Disclaimer: One…two…HUH! What is it good for?? Absolutely nothing. Yeah, I'm singing about this disclaimer…
Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 3)
Determined to be as cool and indifferent as Trowa, Relena marched through the rain to the house. The nerve of the man! She thought. He'd waltzed back into her life only to tell her that everything they had shared had been lies. He had twisted the truth to serve his own purposes. Well, he could twist it all he liked!
She wasn't afraid of Trowa or his lies. He couldn't possibly hurt her more than he already had.
Seething, she kicked off her boots on the back porch and stalked into the kitchen in her stocking feet. The mingled smells of warm coffee, stale cigarettes and newsprint filled the air. Illuminated by one remaining low-watt bulb, the room was muted, some of its defects hidden.
Relena half expected to find Trowa at the table, but the kitchen was empty. She knew he had to be in the house – or on the grounds nearby. His rental car was parked near the garage, under the overhanging branches of an ancient oak, and she'd watched him storm into the house just minutes before.
"So who cares?" she asked herself angrily. He'd made himself perfectly clear. She meant nothing to him and so much the better. At least now they could get down to business. She poured herself a cup of coffee from a glass pot still warming on the stove, took a sip and grimaced before tossing the remaining dregs down the drain. She refilled the cup with hot water for instant coffee and placed it in the microwave.
She listened, but didn't hear a sound other than the hum of the refrigerator, the gentle whir of the tiny over and the drip of the rain outside. Maybe Trowa had left through the front door.
Usually after chores, if Relena found a few minutes to herself, she enjoyed the time, but now, as she stirred decaf crystals into her cup and pretended to read the headlines of the newspaper spread all over the kitchen table, she was tense.
The overhead bulb flickered, stroking the chipped Formica, the yellowed layers of wax on the old linoleum and the nicked cabinets. The entire ranch was falling apart, and the disrepair was glaringly evident. Trowa would soon discover just how bad things were. Maybe she should tell him – get everything out in the open.
Still wrestling with that decision, she walked through the corridor leading to the stairs but stopped when she noticed a crack of light glowing under the study door. So Trowa had holed up in the office. No doubt he was already pouring over the books – searching for flaws. Her fingers curled tightly over the handle of her cup. If it took every ounce of grit within her, she had to find a way to work with him and get through the next few days without antagonizing him. Her father needed this job. Since the fire no one else in Three Falls would hire Matthew Dorlian.
She twisted the knob, shoving on the door.
Trowa was right where she expected him to be – seated behind Mark's old walnut desk. Leaning over a stack of ledgers and invoices, his head bent, light from the desk lamp gleaming in his brown hair, he worked, finally glancing up. "What?" His shirtsleeves were pushed over his forearms, leaving his dark skin bare.
An old ache settled in Relena's heart. She stared at him a second, and she had trouble finding her voice. "Making yourself at home?" she asked finally. Though she tried to sound nonchalant, as if she didn't care one whit about him, there was a wistful ring in her words.
Trowa leaned so far back in his chair that it creaked against his weight. Impatiently he stretched his arms, and then cradled the back of his head in his hands. "I'm only staying a couple of weeks – to iron out a few things."
"Such as?"
"Back taxes for starters." His gaze shifted to a stack of unpaid bills. "Those next. And eventually the accounts with the feed store, hardware store –" he lifted a thick pile of paper. "Whatever it takes."
"To do what?"
His eyes narrowed. "To clean up this mess. According to Mark's lawyer, there have been all kinds of problems here – repairs that need to be made and haven't, bills unpaid, you name it!"
"Every ranch has…cash flow problems," she pointed out.
"What about that stallion that disappeared last spring – the best stallion on the place?"
Relena cringed inside. She had hoped Trowa hadn't heard about that. "Black Magic was lost. But we found him again –"
"He wasn't found. He just showed up."
Her voice was tight. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Black Magic returned and he's fine!"
