"Careful what you say," she teased, feeling sick inside, and yet determined not to let him see how shaken she really was. "Jenny's liable to get jealous and refuse to start the next time you want to take her for a joy ride."
Ford watched her eyes turn haunted again and cursed his lack of finesse. "Not to worry, honey," he said with a wink. "By the time a lady gets Jenny's age, she's most generally hard of hearing."
She took up her paintbrush again and dipped it into the dark red lacquer before slanting him a wry look. "Good thing for you, too, considering the language I heard coming from beneath her this afternoon."
Ford grinned because he knew that would please her, but his gut was slowly twisting into a familiar knot.
"Guess I'm too used to workin' out here alone," he told her with his best good-old-boy manner. "Best watch it from now on, I'm thinkin."
"Best do that," she teased before directing her attention to the underside of the lower of the two wings.
Ford watched her for a long moment, admiring the ripely feminine contours of her bottom as she concentrated on her task. It was the first time he'd seen her in tight jeans, and those were definitely world-class, worn soft enough by countless turns in the washing machine to cling provocatively to her hips and thighs in just the right fashion to rile a man's blood but good.
The tug between his legs told him that he was treading on dangerous turf. Even if she would let him make love to her here, he wouldn't. The only privacy was provided by the office, and he hadn't set foot in that twenty-by-twenty cubical since he was eighteen. He never would.
Still, a man's mind and his body sometimes ended up in a no-holds-barred brawl, something he'd only recently come to understand. His mind told him to walk away. His body wouldn't let him. For better or worse, he wanted her, and in a town as small and inbred as Clover that meant marriage. Anything less would only serve to dishonor her, and he'd as soon as chew barbed wire before he'd do that to her or her daughter.
But a man who'd spent the whole of his adult life running from commitment wasn't inclined to make sudden moves where marriage was concerned. He figured to ease into it, letting himself get used to the idea while he worked at convincing her he'd be a good husband to her and a devoted daddy to Jessie.
But son of a gun, every time he tried to get past that velvet-lined wall of hers, she hid behind a quip or a laugh, or sometimes a moody silence. Something was eating at her from the inside out.
Someday she would trust him enough to let him help, he vowed as he skirted the propeller to take another whack at changing the worn-out tire. Until then, he would bide his time, if not patiently, at least silently.
Someday, somehow, as sure as God made sunshine and little green apples, she was going to have his ring on her finger and his baby in her belly.
Sophie decided to leave Clover for good after Emma and Mike's wedding, which was set for the last Saturday in January. Everyone would be exhausted from the festivities and less likely to notice her absence in the fabric of their lives.
By the night of Mike Flint's bachelor party, she was running mostly on nerves, so distracted she'd had to make three trips by taxi to Ford's place before the food and drink and decorations were as perfect as she could make them.
The party had been set for the night before the wedding and was to begin at eight o'clock. Ford had left work early, showing up around four with more on his mind than finger food and chili. He'd come to help, he'd told her, and then proceeded to shanghai her into bed for a wild half hour she could ill afford to spare. Consequently, she'd been harried and rushed when she'd left at seven forty-five, promising to return at midnight to help him clean up. Privately, she doubted that the party would be over by then, but Ford had gotten that leave-it-to-me look on his face and all but promised to come looking for her if she wasn't stepping over his threshold at the stroke of twelve.
By eight-thirty she'd given Jessie her bath and played with her for a while before getting out the maps she'd checked out of the library earlier. By nine she had them spread out on the bed, along with the bus and train schedules.
"Looks like upper New York state might be our best bet," Sophie mused aloud while Jessie toddled her way around the perimeter of the bed, holding on to the spread for support. "Hmm, here's a place called Phoenix near Syracuse, or better yet, Fair Haven. I like that, don't you?"
With a sigh, Sophie put down the atlas and picked up the bus schedule. "There's a bus that leaves at 11:00 p.m. every night. Looks like it has—" she paused to count "—nine stops between Charleston and Syracuse. Takes almost twelve hours."
