Annie's pat on his knee told him she heard the regret in his voice.
"Don't get me wrong. I worked hard and never gave less than a hundred percent to my job. But Annie, I died a little, inside, every time I walked through those imposing bronze doors, into that impressive lobby. For thirteen years, I did something worthwhile with my life."
Annie made a soothing, sympathetic sound. "So what do you really, truly want to do, Clay?"
His heart did a flip at her question. She hadn't told him how secure and respectable it was to work in a bank.
"I want to fish. And to live where I can fish, not just visit once a year."
"Good for you. Everybody should follow his dream." There was a curious sadness in her words, as if she had given up her own dreams.
"I've bought a place," he blurted, although he hadn't planned to tell anyone about Fly By Knight for a while. Like a new toy at Christmas, he'd wanted to keep it all to himself until the new wore off. "A fly shop and motel. It's not much to look at, but it has a steady clientele and I can build it up. I'll have to work hard, and I'll be in debt for years, but I know I can make a go of it."
"It sounds marvelous. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you." Annie was quiet then. He glanced over and saw her blink, then nod.
"Sleepy?" he asked.
"A little. Are we there yet?"
"Not for another hour or so. Go to sleep if you want. I'll expect you to be wide awake and on the river at six tomorrow."
"Slave driver!" But she grinned. "Are you sure it's okay for me to sleep? You've been driving all day. Will you be all right?"
"I'll be fine. Lay your seat back and relax."
She was still sleeping when Clay slowed and pulled off the highway about eight-thirty. The slanting evening light showed the fragility of the bones in her face and the perfection of her skin. Clay, looking at her peaceful face and slightly parted lips, felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness and desire. He unbuckled his seat belt and moved across, sliding from under the steering wheel. His fingers stroked lightly along her cheek, trailed down the shadowed column of throat, while he marveled at the delicacy of her features. Annie stirred under his touch, but her eyes remained closed. His fingers stole under her collar, crept around so that his hand cupped the back of her head. I've got to taste her. Just once.
Annie came out of sleep, feeling a feather touch across her lips, then down her neck. She figured that if she pretended sleep, Walter would leave her alone. She wanted nothing to do with him--not any more.
But his touch was leaving a trail of burning flesh in its wake. She could not move, so delicious was the warmth exploding in her belly. But she must! She would not let Walter make love to her. She forced her eyes open as she felt warm breath on her lips.
The face before her was not Walter's, not classically handsome, not wearing a practiced smile. In her relief, she relaxed, leaning into Clay's kiss, returning it with fervor, parting her lips under his and boldly meeting his questing tongue with her own. She arched her back, trying to get closer to him, to feel his chest against her suddenly taut nipples.
She felt Clay's hand on her belly, heard the seatbelt release. His arms enfolded her, his mouth covered hers. A nibbler. Oh, yes, that's good. She parted her lips.
How good he smelled. And tasted. She licked delicately at his lips, flicked his tongue, pulled her mouth away to press a line of kisses along the firm angle of his jaw. Although she felt his hands roving over her back, she ignored their distraction, intent on biting gently at his earlobe and probing his ear with her tongue.
"Annie, I think we had better look up some supper before we do something we regret," Clay whispered against her hair.
She ignored him, her questing tongue and nipping teeth sending shivers through her body.
He took her face between his hands, kissed her lightly, almost impersonally. "Whoa. I'm hungry." Reaching across her, he opened her door, gave her a little nudge.
Annie scooted out of the pickup, knowing her face must be red enough to light a cave. My God! I've known him less than a week! What must he think? She sought the right words to explain herself to him.
He dropped out of the cab behind her, slid his arm around her and pulled her close. His kiss this time was somehow comforting, protective, and almost brotherly. He gathered her close to him in a quiet, soothing embrace, with no hint of passion. She relaxed, letting the embarrassment fade. She knew he somehow understood her confusion, her chagrin.
