Shameless

by Tara Janzen

  “You’ve been crying.” One eyebrow lifted in confusion, then a dawning understanding flickered in his eyes. “Is that for me too?”

  Given half a chance, she thought irritably, he would leave her with nothing, not even a scrap of decorum to hide behind. The man asked for too much and got most of what he asked for, but she was drawing the line at verbal admissions.

  “I’d like some privacy, please.”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to comply with her request. His gaze held hers steadily, searching her with an intensity she found disturbing and—dammit—exciting. She tightened her hold on his pillow.

  Colt caught the small movement and backed off. He wasn’t sure what else to do. He felt a lot of things, most of them conflicting, especially when it came to her. He wanted to crawl back into bed with her and start all over again, but what rationality he’d regained in the light of day told him that was sure emotional suicide. The same rationality had told him to leave earlier, when he’d first wakened. He’d been tempted. It had seemed such a neat, clean way to part. But the United States Navy hadn’t trained him to be a coward, and his mother hadn’t raised him to be cruel.

  He would have had to have been both to have walked away from her while she slept—and a good deal less self-indulgent besides. She was exquisite in sleep, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her golden lashes like sunbursts on her cheeks. He’d marked her all over, from where his beard had left chafed marks on her neck and on the curves of her breasts, to the tiny chafed marks on her thighs. He hadn’t meant to use her so hard. But her skin had an overall glow, and he knew he’d given her that too.

  Her eyes were turning warier by the second, and remembering he was a gentleman, he pushed off her bed and left the room. It would have been easier, for him anyway, to take his clothes off and slip between the sheets and her legs. Easier, known, and definitely enjoyable. Meeting her in the kitchen for coffee was none of the above.

  Sarah took her time. She showered, shampooed, and blow-dried, and in between times she kept an ear cocked for any sounds of his leaving. She changed her pants twice and her shirt three times, buttoning and unbuttoning while she roamed from closet to window, drawing the curtains aside for quick glances at the street and his jeep. The Sunday morning sky was deteriorating almost as fast as her courage. There would be a fresh storm soon.

  Red was a good color on her; so was white. She chose blue, powder blue. The shirt was pure cotton, collarless, and had at least twenty finger-defying buttons down the front. Jeans were jeans, but she picked her “fat” jeans, and she was in one of her skinny periods. The material bunched around her waist, especially when cinched with a belt. The silver-tipped end of the belt hung down a ways, giving her what her best friend, Ellen Calhoun, Daniels wife, had assured her was a loose, sexy sort of look.

  She dragged a brush through her hair in front of her bureau mirror, frowning at her loose, sexy sort of look. That was the world she lived in, a place where her best friend had to let her know when she looked attractive, or sexy, because no one else either cared enough to notice or felt beholden to let her know.

  Colt had noticed, and he’d certainly let her know.

  She was crazy to go out there looking loose and sexy.

  * * *

  Estrangement and death have a few things in common: the cessation of contact, the slow evolution of life without the other person, until all the places that person filled have been filled by something else, at least on the surface. The deeper places are never filled.

  Colt doubted if he’d written his mother three times the first year he’d been gone, or twice the second year. The third year he didn’t write at all, but he’d called her from Tokyo once and talked up half his pay. By his fourth year out of Wyoming he was a different man from the one who’d left. He’d been under fire and he’d seen men die, one of them cradled in his lap with his blood making the concrete floor slick beneath their boots. Colt remembered yelling for help, and he remembered the next round coming in. There had been an explosion and a fire, and more gunshots, yet through it all, he’d known exactly when Max had died, exactly at what point the life in his arms had ceased to exist.

  He’d called his mother more often after that. Nothing in life is easy, especially the leaving of it, especially for the ones who are left.

  He leaned on the kitchen counter, his arms stiff, his mouth tight as he stared out the window, not knowing exactly which way to run to get away from the hurt. He’d cried the day they’d told him, and he’d be damned if he knew why women claimed it made them feel better. It had made him feel like hell. He hoped not to do it again.

