Necessary Action

by Julie Miller

  Melanie nodded, backing toward the hallway. She backed right into Henry and nearly knocked the two boxes he carried from his hands. “Sorry.”

  “Why are you in such a rush?” he asked. “Did our conversation upstairs upset you?”

  “What conversation is that?” Abby asked.

  A quick escape was no longer an option.

  Henry set the boxes on the kitchen table. “She asked me about Leroy again, where some of his things might have gotten to over the years.”

  “Is that so?” Abby’s dark eyes were suddenly a lot less indulgent. “I told you that’s a sore subject for your uncle.”

  “And it’s not for me?” Melanie snapped. “I have a right to ask questions. He was my father. I want to know how he died. I want to know why he died.”

  “It happened fourteen years ago,” Henry reminded her.

  She swung around to vent her frustration on him, too. “And I still don’t know anything about that night. Why would he go out so late? Was he meeting somebody? If strange things are happening around this place now, why couldn’t they have happened fourteen years ago, too?”

  “Strange things?” Abby took a step toward her. “What strange things are you talking about?”

  Henry put up his hand, silencing his wife. “Leroy used to tell me all his plans. How he was going to turn the lake into a recreational area and give guided fishing tours to city folks who wanted to enjoy a bit of country living on the weekends. I saw the plans for the new house he’d wanted to build for Edwina, but after her death, he decided to stay in this house that Grandpa built. He told me a lot of things over the years. But not where he was going the night he died.” Henry wasn’t a tall man, but he was tall enough to force Melanie to tilt her chin to hold his gaze when he moved closer. “This is my home now. I built this farm and business and everything you see into the success we all enjoy. I gave you your own place. I sent you to school. I did everything a father would do for his child.”

  “You’re not my father.”

  “I will not be talked to like this, like you think I know something about your daddy’s death, like there was something unnatural about it, in my own home.”

  Melanie’s pulse hammered in her ears as the rage swelled inside her.

  Abby could probably read the heat crawling up Melanie’s neck. “Maybe you’d better go back to your cottage, Mel, until your temper cools off.”

  “Maybe I’d better.” And then she was pushing past Henry and hurrying out the front door...where she came face-to-face with Silas. Or rather, face-to-chest—with the strap of a rifle that hung across his back. And the man was wearing black leather gloves. In this heat wave? Talk about strange things. “Where have you been all day?” she snapped. “The rest of us emptied and loaded that entire truck without you. I thought a good man was supposed to lead by example.”

  Silas gripped the strap in one gloved hand and a thick manila envelope in the other down by his side. He didn’t budge. He didn’t have the courtesy to speak directly to her, either. “What’s eatin’ her?” he asked her uncle.

  Melanie was summarily dismissed, without any answers, without any kind words.

  She felt Henry’s heat at her back. But he wasn’t there to defend her or offer any explanation for her red-faced exit. “Is that the package I asked for?”

  “Yes, sir.” Silas held up the envelope. “Should I go ahead and give it to Mrs. Fiske?”

  “She may be in charge of the books, but I’m the boss.” Henry reached around Melanie for the envelope. “You go on in the house and have a glass of lemonade in the kitchen while I take care of some business in my office.”

  “Be happy to, sir.”

  Melanie had to step aside for Silas to enter. She kept right on moving, across the porch and down the stairs. Grabbing the snakelike chain winding its way down her pant leg, she ran across the yard, across the gravel road, up the sidewalk and into her house, slamming the door behind her.

  Her steps carried her all the way to her kitchen table, where she braced her fists against the top and let out a feral groan of pure, pent-up emotion.

  The rawness of tears and frustration burned her throat when the door opened and closed behind her again. A deep voice asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Chapter Seven

  Melanie spun around and charged at Tom Maynard. “Get out of here! This is my home. There should be at least one place on this farm where I can have some privacy.”

  He caught her wrists when she tried to push him toward the door. “Hey. I’m not the enemy here.”

  “Let go!” She tried one of those crazy extrication moves he’d taught her, twisting within his grasp.

  But he countered with a move he hadn’t taught her, and the next thing she knew, he’d cupped her jaw between his hands and tilted her face to catch her tear-blurred gaze. “Talk to me, Doc. You bolted across that compound. What happened?”

  She blinked until she saw concern and maybe the hint of anger in the hard line of his eyes.

  “Melanie?” The soft growl of her name was her undoing. Fisting her hands into the damp cotton of his shirt, she walked into his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin and burrowing against his strength and heat. His arms went around her, anchoring her to him. He slipped his palm along the nape of her neck, lifting the weight of her hair off her back as he dipped his lips against her ear. “Did Silas threaten you again? You need to talk to me. At least tell me you’re not hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt,” she whispered between sobs. She flattened her palms against his chest and made a token effort to smooth out the wrinkles she’d put in his black T-shirt. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to put any distance between them. “I’m sorry. I know I didn’t ask...”

  “You hold on as hard as you need to.”