From then on, they were like a couple of old friends, comfortable with each other. Their conversation over juicy, elbow-dripping hamburgers was limited to small moans of contentment as they devoured the burgers, munched on fries crispy-hot on the outside, soft and mealy on the inside.
Even after supper, the tension was in abeyance. He drove her to the ranch, pulled up before the Pink House. Only then did he reach for her.
"I hate for today to end," she murmured, when his lips finally lifted from hers.
"I know. I hate to let you go. But if I don't get some sleep, the fish will catch us tomorrow, rather than the other way around."
She stood at the window, watching the taillights of his pickup disappear down the road. Wondering if the tiny glimmer of peace she'd found today might, with his help, grow into enough to sustain her as she rebuilt her life.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday>
"There's a woman in my bed."
The voice in her ear was deep and warm and sent shivers down her spine. Hetty didn't move, but she did breathe deeply, inhaling the faint spiciness lingering from yesterday's aftershave, the musky reminder of their silent and frantic lovemaking last night.
"Hey, woman, wake up. I'm horny."
She turned in his arms, her hand going unerringly to his cock. "So'm I," she said, her open mouth against his neck.
His hands were practiced, hers were persuasive. This morning the hunger was muted, and they moved slowly, teasingly. Although they hadn't been lovers long, they already knew what worked. Had known since the first time.
When he finally slid into her, they moved together in a slow, sensuous dance, content to let the passion build slowly, fully.
All Hetty knew was the feel of his seeking mouth, the clasp of his work-hardened hands, the rhythm of his lithe, strong body as he drove her higher and higher toward the kind of mind-blowing climax only he could give her.
So close. She felt the first tingles in her toes, the first kindling heat in her face.
The noise in the hall outside seemed distant, until the door flew open.
Until a woman shrieked, "You tramp! You filthy little tramp. How could you!" Her voice shattered into disjointed curses.
Frank yelled and fell to one side, pulling free of her. Before Hetty could react, he'd thrown himself across her, his big shoulders covering her face. She felt him jerk, heard his breath whistle between his teeth.
His body stiffened, jerked again, and he kicked, hard. "Cut it out!"
"Joss!" A man's voice--not her father's--cut through the now incoherent shrieks.
"Grab her," someone cried.
Something hard thwacked against her thigh, sending an explosion of pain from foot to belly. Frank rolled to that side, putting himself even more between her and her mother.
"Get the rolling pin!"
A high scream, then Ben's voice saying, "I've got her. Damn it, John, help me."
"Don't move, Hetty," Thea yelled.
Hetty saw the edge of a blanket flip over Frank's shoulder, felt him relax minutely.
"Shit," he muttered between clenched teeth. "I hope to hell she didn't break my arm." He eased off of her, moving slowly, holding his left arm with his right hand.
She stayed still until he rolled onto his side next to her. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, she attempted to scoot under it, but nearly screamed herself as she put strain on her throbbing thigh. "Oh, God, Frank! Let me see--"
"Get her out of here," Louisa said, from somewhere behind Hetty. "Take her
downstairs, if you can. I'll tend to this."
Frank looked up at her, his mouth twisted in a half grin. "I thought you said your family would love me."
Hetty let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "What I said was that Gran would love you. I don't think my mother does." She looked toward the door as it clicked shut. "Aunt Louisa, can you come and take a look at his arm?"
"It's fine."
"The hell it is." Hetty flipped the blanket back to his waist. "She's an EMT. Let her decide."
Her mother screamed again, somewhere downstairs. Hetty heard her father's deep voice and Uncle Ben's weathered baritone, both sounding strained.
While Aunt Louisa was poking and prodding Frank's arm, Hetty got dressed, moving slowly and favoring her leg. The muscles of her thigh were knotted, sending sharp knives of pain into her pelvis with every movement, but she was reasonably sure it was only bruised. She'd worry about showering later, she decided, and if anyone complained about how she smelled, she'd tell them--
Oh, shit! I can't believe this. My mother, the drunk. She glanced at the clock. Seven twenty-two. Something set her off.
