“The kittens. They yowl like a babe sometimes.” Marc eyed the ladder, then Kayla. “How’re we going to get you down?”
She swung a leg. “I can feel my feet now.”
“Great.” He set her down. “I’ll go first. If you have to let go, I’ll be right under you. I’ll catch you.” He reached a finger to the curve of her cheek. “I promise.”
He descended and watched from below. “Swing your hand over, now your foot. Good. Now the other. Okay. Come on down.”
“You sound like a game show host.”
Sparring with him. That was good, but he intended to find out what turned her into the terrorized child he’d found upstairs. He grabbed her shoulders as she stepped off the ladder. “Good job.” He kissed her forehead and led her to the door, one arm around her shoulders, caring for her. She seemed wobbly, but better. “It’s icy. We’ve got to go slow.”
“Okay.”
Way too agreeable. Probably hoping to throw him off track, make him forget what he saw and heard. Not likely.
The storm hit them with ferocity that defined March in the North Country. He gave her the flashlight and sheltered her as they picked their way across the drive. The stoked fire provided a warm, soothing welcome. Marc breathed a sigh of relief. “Jess! I’ve got her.”
Jess appeared from the kitchen. “Kayla. Are you frozen?” She grabbed Kayla in a hug, then pulled her toward the wood stove while Marc shed his outerwear. “Come here. Warm up.”
Marc tugged off Kayla’s shoes and socks, then chafed her feet while Jess fixed Kayla a steaming mug of coffee. “Not bad,” he noted, assessing the chill.
“Good socks.”
Marc smiled. Her color heightened. He hoped it was him and not the heat of the fire that brought the warmth to her cheeks. “I’m glad you had them on.”
“The barn stays pretty warm, actually,” Jess offered, puzzled.
“Not the loft.”
Jess swung back to Kayla. “You were in the loft?”
“Locked in the harness room,” Marc explained. “The handle fell off the door.”
“Kayla, really?” asked Jess, distressed. “I’m so sorry. You were looking for me?”
Kayla sipped the coffee, nodding. “Yes, but don’t get all upset and run off again. I’ve had enough for one night.”
Marc agreed. “Yes.”
Kayla shot him a look that begged no questions. He rubbed her feet and acquiesced for the moment. He’d have his answers eventually, but tonight she needed warmth and rest.
“Want a warm shower?”
She shook her head. Her eyes looked sleepy as heat crept into her bones. “No. Too tired.”
“I’ve got pajamas for you.” Jess nodded to a pair of green plaid flannels. “They’re not stylish, but they’re comfy.”
“Comfy’s good.” Kayla sat up. “Listen, guys, I’m sorry I caused so much trouble. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”
“You didn’t.” Jess leaned forward and gave Kayla another hug. “I’m just so glad you’re all right. If anything had happened to you—”
Kayla flashed a worried glance to Marc. He met it with a solid one in return.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” Jess finished. “I would never forgive myself, Kayla.”
“But nothing did.” Marc stood and held a hand out. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. I’m ready for sleep. Again.”
“Marc…”
Her voice trailed. Marc looked down at her, then shrugged his arm around her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He nodded. “We’ll talk soon.”
She didn’t look reassured. “All right.”
He walked her upstairs. Jess had the second bed in her room folded down. He heard Kayla’s sigh of gratitude and kissed her temple. “I’ll see you in the morning. And not real early, either.”
“Church is at ten,” Jess reminded him.
Ah, yes. Church. For once Marc didn’t think he’d have a real hard time praying. He nodded. “I’ll have the chores done.” Then, after glancing at his watch, he added, “Most of them.” He hugged Jess. “Night, kid.”
Kayla gave him a half smile. “Good night, Farmer Boy.”
He met her gaze. “Sleep well, Kayla.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kayla made a beeline for her car while Marc did morning chores. He caught up with her in the driveway.
“Heading out?”
She kept her gaze fixed beyond his shoulder, but not toward the barn with the too-high-to-reach window. “Heading home.”
He moved closer, cautious. “Okay. I brought your car up to the house.” He stepped toward the rear of the Grand Am. “Bill Pickering slid into the back of it last night when the roads got icy. That’s how I knew you were still here. I’m sure he’ll call it in to the insurance company today.”
At the moment Kayla could have cared less about the smashed left taillight. All she wanted was to escape Marc’s penetrating look and his inevitable questions. “All right.”
Marc bent, searching her face. “You’re okay to drive?”
“I’m fine.” Her tone was clipped. She didn’t care. Every instinct pushed her to run from this man who’d seen her with her defenses down.
He moved closer, invading her space. “You could stay. Go to church with Jess and me.”
For a fleeting moment the idea of walking into the church as a unit appealed. Right until she remembered Marc’s attitude. His presence in church answered an obligation, not a need.
No. She’d lived without grace too long. She knew how easy it was to shrug her shoulders and go her own way. She’d done just that until Anna broke through with words of love and forgiveness.
The man in front of her hated Anna and didn’t believe in God. Insurmountable obstacles from her vantage point. “I’ve got to go.”
Marc followed her around the car. He leaned down after she slipped into the seat. “I’ll come by later.”
