Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  His words brought the shiver back and centered it in Jonna's bones. "Why?"

  "I need the job," he answered simply. Something elemental in his tone reached her soul and a need of her own simmered to life.

  "And the house," he added, looking at the front door of the house she'd been preparing for its new occupant. "I understand it comes with the job."

  "That's how I get by with paying as little as I do," she admitted. "And it’s warm in the winter and solid and par­tially furnished. Hopefully, it makes up some for the low pay. And you're right about me needing you," she said lightly. "I haven't exactly been bombarded with applicants.”

  She held out her hand. "Glad to have you, Sam Barton."

  His fingers closed around hers and something flashed between them. The danger she had sensed even before she saw him was real, so real it displaced the air around her and made breathing impossible. It was in his grip, his eyes, and evident in the very deliberate way he immediately let her go.

  She suppressed a shiver. She shouldn't have hired him, but she had. She shouldn't have touched him, but she had. Somehow, none of it could be undone.

  * * *

  Sam watched her stammer through a few sentences more, then went to get his car. He'd left it in her driveway by the house on top of the hill and walked down when he'd seen the porch light come on at the farmhouse below.

  He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second, letting the peacefulness of his surroundings wash over him. He supposed it was too much to hope that it would also set­tle the pace of his heart.

  He hadn't expected to feel so damn disturbed by her. She'd been a name, and the image the name had conjured had been somewhat mixed with the image of the other one. The one in Colorado. He'd expected Jonna to be tall, plumped slightly by the years she'd accumulated since col­lege, perhaps with glasses and a piercing, suspicious gaze.

  He hadn't expected her to be full of life, with a perma­nent, sparkling challenge in her eyes. He hadn't expected her warmth. He hadn't expected a petite and very shapely body with long legs stretching beneath the sexy, tight cut-offs, or the mass of golden brown hair that looked like the wind had had a wonderful time playing and pulling delicate strands from the restricting band that held it back.

  He hadn't expected her flawless, delicately featured face to have retained the innocence her yearbook picture showed; or hazel eyes that were wide and trusting, even though she had tried so hard to be wary.

  He definitely hadn't anticipated his reaction to her— hadn't anticipated, and wouldn't tolerate it. He refused to let his body distract him from why he was here.

  It was night now, though too early for stars. Unbroken by the evenly spaced lights of civilization and city planners, night here was a vast, quiet black that swallowed every­thing. It seemed so physical, he had the feeling he could fist his hand and punch a hole in it, opening a crack that would leak bright light.

  The thought was a whimsical one, the first he'd had in months, and a bitter smile twisted the corners of his mouth.

  He'd been right to come, he knew. This sojourn with Jonna Sanders would be either his salvation or his ruin­ation.

  Grateful for the chance to reexamine the lay of the land in the dark, he paused in the middle of the rough track that lurched upward from the tree-sheltered main drive. From this vantage point, just above the tree line, he could see for­ever.

  In the distance, tiny headlights weaved in and out, up and down the barren hills. One set would disappear; another would appear much farther away. The previous ones would suddenly spark into view, much closer than they had been. It was like a fairy show, as fascinating as any laser-light dis­play he'd seen.

  He couldn't have created a better place for his stand if he were God.

  Behind him, to the right down the path he'd just climbed, the two-story white farmhouse waited like a warm welcome at the end of a long day. Jonna had said the house wasn't ready yet to be occupied and he'd told her he didn't mind. She must be trying anyway, he decided. He watched as one light after another brightened the many windows.

  Her silhouette twisted and posed on the shade in one of the upstairs corners. Her arms lifted gracefully above her head and a shape billowed from her hands as if she could throw fluid motion from her fingertips. Then, the lean, gently curved line of her body bent and became an indeci­pherable shadow and he turned away, denying himself his need to watch.

  She was making up a bed, he decided, and shook his head at her bother. He'd have to change it, of course. Bed or no bed, the room on the opposite side was probably the only one with a clear view of the modern house on the crest of the stark hill. Her house.

  That house, a triangular, modified A-frame, loomed like a grounded bat above him.

  The flat side facing him was nothing more than a vast ex­panse of smoky glass. The sides of the house swept back at angles, the roof slanted down from its peak of about two and a half stories until they converged to barely the height of a single story at the other end. A covered walkway sepa­rated a double garage from the house. His car was parked in front of the duplicate door on the opposite side of the point.

  Sam surveyed the ground around her house as he settled into his car. He'd covered the area completely when he'd arrived a little while ago. It would be hard to take her by surprise, he'd decided then. His opinion didn't change with the night. It was an almost perfect fortress if she wanted it to be.

  But she didn't lock her doors.

  Did she relax her guard only when she was working somewhere on the property, or was that a habit she also practiced at night or when she went into town?

