Disclaimer: I don't think I'll do this anymore in the future chapters. You all know I don't own GW.
Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 4)
Damn! Damn! Damn! Her fingers flexed and curled. Why did he have to come back? Why now?
Closing her eyes, she prayed the cool rain would wash away the pain, dampen the fires of injustice that burned so brightly in her heart.
"Relena?" Trowa's voice, so near, made her jump, her heart still fluttering at the sound.
"Leave me alone!"
"What do you think you're doing out here?" he asked so calmly she wanted to scream.
"Trying to put things in perspective."
Leaning over the top rail, his eyes squinting against the darkness, he stood so close that his shoulder brushed hers. She didn't move. Couldn't. Raindrops, reflecting the blue glow from the single outside lamp, collected in his hair and drizzled down his throat.
He hadn't bothered with a jacket, and his shirttail flapped in the wind. "Aren't you afraid of drowning?" he asked softly.
"In case you haven't heard, we're in the middle of a drought!"
His eyes searched the dark heavens. "Not tonight, we're not."
"The rain feels good." Why did she feel so defensive around him? Slowly counting to ten, she tried to control her temper. "Besides, we need every drop we get. The river's low and the fields are tinder-dry."
As the wind slapped against his face and the rain plastered his hair, Trowa said, "This is crazy. Let's go inside where it's dry."
"I'm fine out here."
"Are you?" he tried to smother a smile and failed as he brushed a drip from the tip of her chin. His gaze shifted restlessly over her face. "You look like a drowned rat."
"I bet you say that to all girls," she snapped, but couldn't help smiling.
"Only when I'm trying to impress them."
"So you're still the charmer you've always been."
He laughed, a low rumbling sound that warmed the cool night. "Low blow, Relena."
"You deserved it. You haven't been pulling any punches yourself."
'I guess I haven't." The breeze snatched at his hair, ruffling it. "Come inside. I'll pour you a cup of coffee." The determined line of his jaw relaxed, and he looked more like the young man she'd love so fervently. He touched her lightly on the shoulder; his fingertips warm through her wet blouse. "Truce?"
She shook her head. "I don't know if that's possible, Trowa." But she let him take her hand and told herself that the tingling sensation she felt in her palm was because of the storm. Hands linked, running stride for stride, they dashed through puddles in the backyard to the house.
In the kitchen he tossed her a towel, and Relena wiped the rain from her face. As she sat in one of the chairs at the table, she studied him. His face had become lean and angular over the years, his skin dark and tight. But no amount of reconstructive surgery had been able to straighten his nose – a nose that had been broken when he fell from a horse at the age of twelve.
He changed. The lines of boyish dimples that had creased his cheeks had dimpled into grooves of discontent, and his sensual mouth was knife-blade thin. A webbing of lines near his eyes indicted that he still squinted – but did he laugh and tease and smile as he once had?
After pouring the coffee, he handed her a steaming mug.
She took a sip, nearly burning tongue. Cradling her mug in her hand, she leaned back in a chair and tossed the wet hair from her eyes. "I didn't really think you'd show up," she said. "I expected you'd sell your half of the place by phone."
He scraped back a chair, straddled it and leaned forward, blowing across his mug. "I wanted to, but it wasn't that easy."
So there it was. He admitted it. This ranch that she and her father had worked their bodies to the bone for meant nothing to him.
"As I said, there's a problem with back taxes," he said. "Seems they've been neglected."
"Money's been tight." A defensive note crept into her voice.
"So I've heard."
"And Duo?" she asked, wondering about Trowa's brother. "Does he feel the same about this place?"
"I wish I knew." Trowa glanced pensively into the dark depths of his coffee. "Since he owns half the place, I need to know if wants to buy out my share or put the whole spread on the market."
"So, no matter what happens, you're going to sell."
"Right." He took a swig from his cup, without the slightest indication that he felt one second's regret.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
She leaned closer to him, placing her elbows on the table for support, her wet hair falling forward. "What would you say if I told you I wanted to buy you out?"
His features froze. "You?"
'Right. And not just your share, but Duo's too."
Trowa's mouth dropped open before he clamped it shut. "You don't want this ranch, Relena," he said quietly. "You couldn't."
"Don't you presume anything about me, Trowa Barton," she replied, her eyes serious, her voice surprisingly strong. "I've thought about it a long time. I've worked hard on this place to have it sold out from under me."
