He jerked back a little bit and said, “What for?”
“For bringing me here. I don’t care what happens with my grandfather. I just…I feel safe here. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
Impassively, he watched a tear quiver on the edge of her lower lashes, then spill over and run down her cheek. “Hey, I’m glad you’re happy,” he said. “Just keep this little guy happy, too.” He reached out and tweaked the blanket in the general vicinity of the baby’s feet. Then he turned and went back into his room and closed the doors, closed his eyes and let out the breath he’d been holding.
No way in hell was he going to spoil it all for her by telling her how safe she wasn’t.
From the memoirs of Sierra Sam Malone:
I never expected I’d be a father. For one thing, I never thought I’d be any good at it, given the kind of fatherhood I’d experienced firsthand growing up, and didn’t care to pass that misery along to another poor helpless mite. But Elizabeth, she had other ideas. Evidently, she saw something in me the rest of the world had missed, because one day there I was, sitting beside her and holding on to her hand while she screamed and hollered and the doctor who’d come out from Barstow helped her to bring our son, Sean, into the world.
Now, it wasn’t a common thing in those days for the prospective father to be anywhere near where the action was. Most likely he’d be sent off to boil water or pace up and down and smoke cigarettes somewhere within earshot of the blood-curdling screams of his beloved so he’d know what a lousy good-for-nothing bastard he was for getting her into that state. Which would have been fine with me. But once again, Elizabeth, she had other ideas. Flat told me if I ran out on her then, once she got back on her feet she’d hunt me down like a mangy coyote and shoot me dead. And, I had good reason to believe she would.
So, that’s why I was sitting there with her when the doc held up the squalling purple thing we’d agreed to call Sean Ronan Malone—after her father, not mine. And I have to tell you, I wasn’t too impressed with him right off the bat. But then the doc, he laid that baby on Elizabeth’s chest, all angry and wet and kicking and waving his fists like he was mad at the world. Laid him right on her…well, on her bare skin. And I have never forgotten—and I’ve had plenty of time to forget, since I’ve lived longer than I ever thought I would—never forgotten the way she looked as she gathered that baby in, the way she seemed to know just how to nestle him up against her breast, the way she looked at him, like he was all the world’s treasure right there in her arms, the way she sang to him, half laughing, half crying, making a sound like a dove makes when she calls to her mate.
I thought then, and I still think, that was one of the most beautiful sights I or any man will ever see in this world.
He sat with the pen in his hand, trying to think of something else to write. After a minute or two, he gave it up, figuring maybe there wasn’t anything else he had to say about that.
He laid the pen down on his desktop and picked up the cell phone that was lying there. He didn’t much care for the damn thing, never had really got the hang of using it, but Sage had bought it for him and made him promise to carry it with him at all times, and had programmed it so all he had to do was push two buttons—one to turn it on and the other to call Sage. He had to admit it came in handy now and again.
He pushed the two buttons now, and Sage answered on the second ring, the way he always did, even though it was the middle of the night. He told the kid what he wanted, then tucked the phone in his shirt pocket and picked up his hat and put it on. He left the room, locked the door behind him, then took the chair lift down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. He was still perfectly capable of making it up and down those stairs on his own steam, but like the cell phone he put up with it because Sage had got it for him and Sage wanted him to use it. And…to be perfectly honest, the kid had a good practical head on his shoulders, and he did have a point. Which was that the old knees—maybe the hips, too—weren’t as dependable as they used to be, and the last thing he wanted was to end his days laid up in a hospital bed or some rest home somewhere. He planned to go out swinging, if he possibly could.
Outside, the moon was bright enough for him to see his way, so he went carefully down the flagstone steps to wait in the lane for Sage. He could hear the soft clip-clop of hoof beats long before the horse and rider emerged from the shaded part of the drive, and as he watched the kid and his favorite painted horse come into the moonlight, he was thinking back to his Hollywood days. Thinking it was too bad Sage had been born too late for those old Westerns, because he’d have made one-helluva fine looking Indian.