  Sarah had been crying for him that morning, and he didn’t know what to do about that either. He didn’t know what to do about her, about what they’d done and how she made him feel.

  He lowered his head and stretched the muscles across his shoulders. God knows, he’d never met anyone else like her. She was a comfort, and he didn’t mean anything simple or passive. Within her body she held the power of life, like a river flowing. She was heat on a frozen day, food in an empty belly, a place to be—but not without a price.

  She entered the kitchen behind him, and he pushed his thoughts aside, forcing himself to relax. He turned with as much smile as he could muster, knowing she deserved more.

  “I saved you some bacon and hash browns in the oven,” he said. “I would have waited for you to get up, but I couldn’t—too hungry.” He also could have gone out for breakfast, but he hadn’t trusted himself to come back. “Can I fix you an egg? There’s one left.”

  He’d thought about that, too, making himself at home in her kitchen and cooking her food, and decided it was the best thing to do. After the way he’d invaded her home and her bed—and her—drawing the line at her kitchen would have been a slap in the face, as if her body and her bedroom were less important than her cupboards and refrigerator. He hadn’t wanted to remind her that in many ways they were practically strangers. So he’d made himself at home and cooked up all her bacon and all but one of her eggs, even though he wasn’t at all sure he’d be there long enough to take her out for lunch to even the score.

  Even the score. Lord, what a rotten thing to think.

  “Sure,” she answered him. “I like mine scrambled.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and got the milk out of the refrigerator, moving around the kitchen with an easy, natural grace, while he was glued to the counter, measuring every word for fear of offending her or hurting her feelings.

  He cracked the egg into a bowl he’d had ready by the stove. Months of shared Saturday morning breakfasts at the Rock Creek Cafe had earned them a permanently reserved booth by the window. He hadn’t forgotten how she liked her eggs. He should have, but he hadn’t.

  Sarah liked watching him cook. She liked making him nervous as a cat. After the way he’d steamrolled her, it was a refreshing novelty. He’d been in charge in the bedroom, but she obviously had the upper hand in the kitchen.

  “When are you leaving?” she asked.

  The bowl clattered to the counter and he swore under his breath. She waited as he got it all back together again and finally answered.

  “Today.”

  “They didn’t give you much time, did they?” she managed to say after a small eternity.

  “I didn’t ask for much.”

  “Oh.” She sipped her coffee.

  “Ruby’s taking care of everything,” he added when an explanation seemed required.

  Ruby had been Amanda’s partner in the beauty shop and her best friend. She was probably far more familiar with the details of Amanda’s day-to-day life than Colton. Given the state of the town’s economy, Sarah doubted if there were any assets that needed protecting, other than the ranch where Amanda’s trailer was set up, where Colt had at one time run a small herd.

  “The land is mine,” he said, answering her unspoken thoughts. “Has been for years. The way business was, she wanted to make sure nobody could get at it, so she gave it to
me.” He turned and set her breakfast on the table.

  “Looks great,” she said, keeping her tone light despite the nearly suffocating weight in her chest.

  He didn’t move, but continued standing next to her chair, until she became uncomfortably aware of the worn softness of his jeans and the body underneath, the curves of his thighs and the pale creases in the denim covering him. Her gaze lowered to his boots, fairly new and stitched in an intricate pattern. She noted the way one knee lifted fractionally higher than the other when he shifted his weight. In a few long, slow seconds, she found herself back at his waist, having visually cruised the length of his legs from boot to buckle. She blushed at the realization.

  “Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat and picking up her fork. “For breakfast.” He still didn’t move.

  “Thank you, Sarah. Thank you for everything.” His voice was soft and ragged.

  Her blush deepened.

  Colt knew his words were inadequate, that they weren’t quite right, and it created a sense of frustration inside him. He wanted to thank her and apologize to her, and somehow let her know what being with her had meant. But he didn’t know where to start and he wasn’t sure if stumbling over and around the subject would make things better or worse. Her silence had him wishing he’d made it easier on both of them and just left.

