Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  "What now?"

  The first day he'd been here, she had interpreted that tone as insolent and overly aggressive. Now she knew his reac­tion was dread. He expanded his firmly sculpted chest with a huge intake of air.

  "Nothing," she said.

  He released the breath slowly. Again she read him differ­ently. The flicker of relief in his eyes, the loss of his intense attention wasn't a dismissal of her. He simply let himself off the sharp edge of horrific expectation.

  She offered him a half grin. "I'm not getting anything at all done. I can't concentrate." One hand plucked nervously at the bottom of her sweater.

  "So you came out to check on me."

  "Actually I thought I'd ride along with you, maybe help you?"

  He handed her reins back. "It's your land." He turned toward Murphy.

  "Sam?"

  "Yes?" He paused, his hand on the saddle horn, his leg bent to lift his foot into the stirrup, his muscled thigh tight­ening the denim fabric around it.

  "We aren't fooling anyone about you being my hired hand. You don't have to do this, you know."

  His dark brows drew together and hooded his eyes.

  "I really need you to keep up with the chores until I get back from L. A. but..." She lifted a shoulder to finish the statement. "That's enough, given the situation."

  His forehead relaxed. A hint of a smile warmed his usu­ally somber face. "Are you firing me again?"

  My, even when it was barely there, he had a nice smile. It tilted one side of his face and slightly crinkled into creases around his eyes. "Sure. I'm going to fire the guy who says he's going to save my life?"

  He stiffened. "You still don't believe me."

  She stepped a foot closer, started to touch him, then let her hand uselessly flay the air. "I don't know what to be­lieve anymore, Sam."

  His jaw loosened, but not enough to make the tic in his sharply defined cheek go away.

  "You asked me yesterday why you would come back if you'd done any of that. Well, why would I let you stay if I didn't buy into at least part of it?"

  "Probably so the sheriff can keep an eye on me."

  She drew back, the doubts and suspicions raging again. Had he tapped her phone? Eavesdropped on her conversa­tion with Madden? She knew the idea was ludicrous the minute she thought it. Besides, she'd seen him riding out about the time Madden had called.

  He smiled grimly. "It's a logical deduction," be explained, reading her mind. "You fired me when you decided I'd lied about Moss. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you would fire me in a heartbeat over all this." His dark eyes searched hers. "You just can't decide if I'm the bad guy—or the good."

  She studied the rough ground between them. What about the phone calls from whoever was doing all this? It was on the end of her tongue to ask, to demand to know where he'd been last night. But she needed to hold at least one bit of information for her very own. How else would she ever decide what was true or false? She didn't know she had bitten her tongue until she tasted warm blood. The world had suddenly become a very dangerous place. She had to quit giving her complete trust to... to just anyone.

  Sam's long fingers grazed her chin and he urged her face up with a nearly imperceptible pressure.

  "You can't decide if I'm the devil or the deep blue sea," he said. "It makes an awful lot of sense to keep thinking that way, Jonna Sanders."

  They were sandwiched together by the two horses, and even though the vast empty space around them should have made her feel vulnerable, she felt exactly the opposite. She felt closed off—and for the moment—safe from the rest of the world.

  His eyes held her for an eternity. "I won't hold it against you," he promised softly.

  "Madden called," she said in a breathless rush. "He checked with the FBI. They verified your story."

  "And?" he asked.

  "They don't necessarily believe your interpretation of it."

  "What else is new?" His index finger explored the line of her jaw; his eyes followed. His thumb traced her cheekbone beneath the hollows of her eyes and down the side of her nose. It came to rest at the corner of her mouth and Jonna vaguely wondered how Sam had managed to make the nerve endings in her face connect with a million others all over her body.

  The tip of her tongue dipped nervously out and dampened her dry lips. It drew Sam's gaze, and one of his long seductive fingers slipped an eighth of an inch in that direction.

  Her heart pounded haphazardly as his lips parted. She was dancing with danger, skirting lunacy, but couldn't seem to help herself. She felt a mind-spinning rush. He excited and exhilarated some unknown adventurous side of her.

  Her head lolled back weakly, forcing her lips up toward his in what he could only perceive as an invitation. And al­though positive she didn't intend the action as a provocation—she was just too weak to do anything else—she held her breath to see whether he accepted it.

  The hunger in his eyes satisfied some perverse desire and she licked her lips again, taunting him as if she were afraid she would lose his attention.

  "We'd better get busy," he said, but didn't take his hand from her face.

  She nodded, hypnotized.

  "And you didn't come just to keep an eye on me, Jonna?" he asked.

  "I need to keep busy. I needed fresh air and... and..."

  He raised one brow, encouraging her to go on.

  "And company," she finished. She needed his reassurance.