Of course, they’d used white guys to play the Indians, back then, instead of real ones, which he’d always thought was a damn shame.
Sage pulled the paint up beside him and got off in the way he had of making it look a whole lot easier than it was. The paint whickered softly and bumped Sage with her head, and he scratched her under her jaw and slapped her on the neck, then turned to help him into the saddle—help he wasn’t too proud to accept.
“You going to tell me where you’re going?” Sage asked, once he’d got him settled.
“Thought I’d go up to the cabin for a while.”
“Aren’t you going to stick around to meet your granddaughter?” The kid’s voice wasn’t accusing, just curious.
“Naw…thought I’d wait till they all get here. Get it all over with at once.” He could see the kid turn his head to hide a grin, but didn’t call him on it. After a moment he said, “What do you make of the fellow came with her?”
“The sheriff?” Sage shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Too soon to tell, maybe. But I like the look of the man.”
He thought that over. Then he nodded. “So do I. I think he’ll do right by her and the baby.”
“Yeah,” said Sage, “that’s what I think, too.”
He picked up the reins and clicked his tongue to the paint.
Sage said, “Need a light?”
“What for? Moon’s high and bright and the horse knows the way.” He leaned forward and the paint picked up the cue and broke into an easy lope. The horse’s rhythms moved into his body and the years fell away and he was a young man again, riding with the night wind in his face and nothing but stars for company.
“I heard a horse last night,” Rachel said to Josie as the housekeeper came through the doorway with a breakfast tray.
They were being served on a small flagstone patio off the kitchen, warm and golden where the sun hit it first thing in the morning. J.J. watched the housekeeper unload the tray’s contents onto the wrought-iron tabletop—bowls full of cereal and strawberries and a big glass of milk for Rachel; black coffee for him. Josie gave him a nervous smile and waited as he picked up his steaming mug and took a sip. He nodded his approval, then turned and strolled away toward the low wall that bordered the patio, providing an inviting front-row seat for that incredible view.
It was one of those times he wouldn’t mind being a smoker, he thought. It’d give him an excuse to wander off by himself. He felt the need to do that—restless, uneasy.
He heard a faint clank as Rachel laid the baby monitor—another one of Katie’s ideas—on the table.
“It sounded like it was right outside the house.”
“Oh—that was probably Sage. Sometimes he likes to ride at night when the moon is bright.”
The woman’s words were reasonable enough, but there was something in her voice—a certain breathlessness—that made J.J.’s spine stiffen and his breathing go quiet. She’s a lousy liar, too, he thought.
“Oh,” Rachel said, stretching the word with a sigh, “it sounds wonderful.”
“You like to ride?” Now Josie’s voice was bright and eager.
“I love to ride. But it’s been a long time…”
Suddenly he wasn’t wishing he could find an excuse to leave. He made himself comfortable on the low wall, half turned so he could watch Rachel without seeming to wh
ile he sipped his coffee.
He’d already noticed the fact that she’d pulled her hair up in a high ponytail, then braided it so that it hung thick and glossy to brush the top bumps of her spine. And that she was wearing one of the outfits Katie had helped her pick out—loose-fitting top long enough to hang over the elastic waistband of the blue denim pants, for easy nursing and comfort while she was getting her figure back, according to Katie, who he figured ought to know.
Now, smiling, with pink in her cheeks and her bruises fading, Rachel looked both sweet and exotic…and a stranger to him.
He found himself flashing back to the woman he’d held in his arms not so long ago—vulnerable, sweaty and scared, not just a memory but a full sensory recall, the smell of her hair, salty with that hint of sweet flowers…the dampness of it against his cheek…the salty taste of it. The wiry strength of her body, and the way she’d trembled in spite of it. And he felt a twinge of something like sorrow…like loss. Hated himself for it, for wishing that traumatized girl back, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he missed her. Then, touching her, holding her—it had seemed so natural. Now, to take her in his arms, kiss her—even chastely on her forehead, though God knew he’d rather taste her mouth instead, and not at all chastely—seemed all but unthinkable.
