anxiety. Right now, he was busy imitating a stone statue.
“Why don’t you say something?” she said. “What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Talk to me, Billy.”
“I was wondering how fast we can get that $25,000,” Billy replied. “The sooner I pay off Debbie Sue, the better. I want that custody hearing canceled.”
Summer felt her heart sink. Of course Billy’s first thoughts were about his son. That was the whole reason he’d suggested getting married. But she couldn’t help feeling hurt. She’d told Billy she was marrying him to thwart her parents, but she hadn’t been able to keep herself from romanticizing the situation.
Sure, they were marrying for convenience, but once upon a time, Billy Coburn’s kisses had curled her toes and made her heart gallop. She had to admit that deep down she’d been hoping he’d fall madly in love with her. They’d be short of cash for a couple of years, but eventually she’d have her trust fund and they’d live happily ever after.
The reality was she had two rough, Spartan years ahead of her. And Billy wasn’t acting the least bit romantic.
“When and how do you want to tell your parents?” Billy said.
Summer grimaced. “Will you think I’m a coward if I say I’d rather let them find out on their own?”
He glanced sideways at her. “You’re my wife now. If you want me there when you tell them, just say the word. Blackjack doesn’t scare me.”
Summer grinned, but the moment of levity vanished when she thought of what a confrontation between her father and Billy might be like. She shuddered when she imagined the same scene with her mother. “I can’t do it right now,” she said. “Just let me grab a few things from the house.”
“Want me to come in with you?” he said as he stopped her truck at the back door to the Castle.
“No. I’ll be quick.”
The house seemed empty, but it often did. The servants moved quietly about their duties, and her mother likely was hidden away in her studio at the end of the hall on the second floor, creating another artistic masterpiece. Eve Blackthorne’s acclaimed Western oil paintings were featured in galleries all over the country.
Summer had often envied her mother’s talent—and resented the time she spent in her studio creating “perfect” paintings from photographic images of Western life, carefully correcting each flaw the camera had captured on film. Her mother painted the world as it might be, not as it was. Sometimes Summer wanted to paint back in a fly-blown sore on a cow, or the rot in a mesquite fence post, or put back in the too-narrow space between a cowgirl’s eyes, so her face was distinctively her own.
But she didn’t have her mother’s talent. She didn’t have any talent, for that matter. Oh, she could sit a horsepretty well, and she could dance the two-step and the cotton-eyed Joe with flair. And challenged by her father, she’d mastered the computer programs necessary to manage Bitter Creek.
But she didn’t have a college degree. She couldn’t sew or cook. She had no idea how to play an instrument or sing on key. And she didn’t know squat about babies.
What on earth had she been thinking when she agreed to marry Billy Coburn? She was going to end up being one more responsibility loaded on his already overburdened shoulders. He was going to hate her for taking advantage of the situation when he saw how inept she was with Will.
But she couldn’t help being what she was. Maybe she had been spoiled, growing up in a house where everything was done for her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t learn. And she would.
As Summer tiptoed down the upstairs hall, stepping around the places in the wooden floor that she knew would groan, she vowed that Billy would never have cause to be sorry he’d made her his wife.
She crept into her bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back against the cool wood, staring wistfully around her room. It was everything a young girl could want. A
“Why don’t you say something?” she said. “What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Talk to me, Billy.”
“I was wondering how fast we can get that $25,000,” Billy replied. “The sooner I pay off Debbie Sue, the better. I want that custody hearing canceled.”
Summer felt her heart sink. Of course Billy’s first thoughts were about his son. That was the whole reason he’d suggested getting married. But she couldn’t help feeling hurt. She’d told Billy she was marrying him to thwart her parents, but she hadn’t been able to keep herself from romanticizing the situation.
Sure, they were marrying for convenience, but once upon a time, Billy Coburn’s kisses had curled her toes and made her heart gallop. She had to admit that deep down she’d been hoping he’d fall madly in love with her. They’d be short of cash for a couple of years, but eventually she’d have her trust fund and they’d live happily ever after.
The reality was she had two rough, Spartan years ahead of her. And Billy wasn’t acting the least bit romantic.
“When and how do you want to tell your parents?” Billy said.
Summer grimaced. “Will you think I’m a coward if I say I’d rather let them find out on their own?”
He glanced sideways at her. “You’re my wife now. If you want me there when you tell them, just say the word. Blackjack doesn’t scare me.”
Summer grinned, but the moment of levity vanished when she thought of what a confrontation between her father and Billy might be like. She shuddered when she imagined the same scene with her mother. “I can’t do it right now,” she said. “Just let me grab a few things from the house.”
“Want me to come in with you?” he said as he stopped her truck at the back door to the Castle.
“No. I’ll be quick.”
The house seemed empty, but it often did. The servants moved quietly about their duties, and her mother likely was hidden away in her studio at the end of the hall on the second floor, creating another artistic masterpiece. Eve Blackthorne’s acclaimed Western oil paintings were featured in galleries all over the country.
Summer had often envied her mother’s talent—and resented the time she spent in her studio creating “perfect” paintings from photographic images of Western life, carefully correcting each flaw the camera had captured on film. Her mother painted the world as it might be, not as it was. Sometimes Summer wanted to paint back in a fly-blown sore on a cow, or the rot in a mesquite fence post, or put back in the too-narrow space between a cowgirl’s eyes, so her face was distinctively her own.
But she didn’t have her mother’s talent. She didn’t have any talent, for that matter. Oh, she could sit a horsepretty well, and she could dance the two-step and the cotton-eyed Joe with flair. And challenged by her father, she’d mastered the computer programs necessary to manage Bitter Creek.
But she didn’t have a college degree. She couldn’t sew or cook. She had no idea how to play an instrument or sing on key. And she didn’t know squat about babies.
What on earth had she been thinking when she agreed to marry Billy Coburn? She was going to end up being one more responsibility loaded on his already overburdened shoulders. He was going to hate her for taking advantage of the situation when he saw how inept she was with Will.
But she couldn’t help being what she was. Maybe she had been spoiled, growing up in a house where everything was done for her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t learn. And she would.
As Summer tiptoed down the upstairs hall, stepping around the places in the wooden floor that she knew would groan, she vowed that Billy would never have cause to be sorry he’d made her his wife.
She crept into her bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back against the cool wood, staring wistfully around her room. It was everything a young girl could want. A
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