Mail Order Bride Mishap (Into the West #3)

Chapter 17

But it wouldn’t be her he’d be making love to. It wouldn’t be Fiona O’Toole’s name he’d be sighing, or even her he’d be seeing. He would be using her for another, using her when it wasn’t even her that he pined for. And the honorable man that he’d been, that still lived deep within his crusty outer shell, couldn’t exploit Fiona for his own selfish purposes.

And so, on another frustrated growl, he pulled free from her warmth, from the comfort she promised. Turned to face her, backed up unsteadily and shook his head when she made to follow.

“Don’t,” he croaked. “I only have so much will-power, so don’t. It’s not you I’m wantin’. It’s not you I’d be seein’. It’s her, dammit, it’s always been her, and I won’t hurt you just to bring her back.

“Because, no matter how much I pretend, or wish it, you aren’t her, and I’d be foolin’ myself to think anything different.”

He stared at her across the dark space, backed up as she slowly approached, was sure he heard the crunch of the pieces of his heart under his boots. As she followed his retreat and stepped into the fall of light from the kitchen doorway, it was uncanny how much she resembled the other. It would be so easy to—

No! He shook his head vehemently at her, backed into the wall by the kitchen entrance as she stopped right before him, not a foot of space separating them. He looked pleadingly down into her face, felt the sting of frustrated tears in his eyes. Hated the thought of becoming a sobbing mess of an old man before her.

“Who am I to you, Brody?” She whispered, looking up into his face. “Who do you think of when you see me? What is our connection?”

He closed his eyes at the sound of his real name off her lips, leaned his head against the wall and sighed a sigh of defeat. The time had come. He’d known it as soon as he’d laid eyes on her that his lifetime of pretense had come to an end. He would have to face his personal demons at last, no longer let them ride him and flog him through the rest of his days. It was a blessing and a curse.

Unable to look her in the eyes, he kept his closed, but her use of his given name drove him to say hers for the first time. He went around his explanation the backwards way, to gather courage for what was to come.

“You deserve better than me, Fiona. Better than an old man, a brittle shell of what he once was. You deserve a young, strapping man, like that idiot Townsend, though not an idiot. Certainly not an old fossil playin’ Pygmalion.”

He forced himself to open his eyes now, to look into her face as he sought absolution. She may not be the one, but she definitely meant the most to him of anyone he’d ever met since her, and consequently deserved his complete honesty and attention.

She’d cocked her head at his reference to Pygmalion. Please, God, let her know to what he referred, so he wouldn’t have to explain. He didn’t think he could last that long otherwise. Her very appearance sent him see-sawing between present and past already. He forged on, holding her gaze as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. He knew his sanity did.

“You are the spittin’ image of my Sadie, my wife, the one woman I’ve always loved. And I killed her.”

##

Fiona didn’t even blink, though his admission shocked her to the core. A killer? Cookie? Grumpy, grouchy, sweet Cookie? He’d killed his wife? Was that why he lived alone up here in the wilderness? Why wasn’t he languishing in a jail? Was this his own personal form of confinement?

She stared into his eyes as they held hers with a trace of self-mockery. Angled back as his head was, she couldn’t read his expression quite as clearly. But she knew he’d meant to shock her. Well, he had. But she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. Oh, no. The Irish, the O’Toole’s, were made of heartier stock than that. So instead she leaned closer, tilted her head to look up at him and whispered, “That’s a barrel of malarkey you’re spewin’, Brody Westfield, an’ I’ll have none of it.”