She’ll do anything to get her way. Tall, elegant and beautiful, Emma Thorpe has wanted a baby for years. The yearning for a child occupies all her thoughts, her time, her effort, and any money she and her husband can scrape up for medical intervention. After trying and failing to conceive, the solution that finally comes to her is to leave her husband and hope to find a man—any man—capable of fulfilling her deepest desire. 

The cowbell attached by a copper spiral to the front door chimed.

Emma’s hands stilled at the sound. She’d been standing at the glass display counter that faced the front door, hands busy untangling the delicate chains of a snarl of antique pendants that had arrived with the rest of what she’d bought at an estate sale the previous month. She hadn’t had time to thoroughly examine all the various items that she had acquired by the boxful. But now, traffic in her store slowed with the arrival of cold weather and put a virtual stop to outdoor sales and auctions in southwest Wyoming for the year. She looked up, and when she saw who it was she forced her fingers to be still and not tremble.

She doubted if this visit was professional, even though he wore the full complement of official paraphernalia in Velcro pouches on his belt and clipped to his shirt beneath the faux sheepskin-lined winter jacket. He knew her well and would know she was asking, without asking, what he wanted. In the middle of a chilly workday. In her shop. Where if he wanted to start up again with the questions that she had no answer for, she couldn’t very well turn and run.

“ Emma,” he said, as he removed his tan ball cap with its seven-point gold sheriff’s department logo, which he held in one hand by its curled visor. He stretched out the opposite long forefinger with a clean, neatly clipped nail to give the chains she was working on a tiny bit of a swirl on the glass. Not enough to make the job of disentangling them harder. But enough to let her know he acknowledged he was interrupting her day. “Quite a mess,” he said of the situation with the pendants. Or of the situation between them, perhaps. She couldn’t be completely certain, at this point, what Clay meant.

She wasn’t sure what to say either. May I help you? or What can I do for you today? were both out of the question. He had made clear on several occasions since she moved out exactly how she could help him and what she could do for him. Some of his requests had to do with sex, between old friends, if friendship was all that remained between them. Those she steadfastly refused. But most of his appeals had to do with her moving back home. Which she couldn’t do, so there was no point in talking about it anymore.

“ Place looks nice.” He nodded at the various Christmas displays which she had put up early in an effort to make herself feel better: the tree in the middle of the worn plank floor with its antique glass ornaments and strings of popcorn and colorful paper chains, the gifts in foil and ribbons of gold and red and green under the tree and distributed here and there among the rest of the store’s merchandise. 

“ Thanks.” She had spent many hours decorating the shop, even though her heart had hardly cooperated with the effort. She felt more like Scrooge than Santa this year. But it was her own fault, and so she just got on with things whether she felt in the proper spirit or not.

“ I need something,” he said, and she thought, Oh boy, here it comes. And, truly, she didn’t know at this instant what her answer would be. Sometimes she dreamed about Clay and what had been between them, specifically the fleshy ax handle he carried in his pants and that he wielded so well and that she missed so much, and more generally what a good life they’d had together. She had been determined to leave him, but lately she had been questioning whether her decision hadn’t been rash. Perhaps, as Clay had insisted more than once and which she had refused to consider, there was another way. 

But instead of the plea she expected from him, his regular entreaty for either a quickie or for her to come back home, he continued, “I need something special. For a woman. A special woman.”

He looked up. His hazel eyes glinted, crinkling at the corners as if he were holding back a smile from the lower part of his face but that he couldn’t entirely conceal from her. 

She held her immediate reaction at bay. He wanted a gift for a woman, a special woman, and he made a beeline to her shop to buy it? The news that he was seeing someone else hit her hard, although it shouldn’t have. He was a man. A damned attractive man, if it came right down to it. Tall, well-proportioned and well-built, he was as physically compelling as he’d been when she first laid eyes on him in her late teens. If he let himself smile, he would display even white teeth along with the familiar endearing dimple in his right cheek. If he unclasped his webbed belt and let his pants drop to the floor with a clunk of holstered gun and pouches full of cop gear, she well knew he could show her another impressive part of himself, a part she had enjoyed the use of on many a memorable occasion.

She wanted to curl her hands into claws. She wanted to sweep the snarl of pendants from the counter. She wanted to cry out, to protest his involvement with anyone new, to grab him and reclaim him for herself. She could remind him they were still married. Neither had seen fit as yet to begin divorce proceedings, although she couldn’t have said why that was the case. But she didn’t cry or protest or grab at him. She couldn’t. Shocked at her own initial reaction, her hands still remained resting to either side of the pile of chains, and she forced them by sheer will power to hold their relaxed position. 

“ What is your price range?” she asked instead in as reasonable a tone as she could manage.

“ Oh, money’s no object,” he replied with an airy wave of the hand holding his ball cap, as if she was unaware cops didn’t make near the kind of salary the local miners and oil and gas workers made and spent so freely. 

