Matty stifled the words to ask about Dave. She knew exactly what Lisa was doing, and it wouldn't work.
Another stanza of the song went by before Lisa stood, rooting in her large purse. "I have other people to talk to anyway, so I'll go. But before I do, I'm going to give you something to think about."
Before Matty could react, Lisa punched the "Eject" button, silencing Fred's song, took that tape out, plugged in another one, and started it playing. She was already gone before the screen flickered to life once more, now with another couple dancing in the center of the screen.
Certainly no Fred and Ginger, but with something disconcertingly compelling about the figures that didn't quite look like her and Dave.
It took a moment for her to realize that what made them look so different was the formal clothing, instead of their usual jeans, boots and shirts.
Their wedding clothes...her two-piece silk dress and his dark suit. Not hanging in a closet this time, but still so close there wasn't a breath of space between them, moving together, touching each other. Quick, small, fleeting touches. And not only Dave touching her. The sleeve of her dress rubbed against his suit jacket, an unmistakably deliberate motion, even if the mind connected to the arm enclosed in that sleeve had no memory of it.
It wasn't the clothes that clung to each other, it was them.
* * * *
Taylor Larsen looked across the café's corner table and couldn't quite believe she was doing this. Couldn't believe she had laid in wait for Matty's ranch foreman at the Co-op. Couldn't believe she'd boldly asked Cal Ruskoff to have coffee with her. Couldn't believe she was about to meddle in someone else's life. Big-time.
She'd seen Matty and Dave's misery for herself, but she'd had no idea things were so bad until Ruth Moski and Lisa came into her office this morning with worried frowns creasing their foreheads. These two smart, levelheaded women who both loved Matty and Dave had been very persuasive...and here she was.
Taylor cleared her throat a second time. "I'm worried about Dave Currick."
"He's still Matty's to worry about far as I know." Cal Ruskoff's square face gave nothing away.
"Of course he is. I meant as a professional colleague. I've heard some rumors..."
She paused, giving him plenty of opportunity to ask What rumors? He didn't.
Lisa and Ruth had been so adamant that she was the only one to do this part of the plan because their connections to Dave were too obvious. But she'd told them Cal Ruskoff had never looked at her with anything close to friendliness.
"Something about how Dave might have helped out Matty in getting that grant," she said carefully. "There's a rumor that an investigator might come up from Cheyenne to look into it. Dave could be in trouble."
"How much trouble?"
"I don't know. But I know people in Cheyenne, and I heard there might be someone pulling strings. Someone in, say, an elected office. It almost seems like they're looking for a problem. And someone looking for a problem can twist things, so they appear–"
"How bad?"
"Dave probably wouldn't go to jail, but it might put a dent in his career." It wasn't a lie, precisely. She'd refused when Ruth and Lisa wanted to embellish. "Definitely take the gloss of his reputation, which is spotless right now. That would be such a shame."
He quirked one eyebrow at her. "Seems to me you're the sort of woman who might be able to think of a way to get around something like that."
Ah, here came the really tricky part. He clearly understood what she was driving at, but would he play along?
"Well, we–I–had thought that with Judge Halloran being a friend of the Currick family, and holding Dave in high regard, Dave would get a fair hearing if the judge handled it instead of this elected person pulling the strings. The difficulty would be letting Halloran know what's going on without it coming from, uh, official sources."
She looked up through her lashes to be sure Cal had gotten that point. He had.
"Dave's a friend," she added. "I'd hate to see anything bad happen to his career. Especially now, when he's already so unhappy."
He looked at his coffee cup, then back at her. "Matty's been a bear with a thorn in her paw all week."
"She has, hasn't she? She came into the office and said–" She cut off her own words. She was so relieved that she'd almost told him about Matty instructing her to forget the prenuptial agreement and draw up a separation agreement that gave her nothing from the marriage and pledged to repay Dave for every expenditure he'd made on her or the Flying W.
She liked the glint in Cal Ruskoff's eyes when he said, "Wonder if there's anything their friends can do."
* * * *
His first day back to the office he came home after dark to realize Lisa had been in the house. It had to be Lisa.
Who else would leave photographs of him and Matty from childhood through their wedding reception, spread all over the neatly made bed in the master bedroom?
It was neatly made because he hadn't been sleeping in it. What sleep he'd been getting was on the couch, with the TV turned on, tuned to anything that wasn't an old movie or romantic in any way. Infomercials worked okay.
He also spent a lot of time on the porch outside the office, using his good foot on the railing to balance the chair on its back legs. When his thoughts started circling around too close, he'd let the chair come down, so his other foot hit the porch floor, shooting pain through his ankle.
Tonight, he'd walked into the bedroom to hang up his sports jacket and seen the photos. He couldn't stop himself from picking them up, one after another. Him and Matty at a youth rodeo, at a roundup, at the swimming hole, on birthdays, going to a dance, at graduations, looking at each other in a way that made any ordinary day a special occasion. He picked up another photo that didn't seem to fit with the rest of them. There was an odd expression on his face and Matty looked worried. It took a moment before he realized it was from the day before their last ride.
