by Bethany Kane
Good God, she was staring at a man who was dead drunk and she was getting turned on.
She stepped forward determinedly. He shifted in his sleep and mumbled something when she gingerly lifted his feet off the floor. Katie froze. When he once again began to breathe rhythmically, she swung his long legs fully onto the bed with effort.
She cased the scene for remaining incriminating evidence. Luckily his feet were bare, so she had only minimal trouble jerking his lowered jeans and underwear off his legs and feet. There was no way she could get his shirt off without risking waking him. She compromised by tossing the blanket over him.
He probably would assume he’d started to undress for bed and fallen on the bed in his drunken state, unfinished.
She hurriedly re-dressed in the hallway and exited the house. She recovered her leather carryall from the front seat of her car. On her cross-country trip, she’d grown into the habit of stowing the bare necessities in the shoulder bag for the night instead of taking her large suitcase into the hotel for the nine or ten hours she’d spend there.
A hot shower didn’t completely restore her composure following what had just happened, but it helped. Afterward, she unpinned her hair and let it fall around her back and shoulders. Her reflection in the filthy vanity mirror over the sink looked a bit desperate.
Had it really happened? Had Rill Pierce really just been deep inside her?
And why the hell had she allowed him to come inside her?
Rill’d had an excuse, of sorts, for his impulsive idiocy. Not a good excuse maybe, but a comprehensible one. He’d been drunk.
Katie had no excuse, or at least not the sort of excuse a grown woman should claim when she knew better.
At least the chance of getting pregnant wasn’t huge. The timing would have been off. It was little consolation, everything considered, but Katie’d cling to that threadbare comfort for now.
She wandered through the house, inspecting her surroundings fully for the first time and trying to quell a rising sense of panic.
When she’d pulled up to the “Mitchell place” earlier, she’d seen a classic American beauty of a house that had been neglected and fallen into disrepair. The home nestled in the midst of towering oak and maple trees. The foliage had started to turn despite the lingering summerlike weather. The vivid hues of the turning leaves against a muted lavender sky had looked a little surreal to Katie’s city-dulled eyes.
The house where Rill had gone into exile had three gabled dormers on the second floor and an enormous wraparound porch. The home possessed excellent bones, Katie decided, even if its faded and chipped painting and a few broken porch posts did give it a sad, forgotten air.
The interior was much the same, she discovered, as she walked through the kitchen, which featured appliances that at one time in their history had been white, and a chipped linoleum floor, but also handcrafted maple cabinetry, wainscoting and trim. She scowled at the crumb-covered counter and the sink filled with dirty dishes—mostly glasses left over from Rill’s drinking.
The next half hour was spent restoring some order to the kitchen and scrubbing the appliances until the pure white was once again revealed. She picked up the nearly finished bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the counter and poured the remainder in the sink. She closed the cereal box she found and headed for what she’d come to suspect while cleaning was the pantry door.
“Brilliant,” she exclaimed a moment later as she peered into the pantry. She stood next to the closed bottom half of a double Dutch door. The top part of the door was open, revealing a plethora of delightful handmade bins, drawers and shelves inside the pantry. She entered and found three unopened bottles of whiskey along with very little else on the handcrafted shelves, aside from another box of cereal and a mousetrap.
The man was determined to kill himself, she thought grimly. The realization sent a jolt of fear through her, just as it had earlier when she’d leaned over that bed while Rill worked his cock into her.
God must save pussies like this for dying men.
“Dying man, my ass,” she mumbled heatedly. She marched over to the sink and poured the rest of the whiskey down the drain.
Afterward, she inspected the living room with the tattered but comfortable-looking furnishings and magnificent carved oak fireplace. A snowy version of the local news played on the ancientlooking television set. Katie shut it off, wandered around the rest of the first floor and walked out onto the front porch.
How the hell had Rill ended up here?
How had she?
She became aware of a dull ache between her thighs, an undeniable reminder of what had just occurred. Was it possible to forget it had happened? Rill had gotten inside her mind and spirit long ago. Allowing him into the final territory of her body had been a mistake. Anyone could see Rill had nothing to offer a woman since Eden had died.