"Without an X-ray, I can't be sure it's not cracked," Louisa told Hetty a few minutes later. "You'd better plan on driving down to-- I can't remember where the nearest hospital is."
"Ashton," Aunt Thea said, as she came back into the room. "Hetty, has your mother ever behaved this way before?"
"I've never seen her this bad," Hetty told her, "but I haven't been around much these past few years."
"I've wondered..." Aunt Louisa said, "Ordinarily we don't see Joss and John unless we're here at the same time, but we ran into them a few months ago at one of those outdoor things in Portland. I had the feeling she was...nervy. As if... Never mind. There, now, hold that arm still while I go get something to splint it with." With a gentle pat to Frank's shoulder, she left the room.
Hetty sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a hundred years old and as tired as if she'd walked ten miles. "I'm going to drive Frank to the emergency room, Aunt Thea. While I'm gone, will you look and see if you can find where Joss is hiding her booze? If Dad won't let you search their room, talk to Gran. It's time for him to stop denying there's a problem."
"Booze? You think your mother's drunk?"
"I'm pretty sure she is, although I hadn't realized she was starting to drink so early." She refused to look at Frank, not wanting to see his disgust. If he had a brain, he'd be on the evening plane back to Seattle. Damn! I had such hopes for him.
Aunt Louisa splinted Frank's arm and Aunt Thea fed him. He went along with whatever they told him, not saying much. Hetty decided to shower after all, since they were likely to be gone all day.
Her thigh was already swelling and turning purple, a long, almost rectangular bruise perpendicular to its length. The force of water hitting it was enough to make her cringe. She gritted her teeth and kept going. By the time she slid into the diver's seat of her car, she was damp with sweat and wondering what they did to people who killed their mothers.
"So your mother's a drunk, huh?" was the first thing Frank said, once they were on the highway. "Is that why you don't drink?"
"Part of it. The rest is that I just don't like the taste of liquor. What's your excuse?"
"I'm an alcoholic."
Oh, shit. That's all I need. Hetty watched the road, locked her hands firmly on the wheel. Kept her voice light. "Oh? You don't seem like one. I've never seen you take a drink."
"You won't either. I haven't had a drink since I was twenty. But there's no such thing as an ex-alcoholic." He held up his left hand, showing her the stub of a little finger she'd often wondered about. "This was the wake-up call. I figured the next time it could be my whole hand. So I quit."
"What happened?"
"I worked in a shop that made cabinets for tract houses then. Plain, birch-faced plywood doors. Nothing fancy or expensive. That day I woke up late, hung over, so I didn't pack a lunch. I went out to lunch, had a couple of beers. I didn't feel them. It took more than a couple of beers to make me drunk. Never thought a thing about it. That afternoon I was using a table saw to cut cabinet doors from sheets of plywood."
He rubbed the stub with his thumb. "I didn't even notice this until blood sprayed onto my safety glasses."
"It didn't hurt?" Hetty couldn't decide if she wanted to be sick at the picture his words had painted or to grab and kiss his poor, mangled hand. She settled for reaching across and holding it.
He returned her squeeze. "Not right then. Later it hurt like a son of a bitch. I couldn't work for a while, and it gave me plenty of time to think."
"I'll bet it did." She drove in silence for several miles, unable to imagine her mother having the strength of will to do what Frank had done. Jocelyn Armstrong had been indulged all her life, had never had to scrimp and save, had never had to deal with any real adversity. Well, neither have I, she admitted silently. But I'm stronger than she is. I always have been. I wonder why.
They were over the ridge and on the long descent into Ashton when she said, "I should have told Joss right off, as soon as I got to the Gathering. But I wanted you to meet the family, and I knew she'd have a fit if I told her you were coming. I didn't want to ruin the week for everyone. I wouldn't blame you if you went back to Seattle and never wanted to see me again."
"That's not going to happen. I'll stick it out if you will."
"But she's apt to make a big scene when we get back."
