The Wish. Diane Pershing

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      It had probably not been a good match in the first place: a man who loved ranching and a woman with a decent voice and stars in her eyes. Still, Des didn’t have a lot of faith in the staying power of the female sex.

      Gerri was different, though. He wasn’t quite sure how to categorize her, only knew that, over the months, she’d become more important to him than he’d intended. Whenever he realized it, the emotion not only took him by surprise, but scared the pants off him.

      He was better off alone, that much he knew about himself. He was not what was known as a good communicator. Sometimes he tried to stay away when he knew she’d come to ride, but mostly he couldn’t seem to stop himself from riding out to meet her. He enjoyed her company. Hell, she even made him laugh sometimes, which was rarer than rare for him. Just a few minutes with Gerri and some inner tightness always eased up.

      Unless, of course, she mentioned Rance. Then he found himself tightening up all over again.

      “I’m dying of thirst,” Gerri said suddenly. “Let’s get back so I can gulp down some water from your barn hose.”

      “No need,” he found himself saying, “come to the house. You can have a glass of water there.”

      He saw the look of pleased surprise she gave him, and wondered himself how that one had popped out. He’d never invited her to his place, had never invited any woman to his place, not since Stella had taken off. It was his sanctuary, his cave, and being invaded by another human being—most of all a woman—was tantamount to losing a piece of his soul. Still, he’d said the words and it was done.

      “Well, sure, thanks,” she said with a grin. “I’d love to see where you live.”

      “Don’t expect much,” he warned.

      “If you’re afraid I’ll be one of those fastidious ‘house beautiful’ types, forget it. I’m pretty messy myself, and my knowledge of home decor stops at what color to paint the walls, white or beige.”

      He chuckled. How could he not? She was so self-effacing, so open about what she considered her multiple shortcomings. Over the months he’d heard about them all. He wondered if she’d ever had a boyfriend, wondered even if she was a virgin. A twenty-nine-year-old virgin? In this day and age? He’d never asked. If he had, it would have opened the door to her asking all kinds of questions of him.

      Gerri had seen the outside of Des’s place before. It was a one-story, white stucco building with a tiled roof and large windows. Now, as he opened the door and she walked in, she was totally captivated by what lay within. The living room was cool after the heat from the morning sun, and was furnished with a cozy-looking couch and matching armchair, adjacent to a large stone fireplace. The floors were of natural-colored hardwood, dotted by several small Native American print rugs. Two of the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling book-filled shelves. This pleased her inordinately. She had no idea Des was a reader; he’d shared none of that with her.

      Off to the right was an archway leading to a hallway that seemed to be the bedroom wing. To the left was another archway, and it was through this he showed her to a warm, yellow-tiled kitchen. A scarred round wooden table with two chairs sat in the middle of the room under a ceiling fan.

      “This is great,” Gerri enthused. “It’s so homey, Des,” she went on, “so comfortable.”

      When he shrugged, she figured her compliments embarrassed him a bit. He went to the sink, got a glass from a long shelf over it, and poured her some water. She took the glass from him eagerly and downed it quickly. “More.” She handed it back to him. “I feel like I’ve been drained of all bodily fluids this morning. Might be the anchovies I had on the pizza last night.”

      One eyebrow went up as he refilled her glass. “Anchovies, huh? You’re one of the only women I’ve ever met who likes them.”

      “You, too?”

      He nodded. “Anchovies, pepperoni and mushrooms.”

      “Yes!” she said, pumping her fist in the air. “The big three. We need to get a pizza together sometime!”

      Something in his gaze withdrew as she said this, and she knew she’d overstepped a line somehow. “Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

      “No, of course not,” he said. Then frowning, he added, “Why do you do that to yourself?”

      “Do what?”

      “Apologize. Assume you’re in the wrong.”

      “Do I? Darn, I thought I’d gotten over that.”

      He reached out a hand and she had the feeling he was going to stroke her cheek, but the moment passed and he dropped his hand to his side. “Sorry. It’s not my place to criticize you.”

      “Of course it is. Now, who’s apologizing? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

      Again, that shadow of something hidden behind his eyes. “Yeah, we’re friends. It’s just that you’re a terrific woman and you shouldn’t put yourself down.”

      Terrific woman. His words warmed her. He really was the most special man. And it was true, she’d always put herself down, apologized for making anyone feel uncomfortable all her life. She’d tried, really tried, since coming west and starting her new life, to cut that out. But old habits, and old scars, ran deep. It would probably take a lobotomy to change her.

      “Well,” she said, “thanks for that. I wish I believed it,” she added ruefully.

      Inwardly Des cursed himself for snapping at her. Why had he said that? Because he cared about her, dammit. She was terrific, and he wished she knew it, could take it in.

      An awkward silence descended over the room, so Des gestured toward the table. “Um, you want to sit down? Rest for a few minutes?”

      “No,” she said brightly, “but I’d love to look at your books. May I?”

      Then she was off to the living room, walking slowly along the shelves, oohing and ahing in that enthusiastic way she had. “Look!” she said. “You have all of Dickens. And Thomas Aquinas. And, oh, Des, so many volumes of poetry! Frost and Wordsworth, and look here, Rilke’s Duino Elegies. ” Hands on hips, she turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “Tell you what?”

      “That you’re one of us. The word-lovers. Especially the poetry. How come I never knew that about you?”

      Her enthusiasm made him feel even more awkward; he was already nervous about her being there. He wanted her to like the place, while at the same time he was kicking himself for caring. The woman knew too much about him already.

      “It didn’t come up,” he said with a shrug.

      “Sure it did. How many mornings have I bent your ear about new authors, especially poets, I’d been reading? And you just sat there on your big horse and nodded politely. Des, you’re a fraud.”

      She said it with a grin, so he didn’t feel attacked. And she was right. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much of a secret life he’d led always, disguising his love of reading from his family because they would have laughed СКАЧАТЬ