Page 5 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Chapter Three

IZZIE

In a deep growl that sends vibrations of desire through me, Wolfe asks, “Can I talk to you alone, Izzie? Outside?”

My body heats at the sound of his voice, like it always has.

As if I’m attuned to his frequency. And the way the muscle in his jaw feathers underneath his afternoon stubble makes my pulse race.

This is why I avoid him at all costs. Although my heart and mind are over him, my body hasn’t gotten the memo. I don’t think it ever will.

From the first time I saw him working security in Afghanistan, my flesh has always had a mind of its own around him.

Even worse, I know he knows this. It makes being alone with him a perilous proposition.

But if I’m going to work with him at the historical society, I need to establish clear boundaries and ground rules.

Both of which I should start laying tonight.

He stands and saunters past me, waving over his shoulder for me to follow. Easily parting the crowd, he stands head and shoulders above everyone at six foot six inches tall. I follow behind, amused by how people crane their necks to gawk at him.

Many sneak second and third looks, trying to determine if he’s a famous football player or wrestler.

He leads me down a dark alley to the side of the saloon, which I’d never enter alone.

But Wolfe’s as lethal as they come. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

Of course, his presence represents another kind of danger.

Leaning against the alley’s brick wall, he looks imposing, his eyes restlessly scanning the area for any sign of trouble.

His body is tense, ready to spring into action at the slightest trigger.

But now, he crosses his thick, corded arms over his chest, taking me in with an unreadable face.

A black thermal shirt hugs every angular muscle in his chest, shoulders, and arms. Khaki pants emphasize his muscular thighs and ass.

I want to tell him everything going on at the museum.

And I open my mouth to start before thinking better of it and pressing my lips tightly together.

I can’t risk it yet. Besides, I need him to come to the same conclusion I have on his own.

With the nature of the accusations I’m contemplating, I need complete assurance I’m seeing things accurately.

Instead, he blindsides me. “Who are the kids with right now?”

Irrational guilt stings me even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I reply in a tense tone, “They’re at the ranch with Grandpa Wyatt, Birdie, and Zane.”

“I thought we agreed that the other had first right of refusal anytime one of us couldn’t watch Matt and Stasia. Am I wrong?” His voice is steely.

Swallowing hard, I reply, “Yes, we did. But obviously, you’re busy tonight, too. Besides, what’s wrong with having the kids at your dad’s house?”

He shrugs. “I just want to know what’s going on. That’s all. Especially with Christmas coming up soon. I don’t want to miss anything with them.”

My eyes narrow, and a flash of anger sears me.

If only he’d had that attitude before we separated, we’d still be together.

I shrug. “Not so long ago, you didn’t give a damn about all of the stuff you missed out on.

It never even crossed your mind. Because your career always came before everything else, including our marriage and family. ”

“You wanted me to change, and I’ve changed. Instead of seeing me for who I am now, you keep holding my past over me. It’s not fair, Izzie.”

Bitterness floods me, and I shake my head.

“Too little, too late, Wolfe. Are you forgetting I was a single mother for the first six years of our son’s life and the first four years of our daughter’s life?

I gave up my career, my ambitions, everything so that you could run around playing mercenary or whatever it is you actually do. ”

“When the good guys need help with the bad guys, they call me. It’s that simple.”

I notice his use of the present tense. A sickening feeling overtakes me.

He’s still involved in clandestine operations.

He’s been home for three months without traveling for more than a few days at a time, a first for him.

At least since I’ve known him. But I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of course, I’ll never know for sure what he does for a living, apart from lying to me.

How a marriage can last under those circumstances, I don’t know.

Wolfe counters, “You liked the money as much as I did, and it let me give you and the kids the lives you deserve.” He raises his hand to rub his neck, looking to the side. He always does this when he’s frustrated. I watch his golden-green eyes narrow when he trains his gaze on me again.

“We deserved a life with you,” I reply almost inaudibly.

Scowling, he replies, “So I fucked up. Like you never fucked up in our relationship? No, I forget. You were too busy being Mother Theresa. Shit, Izzie, how many dates and special events did you cancel because a dig you were on took longer than it should? Or you had a missed flight? Or trouble getting back through customs with an artifact? Hell, you missed our proposal dinner. Remember that? I had to put off asking you to marry me for three weeks until we could finally see each other again. And as I recall, that was so you could provide a consultation in Guatemala for the newly discovered tomb of a Mayan princess or some shit like that.”

He always likes to bring this up. “It was a significant find, and time was of the essence. We made National Geographic with that discovery.”

“Baby girl, that’s my point.”

Baby girl. Why does he still call me that? And how can three syllables put such a deep ache in my chest? Make me think of things I don’t dare hope for?

Swallowing hard, I steel my heart, remembering the loneliness of my previous life, the constant stream of lies and secrets. The nagging sense that I would never know even half of what he did, from the sudden need to grow a beard he couldn’t shave for months to unaccounted for scars and wounds.

The physical reminders of his job had nothing on the mental and emotional ones, though, which left him haunted, silent, and cold for months at a time.

Towards the end, it became a constant cycle of piecing the man I loved and the father of my children back together, only to send him out to get shattered again.

He looks down. “We both broke a ton of promises, and we both led highly independent lives. And it worked just fine. But then you got pregnant, and we married, and everything changed overnight. You created a mile-long list of expectations for me without telling me what any of them were. And then you freaked out when I didn’t follow them to a tee.

Is it any wonder it took me time to catch up?

To figure this shit out? Now that I have, though, you continue to punish me instead of seeing it for what it is.

How much more atoning do I need to do to make you happy? ”

I glance back up the alleyway, squinting. Is somebody eavesdropping on our conversation? For a fleeting moment, I swear I see a shadowy figure at the front of the alley. A cold chill travels down my spine.

Turning back towards Wolfe, I whisper, “List of expectations? I think anybody could figure out a husband’s supposed to be home more than he’s away. And a father’s supposed to be there for his children. It’s common sense.”

His face scrunches, “You know nothing was common about my childhood. I was a fucking foster kid. I always told you I didn’t know the first thing about how to make a relationship or a family work. You promised you’d help me. But you never even tried—” He looks away for a long moment.

I’m dangerously close to tears, but I have to defend myself. Having the divorce papers drawn up and sent overseas was the single most painful thing I’ve ever done.

“Never tried? How could I, thousands of miles away? Our marriage was a constant cycle of you disappearing for months. You couldn’t tell me where you were or what you did, let alone who you did it with.

Sometimes, you didn’t contact me for weeks.

Then, out of the blue, you’d reappear, a hollowed-out shell.

I held on for as long as I could despite the anguish it caused our children and me. But the deceptions gnawed away at me.”

They caused me to do the one unforgivable thing in his eyes: question his loyalty.

I don’t say this last part because I already know what the result will be—him getting furious and shutting down.

I can’t stand it when he stonewalls me. And even though I know he won’t admit it, he’s never forgiven me.

Instead, I take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of composure.

Softly, I remind him, “You were the one who brought up divorce in the first place.” I’m not trying to hold grudges or drudge up things from the past, but it’s true.

And that word was one of my two unforgivables—the other being infidelity. He knew that going in.

Through gritted teeth, he says, “All I’ve ever wanted to do is make you happy. Obviously, you were miserable with me, so I said it.”

I knit my brows. “And yet you refuse to sign the papers?”

I ignore the stricken look on his face like I’ve punched him in the gut.

Silence engulfs us, thick and suffocating.

I long to run into his arms, let him comfort me like he used to.

But the pain built up between us is an invisible, impenetrable barrier.

Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, pacing back and forth.