She shook her head, overruling his point. “That doesn’t matter. He threw me out, but I think that in Clay’s mind I should be begging him to take me back.”
And that brought them to the major question that had been nagging at him since she’d walked in. “And do you want him to?”
Amy’s answer was quick and emphatic. “No! I’ve done my penance,” she told Connor with feeling. “And I’ve finally come to my senses.”
The smile that curved his mouth was a reflection of the warmth he was feeling inside. “Glad to hear that,” he said with enthusiasm. Then, not to appear as if he was dwelling on what she’d just said, he turned to a more practical subject. “I brought you new linens and some fresh towels.” He pointed to both piles he’d placed on the bureau earlier. “If there’s anything else you can think of that you might need, all you have to do is ask. I can bed down here on the couch,” he offered, “so I can be close by if you decide that you do need something.”
But she wasn’t about to hear of him having to spend the night on the sofa because of her. “I’ve already put you out enough as it is and I’ve got everything I need right here.”
He didn’t want her to feel as if he was putting any undue pressure on her and he would be the first to acknowledge how important it was to retain a sense of independence.
“All right,” he said as he headed toward the door, “then I guess I’ll say good-night and turn in.”
Connor was almost at the threshold when he heard her call after him.
“Connor?”
He turned around quickly, thinking that she had remembered something she needed. “Yes?”
Gratitude was shining in her eyes as she said, “Thank you.”
The two words caused sunshine to filter all through him. He hadn’t felt like that since they were kids in high school.
“My pleasure,” he told her.
The next moment he pulled the door closed behind him and then he was gone.
Amy stood in the small, homey guest room for a long time, just looking at the closed door. A peaceful feeling sank in by small increments. She was safe. For the first time in a very long time, she was safe.
“Well, we did it, Jamie,” she whispered softly to the child, who was asleep in the nearby cradle. “We escaped. Now all we have to do is figure out what to do with the rest of our lives.”
She sighed as she sank down on the double bed. “Tomorrow,” she said, her voice still a soft whisper. “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Amy was convinced she wouldn’t get much sleep, given the amount of extra tension she’d experienced by finally getting up the nerve to pick up and leave. But it was exactly that tension—and the accumulated tension from the last five years—that had her so exhausted. She was asleep before her head even hit the oversize pillow Connor had placed on her bed.
* * *
CONNOR FELT LIKE hell when he came downstairs the next morning. If he’d gotten an hour’s worth of sleep, spread out across the last six, he had done well.
For the most part, he’d lain awake, listening for any sounds that were out of the ordinary. Mainly, he had been listening for Amy calling him in the middle of the night. Twice he’d gotten up and stood on the landing of the stairs, straining his ears and listening in case he’d somehow missed hearing her.
But other than the sound of a coyote howling in the distance, there was nothing to break up the silence.
Even Amy’s baby was silent, which, compared to the other four infants who had spent time at the ranch, was highly unusual.
But Connor went on listening just in case, which explained why he felt as if he’d been run over by a stampeding herd of mustangs when he came down the following morning.
Struggling to focus his eyes, he stumbled into the kitchen, intent on making himself a strong cup of coffee and hopefully jump-starting his system.
It was his heart that underwent the jump start when he almost walked right into all five-foot-one of the moving dynamo who was his housekeeper.
“Rita,” he exclaimed, startled. “You’re back.” Still feeling out of focus, he struggled to clear his head. “Weren’t you supposed to get back next Monday?” he asked the woman.
“Yes,” Rita answered, clearing off the counter as she prepared to make breakfast, “but I decided to come back early and I see that I was right to cut my visit to my sister short.” Rita had never been one to mince words. “You look like hell, Mr. Connor.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You have not been eating your own cooking, have you? I know that I prepared enough meals for you to last until I returned.”
“My cooking’s not that bad,” Connor protested.
Rita took his protest to mean that the rancher had been cooking. She frowned. “Then you have been eating your own meals.”
“No, Rita,” Connor responded dutifully, “I’ve been eating your casseroles, just like you told me.”
Still eyeing him suspiciously, Rita fisted her hands on her waist. Something was definitely off. “Then why do you look like that?”
Connor went with a simple answer first, hoping it would be enough to satisfy the woman. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
Concern instantly washed over the older woman’s face. “Is there something wrong? Did someone in the family get sick?” she asked. “Who is it? I will go right over there—”
“Calm down, Rita. Nobody’s sick.” He caught the woman by her sturdy shoulders, holding her in place, although it wasn’t all that easy.
Her attention circled back to him and she gave him a dubious look. “Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror this morning?”
“I appreciate your concern, Rita. I do,” he said patiently. “But I’d appreciate a cup of coffee even more.”
Rita sighed. She was accustomed to the rancher’s slow, stubborn behavior. He was not one to volunteer information quickly.
“Very well, Mr. Connor. I will make you your coffee,” Rita said. Taking the coffeepot, she measured out three cups of water and then placed the required amount of coffee grounds into the coffee machine.
“And make a couple of extra cups this morning,” he requested.
Rita stopped and added water to the pot and measured out more coffee grounds to accommodate his request. “Mr. Cole coming early?”
“No, he’s coming the usual time,” Connor answered. Opening the refrigerator, he rummaged through the different shelves. He didn’t find what he was looking for. “Rita, do we have any more jam?”
“In the pantry.” The coffee maker began to go through its paces, making noises as it brewed. Rita turned to look at him. “Since when do you take jam?” she wanted to know. Before he could answer her, the distant sound of a baby crying had Rita looking alert. “Am I hearing a baby cry?”
“I don’t know,” he deadpanned. “Are you?”
She listened more closely. “That sounds too young to belong to Mr. Cole’s twins.”
“Good ear,” Connor complimented, deftly avoiding what he knew the woman was ultimately after. “Listen, why don’t I just pour the coffee and get the jam and you just—”
Rita placed herself in front of the rancher, a small, formidable human roadblock. Her dark eyes narrowed as they delved into him.
“Another one?” she cried.
“Another what?” Connor asked innocently, deciding