Things—no, Libby had changed in the last year. It had started out with small modifications. New furniture, repainting a room or two, hanging new draperies, trying out new recipes from faraway places.
Then she’d started dropping hints about them doing “couple” activities.
When Libby had returned to her job as the school librarian after summer hiatus, she went on a diet and lost twenty-five pounds. He’d always loved her curvy body, but she seemed happier thinner. She’d tossed out her old duds and bought new ones. Gone were the long denim skirts, loose shirts, bulky sweaters, baggy sweats and oversized T-shirts she’d worn for years. Ditto for neutral colors.
No, Libby—his Libby—began wearing tight, low-cut jeans. Clingy blouses that accentuated her ample chest. Short skirts in vivid colors. Just as he was wrapping his head around those changes, she’d trotted off to Denver for a professional makeover. She’d chopped her long, honey-brown hair into a short, trendy cut and added blondish-red highlights. She’d never worn much makeup, so it’d shocked Quinn to see her freckles covered, her lips glossy red and black eyeliner emphasizing her blue eyes.
At that point he’d begun to worry, wondering if she’d met a man she was trying to impress.
When Libby asked him how he liked the “new” her, Quinn replied honestly: He’d liked the old her just fine.
A day later he was living in the horse trailer.
“Dammit. You aren’t even listenin’ to me, are you?” Ben demanded.
Quinn ignored the taunt and focused on Libby sashaying off the dance floor. The smile she allotted her dance partner didn’t reach her eyes like it did whenever she danced with him. Her shoulders were bunched up to her ears. Her normally graceful body movements were forced. Unnatural. She looked as if she were merely going through the motions.
Just like him.
The truth hit Quinn as viciously as a horse hoof to the head. He’d gone about dealing with this misstep in their marriage the wrong way, expecting Libby to come to him. He had to fix it, to man up, take the bull by the horns, grab the tiger by the tail, climb on the horse that threw him, reclaim what was rightfully his. Clichéd phrases, but truisms to lead him in the right direction—the only direction—straight back to her.
“Quinn? You okay?”
“Nah. I ain’t been right since she kicked me out, Ben. Dammit. I miss her something fierce.”
Ben froze. “Ah shit, Q, you ain’t gonna start with that, I love you man, kinda drunk talk, are you?”
“Hell no.” Quinn shoved the pitcher aside and propped his elbows on the table. “But I have been listenin’ to you yammer on, and you’re exactly right. I’ve gotta do something. And you’re gonna help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Help me come up with a plan to win my wife back.”
Chapter Two
“Second shelf on the bottom row.”
The seven-year-old girl shook her head, bouncing her blonde corkscrew pigtails. “Huh-uh. I looked.”
“Look again.”
“But you’re the librarian. You always help me.”
“This time is different, sweetie, because your teacher wants you to find the book. It’ll improve your alphabetizing skills.” Libby resisted her impulse to smooth the girl’s puckered brow.
“I wish you were my teacher, Mrs. McKay,” she announced before flouncing away.
I wish I had a little girl just like you.
Libby briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t go there. She had enough issues and failures to deal with, thank you very much, starting with the demise of her marriage to Quinn McKay.
Damn stubborn man. What would spur him into action? To get across this wasn’t a game? This was their life hanging in the balance.
Quinn hadn’t balked at her demand of a trial separation. He’d taken it in stride and blithely continued his day-to-day life on the ranch, content to hole up in the horse trailer until she “came to her senses”.
Three months had gone by and they were at an impasse.
It didn’t help Libby hadn’t spoken directly to her husband in that time frame. Her involvement with their ranching operation made their lack of daily communication a real dilemma. Being the efficient sort, she’d created a schedule for ranch business and bill paying, and for personal issues, such as when Quinn could use the shower and the washer and dryer in the house.
The system worked, but it forced them to leave each other notes. His were terse and to the point. Hers were polite and filled with detailed explanations. Which pretty much summed up their marriage in the last year or so.
But Libby still loved Quinn. She missed him like crazy. Yet after last night, she questioned whether love was enough. Why wouldn’t he fight for her? For them? Why was it solely up to her to enact the changes they both so desperately needed?
If you’re so eager for change, why haven’t you signed the legal complaint paperwork the attorney gave you that’s been in your desk for a month?
Good question.
But at least she’d made an effort to test her wings and gauge if walking away from him for good was a possibility. Bored and lonely, Libby had started hanging out with her single female coworkers at Ziggy’s, a bar which catered to a younger crowd than the other honky-tonks in the area. Getting hit on by eager, hot cowboys did wonders for her self-esteem, even when she’d only flirted, danced and accepted the occasional free drink.
Then Quinn began showing up. He’d hunker down in a booth, drinking beer, sometimes alone, sometimes with his brother. Quinn never approached her. He just watched her.
Until last night.
Quinn’s clipped, “Get your goddamn hands off my wife,” had instilled a tiny seed of hope. Libby secretly wished for Quinn the Barbarian to hoist her over his shoulder and cart her out of the bar. She fantasized her he-man would be in such a lust-filled state to have her, he’d f**k her against his dirty pickup, not caring who might see him staking his claim.
Afterward, he’d race them home and make mad, passionate love to her for days on end. In their bed.
On the kitchen table. In the shower. Up against the corral. All the while confessing his undying love for her. Profess he’d been a fool. He’d do anything to keep her and guarantee her happiness for the rest of their lives.
That hadn’t happened. Libby had to face reality—it probably never would. Last night Quinn had simply muttered and walked away. Given up. Dashing her idiotic, girlish romantic dreams of reconciliation.