Trowa's lips twisted. "The point is that things are going to hell in a hand basket around here." He thumped his fingers on a stack of past-due bills. "This place is drowning in red ink."
"It's not that bad."
"Isn't it?" His eyes flashed.
She bit back a hot retort. "Things are just beginning to turn around, Trowa," she said, ignoring the doubt in his eyes. "Tomorrow, when it's light, I'll take you around the ranch, show you the progress that isn't recorded in the checkbook."
His jaw shifted to the side, but he didn't argue.
"A ranch is more than dollars and cents, debits and credits, you know. A ranch is horses and cattle and machinery and people working together on land that matters."
One corner of his mouth curved up. "You haven't changed, have you?" he said, his voice husky. "Still a dreamer."
"I know what's valuable, Trowa. I always have. And sometimes it doesn't show on a checkbook stub." She gazed directly at him, wishing the strain near his eyes would disappear.
"You've been wrong," he reminded her.
"I don't think so – not about the things that really matter."
His jaw clenched and he looked away – through the window to the dark night beyond. The desk lamp was reflected in the rain drizzling down the panes. "I should have talked to you a long time ago, I suppose."
"It would have helped," she replied, feigning indifference.
He looked as I he wanted to say more. For a second she caught a glimpse of him as he had years before. His green eyes turned as warm as grass on a July morning. Then, as swiftly as the warmth appeared, it disappeared again. "It doesn't matter now," he said, clearing his throat. "It's all water under the bridge."
"Right," she lied. The entire room seemed filled with him, and, absurdly, she wanted to linger. "Can I get you anything? Make a fresh pot of coffee?"
The corners of his eyes softened a bit. "Don't bother,"
"It's no bother."
"Relena," he said quietly. "Don't." Skin tightening over his cheekbones, he added, "If I need anything, I'll get it. I know my way around."
Goaded, she quipped, "You're the boss," and was rewarded with a severe glance.
Reaching for the doorknob, she heard the sound of an engine in the distance and recognized the rumble of her father's pickup. She flanked out the window. Matthew Dorlian's dented yellow truck bounced into the yard.
"Company?" Trowa asked.
"Just Dad."
His eyes narrowed. "Good. He and I have to talk." He watched the beams of headlights through the rain-speckled windows, and his mouth compressed into a thin, uncompromising line.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "What about?"
"Everything. We'll start with what he knows about all the money he's managed to lose for this ranch."
"Trowa," she whispered. "Don't -,"
"Don't what?"
Her eyes sparked. "Don't judge before you have all your facts straight."
"But that's what I'm here to do," he said, turning to her, his voice cold. "Get my facts straight. Matthew can help clear up a few cloudy issues."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He's been
in charge a long time and things -," he gestured around the shabby room, to the
scarred desk, the dingy walls and threadbare drapes "-haven't gotten any
better. In fact, this place seems to be on the verge of falling apart."
"And you blame Dad."
"I don't blame anyone. Not yet. But there's got to be a reason, Relena. I just want to know what it is.
"The screen door banged shut and Relena heard her father call out. "Relena? You 'round? Martha?"
A satisfied smile crossed Trowa's lips as he stood and started for the door. But she clamped her arm around his elbow, her fingers tight over his bare forearm. The feel of his skin shocked her. Hard muscles flexed beneath her hands, soft hair brushed against her fingertips.
Trowa stopped, glaring at her fingers as if they were intruders.
"Dad didn't start the fire, Trowa," she insisted. "No matter what Duo said, dad wasn't behind it."
"Who said anything about the fire?"
"You didn't have to," she replied, meeting his seething gaze with her own. "It's written all over your face."
"Is it? How?" he shoved his face close to hers, so close that she saw the pinpoints of fire in his eyes, read his anger in the flare of his nostrils. "What is it you see when you so closely, Relena?" he bit out.
The scent of rain lingered in his hair.
