by Lisa Jackson
He thought of her mouth rubbing so sensually against his, and his damned crotch tightened again. What was it about her that got to him?
“Damn.” He’d been a fool for a woman before, a long time ago, and he’d sworn then that it would never happen again.
Until now, it hadn’t been a problem.
But then, he’d never met a woman like Katie Kinkaid.
Chapter Four
“Ninny!” Katie glared at her reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. What had she been thinking, kissing Luke Gates?
The answer was that she had never let rational thought enter the equation. She’d sensed he was about to kiss her in the pickup, had felt the darkened cab seem to shrink, but she hadn’t had the guts, the nerve or whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it to open the damned door and slide out of the truck before his lips had touched hers and the world had changed forever.
Worse yet, she’d spent all night thinking about her reaction, remembering the feel of his hands as he’d taken her face between his palms and gazed into her eyes while his lips had pressed so passionately against hers. Oh, Lord, here she was, thinking about it all over again, feeling tingly inside and stupidly wondering if he’d ever kiss her again. She grasped the sides of the sink for support and mentally counted to ten before letting out her breath.
“Get a grip, Kinkaid,” she said to the woman staring back at her in the mirror. “You don’t know a thing about this guy.” She leaned under the faucet and rinsed her mouth.
Steadfastly she told herself that she wasn’t going to be swayed by one intimate gesture. She had too much to think about today, the first being her son.
Josh was still sleeping—the result of watching television until the wee hours of the morning. She’d checked on him, seen that his leg was still elevated, and changed the bag of ice that had long since melted. Blue whined to go outside and Katie obliged, filling his water dish and pouring dog food into his bowl on the back porch. Butterflies and bees flitted through the flowers that grew along the edge of the garage and two wrens flitted to a stop on a sagging bit of her gutter. She smiled to herself and told herself it was only sane that she should move.
Buying this little house had been difficult, a real stretch for her. She’d borrowed the down payment from her mother and convinced the previous owner, an old man who had been moving to California to be with his eldest daughter, to accept a contract with her. No sane banker would have loaned her a dime at the time.
But she’d proved herself by paying promptly each month and this little cottage had been her home ever since. She sighed. Now she and Josh were going to move. She supposed it was long overdue and the repairs that she’d put off—painting the interior, replacing windowpanes, cleaning the gutters and shoring up the sagging garage—would have to be done for the next tenant.
Leaning against a post that supported the overhang of the porch, she smiled as her old dog nosed around the backyard and she thought of Luke Gates—elusive cowboy with the killer kiss. Her whole body tingled at the thought and she pushed herself upright, slapping the post and telling herself that it was time to forget about one stupid act of intimacy. Inside the house, she phoned Len’s Service Station and was told that her car was in the process of being checked out by the mechanic. Len would call her back as soon as he figured out what the problem was. “Wonderful,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm as she hung up and imagined she heard the sound of a cash register dinging each time one of the mechanics fiddled with the wires and hoses attached to the engine. For the fiftieth time she promised herself that she would sign up for an auto mechanic’s class offered by the local community college.
But not right now. She picked up the receiver again and quickly punched out the number of her office. Winding the cord around her finger, she stared out the window and waited as the phone rang.
“Rogue River Review,” Becky, the gum-chewing receptionist answered in her typically bored voice.
“Hi, it’s Katie. I’ll be a little late because Josh had an accident. Nothing serious, but it’s gonna keep me home this morning.” After explaining to Becky what had happened, she was connected with the editor and repeated herself, telling him about her car and Josh’s injury. “I’ll work here until I get the word on the car, then I’ll be in,” she promised.
She’d had a second phone line installed months ago so that she could, over the summer months, work from the house while Josh was home for vacation and was grateful that the powers-that-be at the newspaper understood.
She hung up, feeling a little better, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and settled in at her desk. Hidden in the top drawer was the letter. Was it a fake or the real thing? She reread the typed words she’d memorized since receiving it in yesterday’s post.
Dear Ms. Kinkaid,
I’ve read your accounts of my disappearance with some degree of fascination. Though others have written similar stories, your columns have been the most insightful.
Therefore I decided that you were the person to trust.
I would have come forward earlier, but circumstances have prevented me from doing so. I will contact you again soon.
Sincerely,
Isaac Wells
Katie’s heart beat a little faster each time she read the short note. When she’d opened the hand-scrawled envelope yesterday, she’d been stunned. Was it a prank or had Isaac Wells really reached out to her? And why? Why not go to the police or just come home? What “circumstances” had prevented him from returning? If he’d been kidnapped, he surely wouldn’t have been allowed to write the missive. Was he running from the law? Or an old enemy? She pulled out a thick file and skimmed its contents—copies of police reports, the columns she’d dedicated to the Isaac Wells mystery, notes from interviews with what little there was of his family and friends.
What had happened to the old guy? Had there been foul play involved? Leaning back in her chair she tapped the eraser end of a pencil to her front teeth as she scanned her own articles for the millionth time.