Except for his cock, that was.
The ache in her sex seemed to slowly expand to her belly. The loud chorus of birds and tree frogs she’d heard when she pulled up earlier had ceased. All was quiet now that darkness had fallen. More stars than she’d ever seen in her life winked at her from a vast midnight-blue dome. Some kind of animal—a coyote?—howled eerily in the distance.
She suddenly felt very small and insignificant standing there in the midst of the Shawnee National Forest, an alien in a strange land . . . an exile.
Her thoughts again strayed to what had happened in Rill’s bedroom. Her core clenched with arousal at the memories of the impulsive tryst even as her gut tightened with regret. Or maybe that hollow pain was hunger? She hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a breakfast sandwich at a drive-through outside of Kansas City.
Her backbone straightened.
What she needed was some food in her stomach, an opportunity to regroup after this. . . unfortunate turn of events.
“Should be the title for the story of my life,” Katie mumbled.
She dug in her jeans pocket for her keys and headed for her car, thinking all the while that the sleek Maserati appeared as out of place and ridiculous in these surroundings as she felt.
A basset hound sat in the entryway of the Legion Diner. It looked up at Katie beseechingly with drooping brown eyes, but remained on its haunches and didn’t try to enter with her through the open door. The interior of the Legion Diner looked as worn and weary as the rest of Vulture’s Canyon, but the smells wafting out of it made her stomach growl. Four pairs of eyes examined her when her boot heels clicked on the black-and-white-checkerboard tile floor. Katie picked the warmest gaze and sidled toward the woman behind the counter. She took a seat and tossed her Lena Erziak handbag on the barstool next to her.
“Hi,” she greeted the woman, who held a coffee cup in her hand. She had auburn hair, brandy-colored eyes and a figure that put Katie in the mind of a young Jane Russell. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a gray-haired man in his late fifties, his mouth frozen in midchew, watching her with frank suspicion from beneath shaggy eyebrows.
“Evening,” the woman behind the counter said. She had a light, musical voice, and while her stare was frank, it didn’t strike Katie as rude or inhospitable. “What can I get you?”
“What’s good?”
“Everything.” The female glanced down over Katie. “Nothing low-cal, though.”
“Great. I could eat a deep-fried horse.”
The woman looked amused in a patronizing kind of way, which Katie found mildly annoying. She surveyed the handwritten menu on a whiteboard next to the grill. There was the usual diner fare, but also the not-so-typical: meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, $3.00; cheeseburger with French fries, $2.75; vegetarian sandwich on seven-grain bread, $3.00; loaf of homemade bread, $2.00 . . .
Cut, $6.00?
Cut? Perhaps it referred to a steak? Katie thought. The prices were right out of the 1970s. Whoever heard of a steak for six dollars?
“I’ll have a double cheeseburger with the works, onion rings and a large chocolate sha
ke, the thicker, the better,” Katie said.
“You got it,” the woman agreed levelly as she turned to start making Katie’s meal. She continued to speak to Katie with her back turned as she pulled some items out of a refrigerator. “I guess my little brother isn’t crazy after all.”
“Excuse me?” Katie asked.
The woman glanced over her shoulder. “My little brother, Derek.”
“Oh . . . Derek Legion . . . the boy who gave me directions,” Katie said, finally connecting the dots. “You’re his sister? Do you own the diner?”
The woman nodded as she tossed a couple hamburger patties on the grill and kicked the refrigerator door shut with one foot. “Name’s Sherona. Sherona Legion. Derek was telling me some tall tale about a movie star visiting Vulture’s Pass. I didn’t believe a word of it,” Sherona said as she lowered a metal basket of onion rings into sizzling oil, “but here you are.”
Katie looked around, but the other three people in the diner were even less likely candidates than her. “Movie star? Me?”
Sherona smiled as she flipped open the freezer and removed a carton of ice cream, moving around the small space like a dancer doing a familiar routine. “Well, Rill Pierce was a director, after all, and Derek said you were on your way to see him.”