"If she does, we'll move into a motel. I was pretty impressed with the way the rest of your family rallied round and took care of everything. I'd like to get to know them better." This time it was his hand that took hers and squeezed. "Besides, didn't you say something about a raft trip this afternoon? I'd hate to miss that."
"You probably will anyhow," she told him. "I've never been in an emergency room for less than half a day. It's already after nine."
"Think positive thoughts."
Hetty nodded. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in a raft all afternoon. I hurt.
* * * *
"John, stop being an ostrich," Cecile told him. "Hetty says she's been trying for a long time to get you to admit that Joss's drinking is out of control."
"Nonsense. She's just upset about Hetty's deception. I'm amazed, Cecile, that you'd be a party to such underhanded dealings."
"She was drunk. At seven in the morning. That goes beyond upset."
John paced the length of the living room and back again. "Impossible. She'd just gotten out of bed--"
"No, she hadn't," Ben said. "I heard someone coming downstairs about three. My back was bothering me, so I came down here to see if I wouldn't rest better in the recliner. Couldn't figure out who'd be wandering around then, so I took a look. It was Joss, heading for the kitchen." He shrugged. "I figured she was looking for something to relax her, after that scene she made at dinner."
"Did you hear her go back upstairs?" Cecile asked.
"No, but I fell asleep before four. She was still downstairs then. Cecile, why didn't Hetty tell her mother about her young man herself? Why'd she get you to do it for her?"
Cecile grimaced. "It was my idea, Ben. John, I'm sorry. I thought... I thought not giving her time to stew about it would be best. And I wanted to protect Hetty. She has never wanted to bring a man to meet the family before."
"I should hope not. Good lord, Cecile, do you have any idea what the people I work with would say, know that my daughter is living in sin? And not just once, but one man after another. I don't know how many there have been. It's shameful."
Unable to contain her laughter, Cecile did her best to moderate it. "Oh my, if you could just hear yourself. You sound like something out of a Victorian novel. Times have changed, John, they've changed drastically. I'll bet that a good many of your colleagues at the bank are either 'living in sin'..." She made quote marks in the air with her fingers. "...or they have children who are. Traditional marriage is just one option today. It's not like when
I was young, and a woman who opted to stay single was automatically assumed to be either wanton or homosexual."
"You can say that. All your children are respectable. Hetty... Well, I confess, I've never understood her. Neither has Joss."
"My children's sins are many and varied," Cecile said with a small chuckle, "and so are my grandchildren's. How about you, Ben? I doubt yours are any better."
"Well, there's Eric," Ben said, grinning. "He's pretty upright."
"A son you can be proud of," John said. "But Hetty--"
"Look, John, this is getting us nowhere. You won't listen to anything we say about Joss's condition, and you're not ready to accept Hetty's right to live her life as she chooses. I hate to say this, but I think you'd be happier if you took Joss away before Hetty and Frank get back."
John visibly donned his substantial bank CEO dignity. "I'd already decided to do so. We won't be able to get into the condo at Jackson Hole until Sunday, but I'll find us somewhere to stay until then. No sense wasting my vacation time." His shoulders slumped just a trifle. "Joss will be much better there. It's quiet and someone's usually looking for a good Bridge game."
Cecile sighed in defeat. "I still wish you'd talk to someone about her drinking."
His mouth firmed and his brows drew together, but he said nothing. He didn't need to. His expression said NO all too well.
After he'd gone upstairs, Cecile leaned back and sighed. "That went badly. My fault."
"My brother is as blind as a bat and as stubborn as any Missouri mule," Ben said. "His only saving grace is that he doesn't hold a grudge."
"Is there anything you can do?"
"I'll talk to Louisa. We'll see what we can come up with. Maybe John will listen to her, once he's over his mad."
"I hope so," Cecile said in a tired voice. "I hope so."
* * * *
This morning Annie carried her own net, had three flies of her very own in a small plastic box in her shirt pocket. Clay had handed them to her before they donned their waders. "I'm not sure what they're biting today, but you can try these. The big brown one's a hopper, the one with white wings is a mayfly."
A Strange Little Band Page 18