  Melanie debated for all of three seconds before sliding her arms around Tom’s waist. His shoulders folded around her like a shield. Hold on, she did. She dug her fingertips into the corded muscles of his back, and all those months of suspicion and lies and confronting the past on her own came pouring out with an embarrassing outburst of tears. She turned her ear to the strong beat of Tom’s heart, focused her thoughts on the tender stroke of his hands on her neck and back, absorbed the heat of his body into the chilly isolation of her life.

  The man had no qualms about touching and butting into her business, and right now she needed someone who wasn’t afraid to crash through the protective walls she’d erected around her heart. Melanie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held like this, the last time she’d felt safe enough to cry. She couldn’t remember the murmur of soothing little nonsense words or leaning against someone else’s strength. She couldn’t remember someone caring.

  They stood like that for several minutes. Tom didn’t budge, didn’t retreat, didn’t let go until the worst of the flood had passed and she sagged against him.

  “You okay, Doc?”

  Gradually, she became aware of the musky spice of his skin. She realized those tree-trunk thighs and solid chest created an enticing friction against her softer curves. She freely admitted—to herself—that she was far more attracted to her new friend than any mere friend should be. But Melanie didn’t want to risk alienating the one man she was beginning to trust. She’d already bawled her eyes out in front of him and left a damp spot on the front of his shirt. Telling him that the prickly, plain-Jane virgin of the Fiske Family Farm was developing feelings for him would probably send him running for cover, and she’d be alone again. In control of her thoughts now, she sniffled into his shirt and eased her death grip on him. “I’m okay now. But if you tell anyone I was crying...”

  He leaned back against her arms still anchored at his waist but made no other effort to disengage from the embrace she’d forced upon him. He seemed oddly content to brush the long red waves away from her
face, gently coming back to catch the strands that stuck to her moist cheeks. A crooked grin cut through the stubble that shaded his jaw. “I thought you didn’t like secrets, Doc.”

  “Tom...” She started to protest the nickname she hadn’t earned, but he wouldn’t hear it.

  “This secret’s safe with me.” He finally broke the contact between them and crossed his finger over his heart. “I promise. You are smart, funny and do not cry if anyone asks me.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Smiling with him eased the embarrassment of shaking her left leg and finally allowing the bridle chain to tumble out of her jeans into a pile on the floor. She didn’t care how odd it must look. She picked up the chain and twisted it into a coil before setting it on the denim place mat at her kitchen table. Thirsty and hot after that crying jag, she headed to the sink to run herself a glass of water. She drank half of it and poured the rest of it over her hands to splash against her face and neck. “I’m not normally a crying type of woman. Hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

  “I never mind the opportunity to put my hands on you,” he teased.

  Melanie felt her skin coloring with heat, but this blush was a pleasant sort of warmth compared to the feelings that had overwhelmed her a few minutes earlier. “You’re relentless.”

  “I am,” he admitted in a tone that was as refreshingly honest as it was unapologetically masculine. Tom crossed to the table to pick up the chain and identify it. “Did you steal this from Henry’s house?”

  “Didn’t mean to.” She dried her hands and dabbed her face with a towel. “But I didn’t have a chance to put it back without being seen. Henry caught me snooping... Wait. Were you spying on me?”

  “Were you worried about getting caught?” he questioned without answering her query. “Is that why you were running like death was chasing you?”

  Melanie shivered at his particular choice of words. “That’s a creepy analogy to make.”

  “I call things as I see them.” He dropped the chain back onto the table. “I thought I sensed a look of distress when you were on the porch with Deanna. When we were done with the truck I wanted to catch up with you and see what was going on. What did the Barbie doll say that upset you?”

  Melanie shook her head, unwilling to admit how her cousin’s interest in Tom had gotten under her skin. “Deanna thinks you’re hot. She’s hoping you’ll ask her to the dance on Saturday.”

  “And that upset you enough to steal a piece of horse tack from your uncle’s house?” He came over to the sink where she stood and leaned his hip against the counter beside her. “Should I be flattered?”

  This time, she couldn’t help but smile at his teasing. “All right. So maybe I was a little jealous. Can’t I have at least one friend here? Does she really need to have every man on the place drooling after her?”

  “One, I don’t drool for any woman. Two, I’m not interested in someone who doesn’t get my jokes. And three...” He reached out and palmed the side of her hip, drawing her half a step closer. “I like some curves I can get my hands on.”

  “You like...?” The sensation of his firm grip branding her through her jeans stole her breath. Her blood raced with unexpected anticipation to the naughty parts of her, and she found herself hoping he’d do something more to excite, er, ease the heavy feeling in her breasts and the needy constriction of muscles between her thighs. She just needed a friend to talk to right now. She shouldn’t be wishing he’d pull her even closer, right? She pushed away and put some space between them before her brain completely short-circuited. “That’s not why I was running. I can deal with Deanna. Henry and Abby and Silas—they all upset me.”

  “Should I tell you that you’re blushing again?”

  “No.” The heat crawling up her neck intensified.

  “Well, I will tell you that I am flattered to hear you were a little jealous. I have no interest in your cousin, and I don’t like the idea of anyone upsetting you.” His amusement ended with his fingers sifting through the hair at her temple, tucking the waves behind her ear and smoothing the length of it behind her shoulder. “Now tell me what happened.”

