“What?” This time Leslie truly was scared. Joe wasn’t just testy or mocking in his ire. He was outraged.
“That tie. My tie. My lucky tie,” he wailed, his fist clenching and unclenching in frustration.
“This tie?” she asked, looking down to where Joe’s furious gaze was riveted, at the tie she was using for a belt. “I picked the ugliest one of the bunch. You honestly don’t wear it, do you?”
Joe stared at her in shock. That he wanted to punch her was a little too apparent for Leslie. She knew he wouldn’t, but then, Joe had his own ways of getting his revenge. Suddenly he tilted his head back and released an unholy howl of defeat. “Are you trying to drive me crazy? Because if you are, you’re succeeding.”
In the time it took her to blink, Leslie was in his arms. He took a fist full of her hair and pulled her head back so he could look down at her face. His breath was warm and minty as it mingled with hers. His green gaze seemed to invade her mind, seek out her soul, question the essence of her being. His voice was a grating whisper. “My body burns for you. You’ve driven my mind to total distraction. And now you’ve destroyed my lucky tie. What else do you want from me, Leslie? What will you take from me next?”
In the most natural act of her life, Leslie rose up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to Joe’s in a light, sweet kiss. When he frowned and seemed to be confused, she did it again. When she looked for his reaction, his eyes narrowed with comprehension and skepticism. There was pain, wonder, several questions, and finally regret in his eyes. “You’re tempting, and Lord knows you’d be easy pickings, sweet Leslie. I’m just not sure I should be the one to do it.”
There was a jolt, as Leslie’s feet hit the ground when he released her and walked away from her toward the woods. She wanted to call out to him, but what would she say? He didn’t want her. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that if she offered herself, he might refuse. Her ego was dashed to smithereens. Worse, though, was the hollow, empty feeling that settled in her chest and began to unfold and grow disproportionately, until it made breathing difficult and brought tears to her eyes. As if she were dragging her heart behind her, she walked dejectedly into the cabin to see if she could get the wrinkles out of Joe’s lucky tie.
For the next few days, the tension in the little cabin was so thick and heavy, they could have cut it with a knife. Joe spent most of his time trying to meet his deadline. His answers to what few questions Leslie could bring herself to ask were monosyllabic. They were too polite to each other, too wary, too cautious in their attempts to avoid any further confrontations.
Leslie’s days took on an orderly routine, which suited her just fine. She kept a pair of jeans beside the couch and was always careful to be completely covered when she moved around the cabin. She went straight to the garden after breakfast to work there, which after she’d finished planting, consisted of filling buckets of water at the outside pump and pouring them on the garden. That done, the rest of the day was hers.
Still too ashamed to let Joe know or give him a chance to suspect that she virtually knew nothing of the issues he cared so much about, she had taken to smuggling his books out of the cabin in her clothes with a Max Darkwood as a decoy. She sat behind the woodshed, where she’d be able to see Joe approaching if he ever gave in to a whim to check on her. And she read every word with the thirst of a born-again Christian rereading the Bible. At night in the cabin, she read only Max Darkwood novels. And when the lamps went out and all was quiet, Max came to her in her dreams. Where Joe couldn’t bring himself to care, Max did. He listened to her irrational thoughts, understood her, and was patient with her selfishness and ignorance. Max was tender and soothing. He was dangerous and exciting and gentle enough to accept Leslie and her love.
Eight
“I’M GOING BACK down to the truck this morning. Is there anything in the trunk of your car that you want?” Joe asked nearly a week after the fatal Saturday they’d run each other off the road.
“No, thanks.” Leslie said, her nose nestled up against a Max Darkwood novel. In it a preacher’s daughter was posing as a saloon girl while she gathered information against the nefarious town marshal who shot her father and brother down in cold blood—right in front of the church, no less.
“I’ll be gone most of the day. So stay close to the cabin. If it gets too dark, I’ll have to make camp.”
“Okay.” Max was just about to intercept a would-be customer of the so-called saloon girl’s who was drunk and—
“If I never come back, there’s a pot of gold buried under this cabin, and you can have it,” Joe said, his tone huffy.
She looked up at him then, bewildered by his sudden affront, “Now what have I done?” she asked, feeling sure he had nothing to complain about. She rubbed her moccasin-covered feet together absently. Her feet were almost completely healed, but the skin itched like crazy.
“You haven’t done anything. That’s the whole point. You haven’t done anything but read those damn books for days.”
“I work in your damned garden every day. I do my share of housework,” she said, letting his anger feed hers. “What else would you like me to do? Chop the wood? Polish your boots?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I don’t have any complaints about your helping out around here. I … just … I was just … well, how come you haven’t read any of my books?”
“I will. I’ll be here a while. I like the Max Darkwood stories, but I’m bound to run out of them sooner or later.”
“Oh. So then you’ll read mine. As a last resort against total boredom.”
