The Heiress and the Sheriff (11 page)

“If she honestly loved you, she would have married you anyway,” Gabrielle pointed out.

One corner of his lips lifted in mocking agreement.
“You think so? Well, Kelly's parents put it to her this way—marry him and you'll lose your allowance and inheritance. Was that a difficult choice?”

It wouldn't have been a hard choice for Gabrielle. Compared to having Wyatt, money would mean nothing. “What happened?”

He glanced away from her, and pain lanced Gabrielle's chest as she realized it was hurting him to admit he'd been deserted and looked down on.

“She chose the money and eventually married a lieutenant over at Lackland Air Force Base.”

“So you never let yourself fall in love again?”

Glancing back at her, he snorted cynically. “Kelly shed me like a snakeskin, and that's just about how low I felt at the time. I swore I'd never get near another woman, and for several years I stuck by the promise. But then…” He shook his head as his features twisted with self-disgust. “I still had the foolish notion I wanted a woman in my life. And when I met Rita, I was completely smitten. She was fiery and beautiful and exciting. Idiot that I was, I thought I could tame her and make her into the perfect wife.” He laughed bitterly. “When I caught her in bed with another man, she didn't even bother to apologize.”

“Oh, Wyatt,” she said in an anguished whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

He reached for his coffee. “No need to be sorry, Gabrielle. They were great lessons. They'll not be forgotten. Ever.”

T
he food Wyatt ordered for their supper was delicious. There were just enough spices to make the meat, cheeses and rice tasty, but not enough heat to make eating uncomfortable. Yet the enjoyment of the meal was somewhat dimmed for Gabrielle. As she ate, all she could think about was Wyatt as a young man—falling in love, planning a family and then having his dreams thrown back in his face by not one, but two different women.

It was no wonder he was embittered toward females. And to a certain point, she could understand why he was wary of them. But he was an intelligent man, she silently argued with herself, he had a job that required him to be able to judge people quickly, male or female. Surely he ought to see that all women were not like Kelly or Rita.
She
was not like them. It didn't matter that her past was a blank—Gabrielle's heart assured her she could never intentionally hurt the man she loved.

For the most part Wyatt was quiet during the meal, and she felt a twinge of regret for pushing him about his past. It wasn't her business why the man looked at life with a frown on his face. It shouldn't matter to her if he ever opened his heart again. Common sense told her she should let his past stay with him and simply worry about getting her own back. But common sense wasn't what she felt every time she looked at Wyatt's dark brooding face.

When the two of them left the café, the air was still and
heavy. To the south, jagged streaks of lightning had moved considerably closer. The sight was as ominous as the grim expression on Wyatt's face, and she shivered slightly as he helped her into the truck. But whether her reaction was to the oncoming storm or to Wyatt, she didn't know.

As he pulled the truck back into the flow of city traffic, Gabrielle didn't ask him where they were going. She figured he was all too ready to get her back to the Double Crown. However, several minutes later they entered a residential area that seemed vaguely familiar to Gabrielle. When he pulled to a stop in front of a large brick home, she knew why.

Surprise arching her brows, she glanced across the seat at him. “This is your house,” she said. “I thought we were going back to the Double Crown.”

“Not yet. I want to show you something.”

Gabrielle wondered if it was the
something
he'd been about to show her several nights ago, but she didn't ask. Making love to her appeared to be the last thing on his mind.

This time when they entered the foyer he switched on the light, and she followed him into a large living area furnished with comfortable leather armchairs and a long matching couch. In one corner was an entertainment center with a wide-screen television and VCR, plus a stereo unit. Packed in the adjoining shelves were stacks of CDs, vinyl albums and videotapes.

Wyatt turned to her, his eyes darkening. “So you wanted to know about my past. I think it's time I showed you,” he said.

“Wyatt, I—”

She broke off as he tugged her out of the room.

“Don't bothering arguing. Your curiosity about me
needs to be quenched. Then maybe you'll see you're wasting your time trying to—”

“To what?” she prompted as he propelled her down a wide, dimly lit hallway.

“To resurrect me.”

What a strange choice of words, Gabrielle thought. Had Wyatt considered his life close to dead all these years? She couldn't imagine anything more terrible.

