you?”
“How can I when it limits my opportunities, forces me to remain here?” Sighing, she shook her head. “I’ll think about it all tomorrow. Right now, I’m weary of talking about me. Tell me about you. What have you done all these years?”
“I’ve been a cowboy all these years,” he said. “Nothing extraordinary in that.”
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out, cupping his chin, rubbing her thumb over the thickhair on his face again. “Why did you decide to grow a mustache?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like it just fine,” she said, pleased that her opinion mattered to him. “I’m simply trying to figure out some of the things you’ve thought over the years, to understand some of the decisions you’ve made.”
“Second year out on the cattle drive, they made me trail boss. I was all of seventeen, giving orders to men a lot older than me, so I thought if I grew some hair over my lip, I might look a little older, a little tougher so they’d take me more seriously.”
“Oh, my gosh, Tom, you must have been the youngest one ever.”
“There were younger ones during the war. It’s not that hard.”
When had Thomas Warner become so modest? She had to continually remind herself that a good deal about Tom had changed, just as a lot about her had changed. They weren’t the same people any longer. She was torn between wanting to know him better and fearing that particular path would lead only to more heartache.
“It’s a lot of responsibility,” she told him.
“It meant I got paid more, meant I could get the things I wanted quicker.”
“And what did you want?”
“My own ranch. A cowboy who works for an outfit has little chance of ever having a family, andno chance whatsoever of providing for them the way he’d want to.”
“Do you have your ranch now?”
“I sure do. I just finished building the house. I pounded a lot of the nails in myself, wanted it to have my mark on it. I’ve always wanted something permanent, something sturdy that would outlast me. I find it ironic that all this time, I had estates over here that I never knew about.”
“It doesn’t diminish what you did in Texas. What did you name your ranch?”
“Lonesome Heart.”
Her chest tightened, a knot formed in her throat. There was nothing she could say to that, nothing he could say either. The name of his ranch said it all for both of them. The silence eased in around them, comforting, familiar.
“What’s your earliest memory?” he asked, with so much solemnity that she wondered where the silence had taken him.
“Seeing you behind the general store.”
“Not of me,” he said quietly. “The memory that goes the farthest back in your mind, before you ever met me.”
“Oh, gosh.” She closed her eyes, thought for a moment, opened them. “It would have to be of my father, dressed in gray, kneeling before me, telling me that he loved me, promising me that he’d come home.” With startling clarity, she realized she’d had a lot of broken promises in her life. “It was a promise he wasn’t able to keep.”
“If I’m doing the calculation right, you were only four.”
She nodded, even though he probably couldn’t distinguish her movements in the shadows. “Close to that. I’m not sure how long the war had been going on before he went to fight.”
“I was a little older when my mother took me away from here, and I have no memories of any of it, Lauren. I don’t remember saying good-bye to anyone. I don’t remember any hugs or tears. I don’t remember if I was scared or excited. I don’t know if I thought we were going on an adventure. When I look back, my memories begin in New York.”
“What if they made a mistake, Tom? What if you aren’t Sachse?”
“Have you ever been to the Sachse residence in London?” he asked, obviously not interested in pursuing her question.
Was he like other men she’d known—so enamored of the title that he didn’t want to
“How can I when it limits my opportunities, forces me to remain here?” Sighing, she shook her head. “I’ll think about it all tomorrow. Right now, I’m weary of talking about me. Tell me about you. What have you done all these years?”
“I’ve been a cowboy all these years,” he said. “Nothing extraordinary in that.”
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out, cupping his chin, rubbing her thumb over the thickhair on his face again. “Why did you decide to grow a mustache?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like it just fine,” she said, pleased that her opinion mattered to him. “I’m simply trying to figure out some of the things you’ve thought over the years, to understand some of the decisions you’ve made.”
“Second year out on the cattle drive, they made me trail boss. I was all of seventeen, giving orders to men a lot older than me, so I thought if I grew some hair over my lip, I might look a little older, a little tougher so they’d take me more seriously.”
“Oh, my gosh, Tom, you must have been the youngest one ever.”
“There were younger ones during the war. It’s not that hard.”
When had Thomas Warner become so modest? She had to continually remind herself that a good deal about Tom had changed, just as a lot about her had changed. They weren’t the same people any longer. She was torn between wanting to know him better and fearing that particular path would lead only to more heartache.
“It’s a lot of responsibility,” she told him.
“It meant I got paid more, meant I could get the things I wanted quicker.”
“And what did you want?”
“My own ranch. A cowboy who works for an outfit has little chance of ever having a family, andno chance whatsoever of providing for them the way he’d want to.”
“Do you have your ranch now?”
“I sure do. I just finished building the house. I pounded a lot of the nails in myself, wanted it to have my mark on it. I’ve always wanted something permanent, something sturdy that would outlast me. I find it ironic that all this time, I had estates over here that I never knew about.”
“It doesn’t diminish what you did in Texas. What did you name your ranch?”
“Lonesome Heart.”
Her chest tightened, a knot formed in her throat. There was nothing she could say to that, nothing he could say either. The name of his ranch said it all for both of them. The silence eased in around them, comforting, familiar.
“What’s your earliest memory?” he asked, with so much solemnity that she wondered where the silence had taken him.
“Seeing you behind the general store.”
“Not of me,” he said quietly. “The memory that goes the farthest back in your mind, before you ever met me.”
“Oh, gosh.” She closed her eyes, thought for a moment, opened them. “It would have to be of my father, dressed in gray, kneeling before me, telling me that he loved me, promising me that he’d come home.” With startling clarity, she realized she’d had a lot of broken promises in her life. “It was a promise he wasn’t able to keep.”
“If I’m doing the calculation right, you were only four.”
She nodded, even though he probably couldn’t distinguish her movements in the shadows. “Close to that. I’m not sure how long the war had been going on before he went to fight.”
“I was a little older when my mother took me away from here, and I have no memories of any of it, Lauren. I don’t remember saying good-bye to anyone. I don’t remember any hugs or tears. I don’t remember if I was scared or excited. I don’t know if I thought we were going on an adventure. When I look back, my memories begin in New York.”
“What if they made a mistake, Tom? What if you aren’t Sachse?”
“Have you ever been to the Sachse residence in London?” he asked, obviously not interested in pursuing her question.
Was he like other men she’d known—so enamored of the title that he didn’t want to
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