She noticed Sherona’s musical voice had suddenly gone neutral and disinterested. Too disinterested? Katie glanced down at her lap. She’d showered, but some women had a sixth sense when it came to sex. Who was she to say Sherona couldn’t smell Rill on her?
Katie didn’t like to consider the fact that she might be instinctively sensing the same thing about Sherona Legion.
Out of the corner of her eye, Katie noticed the muscular guy wearing the fatigues seemed to tense and lean his ear closer at the sound of Rill’s name on Sherona’s tongue. She scanned Sherona’s voluptuous figure and scowled. Why couldn’t Sherona Legion cooperate and look like the other scruffy, disreputable characters in the town diner?
“Rill Pierce is a director,” Katie corrected shortly. She took a drink of the ice water Sherona had poured for her from a chilled metal pitcher. “One of the greatest screenplay writers and directors of our time. He’s just going through a rough patch right now, that’s all.” One of the three men behind her—Katie thought it might have been the survivalist guy wearing camo—snorted. Katie glared over her shoulder before she continued. “And I’m no movie star. I’m a tax attorney from Beverly Hills.”
Or at least I was.
She scowled. Why did people always make a habit of declaring their identity by telling strangers what they did for a living, anyway? What did that really tell anyone?
“You’re not here visiting Fordham, are you?”
Katie started at the sound of the accusing question coming from behind her. She swiveled around on the counter stool and planted her prized pair of Loeffler Randall Kit boots squarely on the lower rail. The gray-haired guy was still staring at her like she was a cockroach.
“Fordham? Who’s that? No. I’m here for Rill Pierce,” she said.
The man’s scowl told her Rill was nearly as low a recommendation for an acquaintance in Vulture’s Canyon as this Fordham guy.
“What kind of a vehicle is that?” He nodded his head toward the window and the curb where she’d parked her car.
“That’s a Maserati GranTurismo.”
“Derek says the insides are filled with soft, cushy leather,” the man said before he took the last swig of his coffee and smacked his lips. “I reckon you weren’t doing taxes for the destitute, riding around in a monstrosity like that.”
“Shut it, Monty,” Sherona said wearily before she flipped a switch and the blender roared to life.
“You got an issue with sports cars?” Katie challenged once the noise from the blender ceased.
“I’ve got an issue with trouble,” Monty told her point blank. He opened up his newspaper and put it in front of his face, making it clear the conversation was over. Katie’s gaze shot defiantly over to the man in the farthest booth, a dark-haired, very thin male in his early thirties wearing a baseball hat that looked as if he’d found it at the muddy bottom of Dyer Creek. The hat couldn’t quite contain his large ears, which stuck out like two flesh handles from the sides of his head. Her irritation at Monty’s rudeness immediately softened when she saw the man regarded her with the manner of an eager puppy.
“I think it’s an amazing car, Miss . . .”
“Hughes,” Katie supplied. “I’m Katie Hughes.”
The way the man hurried out of the booth made Katie glance around to see if there was a fire. Her eyes widened when he rushed her, the flaps of his torn plaid shirt flying out around him.
“Slow down, now, Errol. You’ll freak the girl out.”
Sherona’s bark had the effect of a hose-down on a rioting crowd. Errol stopped midstride ten feet away from her, staggering back a step. He held out his hand shyly. Katie squinted at the tiny model airplane he offered.
“It’s the Spruce Goose,” Errol said in the manner of someone imparting a great gift.
“Errol,” Sherona interrupted with kind exasperation, “Ms. Hughes probably doesn’t like airplanes as much as you. Remember how we talked, about how your model planes are your special thing? Now . . . do you want another helping of biscuits and gravy?”
“No, I’m full,” Errol said as he lowered his hand, disappointment dimming his prior enthusiasm.
“Actually, Errol, I do like planes,” Katie consoled. “My dad is a distant relative of Howard Hughes. Do you know who he is?”
Errol looked floored.