“ Furniture?”

He shook his head.

“ Pictures or objets d’art?”

He grinned, but to his credit didn’t sneer at her use of such posh foreign terms. Again he shook his head.

“ You weren’t thinking...jewelry?” God, she’d hesitated, almost choking on the word. She didn’t want to give away what she was thinking. She didn’t want him buying jewelry for another woman. Especially not in her store. She tried to hide that sentiment, but Clay hadn’t made it to patrol sergeant by being fooled by emotional women, especially one he knew so well. When he just gave a cool nod of his head, she asked, “A necklace, perhaps? It will take me a while to get the snarls out of these chains, but you can see what the pendants look like. There are all kinds of stones, emeralds, sapphires. There is even a rare black opal, very pretty. Or a bracelet? Or a squash blossom necklace? I have some lovely authentic Navajo pieces in silver and turquoise and coral on consignment.”

He was peering into the glass case under the pendants, not listening to a word she was babbling. He was looking at rings. Emma’s heart sputtered. Surely he wouldn’t ask to see rings.

“ I’d like to see some of those rings,” he said, pointing to the top glass shelf of the old display case. He leaned over oak trim darkened through age and the touch of many hands over the years, his own hand resting where the palms of generations of people who stood before this cabinet to peruse and buy had rested.

So, Emma thought. Clay was changing tactics. No more asking her to come back. He obviously didn’t need her anymore. He’d come in today to announce by this oblique method that he had found someone new. Specifically, she suspected he had probably come in to her shop with every intention of punishing her. Show her what she had thrown away. Rub her nose in it. Make her eat dirt for ever leaving him in the first place.

Well, she supposed she deserved that. No matter how shocked she was at the thought that he had already replaced her. No matter how much it hurt. Why, until this very moment, had she never seriously considered that Clay would look for somebody else when she continued to refuse him? Somebody willing and female. Another woman to spend time with, expend his substantial randy sexual energy upon. To spend what spare money he had on.

He was a man with a big sexual appetite. If he didn’t want to fuck once a day there was something seriously wrong with him. Generally, he wanted it more than once.

She forced herself to slide open the glass doors in the rear of the display case and begin taking out the rings he requested. One by one, the lovely old boxes of velvet with satin linings came out, royal blue, deep purple, Valentine red. One by one she slowly lined them up beside the jumble of chains, taking her time and letting him consider. One by one, he silently debated and then shook his head no. Square-cut amethyst in platinum? No. Oval pink diamond in silver? No. Marquise-cut black onyx surrounded by brilliant-cut diamonds in white gold? No. The rings she chose got progressively older and more expensive. Heavy, with curlicues and much hand work, the vintage pieces were as beautiful on the back as they were on the side meant to be admired when worn. Their beauty didn’t seem to affect Clay any. He rejected them all. 

Really, Emma was astounded. What did Clay Thorpe know about antique jewelry? How could he just shake his head negatively at all her pretty wares? “Maybe you would find what you’re looking for at the mall,” she suggested with a touch of asperity. He had heard her disparage the chain jewelers more than once and would know she was denigrating his taste. But in her opinion, industrial grade diamonds used on saw blades would be good enough for any new woman Clay was considering letting take her place.

“ You haven’t showed me everything you’ve got, Emma,” he accused. “You’re holding back the best.”

Could he actually be referring indirectly to their situation? Would he dare accuse her? Up until now not a word of denunciation had passed between them. They had steadfastly refused to cast stones. But now that he’d found someone else, was the blame game going to begin?

His finger touched the glass. “That one. I want to see that one.”

She blew out a breath. He would. Emma felt her shoulders sag. He would ask to see the one piece in the entire store she was reluctant to part with. Despite the bills steadily mounting now that she lived on her own, she had hoped to hang onto the ring until her financial situation improved. Until she could take it home and admire it and keep it for herself. Over the years she had become almost inured to giving up beautiful, priceless things, things that she appreciated but couldn’t afford for herself. It was an unpredictable business, antiques dealer. Most of the time she made little money; sometimes she made a lot on a single item. She loved so much of what she bought, or else stocked on consignment for others, but the whole idea was to sell them. Not to have them for her own. Yet there were just those few certain pieces that cried out to be possessed and loved by her alone.

She could feel Clay’s eyes on her, watching and assessing as she continued to hesitate. At last she brought out the ring and set the box on the counter. It was truly an extraordinary diamond, a round solitaire with a weight of almost a carat and a half, surrounded by smaller diamonds set in a platinum linear Art Deco design. Even in the poor light from the hanging ceiling fixtures of the shop and the dim autumn light struggling to penetrate the front windows, the ring sparkled, bending and refracting and reflecting what little light was available, in a remarkable demonstration of a long dead and forgotten master gem-cutter and setter’s talent.