He dropped the photograph and walked out, not bothering to favor his bad ankle. The antidote of physical pain wasn't going to work now.
* * * *
"Phone, Dave."
He wouldn't let himself glare, because everyone had been watching him these days as closely as people living by an active volcano watched the peak. But nobody could make a big deal out of a perfectly justified frown. "I told you, Ruth, no calls."
"It's your mother. From New Zealand."
The temptation to stick with the no-calls edict passed in a second. If he didn't talk to her, he wouldn't put it past his mother to have herself and his father on the next plane headed in the general direction of Wyoming.
"Dave? Are you all right, dear?"
"I'm fine. Everything's–"
"Lisa told me you and Matty have separated."
He cursed his younger sister under his breath, but kept his tone calm. "Separation's a legal term, Mother. We certainly haven't–"
"Oh, Dave, what did you do?"
It was what he hadn't done. But how could he explain it all to his mother when he was still struggling to understand it himself?
"It's not that simple, Mom. It's not like when we were kids, and Matty would get mad and then things would blow over in a day or two. She's not angry, she's...disappointed." He'd disappointed her, and that hurt.
He hadn't realized the silence had grown until his mother spoke again.
"I've been thinking about your saying that Indian Paintbrush reminds you of Matty. When I was first married and settling in on the Slash-C, I tried to grow Indian Paintbrush in the garden by the house. Grandmother Currick told me it wouldn't take there, and she was right. In some ways it's tough as anything–it can take late frosts, the dry and wind. But it needs to come up where conditions are right for it. A lot of times its roots grow right into the roots of other plants in its natural habitat, and it needs those roots to grow."
Rubbing his hand across his eyes, he sighed. "Mom, if you're trying to make a point, just say it, please."
r /> "When you try to make Indian Paintbrush what you want it to be, it won't grow. It flourishes when it grows where it wants to grow–where and how it needs to grow. That's the same thing with people, and especially with relationships between people. But Indian Paintbrush is meant to grow in Wyoming, just like Matty. Just like you. And if you really believe the two of you belong together, that you need to grow into one another's roots in order to survive, then you better do something about it. But I'm not sure you do."
"You're not sure? What was all that stuff you fed me about opposites balance each other?"
"I meant I'm not sure you believe the two of you belong together."
"I've always believed that."
"No you haven't, or you would never have been persuaded by anything your father and I and Grams Brennan ever said."
It's so unlike you to listen to other people. That's what Matty had said. Could the two women who knew him best both be wrong?
He ended the call with his mother, not even sure what he said. Because another thought had hit him–that photograph Lisa had left out and the odd expression on his face.
Fear.
He'd been afraid. Afraid of being responsible for Matty, especially responsible for her happiness if her dreams were just following his as the adults said. But another and deeper fear–that he'd disappoint her, that he wouldn't live up to the love that shone from her every time she looked at him.
How could he live up to that? How could he be sure he wouldn't let her down? How could he take care of her the way she deserved?
Take care of her...
Even if I let you rescue me, it wouldn't work, not long-term. Not in a partnership. And that's what I want. That's what I need.
He'd been trying to do it all on his own. It was why he'd been so scared six years ago–the idea of being the only one responsible for everything. And yet when she came back, he'd tried to keep things the way they had been before, tried his damnedest to make all the decisions, no matter how hard she fought him or how clearly she showed him she was capable of making her own decisions.
He'd recognized the signs. He'd noticed how she'd tempered her impulsiveness, how she'd thought of his parents more than he had, even how she'd gained skills and poise. Yet he'd stubbornly been trying to do it all on his own, even though that wasn't what she wanted or needed from him.
That was the thought that kept punishing him, even after he'd received a phone call that should have turned his thoughts to preserving his career.
* * * *
Matty heard the phone ring as she stepped onto the back porch shortly before noon. The answering machine would get the call–she had muddy boots on, and she wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.
"Matty? Are you there? It's Taylor" came the voice from the machine. "Please, if you're there. Please pick up."
Something in Taylor's tone had Matty lunging for the receiver with one boot off and one still on.
"Taylor? I'm here."
"Matty? Oh, Matty, I'm glad I finally got you!"
"What is it? You sound nervous."
"I'm worried. About Dave."
Matty's breathing stopped. "Is he hurt?"
"No. Nothing like that. But he's been called in to Judge Halloran's office for a 1 o'clock meeting..."
It took her a moment to process the rest of what Taylor was saying after that initial No released her breathing for a catch-up sprint.
"... and she told Lisa, who told me. The thing is, Matty, the judge asked to see your grant application and your wedding license–yours and Dave's. And the judge has called a meeting at Dave's office right after lunch."
"But...but the money was really Dave's."
"I know that. But it's a matter of professional integrity."
Oh, God. Somehow the judge had found out they'd gotten married only to make her eligible for the grant. It was all her doing, and now Dave was going to pay the price.
"We've got to do something, Taylor."
"Oh, Matty..." Matty had never heard Taylor Larsen sound twittery before. "I wouldn't know what to do. I don't know what I could do."
"Well, I know what I'm going to do."
She hung up the phone with a bang, yanked off her remaining boot and chucked it in the vicinity of the back hall before sprinting toward the shower.