Jessie jabbered a happy response, then slanted her mother a look as if waiting for a response. "Yes, I know, sweets," Sophie told her with a smile. "That means we'll have to spend the night in a hotel until we can find something permanent, but if we're careful it shouldn't cost too much."
Jessie looked at her with big eyes, her expression thoughtful as though she'd caught her mother's subdued mood.
"I think another rooming house at first, don't you, Jessie Bear? Some place cozy and friendly. Oh, I know we'd be lucky to find a place as perfect as Katie's, but I'm sure we'll find something clean and roomy in our limited price range."
Jessie cocked her head at the mention of Katie's name.
"No, sweets, you and I are going bye-bye on Sunday night. Katie can't come with us. No one can." And no one would know where she was going. Her conscience already stung at the lies she would have to tell and the deceit she intended to practice on her friends.
"I know it will be hard on you to leave, Jessie," she murmured, her voice subdued. "And I'm so terribly sorry about that. About a lot of things." Like walking out on Peg without notice, and leaving her Sunday school class without a teacher and Katie without a boarder during the slow winter months.
She had it all worked out, her story already set in her mind. Sunday morning she would feign a headache as an excuse to stay home from church and Sunday school. When the others returned, she would claim to have received a phone call from an aunt in Montana. Her favorite uncle had had a heart attack, you see. And she was desperately needed to help out on the ranch while he was recovering. There would be an outpouring of sympathy and offers of help, all of which she would reluctantly decline.
Saying goodbye to Ford would be close to unbearable. Telling him yet one more lie would be like slicing herself into small pieces. And yet what choice did she have? The longer she stayed, the more he would become an unwitting accessory to her crime. And if the truth should come out, he would be utterly humiliated. What kind of sheriff takes a convicted felon and wanted fugitive for a lover?
"He'd be destroyed, Jess," she whispered, drawing Jessie into her lap and hugging her tightly. "People would blame him and laugh at him."
She shivered, the pain crushing. "I didn't want to love him, I swear. I tried so hard not to. You know, you were there when I told him to leave me alone. But he wouldn't listen. He never listens."
Jessie struggled to free herself, and Sophie eased back, stifling a sob. "Sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean to squeeze you so hard. Mama's not herself tonight."
"Mama?" Jessie twisted in her arms in order to direct an inquisitive look her way. Sophie's hand shook as she smoothed the baby-fine hair away from Jessie's dumpling cheeks. It was getting longer, and thicker, like hers. Unlike hers, however, Jessie's hair was developing a tendency to curl. Wells had had curly hair, inherited from his mother along with her acerbic wit and elegant style.
"Before we were married, your daddy used to recite poetry to me by candlelight and send me fresh roses every other day," she murmured. "I thought he was the most romantic man I'd ever met."
Ford was anything but. Instead of reciting pretty words by candlelight, he was far more likely to drag her out to a dusty, dirty airport and hand her a paintbrush instead of long-stemmed roses.
"He reads Louis L'Amour instead of Proust," she murmured, her throat aching. "And sometimes he even says 'ain't.' He's stubborn and he refuses t
o share his feelings and he's much too set in his ways. And if the light's wrong, he looks more rugged and tough than good-looking."
She drew a weary breath. Her chest felt tight, making it difficult to breathe properly. "It's no use trying to talk myself out of it. I love him, and I'll always love him."
She dropped her gaze to her lap and stared at her bare ring finger. "Fifty years from now I'll be just like Miss Fanny, still longing for his kiss, his touch." Her voice splintered, and she inhaled deeply. "Except that I'll have to live with knowing he's been just a phone call away all those years." A phone call she knew she would never make.
Ford stood to one side of the fireplace, watching one of the young guys who worked for Mike Flint on his salvage rig helping himself to another shot of rye. If the kid wasn't drunk, he was only a couple of drinks from it, and he made a mental note to take the boy's keys before he shoveled everyone out.
"Hell of party, Ford, old son."