What are you thinking? She’s a widow—husband hasn’t been dead six months. She’s just given birth, been beaten up, been through God only knows what kind of trauma. You’re a sick man, Jethro.
“You’re more than welcome to ride,” Josie said, propping the empty tray against one hip. “Maybe not now—when you’re ready. You just tell Sage—he’ll fix you right up.” She looked over at J.J. and smiled. “You, too—you’re both welcome to use the horses, any time.”
She went back into the house, and J.J. strolled over to the table, still sipping his coffee. He stood, casting a shadow across her sunny yellow blouse and pink cheeks, and said in a low growl, “Are you nuts? You can’t go horseback riding. You just had a baby.”
He could actually see her puff up, as if her body had suddenly grown quills all over, like a porcupine. Which didn’t surprise him. He even wondered if he was trying to pick a fight with her on purpose.
“Give me some credit for knowing my own body,” she said in a cold, clipped voice. She jerked back her head and aimed a brilliant black look at him. “I think I’ll know when I feel up to going for a ride.”
“Yeah?” He felt like a jerk, remembering belatedly that she’d been held a virtual prisoner for the past several months, so it was no surprise she wouldn’t take well to being told what to do. Throttling back to a conversational tone, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to ride? Don’t tell me Carlos keeps a stable.”
She tossed her head so the braided ponytail took on a life of its own. “No, actually, my grandmother taught me. She loved horses, loved to go riding. I started riding lessons when I was about five. In fact, I could ride before I could speak English. We used to go almost every weekend, in Griffith Park. She had friends out in—” She broke off, shaking her head, and when she picked up her glass of milk and drank, he thought he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.
He pulled out a chair and the wrought iron made a loud screechy sound on the flagstones. He cleared his throat as he put his coffee cup down and sat. “Well,” he said, trying for a reasonable—not bossy—tone, “you can’t go alone.”
There was a long pause. Rachel set her milk glass down, licked milk from her lips and wiped the mustache that was left behind with the back of her hand. Watching her, his mouth watered as though he were beholding a banquet table.
Her eyes came up to meet his. “So,” she said, unsmiling, “come with me.”
Oh, hell. J.J. muttered something even he couldn’t make out and sat back in his chair, shaking his head.
Her eyes took on a gleam. “What, don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride.”
“I’ve ridden. Sure I have. I was on a horse—” He gave up trying to hold on to his masculine pride and let out a breath and with it a huff of laughter. “Once—when I was about six. Never again.”
“Why not? What happened?” Her head tilted, eyes bright and curious.
He shrugged. Confession of his childhood humiliations didn’t extend that far.
“You fell off? Hey, it happens. You’re just supposed to get right back on.”
His smile slipped sideways. “Ah, well…we weren’t the ridin’ kind of family, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.” She said it softly, as if he’d confessed to having some tragic illness. Then sighed and picked up her glass of milk. “Damn. There goes my John Wayne fantasy.”
He snorted, and her eyes slid toward him, hooded and unreadable. Then, lashes lowered, she murmured, “Well, that’s okay. Sage can go with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Her eyes were wide open again, innocent as a babe’s.
For the life of him, he couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer. For one thing, he couldn’t very well tell her he was envisioning some wild action movie scenario wherein a helicopter hovers over the meadow where Rachel is cantering in slow-mo through the wildflowers, and black-garbed ninja-types stream down the ladders, snatch her up and fly away.
Maybe he couldn’t tell her why, but he knew he didn’t want to let her out of his sight.
He said, “If anybody goes with you, it’s going to be me.”
Now demurely nibbling a strawberry, Rachel said, “Jethro, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded jealous.”
