Something To Talk About

His lips were crimped at the corners, indicating pain or anger or both. She hadn’t thought about the difficulty of the steps for an injured person until he’d had to climb them.

“There’s a motel closer to town that’s reasonable in price. You wouldn’t have to go up and down steps.”

“I can handle the steps,” he informed her.

She recoiled from the bitter anger that flashed in his eyes, eyes that were the color of shadowed oak leaves, their muted green rimmed with a dark circle of gray.

“Then I’ll leave you to get settled. My number is on the pad beside the wall phone. Call if you need anything.”

“A key,” he said.

She was puzzled briefly, then she smiled tightly. “It’s on the hook by the phone. Folks rarely lock up around here.”

“That’s foolish. It can even be deadly. You don’t know who might come around.”

The disgust of the professional crime fighter at the willful stupidity of people grated over her nerves.

“Well, now that I have a police officer on the premises, I’m sure I’ll be safe.”

She flicked a glance at the son and was sorry for the tone she’d used. The boy was watching them warily, a young creature caught between two larger, opposing forces. As he’d probably been between his parents. Just a hunch, but Kate was pretty sure the parents were divorced. No wife had been mentioned.

“The fish start biting at first light,” she told him with a real smile. “The path to the lake starts at the end of the garden. Just go through the rose trellis and follow the trail. There’s a pier. Feel free to use it. Fishing poles are in the garden shed near the roses.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy said politely.

She left them to their own devices. Later that evening, sitting on the swing, she observed the light in the windows over the garage. Jeremy and his father had made several trips to the pickup truck with the camper shell. Foolish man, to torture his leg that way. She and Jeremy could have managed to bring everything up on their own.

Pride. Stubbornness. A chip on his shoulder. He was a man who needed to come to terms with life, a man who needed to reach out to his son, who had his own unfulfilled needs.

Foreboding rippled through her. A wise woman would stay out of the way of both father and son.

Chapter Two

But when had women ever been wise when it came to growing boys who, in their eyes, needed nurturing? Kate chided herself as she carried a basket of hot muffins and just-picked strawberries up the steps to the apartment. She had a mug of coffee and a pitcher of milk with her.

The door to the apartment was open when she arrived at the landing. Jess stood there, his face expressionless, but she sensed the scowl.

“I brought Jeremy some hot muffins,” she said.

A flicker of suspicion darted through his eyes, then was gone, replaced by an implacable wall of distrust that made her angry. He had levied a judgment against her for no reason, and she didn’t like it.

After an eternity he opened the screen door and let her in. “He isn’t up yet,” her new tenant informed her.

The scent of his aftershave stroked her senses. He was apparently just out of the shower, his dark hair still damp, his face smooth from a shave. He seemed as fresh as the crisp morning air that cascaded down from the lofty peaks overlooking the long, broad valley. The strain she’d noticed yesterday had eased somewhat from around his eyes. He looked rested, although not completely restored, and she realized how tired he must have been when he and his son had arrived.

Against her will, pity stirred as she stepped past him into the apartment. He had been injured in the line of duty and asked for nothing except a place to recuperate—and maybe a chance to reestablish a closeness with his son.

He wore a T-shirt and khaki shorts. His feet were bare. The bruises, the scars, the tightly stretched skin, all told of unremitting pain that had to be endured because there was no other way. The crimped lines at the corners of his mouth spoke louder than his fierce denial of need.

It was a thing she’d done for months on end—this holding back, this keeping within, all the misery that cried out from the depths of a person. She knew about things like that. Suddenly the tears were close to the surface.

Drawn against her will into a maelstrom of past emotion that she didn’t want or need, she crossed swiftly to the table and set the feast down. “I’ll just leave everything. I brought some milk.”

He made a sound that could have been a mumble of gratitude. She put the container of milk in the refrigerator. On the counter was a spoon and a jar of instant coffee.

“There’s fresh-brewed coffee, too.” She put the insulated mug on the counter beside the spoon.

“Thanks.” He waited by the door for her to leave.

The return path took her past him. Nervousness made her clumsy. She caught her sandal on the hooked rug in front of the door, causing a stumble. His arms were there to catch her in an instant, so fast that it took her completely by surprise.

The morning changed. First there had been the cold breeze, nipping into the apartment from the open door, then there was warmth all around her, like the sun enfolding her.

His hands spread heat into her arm and waist where he touched her. Through her slacks she felt the weight of his thigh pressed between hers, sending shafts of sunlight splintering through her abdomen. Her breath caught.

In the wary silence between them, she heard the sibilant hiss of air as he took a deep breath. She experienced the unexpected thundering of his heart. Unbidden yearning rushed through her, a flash point of need so powerful it left her helpless and subdued.

For the space of two heartbeats, she lingered in the embrace, unable to move. His pupils widened as his gaze locked with hers. The same terrible need blazed in him as in her.

Something inside leaped, startled as a young deer, then dipped crazily before righting itself.

They moved at the same time, drawing back, pulling away, dropping their arms, removing their hands from contact with hot, suddenly yearning flesh. The withdrawal signaled loss that she couldn’t comprehend.

He cursed under his breath.

She sighed with relief.

“Thanks for the food,” he said stiffly.

“No problem,” she replied. She fled down the steps.

“What’s this I hear about a good-looking stranger at your place?” Megan gave Kate a mock-severe stare, then spoiled it by grinning at Shannon.

Both Megan and Shannon were cousins to Kate from her mother’s side of the family. She and Megan lived on Windraven, the family ranch once managed by their grandfather. Megan lived in the big house with their grandfather, Patrick Windom, who had suffered a stroke a few years ago. Their grandfather was in a wheelchair and had rarely spoken since his son, Megan’s father, had died in an auto accident ten years ago.

“Don’t ask me,” Kate replied. “Shannon was the one who sent him and his son my way.”

“No wife?” Megan asked.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Ah,” Megan said in understanding.

“He’s divorced. Look, I just tried to do a favor for a fellow officer,” Shannon defended herself. “When I checked him out, the sergeant in Houston told me Jess Fargo was a hero and that he’d been shot in the line of duty, protecting an innocent bystander in the street where the shoot-out occurred. His kneecap was shattered by a bullet, and even then he managed to stop the guy from taking a woman waiting at a bus stop as a hostage. Oh, and his ex is getting married again and dumped the son on him a couple of weeks ago.”

“He has scars,” Kate said, seeing the uneven pattern of the gun wound, the neat medical incisions and the crosshatched pattern of stitches. She laid a hand over her abdomen as a sharp echo of past pain flashed through her again.

Shannon’s brow crinkled in worry. “I’m sorry, Katie, I didn’t mean to make you remember.”