“Sorry.” Kayla worked her keys, willing her fingers not to shake. “I’m busy.”
His jaw hardened. She saw him work to relax the clench. “With?”
“Things I can’t do when I’m working. Unlike you, I don’t work at home.”
He showed no reaction to the jab, just nodded, slow. “Soon, then.”
Not if she had a choice. Backing away, she realized the unlikelihood of that. She had three months to go. Marc was a determined man. No way could she keep him at bay until she’d moved south.
At the moment she’d settle for time to regroup, away from the DeHollanders. Away from their needs, their problems.
She hated to walk out on Jess, but the idea of Marc questioning her put her into a cold sweat. She’d spent a lifetime filtering what she could handle from what needed to be set aside.
Right now, Marc DeHollander needed to be set aside. As she glanced at his diminishing reflection through her rearview mirror, she recognized the difficulty of the task.
Marc wasn’t the type to be shrugged off easily. He was solid and sure, a man of promise and worth. That knowledge warmed her from within.
It scared her even more.
“Hi! You’ve reached five-five-five, four-one-two-seven. We’re not in right now, but leave a message at the tone.”
Knuckles braced, Marc gripped the phone. “Pick up, Kayla. Please.”
Silence answered him. Stifling a growl, he disconnected and studied the hydraulics of his seeder, restless. The necessary parts had been back-ordered. Now they had arrived, but the store was hopping with spring business and Joan Mettleman’s chicks and bunnies. His clerk was down with the flu and cows were dropping calves in the field daily.
Why he’d said yes to the neighboring farmer’s marketing ploy of live critters in the store’s sales room, he had no idea, because the rustling sounds of baby animals, even penned, had him gritting his teeth.
But Easter was coming and Joan made a valid point. Chicks and bunnies were hot items, and country folk seldom minded an extra mouth t
o feed around the barn. Today’s Rhode Island Red chick could be this fall’s 4-H project in the right child’s hands.
He pushed aside thoughts of children. Anyone’s children.
He didn’t want to think of relationships gone bad and buried dreams.
The silence greeting his phone calls and trips to Kayla’s door sent their own message. Unwelcome.
The situation grated, but he wasn’t a begging man.
Sure you are. You’d beg in a heartbeat if you thought it would do any good.
No way, no how.
Right. Keep telling yourself that, DeHollander.
Marc flinched.
He knew she was scared. Frankly, he was more than a little intimidated himself. The Kayla he’d found in the barn was a fear-filled woman whose neediness unnerved him. Her instability touched too many childhood memories.
Your father loved your mother, Kayla insisted. He stood by her through thick and thin.
Considering the outcome, Marc was pretty sure his father made the wrong choice, unknowing. The difference was, Marc saw the quandary. He lived it firsthand. Was he willing to step into the same lion’s den that caused his family sorrow and heartbreak?
No.
Kayla’s lapse into childhood scared him. He didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with an unstable woman, regardless of his feelings. Forewarned was forearmed. Sure he’d seen flashes of insecurity from her. He’d written them off as normal baggage.
What he read in her face on the night of Pete’s funeral was nothing he considered normal.
He should run screaming. Back away as far as possible. He didn’t need a woman toting an emotional load. He didn’t need a relationship with someone who had an ongoing love affair with trendsetting looks and spiked heels.
Although her legs looked nice in those. Real nice.
Marc pinched the bridge of his nose, then climbed beneath the PTO connection and focused on the mechanics of well-manufactured hydraulics.
“We need to talk.”
The voice surprised Kayla as she approached her apartment, mid-April. She sucked air, startled, as a hand steadied her arm.
Marc’s hand.
“There’s nothing to say.” She shrugged and looked anywhere but at him. “Go away.”
“No.” His grip tightened. “Just talk, Kayla. Talk can’t hurt you.”
But it could. He didn’t know the half of it. She glanced up.
Those eyes. Gray-green, warm and cool, blended with pointed sparks of amber. He held her gaze, his look firm, his jaw tight. He nodded to the outside stairway. “Can I come up?”
She’d hoped he’d given up. His phone calls had dwindled the past two weeks. She thought she was ready to put him behind her, but his proximity made her want to ease the narrow distance between them. How easy it would be to move into the curve of his arm, feel him rest his chin on her hair.
A gust of wind broke her chain of thought. She stepped back. “I don’t think so.”
He stepped forward. His left hand touched her chin, her cheek. “Please?”
He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look perturbed. He looked…
Concerned.
That realization almost undid her. No one got past her line of defense. No one broke through to the needy soul residing within.
“No, Marc.” Stepping back, she tried to slip away.
He didn’t let go. “You’re afraid.”
Because she was, his assessment made her angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Only because you won’t tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Sure there is. And it scares you.”
Indignation spiraled up. “Nothing scares me. Not anymore.”
“Oh, no?” Deliberate, he let his gaze encompass their situation. Her stance, his distance, the stairs to her apartment. “Then let me up. That’s what friends do.”
Friends.
She wanted to cry and scream, but she’d held those emotions in check for a long, long time. She did neither.
“If nothing else, I’d like to be your friend. I think we could both use one.”
“I have friends.”