"Relena, this is crazy-,"
"I'm not kidding, Trowa. If you're going to sell Barton Ranch, I intend to buy it." Before he could protest, she added, "I've got some money of my own, livestock I could sell if I need to, and I've already down the preliminary talking to a banker in Three Falls."
"So you've got it all figured out."
"Most of it."
"Tell me," he drawled, "How do you expect to pull a ranch that can't hold its own back on its feet?
"It can be done."
"With a huge mortgage?" He shook his head and finished his coffee. "I don't see how."
"That's the problem, Trowa," she said evenly. "You've got your eyes wide open, but you can't see what's right in front of your nose." Feeling a hot lump forming in her throat, she whispered, "You never could."
Trowa's fingers curled over his cup. Relena was beautiful – too beautiful. He kicked back his chair, tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink and tried to ignore the firm thrust of Relena's jaw, the fire in her blue eyes, the way her damp blouse clung to her skin. Her hair, though wet, shone beneath the dim wattage in the kitchen, and her face was flushed in fury, touching the forbidden part of his soul he'd hoped had smoldered to a cold death seven years before. "I think I'll unpack." He needed time to think, time to put everything into perspective, time to remind himself that she'd betrayed him and his family. Distance would help. Being in the room with her, feeling her accusing gaze still drilling hot against his back, wasn't good.
What was the old saying? That there was a thin line between love and hate? Convinced he was walking that line, Trowa realized he had to be careful – or he was sure to fall.
"You can have the room at the top of the stairs," she said.
"I can have?" he asked, turning. She was still seated at the table, her eyes cool, and distant, he face more beautiful than he'd remembered.
"It was Mark's room."
"I know whose room it was. I use to live here. Remember?"
She let out a little strangled sound, and then cleared her throat. Unfortunately, I could never forget."
To his disgust, he felt his guts wrenching, that same horrid pain he'd felt when Duo had convinced him that Relena was involved with her father in Matthew's scheme to fleece the ranch. To hide his weakness he leaned his hips against the counter and curled his fingers around the sharp edge. "What about my parents' room?"
"I'm using it."
"You?" he repeated. "You live here?"
"Yes." Standing, she shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. You can have any room you want, Trowa. Just let me know, so I can move my things."
"Hold on a minute. Why are you living here?" he demanded, hot, fresh anger searing deep inside. Relena had lived under the same roof as Mark before his death?
"It was more convenient."
"I'll bet," he muttered, imagining her with his uncle. A bachelor for life, Mark Barton had gained a reputation with the local women. But Relena? Trowa's insides knotted. Repulsed at the image of Mark and Relena making love, he closed his mind and gritted his teeth. He wanted to discard the ugly idea, and yet he couldn't. He didn't really know Relena, not anymore. Maybe he never had.
"What do you mean?" she asked before she caught the message in Trowa's stormy eyes. "You're kidding, right?" she whispered, lips twitching. "You don't really think I was Mark's -,"
"Were you?"
Laughter died in Relena's throat. Trowa was serious. Dead serious. And there was a possessive streak of jealously lighting his eyes. "Think about it, Trowa," she taunted, wounded once again. "You tell me." Her back so stiff it ached, she strode out of the room and ran up the stairs to her room.
How could he think she would sleep with his uncle? The ugly thought made her sick! She threw open the closet and began stripping her clothes off hangers, hurling them onto the bed and kicking shoes into center of the room.
One thing was certain, she thought furiously, she couldn't stay here at the house with Trowa. She yanked her suitcase and an old Army duffel bag from the shelf and heaved both onto the bed. Cheeks burning, she began attacking the drawers of her dresser with fervor.
She slammed the top drawer. It banged hard against its casing, rattling the mirror. "Argumentative, insensitive beast!" she muttered through clenched teeth just as she caught sight of Trowa's image, staring at her from the mirror over the dresser.
He surveyed her scatter clothes expressionlessly. "Don't let me stop you," he drawled.
"You won't!" She threw her clothes haphazardly into the suitcase and stuffed the remainder into the duffel bag. "Believe me."
Not
everything fit. Corners of blouses and sweater sleeves poked out of the bag and
she had trouble closing the lid of the suitcase. Finally it snapped shut.
Lifting her head high, she said, "I'll be back for the rest in the morning."