Leslie groaned as she realized she had, once again, stuck her foot in it. “No. I didn’t mean to say it that way. I’ll read one today. They’re very good books. I—”
“Don’t bother,” Joe broke in on her explanation. “You know why you prefer those stupid novels to my books? Because mine tell about the real world, Leslie.” His voice grew bitter and incensed. His features were full of disappointment. “You’re uncomfortable reading about what’s real, because you’re afraid you’ll have to wake up and face it someday. And then, oh, heaven forbid, you might have to feel something. But you don’t want to do that because you’re too wrapped up in yourself to give a damn about anything else. That’s exactly why you’ve never fallen in love. Because you can’t see anything or anyone two feet in front of you. And that’s exactly why you’ll wind up spending the rest of your life alone.”
Too stunned to speak, she watched as Joe stomped out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. It was several seconds before she could remember to draw air into her lungs. Her heart felt sluggish, as if it wanted to stop. She stared thoughtlessly at the door, too shocked to know how deeply hurt she was. The pain, however, refused to go unnoticed. Slowly it began to gnaw at her from the inside out. It tore and split and wrenched at her life center, until it ruptured and broke.
Joe covered half the distance back to his truck before he ran out of steam. It became slowly but clearly evident to him that he wasn’t nearly as angry with Leslie, as he was with himself. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman. So what if she wasn’t politically active? Lots of people weren’t and that didn’t make them human waste. No, his problem with Leslie was purely personal and something he had to work out on his own.
The trouble was, he wanted her. He’d been falling head over heels in love with her from the moment he set eyes on her. She had courage and fortitude and could be as tough as nails when she had to be. How often had he come awake in the night wishing she was in his arms? How many hours had he sat watching her sleep with only the dawn to light her soft, sweet features? When had she invaded his mind so completely that he couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t have a private thought without her presence in it? He hung on her every word, memorized her movements and expressions. He felt driven to know all there was to know about her. Who she was, what she thought, how she arrived at a specific conclusion. More than anything, he needed to possess her heart. He craved her concern, he
r love, her friendship. His desire was to fill her with a passion so great, so real and vivid that she couldn’t live without him. When she’d offered herself to him, had she known what he wanted from her? Was she capable of that kind of love?
The last time he’d asked so much from a woman she’d failed him. Or maybe he’d failed her first somehow. All he knew was that for months he’d lived with his head in the clouds, madly in love, thinking he’d discovered paradise. Their love was perfect, romantic and filled with passion and laughter. Perfect, he’d thought, until he discovered that she’d been seeing other men all that time and then refused to give them up.
Leslie didn’t even know what love was. What if she found it so wonderful that she’d need more than he could give her? What if his life and heart and soul weren’t enough for her either? Did he want to take that kind of risk again?
On the other hand, women were no more alike than men were. What if he and Leslie had been destined for each other all along? What if he was making a horrible mistake in not letting Leslie into his life? What if he was making an even bigger mistake in not opening her life up to the world, to him in particular? What if her heart was an untapped source of endless, ever-flowing love? How could he possibly ignore it or turn away from it in cowardice?
By the time Joe reached his truck, it was early afternoon. He’d had six hours to call himself everything from an abject fool to a yellow-bellied idiot. It was time to get over his fears and take another stab at happiness. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life cowering in corners and loving from afar. In the next six hours, the time it would take him to get back to Leslie, he’d bolster his courage and try to figure out how he’d get her to forgive him.
Darkness had settled in for the night by the time Joe reached the turnoff from the main logging road to the access road leading to the cabin. He would have stopped hours before and camped for the night, except for a full moon that lit his way well enough for him to see—and for his deep need to be with Leslie. His anxiety at seeing her again made him nervous and jumpy. His palms were hot and clammy, which made carrying his burden all that much more difficult.
He rounded the bend in the road and looked expectantly in the direction of the cabin. There were no lights in the windows, no smoke coming from the chimney. His heart felt like stone, not beating and sinking deep in his chest, as he got the impression that the place was deserted. It was only a little after nine-thirty, and Leslie didn’t usually go to bed this early, he calculated quickly. And there’d still be smoke from the fire, unless she hadn’t lit one. What if she couldn’t light the fire? The thought hit him like a low blow to the stomach. What if she’d been out target practicing again or wandered too far into the woods? What if some animal had wandered by, and she’d panicked? He realized the possibilities were endless, even before he dropped the food and started running toward the cabin.
Winded, but still energized with the high doses of adrenaline his body was pumping around inside him, he burst through the cabin door calling Leslie’s name. Fumbling in his haste, he finally got a lamp lit only to find that the cabin was indeed empty. He spun around to the door again and was about to go out in search of Leslie, when he spotted a note on the dinette table.
Dear Joe,
I’ve gone to your neighbor’s cabin. I walked ten miles before, I can do it again. I’ve taken your compass, sleeping bag, and a few other things I’ll be needing to camp with. I’ll use his phone to call home, and I’ll mail you a check for all the things I’m using. If any of them have sentimental value, I’ll be leaving them at your neighbor’s, where you can pick them up.
You know, everything you said this morning was true. If you’d said the same thing to me six months ago, I’d have let it roll off my back. Today, however, it hurt. That has to mean something.
I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.
Leslie
P.S. I’ll send someone up with a tow truck.
