No woman except Nadine.
But she was out of his life.
Forever.
CHAPTER NINE
HAYDEN WAS GONE. His Jeep wasn’t parked in the drive, the old dog had disappeared, an answering machine, its red light already blinking, was hooked up to the telephone in the den and the sleeping bag he’d flung over the bed in the master bedroom was missing. He’d left. Without a word.
Nadine frowned to herself. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? A life without Hayden. She’d told him as much. So why should she feel any sense of depression? She usually wasn’t a person to dwell on her mistakes, but she’d spent the remainder of her weekend thinking about Hayden and all the ramifications of making love to him. She’d kicked herself for not considering all of the problems that might arise before she’d tumbled into bed with him, but what was done was done, and now she had to live with the consequences.
Still, she felt a deep disappointment that he’d left. True, that without him her work would be easier; she could finish cleaning the old house more quickly and she wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of facing him again. Yet she was frustrated. No doubt about it. She’d put a little extra care into choosing her work clothes, fixing her hair and applying her makeup, silent testimony to the fact that she did care about him, if only just a little.
She spent the day finishing her intense cupboard-by-cupboard cleaning of the kitchen, then stripped all the floors. The stain in the foyer where Hayden had kicked over her bucket and some polish had spilled took hours of elbow grease. The telephone had rung several times while she was working, but she’d ignored it, and the answering machine had always clicked on. She hadn’t heard the messages as she’d always been in another part of the house, but as she flung her jacket over her arm and picked up her supplies to leave, the telephone jangled again. This time she was near the den and couldn’t help but overhear the one-sided conversation.
“Hayden?” A female voice asked, and then paused. “You there? It’s me again. Wynona.”
Nadine’s heart seemed to slam through the floor.
“Hayden? If you’re there, pick up,” Wynona commanded. A few tense seconds of silence. “Great.” Another pause followed by a lengthy sigh. “There’s no reason to avoid me. You can’t. You owe me.” Nadine sagged against the wall, and Wynona’s voice turned wheedling. “We’ve been through a lot together, baby. Let’s not fight now. Give me a call. I’ll be home all night, waiting to hear from you.” After a few seconds, she clicked off, and Nadine, unaware that she’d been holding her breath, expelled the air in her lungs in a rush.
So Hayden was still involved with Wynona Galveston. Nadine’s stomach soured at the thought, but she told herself not to jump to conclusions. The call was ambiguous and could mean anything. Besides, it didn’t matter; Nadine had no claim to Hayden’s affections or his attention. Just because they spent one night of lovemaking together… She let out a little strangled sound and then mentally kicked herself. She wasn’t a simpering, love-besotted female, and she had lived long enough to accept that humans were sexual creatures. Her night with Hayden was either an act of rebellion or sexual fantasy, but it had nothing to do with love, so whatever his relationship was with Wynona, it didn’t matter.
She argued with herself during the drive home and tried not to think of the last man she’d cared for. Hadn’t Turner Brooks ignored her affections and fallen in love with his long-ago lover? Hayden would probably do the same and turn back to Wynona.
Yes, but you didn’t sleep with Turner. You didn’t make love with Turner. You didn’t fantasize about living the rest of your life with Tur— “Stop it!” she ground out, switching on the radio and listening to a Garth Brooks recording of love lost.
Furious with herself, she snapped off the radio and pulled into the drive. She was too busy to dwell on Hayden or Wynona or anything but her sons, who, already home, tore out of the house at the sound of her car. They both flung themselves into her arms, and for the first time since hearing Wynona’s voice, she felt better. As long as she had John and Bobby, who needed Hayden Monroe?
“I got an A on my math test!” John crowed. “And Tim, the kid I’m helping, he got a C, his best grade ever.”
“Good for you.” Nadine gave her eldest a squeeze.
“I didn’t have a test,” Bobby chimed in, not to be outdone. “But I made a new friend. His name is Alex and he just moved here from…from…”
“From Florida, you dweeb. His sister’s in my class.”
“I’m not a—”
“Of course you’re not,” she intervened, throwing her older son a warning glare. “And you, John, quit insulting your brother.” Nadine kissed Bobby’s forehead and rumpled John’s blond hair. “Come on, you guys can help me fix dinner.”
“What’re we having?” John asked suspiciously.
“Hot dogs with whatever you want on them.”
“All right!” Bobby shouted, seeming to have forgotten his older brother’s insults.
After dinner, she helped the boys with their homework, then forced them into showering before they fell into bed. She spent the next three hours sewing and gluing studs and beads on a faded denim jacket that was an integral part of her collection. By the time she’d c
leaned the kitchen and read her mail, it was one o’clock in the morning. Her head sank into the pillow and she hoped for exhaustion to claim her. It didn’t. Though she was so tired she ached, she couldn’t sleep. Wynona’s message played and replayed in her mind, and Nadine was left to wonder why she should care so much about Wynona Galveston.
* * *
EACH DAY SHE expected Hayden to return, and each day she was disappointed. On Wednesday she received a letter from her brother, Ben, telling her that he was returning to Gold Creek before Christmas.
Thursday, she met her father downtown for lunch. He lived in a retirement center that was within walking distance to the heart of Gold Creek, but she always drove him to the restaurant. George Powell, at sixty, was no longer strapping. He walked with a cane, courtesy of a slight stroke several years earlier, and his hair was thin and gray. His apartment was small but adequate and he seemed comfortable if not happy.
As he eased his bulk into a worn red vinyl booth of his favorite restaurant, the Buckeye, he looked at his daughter. “Heard you been working for Monroe’s attorney.”