He made a growling sound deep in his throat, shoved back his chair and got up and went back in the house. High time he got out of there, he thought, because he obviously needed to get his emotions and his fantasies under control. First, because there was this crazy question that insisted on flashing through his mind: Is she flirting with me? Which he knew was ridiculous, and nothing more than some wishful thinking on his part.
Then, there was the fact that she was right—he was behaving like a jealous man. And he simply was not the jealous type. Never had been, never would be.
Except…there was this voice arguing, way down deep inside his head: Maybe you just never met a woman you thought was worth being jealous about.
He just knew he couldn’t stomach the thought of Rachel going riding with that kid, Sage. Or, the thought of the two of them galloping through the meadow full of wildflowers, matching black braids bouncing and blowing in the wind.
Chapter 9
Rachel waited for the sound of the door closing before she let out a slow and careful breath. Her heart was beating fast. She felt exhilarated. Excited. Even a little bit defiant. Why? Because she’d more than held her own against Sheriff Jethro J. Fox, even—be truthful, Rachel—flirted a little? And it had felt good?
Oh, how good it felt!
I’m happy, she thought. I could…I wish I could…stay here.
Of course, there was still the small matter of her grandfather to deal with, and why she’d been summoned, and what sort of inheritance she was supposed to claim and whether the man was alive or dead, for that matter. No one seemed to want to give her a definite answer to that question. But she was happy, maybe just to feel safe. And free. Free to go for a walk, if she wanted to. As much as she hated to admit it, J.J. was right about the fact that her body probably wasn’t ready to tolerate an activity like horseback riding, but he couldn’t object to a walk. Even in hospitals, she thought, they encourage patients—which she certainly was not!—to walk.
She finished off the glass of milk, and then, after peeking down the front of her blouse to make sure the absorbent pads inside her nursing bra were in place, scooped up the baby monitor and went into the house to find Josie.
She found her in the kitchen cleaning up the breakfast dishes, and felt a jolt of shame as she realized she could easily have brought her own dishes in with her, saving the housekeeper the trip out to get them. I’m sorry, Gran, I know you taught me better. I’ve gotten spoiled, livin
g with Nicholas Delacorte these past three years. I’ll do better.
But Josie would have no part of her apology, and in fact even before Rachel could ask, offered to keep the baby monitor so Rachel could go for a walk.
“Oh, would you? Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?” And just like that, those crazy hormone-fed emotions were flooding her again—fear at the thought of leaving her baby, yearning to get out in the morning if only for an hour, gratitude toward Josie for making it possible. She touched away a tear, then laughed at it and cleared her throat. “I, um…I just fed him—he’s sleeping. He should be okay for an hour. I just want to…go out…to see—”
Josie hugged her, laughing. “Of course, he’ll be okay, and no, I don’t mind. I’ll be right down there making beds anyway. You go on—take your time. Enjoy this beautiful morning.”
Rachel laughed, too, and wiped away what remained of the tears. She put the baby monitor on the kitchen countertop, turned to give Josie another hug, then almost danced out of the kitchen, through the cavernous dining room, cozy living room and out the front door. She paused for a moment at the top of the flagstone steps to consider how Josie would call her if she needed her when she still didn’t have a cell phone. She really did need to ask J.J. about getting one.
The thought flashed through her mind—just a hint of a thought—that maybe she should have a phone in case she needed to call for help, too. She dismissed it, partly because the idea of needing help, the thought of Carlos and his thugs being able to get to her here in this lovely place seemed so remote, and partly because J.J. was being so ridiculously paranoid and overprotective. She’d been paranoid herself for such a long time, and now that she was free, she was definitely not going to allow anyone to smother her, ever again.
She started off down the lane, and was both startled and a little uneasy, at first, when Moonshine hauled herself up out of the bed she’d made for herself in the shade of the evergreen trees and came to amble along at her heels. Then she decided it was kind of sweet, the notion of having a dog to protect her—not at all suffocating, as it would probably have been if J.J. had insisted on coming along.
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