Midnight Promises

“I don’t lay down the law. A little advice from your big brother—”

“Which tends to sound a whole lot like orders. I think I’ve mentioned this habit you have of thinking I’m still fifteen and in need of a curfew.” Annie had been ten when their parents were killed. Ben had been twenty-two. He’d quietly put his own life on hold in order to keep the family together, a sacrifice she was only beginning to understand. But he drove her crazy sometimes.

Which was why she hadn’t told him about Jack. Her conscience twinged. She changed the subject. “I’m going to swing by the grocery store on my way home. Is there anything you need? You do remember that it’s your turn to cook tonight, don’t you?”

Ben made his usual grumbling protest, and the familiar debate over who was cooking, who was cleaning up and who had the night off soothed her. It was almost like old times. Her second-oldest brother, Duncan, was in the Special Forces, so she rarely saw him. But her next-oldest brother, Charlie, was a long-haul truck driver, and when he was in town he lived with her and Ben in the old house where they’d all grown up.

“All right,” Ben conceded finally. “I’ll fix chili if you’ll pick up some jalapeño peppers. Get a half dozen.”

“Two.” Even without the fresh peppers, Ben’s chili could dissolve a spoon if you didn’t eat fast.

“All right, all right. Look, I’m sorry I jumped all over you earlier, half pint. I guess I did act as though you were still in school and trying to hide whatever you and Jack were up to.”

A sick lump formed in the pit of her stomach. “I’m used to it,” she said lightly. “Listen, I’d better go before this call eats up my entire earnings for the day.”

As soon as her brother said goodbye she disconnected, swallowing hard, but the sour taste of guilt didn’t go away. She’d lied to her brother. Of course, that was nothing new—she’d been lying to him, by omission if not out loud, for months now. But she’d also lied to Mrs. Perez. Shoot, she’d been trying to lie to herself.

Annie had a pretty good idea why Jack was in town. Much as she might try to deny it, she thought she knew what he wanted.

A divorce.

Day was sliding into dusk as the bruised-looking storm-clouds rolled in. On the McClains’ front porch, a man paced. He had an easy way of moving in spite of a slight limp, and the kind of smooth, rangy body that draws women’s eyes. His hair was short and mink brown, as dark as the clouds overhead.

As dark as the scowl on his face.

Pacing made Jack’s knee ache. He’d been on one plane or another for fourteen hours yesterday, followed by the drive here from Denver, and his stupid knee had stiffened up. He didn’t consider sitting down to wait for Annie to get home, though. After only one day in this blasted town, his feet were already itching to leave.

Highpoint wasn’t the only reason for his restlessness. He’d left a lot unresolved back in Borneo, and the need to find out who was responsible for that mess burned in him. He’d have to make a trip to Denver soon to see what he could do to track down the thief.

But he didn’t intend to leave without Annie. Not this time.

Fortunately he had plenty of room for pacing. The McClains’ front porch ran the entire length of the house. It was the sort of porch people used to sit on during long summer evenings, a place where a young boy might steal a kiss from his first girlfriend. Not that Jack had stolen any kisses here. Annie McClain had been the little sister he’d never had, a freckle-faced tagalong who had turned into a good friend.

Somewhere along the line, she had changed. Or he had.

There was a wooden porch swing at one end of the porch. It was painted a bright, incongruous turquoise. Annie’s doing, Jack thought, pausing. The hard line of his mouth softened. Annie loved bright colors. Not in any big, splashy way, of course. Annie didn’t do anything in a big, splashy way. Her love for vivid color had to sneak in under those cautious fences she’d built around her life, popping up as a turquoise porch swing or a pair of screaming red sneakers.

A marmalade-colored cat the size of a bear cub lazed on that porch swing. In the half hour Jack had been waiting, the sum total of the animal’s movement had consisted of an occasional twitch at the tip of its tail. The cat watched him pace with a certain lazy interest, much as an adult might keep an indulgent eye on a child’s energetic antics.

“So,” Jack said, sticking his hands in his back pockets, “you seem to belong here, big fellow. What time does Annie usually get home?”

“About now.”

The voice came from behind him. Jack turned around slowly. “Annie.”