* * * *
"I want it noted on the official record that I officially object to this hearing being held in David Currick's law office, and that I–"
"There's no official record to officially object to," Judge Halloran told Bob Brathenwaite with fast-fading patience, "and I already told you this is an informal discussion to get this straightened out. With an anonymous call on an allegation like this, most right-thinking people would like to tell the caller to take a jump if he's not willing to come forward. But we don't have that luxury, so we gotta pursue it, but without taking up any more time or–"
"I'm the one you should be talking to, then."
Matty stood at the open door, one hand still on the knob, the empty reception area behind her creating a backdrop that to Dave's eyes was hazy at best. All he saw was her. She was pale. Her eyes looked puffy and reddened. She was gorgeous.
"Matty–" He half rose from his seat.
She looked only at the judge, who sat in Dave's chair behind the desk. "If you want to straighten this out, and do it quickly I'm the one you should be talking to. The only one."
"Your Honor, this–"
The judge held up a hand dotted with age spots. "You be quiet, and you sit!" The commands stopped Brathenwaite with his mouth open, and Dave halfway out of his chair. "Let's hear this young lady. But first, I need to know your name."
"This is Matty, Judge Halloran. Matty Brennan."
"I'm Matty Brennan Currick," she was saying at the same time.
Their enunciation of Matty Brennan overlapped perfectly, so her addition of Currick hung out there like a solitary flag in the wind.
But still she didn't look at him.
"Ah, of course. I remember now. From your wedding." The creases in the judge's face shifted like sand ripples in a windstorm. "Your wedding, ahem. Yes. There's been an allegation made, and I need to discuss it with Dave. If you will excuse us, please. Really, the secretary shouldn't have let you in."
"It's not Ruth's fault. She was away from her desk," Matty said quickly. "But the allegation isn't against Dave, it's against me. It's my name on that grant application. Any wrong–"
"Matty, don't–" He reached from his chair to take her hand.
She locked her fingers with his, squeezing, but kept talking, all her attention on the judge. "-doing was mine. All me. And only me."
"I see. But it's Dave's professional standing that's been called into question. It's his reputation that could be at stake here, so it should be him deciding if you can speak for him. Dave?"
The other two men in the room couldn't know what this question meant. Yet the entire room seemed to go tense and quiet waiting for his answer. Or maybe the tension came from Matty. She'd turned to look at him, their hands still linked, her eyes wide and direct.
This hearing mattered to his profession, sure, but this question mattered to his life.
She wanted a partnership. Where each partner rescued the other now and then, not just one partner rescuing the other. Could he let go enough to let her rescue him?
Again. A voice reminded him.
Matty had certainly rescued him that dawn at The Narrows. But he hadn't had much choice then, and he'd fought her, trying to keep control.
Now, he had a choice.
A choice to trust her, to have faith in the woman she was.
"Yes." The word came easier than he could have imagined. It had been there all along, just waiting for him to wake up and use it. "Matty speaks for me."
The blue of her eyes as she met his look intensified, deepened to a color he'd never seen before. He thought maybe it was the color of their future.
She drew in a deep breath and faced Judge Halloran aga
in.
"I was the one who planned the whole thing. Dave knew nothing about it."
The judge's eyes narrowed. "Ever?"
"Not until after we were married," Matty said firmly.
"That's not what the man who called in this tip said."
"Are you going to believe an anonymous voice or me?" She wisely didn't wait for an answer. "You can put me in jail, but Dave had nothing to do with this in any way, shape or form." Her grip on his hand tightened in warning. "He probably still doesn't know exactly what you're talking about, although he might suspect. But I fooled him along with everyone else. You can't punish him for that."
Dave caught the flicker of the judge's eyes toward the file that clearly indicated Dave's repayment of the grant. He'd been halfway toward keeping Matty out of this entirely when she'd stormed through that door. Now the judge knew they'd both been involved. They both might get caught in the backlash.
And he didn't give a damn.
Matty had come to his rescue.
If he hadn't already loved her for most of their lives, he sure as hell would have fallen in love with her that moment she came flying through the door.
"Your Honor, please," Matty said. "It's none of Dave's doing. My great-uncle got the ranch into such a mess that I thought for sure I was going to lose it. I couldn't stand that. Not after all the years of being away and dreaming of coming home, dreaming of coming back here and making the life I've never stopped wanting. I couldn't let that dream go. Not without fighting with every weapon I could think of."
"This is all very touching," Brathenwaite said with disdain. "But it's not germane. The issue is if they married for the purpose of defrauding the grant commission. It's clear they did."
"Based on what proof?" Matty demanded.
Brathenwaite ostentatiously looked around Matty to address Dave, "Currick, are you asking this court–."
"We're not in court," Judge Halloran grumbled.
"–to believe that after a six-year estrangement that you simply picked up loving this woman where you'd left off? And that's why you married her?"
"Your Honor–" Matty started to protest.
Halloran cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I want to hear Dave's answer."
Dave looked at her as he spoke the words. "I'm not certain."
"What kind of answer is that?" Halloran complained.
"I'm not certain about a lot of things these days, Your Honor."