Muttering a curse, Mac shut down the computer, took his address book with Shane’s new phone number in it from the desk drawer and jammed it into his shirt pocket. Any information he learned about her would have to come from another source. Accessing her e-mail was too invasive.
“Christie?” he called rolling his chair back from the desk and standing. “Ready to go?”
She yelled back something about taking her Barbies and clothes with her. He almost told her to leave them here because she’d be coming back down in a few minutes, but he didn’t want any more tears.
“Okay,” he answered, coming into the great room.
Christie’s small brow furrowed as she tried to wrestle everything she’d taken from the suitcase back into it. “I fink my Bobbies have too much clothes,” she said, grunting to close it.
Mac crouched beside her. “Want some help?”
She shook her head no and grunted louder.
The scent of vanilla tinged the air, coming from the apothecary-jar candle sitting on an end table. In fact, now that he glanced around, he saw several touches that Terri had added. Baskets of dried wildflowers sat here and there, various photographs of Christie topped the table near his fieldstone fireplace, and throw pillows in earthy shades brightened his brown overstuffed sofa. With only a few trappings, she’d made his house a home.
“Unco Mac, you do it.”
He grinned at the name they’d finally agreed on. “Mr. Corbett” was too formal for him; just plain “Mac” wasn’t formal enough for Terri. Amos was now “Papa Amos.”
“Give it here,” he said, then stuffed everything inside the hard case and snapped the locks into place.
He was lifting it when his eyes narrowed on the gold initials on the bag. Three letters, all in big, loopy script.
Not one of those letters worked with a name like Terri Fletcher.
By the time he and Christie reached Amos’s house, Mac’s mood was as dark as Christie’s had been earlier.
He herded Christie into the living room, asked Amos to keep her occupied for a few minutes, then took the broom out of Terri’s hand, propped it in the corner beside the door and led her out on the porch.
Releasing his grip on her wrist, he snapped, “What’s your real name?”
Erin stared, her heartbeat racing. What was going on? What had he found at the house that told him she’d been lying? She hadn’t yet e-mailed Millie or Lynn, so he couldn’t have discovered anything from the computer. “You know my name,” she said, working to keep her voice calm.
He stared down at her with cold, cold eyes. “Do I? Terri Fletcher?”
She nodded, feeling backed into a corner.
“Then why are the initials on your luggage C. L.R.?”
Relief flooded her. So that’s what he’d found. “Obviously because the person who once owned it did have those initials,” she answered truthfully. “I bought it at a yard sale during our travels.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see it on his face. “I seriously doubt that you found something that nice at a yard sale. It’s practically brand-new.”
Suddenly Erin exploded in a temper that matched his. She didn’t have a right to because she had been lying to him. But it had been such a horrid day, and between the brake light fiasco, Mac’s foul mood and Christie’s tantrum, she was so unhinged, she gave him both barrels.
“Well, guess what? I did find something that nice at a yard sale. Would you like to know how much I paid for it? Three dollars. Well worth the price, don’t you think?” She took in a breath, unable to stop herself from lashing out. “Why can’t you believe a solitary thing I say? You’ve been grilling me since I got here, and no matter how I answer, I see doubt in your eyes. Well, it’s getting old! Is there something I’m doing wrong? Because if you have any objections about the way I care for your grandfather, wash your clothes or mash your potatoes, now’s the time to say so!”
Shaking inside and out, she glared up at him, watching his expression go from angry, to stunned.
Neither of them spoke for a long, solemn moment. Then finally Mac said, “I’m sorry,” and went back inside the house.
Erin stayed where she was, her hands practically wringing pine sap out of the porch rail while she struggled for calm. But as those physical problems came under control, she suddenly felt sick to her stomach remembering his apologetic look.
Dear God, what a mess she’d made of everything. She was now the worst liar in the world because there was a chance she’d convinced him that she was honorable—and she was miles from that.
