A Kiss In The Moonlight

“So you strung him along, then while he was out of town you experimented with me. You must have decided it was real. You stayed with him.”

“Because he needed me.”

“Yeah,” Trevor said with undisguised bitterness. “He needed you, so you stayed.”

“Trevor—”

“The car wreck wasn’t all that serious, according to the news later that evening. It didn’t kill him or maim him or call for a life-or-death operation, did it?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said. “It didn’t.”

“But you stayed with him. Where’s your engagement ring?” he demanded, lifting her hand and holding it between them so they could both see her bare finger. He dropped it as if it might contaminate him with something dreadful.

“At home.”

“Your mother said you’d set a wedding date. In June, she said.”

Lyric stared at him. “You called? When?” She clutched his arm at his nod. “Trevor, when?”

“After I got the letter. Apparently you’d changed your mind about the marriage.” He pulled away from her grasp.

“She didn’t tell me about the call.”

“I told her not to. I didn’t figure it would make any difference.” He started toward the horses, then paused. “Would it?” he asked. “Would it have made a difference if we’d spoken? Would you have broken the engagement and come to me…if I’d asked?”

She thought of silent, endless nights at the hospital, of days at Lyle’s bedside when he went home, him thinking he was going to be all right, that they would marry and produce an heir to the two ranches.

We’ll have children right away, he’d said one afternoon toward the end. Would you rub my head? These damn headaches seem to be getting worse instead of better.

His mother hadn’t wanted him to know the truth. She’d wanted his final days to be happy ones, filled with plans for the future. He didn’t seem to realize he was slipping further and further away as feeling began to leave his body.

He hadn’t even noticed when he’d closed a car door on his hand. Lyric had been horrified but had managed to hide it as she released his hand and settled him on the terrace before running to the kitchen for a towel and ice to go on his injury.

He’d become more and more docile as the days wore on, and then he hadn’t wanted her out of his sight during the last weeks. She’d slept on a sofa in his room. Often she’d held him propped up in her arms when his breathing became labored and weak. Then one night he’d whispered, “Thank you for loving me.”

Those were the last words he spoke. He’d lapsed into a coma and was gone several hours later.

Studying the strong, healthy man who glared at her as he waited for an answer, she sighed and said softly, “No, I couldn’t have come then.”

His face hardened. “Then why the hell did you come now?”

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