Kasey Michaels - Beloved Wolf

Leaving the baggage in the trunk, Joe quickly came around and opened the car door for Sophie, then walked with her to the front door that stood open in welcome. Their housekeeper, Inez Ramirez, waited there, a broad smile on her wide, pleasant face. “Welcome home, Miss Sophie,” Inez said, holding out her arms, and Sophie gratefully walked into them, allowing the hug, needing the hug.

Then it was time to pass into the large great room that made up the nerve center of the house, a huge room furnished well, but casually.

The empty room.

“Dad?” Sophie asked, turning to her father, who then pointed toward the wall of glass doors leading out to the courtyard. Following his gesture, Sophie could see Meredith Colton lounging on a chaise beside the pool, clad in a bra-like swim top and a long, filmy, patterned skirt, dark glasses shading her eyes.

“I’ll go get her,” Joe offered, but Sophie shook her head and started for the doors. “Sophie, she couldn’t know the exact time we’d arrive,” he called after her, then swore under his breath and quickly turned his back on a scene he didn’t have the strength to witness.

Sophie limped out onto the patio, slowly made her way down the steps and past the fountain. The beauty of the courtyard was lost to her, its sights, its sounds, its glorious smells. All she could see was her mother, the woman who had spoken to her on the telephone only a single time in the past six weeks, the woman who hadn’t had the time or the inclination to visit her in San Francisco.

Sophie stood beside the chaise and looked down at the woman who had taught her how to tie her shoes, who had giggled with her when Sophie had tried on her very first training bra, who had put up her hair for her the night of the senior prom. The woman who had kissed her cuts and scrapes, hand sewn her Princess Leia Halloween costume, held her when she cried because River James was just the most awful, miserable, nasty boy in the whole entire world.

Who are you? Sophie asked silently, gazing down at the sunscreen-slick woman with the bloodred fingernails, the perfectly coiffed golden-brown hair, the too-youthful swimsuit…the pitcher of martinis on the table beside her. Who are you? Because you aren’t my mother anymore. You can’t be my mother.

“Hello, Mother,” Sophie said at last, when Meredith Colton didn’t respond to her presence. “I’m home.”

Meredith raised a hand, removed her sunglasses, then slid her long legs to one side and stood, looking at Sophie with Sophie’s own huge brown eyes. “Well, so you are,” she said, motioning toward the metal cane in Sophie’s left hand. “Is that going to be around for much longer? I mean, really, it’s so…medical. Couldn’t you find something nicer?”

“It’s good to see you, too, Mom,” Sophie said, giving in to her fatigue and sitting down on the matching chaise. She kept her head down, so that the curtain of her hair slid forward, covering her cheek.

“Don’t be snide, Sophie,” Meredith told her, sitting down again herself and taking hold of her martini glass. “Or hasn’t it yet occurred to you that you’re twenty-seven years old? Old enough to move to San Francisco. Old enough to be out on your own, just as you wanted to be. You wanted to be independent, and I let you be independent. But, obviously, for all that independence, you’re still not so grown up that you couldn’t insist that your doting daddy jump up and run when you wanted him.”

Shock made Sophie lift her head, and she watched in horror as Meredith’s eyes widened at the sight of the scar. She raised a hand to her jaw, but it was too late, because her mother had seen everything there was to see.

Meredith’s upper lip curled in distaste. “Not bad? That’s what your father said. The scar wasn’t bad. Doesn’t the man have eyes in his head? Oh, you poor thing. How are you going to manage, being so horribly disfigured like that? And your father says you sent Chet away? That wasn’t smart, Sophie. How do you expect to get another man with that ruined face? I really think you should— Where are you going? Is this how you were raised? How dare you walk away while I’m speaking to you. I’m your mother!”

But Sophie had gotten to her feet as quickly as she could and was already hobbling back toward the house, wondering what on earth had possessed her to come home. Whoever had said it had been right: You can’t go home again.

At least not to Hacienda del Alegria. The House of Joy?

No, not anymore.

River walked back to the stables after watching Joe’s car drive past, seeing Sophie’s form in the passenger seat.

So. She was home. Healing, but not quite mended. And without a diamond on her third finger, left hand.

Not that he was going to do anything about that, could do anything about that.

Besides, it might only be temporary, some sort of emotional fallout from the mugging. Joe had told him how sensitive Sophie was about the cut on her face, how she refused to see that the scar was fading every day, growing less obvious to everyone but her.

If nobody mentioned the scar, made a big deal about it, Sophie would probably soon be able to deal with the thing, put it behind her, look forward to the surgery that would finish the job the doctor had begun and her healthy body had taken from there. After all, her knee was already so good that the J-brace and crutches were gone.

She’d been in physical therapy in San Francisco almost from the beginning, and now that she would soon be putting aside her cane, the therapy could begin in earnest, building up muscles grown weak from disuse.

Sophie was fine. Fine. And she was going to be even better.

River told himself that every night. She was healing. She was back with her family, who would do everything in their power to help her heal. She’d soon be his own laughing, happy, optimistic Sophie again.

Please, God.

River busied himself in the tack room, making up excuse after excuse not to leave the stables, not to head up to the house. See Sophie.

She’d be too busy for him anyway, with everyone else crowding around, hugging her, kissing her, welcoming her back. Why, he might even take dinner out here with the boys rather than go up to the house for the evening meal. That wasn’t so unusual; he did it all the time.

“Coward,” he muttered under his breath as he hung up the bridle he’d just inspected. “What do you think she’s going to do, buddy? Bite your head off?” He lowered his head and sighed. “Ignore you?”

Okay, so now he was finally getting down to it. She might ignore him—or worse, treat him the same as she did her brothers and sister, her foster siblings. Happy to see him, polite, even loving. But not special.

Not the way they’d been, years ago.

He wouldn’t have made it without Sophie, wouldn’t have survived. He knew it, even if she didn’t.

River had come to the ranch a rebellious teenager—alternately hotheaded and morose, a teeming mass of hate and anger and, often, despair. He lashed out at anyone who came near him, tried to help him, although he didn’t realize until many years later that he kept people at arm’s length because he was too afraid to let anyone into his world, for fear they’d leave him.

He’d been born to a white rancher and a Native American mother whom his father had married only because he’d been careless and put a child in her belly, River. His father resented his Native American wife, and Rafe, her son from a previous marriage, but that didn’t mean he kept his hands off her.

River’s earliest memories were of his mother’s love and his father’s undisguised disgust.

And then his mother left him, died in childbirth when he was only six. His new sister, Cheyenne, was taken in by her maternal grandmother, to be raised on reservation land. Rafe, River’s protector, also stayed on the reservation, because their father didn’t want him, couldn’t control him. But not River. Oh, no, he wanted River. He was six years old now. Old enough to “help” eke out a poor living on that small, decrepit excuse for a ranch. Old enough to do a “man’s” work. Rafe, on the other hand, was old enough to talk back, and so he was left behind, considered worthless, too much the savage for his stepfather to have to face every day.