Wells, who owned the ranch so close to Luke Gates’s property, had been a loner. Mason Lafferty and his sister, Patty, were his only relatives living in the vicinity.
He had resided in the area for over sixty years, but had kept to himself, wasn’t very friendly. Some people in town thought he was a miser, even a cheat. There was talk of him being involved in some kind of crime, but, as far as Katie could learn, it was all just gossip.
He’d never married, never fathered any children and had lived alone for most of his life. He’d gotten by meagerly, and had struggled for years to keep his scrap of a ranch afloat. But he’d had a passion for old cars and had owned a collection of classic and antique cars that he’d restored himself. He’d hunted once in a while, usually deer or elk. He hadn’t been a churchgoer, and had been a solitary man who didn’t talk much—a man whom no one, including the few members of his family, really knew. Despite local conjecture, he’d never been in serious trouble with the law.
Why would he take off?
Had he been coerced?
Had he been getting senile and just wandered away?
Or had he left on purpose?
No one, including the police, insurance-company investigators or his family, seemed to have much to go on.
Until now. Katie stared at the note with a jaundiced eye.
The letter certainly could be a hoax. The postmark was from Eureka, California, which was barely a hundred miles south. Anyone could have driven down the coast and sent it. His signature—the only part of the missive aside from the address on the envelope that was handwritten in ink—looked authentic, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to forge.
So, now, what to do?
Katie took a long pull from her bottle of soda. A lot of people had been questioned about Isaac’s disappearance. Ray Dean, a local thug who had been in and out of prison several times, was the most current “person of interest” in the case. Ray had recently been paroled, but most of
the people in Bittersweet believed it was only a matter of time before he was arrested again for some kind of crime. So how could he be involved? She decided it was time for her to find out.
After letting Blue back into the house, she spent the next couple of hours at her desk writing the story about receiving the letter. She polished the text, then reworked an article about the new school-district administrator and another on the making of applesauce using other fruits and berries to change the color and flavor of an old favorite.
“Not exactly Pulitzer material,” she muttered under her breath, because though the community was interested in the warm folksy articles that the Review was known for, she preferred something meatier, something with a little flash. When she’d completed her work, she e-mailed the columns to the office, then reviewed her notes on Isaac Wells again.
“Who knows?” she said, snapping off her computer as she heard Josh stirring. Rubbing a crick from her neck, she made her way back to her son’s room and found him dozing again. She folded her arms under her breasts, leaned against the doorjamb and watched him sleeping so peacefully. The sleep of the innocent.
In repose Josh looked a little more like Dave than was usual. Or maybe it was her imagination working overtime. Ever since learning of Dave’s death, she saw flashes of him in their boy. Which was ridiculous. Everyone who met Josh thought he was the spitting image of his mother.
Still, Katie saw the resemblance to his father in the shape of his eyes, the slight bump in his nose, even the way he walked.
And now Dave was gone. Her throat grew thick with memories she’d repressed for over ten years. She’d been young and foolish, anxious to grow up. Dave, just a little older than she was, had had the same wide brown eyes and thick eyebrows he’d given his son. He’d been a quiet boy who had moved from Texas with his mother and father. The first friends he’d made in town had been her half-brothers, Nathan and Trevor, two hellions if ever there were any.
Katie sighed as she stared at her son. How could she tell him about his father? That there had been a poignancy, a deep sadness in Dave that had touched her heart? Whereas David Sorenson had been drawn to her wild brothers and their outgoing, tomboy of a sister, she’d been attracted to his shy smile and clever, dry wit. Oh, Dave, she thought, why did you have to die? And how? She’d never even asked. So stunned by the news, she hadn’t voiced the question as there hadn’t been much opportunity and she hadn’t been sure she wanted to know.
Guilt, an emotion she tried to ignore, pricked at her mind. Dave, while he was alive, had the right to know that he’d fathered a son and, dammit, Josh should have met his father. When Dave and his family had left Bittersweet, she’d told him that her period was late, that there was a chance she was pregnant, but that her monthly cycle was irregular. He’d never called and asked what had happened, and by the time she was certain she was carrying his child, her pride was wounded, her heart broken, and she refused to try and track him down like some pathetic, unwanted woman. Looking back now, she realized she had probably made a mistake.
Her throat grew tight and she told herself that no good came from self-recriminations, that she could mentally beat herself up, but what was done was done. She just had to tell Josh the truth, and, of course, inform Ralph and Loretta Sorenson that they were grandparents.
Easier said than done.
A dozen worries skated through her mind. What if they decided they wanted partial custody of Josh, that this boy was all they had left of their only son? Conversely, what if, upon learning that Dave had fathered a child, they didn’t want to deal with Josh, and felt that seeing him was too painful a reminder of their late son? What if they didn’t believe her, thought she was lying, or worse yet, was trying to scam them because they were a wealthy family that, after Dave’s death, had no heir?
Just as she chided herself for borrowing trouble, Josh stirred and blinked. “Mom?” he asked around a yawn. He stretched one arm over his head.