  There were ways to find out without raising her suspi­cions, he supposed, and he had time—plenty of time, now that he had a reason to be here.

  He grinned with satisfaction, started the car and rounded the circular drive past the garage. Perched on the summit of the rough path, he marveled again at the terrain before him.

  A few stars were out now and night had softened the hills' rough and raw edges.

  Denise had always had an affinity for great drama. This was as dramatic as you could get. And she'd always wanted to learn to fly. If she were here, she would have wished for a pair of wings. "Look, Sam," he could hear his sister saying, "I could spread them and soar for miles and miles without a single bit of effort."

  Sam felt the familiar guilt clutch his stomach as bile rose in his throat. "You would have loved this wild place, De­nise," he whispered. The wind groaned softly, speaking the same language as the torn and ragged edges of his soul, and he wondered for the millionth time in this past year and a half if he was crazy.

  They thought so at the college. Even Barry, his sworn and faithful friend, doubted Sam's sanity. Thank heavens, that hadn't kept Barry from promising his help. Sam would have to call Barry first thing in the morning, he remembered. He'd promised to touch base often.

  Sam reviewed his mental to-do list as he released the brake and coasted down the road to where Jonna was probably growing impatient.

  Jonna. Damn. He'd promised himself that this time, he wouldn't feel a thing. Not responsibility. Not pity. He wouldn't see her as anything more than a piece of the land­scape. He had steeled himself against it, but already the challenging tilt of that chin, the steady, soulful eyes had planted a creeping admiration in his mind and made her seem all too human.

  Don't feel anything, he added to his list. Don't let feel­ings get in the way. This final confrontation was going to be difficult enough without caring who or what interfered.

  Jonna Sanders was simply a tool, a very small part of the big picture. After the mess he'd made of the last one, he would do well to remember that.

  He probably should have corrected her impression that he was sent by her unknown friend, he realized. But you couldn't take the chance, old buddy.

  After her initial, wary reaction to him, he couldn't chance her choosing someone else to fill the job he'd gone to so much trouble to get. He'd just have to deal with a
ny prob­lems that little white lie brought when they came.

  Just as he'd deal with the man Moss—whoever Moss was—was sending Friday. Maybe he could get rid of him the same way he'd gotten rid of his predecessor.

  And waylaying anyone coming to see Jonna shouldn't be difficult. From now on, they'd have to come past him.

  Slowing, he turned the last curve leading back to the farmhouse. He pulled to a stop beside the steps with a so­ber sense of satisfaction.

  She was waiting on the front porch, her arms wrapped around herself in a warming hug. She shivered in the chill night wind.

  He felt the stirring again, the magnetic pull she seemed to exert. He hardened his heart to her. He was susceptible, he realized, but he was also in control. Control. From here on in, he was in control.

  * * *

  With mixed emotions, Jonna watched him return.

  She couldn't help but like his honesty. Most people would do or say anything to get what they wanted, her father had always said. She couldn't accuse Sam of that. He'd been recklessly blunt, brutally determined she would hire him. Anyone who wanted, needed, a job that badly...

  He gracefully unkinked his long frame and stepped out of his surprisingly sedate, four-door, family-type car. Some­how, she'd expected him to drive a flashy black sporty thing with darkly tinted windows. He's down on his luck, she re­minded herself, but had no doubts looking at him, that it was temporary. "I didn't think it would take you so long," she called.

  "I stopped to admire the view," he explained.

  "It's different, isn't it?"

  He nodded and joined her at the front door.

  "Where's your luggage?"

  He lifted a large barrel-shaped bag.

  "That’s all?" she asked.

  "Most." Again he nodded. "I'll get the rest out of the trunk later."

  He grazed her body with his eyes and she turned away. Compared to the sensation she'd felt when they actually touched, his visual touch was almost restful. "Come in." She pulled the screen door open and waved him in ahead of her.

  The house was much warmer than the world outside.

  "This is where I grew up," she said as he looked around the large foyer. She gestured to one side where the French doors of the dark living room stood open. "I'm afraid most of the furniture is from that time period, too," she added.

  He was looking the other way. He eased past her, through the open arch leading into the dining room on the other side. He was careful to avoid brushing against her, but she tin­gled with his passing.

  "Turn out the light," he said from the window, surpris­ing her with the request.

  "Why?" She automatically did as he asked.

  "The view fascinates me." The heavy drapes her mother had chosen for the room muffled his words.

  "Oh, the other side is much better," she said. "From the living room you can see the highway and down the open range. At sunset, the colors are gorgeous."

  He left the window. The measured beat of his boots against the hardwood floor emphasized their quiet isola­tion.

  "The view from this side is all uphill. About all you can see is my house," she said softly. Something about the way his broad-shouldered form flowed toward her in the dark made whispering seem appropriate.

