“Who’s bigger?” Placidly, he stepped over the fence to tend the waiting horse. “And right now, Ms. Ridgeway, you’re standing on my property.”

“I hate you.” It came out on a choked sob, but was nonetheless passionate. “I hate everyone.”

She streaked away while Michael stroked the mare. “Yeah, I know how that feels too.”

“You yelled at her.”

Wincing, he looked over to see Kayla still astride, her eyes huge and fascinated. He’d forgotten he had an audience.

“Nobody ever yells at her. Mama has a couple of times, but she always says she’s sorry after.”

“I’m not sorry. She deserved it.”

“Would you really spank her?” Gray eyes glittered. “Would you spank me if I was bad?”

There was such a poignant wistfulness to the question that Michael gave up. He plucked her out of the saddle, held her hard. “I’d whale the tar out of you.” He gave her bottom a light pat. “You wouldn’t sit down for a week.”

She squeezed harder. “I love you, Mr. Fury.”

Hell, what had he done? “I love you too.” Which was, he realized with some amusement, the first time he’d said those words to a female in all of his life. “I was pretty hard on her,” he murmured, as the picture of Ali’s unhappy face swam into his mind. And guilt seeped into his heart.

“I know where she’ll go. She always goes there when she’s mad.”

He should leave bad enough alone, he told himself. He should stay out of it. He should . . . shit. “Let’s go see.”

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

With anger and shame snapping at her heart, Ali raced over the lawn, through the arbor of wisteria. Nobody understood her, nobody cared. Those thoughts drummed a miserable beat in her head as she whipped down the stone path through banks of hibiscus and night-blooming jasmine.

She didn’t care either, she didn’t care about anything or anyone. Nothing could make her care. She burst through arching yews into a sun-dappled alcove with marble benches and a central fountain shaped like spearing calla lilies.

Her headlong rush halted with a skid of her boots on brick. And with shock.

It was her spot, where she came when she needed to be alone. To think, to plan, to sulk. She hadn’t known her mother came here too. The cliffs were her mother’s special place. Yet her mother was here, sitting on a marble bench. Weeping.

She’d never seen her mother cry, not like this. Not with her hands covering her face, her shoulders heaving. Not such violent, helpless, hopeless tears.

Staggered, she stared, watching the woman she had always believed invincible sobbing as though the well of grief would never run dry.

Because of me, Ali thought as her own breath hitched. Because of me.

“Mama.”