“How ya feelin’, bud?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Not great.”
“How about breakfast—or lunch? It’s nearly noon.”
“Whatever.”
He started to climb to his feet and winced. “Ouch.”
“Hey. Use the crutches.”
“I just gotta go to the bathroom,” he complained and hopped on one foot down the hallway.
Don’t nag him, she reminded herself as he managed to shut the bathroom door behind him. He’s gonna be grumpy for a while. He’s in pain, but he’s got to do for himself. Rather than overmother him, she went to the kitchen and finished her cola. She’d just tossed the empty bottle into a sack on the back porch when she heard the bathroom door open, then the sound of Josh hopping to his room. He muttered something under his breath that she probably didn’t want to hear.
Blue whined at the back door and while she held it open, she heard the uneven cadence of crutches hitting the floor as Josh hitched his way down the hall. She was wiping the counter when he paused at the archway leading to the dining room. “Is the car okay?” he asked, leaning forward on his crutches in order to scratch the old hound behind his ears.
“We can only hope. The mechanics at Len’s seem to be baffled.” She held up both her hands, showing him that her fingers were crossed.
Blue grunted in pleasure.
“I think we should get a new one.”
“Do you?” Josh had been pushing for a new car for the past couple of years. “And give up the cool convertible?”
Rolling his eyes theatrically, he nodded. “It would be cool if it wasn’t a billion years old. I think we need something like a Corvette or a Porsche or . . . or a Ferrari.”
“Oh, sure. Or maybe a Jaguar or—”
“A BMW.”
“In your dreams,” she said, flashing him a smile.
“Mo-om!”
“Back to the real world, bud. What can I get you for breakfast?”
“We need a new car.”
“You get no argument from me on that one. I just have to figure out how to pay for it.” She tossed her sponge into the sink. “If you want me to make you something to eat, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
He bumbled his way across the kitchen and half fell into the chair Luke had occupied the night before. “How about a double-cheese bagel?”
“You’re in luck. There’s one left.” She reached into the cupboard and while opening the plastic bag with one hand, she pointed a knife at his bad ankle. “Keep that raised, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbled and hoisted his foot onto the seat of a second chair. His hair was rumpled and he was still wearing his soccer uniform from practice the day before.
“We’ll have to figure out a way for you to take a shower,” she said as she sliced the bagel and slipped both halves into the toaster.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, okay. Whatever.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything more and scrounged in the refrigerator until she found a tub of cream cheese.
“So why was that guy with you last night?” Josh asked and she looked up sharply to find him staring at her with curious eyes.
“You mean Luke.”
“Yeah. Why was he here?”
“He rescued me when the car broke down.” The toaster popped. Quickly, as she slathered the bagel halves with cream cheese, she ran down the details of the night before and only left out the fact that Luke Gates had kissed her. That was one little fact that no one would ever know. It had been a mistake. A big one. She wouldn’t be surprised if Luke was as embarrassed about it as she was—if he even remembered.
She placed the bagel halves and a glass of orange juice on the table in front of Josh.
“So why did he hang out? Why didn’t you call Uncle Jarrod or Uncle Trevor or—”
“I offered,” she interrupted. “But I guess Luke just wanted to see it through and make sure I was okay.”
“Humph.” Josh bit into his bagel and she let the subject drop.
The telephone rang sharply. Katie snagged the receiver before it had a chance to jangle again.
“Ms. Kinkaid?” a gravelly voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Len down at the service station. I took a look at your car and I’ve got some bad news.”
“What?” she asked, feeling a headache starting to pound at the base of her skull.
“You really need a new engine, or at least to have this one rebuilt.”
“No.” She felt a sudden weight on her shoulders. Even though she’d told herself she was prepared to hear the worst about her car, she’d held out a slim hope that the old convertible could somehow be resuscitated.
“’Fraid so. The rings are shot, the distributor cap needs to be replaced, the cylinders are only working at about thirty percent of capacity. . . .” Len rattled off a list of repairs that made her tired. In her mind’s eye she envisioned hundreds of dollars flying out of her wallet just the way they did on cartoon shows. “So,” he said, and she imagined him scratching the silver stubble that forever decorated his chin, “looks to me like you might want to scrap her out and start over. For the same amount of money you could get a car a few years newer and probably a helluva lot more dependable.”
“I—I’ll think about it,” she said and hung up slowly.
Josh’s eyebrows lifted with an unspoken question.
“That was Len at the service station,” she said, deciding not to let this one last piece of bad news bring her down. “Looks like we’re going to have a funeral.”
“What?”
“The car’s officially dead.”
Josh’s face split into a wide grin. “So we’re gonna get a new one?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Yeah, probably.” How, she wasn’t quite sure.
“All-l-l-l ri-i-i-ight!”
“But the most important thing is, we’re going to move.”
“Move?” he repeated, suddenly serious. “Where to?”
“Tiffany’s house.”
“No way.” Josh looked at her as if she’d just said they were going to be living on Jupiter.