“Then one more couldn’t hurt.” His look slid to the stairway again. “Coffee. Some conversation to right my brain about all this stuff with my father and mother and Jess. Then…”
“Then, what?”
He regarded her, his look unreadable. “Then I go home and try to run two businesses that need me night and day, raise a motherless sister who’s lost her father and a good chunk of her faith in mankind, deal with my grief at losing a man who meant the world to me and maybe go slowly crazy trying to keep all the plates spinning.”
His openness shamed her. She’d been so worried about herself, her needs, protecting her fragile ego, that she’d conveniently pushed aside his dilemma. She drew a breath and exhaled, long and slow, then acquiesced. “Okay.”
His presence behind her on the stairway unnerved her. The sight of him, his scent, so masculine, so…
Marc.
She’d let him in and hope he’d gulp his coffee. Then she’d ease him out the door and lay plans for the next segment of her life. Virginia should be beautiful this time of year. Cherry blossoms, spring blooms, grass-lined trails, gracious homes.
Potsdam blustered, despite the April date. A Canadian clipper sent a late surge of snow. The melting remains left everything sodden and dirty. Nothing pretty about it.
Inside, she moved to start coffee. Would he notice her hand tremors, the rise in breathing?
She didn’t want this confrontation, but saw no way out. He’d been through a lot and she’d left him high and dry. Jess, too. She wasn’t that kind of person, and didn’t want him to remember her that way.
What do you care how he sees you? This guy doesn’t share your beliefs, makes a show of tolerating faith and hates his mother. Not exactly pick-of-the-litter.
“Coffee’s—”
She turned into his chest, a very nice chest, broad and thick.
“I smelled it.” He leaned back to ease their sudden proximity. “I switched the space heater on. Take the chill off.”
She filled two mugs and nodded. “Then we’ll have it in there, okay?”
He roamed the other room, mug in hand, before pausing in front of a framed print. “I like this.”
Kayla smiled, agreeing. “Me, too. The little bungalow, the flowers, the waving grasses. The ever-present source of light. That’s my dream home.”
Marc turned. “Small.”
She shrugged. “I don’t need much. A good roof, warm floors and lots of flowers.”
“With plenty of closet space.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah.”
Marc sank onto the small sofa. “Did you have gardens when you were little?”
Red alert. She struggled to maintain a calm expression. “I’ve always appreciated them.”
He angled his head, eyes narrowed. “Nice dodge. Where did you grow up, Kayla?”
Her heart buzzed danger. Her fingers tingled. “How’s Jess?”
“Where, Kayla?”
She stood. “Listen, I thought you wanted to talk about your dad and Anna. I’m not willing to—”
“Talk about yourself? That’s not fair.”
“Fair’s got nothing to do with this.”
“You’re my friend. I worry about my friends when they’re having problems.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Where’d you grow up?”
Hot tears startled her. Her throat tightened. Her hands clenched. A full-frontal emotional overload took charge. For the life of her, she wouldn’t move forward and couldn’t step back. “You need to leave.”
“Come here.”
“Now.”
“Right here.” He patted the spot beside him. “Tell me about Kayla. About the little girl inside the woman’s body.”
Her jaw slackened. Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I can’t do this. Please,
Marc.”
He nodded, encouraging her. “Sure you can. Come here, Kayla.” He stretched out an arm and stood. “Talk to me.”
She stood silent, rooted.
Unfair tactics. He’d gotten there under the guise of needing to talk, then turned the tables once he got in the door.
He stretched out his second arm. “Come here, honey.”
Was it the endearment that spurred her faltering shift forward, or was it the expression offering help and acceptance?
She had no idea, but his face softened as she moved. He nodded, confident. “I’m right here.”
He enveloped her when she reached him, his cheek pressed against her hair. He held her, swaying gently. Her tears wet his shirt, his chest. Strong arms sheltered her from the onslaught of emotional baggage. He drew her into the loveseat, cradling her. “Shh…It’s all right. It’s all right. I’ve got you, girl. I’ve got you.”
He did. She felt the strength of his embrace, the shelter of his arms, the softness of ribbed cotton, scented with spice. She sighed and relaxed into a warmth she’d never known and would most likely never know again. Taking a deep breath, she sighed once more and began. “My mother was a prostitute.”
Chapter Nineteen
Marc listened, unmoving, wishing he could help. He kept his arms snugged and held tight, hoping to share his warmth and strength, knowing she needed both.
“I didn’t know that when I was little. What it meant.”
Marc nodded, his chin to her hair.
“We moved often. All over Ohio, a little in Pennsylvania.” Kayla paused. Her shoulders relaxed. “When I was small, she waitressed in a Greek diner. I remember a big dining room. The curtains were covered with flags and wheels. I don’t know how old I was then,” Kayla continued, steadier. “Five, maybe? I went to school, so I would have been five or six.”
“Did you stay there long?”
“I don’t think so. My next memories are of traveling from place to place with whatever guy my mom was seeing at the time.”
Marc fought the clench of anger, understanding what Kayla didn’t say.
“They’d stay for a bit, then move on. We ended up in Cleveland when I was almost eight.”
Winter's End Page 17
