Brenda Minton - The Rancher's Secret Wife

“I’m afraid he isn’t here right now.” Mrs. Cooper looked her over a second time—really looked her over.

Cheyenne should go. That’s what Mrs. Cooper meant to tell her. Cheyenne wanted to agree. But where would she go? She closed her eyes as another wave of nausea hit, and her head swam. A cool hand touched her arm.

“Cheyenne?”

“I’m fine. You’re right. I should go.”

“I didn’t mean that you should leave. And as pale as you are, I’m sure you shouldn’t drive right now.” Angie Cooper slid an arm around Cheyenne’s waist. “Let’s go inside and have a glass of tea.”

They walked through the front door, paused in the entryway and then proceeded into the living room. Cheyenne thought she should take off her shoes or change into something nicer than the loose jeans and T-shirt she’d put on that morning at a gas station. She flicked her gaze across the living room with the pine hardwood floors, the overstuffed furniture and walls decorated with landscape paintings and family portraits.

This was the home of fairy tales, where happy people lived happy lives, loved each other, took care of each other. She allowed Angie Cooper to lead her from the living room, through a long formal dining room into a big, open kitchen. She told herself to stop the pity party, because her childhood hadn’t been all bad. There had been love. It was conditional love, but love nonetheless.

Angie pointed to a big table that flanked one end of the kitchen. Everything in the house was big, made for a big family with twelve children. She felt like Jack when he climbed the beanstalk and landed in the giant’s kingdom.

“Sit and I’ll get that glass of tea. Have you had lunch?”

Cheyenne shook her head. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Car doors slammed. Angie Cooper paused with two slices of bread on a plate and a slice of ham in her hand. She placed the ham on the bread and kept working. Cheyenne’s stomach knotted and twisted.

“That’s probably Reese. He’s been with his grandmother.” Angie Cooper brought the plate and a glass of tea.

“Is he okay?”

Angie’s hand rested on Cheyenne’s shoulder. “He will be.”

The sandwich on her plate no longer appealed, even though her stomach had been growling for hours. From the front of the house, she heard the door close, a loud thump, an aggravated exclamation. Angie Cooper started to say something, but then she shook her head and walked away.

Cheyenne stood. “I shouldn’t have come.”

She’d waited too long. Reese Cooper walked through the door. An older woman in a pink suit stood next to him. The woman touched Reese’s arm. He stood motionless in the doorway. His grandmother looked from Cheyenne to Reese, back to Cheyenne.

Cheyenne’s vision blurred. She sat back down, thankful she didn’t have food in her stomach as a wave of nausea assaulted her.

“Reese, you have company. Cheyenne is here.” His mother moved toward him, her smile sweetly gentle—a mother’s smile.

Reese stood silently and was as tall and handsome as she remembered, though not as clean shaven, and his sandy brown hair was a little longer. That day in the restaurant she might have fallen a little in love with him. He’d been so kind, a cowboy in jeans and a button-up shirt, his boots the real thing. He’d been no urban cowboy. She’d seen plenty of those in Vegas. He’d been a gentleman, sitting with her in a booth as she poured out her life story. In the end, he’d rescued her.

Cheyenne waited, thinking he should at least say something. They weren’t strangers. He’d become a friend through letters he’d written—a dozen letters. She had them all in her one suitcase. She’d come here to make sure he was okay. She’d also come here because she had nowhere else to go and Vegas hadn’t been the place to call home.

“Cheyenne?” Reese finally spoke, but he stared straight ahead, not turning to look at her.

Cheyenne felt her fairy tale crumble. This is what happened in real life. People got hurt. Heroes came home injured. Damsels stayed in distress unless they rescued themselves.

Mrs. Cooper’s hand held her arm, but Cheyenne pulled away. He had to hear her heart breaking as she walked toward him. It thundered in her ears. Her vision clouded with unshed tears. She reached him and touched his hand.

“Cheyenne Jones.” She drew in a deep breath. “We met in Vegas.”

* * *

A tiny hand held his. Reese felt her warmth. He inhaled her scent. He remembered her letters. But what was she doing here? He stared at blackness and waited for clarity. His secret was that he kept waiting for vision to return. He kept telling himself the doctors were wrong and he’d see again.

But for two months he’d lived in darkness. Since the day an explosion had rocked his world, killed men in his platoon and left him blind, he’d been praying it was a dream he’d wake up from.

The last thing he’d been thinking about was the woman standing in front of him. Since the accident, he hadn’t really thought about that day in Vegas or the impulsive moment when he’d told a crying waitress that he’d marry her.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was as sweet as he remembered. That’s what had struck him about her—even then. She’d been leaving her job as a waitress, dressed for her evening job as a dancer and he’d seen a vulnerable young woman needing a break. He’d seen innocence in her eyes.

He could still hear that innocence in her voice. He smiled because he was sure that some people might not agree with him about her innocence. They would have looked at her life, her job and thought the opposite. He didn’t mean to be poetic, but he had looked into her eyes and seen her heart.

And now she was here. He shook his head because he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have her here, in his life.

“What are you doing here?” He spoke quietly, but the words were loud and echoed in the darkness, sounding harsher than he’d intended.

“I wanted to check on you.” Her voice wavered.

Next to him his grandmother mumbled that he had the manners of an ogre. She released his arm and told him he was on his own. He could handle that. He’d been coddled since the minute he’d walked through the front door a week ago. His grandmother had actually been the only one who didn’t smother him. She’d told him to cowboy up and remember he still had a life—unlike the men in his platoon.

She hadn’t said those words; they were his. But she’d told him he owed it to those men to live his life to the fullest.

“This was a mistake.” Cheyenne’s voice slipped away from him. He heard a chair move and heard her footsteps again.

He reached for her, but she wasn’t there. “Could we have some privacy?”

Cheyenne stepped close again, bringing her scent: lavender and vanilla. “They’ve already left the room.”

He reached, needing a place to sit down. A hand touched his arm, guiding him to the table where he felt the back of a chair. He smiled. “Give me a minute. I didn’t expect you.”

“No, of course you didn’t.” She pulled her hand loose from his. A chair scraped, and he knew she’d sat down across from him. “I got a visit from the military, someone checking on my welfare after you were injured. I wasn’t the person to notify in case of emergency, but they saw that you were married and they sent someone to tell me about the accident.”

Reese brushed a hand through his hair trying to make sense of how all of this had happened and what he should do. His wife of six months was sitting in his mother’s kitchen, needing him. And he couldn’t be the person she relied on. He had no hope of ever seeing again. His left arm and his spine had been hit with shrapnel, and walking still took everything out of him. What was he supposed to do for her?