  He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

  She needed him to voluntarily share where he'd been last night. She wanted to ask him about the phone calls, wanted to tell him what Madden had said. The sheriff's voice rang in her ears. Sam Barton's the only suspect! She twisted away. She'd already given him more of herself and her knowledge than was safe.

  The autumn day turned suddenly cold. She quelled a shiver. Walking around Candy's head, Jonna mounted and waited for him to do the same.

  "Come on, Sam," she coaxed. "If you're sure you want to continue working. Let's get busy."

  "I'm sure. This waiting is a killer. Maybe it will go quickly if we get something done." He swung himself into the saddle. Sam turned Murphy back toward the fence and she followed.

  With the pretense gone, Sam and Jonna shared a quiet camaraderie for the rest of the day. Even without the reas­surance she sought, it soothed Jonna's soul and she hoped— thought—it did the same for his.

  She spent Tuesday at the hospital with Moss. She was relieved when his tests showed that he would need to change his life-style a bit—no more daily bacon, biscuit and gravy breakfasts at Millie's, more exercise, less stress—but that surgery wouldn't be necessary for the time being. She kept her own counsel about her problems.

  Sam called her early the next morning, said briefly that he had coffee on if she wanted to join him. She did, and took along cold cereal and milk. It settled the pattern for the next few days.

  After breakfast they would do chores, then saddle the horses. The sun shone warmly as they spent the daylight riding the perimeters of her land.

  The second morning, Sam gave her a package. "The mailman said it wouldn't fit into the box," he said, then explained before she could ask, why the man hadn't brought it up to her house as usual. "No one will get past me—and to you—without my knowing."

  The seed of trust he'd nurtured so patiently grew. She opened her mouth to ask him about the phone calls.

  As if he read the impulsive trust on her face, his choco­late brown eyes looked arrogantly pleased, and she hesi­tated, giving the doubts time to crowd back in.

  "You have a knack for all this espionage-type stuff," she said instead as they stopped and unpacked the sandwiches and cold drinks she had brought. "Is that why you went into the line of work you do?"

  "My career choices have had a lot more to do with neces­sity than choosing." He made the admission equitably. "When my mother died, my friend at the college told me about the opening in the Security Department. He knew that's the sort of thin
g I'd been doing in the service and that I had a sister to raise."

  "But you've stayed."

  "I'm satisfied. I think I would have eventually ended up in one kind of law enforcement work or another anyway. Or maybe farming," he added with a wry grin.

  She punched him playfully. "Don't make fun."

  "I'm not," he said seriously. "I like your farm."

  You could stay. She cleared her throat and managed not to say it.

  And as the sun started its descent in the sky each day, they fixed dinner together, taking turns at his house, then hers.

  They moved about whichever kitchen, carefully avoiding touching. And if they did make that terrible mistake, his hand lingered and she would feel hot spikes of sensation ra­diating from the point of contact long after the mishap was over. Or if their eyes met, she couldn't catch her breath without looking away.

  His wide, sensuous lips seemed to capture her attention when he spoke. She felt his every glance on her body, even when her back was turned.

  Then, each evening, as dusk overtook the brash land, they went their separate ways. The nights swarmed with tense and dark imaginings, and the demons returned.

  She kept them at bay by packing and cleaning and wan­dering from room to room in her brightly lit house. Then she'd stop at the windows and wonder what Sam was do­ing—and wish he were here to quench the fire he'd spent the day igniting inside her.

  She longed to ask him a million questions and promised herself that tomorrow would be the day. And once all the questions were answered, she would not spend another night alone and in need.

  But with the sunrise, the questions that had obsessed her during the long night didn't seem nearly as important as the peaceful unspoken truce between then.

  It was small comfort that the ghosts haunted Sam, too. Each morning, the dark circles were back beneath his eyes and several hours passed before he quit looking over his shoulder.

  Then, the night before she was to leave, a little after four in the morning, the phone rang. Jonna was wide awake, for once, when she picked it up. She didn't even have to question who it was. She knew.

  "Hello?" She cursed herself for sounding tentative. She had promised herself that the next time he called, she would challenge him, not just stupidly ask who it was.

  Nothing.

  "Hello?" she said again, and looked at the receiver in her hand when no one responded.

  Wrong number, she sensibly decided. Whoever it was had hung up when they realized they'd dialed the wrong num­ber.

  She listened again.

  No. He was there. He wasn't breathing heavily like the classic silent caller, but he was there.

  "Sam?"

  The line wasn't empty. It literally oozed a deadly silence. His ominous presence seeped through the receiver and Jonna found herself holding it farther and farther away. The air around her thickened with virulent gloom. And she felt him smile.

  She dropped the handset back in its cradle as if it had bitten her, jerking her hand away as if, like a rattlesnake, it might strike again.