She stood at the foot of the steps that led onto the porch, her arms wrapped tightly around two brown grocery bags as if their weight could keep her earthbound in the gusting wind. Now that she was here, standing in front of him, he didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to look at his old friend without words, without letting the needs of the present and hurts of the past crowd in.

Her hair was slightly longer than it had been the last time he’d seen her—long enough for her to pull into a ponytail that the wind was whipping around. It was the same soft, reddish brown as always, though. He liked it pulled back that way, liked the way it left her face bare to the world. Annie had a pretty face, with a soft curve to her cheeks and forehead, a stubborn chin and eyes as green as the Irish hills she’d never seen. At the moment, those eyes were bright with suspicion.

He stepped closer, looking down at her. She was such a little thing. He tended to forget that. Physically there wasn’t that much of Annie, yet she vibrated with so much energy it was easy to forget her actual size, as if she’d been given more life than such a slight body could contain without it spilling over onto those around her. “You’re looking good,” he said softly.

“Oh, sure. I always look my best in work clothes, with no makeup and my hair all over the place.”

He shook his head. “The proper response to a compliment is ‘thank you.”’

Suspicion vanished in a flash of humor. She chuckled. “Imagine you worrying about the proper response to anything.”

His eyebrows went up. “Believe it or not, I do have a few ideas about what’s proper. For one thing, I think a married woman ought to wear a wedding ring. Where’s yours?”

She bit her lip. “Have you told anyone about—about Vegas?”

“No. Once I realized you preferred to keep our marriage a deep, dark secret, I covered for you. Haven’t I always?”

“It usually worked the other way around,” she said dryly. “Look, we have to talk. I know that. But could we do it inside, out of the wind?”

Jack stepped aside, letting her come up on the porch. He didn’t offer to take her bags, though it was obviously awkward for her to juggle them long enough to get her key out and get the door opened. He didn’t offer because he was too damned angry. Still. Again. Jack was used to temper hitting fast, like a flash flood, then draining away completely. The sullen core of anger that had refused to leave him the past couple of months was new to him.

He didn’t like it. He followed her, limping slightly, through the living room and dining room and into the big, old-fashioned kitchen, lecturing himself silently. He’d get a lot farther by charming Annie than by fighting with her.

The kitchen distracted him. For the first time since he’d driven into town yesterday, he had a sense of homecoming. He’d spent a lot of hours in this room. “This hasn’t changed much. The floor is new, but it’s almost the same shade of green as the old one.”

Annie set the bags down on the scarred oak table. “The floor was new five years ago. You haven’t been here in a long time, Jack.”

“Has it been that long?” Strange, he thought, it didn’t seem like it, not with memories crowding up as close and friendly as puppies. He moved over to the table and automatically began helping her unload the groceries, just as he’d done a thousand times before at this house.

Annie stood on the other side of the grocery sack. Close enough for him to touch…if he’d thought his touch would be welcome. She was frowning. “You’re limping.”

“I had an accident a couple weeks ago, banged up my knee. Nothing serious.”

The quick flash of concern in her eyes pleased him. “What happened? You’re a good driver.”

Yes, he was—which was why the accident had been minor. It could have been a lot worse. He was going to have to tell her about that and a lot more, but not yet. Not yet. “Hey! Jalapeños.” He grinned as he took out the plastic bag holding two of the small, potent peppers. “Is Ben planning to fix some of his chili?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the milk and butter that he’d unloaded and carried them to the refrigerator.

“What are the chances of me getting an invitation to supper?” He hadn’t had any of Ben’s stomach-burning chili in a long time.

She glanced at him quickly over his shoulder. “Good grief, Jack, don’t you think that might be a little awkward under the circumstances?”

His brief fling with nostalgia thudded to an end. “I guess he doesn’t know we’re married.”

“No.”

“So why haven’t you told anyone about Vegas?” Was she ashamed of him? The idea added another layer to the anger he was trying to ignore.

“I—I didn’t know what to say. It’s not like we had a real marriage. I was here and you were thousands of miles away, in Timbuktu—”

“Borneo,” he said, temper lending a lash to the word.