Rachel took a step back. “Matthew?”
He offered a dark half smile, familiar yet unfamiliar all at the same time. A sense of relief seemed to relax his shoulders. “Yeah.”
The breath left her body, robbing her of the ability to think clearly. Her pulse raced, the adrenaline a cold shot of reality as it filtered through her veins.
She couldn’t say a word, could only stare at the stranger in front of her. A burst of sunshine surrounded his hat, which, in turn, blocked his gaze. But that hardly mattered since she already knew everything about those eyes—how his light brown irises resembled whiskey fumes and the morning-after haziness of a black-tie soirée. She knew that the Stetson was also hiding dark brown hair with a stubborn cowlick, the hallmark of his boyish, carefree charm.
She wanted her first words to her husband to be loving, with all the comfort of a welcome-home embrace. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Where the hell have you been for the past two years?”
Matthew sauntered over to the fencing, leaned against it and tipped up the hat. Finally she could see more of his moody features.
“You’re angry with me.”
“Angry? I haven’t heard from you for what feels like an eternity, Matthew. You haven’t bothered to call, and you never even told me you were leaving. What did you do? Confront a midlife crisis? Drive a few hot little red Corvettes around New Orleans?” She gasped for air, all the rage, all the tear-her-hair-out wondering coming to the surface. “I hired a private detective to find you and that two hundred thousand dollars you made off with. Chloe Lister found you in Texas after your trail disappeared in the Big Easy, you know.”
Easy. Life had hardly been easy since he’d left.
She snapped out a laugh at the irony, then continued. “And you haven’t answered me, you jerk. Where have you been? And what gives you the guts to come back to Kane’s Crossing?”
He peered at his boots, seemingly lost in thought. That’s when she realized something.
Matthew had always possessed a canary-eating, know-it-all grin, and, at times, it had driven her nuts. It had been a reflection of his penchant for late-night, Scotch-on-the-rocks schmoozing, his awareness that he could reduce Rachel to a love-starved idiot with a glance.
But that grin had been warped into the now-present half smile, sadness framing it, almost drawing it down.
He looked up, his gaze scanning the paddock, the slash of his dark brows emphasizing crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Crinkles that reminded Rachel of forgotten smiles, of good times past.
“Rachel.” He said her name slowly, as if it had somehow found its way inside him and gotten lost.
She waited, wondering if he would wink at her, letting her know that he’d just been out for the last couple of years having the time of his life. That this was all a joke on her.
“It sounds like you’ve never uttered my name before,” she said.
When he turned his attention back to her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all the interest of a person you’d meet on a New York subway. Fleeting, short-term.
She pushed a long strand of hair away from her face. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Not that I haven’t been able to handle things while you decided to party around the world.”
His tall body swayed toward her as he leaned his weight on one jeans-clad leg. “I’m sorry about everything turning out the way it did, Rachel. You’ll never know just how sorry.”
“Don’t you do your apology act on me.” Boy, she sounded bitter. Her best friend, Meg Cassidy, had told her, time and again, to think positively. But that was pretty easy for Meg to say, since she had the love of a good man and two beautiful children.
Matthew bent down and picked up the wood with which she’d been battling, handling the fencing like it was so much fluff. Under his shirt, she could see the muscles bulging, labor lean and hard.
As he worked, a sense of belated shock gripped all the questions she wanted to ask. And she felt thankful for the opportunity to gather her emotions. Matthew was here, right here. She’d imagined this scene countless times while staring at the green-shrouded property, or lounging in her wide, empty-cool bed. She’d hoped for a reunion in which Matthew threw himself at her feet, acknowledging all the pain he’d slapped into her heart with his absence.
She wanted to hate him. Needed to hate him for all the wrong he’d done her.
It was a while before he had the fencing where he wanted it, accomplishing a feat that would’ve taken her triple the time. Wherever he’d been, he’d kept busy. That was for sure.
Sweat stains had darkened his shirt, molding the denim to his skin, allowing it to curve over his muscles. As Rachel watched his strong hands, she thought of how he used to play her body with the tenderness and slow-bass caress of a Patsy Cline song. How he’d made her heart sing with the melancholy vibrato of a ballad.
Dear Lord, she’d missed her husband.
It was taking all of her willpower to stay clear, to stand back, to see if he’d returned to their horse farm in order to make things right.
Of course, their marriage hadn’t been healthy since their honeymoon, a time when they’d loved each other without question or doubt. But that didn’t mean Matthew hadn’t reconsidered during this recent absence.
Was he here to repair their marriage? He finished his task with the efficiency of a hired hand, then watched her expectantly. “Have I proven my good intentions to you?”
She shook her head. “No. And you haven’t done two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of work, either.”
“Are you always this hard to win over?”
The question struck her as odd. “What, do you think I’ve changed while you were gone?”
He shrugged, the denim puckering over his broad shoulders. “Maybe you’d like to fill me in on your life, Rachel.”
“Why would you care?” She wished her voice hadn’t come out like a whip’s lash, sharp and cutting.
Matthew’s brow darkened, and he tipped his hat. “Maybe this was a big mistake.”
He started to walk away and, as he neared Rachel, her skin cried out for him. It tingled with the remembered strokes of his fingers; it flushed with the need for a touch of reassurance.
“Matthew, wait.” She turned around. “This is so uncomfortable. So surreal.”
Their property glowed around him, gentle hills and rippling ponds, white-slatted buildings and forever-blue sky. He looked as if he didn’t belong: hands propped on lean, jeaned hips, worked-over cowboy boot leather eaten by the bluegrass, battered Stetson an eyesore against the pristine Kentucky landscape. If he truly was a part of this business he’d be wearing the typical uniform of jodhpurs tucked into English riding boots, a thoroughbred-set attitude.
But in between their last prime-rib meal together and this moment, he’d turned into a cowboy, and it suited him, bringing out his masculinity.
Rachel wondered if his current age—thirty-three—was too young for Matthew’s midlife crisis. She said, “If I tell you my story, will you tell me yours? No bull about it?”
That sexy half smile reappeared on his face.
“Yeah. There’s a lot I want to know,” he said.
“Well, there’s been a lot that happened while you were gone.”
Matthew took a step closer. Close enough so Rachel could smell saddle leather and soap.
“I need to know a little more than that, Rachel.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
He