A Long Tall Texan Summer: Tom Walker Read Free

married yet?"
    He searched her soft oval face without expression.
    "That'll be the day," he replied.
    "Yes, I remember. You're the original love-'em-and-leave-'em bachelor." The bitterness was back in her voice. "I guess you're still shaking the women out of your bed..."
    He stepped closer, his eyes kindling. "My love life is none of your damned business!" He never raised his
    voice, but the whip in it cut almost physically. It disconcerted her.
    "No...of...of course not!" she stammered.
    She actually took a step backward, and he cursed himself inwardly.
    "I'm sorry," he said curtly. "You probably think you were one in a line. That's the joke of the century."
    "Ex...excuse me?"
    He checked his watch, feeling self-conscious.
    "I have to get to work."
    His behavior puzzled her. She'd spent years blaming him, hating him. But he didn't look like a philanderer. Sure, she reminded herself, and most ax-murderers probably don't look like killers, either.
    Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html She stood aside to let him pass. He hesitated,
    though, the wind blowing his thick black hair around over a face that was deep olive. He had an untamed look about him. He was still very handsome, although she
    was sure that he was in his middle thirties by now. His build was that of a much younger man, lean and muscular.
    "You have Native American ancestry, don't you?" she asked involuntarily.
    "Sioux," he agreed. "Our great-grandfather."
    "How is your sister?" she asked without wanting to.
    "Fine. She and Jacob have a son. He's five now."
    "I'm happy for her."
    "So am I. It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd never married, either."
    There was a deeper meaning to what he was saying. She wished she could read between the lines. Her eyes searched his curiously. If only she could hate him.
    He looked down his long, straight nose at her with dark green eyes that didn't blink. "We're both older.
    I'm glad you found someone you could love. I hope he was good to you."
    She flushed. "He was very good to me," she said.

    "And I wasn't." His lean hand reached out, almost touched her hair, withdrawing before it made contact.
    He laughed at his own inability to show affection. "I regret you most of all, Elysia," he said numbly. "I was
    afraid. Maybe I still am."
    He turned and went into his office, leaving her staring blankly after him.
    She'd hated him so much when she'd come back to Jacobsville after his cold rejection. It hadn't even been much of a memory, that short night she'd spent in his arms. He'd been ravenously hungry for her, but rough and at times, oddly hesitant. When he'd hurt her, he'd even tried to draw away, but it hadn't been possible. His harsh groan as he gave in to his hunger had stayed with her all these long years. He'd sounded as if he hated himself
    for wanting her, blamed her for it. He hadn't said a single word. Not before, during, or after.
    It was painful to remember how desperately she'd loved him. She'd gambled everything on giving in to him, that once. But instead of bringing them closer, it had destroyed their tenuous friendship. She'd come
    home and he'd never tried to contact her at all. Perhaps that was best. She didn't really want him to know
    about Crissy. Eventually he might notice that the child bore a striking resemblance to him, but he wouldn't
    know what her late husband
    looked like, so there was little danger of her secret coming out.
    She wondered what he would say if he knew that their one intimacy had produced such a beautiful little miracle. She couldn't tell him. Everyone in town thought that her late husband had fathered the child, but
    poor Fred had been far too ill for intimacy, even when they married soon after her flight to Jacobs-ville six years before. His illness had been a long-drawn-out one, with brief periods of remission that became
    even briefer as time passed. He'd been kind to her, though, and she'd had affection for him. He'd loved the child. Poor man,