Allison Leigh - Montana Passions

Those amber eyes were still waiting.

He couldn’t stand the disappointment he saw in them. “I want to see you when we get out of here, Katie. I want to see you and I will. ”

And I will.

Now, where the hell had that come from?

He’d been so careful. He’d never actually lied to her.

Not until now.

But then again, he did want to see her again.

Though he knew damn well he shouldn’t, he wanted to keep on seeing her. He wanted…

A whole hell of a lot more with her than he was ever going to get.

He shouldn’t have lied. But the words were out now. No calling them back. In future, he’d just have to keep a closer watch on his tongue.

He silently vowed he would do just that as she watched him with worried eyes.

Katie opened her eyes to the sight of the shadowed rafters overhead.

For a second or two, with the soft mist of sleep still fogging her mind, she wondered where she was.

And then she placed herself: the four-poster bed in the Historical Museum. With no windows to let in the light from outside, she couldn’t begin to guess what time it was. There was one clock. An intricate gold leaf ormolu piece with Cupid strumming a lyre perched on top. It sat on the mantel in the “parlor” area.

She couldn’t see the face of it from the bed. Plus, it wasn’t wound and always read ten-fifteen.

And what did it matter, anyway, what time it was? She and Justin weren’t going anywhere until the snowplow finally showed up. They could sleep all day and stay up all night. There was no schedule, just whatever suited them.

Justin…

What was going on with him?

There had been a certain…reserve—a new distance between them, since dinnertime, when she told him she wanted to see him after they got out of here and asked him if he wanted to see her.

He’d definitely withdrawn from her after that. From then on, when she spoke, he gave her single-sentence replies. When she looked at him, his gaze would slide away. Also, it had seemed to her that he was careful to avoid touching her. He kept his distance emotionally—and physically, too.

All evening she’d told herself to let it be. The guy didn’t have to be hanging on her every word every minute of the day. Maybe he just wanted a little time to himself. In such close quarters, there was no easy way for him to claim some private space.

But in her heart, she knew it wasn’t about lack of privacy. It was about them seeing each other after they got out of here.

It hurt a lot, to admit it to herself, but she was beginning to think she’d gotten things all wrong. She’d read more into this thing between them than was actually there.

Oh, not in terms of herself. She knew how she felt. It was real and strong and…maybe it was love.

Or something very close to it—something that could be love, given the time and space to grow.

But just because she was feeling something didn’t automatically mean he had to feel it in return.

She’d gone to bed, however long ago that had been, ahead of him. And she’d lain here waiting for him.

He’d yet to come in when she finally fell asleep.

Was he even here now?

She sat up.

Across the room, the too-short, too-narrow cot lay empty, the star quilt smooth and undisturbed, the flat little pillow without a wrinkle.

He hadn’t even come to bed.

Quietly, carefully—as if there was someone in the empty room she might disturb should she make a sound—she lay back down.

And popped right back up again.

No. This was wrong. If he didn’t want to get anything going with her, well, that was his prerogative and she would learn to accept it.

But she wasn’t going to just lie here, worrying. And what about tomorrow? What about whatever time they had left here until the plow came? If she spent that time tiptoeing around him, keeping her head down and her mouth shut, well, wouldn’t that be just like the woman she’d told herself she wasn’t going to be anymore? Wouldn’t that be like Katie, the cliché?

She needed to clear the air between them.

How, exactly, to do that, she wasn’t quite sure. But it certainly wouldn’t get done with her lying here in bed agonizing over what had gone wrong and him off somewhere in another room doing whatever the heck he was doing.

She shoved the covers back and slid her stocking feet to the floor.

“Justin.”

He turned from his own dark reflection in the window to find Katie standing in the doorway to the central room, wearing her wrinkled red pajamas and a pair of fat wool socks, blinking against the bright overhead kitchen light.

A slow warmth spread through him, just to see her standing there. It was that feeling of well-being and contented relief a man gets when he comes in from the cold and finds a cheery fire waiting—that feeling multiplied about a thousand times.

Damn, she looked good, all squinty-eyed with a sleep mark on her soft cheek and her dark hair a tangled halo all around her sweet face. Had there ever been a woman so outright adorable? Not in his experience, and that had been varied, if not especially meaningful.

She stuck out a hand in the direction of the book that lay open on the table in front of him. “Still on chapter three, I’ll bet.”

He glanced down at the book in question, then back up at her, an ironic smile twisting his lips. “Page sixty-seven, to be exact.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. Her soft mouth was pursed tight. “Look. Mind if I sit down?”

The set of her mouth, the determined look in her eyes, her defensive posture—they all told him more than he wanted to know.

No doubt about it. Katie had questions.

Which meant he would have to try to answer them honestly, but without ever telling her the whole truth.

Things got ugly when a man had too much to hide. He probably should have known that when he started this whole charade. Hell. He had known it. And he’d been willing to live with the ugliness.

Then.

He gave her an elaborately casual shrug and closed the book. “Sure. Take a seat.”

She marched over, yanked out the chair opposite him, and plunked herself down into it, unwrapping her arms from around herself and folding her hands in her lap.

“Okay…” He drew the word out, eyeing her sideways. “What’s up?”

She craned around to get a look at the kitchen clock. When she faced him again, she replied, “Well, you are. It’s three-fifteen in the morning and you’re just sitting here, staring out the window.”

He lounged back in his chair, displaying an ease he didn’t feel. “And this is a problem for you?”

“No. No, of course not.” She huffed out a frus-trated-sounding breath. “You can sit here all night if you want. What’s bothering me is…” She ran out of steam, sucked in another big breath, and started again. “Look. I spent most of last night staying out of your way, and you spent most of it avoiding looking, talking or getting too close to me. I just, well, I’d like that to stop and I came out here to ask you what I could do to make that happen.”

Her distress was palpable. He hated to see her so miserable, and he hated worst of all that he was the cause of her unhappiness.

But what the hell did he have to tell her?

Half-truths.

And when half-truths failed him, outright lies.

He wanted out of this—out of this damned museum, away from the reality that he was using her.

He didn’t want to use her anymore. It had been a bad idea from the first and he wanted to walk away from it.

But there was no walking away now. The damage was done. She cared for him. When it all went down, she would be hurt, and hurt bad. There was no getting away from that now.