Swallowing, she went back inside, took her broom from the corner, then briefly glanced in the direction of the coffeemaker. Mac was refilling his cup, his expression stony. Then, wordlessly, he grabbed a magazine from the living room, carried his coffee past her and returned to the porch.
She felt as though she might throw up.
Amos and Christie came silently into the kitchen, Christie’s eyes wide and uncertain, Amos wearing a sympathetic expression. They would’ve had to be deaf to miss her outburst.
Setting the broom aside, Erin lifted Christie into her arms and held her close. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she murmured as her daughter’s arms and legs wrapped around her. “Mommy was just upset for a minute. But I’m not upset with you.” Erin smoothed Christie’s hair and kissed it, then snuggled her on her shoulder. She met Amos’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, squeezing her arm on his way to the counter.
Erin spoke quickly when she realized he was about to fill his coffee mug, too. “Amos, wait. Let me get that for you.”
“Nah, you cuddle yer little one,” he replied. “It’ll do me good t’ get my own.” He hooked his cane over his right wrist then used his left hand to pour. “About Mac…” he began, then paused to return the carafe to the unit, “sometimes he gets my dander up, too.”
He grabbed his cup, a little decaf slopping over the rim as he cane tapped his way toward her. “I suspect he gets himself all wrapped up in unimportant stuff ’cause he don’t have enough goin’ on in his own life.” He winked at Erin and lowered his voice as he went to the door. “He just needs a little distractin’.”
When the screen door banged shut behind him, Erin unhooked Christie’s legs from around her waist, then draped them over her thighs as she sank to a chair.
Mac wasn’t the only one who needed more in his life. She needed a distraction as badly as he did. And how she wished they could distract each other. A lot of her tension was directly related to the knots in her stomach that simply wouldn’t go away—and the hurt in her heart that he didn’t trust her, whether she deserved his trust or not. She cared what he thought of her, cared too much.
Erin looked down at her droopy-eyed daughter; she was all worn-out from her happy-sad day. It was easy for Erin to relate.
“Hey, sleepy girl,” she murmured. “Let’s take some dessert out to Uncle Mac and Papa Amos, then go find Raggedy Ann and get ready for bed. Does that sound like a good idea?”
Christie nodded and yawned.
A few minutes later Christie tagged along behind her as Erin placed a thin slice of apple pie, a napkin and a fork on the parson’s table near Amos’s chair. A dozen feet away, Mac lounged in a second chair, reading. His boots were propped up on the porch rail. There was no table beside him so Erin waited until he’d met her eyes, pulled his feet down and put his magazine aside. Then she handed him a plate. The fork she gave him had a white paper napkin pinched between the tines. A flag of truce.
He accepted both.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t have to get so passionate about the whole thing.”
Mac kept his voice low and his sober gaze on hers. “It’s okay. A little passion never hurt anybody.”
That familiar airy feeling twirled through her stomach, and her heart skipped a beat. Maybe not. But any passion he had to give would have to be shared with someone else.
Still, his words tur
ned the night into dreams, and they were dreams that made her pulse race and her body ache.
For him.
Chapter 7
Erin glanced up from scanning the want ads in yesterday’s paper as the screen door creaked long and loud on its hinges, and Amos came outside. At the far end of the porch, Christie was building a castle with Legos, but her dollies and stuffed animals were stretched out beside Erin on the old green-and-yellow metal glider—doing their penance for being cranky all morning.
As the screen door slammed, Amos pointed his cane at the want ads and settled himself into the padded Adirondack chair beside Erin. “You goin’ somewheres?”
She blinked, then realized he thought she was scouting for a new job. “Nope. Not until you say so.” She folded the paper and set it aside. “Did you have a good nap?”
“Fair t’ middlin’,” he answered, then reached across the parson’s table between them to hand her an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
With a brief, curious look at him, she opened the envelope and pulled out a thick wad of bills. Blinking, she met his hazel eyes again. “Money?”
“It’s yer pay. I hope yer okay with cash. Can’t find my checkbook.”
