Tara Quinn - The Sheriff's Daughter

She couldn’t be crying when he came down. Tears made him uncomfortable, defensive. Tears would only make this harder than it already was.

Mostly, she couldn’t believe it had come to this. His refusal to have children, after telling her for so many years that he wanted them, too, as soon as they were solvent, had been rough. Putting up with his lack of satisfaction with their physical life hadn’t been easy, either.

But she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that she wasn’t alone—and he wasn’t, either. They had each other. They had trust and loyalty.

And she’d been willing to settle for those. They were comfortable. Safe.

After the rocky start to her adult life, safety and security had been priorities to her.

Sara heard the shower. Sipped her coffee. Waited. How could she be so calm, when inside she was falling apart? Devastated? Scared to death?

“You’re up early,” he greeted her with a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling of the musk aftershave she’d been buying him for years. His thick, dark hair was still damp.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Pouring his coffee, he turned, cup in hand, to frown at her. “Aren’t you feeling good? Cramps?”

She’d had her period the week before.

“I know about Chloe.”

His entire demeanor changed, stiffened. His shoulders closed in on his tall, lanky form. Cup in hand, he pulled out a chair at the table, not his usual one. One reserved for guests.

Sara catalogued his every move. Watched his long legs slide under the table, wincing as he sipped hot liquid, too much, too fast. Noticed his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She watched herself watching.

“Who told you?”

The emotional weight dropped deeper into her stomach, making her queasy. Bringing on panic so intense she could hardly breathe.

So it was true. Her zealous, young son hadn’t been jumping to conclusions. Amazing how a life could fall apart without even making a sound.

And he wanted to know who had told her. “Does it matter?”

His gaze held hers for long seconds and then dropped. “I suppose not.”

He sipped. She watched. She had coffee, too, but she was pretty sure she’d choke on it.

“How long has it been going on?”

His face stiff, he stared at her. “Does it matter?” He repeated back to her.

“Yes, I think it does.”

When he glanced away, she knew she’d won. And lost everything. “A year.”

Jitters spread through her, just beneath her skin—and deeper. “As long as she’s been there?”

He acknowledged the statement with one tip of his head—as if this wasn’t all that big a deal to him. As if infidelity was just another little bump in the road—like stealing away, with false promises, her chances of ever bearing a child she could hold in her arms, nurse, raise.

And then, struck with horror, she realized something else.

“There’ve been others, haven’t there?” How stupid of her not to have considered that fact. How amazingly blind. She wanted to crawl into a hole.

“A few.”

Sara hadn’t figured there was enough left of her heart to be further crushed.

“They don’t mean anything, Sara.”

That made her angry. “Of course they do!” She raised her voice—something she almost never did. “They mean you’ve been unfaithful to me! To the vows we took. They mean you’re untrustworthy.” Didn’t he understand that loyalty and trust were all they had? And now they had nothing at all?

“They mean that I have needs you aren’t willing to meet.”

Sucking in a breath, she nodded. She’d heard about that before. Countless times. Couldn’t take it again—not right then.

Leave it to Brent to make this her fault. Just as it had been her fault that she hadn’t understood that when he said he wanted children later, he’d meant he didn’t want them—ever.

“I’ve never turned you away when you’ve asked for sex.”

“Who wants to have to ask?” His voice was quiet, his expression tired. “I want a woman who’s eager to be in my arms, Sara. One who enjoys my touch.”

“I enjoy it.”

“Sometimes,” he allowed. “And other times, you lie there and make the right moves and wait for it to be over.”

Didn’t every woman? When she was tired? Feeling taken for granted?

Is that how it had been for her the night of Ryan’s conception? Had she lain there, her thoughts and emotions separate from what they were doing to her body?

Sara shook her head, pulling her thoughts back from places she’d left behind long ago. She hadn’t considered that night for years. At least not for more than a second or two. Ryan’s visit was costing her greatly.

“If you were eager, Sara, you’d want to experiment.”

She stared at him, knowing she should speak up. Knowing there were things she needed to say. But she couldn’t bring them to mind, couldn’t focus. All she could do was hold back the tears.

“We’ve been married fifteen years. And in the same standard missionary position, with the same foreplay, for all of them. If you were doing more than your duty, feeling more, you’d need some variety, something to keep things fresh and new.”

“Why?” she suddenly spouted, not recognizing her own voice. “When apparently you’ve been getting fresh and new for years?”

His shoulders dropped more.

“I’m sorry,” she said, out of years of habit—and because she meant it. “That was beneath me.”

“Just think about what I’m saying for a minute,” Brent said, his voice soft, almost pleading, and Sara wondered if he actually wanted her blessing for his actions. Her approval. Maybe even a go-ahead to continue? “When’s the last time we made love?”

She tried to remember. Picturing them in bed. At night. On Sunday mornings. The last time they’d been in a hotel together.

“You can’t remember.”

Her mind scrambling, she stared at him.

“Can you?”

Sara shook her head.

“I can,” he surprised her by saying. “It was two months ago. On a Saturday morning. You’d had a bad dream and cuddled up behind me. I actually thought you were finally making a move on me and before I realized that you were still half asleep, I’d already gotten your attention and you finished what you’d inadvertently started.”

She remembered. Not the dream—that was long gone. But how she’d felt, needing comfort. Needing to be held. And having to have sex instead.

She’d taken comfort from the fact that making love was something that she and Brent shared that no one else had a part in; that it was something that he gave only to her, and she to him.

She hadn’t needed it often. But she’d valued the connection.

“How do I know you haven’t given me some kind of infection or disease?”

“I always use a condom,” he said, as if that made the fact that he’d been screwing his assistant while sleeping with Sara, too, okay.

It wasn’t. Right now it felt as if nothing would ever be okay again.

Finding it harder and harder to breathe, Sara considered her options. And she couldn’t find any.

“I’m filing for divorce.”

He set his cup down. “You can’t be serious.”

Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough. But… “I am.” She waited for fear to make her take it back. To apologize. Or compromise. And it didn’t.

It sent fresh shards of panic through her, however, mingling with the despair. She couldn’t see beyond the hopelessness. But something inside her wouldn’t let her lie down, either.

She’d been a victim for such a long time. She just couldn’t do it anymore.

Brent sat forward, taking both her hands between his, holding them on her lap. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sara. We’re partners. We’re good together. We’ve built a great life.”