Page 26 of Point of Mercy

“Not this one.” He flopped onto his back and stared at the dusty rafters where a barn owl had tried to roost. “That’s the problem, Heather. Ilikemy life the way it is. I’d die in a three-piece suit and a tiny office on the forty-third floor of some high rise. I’d rather hassle with my old pickup than drive a Mercedes. And I’d take a camp stove and a tent over a house in the suburbs any day.I wouldn’t be any good at frying hamburgers on the backyard grill and I don’t see myself coachin’ Little League.”

“You’re telling me there’s no room in your life for me.”

“Nope. I’m telling you there’s no room inyourlife forme.”

“I love you, Turner.”

“You don’t—”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips and fought back the urge to cry. He didn’t love her. Oh, he cared for her. That much was evident. But to him she was no more than his girl at one of the many places he called home. He probably had women waiting for him in every rodeo town in the West. Tears clogged her throat and burned her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him.

He responded, but his eyes were open and he saw the tears that she fought so bravely. With a sad smile, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry for me, darlin’. Believe me, I’m not worth it,” he said before his lips found hers again and he showed her a way to forget the pain.

* * *

Heather didn’t seeTurner the next day. He didn’t come in for meals and his pickup wasn’t in the yard. If Mazie knew anything, she was keeping her lips buttoned and Zeke wasn’t around.

All day long Heather’s stomach was queasy and her heart felt as if it had turned to stone. But he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

The day dragged endlessly, and when finally she was finished shaking the rugs, hanging the kettles and mopping the floor,she tossed her apron into a hamper and ran outside. Heart in her throat, she walked to the stables.

Sampson was missing.

And Turner’s saddle wasn’t slung over the sawhorse near the corner of Sampson’s stall. She hurried down the cement walkways, her boots ringing hollowly beneath the glare of single bulbs.

In the broodmare barn she found Billy, pitchfork in hand, tossing fresh hay into a manger.

“Is—have you seen Turner?” she asked when Billy glanced her way.

“Not since daybreak. He’s gone.”

“Gone?” she replied, panic causing her heart to beat so fast she could barely breathe. Maybe Billy meant that Turner had driven into town for supplies with Zeke. Or maybe he meant that Turner had taken some of the guests on an overnight campout. Or maybe his father had gotten himself into trouble again and Turner had to bail the old man out. That was probably it. John had gotten drunk, thrown a few punches in a bar and—

“He took off just after dawn,” Billy volunteered, jabbing another forkful of hay.

“When will he be back?”

Billy’s jaw tightened. He stuffed the pitchfork into a bale of straw and yanked off his gloves. “I don’t reckon he’s comin’ back. Leastwise not this summer.”

Her heart dropped to the cold cement floor. “You’re sure?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” Billy shrugged and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “But his shoulder isn’t hurt anymore and he paid a lot of money for entry fees and everyone knows he likes to keep some distance between himself and his old man,so you figure it out.”

He yanked on his gloves and began spreading straw in some of the empty stalls. Heather’s throat squeezed shut and tears stung her eyes. So he’d gone. Without telling her. Well, maybe he’d tried last night, but she’d expected more than a “I’ll be leaving soon.”

She battled tears all the way back to the ranch house. She wanted to throw herself onto her bed and kick and scream and sob until all her tears were wrung from her body. But she couldn’t go upstairs and run into Sheryl or Jill or any of the girls who worked at the ranch. No, she’d have to do her grieving by herself. Maybe he’d call. Or write. She could cling to those frail hopes.

Feeling more miserable than she’d felt in all of her life, she saddled Sundown and rode to the bend in the river where she’d first spied Turner. “The beginning of the end,” she whispered, patting the gelding’s neck and hopping to the ground while tears streamed down her face.

She tried to be strong because she faced more than a single fear. Not only did she realize that he’d used her, that she’d been nothing more than one of the girls he’d met on the road, that he’d never loved her, she also suspected that she might be pregnant.

She touched her flat abdomen and tried not to cry for the baby who would never know his father. For the baby, she had to be strong; for the life beating within her, she had to find a way to survive. Without Turner.

BOOK TWO

Badlands Ranch, California

The Present

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