  He rejoined her in the foyer, noting the broad staircase that ended before the dining room door. He walked on past it, staring down the long hall that echoed its length and width. Then his gaze returned to her, void of the slightest flicker of expression. He absently lifted the receiver from the old black desk phone, complete with the restricting cord, on the hall table and held it to his ear.

  "It works," she offered, "but you'll have to get the ac­count transferred to your name. We’d probably be rid of it, but cell phone service out here is iffy."

  He nodded, crossed his arms in front of him and looked at her as if she were a guest who'd overstayed her welcome. "I think this will do just fine."

  His polite dismissal irked her. "Well, that’s good." She couldn't help the sarcasm. "I'd hate the house to be such a big disappointment that you wouldn't stick around."

  "I'll be here."

  "Why? Why do you want this job, Sam? I mean, you admit it isn't what you normally do. And you said you aren't going to stay."

  "I need the peace and quiet. I need time." He lifted his square chin and turned slightly away, as if he didn't much like saying the ‘n’ word and he'd already said it too many times.

  "I need this to work, too," she said. "I'm leaving town in a week or so and someone has to be ready to take care of things here when I go. I don't expect you to stay forever," she said, suddenly very busy rubbing at a scratch on the heavy wood trim around the dining room arch, "but it would be much easier to believe you'll be here a week from now if I understood."

  His dark eyes narrowed, then he sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, but my sister died about two years ago." He looked down at his long fingers, then stuffed them in the pockets of his jeans. "So far, I haven't been able to deal with that. I intend to do that here." The steel in his voice clawed at her.

  "I'm sorry." She couldn't put a name to the uneasiness that settled over her. It rested heavily, like a winter storm cloud, waiting for nightfall to let loose its fury.

  "So am I." His face was half in shadow.

  "There aren't any miracles here." She was half- afraid he would believe her and leave. Half-afraid he wouldn't.

  He gave her a sad smile, the first really sincere thing he'd shared. "I hope you're wrong."

  "I'm not." The man needed something more than the peace and quiet working for her would give him. "Have you thought about getting professional help?" she asked as gently as she could.

  He let loose a short, bitter laugh and a shiver ran down her spine. "If the professionals were any help at all, I wouldn't be here." The abrasive pain he worked so hard— but didn't quite manage—to hide, stroked her like sandpa­per. This time she turned away.

  His touch on her arm was feather light. As soon as he had her attention again, he withdrew his hand. "They're my demons. I'll do my darnedest to keep them away from you." A half smile twisted his mouth to one side. And though tired lines around his chocolate eyes crinkled, the smile didn't reach than.

  "I'd appreciate that." She wondered warily what she'd gotten herself into this time.

  "And whatever happens, I won't desert you before you get back from your trip."

  "I appreciate that, too. Now, let me show you around." She let herself really smile.

  He straightened. "Oh, I can check everything out on my own, Ms. Sanders." He sounded almost more distant and formal than before.

  "Jonna," she corrected. She thought they had cleared the air.

  "Jonna," he repeated in a toneless voice that seeped around her like a cold fog.

  "And on that note, I guess I'll leave you alone," she said crisply, heading for the front door. She crossed the porch, wishing she had on her riding boots. They would have expressed her irritation much more definitively than her ten­nis shoes.

  She slammed her pickup door instead and glanced back at the house. The half-painted screen door perfectly framed his mannequin-still form against the backdrop of the brightly lit room. He watched as she reversed.

  She had intended to ask him to dinner since there wasn't a thing to eat in the old house, but he was just too...too dangerous, a voice countered in her mind.

  She preferred to establish a friendly, neighborly relation­ship with her hired men and their families. But with Mr. Sam Barton, things would be different. She had a knack for being attracted to men who weren't good for her and she was very attracted to him. His world-weary look intrigued her. He'd made her heart pound and her blood pressure soar. Even her knees had betrayed her, quivering with anticipa­tion as he approached her across the dark dining room.

  She supposed she ought to feel grateful that he wanted to keep a safe distance. She suspected that was what he was doing anyway. He'd grown colder every time his eyes had
grown warm. He'd recognized the attraction, too.

  She could feel him still watching as she waited impa­tiently for the garage door to lift on its track.

  She knew it was her imagination, but only when the door was down again, separating her from the night, did she feel immune to his cautious stare.

  She slammed the truck door and reached over the side of the bed to get her painting supplies. Something warm slith­ered against her bare ankle. With a muffled scream, she jumped and prepared to dive over the edge of the truck. In the dim light, she saw black fur disappearing beneath the vehicle.

  "Magic?"

  A head appeared and the half-grown kitten brushed be­tween her legs. "Oh, Magic." She squatted to pick the cat up. "You scared me to death, you silly."