Relena could barely breathe. Though her senses were reeling, she wouldn't back down, not for a second. Her fingers dug into his arms. "What I see," she said evenly, though her heart was hammering out of control, "is a bitter man, hell-bent on extracting his own punishment for an imagined crime, a man who's irrational desire for retribution clouds his judgment."
"Is that right?" he mocked.
"And more! I see a man who's taking all his bitterness out on a tired old man and a woman who once thought he was the most important thing in her life!"
A muscle worked in his jaw. "Then you're a blind woman, Relena."
"I don't think so."
"Maybe you'd better take a harder look."
"Don't worry, I will. You left this ranch and haven't stepped foot on it in seven years. Seven years, Trowa. So what gives you the right to come back now?"
The cords in his neck tightened. "I own this place. Remember?"
"You and Duo,"
"Well he isn't around, is he?"
"Relena? That you?" her father called through the study door.
"In here, Dad!" she shouted back.
"What in blazes are you doin' in here at this time of -?" Matthew Dorlian shoved open the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. Color seemed to wash out of his weathered face. "Well, I'll be," he muttered, unconsciously smoothing his white hair with the flat of his hand. The scent of stale whiskey and cigarettes followed him as he crossed the room. His pale eyes focused more clearly. "I was wonderin' when you'd show up."
Unspoken accusations hung like cobwebs, dangling between them. Trowa's eyes had turned so frigid, Relena actually shivered.
Through tight lips, Matthew said, "I figured it wouldn't be long before you and Duo would want to check things out."
"I've already started." Trowa's jaw was rigid, his eyes blazing with warning, but Matthew, whether bolstered by the whiskey or his own sense of pride, didn't back down.
"Good," he shot back. "About time you took some interest in things." Hooking his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he turned to Relena. "I'm gonna make me a sandwich. You want anything?"
"I'm fine," Relena lied. Beneath her ranch-tough veneer, she was shredding apart bit by bit, she wouldn't have been able to eat a bite if she tried. She heard her father amble down the hallway to the kitchen as she whirled on Trowa. "What was that all about?"
"What?"
"You know what! You were baiting him, for God's sake."
"Was I?" He arched an insolent eyebrow. "All I said was that I was going to look things over."
"It wasn't so much what you said as how you said it. You implied something was going on here that wasn't aboveboard."
"You're overreacting."
"Just don't act like my dad's some kind of criminal, okay? Try and remember who stayed here and held this ranch together while you and your brother took off to God only knows where."
"I went to L.A.," he said, his voice cold. "Just as I'd planned."
She turned away. All these years she'd harbored some crazy little hope that he'd really cared for her, that he'd considered staying with her on the ranch, that she could have convinced him to stay in Montana with her if not for the fire. She hadn't really believed his words that their affair had meant nothing to him.
Her chin trembled, but she met his gaze. His eyes flared back at her without a hint of warmth in their emerald depths. "So you said." She strode furiously down the hall to the kitchen, Her cheeks were flaming with injustice, and she felt her fists curl as tight as the hard knot in her stomach.
Her father was sitting in one of the beat-up chairs at the table. His cigarette burned in an ashtray, and a cup of coffee sat streaming on the stained oilcloth. "So he's back," Matthew grumbled, eyeing the local newspaper with disinterest.
"For a little while."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Humph."
"As long as it takes," Trowa said from the hall. Leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest, the cotton weave of his shirt stretching taut over his shoulders.
"As long as it takes to do what?" Matthew asked.
Trowa's expression was calculating, his features hard. "I'm here to figure out why this ranch has lost money for the past five years."
"That's simple enough," Matthew said. "The silver mines were a bust."
"We made money before the mining."
Matthew took a long drag on his cigarette. "But Mark took out loans for the equipment. Besides, prices are down and we had two bad winters – lost nearly a third of our herd. It's no mystery, Trowa. Ranchin' ain't exactly a bed of roses."
"So I've heard," Trowa mocked.