A few steps farther and he guided her into a bedroom. When he switched on a table lamp by the queen-size bed, she glanced around her, wondering if this was his bedroom. When he began to unbuckle his gun and holster and place them on top of a chest of drawers, she figured it had to be the room he slept in. Because she doubted, even in sleep, he was ever very far away from his weapon. He was too cautious a man not to be.

With the Colt safely out of the way, Wyatt opened the second drawer of the chest and searched among the things inside. From where Gabrielle stood several steps away, she couldn't see inside. Whatever he'd wanted to show her was obviously something he kept out of sight.

Eventually he lifted out a plain white envelope, then turned and crossed the small space to where Gabrielle stood quietly waiting.

“What is that?” she asked, nodding toward the envelope in his hand. “A marriage license or will?”

Grooves of bitter cynicism bracketed his mouth and lined his forehead. “If my parents had a marriage license, I don't know what happened to it. As for my will, it's secured in a safety-deposit box. Not that I have anyone to will anything to. But it's there just the same.”

It suddenly struck Gabrielle that in a way Wyatt was somewhat like her. He didn't have a family. Or if he did, they weren't close enough to count.

“You don't have siblings? Or aunts and uncles anywhere?”

“No brothers or sisters. If my father had family, I never knew them or heard him speak of them. My mother had a sister somewhere, but, like my mom, she's never tried to contact me.”

“I wonder why?” Gabrielle's softly spoken question was directed at herself as much as to him.

“Don't bother yourself wondering, Gabrielle. I'm a half-breed. My mother didn't want me. She only married my father because she was pregnant and he forced her to. It's a cinch her sister didn't want any part of me either.”

Gabrielle winced inwardly at the brutal bluntness of his words. “There are many people of mixed races, Wyatt. It's not something that should make you feel sorry for yourself.”

His jaw hardened to granite as his gaze ripped across her face. “Don't tell me you know how I feel. You don't. You couldn't.”

Determined not to cower beneath the anger simmering in his eyes, she straightened her shoulders. “I didn't say I knew how you felt. But, Wyatt, I have no idea who gave birth to me. Much less anything else. And I don't see that being part Native American and part white is anything to warrant carrying a chip on your shoulder.”

A muscle ticked in his rigid jaw. “Who says I'm carrying a chip on my shoulder?” The question was spoken in a dangerously soft voice.

Gabrielle swallowed, but firmly held his gaze. “It sounds to me like you have a big chip. Just because some silly girl turned her back on you all those years ago. How could that possibly be important to you now?”

Silly girl.
The two words jolted him, and slowly as he stood there staring at Gabrielle, he realized she was right.
What Kelly had done to him, thought of him, didn't really matter anymore. It was Gabrielle's opinion that meant the most to him. Dammit!

“It isn't,” he snapped. Then with a weary sigh, he passed a hand over his face. “I'm trying to explain…you wanted to know about the women in my life. Well, here's the first. And believe me, her story is the best.”

Frozen by his words, she watched in silence as he drew a ragged snapshot out of the envelope and handed it to Gabrielle. The corners were bent and there was a faded streak running through the right side of the small photo, but the image was still clear enough for Gabrielle to recognize Wyatt.

He was only a small boy of about three or four, she would guess. Even at that young age he'd been tall, coming well above the woman's knees. His hair was black and covered his forehead with a thick wave. There was a grin on his face that was both impish and contented. The sight of it tugged at Gabrielle's heart and made her wonder if the woman standing next to him, her hand resting lovingly on Wyatt's shoulder, had been the reason for his happiness.

“I take it this is your mother?” she asked softly.

“Yes. Marilyn Grayhawk.”

“She's so beautiful. Was her hair strawberry-blond? That's the color it appears to be in this photo.”

“It was red-gold, and long and wavy. I thought she was an angel because she looked like the pictures of the angels in my Bible. But I was seeing her through a child's eyes. I never realized she was planning to leave me.”

Earlier at supper when Wyatt had talked about the two women who'd betrayed him, acid had filled his voice. But now it was husky with pain and loss. And Gabrielle suddenly knew if Wyatt had ever loved anything or anyone in his life, it had been Marilyn Grayhawk.

“How do you know she left you?” Gabrielle dared to ask.

He didn't answer immediately, and she glanced up from the photo to see his expression was both puzzled and disgusted.

“What the hell does that mean? She isn't here, is she?”

Gabrielle shrugged. “No. But…I mean what happened? When did she go? How?”

