True Colors

“The ranch is too much for her,” Winona said. “Maybe we need another hand to help out.”

They were closing in on her—Aurora, who saw too much, was frowning, while Winona, who wanted too much, looked pissed off. And there was Luke . . . whom she wanted to love, should love . . . but couldn’t. They were gathering forces, giving each other concerned glances, and she knew she should feel enfolded by the concern, comforted, but instead she felt claustrophobic. All she wanted to do was run up to the cabin again and be with Dallas; that need terrified her. She had to stop this madness now, before it burned her to ash. “Maybe we should go somewhere, Luke. Just the two of us. See how we get along twenty-four hours a day.”

“They call that a honeymoon,” he said, smiling. “I was thinking of Paris. I know how much you want to see the world.”

“Do I?”

She could envision their trip in the smallest detail: they’d have a moderately priced hotel room—maybe with a view of the Eiffel Tower if they were lucky—and they’d base their dining decisions on recommendations from a tourist guide. They’d see every sight the City of Lights had to offer, and they’d talk easily while they walked down the Champs-Élysées or along the Seine. Everything would be romantic, but there would be no ripping off each other’s clothes in impatience, no days spent naked in bed making love. “I really don’t feel well,” she said, feeling Winona’s narrowed gaze on her. Vivi Ann was careful not to look at her sisters.

“I’ll walk you home,” Luke said.

“No,” Vivi Ann said sharply, then softened her tone with a smile. “Please.” She heard the tinny desperation in her voice and there was nothing she could do about it. If she stayed here another minute, she’d explode. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

“Let her go,” Winona said, surprising them all.

“You sure?” Luke asked Vivi Ann.

“I’m sure.” She pressed up onto her toes and gave him a quick kiss, pulling back before he could deepen it. “See you all later.”

She was careful to walk slowly, as if she really felt bad. Outside, she kept up the pretense, walking down First Street toward the water. It wasn’t until she came to the corner and ducked into the shade of an old tree that, finally, she could breathe.

And there he was, standing in front of the Waves Restaurant, looking recklessly out of place amid the gnomes in the yard. He wore his dusty white cowboy hat drawn low on his head, so low that even with the sunlight shining down on him she couldn’t make out his eyes. The bold black tattoos stood out on his tanned bicep, a sharp contrast to the overwashed gray cotton of his T-shirt.

She pretended not to see him and kept walking, but when she heard his footsteps following her on the sidewalk across the street, she walked faster.

At Water’s Edge, she went inside and shut the door, hearing it click; a brass mechanism that separated her from a world she hadn’t even known existed before. “Dad? Are you here?”

There was no answer.

Alone in the house, she stood there, waiting.

Then she heard footsteps on the porch . . .

The door handle began to turn.

He came into the house like a hot summer wind. She stumbled sideways and hit the dining table. He pinned her against the heavy wood, pressed his hips into hers, and kissed her so long and so hard she couldn’t breathe enough to tell him to stop. She felt his hand slide up her bare leg, balling the fabric of her skirt in his fist. His hand slipped into her underpants.

She fumbled at the buttons of his jeans, ripping them open, shoving them down to his knees. Her hands were desperate on his body, pushing, pulling; her need was so intense she couldn’t remain quiet, and when he pushed her back onto the table and thrust deep inside her body, she cried out his name.

When it was over, and she’d come back to herself, she felt shaky and off balance. She lay there, with her skirt bunched up around her waist and her panties around her ankles, on her mother’s dining room table. And she knew she should be ashamed. “This is crazy,” she said quietly. “I can’t live with it. The lying . . .”

He touched her face with a gentleness that surprised her. “It won’t last long, Vivi. We both know that. In the end, you’ll marry Khaki Ken and no one will ever know about us. So come to my bed.”

“Okay,” was all she could say. It was the wrong answer—immoral and hurtful and wrong—and still she took his hand.

Chapter Nine

That summer, Vivi Ann learned to lie. Throughout the rest of July and August, she worked long hours at the arena, sometimes alongside her father, but more often on her own, teaching lessons or training horses or scheduling the many uses of the barn. She celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday at one of her own barrel races, and for the first time in her life she overheard someone say she was dedicated.

Dallas had taught her a lot about running a ranch. Water’s Edge now hosted some of the best jackpots and clinics in the western half of the state. Ropers and barrel racers and cutting teams came regularly to compete for money and prizes. Afterward, they went home and told their friends and more people came.

During the hot, sunny days, Vivi Ann made sure to be her old self. The Pearl Princess. She still cooked three meals a day and served each one at the dining room table to two men who rarely spoke. At first she’d been careful at these meals not to make eye contact with Dallas, afraid that her father would see that which she tried so hard to conceal, but in truth, her dad hardly paid her any attention either way.

And thank God for that, because she was addicted to Dallas; it was as simple—as complex—as that. At least five nights a week she went to his cabin in the middle of the night. They tumbled into her grandmother’s brass bed like horny teenagers, making love until dawn.

Or maybe it wasn’t making love. Maybe it was just sex. She wasn’t sure and, to be honest, she didn’t care. He was booze and heroin and cigarettes, all wrapped into one: the bad habit she couldn’t quit. She learned to exist moment-to-moment, always on the lookout for an opportunity to be with him.

Like now.