With the suitcase swinging
from one arm and the duffel bag tucked under the other, she strode across the
bedroom and waited, the toe of one boot tapping impatiently, for him to move.
"If you'll excuse me," she mocked.
"No way."
"Move, Trowa,"
"Not until you explain what you were doing in this room."
Her blue eyes snapped. "I don't have to explain anything to you, do I? You left me without a word – not one damn word! I don't owe you anything."
His mouth tightened, but he was wedged in the doorjamb and she couldn't get around him.
"This is stupid, Trowa."
"Maybe."
"Let me by."
"As soon as you tell me why your father lives down at the ranch foreman's house and you live here."
The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but her pride kept her silent. She glared up at him, willing her heart to stop beating like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, praying that he couldn't see the pulse leaping in her throat or notice that her knuckles had clenched white around the handle of her battered old suitcase. "As I said, Trowa, it was more convenient. Think what you want, because I don't really care."
She attempted to brush past him then, but as soon as she stepped one foot over the threshold, his arm snaked forward and captured her waist. So swiftly that she gasped, he dragged her against him. Feeling every hard muscle in his chest, watching the fire leap in his eyes, she knew she was trapped – pressed tightly against his hard frame.
Outside thunder cracked. Rain blew through the open window. The curtains billowed into the room. Yet Relena couldn't do anything but stare into Trowa's eyes. "What do you want me to say?" she rasped, barely able to speak. "Do you want me to say that your uncle and I were lovers?"
A muscle leaped to life in his jaw, and his lips flattened over his teeth.
"Or do you want me to say that he was just one in a long line – a line you started?"
His arm dropped suddenly, and she nearly fell into the hallway. Disgust contorted his features, but she couldn't tell if he was revolted at her or himself. "You can stay," he said hoarsely. "I'll take the room at the end of the hall."
"I don't want to stay."
He plowed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the old wainscoting in the corridor. But his face remained drawn, his muscles rigid. "It doesn't matter what happened. It's none of my business."
"You're
right, but it is your place." Wrestling up her bags down the stairs before she
could change her mind.
"Relena -,"
"I'll move back when I own the place." Shoving open the back door, she felt the rain and wind lash at her face. She had no car. Her father had the pickup, the station wagon was in the shop, and her brother, Milliardo, had borrowed the old flatbed.
"Wonderful," she muttered, soaked to the bone almost before she started walking. If she cut through the fields, the trek was only a quarter of a mile – if she took the road, the distance tripled.
She glanced longingly back at the farmhouse. The windows glowed in the night – warm, yellow squares in the darkness. Setting her jaw, she shoved open the gate and started across the wet fields.
Before she'd gone ten yards, she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder and spin her around. "You little idiot," Trowa hissed.
"Let go of me!"
"Not until you're back in the house!" He snatched her bags with one hand.
"I'm warning you – ohhh!"
Hauling her off her feet, he threw her, fireman style, over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around her ankles in an iron vise.
"Let me down right now! This is ridiculous!" Damn the man. But he didn't heed her muttered oaths or flailing fists as she pummeled his back.
"Trowa, put me down! I mean it."
Tightening his grip on her suitcase and bag, he strode purposefully back to the house. Mortified, she had to hang on to the back of his shirt for fear of sliding to the sodden ground. Her hair fell over her eyes, rain drizzled from her chin to her forehead, and she silently swore that when she was back on her feet again, she'd kill him. He hauled her up the steps and into the house.
"There you go," he said, depositing her unceremoniously on the floor, once they were back in the kitchen.
"Of all the mean, despicable, low and dirty tricks -," she sputtered, planting her fists firmly on her hips.
"And what were you planning to do – ford the stream?"
"There hasn't been a drop of water in the creek for over a month!"
"Why were you walking?"
She didn't bother with an answer. Still fuming, she raked her fingers through her wet hair and hoped to hold on to the few shreds of her dignity that were still intact.
He glanced to the floor, where the duffel bag and suitcase sat in a pool of water on the cracked linoleum. As if noticing the Army bags for the first time, he bent on one knee and fingered the tags still tied to the duffel's strap. "Private Milliardo Dorlian?" He stared up at her, his brows drawn into a bushy line. "Your brother is back?"
She nodded. The less she said the better.
"I thought he left after the fire."
"He did."
"So when did he show up?"