“I was five at the time, so I don't really know how she left. In the old wrecked car we had back then, I suppose. I woke up one morning with my father standing over my bed, telling me my mother had left. He said she was gone for good and not to be whining and bawling for her to come back. She didn't want no half-breed kid.”

With grim disbelief, Gabrielle shook her head. “What sort of man could have done such a thing? Was he crazy?”

Wyatt's nostrils flared. “No. He was mean. A mean, drunk man.”

He took the photo from Gabrielle's fingers and shoved it back inside the envelope.

“Do you have a picture of him?”

Surprise flickered in his hazel eyes. “Why would you want to see one?”

“Because he was your father.”

Slowly he walked back over to the open drawer and pulled out a cigar box. Gabrielle followed him, and he handed her the tattered photo from among the box's collection of odds and ends.

The image was black-and-white and grainy, but Gabrielle could make out the man's impressive stature and thick dark hair. He was standing in front of a small run-down house. There was no son by his side, but a spotted dog with a chain around its neck, sitting on his haunches.

“Did he beat you?” Gabrielle asked as she tried to imagine what Wyatt's growing-up years had been like.

“Not really. He swatted me from time to time. But he didn't beat me. No, Leonard's abuse came in the form of words and neglect.”

She sighed sorrowfully and handed the photo back to him. “What about your mother? Was he good to her?”

“I was just a little kid when she was home. But—I don't know. When I look back at that time now, I have to admit things couldn't have been good for her. We were poor, and I can't remember my father trying to make things any better. He rarely worked. My mother kept money in the house from her job as a waitress. At night when I lay in bed, I could hear my parents fighting. And sometimes I knew he hit her, even if I never actually witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“Then how do you know she deliberately left you?” Gabrielle asked him softly.

Wyatt put the cigar box back and pushed the drawer shut. “She never came back,” he said. Then, turning, he stared at her with naked pain on his face. “You couldn't know how I would stand at the window for hours on end, watching the road for that old car to drive up. For my mother to return.”

Gabrielle could see how it was tearing at him to speak of his mother and her desertion, and her heart ached for him. But she also knew he would never rid himself of the festering pain if he kept hiding it all away inside him.

“No. I couldn't know that. And I don't think you could know what really happened with your mother either. Your father might have forced her to go.”

“Why? It doesn't make sense.”

Gabrielle walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Who knows?” she said, clasping her hands around
one bare knee. “Could've been he was jealous and thought she had a lover. After all, she was obviously a beautiful woman. Or it could have been he simply didn't want a wife around telling him what to do. Some men are like that, aren't they?”

He leveled a dark gaze on her. “You think I would be that way?”

She shook her head, surprised that he believed she was thinking of him as a husband. He'd made it clear he would never trust any woman enough to marry her.

“In your line of work, I'm sure you see all sorts of domestic violence cases. What causes them?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Money. Work. Kids. Drugs and alcohol. Any number of things.”

“That's what I mean. Something sent your mother away. Did she ever talk to you about leaving or wanting to live somewhere else?”

“Once she told me she was going to take me away with her…somewhere better.” His lips twisted and his eyes grew distant. “That wasn't long before she left. Sometimes I wonder if she really was planning on taking me. But…hell, I've spent years wondering, asking myself what happened. I'm tired of trying to figure it out.”

She shot him a disgusted look. “So it's easier to simply say she didn't want you because you were a half-breed.”

Resentment flared his nostrils. “You really don't know when to stop pushing your luck, do you?”

Gabrielle refused to cower beneath his soft warning. “You're a stubborn man. I'm just trying to make you open your eyes. As it is, you don't even know if the woman's alive.”

For a moment Gabrielle's suggestion took him aback. Then slowly his eyes widened as he considered the ramifications. The notion that his mother might not be living
had struck Wyatt from time to time. But hearing Gabrielle say it out loud made the likelihood seem stronger.

“Marilyn would be somewhere in her mid-fifties now. Around Mary Ellen's age,” he reasoned. “That's still young. But there's always the possibility she could have had a fatal accident or a terminal illness.”

Gabrielle drew in a long breath and let it out as she tried to decide whether to speak her thoughts. “Or it could be, she didn't live a day past the one on which you last saw her.”

Wyatt was a sheriff, yet he'd never suspected his mother being a victim of foul play. But then he had to stop and remember he'd always seen her through the eyes of a young boy, not those of a lawman. “Are you suggesting my father might have killed her?”