Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [71]
The room seemed to shrink. All the old doubts in her mind crawled out of their carefully locked crates. She felt eighteen again. Young, alone, betrayed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell.” He stood, tossed his plate into the sink, and reached for his jacket. “I’ll keep it simple for now, okay? It was a mistake. From the git-go. I was an idiot. You were the one I loved. But I was young and randy and didn’t think beyond the minute’s pleasure.” He slid his arms into the sleeves. “It started out as a mistake. I’d had a few too many beers and then…”
“Then you couldn’t stop yourself.”
“Nah.” He shook his head as if to convince himself. “I could have. I just didn’t want to.” His eyes held hers for a moment. “As I said. Young and foolish.” Snapping his jacket, he walked to the door, grabbed his hat, and squared it on his head. “You want a more detailed explanation, you’ll get one. Just as soon as I take care of things and catch up on a few hours’ sleep.”
Maggie watched him disappear through the door, and she mentally kicked herself a dozen times over. What did it matter? The past was ancient history. Mary Theresa had been irresistible, even to Thane. End of story.
Climbing to her feet she ignored the jab of pain she always felt when she thought of those dark days following Mitch’s death and Thane’s betrayal. It was better to put the past behind her once and for all. Right now she only had to deal with what had happened to her sister. She glanced out the window and watched as Thane struggled through the snow, then, throwing his weight behind his shoulder, forced open the door to the barn.
Maggie’s throat closed and she remembered the times they had been alone in another barn, the way his mouth felt on hers, the feel of his work-roughened fingers as they caressed her skin. “Damn it,” she growled, and tossed her dirty dish into the sink. She walked back to the den and, ignoring the flashing light on the recorder, punched out the number for her sister-in-law in California. Tapping her fingers impatiently, she waited until a groggy Becca answered.
“Hi, honey,” she said.
“Hi.” Becca wasn’t known to arise sunny-side up.
“How’re things goin’?”
“Okay,” Becca mumbled. “It’s early.”
“I know, but I wanted to talk to you.” More than you’ll ever know, kiddo. “So is the ankle okay? Does it hurt you?”
“It’s fine, Mom. Really.” There was a hint of distrust in her daughter’s voice—the innuendo that Maggie was intruding.
“I’m in Wyoming,” Maggie said, and explained about the snowstorm, though she knew Becca wasn’t listening, was just ticking off the seconds, doing time as part of her daughter-duty. When questioned about what she was doing, she was evasive but insisted that all her homework was caught up and that she was having a “super” time, “the best.” When Maggie said she loved her, Becca mumbled a “love you, too,” by rote that meant nothing other than she didn’t want to make her mother mad.
Sighing, Maggie hung up feeling uneasy and out of sorts. She needed to be with her daughter, hated the separation, even though she felt it might be best for their relationship to have a few days apart from each other.
Disturbed, she walked through the spartan house again. Hardwood floors covered with a few rugs, not a plant in sight, no photographs or mementos of any kind. A chipped hurricane lantern rested on the mantel in the living room where a timeworn rocker, end table, television, and battle-scarred camel-backed couch took up residence around a washed-out braided rug and river-rock fireplace.
She hauled her bag upstairs and found the second bedroom, where a twin bed was pushed into the corner and a simple bureau that had once been painted white stood in the corner. The bare wood floors needed refinishing, and the only picture on the wall was a framed ink drawing of a rifle. The glass was cracked in one corner.
“Home sweet home,” she muttered