"Six months ago. You've been gone a long time, Trowa. Milliardo's hitch was over last year. He's going back to school in a few weeks."
Frowning, he studied the name tags then straightened. "So where is he?"
She shrugged. "Around. Probably in town tonight. It is Friday."
"Still raising hell?" Trowa asked.
Bristling, she snapped. "That was a long time ago, Trowa. Milliardo's changed."
"Has he?" Trowa asked sarcastically.
Relena couldn't begin to explain about the mixed emotions she felt for her brother. He'd stood by her after the fire, when Trowa had left her aching and raw – lost and alone. It was true Milliardo had joined the army soon after the blaze, but he was back, and for the most part, he'd straightened out. The hellion he'd been after high school had all but disappeared. "Milliardo's been through six years in the Army. He's grown up. If you haven't noticed, a lot of things have changed around here!"
"That they have," he said quietly, his gaze lingering in hers. "That they have."
Relena's heart started thudding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it.
"Look, why don't you go upstairs, put those -," he motioned to the bags. "-away. You said something about a hot bath earlier.
Relena was chilled to the bone. A soak in a tub of warn water sounded like heaven. But she wasn't convinced that staying in the same house with Trowa Barton would be smart or safe. "And what about you?" she asked.
"As I said, I'll move into the room down the hall."
"I don't think that would be such a good idea."
"This is my house," he reminded her. "And it's only for a week. Two at the most."
Knowing she was making a mistake, Relena relented. Wet, dirty and just plain tired of arguing with him, she decided one night wouldn't hurt. In the morning, after the shock of seeing him again had worn off, she'd decide if she should move out.
"Just for tonight," she said, hoisting her bags.
"I can take those," he offered.
"No thanks." She hauled her bags up the stairs, and unpacked her nightgown and robe. Feeling like a stranger in her own home, she hurried to the bathroom, locked the door and stripped off her wet clothes.
Steam rise from the tub as she glanced in the mirror and groaned. Her hair was lank and wet, her face smudged with mud, her skin flushed from the argument. "This is crazy," she told herself as she stepped into the hot ware. "Absolutely crazy!"
Trowa poured himself a stiff shot. His second. Nervous as a cat, he paced the study, listening as the ceiling creaked. He knew the minute she dashed down the hall to the bathroom, heard the soft metal click of the lock, felt the house shudder a little as she turned on the shower and the old pipes creaked.
Closing his eyes, he imagined Relena stepping into the bath and wondered if her body had aged, or if it was still as supple and firm as the last time he'd been with her. Groaning, her image as vivid as if their lovemaking had been only yesterday, he gritted his teeth. "Forget it, Barton," he warned himself, tossing back his drink.
Swearing loudly, he dropped into the chair behind the desk and started working on the invoices. But he couldn't concentrate. Aware of the water running, he listened until the old pipes clanged and the hum of the pump stopped suddenly. Gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles showed white, he leaned back and listened as she unlocked the bathroom door and padded softly to her room – his parents' old room.
Why the devil was she living in the house? He wanted to believe that she'd moved in after Mark died, to manage the old house and keep it running. But he knew better. She had admitted as much.
Had she been Mark's mistress? He doubted it. Yet uncertainty gnawed at him. She hadn't denied having an affair with the old man, but Trowa wouldn't let himself believe her capable of making love to a man more than twice her age. He couldn't. Though, all things considered, it was none of his damned business. He'd given up any claims on her when he'd accepted the cold truth that she'd betrayed him.
He reached for the neck of the Scotch bottle again, intent on pouring himself another, then twisted on the cap. After shoving the bottle back in the drawer where he'd found it, he stood at the window and stared out at the night.
Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the ridge near the silver mine, the ridge where he'd first discovered how exquisite making love to Relena could be. There had been women before and since, of course, but none of those brief experiences had been as soul-jarring as the one suspended moment in time when he'd made love to Relena Dorlian.
Angry with the turn of his thoughts, he yanked down the blind to blot out the picture, but it snapped back up again and the ridge was there again, knifing upward against the sky. He'd been a fool to return to this damned place; he'd known it was and still he'd come back.
Relena was just upstairs, lying in his parents' wedding bed of all placed.
How, he wondered, fire burning hot in his loins, would he get through the night?
Now there's a cliffhanger to be proud of. Not. Please review anyways.