew away, his lips still hovering, she could merely stare. “You kiss like you’ve had some experience,” she murmured raspily.

Between nips at her lips, he whispered, “You thought I hadn’t?”

“Well, the way your mother talked, I just assumed…”

“Mothers,” he responded huskily, right before his hot hungry lips claimed hers again, “don’t always know everything about their sons.”