Cash was a godsend! She wouldn’t have to sign Terri’s name to a check. She’d been worrying about using her deceased friend’s identity and social security number since she’d left Maine. Then a troubling thought occurred to her. “Amos, I…I thought we’d agreed that I’d be paid at the end of the month.”
“Oh? I don’t recall sayin’ that. Just figured y’d been with us three weeks, and it was high time you got some pay for yer time. Count it, now. Make sure that’s the amount we agreed on.”
She had no intention of counting it. Suddenly nervous, Erin slipped the bills back into the envelope, her mind racing. Was it just a coincidence that yesterday a police officer had called her Ms. Fallon, and today Amos was handing her cash instead of a check? Had he overheard…and sensed her fear? Was he now trying to help her keep her identity a secret? If so, why? And if he thought he knew something, why wasn’t he asking her about it?
Standing, she moistened her lips and swallowed, all the moisture gone from her throat. “Thank you, Amos. I’ll tuck this in my purse, then I’ll look for your checkbook. Did you have it with you when we went to Flagstaff yesterday?”
“Nah, it ain’t been around for a while. It’ll turn up. Mac prob’ly put it someplace. I’ll ask him when he comes home.”
“All right,” she said. “But if you change your mind, I’ll start looking.” Thoughts of their ride home yesterday reminded her that her van still needed some attention. “Amos, I need to have a light replaced in my van. Could you suggest a garage that would do it?”
“Sure. You kin take it t’ Everett Hodge’s place on Main Street, just up from my store. But it ain’t a hard job. Mac can bring a bulb home.”
“I don’t want to put him out.”
“Y’ wouldn’t be. Won’t take him but a minute to fix it. Besides, Everett’s only open till five. You’d have to wait till Saturday to get it done.” He sent her a sarcastic look. “Unless you figured on leavin’ me without a keeper for an hour.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you’d be fine by yourself, but Mac would string us both up if I did that.” She glanced at her watch; it wasn’t quite 2 p.m. “Would you mind riding into town with me now? Maybe Mr. Hodge would have time to do it.”
Shrugging, Amos grabbed his cane and hoisted himself up with a hand on the arm of his chair. “Guess I could do that. It’d give me a chance t’see what the front of my store’s lookin’ like these days.”
The garage at the corner of Main and Taylor had a decidedly old-fashioned look. In fact, the entire town did, as she’d discovered when she’d first arrived. With the exception of the small brick bank, High Hawk’s business section—if you could call it that—consisted mainly of painted clapboard, false front buildings with long plate-glass windows. There were even a few ancient gas pumps with round heads and red bodies stationed at the front of Hodge’s weathered gray garage for flavor.
A balding, heavyset man with a fringe of gray hair chuckled when he saw Amos in the van and walked across the dirt lot to talk, wiping his hands on a coarse orange rag. He stuffed the rag in the back pocket of his stained coveralls as one of his men went to change the bulb.
His voice boomed cheerfully. “This your new girlfriend, Amos?”
Amos grinned. “Yep, we’re gettin’ hitched, soon as I hit the lottery.” He glanced at Erin. “Terri, this here’s Everett Hodge, the crookedest pinochle player in the state. Hodge, this is Terri Fletcher, my new jailer.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The mechanic’s blue eyes twinkled. “This old liar needs a jailer.” He looked at Amos, affection in his gaze. “How you doin’, Amos?”
“Still got my hair. How’s yer day goin’?”
“Good, good.” He chuckled again. “They’re all good when we wake up above ground.”
Fifteen minutes later as they drove out of the lot, Amos settled back against his seat with a husky laugh. “Felt good t’chew the fat with old Everett, though y’can’t believe a blamed word he says. Been a storyteller since I met him.”
Erin smiled, pleased to see him this way. “Well, if that was fun, how would you like to go into your store instead of just looking at the outside?” Christie was snoozing in her car seat, but she could wake her. “You might run into a few of your customers. They’d probably love to—”
“No.” His reply was sharp and succinct, and color flared in his cheeks.