Clay sucked in a breath. Even Clay, who would be the first to admit he knew little of truly valuable antique jewelry, had to appreciate this amazing ring. 

“ Put it on for me, Emma. Let me see what it looks like.”

“ Clay.” She tried to forestall him. “This is a very expensive piece.”

“ Well, I figured. Since you didn’t want to show it to me.” She caught his eyes glinting with repressed humor again. “Come on, cooperate with me. I’ve seen your financials, remember. I doubt if you’re doing much more business than you ever were. You can probably use the money from a big sale. Let me see what it looks like on your hand.”

Trying on jewelry so her husband could buy it for another woman? Everything in her rebelled. The whole situation was ludicrous, and Clay was being cruel to subject her to it. Besides, unless he won the lottery or something, he couldn’t afford it. So what was his purpose besides being plain mean? He’d probably been talking to some of the guys at the detention center or on his bowling team, manly-type men whose advice would consist of something like: Just move on, dude. Forget the bitch. What do you need her for? Lots of fish in the sea.

She met his gaze, but his expression gave away nothing. When she continued to delay, he picked up the box and removed the big ring. Then he grasped her left hand, and where her wedding and engagement rings should have been, and slid it onto her finger. There was a message in his eyes, one she was pretty sure flashed in code, You’re teetering on the edge of using up all your chances. We’re coming down to the final choices here, Emma. 

She dropped her eyes to look at the ring. If he hadn’t still been holding her hand, it would have slid sideways on her finger, which looked skeletal in the loose circle of the heavy ring’s shank. Shocked, she withdrew her hand to examine the ring and her hand more closely. Surely the last time she had it on, it had fit her perfectly. Now if she had any intention of keeping it she would have to have it resized or wrap tape around the shank in order to keep the heavy stone upright where it belonged.

“ Yeah,” Clay said, as if she had spoken aloud her astonishment at the ill-fitting ring. “How much more weight have you lost, Emma?”

“ Well, I...I wasn’t aware I was losing any.” She had noticed the deepening hollows in her cheeks when she applied her makeup in the dim light of the apartment’s tiny bathroom in the mornings. She already felt the insistent press of time and she had attributed the new shadows on her face to aging; all the women in her family had long, narrow faces with cheekbones becoming more prominent as they got older. The swift passage of years was just one more reason she had left Clay. She felt she was almost out of time.

He reached across the counter for her arm, gathering the fabric of her dress in a tight bunch that she could feel pulling across what little remained of her breasts. She jerked away and he let her go. She knew his intention had never been to rip her clothes. A tear formed, welled, and dropped with a plop on the counter. Keeping her head down, she hurried to wipe it off the glass with a finger that looked bony. She definitely could see that, now that her attention had been drawn to her increasing slenderness.

“ Do you do layaway?”

“ For you, Clay, of course.” She felt more tears threatening, although she was grateful for the change of subject. If not for the fact that he was actually going to buy the ring. Probably for someone it would fit, she thought in a vicious mental attack on her own negligence of her body. Probably for someone with curvy hips and a shapely ass and a nice rack, along with plump little fingers adorned with freshly manicured nails to show off such a rare prize as this precious ring.

“ How much would you need down?”

“ Ten percent. Eight hundred fifty. You would have to pay the balance in ninety days.”

He gave a soft whistle. “Eight thousand, five hundred total?”

“ You got it. This beauty’s not mine, it’s on consignment. So the only break I could give you would come out of my commission.”

“ Forget it. I didn’t intend to give you my business in order to make you eat your percentage.” He reached in his pocket, extracted his wallet, and handed her his bank card. “Eight fifty now. I’ll come in every week to pay on it, and the balance before ninety days.”

She swiped his card, typed in the amount, and handed him the receipt. 

“ Thank you,” she said automatically at the same time he said, “Thanks.”

His fingers brushed hers—her bony ones, she thought—as he took the slip of paper. But because her fingers had no flesh on them didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the old electricity zinging between them. She swiftly withdrew her hand, unconsciously rubbing it on the front of her dress. She saw him following the motion with a frown lowering his brows, and abruptly stopped her hand when she became aware of the feel of her ribs jutting beneath the fabric.

“ Do you have time for lunch?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “There’s nobody to cover for me today.”

He didn’t point out that she apparently had few customers on this cold, blustery day and could probably safely close the store without offending any potential buyers. “The offer of a meal stands. Any time you want me to feed you, you just let me know.”

Clay turned to go and Emma watched him as he exited the store. The bell jangled, the door closed, he crossed the sidewalk and got into the white county pickup.

She felt such a profound sense of loss, as if her heart had been ripped from her leaving a gaping hole in her chest. Her skinny chest. The tears fell in earnest then, and as she wiped at her eyes with a wad of tissues, she thought that it was a kindness that he hadn’t been able to pay the full amount and just walk out of her store with the ring because in that case she was afraid he would call it quits for good and she might never see him again.