Wyoming True - Diana Palmer Page 0,27

I was married to Charles, I climbed up to Machu Picchu in Peru, I walked all over Chichen Itza in Mexico, I followed in the steps of Zane Grey in Arizona, I stood at the ruins of Great Zimbabwe in Africa, and traced Rommel’s advance in Algeria...”

“Whoa,” he said at once. “Rommel?”

“World War II, North Africa campaign, 1942,” she said.

“Well, damn!”

He was cursing, but he was smiling. “Is it an interest of yours?” she asked.

“My grandfather was with Patton’s division in Africa. Rommel had already gone back to Germany, sick, but his strategies were still being followed. My grandfather came back full of stories about Rommel that he had from other soldiers and from German captives. It fascinated me as a boy.”

She laughed. “My dad was a history buff. One of his relatives, not sure which one, fought in North Africa, as well.” She smiled. “Small world.”

“Isn’t it?” he chuckled.

They finished supper. Then Jake had the driver take them out to a long stretch of deserted beach. They got out, while the driver settled in with his book.

Ida took off her shoes and walked barefoot in the sand, her eyes on the glistening waves, the half-moon bright in the distance.

“Pirates must have sailed here in the distant past,” she mused as they walked along.

“No doubt. These days it’s good for deep-sea fishing.”

“I’ve never been. I can’t imagine trying to pull in something that weighs fifty or sixty pounds.”

He glanced at her. She had a small frame, although she was medium height, and her injuries would never allow her to do such a strenuous thing as deep-sea fishing. “It would be difficult for you. Those fish fight back, and it takes a lot of strength to land one.”

She turned to him. “You’ve done it,” she guessed.

He chuckled. “I have. I pulled in a marlin that weighed a lot more than sixty pounds. By the time I got him aboard, I was sweating and shivering with strained muscles and all out of my best cusswords.”

“Did you have him mounted?” she asked.

“I tossed him back in.”

“You did?”

He laughed at her expression. “I don’t take trophies.”

She smiled. “I knew you were a nice man.”

“Nice.” He rolled his eyes and started walking again.

“It’s not a bad word,” she pointed out. “Would you rather be thought of as a scoundrel?”

“In my experience, scoundrels have a lot more fun than nice men.”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I’ve pretty much had my fill of scoundrels.” She moved forward, a little gingerly, but the ibuprofen was doing its job. So she danced in and out of the foaming surf, laughing, her face almost radiant in the moonlight, her pretty figure outlined without the coat she’d left in the car, which she hadn’t really needed here. But the water was still cold, because it was October.

“You’re going to catch cold,” he told her. “It’s too cool for wading.”

“Spoilsport,” she teased. “I’m having fun. Don’t spoil it.”

“When you’re sneezing your head off and coughing...”

“I know, don’t blame you. Don’t worry. I won’t.” She laughed. “Life is short,” she said, dancing back into the water. “I’m going to live it to the very fullest. Nobody is guaranteed tomorrow, you know.”

He felt an odd sense of kinship with her. He’d lost his mother, whom he’d loved dearly. She’d lost her own parents. They were both orphans. Adult orphans without anyone to share their triumphs and tragedies.

She glanced at him, curious. “What’s wrong?”

“I was just thinking that we’re both orphans.”

She stopped playing in the surf and came back to stand just in front of him, holding her shoes in one hand. “We are, aren’t we?”

He bent, framing her pretty, flushed face in his lean, beautiful hands. “All alone in the dark...”

His mouth brushed over hers with a tenderness that brought stinging tears to her eyes. She stood very still, so that he wouldn’t stop.

But he felt the tears in his mouth and lifted his head, shocked.

“Why?” he asked, worrying that he was going too fast.

“I’m not used to it.”

“Used to what, Ida?”

She swallowed. “Tenderness.”

He smiled. “You might not believe it, but neither am I.”

“I’ll bet you leave trails of brokenhearted women behind.”

“I used to. Not anymore.” He sighed. “I’m tired of buying the facsimile of affection with expensive gifts.”

Her small hand went up to his cheek and drew it down. In the moonlight, she could see the anguish on his hard face. She was certain that he disguised it in humor with most people. But with her, he could let his guard down. It