Nevertheless, when she approached the yellow clapboard general store with its high-flying sign, Erin eased the van off the road and stopped on the edge of the cinder lot, hoping Amos would change his mind.
She wanted to see Mac.
There, she’d admitted it. Things were strained between them, but every molecule in her body wanted to look at him, stand close to him…eat chocolate cake with him.
Then she saw the five concrete steps with the black pipe handrail leading to the front door, and realized Amos would have a difficult time climbing them. He’d had no trouble sitting in her van with Everett Hodge poked half inside the window, slinging good-natured insults and renewing their friendship. But his pride wouldn’t let him get out of the van and let people see his infirmity.
Still hoping he’d reconsider, she read aloud the legend on the dark-green sign with gold letters, thinking there was probably a back door for deliveries that would be more easily accessible. “Clarence M. Perkins & Sons, Established 1927. Is that right?”
“Yep,” he answered, glancing around with a why-ain’t-we-movin’ look on his face. “My granddaddy opened it just before the Great Depression. Been in the family ever since. I expect I’ll be the last Perkins to own it. My brother’s kids ain’t interested in nothin’ but oil rigs and makin’ money.”
“You have family in…Texas?” Erin guessed.
He grunted an affirmative. “My brother Jeremiah. Changed his name to Jerome and married a gal from Houston right after high school. She had the damnedest hair I ever seen. Brown with a big hunk of blond down one side—and it was natural, mind you.” His tone softened and grew faintly nostalgic. “But he made a good life for himself and her…had a coupla boys and built a nice house. As for him changin’ his name…” He met Erin’s eyes. “Well, I guess that was all right. He’s still the same person. Just a little shorter on the syllables.”
A shiver chased down her spine. Was he trying to tell her that he knew her name wasn’t Terri—and that it was all right with him? Or was the tale of his Texas brother just another story, like the ones he’d been swapping with Everett Hodge?
When she didn’t speak for a moment, Amos did, his trademark growl back in place. “You gonna lollygag all day, missy, or step on that gas pedal? I’m missin’ Gunsmoke.”
Relieved to let it go at that, Erin backed out of the cindered lot. But not before sh
e saw Mac and another man wander onto the loading dock of a large, tan, corrugated-steel building behind and to the left of the store. The sign over the wide doorway read: Feed & Seed. Mac spotted them at the same moment, and paused in his conversation to stare soberly.
With a slight wave, Erin eased onto the road again and headed for home, too many tingles and twitches in her belly to blame solely on what Amos did or did not know. She wanted Mac Corbett. She wanted him at night, she wanted him in the morning, and she wanted him now. What on earth did people do with hormones that refused to listen to reason?
You know, a small voice murmured deep in her mind.
Yes, she did. They gave into it.
The mere thought of loving him in the darkness made Erin miss her next turn.
Supper was a quiet affair that night. Mac asked Amos why he hadn’t stopped at the store after their visit to the garage, and Amos said he was missing his TV programs. They all spoke cordially, with Mac accepting everything she said without question—and making her feel guilty all over again.
Immediately after the meal he helped her clear the table and stack the dishes, then excused himself to feed and water the stock. It was all very civilized, and yet, as Erin walked Christie down the slight grade to Mac’s log home later, she felt the ever-widening gulf between them.
Isn’t that what you wanted? her conscience prodded.
Yes, but…
There are no buts. When he kisses you, you ask him to stop. When he keeps his distance, you don’t like that, either. Make up your mind.
“Easier said than done,” she murmured.
“What, Mommy?”
“Nothing, sweet pea,” she returned with a weary smile. “Just thinking out loud.”
She was so edgy and at loose ends that night after Christie fell asleep, she had to talk to someone. The pull to connect with friends was strong, but contacting anyone was dangerous. She still wasn’t certain of how Charles’s P.I. had found her in Maine, though she thought it might have been through her first van purchase.
Run to Me Page 9
