But Casey knew—or thought he knew—the answer to that question. Shane had a loving wife and a baby on the way, with the future hope that more children would be coming. Even without the use of his legs, he had a meaningful life.
The door to the master bedroom, where Shane and Lexie slept, was closed. Tess’s door stood open. The room was empty, as was the living room. Val must have gone outside.
What if she’d left—the way she’d left him when she was seventeen, without a word?
But no—he found her in the rocker on the front porch, wrapped in the worn Navajo blanket that hung over the back of the couch. The dog leaned against her leg, tail thumping as she scratched its ears.
When she raised her head to look at him, the moonlight gleamed on her tear-streaked face.
He pulled another chair next to hers and lowered himself into it. “What is it?” he asked. “Is it me?”
Her breath made a sound like tearing silk. “Oh, Casey,” she said.
His first impulse was to gather her close and hold her, but that would resolve nothing. What she needed, he sensed, was to talk.
“Tell me,” he said.
For a time, she didn’t speak. A wispy cloud crept across the moon, casting its shadow on the earth. A coyote called from the hillside below the pass. Val drew a sharp breath.
“Our baby,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Neither can I. But you know that.”
“I asked you not to mention him to me again, and you haven’t. But it’s too late. It’s as if you opened the floodgates. I never really cried for him, you know. I told myself I had to be strong. But I’m not strong.”
Casey captured her hand and held it tight. “It’s all right. We’re both dealing with the loss.”
“I told myself that it didn’t matter, not being able to have more children. At least I wouldn’t get my heart broken again. What I didn’t know was that I’d be breaking yours.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You don’t have to say these things, Val. They’ll only hurt.”
“No, listen to me.” She pulled her hand away. “I want you to leave me, Casey. Leave me and find a woman who can give you the children you want—yourchildren.”
Casey muttered a curse. He should have expected this. “Stop it. You should know better than to say that.”
“I mean it. Maybe with luck, she’ll even enjoy watching you get tossed in the air and pounded into the dirt.”
“But she wouldn’t be you. I love you, Val. And we’re not having this discussion.”
“Then where do we go from here?” She was on her feet, clutching the blanket around her. “I love you, but love isn’t enough. It won’t change my body. And it won’t change the terror I feel every time you step into the arena. I can’t become the woman you want.”
“Damn it, youarethe woman I want. Marry me, Val. We could drive to Vegas and get it done tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea—especially now that you’re trying to find our son. It’s brought home how much you’d miss having children of your own—and what a mistake it would be not to have them.”
When Casey didn’t—couldn’t—answer, she pulled the blanket tighter around her body. “We’re not good for each other right now. Maybe it’s time you went back to Tucson.”
Turning away from him, she stalked back into the house. As he followed, seconds behind her, Casey heard the door to Tess’s vacant room close with a defiant click.
With a sigh, he passed the closed door and continued on down the hall. He would be sleeping alone for the rest of the night—and maybe for some time to come. But as much as he loved Val, there were two things he refused to abandon—his work as a bullfighter and the heartbreaking search for their son.
* * *
Brock roused himself at 5:30, already looking forward to the day. As he stepped into the hotel shower and lathered his body, his mind clicked down the mental list he’d made. First, a visit to the pens to make sure his hired hands had fed and watered the four bulls; then breakfast, maybe with Tess, if he could talk her into it. After that, he’d be spending more time with his best bull, Cannonball, who’d be bucking tonight in the championship round.
Cannonball, a hulking, white six-year-old, had an impressive record of buck-offs and high-scoring rides. He’d given a good performance in Vegas, and Clay Rafferty had already tapped him for the May finals in Fort Worth—so far, the only bull from the Tolman Ranch to make the cut.
Brock planned to move the bull to a separate pen and give him a going-over with the electronic muscle stimulator. Like Whirlwind, Cannonball was easily handled and would even come to the rails to be scratched. Working on him was an easy task. After that . . .