  Over the years he’d slept with a few women he probably shouldn’t have, spent nights where he hadn’t belonged. But there had been so little for him with those women, the leaving had never been more than slightly embarrassing.

  Sarah was tearing his heart out. He’d loved her too much a long time ago to treat her differently now, yet the circumstances were so very different. Knowing his limits was what kept him alive, and he’d badly miscalculated last night.

  “Colt, sit down, please,” she said, barely meeting his eyes, her fingers fidgeting with her fork.

  He should have gotten back in bed with her, he thought. He’d known it from the moment he’d left her alone in the bedroom. If he had, they’d be doing something they’d both shown a good, solid aptitude for. Instead they were pushing off into uncharted territory. He felt naked and unprepared.

  “Please,” she repeated.

  He sat down, and just as quickly got back up to retrieve his coffee cup from the counter. Then he sat down again and waited, and as he waited his knee started to sway back and forth, his foot rocking on the slant heel of his boot. His mind started to hum Cheyenne . . . Cheyenne . . . Cheyenne.

  She was making a coward out of him, plain and simple. She could have been the enemy’s secret weapon. Forget espionage and terrorism, forget hostages and misinformation. Sarah Brooks had his number.

  “Colt . . .” she began, her head lowered, her gaze on her untouched egg. “I don’t know what you think happened last night, but—”

  It was worse than he’d thought. They were going to dissect the night. His hands tightened around his cup, and his knee went from a sway to a jiggle.

  “—I want you to know everything is okay.”

  And?

  “You didn’t hurt me, and you certainly didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

  His knee came to a slow stop. She didn’t know how to play the game very well. No killer instinct.

  He stared at the top of her head, then followed the slope of her nose down to her still-swollen mouth, and his gut tightened. No, no killer instinct there, not a whit. Her lips were sweet and vulnerable, the flush on her cheeks disarming. He reached across the table and slid his hand around hers, pulling her near enough to entwine their fingers.

  She said he hadn’t hurt her. He didn’t believe her for a minute, but he would let her have things her way. She knew best.

  Her skin was soft beneath his caressing thumb, her bones delicate, and he was such a bastard. She knew best how to ease his guilt. And knew best how to let him go.

  He’d done his duty. He had stayed to say goodbye. Now it was time to walk away.

  Seven

  Some parts of Wyoming were so godforsaken, Colt doubted if more than a couple people even knew they existed. His current position was the perfect example: forty miles outside of Rock Creek, somewhere between Cheyenne and the edge of nowhere. He’d never seen so damn much empty highway.

  He’d shaken her hand when he’d left. He still couldn’t believe it. He’d kissed her, too, on the cheek, but their last contact had been him shaking her hand.

  It would be good to get back to Coronado, where he knew what was going on and how to handle himself. Maybe he’d tell Garrett what had happened. Garrett and he had been through a lot together, including most of Europe and half of the Middle East.

  He shifted uneasily in his seat. No, he wouldn’t be talking to Garrett about Sarah. If he told Garrett the truth, he knew one sailor who would be taking his next leave in Rock Creek, and unlike himself, Garrett was real smooth with women.

  The miles wore away beneath the wheels of his military jeep, and the rain poured down on the semi-arid land that rolled to the ends of the earth all around him. He had a plane to catch in Cheyenne.

  He swore and whacked the steering wheel with his open palm. He couldn’t believe he’d shaken her hand.

  * * *

  Sundays were the longest day of the week, and this one was stacking up to be more endless than most. Sarah had washed the breakfast dishes, tidied up the living room, and scrubbed the kitchen floor, but she hadn’t washed her sheets. She hadn’t had time really, she told herself. Also, she’d just changed the bed on Saturday, so it seemed a shame to do it again so quickly, a waste of water and energy and all that.