“Errol,” Sherona warned quietly, but Errol resumed his former rush at Katie. At first, she thought she was going to be tackled, but then the gangly man hauled up short and sufficed to shove the model plane near her face, talking all the while with the rapidity of machine-gun fire.
“Howard Hughes is one of the greatest aviators in history. He designed this, the Spruce Goose. He set tons of air-speed records. You know him? You know Howard Hughes?”
Katie’s eyeballs crossed as she focused on the painted wooden plane an inch from her nose. She inhaled and gently put a hand on Errol’s wrist, encouraging him to lower the projectile.
“We’re a pretty distant offshoot of the family. I doubt Howard knew we existed. I don’t think I was even born yet when he died. So . . .” Katie attempted a smile at the child-man once he’d reluctantly lowered his arm and backed off a bit. “The Hercules is a favorite of yours, huh?”
“You know the Spruce Goose is the H-4 Hercules?” Errol shook his head, his dazed expression assuring Katie he was in the midst of ecstasy. He turned toward an amused-looking Sherona. “She knows the Spruce Goose is the H-4 Hercules.”
“I see that, but Ms. Hughes is going to eat her dinner now,” Sherona replied. There was a clinking of china and the rattle of cutlery. “If you’re done eating yours, you run on, now, Errol. You know what I told you about hovering around people when they eat.”
“Yeah, okay.” Errol backed away, his brown eyes still glued to Katie. “You probably know the Spruce Goose is the Hercules because you’re related to Howard Hughes.”
Katie picked up the ketchup bottle on the counter and shook it, inhaling the delicious aromas wafting up from the grill. In her cross-country trek from Los Angeles to Vulture’s Canyon she’d eaten some truly disgusting meals, but the Legion Diner smelled promising.
“Actually, I know about it for the same reason a lot of elementary school kids in Southern California know it. We took a field trip to Long Beach to see the Spruce Goose.” She paused in shaking the ketchup bottle when she noticed Errol vibrated where he stood.
“You saw the Spruce Goose?”
Katie glanced at Sherona uncertainly. “Well . . . yeah.”
It apparently was the wrong thing to say. Errol abruptly charged out of the diner like a startled cat. Katie stared after him, her jaw hanging open.
“Don’t worry,” Sherona said when she notice
d Katie’s shellshocked expression. “His father used to be an air force pilot, and Errol learned his love of airplanes from him. They used to assemble the models together. Poor man passed away when Errol was so little, he had no way of knowing his son was born with a brain that would make him obsess about planes to the exclusion of everything else in life, including basic self-care and hygiene.” Sherona sighed and turned to pull the onion rings out of the fryer. A minute later, she efficiently slid Katie’s plate onto the counter. Katie remained in the same position when Sherona returned with a frosty milk shake. Sherona must have noticed her bemused expression.
“Well, go on. Eat your food. Errol won’t hurt you. I thought they had plenty of different people in California. Why should it surprise you to find someone like Errol in Vulture’s Canyon?”
Katie flushed. “I’m not surprised,” she mumbled. She was feeling pretty fed up with Sherona Legion and her weird diner before she took a bite of her hamburger and groaned in ecstasy.
For a burger like this, she could forgive Sherona murder.
Just as she was scraping her last onion ring through the remains of the ketchup on her plate, the diner door opened. Katie glanced over, wondering if Errol had returned. She did a double take at the man who entered. He walked up to the bar and flashed her a grin, highlighting a dimple in his right cheek. His face was deeply tanned and his light brown hair was cut in a short, John Kennedy–esque fashion, the bangs combed back in a thick wave. His expensivelooking casual clothing gave Katie the impression he’d just left the golf course. It was a little strange to try to picture the manicured lawns of golf in the midst of this wild forest, almost as strange as imagining this man as a resident of Vulture’s Canyon.
“You wouldn’t be the owner of that beautiful car, would you?” he asked.
Katie couldn’t help but glance back at Monty. Sure enough, the older man was scowling at her over the edge of his newspaper. He flipped it back up, covering his face, but Katie sensed him listening like a hawk.
“I’m Miles. Miles Fordham,” the man said before Katie had a chance to reply.
