Still he hesitated, pausing to kiss her forehead and brush a strand of hair back from her face.
“He’s a good man,” the woman said when the door closed behind him.
Betsy nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. Ryan was a good man. The best. He didn’t deserve the trouble she was about to bring into his life.
If she cared about him at all, she had to distance herself from him. And she needed to do it as soon as possible.
No, her heart cried out. Tell him.
End it now, the tiny voice in her head whispered. For his sake.
Rational thought warred with raw emotion on the drive home. By the time Ryan pulled to a stop in front of her apartment complex, Betsy was exhausted. He pressed to spend the night and take care of her, but she made him leave. She had a lot of hard thinking to do.
Once he left, she burrowed under the covers with Puffy at her side, conscious of only one thing: the time had come to say goodbye to Ryan. And here she’d thought they had a fighting chance at happiness.
Foolish woman. Foolish, foolish woman.
Monday was D-day. At the end of the day, Betsy would break up with Ryan and quit her job. Then she’d contact the county attorney and give her statement. Though she realized leaving two jobs in such a short amount of time would look suspicious, she saw no other option.
Thankfully she’d made enough money to pay for the replacement furnace at her aunt’s house. Once the house sold, she’d leave the area.
Although she loved Jackson Hole and her friends here, she couldn’t be in the same town as Ryan. Sooner or later he’d find someone new to love, and Betsy couldn’t take the chance of running into him and his new girlfriend.
A sob rose to her throat, but she swallowed it, refusing to let the tears fall. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she forced her mind on business, on the stack of work waiting for her.
Betsy was so focused on her thoughts that she didn’t notice the older couple waiting outside the office until she reached the door. They looked familiar. Quickly she made the connection. “Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt?”
“I’m sorry.” Ryan’s mother tilted her head, her gray eyes clearly puzzled. “Have we met?”
Even though it had been ten years since Betsy had last seen her, Sylvia Harcourt didn’t look a day older. Instead of brushing her shoulders, her dark hair now hung just past her ears in a trendy bob. She was still as stylish as ever in a tweed coat that put Betsy’s parka to shame.
“I’m Betsy McGregor, Keenan’s sister.” She almost added “and your son’s girlfriend,” but she didn’t. Not only because they probably already knew that, but because after today it would no longer be relevant.
“Oh, of course,” Sylvia said a little too heartily, which told Betsy she didn’t remember at all. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m doing well.” Betsy unlocked the door and motioned them inside. “Ryan should be here shortly.”
“I didn’t know you were working for our boy.” Frank Harcourt had to be close to sixty. Unlike his wife he looked every bit his age. Of course a bald head fringed with gray tended to do that to a man.
“It’s a recent thing.” Betsy flipped on the office lights. “About six weeks.”
“He’s lucky to have you.” Sylvia unbuttoned her coat. “Good help is hard to find.”
Betsy’s smile froze. Ryan had talked to his parents since they’d become “involved,” but it was becoming increasingly obvious he hadn’t mentioned her in any of those conversations. “Ryan didn’t tell me you’d be stopping by.”
“It was a last-minute kind of thing.” Frank shrugged out of his overcoat to reveal a pair of crisply pressed navy pants and a striped dress shirt. “We’re headed to Salt Lake. That’s where Ryan’s sister and her family live. But Ryan has been doing some legal work for us and—”
“Frank, I’m sure the girl doesn’t want to hear our personal business,” his wife chided.
A thin layer of ice slowly wrapped itself around Betsy’s heart. “How about I make some coffee?”
“That would be nice, dear.” Sylvia slipped off her coat and gave it to her husband. He hung it on the antique coat tree next to his, then wandered over to the photograph of Ryan receiving one of his bull-riding medals.
Betsy measured out the water for the coffee.
Frank shook his head. “I wish the boy would put the same amount of effort into finding a wife as he did riding those bulls.”
“Ryan has dated a lot of women.” Betsy wasn’t sure why she’d jumped into the conversation with both feet. But once said, the words couldn’t be taken back.
“He’s like my brother,” Frank said. “Just like him.”
From the tone, Betsy surmised that wasn’t a compliment. She added the packet of ground beans and turned on the coffeemaker.
“Our son is not like your brother,” Sylvia protested. She straightened the picture, then stepped back, eyeing it as if to make sure it was level. “Jed is on his third marriage. Our son has yet to even walk down the aisle once.”
“I’m not talking about marriages, Sylvia. The boy falls in and out of love so fast it makes my head spin. Just like Jed.”
Betsy averted her eyes and pretended not to listen to the squabble.
“Oh, Frank, you know that’s not—”
“What about that woman last year? Kate. All I can say about her is she lasted longer than most. Then it was Mary or Misty. No, Mitzi. That didn’t last long at all. Then at Labor Day, it was Audrey.”
“Is he still dating Audrey?” Sylvia asked Betsy.
Betsy thought about correcting her, but decided the name didn’t matter. Adrianna or Audrey. She knew who Mrs. Harcourt meant.
“No,” Betsy said in a voice that sounded hollow. “I don’t believe he is.”
“I tell you, Sylvia, the boy doesn’t know what love is.”
“Dad. Mom.” Ryan stood in the doorway, a look of surprise on his face, a bag of scones in his hand.
Betsy knew the bag contained scones because every Monday, Ryan would pick them up on his way to the office. They’d enjoy them with their morning coffee. It had become a tradition. If you could call two weeks in a row a tradition.
“What are you doing here?” His gaze shifted from his parents to Betsy, then back.
“What does it look like?” his mother asked. “We’re visiting with your secretary while waiting for you.”
Betsy flinched. There was nothing wrong with being a secretary. There was just something about the way that his mother said the word. Dismissive. As if she didn’t matter.
“So you’ve met Bet—”
“We don’t have much time for small talk, son,” Frank interrupted. “You mother and I need to go over those papers with you before we leave for Salt Lake.”
“But I want you to get to know—”
“Honey.” His mother put a hand on his sleeve. “Your father is right. We don’t have much time. I apologize for simply popping in and expecting you to drop everything. But surely you can spare us a few minutes.”
“Mr.