311 Pelican Court - Debbie Macomber [117]
Cliff had guessed what she’d been doing and had ended their relationship. She’d been such a fool. No one had ever treated her better or showed her as much love and consideration as Cliff Harding.
Maybe her problem was that Cliff was simply too good. Something inside her rejected his genuine warmth and love. Was it because she felt unworthy? All Grace knew was that she’d done the very thing she’d promised Cliff’s daughter she’d never do, and that was hurt Cliff.
She prayed it wasn’t too late. She spent at least an hour gathering her courage to visit Cliff. She’d considered phoning ahead, then decided against it. If he wasn’t at the ranch house, she’d just return another time.
She had to face him, had to confess. She wanted Cliff to understand how sincerely sorry she was. Although she didn’t deserve his forgiveness, she needed it.
Grace dressed carefully. She chose a jeans jumper and blouse Cliff especially liked. As she got ready to leave the house, Buttercup lifted her head from her pillowed dog bed and watched her every move. Maybe it was a fanciful thought, but she felt as if her golden retriever knew Grace was going to see Cliff. Knew and approved. While friendly, Buttercup was a discerning dog and wasn’t prone to accepting strangers, but she’d loved Cliff from the very first.
“I’ll be sure to tell Cliff you’re feeling better,” she said, bending over to stroke her dog’s silky ears. She’d given Buttercup lots of attention during the last few weeks, pampering her in an effort to make up for the neglect.
By the time she walked outside, it’d started to drizzle. Typical March weather. The windshield wipers made lazy swishes as Grace drove the twenty minutes to Olalla and Cliff’s ranch.
Although Grace had often visited his ranch, she hadn’t been there in at least six months. Turning into his long driveway she was immediately surprised by the number of apparent changes. A dozen horses grazed in the pasture, far more than she recalled from her last visit. A freshly painted white fence bordered the drive; it made for a striking entrance to the ranch. A large two-story red barn had replaced the smaller one.
When she pulled into the yard and parked near the barn, a man she didn’t recognize walked out. Raising the hood of her raincoat, she left her car.
“Hello,” she said, smiling. “I’m Grace Sherman. Is Cliff available?”
The dark-haired man hesitated, then nodded. “C-Cal Washburn,” he said with a slight stutter. He was attractive—solid and squarely built, with an aura of competence. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but it was always difficult for Grace to judge age. His eyes, an intense shade of blue, seemed to look straight through her. It made Grace wonder if Cliff had mentioned her name—and whether or not Cal was going to answer her question.
The front door opened and Cliff stepped out.
“Cliff!” Grace hurried across the yard. Cliff moved aside and held the door for her.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming by like this,” she said. The warmth in the house enveloped her.
“Of course I don’t mind.” Cliff took her coat from her shoulders and hung it in the foyer.
Grace rubbed her arms. “It’s colder than I expected.”
“Why don’t I get us a cup of coffee,” Cliff suggested.
This was going well and Grace began to relax. She followed him into the kitchen, noting improvements in the house as well as the yard.
“How long has Cal been around?” she asked.
“Couple months now,” Cliff said as he stood in front of the cupboard and selected two mugs. He seemed pleased to see her, cordial and polite, but…reserved. She had the impression that her visit had prompted mixed feelings. Which was only natural under the circumstances, she acknowledged.
Cliff poured them each a cup and set hers on the kitchen counter. Grace slipped onto a stool, while he stood across from her, on the other side of the counter.
“How’s Buttercup?” he asked.
“Much better. I was terrified when they discovered