Her apartment had never felt more cramped than it did when she rejoined the two men in her tiny living room. Clay rose to his feet as she entered, and the simple courtly gesture made her want to weep. He was telling her that he respected her and that...he cared for her...would always care for her.
The area was just large enough for one sofa and a coffee table. Her desk and computer stood against the other wall. Rorie pulled the chair away from the desk, turned it to face her guests and perched on the edge. Only then did Clay sit back down.
“So,” Dan said with a heavy sigh. “Rorie never did tell me what it is you do in...in...”
“Nightingale,” Rorie and Clay said together.
“Oh, yes, Nightingale,” Dan murmured, clearing his throat. “I take it you’re some kind of farmer? Do you grow soybeans or wheat?”
“Clay owns a stud farm, where he raises American Saddlebreds,” Rorie said.
Dan looked as if she’d punched him in the stomach. He’d obviously made the connection between Clay and her earlier interest in attending the horse show.
“I see,” he breathed, and his voice shook a little. “Horses. So you’re involved with horses.”
Clay glanced at him curiously.
“How’s Nightsong?” Rorie asked, before Dan could say anything else. Just thinking about the foal with her wide curious eyes and long wobbly legs produced a feeling of tenderness in Rorie.
“She’s a rare beauty,” Clay told her softly, “showing more promise every day.”
Rorie longed to tell Clay how much it had meant to her that he’d registered Nightsong in her name, how she cherished that gesture more than anything in her life. She also knew that Clay would never sell the foal, but would keep and love her all her life.
An awkward silence followed, and in an effort to smooth matters over she explained to Dan, “Clay was gone one night when Star Bright—one of the broodmares—went into labor...if that’s what they call it in horses?” she asked Clay.
He nodded.
“Anyway, I couldn’t wake Skip, and I didn’t know where Mary was sleeping and something had to be done—quick.”
Dan leaned forward, his eyes revealing his shock. “You don’t mean to tell me you delivered the foal?”
“Not exactly.” Rorie wished now that she hadn’t said anything to Dan about that night. No one could possibly understand what she and Clay had shared in those few hours. Trying to convey the experience to someone else only diminished its significance.
“I’ll get the coffee,” Rorie said, standing. “I’m sure it’s ready.”
From her kitchen, she could hear Dan and Clay talking, although she couldn’t make out their words. She filled three cups and placed them on a tray, together with cream and sugar, then carried it into the living room.
Once more Clay stood. He took the tray out of her hands and set it on the coffee table. Rorie handed Dan the first cup and saucer and Clay the second. He looked uncomfortable as he accepted it.
“I’m sorry, Clay, you prefer a mug, don’t you?” The cup seemed frail and tiny, impractical, cradled in his strong hand.
“It doesn’t matter. If I’m going to be drinking Swiss mocha coffee, I might as well do it from a china cup.” He smiled into her eyes, and Rorie couldn’t help reciprocating.
“Eaten any seafood fettuccine lately?” she teased.
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s my favorite dinner,” Dan inserted, apparently feeling left out of the conversation. “We had linguini tonight, but Rorie’s favorite is sushi.”
Her eye caught Clay’s and she saw that the corner of his mouth quirked with barely restrained humor. She could just imagine what the people of Nightingale would think of a sushi bar. Skip would probably turn up his nose, insisting that the small pieces of seaweed and raw fish looked like bait.
The coffee seemed to command everyone’s attention for the next minute or so.
“I’m still reeling from the news of your adventures on this stud farm,” Dan commented, laughing lightly. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when you said you’d helped deliver a foal. I would never have believed it of you, Rorie.”
“I brought a picture of Nightsong,” Clay said, cautiously putting down his coffee cup. He unsnapped the pocket of his wide-yoked shirt and withdrew two color photographs, which he handed to Rorie. “I meant to show these to you earlier...but I got sidetracked.”
“Oh, Clay,” she breathed, studying the filly with her gleaming chestnut coat. “She’s grown so much in just the past month,” she said, her voice full of wonder.
“I thought you’d be impressed.”
Reluctantly Rorie shared the pictures with Dan, who barely glanced at them before giving them back to Clay.
“Most men carry around pictures of their wife and kids,” Dan stated, his eyes darting to Clay and then Rorie.