Frankie Fall was an all-right guy, a maverick, to be sure, but the kind of straight-arrow politician Ford respected. Big as a barn, he nevertheless had a remarkable intellect and a passion for restoring old automobiles that matched Ford's passion for antique airplanes.
Years ago, Ford had played high school football against Frankie, two hick quarterbacks with strong arms and thick heads. In spite of scholarship offers from area colleges, both had skipped college and gone directly into law enforcement—Frankie with the county, Ford with the town of Clover. Neither had had a choice. Frankie had needed a good job to take care of the baby his high school sweetheart had been expecting, and Ford had had Lucy to support.
Frankie had been married to that same woman for eighteen years now and, at last count, had four boys. Ford had coached the two youngest in Little League a few years back, taking them all the way to the statewide World Series.
Ten years ago, when Frankie had been badly injured on the job, he'd had to retire from the county mounties and had run for the school board. After that, it had been a fast, straight climb to the mayor's office.
"How're you doin', Frankie?" Ford swirled the ice cubes in his ginger ale and figured it was close to time to organize rides for the guys who'd had too much party to drive.
Frankie took a swig of beer, then belched. "Can't complain. Loretta talked me into this island-cruise package for our anniversary, and I gotta tell you, son, that was one hot vacation. I'm still walkin' crooked."
Ford offered the obligatory grin. "You always were short on stamina, which, as I recall, made it real easy to whip your butt on the football field."
"Heck's fire, Ford, you never can get it straight in that stubborn head of yours who whipped who."
The guest of honor ambled up in the midst of the debate, his weathered hand wrapped around a tall one. Mike was a few years younger than Ford and Frankie, but he'd grown up listening to them bicker.
"Don't tell me you two are still arguin' about who's toughest?" he asked, quirking a shaggy blond eyebrow.
"No argument to it," Frankie declared on another deeply satisfying belch. "It's in the record book in black and white. Ford blew the championship game big time." He took another swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Threw him two interceptions in the last quarter, big as you please. Hell of it was, he had him a perfect season until then, didn't you, old son?"
Ford shrugged. He'd played that game with his chest strapped up like a mummy after he'd cracked three ribs in practice the day before.
"Like you said, Frankie, the final score's all that counts."
"Bet your ass," Frankie boomed before slapping Ford on the back again. "If y'all will 'scuse me, I got a dead soldier here I need to trade in." With a farewell belch, he ambled off.
Watching with a sailor's sharp eyes, Mike shook his head. "Tell you true, Ford. Old Frankie'll still be tellin' that same story when you two are danglin' great-grandbabies on your knees on the porch of some old-folks' home."
"Like hell," Ford muttered, and Mike laughed.
"Maybe it's all this wedding business that's been happenin' recently, but I keep hearin' rumors that the mighty Ford Maguire is about to fall the same as Ben and Matt and me."
"Since when do you go around listenin' to rumors?" Ford grated.
"Since Emma's been askin' me what I know about the sweet little Yankee lady waitin' tables over to Peg's."
Ford eyed his friend impassively. "Just what do you know, son?"
Mike cocked his head and let a grin spread slowly over his weathered face. "I know I'd better be real careful what I say next or I might find myself standin' at that altar on tomorrow afternoon with a sore jaw and no best man."
"You got that right!"
Mike's grin faded. "Just in case I forget to mention it, thanks for all this," he said, gesturing toward the crowded room with his drink. "Emma was in a pet, thinking you were goin' to bring in a stripper from Charleston or, at the very least, show some of those stag films they run at the Sons of the Confederacy meetings on special occasions."
Ford snorted. "My granddaddy took me to see one of those films when Mama was in the hospital havin' Lucy. Believe me, they're borin' as hell." Not to mention demeaning to women. He wasn't a prude, but he didn't like to see anyone victimized, even if they got paid for allowing it.
"Figured as much." Mike finished his drink, then glanced at his watch. "You wouldn't take it wrong if I hauled ass out of here pretty quick, would you?"
