He didn’t finish, instead turned away, reached for his glass.
She stopped him. Covered his hand, brought it to her heart. “Don’t. It won’t help. This will.” She searched his gaze. “Talk to me. Turn to me.”
“Gone. Without a word. All of … blames me.”
“Who blames you, Logan? For what?”
“I didn’t stop him. I could have. I did … nothing. Nothing.”
He started to cry. She held him, not knowing what else she could do. She wanted to ask what he could have done, but knew she wouldn’t get a real answer.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Got to keep you safe.”
“You will. Come to bed. You need sleep.”
“No … afraid to … if I sleep who will watch over you?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You have to sleep. How can you protect me if you’re exhausted? Come to bed,” she said again, coaxing.
He let her lead him upstairs. There, she helped him out of his clothes, then stripped out of hers and slipped into bed beside him, curling up against him.
“Need to tell you.”
“What?”
“About True. Should have … told you…”
“What, babe? What should you have told me?”
His eyes had drifted shut.
“Babe? What about True?” She shook him gently. “Tell me about True.”
His lids fluttered up, he looked at her, though she thought he was already asleep. “How … do I … keep…”
The words trailed off and he was asleep. Snoring softly.
Bailey gazed at him, thoughts whirling. What had he been about to tell her? About True or his parents? They’d been fighting. He felt to blame, but for what?
She frowned. What had he been doing there in the study, other than getting inebriated? She pictured the desk, the open laptop. He’d been on the computer. The books on the floor, he must have knocked them over when he stood up. That was the sound she’d heard.
How long had he been there? With that thought came another. They’d fought, and yet when he returned to the house it hadn’t been to her. He’d gone to his study and gotten on the computer. What could have been so important?
Something for work, she told herself. That had to be ready for today. She rolled carefully onto her back. Maybe he had come and checked on her, found her sleeping and decided to leave well enough alone. That’s what he would tell her in the morning.
But what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t tell her anything? Could she live with that?
Bailey closed her eyes, breathed deeply. Yes. He was her husband. She trusted him. With her heart and her life.
Even as she repeated that promise in her head, an ugly fear gnawed at her. That something had changed between them today. And in her. Because of Billy Ray. The things he’d said about Logan. And because of those other two women. Something that would make believing for them both more difficult than she could have thought possible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bailey carefully closed the bedroom door on her way out. It was early and Logan still slept. She had awakened to the same questions that had kept her awake until the wee hours.
And sometime during those hours she had decided what she would do. Just take a look. Prove to herself her imagination was running away with her. She would feel foolish after. Guilty for not having trusted him.
Then she would let it go.
She quickly descended the stairs. At the bottom, she took one last glance back up, then headed to the study.
She stopped in the doorway, took it in. The desk, the big chair behind it turned toward the door. The books on the floor.
She crossed to the desk, slid into the chair, tapped the return key. The computer came to life.
Photos. Of the two of them. From Grand Cayman. Their wedding. She studied them, emotion choking her. Her smile. The joy shining from his eyes. The way they had lingered over their kiss. Dancing on the beach after their “I do.” Their laughter.
Tears filled her eyes. She hadn’t seen the pictures yet, had been waiting for the photographer to e-mail them.
When had Logan gotten them? She checked the date on the file: Yesterday. Yesterday, when she had been breaking his heart with her doubts. When her suspicions had kept her awake and sent him to the bottle for comfort.
“Do you think I’m a monster, too?”
“Bailey? What are you doing?”
She turned. He stood in the doorway, looking hollow-eyed and hungover. Her tears spilled, rolled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
He crossed to the desk, closed the computer and drew her up. He cupped her face in his palms. “Why are you crying?”
She shook her head. “The photographs.”
“You found me out.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and pressed her face into her shoulder.
“Hey. Look at me.” She did and he smiled. “What are you sorry about?”
The abbreviated truth, she thought. The whole truth would hurt him again. “Yesterday,” she whispered. “Our fight.”
“We need to talk.”
“What about?”
“True.”
She nodded and he led her to the kitchen. There, she made coffee and he drank one glass of water, then another.
“How do you feel?”
“Like hell. Splitting headache.”
“Did you take something for it?”
“Upstairs.”
“Want something to eat?”
“Not yet. Just coffee.”
He motioned to the table. “Let’s sit.”
She set the mugs on the table and took the chair across from his. Her heart was rapping so hard against the wall of her chest, she wondered if he could hear it.
“I thought everything was perfect between me and True. I really had no clue that she was unhappy.”
He took a sip of the coffee, then went on. “I left to go to look at a horse, up near Jackson. When I got home she was gone.
“It wasn’t like her not to be here when I got back from out of town, but I thought maybe she’d gone to New Orleans to shop. But as the hours passed, I started to panic.”
His voice thickened. “She hadn’t returned any of my calls,” he said after a moment. “Nobody on the farm knew when she’d left or where she was.”