April sat and cried silently as she remembered how beautiful her mother had been. Her parents had been so in love, so perfectly matched. The rancher oilman and the beautiful, dark-haired free-spirited artist. Her father had come from generations of tough Texas oilmen, larger-than-life men who ruled their empires with steely determination and macho power. Her mother had come from a long line of Hispanic nobility, a line that traced its roots from Texas all the way back to Mexico City. They’d met when Stuart had gone to Santa Fe to buy horses. He’d come home with several beautiful Criollo working horses, and one very fiery beauty who was also a temperamental artist.
In spite of her mother’s temper and artistic eccentricities, it had been a match made in heaven—until the day her mother had boarded their private jet for a gallery opening in Santa Fe. The jet had crashed just after takeoff from the small regional airport a few miles up the road. There were no survivors.
No survivors. Her father had died that day, too, April decided. His vibrant, hard-living spirit had died. He’d always been a rounder, but her devout mother had kept his wild streak at bay for many years. That ended the day they buried Celia Maxwell.
And now, as April looked at the skeletal man lying in this bed, she knew her father had drunk himself to an early grave so he could be with her mother.
“Don’t leave me, Daddy,” April whispered, tears again brimming in her eyes.
Then she remembered the day six years ago that Stuart had told his daughter the same thing. “Don’t leave me, sugar. Stay here with your tired old daddy. I won’t have anyone left if you go.”
But then he’d laughed and told her to get going. “There’s a big ol’world out there and I reckon you need to see it. But just remember where home is.”
So she’d gone on to New York, too eager to start her new career and be with her cousins to see that her father was lonely. Too caught up in her own dreams to see that Reed and her daddy both wanted her to stay.
I lost them both, she thought now. I lost them both. And now, I’ll be the one left all alone.
As dusk turned into night, April sat and cried for all that she had given up, her prayers seeming hollow and unheeded as she listened to her father’s shallow breathing and confused whispers.
Reed found her there by the bed at around midnight. Horaz had called him, concerned for April’s well-being.
“Mr. Reed, I’m sorry to wake you so late, but you need to come to the hacienda right away. Miss April, she won’t come out of his room. She is very tired, but she stays. I tell her a nurse is here to sit, but she refuses to leave the room.”
She’s still stubborn, Reed thought as he walked into the dark room, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow from a night-light in the bathroom. Still stubborn, still proud, and hurting right now, he reminded himself. He’d have to use some gentle persuasion.
“April,” he said, his voice a low whisper.
At first he thought she might be asleep, the way she was sitting with her head back against the blue-and-gold-patterned brocade wing chair. But at the sound of his voice, she raised her head, her eyes widening at the sight of him standing there over her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, confusion warring with daring in her eyes.
“Horaz called me. He’s worried about you. He said you didn’t eat supper.”
“I’m not hungry,” she responded, her eyes going to her sleeping father.
“Okay.” He stood silent for a few minutes, then said, “The nurse is waiting. She has to check his pulse and administer his medication.”
“She can do that around me.”
“Yes, she can, but she also sits with him through the night. That’s her job. And she’s ready to relieve you.”
April whirled then, her eyes flaring hot and dark in the muted light from the other room. “No, that’s my job. That should have been my job all along, but I didn’t take it on, did I? I…I stayed away, when I should have been here—”
“That’s it,” Reed said, hauling her to her feet with two gentle hands on her arms. “You need a break.”
“No,” she replied, pulling away. “I’m fine.”
“You need something to eat and a good night’s sleep,” he said, his tone soft but firm.
“You don’t have the right to tell me what I need,” she reminded him, her words clipped and breathless.
“No, I don’t. But we’ve got enough on our hands around here without you falling sick on us, too,” he reminded her. “Did you come home to help or to wallow in self-pity?”
She tried to slap him, but Reed could see she was so exhausted that it had mostly been for show. Without a word, he lifted her up into his arms and stomped out of the room, motioning with his head for the hovering nurse to go in and do her duty.
“Put me down,” April said, the words echoing out over the still, dark house as she struggled against Reed’s grip.
“I will, in the kitchen, where Flora left you some soup and bread. And you will eat it.”
“Still bossing me around,” she retorted, her eyes flashing. But as he moved through the big house with her, she stopped struggling. Her head fell against the cotton of his T-shirt, causing Reed to pull in a sharp breath. She felt so warm, so soft, so vulnerable there against him, that he wanted to sit down and hold her tight forever.
Instead, he dropped her in a comfortable, puffy-cushioned chair in the breakfast room, then told her, “Stay.”
She did, dropping her head on the glass-topped table, her hands in her hair.
“I’m going to heat your soup.”
“I can’t eat.”
“You need to try.”
She didn’t argue with that, thankfully.
Soon he had a nice bowl of tortilla soup in front of her, along with a tall glass of Flora’s famous spiced tea and some corn bread.
Reed sat down at the table, his own tea full of ice and lemon. “Eat.”
She glared over at him, but picked up the spoon and took a few sips of soup. Reed broke off some of the tender corn bread and handed it to her. “Chew this.”
April took the crusty bread and nibbled at it, then dropped it on her plate. “I’m done.”
“You eat like a bird.”
“I can’t eat,” she said, the words dropping between them. “I can’t—”
“You can’t bear to see him like that? Well, welcome to the club. I’ve watched him wasting away for the last year now. And I feel just as helpless as you do.”
She didn’t answer, but he saw the glistening of tears trailing down her face.
Letting out a breath of regret, Reed went on one knee beside her chair, his hand reaching up to her face to wipe at tears. “I’m sorry, April. Sorry you have to see him like this. But…he wants to die at home. And he wanted you to be here.”
She bobbed her head, leaning against his hand until Reed gave in and pulled her into his arms. Falling on both knees, he held her as she cried there at the table.
Held her, and condemned himself for doing so.
Because he’d missed holding her. Missed her so much.
And because he knew this was a mistake.
But right now, he also knew they both needed someone to hold.
“It’s hard to believe my mother’s been dead twelve years,” April said later. After she’d