Ford hid his relief behind a curious look. "Got a heavy date later, do you?"
"I'm not too proud to admit that I do. Emma's offered to make me coffee if I just happened to stop by."
"Do me a favor and take your boy Jack there with you. Last thing this town needs is the sheriff brought up on charges of aidin' and abettin' public drunkenness."
"Be happy to oblige." His grin slanted. "'Sides, I hear the law around here comes down like a ton of bricks on drunk drivers."
He stuck out his hand, and Ford took it, an odd lump in his throat. "See you in front of Reverend Bendix."
"Come early," Mike drawled, raking a quick, nervous hand through his sun-streaked blond hair. "I got me a feelin' I'm goin' to be too nervous to work up a decent spit."
"You'll be fine." Ford caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye and realized that someone was driving up the lane. Maybe Sophie decided to come back early, he thought, his pulse quickening at the thought.
"Latecomer?" Mike asked, following his gaze.
"Everybody's here who was invited," Ford said before making his way to the door.
He was halfway down the porch steps when he recognized Lucy's small car come into the circle of light from the pole lamp at the edge of his yard. Anticipation turned instantly to alarm, and he broke into a fast jog, reaching the car just as she killed the engine. He had the door open before she'd even removed the key from the ignition.
"What's the problem?" he demanded, helping her from the low bucket seat.
"No problem," she said, tossing back her long hair the way she'd done countless times as a girl. "In fact, my dearest, darling, overprotective brother, everything is gloriously right."
She started to fling her arms around him, but he caught her arms and held her away from him. She was wearing blue again, and another of those damn short dresses. He suspected both were that oily bastard Dooley's doing.
"Talk," he ordered, narrowing his gaze.
She jerked her chin at him, her mouth forming a pout that he'd seen too many times before. "Let go and I will."
He had half a mind to apply the flat of his hand to her fanny the way he'd done a few times in the past when she'd pushed him too far. Instead, he let her go and folded his arms over his chest. "Okay, talk."
"First, I want you to promise not to yell at me."
He felt his belly knot. It was a good bet he wasn't going to like whatever it was that had her coming to see him in the middle of the night.
"When was the last time I yelled at you?" he demanded.
"
When I was fifteen and Punky Webb's car broke down on the way home from a football game."
"I didn't yell at you, I yelled at Punky."
"Yes, and you scared him so bad I didn't have another date for the rest of the year."
"Just as well," he muttered, glaring at her. "And for the record, I haven't yelled since."
"You haven't needed to. Once the word got around that Ford Maguire was prepared to wail the living daylights out any guy who so much as looked cross-eyed at his sister, I might as well have joined a convent for all the boyfriends I attracted."
Ford rubbed the spot at the back of his neck that always gave him trouble when he had to deal with his sister's problems.
"You had dates. Lots of 'em. I ought to know. I paced the floor enough times, waitin' for some yahoo to bring you home."
"I might have had dates, but even the guys brave enough to take me out weren't brave enough to do more than give me a nervous peck on the cheek at the door before turning tail." She drew a fast breath. "I think I'm the only twenty-seven-year-old virgin in both Carolinas and Georgia, too."
Ford felt his jaw tighten down hard. "What's wrong with that?"
She sighed. "Nothing … exactly. Except that's about to change."
Ford stiffened, feeling his anger flash white-hot before he brought it under control. "If that bastard Dooley has touched you," he said between his teeth. "I'll kill him."
"He hasn't," she said hastily, "but that's going to change, and don't look at me like that, because that's the reason I drove all the way out here tonight. To tell you that he's asked me to marry him, and I've accepted."
Ford's house was ablaze with lights when Sophie paid off Arnie and carried her sleeping daughter up the walk to the door. Balancing the baby, her purse and the diaper bag while opening the door required as much patience as dexterity.
"Oh, my," she murmured, casting a quick look over the party debris littering every table and much of the floor. She was still shaking her head when Ford came in from the vicinity of the kitchen.
THE BACHELOR PARTY Page 22
