“And since you’re all they have left,” she continued, “I’m sure they’d welcome a reconciliation.”
“For cripes sake, Juliet. You don’t know them. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about what tore our family apart.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I’m just trying to help. Sometimes getting things out in the open gives a person a new perspective.”
He felt badly about snapping at her, but wouldn’t apologize. Why encourage her to push harder, to probe deeper? So he held his tongue, hoping to assuage the guilt. Hoping to end the conversation. But Juliet’s eyes drilled into him, lancing the wound and releasing a brand-new assault of pain, guilt. Regret.
“What did they do to hurt you like this?” she asked. “To make you hold a twenty-year grudge?”
“They didn’t do squat.”
“Then did you do something?”
The truth of her question pierced him to the bone, but he refused to answer. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Dammit, Juliet. Would you get off my case?”
The words had no more than left his mouth, when he cringed at the sharp edge, at the bark, at the way he’d hurled them at her.
God, she wasn’t going to fall apart on him and start sniffling, was she? He hoped not. He didn’t deal well with tears—especially when he couldn’t tell if they were real or fake. Susan, his ex, had been able to shed tears on demand.
When he snuck a glance across the seat, Juliet’s gaze slammed into his.
Sharpened flecks of topaz blazed in her eyes, as she pointed a finger at him and raised her voice. “Don’t talk to me like that. I only meant to help. Not stir the guilt you feel.”
So much for expecting her to fall apart.
He stole a glance in the rearview mirror, wondering how she’d come to that conclusion. Had she read the shame in his expression or his mind?
“If they didn’t do squat,” she pressed, “then I’m led to believe you’re the one who’s responsible for the rift.”
“Yeah. In a way, I am.”
“Your mother is hurting,” Juliet said. “And you’re hurting, too. Only you’re covering it with anger and an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude.”
She was probably right about his mom. And about him, too. But he wasn’t going to discuss what happened that night, nor was he going to relive it.
On his eighteenth birthday, he’d finally left that mountaintop prison Jess and Anne-Marie Anderson called home, hitched a ride to the bus depot and took the old gray dog to Bozeman.
Before this damned assignment, he’d never looked back. And resurrecting old memories and pain wasn’t something he intended to do now. Leaving home, leaving Thunder Canyon, had kept him from drowning in guilt. From reliving that fateful afternoon when a selfish decision on his part had led to his sister’s death.
He slid another glance at the young woman across the seat, saw her furrowed brow, the pretty lips turned into a frown.
She had to know he was looking at her, but she didn’t respond.
Well, so what?
He didn’t need her sympathy.
Or her unspoken verdict.
When they arrived at her apartment, she maintained her silence, striking another blow to their friendship—or whatever the hell it was.
And right now, a bus ticket to Bozeman looked pretty damn appealing.
As soon as Mark had escorted Juliet and the baby inside the apartment, he left.
He hadn’t said where he was going, and she hadn’t asked. Nor had she mentioned her frustration, which was out of character for her.
Juliet had never been one to mince words when it came to expressing herself or her emotions. Feelings existed, and she didn’t make a secret of hers.
Like her abuelita, she was quick with a hug when she felt love and affection. And she had no problem voicing an objection when crossed or slighted.
But this was different. She found it difficult to understand what had caused the ache in her chest or the tears that welled in her eyes. And she couldn’t explain the guilt she felt over losing something she’d never really had.
This cold war she and Mark had silently declared made her uneasy and sad. And that didn’t make much sense.
After all, Mark planned to leave Thunder Canyon as soon as his story was finished. Only the town fool, la tonta del barrio, would expect their relationship to continue. Besides, she’d only known him for a couple of weeks. The secretive man was still a stranger in many ways.
So why did it bother her to think she’d lost his friendship?
Surely it wasn’t because she’d fallen in love with him. She knew better than to let herself do something that crazy.
She just didn’t like seeing him hurt, that’s all. He’d proven to be a good friend—her only friend right now. And she’d only meant to help him in return. That’s why she’d tried to get him to reconcile with his family.
Okay, so he’d been right. It wasn’t her business. And her efforts had backfired. She knew better than to push him any more than she had.
But she cared for Mark, more than she dared admit—even to herself.
A lot more.
Oh, Dios mio.
Was it possible? Was she falling in love with the tortured, cynical reporter who had stepped in when she needed a friend the most?
It sure felt that way.
Great. Just what she needed. Another absent loved one.
Juliet put away her groceries—all but the items she needed for dinner—then soaked the pinto beans in a pot of water. Before she could do anything more, Marissa began to cry, announcing it was chow-time again and causing Juliet to prioritize.
Her baby needed her, and their mother-daughter relationship was the only one that mattered.
For the past twenty-five years, Juliet had gotten along fine without Mark Anderson in her life. She could certainly survive the loss of his friendship, even if that meant never seeing him again, never seeing that teasing, flirtatious glimmer in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in a rebellious grin. Never hearing his graveled voice, his baritone laugh.
Grief and regret tore deep in her heart.
But she wouldn’t let it mar her future or that of her daughter.
After feeding Marissa and getting an extraloud burp, Juliet laid the baby in the cradle she’d purchased at Second Chances, the thrift store down the street, and covered her with the light green covijita.
She marveled at the precious miracle that grew bigger each day and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then she caressed her daughter’s head, felt the downy fine hair. Duerme bien, mi angelita.
After leaving the bedroom and entering the kitchen, she put the beans on to cook, and lost herself in the sounds and aromas of a meal meant to be therapeutic. All the while she hummed a medley of mariachi tunes that Abuelita used to sing.
She prepared several chicken breasts, soaking them in a sauce of tomatoes and chilies, taking care to make the salsa especially mild. The lactation expert at the hospital said that if a food made Juliet gassy, it would probably do the same to the baby. Of course, the spices in this dish