Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [121]
“Okay, I’ll stop. I’d rather discuss why you came back looking so haunted. But ghosts are a start.”
He exhaled a deep sigh.“Okay, tell me about Tommy and Laura. What? Do you think we are the reincarnation of these lovers from the 1960s?” His tone was faintly patronizing.
“No, actually, I don’t have that sense. There is a connection. They loved The Windmill. It’s theirs, too. I’m fighting to save it. You’re a threat to it. I think . . . maybe they want me to know how special it is, that it’s worth fighting for.”
“You already believe that. You don’t need two nonpaying guests to remind you.” He scooted up in the bed. “And I am no threat to The Windmill, Asha. Surely you know that.”
She reached for her robe and slipped it on, thinking he would keep his male brain on the chat if there were fewer ‘distractions.’ Clint gave a huge yawn, grumpy that his people were stirring at dawn instead of snuggling back down to sleep. She patted his head and he curled up, glaring at them with one eye.
“Yes, I do know. I think you understand what I’m doing there. Only you aren’t Trident Ventures,” she qualified. “They want the horse farm, and they’ve made it clear by pressuring my father that they wanted The Windmill, too. I know how big business works. What they want, they get, by fair means or foul.”
He picked up her hand and toyed with her engagement ring. “Don’t fret about Trident. They shall leave you alone.”
“You have that much pull with them, Jago?”
He’d meant to reassure her. For some reason it had the opposite effect. She shifted on the bed so she could face him, wanting to watch his countenance. He crossed his arms over his chest—a defensive position, whether he was aware of the action or not.
“I will . . . in a few weeks,” he answered. No further details were forthcoming.
She wasn’t content with that reply; it felt an evasion. “Was this part of what took you away?”
“Part.”
The one word answer set her teeth on edge.
Grrrrrrrrr. More evasions! The man was beginning to tick her off. She wasn’t Miz Nosybucket, hadn’t pressed him on matters about his month away, assuming he’d tell her when he was ready. Men had a tendency to talk in their own time. Prod them for facts or explanations and they clammed up on you. She had six brothers to attest the only way to handle a man was to out-wait him. Even so, she didn’t like how he was closing himself off from her by tossing out these half-hearted, vague responses. She’d noticed Jago’s sentences grew shorter as she pressed, and wondered if he was aware how telling such actions where. He was used to dealing with the high-powered world of big business, the hired gun for Trident Ventures, which meant he was used to guising his reactions. Perhaps he couldn’t use those tricks with her. She smiled.
“What part?” she pushed.
He reached for his jeans and tugged them on, evidently sussing she’d zeroed in on the chink in his armor. Going to the window, he looked out at the snow flying. His stance demonstrated he was marshaling his defenses. Also, he appeared to be working up to the one thing men seemed to have the hardest time facing—actually opening up and communicating.
Getting out of bed, Asha went over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. In the pre-dawn light the whole river valley was pure white, with only the dark ribbon of the river winding below. It was stunning, but she’d rather look at Jago. She hugged him tightly, loving him with all her heart.
“Jago . . . I love you.”
She’d waited for him to tell her that first. Yeah, she knew he loved her, but women were silly, sentimental beings who craved to hear those three little words. She was no different. It doesn’t matter a man showed in a hundred ways how much he cared; women were whiny brats and had to hear those words. Well, she was tired of waiting.
His breathing stilled; his strong back muscles tensed. He didn’t move, and she suddenly worried if she had