"You know the saying--all's fair in love and war."
"Which is this?" she asked.
His gaze returned to her lips. "You tell me."
She swallowed hard. It sure as hell wasn't war.... "He struggled with mood swings, had very little patience and different priorities," she said.
Clay seemed to have lost the thread of the conversation.
"My ex," she clarified.
"What were his priorities?"
"Affluence. Freedom."
"And yours?"
"Children."
"The other day you told me he didn't want children."
"Right. He couldn't stand to have anything slow us down and resented the financial obligations and responsibilities. But mostly he hated sharing me with anyone else."
"Did he tell you no children before you were married?"
"No. He mentioned it before I got pregnant, though. We argued about it all the time and decided to compromise at one."
"And then?"
"And then he'd hardly look at Whitney and got jealous whenever she interrupted us or required my attention."
"Where did you meet this guy?" he asked.
Allie liked that response. It told her that Clay found Sam as unbelievable as she did. "At college. He's a bright guy, ambitious, social--and intensely possessive and selfish. I eventually realized that I couldn't tolerate having a husband who wouldn't even babysit our child if I needed it.
I began to feel more and more torn between the two of them. Then, one day I came home to find that Sam had picked up Whitney before I got off work because the babysitter had a family emergency. He'd tried to call me, but I was working an important case and couldn't be reached. So he brought her home, locked her in her room and let her cry for hours."
"That's the point where I'd make him very sorry."
She laughed. "I was the one who was sorry--sorry I'd ever married him. To my mind, there was no excuse for such neglect."
"Sounds like he didn't deserve either of you."
"Yeah, well, he's with someone else now, and it's for the best."
"Are you happier on your own?"
"I'd never go back to him, if that's what you're asking." She rubbed her free hand over the goose bumps on one arm. Now that it was later, the air was growing cold despite the fire.
Leaning over, Clay unfolded the quilt at the foot of the bed and pulled it over her.
"Thanks," she said.
He grinned. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
"Okay, I won't." She drained her glass and set it on the bookcase. "Now can I ask you a few questions?"
"Am I going to need more wine to survive the interrogation?"
"Possibly."
"Where are you going to start?"
She frowned apologetically. "With your father."
He grimaced. "Great."
"Should I get you another glass of wine?" she asked, sitting up.
"Actually, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to talk about him even if I was falling-down drunk. So you might as well go ahead."
Switching positions on the bed, she sat beside him with her back against the wall, and covered them both with the blanket. "When did he come back here?"
"Where's here?" he asked.
"Stillwater."
He blinked at her. "He didn't, as far as I know."
"He's never contacted you?"
"No."
She hated having to press him about this particular subject. She knew that what his father had done still hurt, although Clay liked to pretend otherwise. "What about your mother?"
He stared into his wineglass. "He didn't contact her, either."
"Would she tell you if he did?"
"I think so. For a while, I was all she had."
For a long while, Allie added silently. "You've always been close."
"She told me most everything."
Allie suspected Irene had shared far more about her very adult problems than was good for a teenage boy. But, as Clay had just said, he was all she'd had. And somehow, at sixteen, he'd taken on the responsibilities of a man. He'd run the farm and picked up various part-time jobs. The way he'd supported her and his sisters was admirable, but no one in town ever talked about that.
Allie wondered why he never seemed to get any credit for the good things he'd done. He'd graduated from high school while doing the work of two men and acting as his family's patriarch.
And then he'd put himself through college, completing a four-year degree in only two and a half.
"Your mother's lucky to have a son like you," Allie said.
He finished his wine. "Someone about twenty years older would've been a greater help."
"You did your best. What more could she ask?"
He grew quiet, pensive.
She craned her neck to look at him. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm just tired."
He tilted his head back against the wall and Allie scooted a little closer, seeking the warmth of his body. He responded by putting his arm around her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She sensed that his first inclination was to shelter, to protect.
Did that mean he was protecting someone else--his mother, for instance--in the reverend's disappearance? Allie was about to ask him about that night, when she realized Clay was asleep.
Reluctant to disturb him, she rested her cheek against his chest and counted the steady beats of his heart. Clay wasn't what she'd expected. He was far more sensitive, far deeper. She was willing to bet a lot of people, including her father, would be surprised to learn that. Allie thought she'd never met anyone more misunderstood.
We've got to leave, she told herself. But she was exhausted, too. She decided they could afford to rest for another ten minutes....
The next thing she knew, birds were chirping in the trees. It was morning.
Chapter 10
Allie's first thought was that she'd just spent the night with Clay Montgomery. Her second was that he hadn't even tried to kiss her. She wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.
She had to admit his lack of action was a blow to her self-esteem. She'd never expected Clay to pursue her. She knew she wasn't his type. But she'd slept in his arms for hours and he'd acted as if he wasn't even tempted....
"We have to get back," she mumbled, pulling away from the comfort his body had provided. "I need to be at home when Whitney wakes up."
He'd opened his eyes the moment she began to stir and was looking at her as if, unlike other mortals, he didn't need to go through the various groggy stages of rising to full consciousness.