  He’d shaken her hand. She didn’t know what that meant. Probably nothing, just like the whole damn night meant nothing to him.

  She pushed herself out of her armchair and wandered over to the living room windows. The sky was dark and rolling, full of lightning and thunder. Rain beat against her front porch and ran in rivulets down the chains of the swing. He shouldn’t have made love to her in the living room. It made it too hard to get away from him. Maybe she’d go to Sunday evening service at church.

  Oh, right. Church. That’s the perfect place to get away from him. She made a face at her reflection in the window. What an idiot you are, she thought, and gave the wall a scuffing kick.

  Great, now she had something to keep her busy. Another mindless cleaning project.

  * * *

  “Yes, sir . . . No, sir . . . Aye, sir.” Colt squeezed tighter into the pay phone, hunching his shoulders and flipping up the collar on his jacket. The rain was coming down in sheets a few inches behind him, running off the eaves of the gas station, the only thing in Oates, Wyoming, population two hundred and four—an exaggeration if he’d ever seen one.

  He’d stopped for gas and started thinking, or maybe he’d started thinking and stopped for gas. Either way, he hadn’t called his commanding officer for the sole purpose of getting chewed out, however benignly. He wanted more time. He was getting it, but not without the lecture.

  “Aye, sir, and thanks, Skipper.” One week, and he could keep the jeep, compliments of Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne. Some strings were going to get pulled there, that was for damn sure.

  He hung up the phone and lowered his head to rest it against the receiver. He was going back to Rock Creek. He hoped to hell he could figure out why before he got there.

  * * *

  Sunday evening service was a solace. The church was quiet, more than half empty. The sermon was encouraging, and the friends and neighbors she talked with were more kind than curious, though Sarah realized that everyone in a ten-mile radius knew Colton Haines had spent the night at her house.

  Every rule had an exception, though, and hers was Ellen, whose curiosity shone bright and clear, along with the kindness of her intentions.

  “Are you okay?” her friend asked as they left the church together, Ellen’s arm through hers, her head bending low and close.

  If Sarah needed support, she knew it w
as there for the asking. She could talk her head off, or cry her eyes out, and Ellen Calhoun would take it all in, uncondemning.

  She didn’t want to talk, though, and she’d sworn not to cry.

  “I’m doing pretty good,” she said, giving her friend’s arm a comforting squeeze.

  Ellen was a rarity in Rock Creek, being neither born nor bred in the small town. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, and Southern, and well aware of all her other feminine assets, she was also the most self-assured woman ever to cross the threshold of Atlas Drugs. Daniel had met her in Denver at the Stock Show a few years back and married her within a week.

  “And how’s Colt?” Ellen asked, her drawl softening his name until it sounded like something warm to slip into, rather than a man who had walked out on Sarah without making even the pretense of ever returning. A man who had shaken her hand at the door.

  Sarah stopped. Maybe she needed to talk after all.

  Three cups of Rock Creek Cafe coffee later—coffee laced with the owner’s private supply of brandy and topped with heavy dollops of whipped cream—Sarah wasn’t nearly as concerned about the handshake as she had been.

  “I shouldn’t have taken him home, and that’s all there is to it,” she said, her voice higher than normal, her hands fluttering in little gestures of impatience.

  “Don’t you just hate hindsight?” Ellen turned to include the cafe’s owner, who was behind the counter. “Don’t you, Karla? Just hate hindsight?” In Ellen’s mouth, the word “hindsight” had three syllables and “hate” had at least two, especially after brandy, but the older woman nodded in perfect understanding.

  “Hindsight and men,” Karla agreed. “Now there’s a perfect pair.”

  “Or a roy’l flush,” Ellen added, her eyes lighting up with mischief and mirth.

  Sarah hiccupped in the middle of a short laugh. Karla chuckled as she went back to cleaning coffeepots.

  “Guess we better get going,” Ellen said. “Danny’s going to send out a posse if I’m not home by eight-thirty.”