Matthew squinted through the smoke. "Seven years hasn't improved your disposition any, has it?"
One of Trowa's dark eyebrows cocked. "Should it have?"
Stubbing out his cigarette, Matthew shook his head. "Probably not. You Bartons are known for your bullheadedness."
Surprisingly, Trowa's lips twitched. "Unlike you Dorlians."
"Right," Matthew said, but he chuckled briefly as he pulled his jacket from a hook near the back porch. Squaring his stained hat on his head, he shoved open the back door and headed outside.
You don't have to badger him, you know," Relena said, keeping her back to Trowa's lounging form.
"I thought he was badgering me."
"Maybe he was," Relena decided. "But you deserved it." Through the window, she saw her father's old truck bounce down the lane. Rain ran down the glass, blurring the glow of the taillights. "Dad's just an old man whose only crime is that he's given his life to this ranch."
"And what's mine, Relena?" he asked, his voice low.
She turned and caught him staring at her – the same way he'd studied her in the past. His face had lost some of its harsh angles, his expression had softened, and his eyes – Lord, his eyes – had darkened to a seductive emerald green.
"You left me," she whispered, her throat suddenly thick. "You left us all – without a word of goodbye."
He glanced away. "I regret that," he admitted, shoving a lock of brown hair from his forehead.
"Why, Trowa? Why wouldn't you see me in the hospital?"
His eyes narrowed and the line of his jaw grew taut again. "Because it was over. There was no point."
"You could have explained it to me."
"Unfortunately,
I wasn't in tip-top shape," he said, his words cutting like a dull knife.
"Neither was I! You were in
the hospital – I didn't know if you were going to live or die. My father was
being accused of heinous crimes he had no part in, and no one would tell me anything!
Good Lord, Trowa, can you imagine how I felt?"
The corners of his mouth turned white. "And can you imagine what I was going through?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I was told I would never be the same, that I would probably never use my arm again. Both my parents were dead because of the fire, and a woman I trusted had set me up to cover for her old man!"
"No!" Relena's widened in horror. "You couldn't believe -,"
"I didn't know what to believe!" Advancing on her, his eyes boring into her, he said, "I just knew that my entire life had gone to hell!"
He was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, sense the anger simmering within him. "You could have given me a chance to explain before you set yourself as judge and jury!"
"It was too late for explanations."
"Maybe it's never too late."
He gave a wry smile and some of his anger seemed to melt. Reaching forward, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "Still the dreamer, aren't you, Relena?"
She swallowed hard, fighting a losing battle with the raw energy surging between them. "I-I think I've dealt with the past seven years realistically. At least I didn't run away."
Sucking in a swift breath, he dropped his hand. His eyes blazed again. "Is that what you think?"
"That's what happened. And now you're back, sweeping back in here like some sort of avenging angel-accusing my father of everything from arson to involuntary manslaughter."
"I haven't accused him of anything."
"Not in so many words, maybe," she said, her temper flaring wildly. "But it's obvious you blame him for the fire, just as you blame me."
"When Matthew was here, we were talking about running the ranch."
"Were we?" She strode across the room, tilting her head back, forcing her eyes to meet his. "You could have fooled me."
"I don't want to talk about the fire," he snapped.
"Then leave it alone, Trowa. Leave all of it alone. Because believe it or not, we've been working our tail ends off around here to save this place – a place you don't give a damn about!" She strode out of the room, letting the screen door slam behind her, then fumbled for the light on the porch.
"Mule-headed bastard," she muttered, tugging her boots on before running down the back steps. The rain was coming down in sheets, pounding the earth, and turning the dust to mud. Bareheaded, Relena stalked furiously down the well-worn path to the paddocks. She leaned against eh wet fence, feeling the wind tease her hair and toss the wet strands across her face. She didn't care. This summer storm couldn't match the tempest of emotions raging deep in her soul.
I really dislike writing cliffhangers. Mostly because I can't make cliffhangers good. Review please.