The Snow Leopard's Pack (Glacier Leopards 5)

Lillian opened her mouth. Then she closed it.

She’d been about to disclaim. To say, Oh, it wasn’t that bad. My life is just fine.

But that would be a lie. And she found that she didn’t want to lie to this man.

“Being angry with Lew doesn’t solve anything,” was what she finally came up with.

“No,” Cal said, slow and thoughtful, “but it sure is satisfying right now.” He turned around and caught Lillian’s mouth quirking up. “Does that help you? I can be angry as all get-out at that man for you. If it cheers you up, I’ll stay angry with him for a long, long time.”

It was such a sweetly ridiculous offer, coming from this serious man, that she almost laughed. “You’ve helped plenty already, discovering what’s up,” she assured him. “I guess I’ll just—call Lew and talk to him about it.”

That sobered her up fast. Lew was going to deny everything. He was going to whine that it wasn’t his fault. He was going to use the conversation to try and convince her to take care of it all for him. She could hear him now. “I’m in real danger from these guys, Lil! Can you front me something to pay them off for now, and I’ll get it back to you when I win big?”

Lew was never going to win big.

“Hey,” Cal said softly, and she started. “Where did you just go?”

The question was quiet but serious. Like he truly cared about what was going on in her frazzled mind.

She shook her head, trying to shake off her own—what, girlish infatuation?—at the same time. “Nowhere. Thank you very much for your help, I truly appreciate it. Now that I know what the problem is, I’m sure I can figure something out.”

There. That was the appropriately adult response. No hint of a plea to stay and keep his large, reassuring, masculine-smelling self by her side until this was over. Because frankly, between her whiny ex and her overbearing mother, there was no way that would turn out well.

But Cal frowned. “I don’t want to say you don’t know what you’re doing, because I can tell you’re a capable woman—”

Can you? How?

“—but the Hennesseys and their crowd are dangerous, Lillian. If they’re after you, I’d be more comfortable if you let us help you out.”

So would Lillian, to be perfectly honest. But, “I can’t impose to that extent. From what you and Teri have said, it’s going to be like trying to ride herd on some kind of—of outlaw gang or something.” She shook her head. “That sounds like a bad Western. But they’re clearly not going to listen to reason, is my point.”

“Then we give them something else to listen to.” Cal’s voice was serious.

Lillian stared at him. She wasn’t used to this. She was used to people who complained about their problems, who ducked out of responsibility, who tried to put everything on her. Who ran away when the going got tough.

This man was looking her in the face with those cool, iron-gray eyes and telling her, I’m stepping up and

taking responsibility for this.

“You shouldn’t put yourself in any danger,” she said. “None of this is your fault.”

“None of this is your fault, either,” Cal pointed out. “You didn’t gamble, or borrow any money, or do anything wrong.”

“I married Lew.” Bitterness seeped out through her voice.

“Why?”

The question took her off guard. Strangely, it seemed to have taken Cal off-guard too: he was already backpedaling hastily.

“I apologize. That’s truly none of my business.” The faintest hint of pink colored his neck.

This big, strong man was blushing. Lillian found it...terribly endearing.

“I was young,” she said impulsively. “I was in college, living at home, and I desperately wanted to get away. Lew was another student, and he seemed like something miles away from the...squalid minutiae of living at home.”

She tried a smile, and it sort of worked. “Of course now I know that the minutiae are what make up everyone’s life, and looking down on them is a one-way ticket to being dissatisfied. But then, I was just struck by how much of a dreamer he was, the sort of things he said in class. He loved philosophy, art, and literature, and I wanted to be a librarian, so I thought it was a match made in heaven.”

She laughed without any humor. “I didn’t quite make the connection that being a dreamer didn’t translate into having any practical skills. All Lew ever wanted to talk about was big ideas. He’d forget to do the dishes. He’d quit a good job because he thought it was boring. He thought it was stupid that I cared about things like making money and having a clean house and dinner on the table every night—he had these dumb romantic ideas of, of living in a garret in Paris and subsisting entirely on absinthe and Great Art.”