  "Sam!" Her heart leapt at the thought of him. Scram­bling from the bed, she yanked jogging shorts from her dresser and donned them over the camisole and panties she'd worn to bed without a thought for what she was put­ting on.

  And then she remembered. He hadn’t been there before. A cold vise squeezed her soul. Still only half-dressed in jog­ging shorts and a bra, she parted the curtains and gazed down at the peaceful home below.

  It looked just as inviting and safe as it had Sunday night.

  She realized she was leaning, almost bent in two in the middle, trying to see around the back of his house, to see if his car was there. She felt incredibly silly and stepped away. The drapes fell back in place.

  I'm losing it, she thought in despair. She dropped into the chaise longue beside the window and pulled the afghan folded across its back around her shoulders. She was cold. So cold.

  She wanted to run to Sam and insist he comfort her and keep her warm. But it could be him. Maybe part of the game was winning her trust first and then--

  She couldn't face the doubts and suspicions again.

  Why hadn't the caller said anything?

  "It was a wrong number," she murmured, jumping at the sound of her own voice.

  It wasn't. You know it wasn't.

  "No, someone was there." This time her voice was con­soling.

  But why didn't he speak? He didn't hesitate before.

  God, she wished the tracer had been put on. Madden was waiting for some court order he had to get, and never hav­ing had this particular request before, the judge was check­ing the legality of using the equipment. "Maybe he thought the line was tapped."

  Why would he care? The calls had all been brief, proba­bly to prevent a trace, but why would he worry about someone listening or recording the call?

  Because he thinks his voice might be recognized!

  The answer came with such clarity that it jammed into Jonna's breastbone and left her dazed.

  "Sam!" This time his name held anguish.

  Without conscious thought, Jonna found herself at the window again. She didn't see a damn thing more than she'd seen before. Was he asleep? Was he there?

  Rather than leaning, she decided it might make more sense to go to another window. She might be able to see the back of his house from the far bedroom.

  Going through the side door into the loft, again she felt vulnerable to the world. As much as she'd loved her open house, as soon as this was over, she was going to invest in some blinds or shades. And she wasn't sure when she would be able to sleep again with the lights off.

  Jonna's feet iced up as she stepped into the spare room. She kept it closed, the doors, the registers. She couldn't see heating a room she didn't use. Her toes curled against the hardwood floor. She dragged a deep breath and stepped between and behind the lightweight curtains in here.

  Again she could see nothing. The area where Sam had been parking his car was still blocked from her view by the house.

  She should go there, she supposed, but remembered the last trip with revulsion. She'd just wait, she decided. She'd make coffee, settle into her easy chair downstairs and watch until she saw some kind of movement at his house.

  If he wasn't there, he'd come home again soon, or he'd get up in the morning. Whichever, by morning, she was go­ing to know what he'd been doing when she received the call this time.

  Sam Barton's the only suspect they've got. A crack formed somewhere in her heart as she realized that every quiet companionable moment that they'd shared the past couple of days, every craving he created just by looking at her, made her want—long—to believe, to trust him.

  And somewhere in the midst of all this she had grown to trust him, to need him. She realized with an even greater terror that her concern for him wasn't about her safety anymore. This was very personal.

  He's the only suspect they've got.

  She was halfway down the stairs when she remembered her father's binoculars. She hadn't sold than at the auc­tion when she'd sold his guns and other things. No, she'd put than on the pile to get rid of, then took them off, stood at the window inspecting the land he had loved for almost an hour. Then she had stashed them in the guest-room closet with some other things she'd saved.

  It took a few minutes to find them and anticipation de­nied her the cool plans she made during her search. She didn't put the box they'd come from back in the closet. She didn't go downstairs where she always left the lights burn­ing now. She flicked off the closet light and went directly to the window.

  Her fingers shook as she adjusted the fit to her eyes, then took a moment to focus the field glasses to the outside. It surprised her that the binoculars didn't banish the night. Where shadows hid things before, they still did, only now, they seemed closer, more threatening.

  His front porch was a well of blackness, and she couldn't imagine how she'd stood in that dark pool. She felt again her anxious hope and si
lent terror as she had waited for Sam to let her into the warmth of his house and the security of his protection.

  One by one, she scanned the midnight-black windows of the bedrooms upstairs. One by one, they tantalized and teased with glints of moonlight, then kept their secrets.

  She lowered her search to the first floor, calling herself all sorts of names as she foolishly hoped for some thread of evidence that would prove Sam trustworthy.

  She almost swung on past the dining room windows, then a shred of movement brought her back.

  There—bare-chested and staring back at her with his jaw slack with surprise at being caught—was Sam—with a pair of binoculars of his own. And her worst fears were con­firmed.