  She explained her suspicions about her father’s so-called accident. She told him about the door she’d found in the attic and her father’s watch. With big, bad Tom Maynard staring down at her, his arms folded across his chest and his probing green eyes watching the nuances of her expression, Melanie told him everything that had happened fourteen years ago and the mysterious things that seemed to be happening around the farm now.

  “And you think Henry, Abby and Silas know more about what happened to your father than they’re letting on?”

  “Yes. But they won’t talk about it so I have to snoop around my own family to find answers for myself. Do you know there’s no sheriff’s report on Dad’s drowning? At least nothing in Sheriff Cobb’s files.” When she didn’t think she could stand that green-eyed scrutiny anymore, Melanie opened the refrigerator door. “You want something cold to drink?”

  “I’ll take one of those beers.”

  She opened two and carried them to the table. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I don’t know who to trust anymore. They insult me or lie to me or just tick me off.”

  “Now who’s the antisocial one?” Tom clinked the neck of his beer bottle to hers.

  Melanie took a swallow of the bitter brew, savoring the chill running down her throat. “The more I push for answers, the more I get stonewalled. It’s not like I can go to the authorities with my suspicions. Sterling Cobb is Henry’s best friend. And the sheriff before him was as corrupt as—”

  “Wait.” Tom glanced over his shoulder.

  “—they come. Supposedly, all his records disappeared before Sterling was elected.”

  “Melanie—”

  “Who knows if he even investigated Dad’s death as anything other than...” Before she understood either his warning or his intent, he’d slipped his hand behind her waist and pulled her hips into his. “What are you—”

  Tom dipped his head and pressed his lips against hers, stopping up her words with a kiss. Her lips parted with a surprised gasp and he angled his mouth to capture her bottom lip between his and then tease the top lip with the raspy stroke of his tongue. When the startled moment passed, her hand came up to caress the rough angle of his jaw and guide his warm mouth back to the tentative foray of her own lips. She heard a low-pitched groan from deep in his throat that triggered an answering need inside her. His tongue darted into her mouth to dance against hers, giving her a taste of hops and heat that was more intoxicating than the beer itself.

  Part of her was aware of his free hand sliding something into his pocket, but even that thought vanished when that hand cupped her bottom and lifted her onto her toes. As Tom’s mouth moved over hers, Melanie slid her fingers around his neck, learning and loving the tickle of beard stubble against her palm. The tips of her breasts pinched with excitement at the friction of his harder chest rubbing against hers.

  She heard the front door close with a firm click. “Am I interrupting?”

  The room spun around her as Melanie dropped onto her heels and pushed away at Abby’s teasing tone. But Tom’s grip tightened around her waist, preventing her escape. What an idiot she was, giving in to a few compliments and this embarrassing visceral attraction she felt. But when she tipped her chin up to tell him exactly what she thought of a man who would play on her loneliness and inexperience, she discovered narrowed green eyes boring down into hers, warning her to do what? Hide her confusion? Not feel hurt? Play along?

  Play along with what?

  She’d been so caught up in the need to share her frustrations and fears with a willing ear that she’d missed the soft rapping at her front door. Now her aunt was waltzing into Mel’s kitchen with a sympathetic smile and a basket of something that smelled fresh from the oven.
“I knocked, but no one answered. I was worried about you, dear. I brought you some cookies Phyllis just baked.”

  The bridle chain!

  Realizing her fingers were still clutched in the front of Tom’s shirt, Melanie released her grip and scrambled away from him, scanning the tabletop in a panic. But the chain she’d taken from her aunt’s souvenir box was nowhere to be seen.

  Then she saw Tom pat the front pocket of his jeans. She glanced up to a barely discernible nod. He’d hidden it for her so her snooping wouldn’t be discovered. But why the kiss?

  Suspicion warred with gratitude inside her, but she couldn’t very well confront him about his motives with Abby in the room. So she turned to her aunt. “They smell yummy,” Melanie conceded, although right now she had no appetite. “Chocolate chip?”

  “I know they’re your favorite.” Abby smiled at her. “Think of them as a peace offering. I’m sorry if our conversation upset you.”

  “Conversation?” Abby considered that argument and cold dismissal a mere conversation? One that could be forgotten with a bribe of sugar and chocolate?

  But with Tom’s gaze tracking her every move, Melanie opted for a reply as sincere as she suspected her aunt’s apology might be. “I’ll get over it.”

  “Of course, you will.” Abby set the basket on the table and unwrapped the red napkin inside to display the treats. “I see you’ve already found your own comfort. You two should share these.” Abby stroked her fingers along Tom’s forearm and winked. “Good work, Mr. Maynard. Our Melanie is a tough nut to crack. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  Melanie nodded as her aunt sashayed out the door. It took her brain a few moments to switch gears from the surprise of Abby’s visit to the surprise of Tom’s kiss. She locked the door before she turned and leaned against it. “Good work? Pretending you’re interested in me is good work?”