With an angry growl, Joe wadded the note up and threw it on the floor. He wanted her there, in his arms, not out wandering around in the forest feeling sorry for herself. For half a second he was tempted to let her go. She’d come back in a hurry when she discovered his nearest neighbor was a bear that lived in a cave somewhere in the high cavernous peaks between his cabin and the ranger station over forty miles away.
He removed the vest he’d taken with him that morning and reached for his down jacket only to find it was one of the “few other things” she’d taken. At least she’d be warm, he thought disjointedly. Grabbing up the spare flash light and an extra blanket, he blew out the lamp and marched out the door. He’d teach her that running away from her problems was no answer, that running from him would never be tolerated. That they belonged together. And once she’d grasped these lessons, he’d beg for her forgiveness.
“So far, so good,” Leslie decreed. She scrutinized her surroundings, her eyes alert to the slightest movement, her ears finely honed to the merest sound. The tall pines stood motionless and seemed to watch over her protectively. The small fire she’d set crackled happily, kept her warm, and gave her light. She was well pleased with her adventure so far.
All day long she’d watched the compass and followed the sun as it rose over her head and settled in the west. All these were signs, she knew, that she was heading in the right direction. West. What she didn’t want, more than anything, was to get lost. She was fairly certain Joe wouldn’t come looking for her, because she had made a point of telling him that she had a compass and camping equipment. She knew and trusted him well enough to know that if he thought she was out in the forest without any supplies, he’d come after her. He might hate her, but he had an overdeveloped sense of duty and responsibility. So she’d tried to put his mind to rest on that score.
Thinking about him still hurt. Her thoughts seemed to echo in the emptiness she felt. She missed him already. That was strange, she decided. All they ever did was fight it seemed. Still, she did feel all alone, more alone than she had ever felt before. She sighed and rested her chin on her drawn up knees. Max Darkwood wouldn’t have said those kind of things to her. Well, not unless he was hurting emotionally and “senselessly lashed out to draw her into his pain, to join him in his sorrow, to draw comfort from her strength” the way he had with Princess Glowing Moon when he found himself madly in love with her, only to discover that it had been her tribe that had scalped his parents when he was fourteen years old. In any case, it was quite understandable in that particular instance, Leslie decided.
And no matter how much he’d hurt her, and even if he wasn’t in love with her, Max would never have let her wander the woods alone. He was a little chauvinistic—well, a lot chauvinistic—but he was also a very sensitive, caring man. He acted tough on the outside, but inside he was gentle and loving. Leslie sighed again. The first thing she was going to do when she got home was write Max Darkwood a letter and tell him he wrote wonderful stories, and that if he was, in actuality, the hero of his books, there was a good chance she was deeply in love with him.
Somewhere nearby a twig snapped. Leslie’s head popped up. There was silence, except for the normal night sounds that she had grown accustomed to. Just to make herself feel better, though, she tucked her hand under the sleeping bag she’d wrapped around her legs to feel the reassuring presence of Joe’s handgun. She was more familiar with the shotgun, but it was too heavy to pack around for very long. And she was sure the principles of firing the handgun were the same as the shotgun. She felt safe with it cuddled close to her side.
Again there was an odd noise, a rustling of leaves that sounded different from when the wind rustled them. And another snap. Leslie’s fingers curled around the gun. She heard a low, throaty growl and more rustling and snapping. The gun came up and went off in one fluid movement. A rock seemed to burst explosively in front of Leslie’s wide, frantic eyes, spraying fragments in all directions. The loud, sharp clap echoed through the tree tops and then there was silence. And only then did L
eslie realize that she was frightened out of her wits and on the brink of being killed by some wild beast.
A long string of expletives and some of the dirtiest swearwords Leslie had ever heard began to filter through the trees and into her fear-soaked consciousness. They ended with, “Dammit to hell, Leslie, put that damn thing down before you kill me!”
It was Joe. Joe had come after her. Even as angry as he’d been with her and as disgusted as he was with her selfishness, he’d come after her. Her heart was racing wildly and beating an erratic rhythm as she watched him stumble out of the bushes and into her small camp. She tried to go to him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him until he wasn’t angry anymore, but her legs felt like jelly. She wanted to say something, anything, but her tongue turned suddenly spastic, tying itself in knots. So, she had to let Joe do all the talking, and he didn’t exactly have Max Darkwood’s vocabulary.
“Are you out of your mind? You could have called out and warned me you had a gun. And you never shoot at rocks. Bullets ricochet, you idiot. And what the hell are you doing out here anyway? Feeling sorry for yourself? How come you didn’t stay put and hit me with something when I walked through the door? Do you have any idea what kind of danger you’re in out here all alone in the middle of nowhere?” He started walking toward her as he shouted, “People with more brains and know-how than you have been known to die up here. Taking off like that was a damned stupid thing to do. I ought to wring your neck,” he said as he landed on his knees beside her, his eyes wild with fury and passion. His hands cupped her face, and she swallowed hard, thinking he might very well carry out his threat. But she didn’t move. “I ought to … and I will, if you ever leave me again.”
Bound to Happen Page 12
