by Nora Roberts
She turned around. “Did you know he’s slapped out at my father and his family?”
“No. Maybe. He’s a hard man, Cilla.”
“So I found out when I went over to talk to him. He pretty much blames me and all my kin, as he put it, for what happened to his son. The house is cursed, I’m a whore like my grandmother, and so on. He actually spat at me.”
“Bastard.”
“I’ll say. Then he pulls out so fast, I lost my balance, and Angie’s all mother hen.”
“You should call the cops. They’ll talk to him.”
“And tell him not to spit on my shoes? Better if I just make sure he doesn’t have the chance to do it again. I’m done feeling sorry for what happened to him before I was born. I thought I was just pissed off, went back to work and sweated it out. But later, I guess it just all hit, resulting in the massive pity event I’ve just shared with you.”
“I’d call it a more medium-sized event, and that it illustrates you’re way too hard on yourself. I don’t know anything about building houses, but I do know the person in charge of what’s going on across the road. She’s no screwup. She’s smart and bold and she works for what she wants. She may not have the mystical powers of the goddess but . . .” He tapped one of the sketches. “That’s her. That’s you, Cilla. Just the way I see you.” He took down one of Brid, gripping a two-headed hammer in both hands, her face alive with power and purpose.
“Take this one, put it up somewhere. You feel one of the events coming on again, take a look at it. It’s who you are.”
“I have to say, you’re the first person to see me as a warrior goddess.”
“That’s not all she is.”
Cilla looked from the sketch up into his eyes. There was tightness in her chest again, but not the sort that presaged tears. It was the flexing, she thought, of something starting to open again. “Thanks for this, and for the rest. As payback . . .”
She turned, had his pulse bounding when she lifted the back of her shirt, bent just a little at the waist so her jeans gapped at the spine. And there, at the base, in deep blue, the three lines of the triple spiral curved.
He felt the punch in his libido even as it hit the intellect. “Celtic symbol of female power. Maid, mother, crone.”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows cocked. “Aren’t you smart?”
“I’ve been researching.” He stepped closer to study the tattoo. “And that particular symbol was top of my list for Brid. That’s freaking kismet.”
“It should be on her biceps.”
“What? Sorry. Very distracted.”
“Biceps.” Cilla turned, flexed hers. “It’s stronger there. Not as sexy, maybe, but stronger, I think. And if you go with the idea of having it form when she transforms, it’s a bigger statement.”
“You were listening.”
“So were you.” She lifted a hand, touched his cheek. “You’re good at it.”
“Okay. We need to get out of the house now.”
“We do?”
“Yeah. Because I could talk you into bed now, and I really want to. Then we’d both wonder if it was because you had a bad day and I was just here. Angst and awkwardness ensue. So . . . let’s go get ice cream.”
Another key word had Spock deserting bear and bed and leaping up.
Smiling, she stroked her fingers down to Ford’s jawline. “I want you to talk me into bed now.”
“Yeah. Shut up. Ice cream. Let’s go.”
He grabbed her hand, pulled her along. The dog passed them at a run in a race for the front door.
“You’re a confusing man, Ford.”
“Half the time I don’t understand myself.”
TEN
To Steve’s mind very little topped the sensation of roaring along a country road, hugging the curves with the warm night wind streaming. Scoring with the hot brunette, Shanna the landscaper, would’ve edged that out, but he’d come close there.
And there was always next time.
He’d gotten a taste, anyway, and had the feeling the full dish would live up to the promise of the sample. Yeah. He grinned into the wind. Next time.
But for now, cruising along the deserted road after a little beer, a little pool, a few laughs and the prelude with Shanna hit all the chords. Swinging down, taking a couple of weeks to hook up with Cilla, yeah, that was working for him.
She’d taken on a big one, he mused. A big, complicated project, and a wicked personal one. But it was working for her, too. He could see it in the way she looked, the way she talked. And she’d make herself something—something big, complicated and personal. Just like she’d always needed to.
He could give her another week, maybe ten days on it. Because damn if the rehab didn’t grab him, and tight enough he wanted to see it through a little longer. He wanted to hang with Cilla a little longer, too, watch her build the framework of her new life.
And hopefully close the deal with Shanna while he was at it.
A week ought to do it, he thought as he swung around the turn and onto Cilla’s road. By then, the rural charm of the Shenandoah Valley would start to fade for him. He needed the action of the city, and though New York appealed to him for short stints, L.A.’s gloss and sparkle was home, sweet home.
Not for Cilla. Steve glanced idly at a car parked on the shoulder near a long, rising lane. No, for Cilla L.A. had always been just a place. Probably another reason getting married had been such a whacked idea. Even back then she’d been looking for a way out, and he’d been looking for a way in.
And somehow, they’d both found it.
He turned into her drive, smiling to himself when he noted she’d left a light on out front for him, and another inside that glowed against one of the windows. That was Cilla, he thought. She thought of the little things, remembered details.
And the light in the window reminded him it had to be after two in the morning. In the country quiet his Harley sounded like a tornado blowing out to Oz. She’d probably sleep through it—when Cilla went out, she went out—but he cut the engine halfway down the drive and coasted.
Singing under his breath, he hopped off the bike to guide it the rest of the way to the barn. He took off his helmet, strapped it onto the bike, then pulled open the creaking barn door. He left the headlight on to cut a swath through the dark and, with a belch that brought back the memory of Corona, slapped the kickstand down. When he angled the front wheel, the headlight cut across one of Cilla’s storage boxes. It sat open, with its lid beside it, and scattered with photos and papers.
“Hey.”
He took a step forward for a closer look. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and felt only an instant of shattering pain before he pitched forward onto the concrete.
CILLA HAD the first of what she thought of as a heads-together with Matt just after seven A.M. She planned others with the electrician and the plumber, but she wanted Steve in on that. As long as he was here, she thought, she’d use him.
Plus, she wanted him to go with her on a buying trip. She needed to choose tile and hardware, fixtures, and order more lumber. By seven-thirty, the cacophony of saws, hammers and radios filled the house, and figuring Steve had had a late night, she took pity on him and carried a mug of coffee up to the bedroom where he slept in his borrowed Spider-Man sleeping bag.
When she saw Spidey was currently unoccupied, she blew out a breath. “Somebody got lucky,” she muttered, and drank the coffee herself as she headed downstairs.
She grabbed her lists, her notebook, her purse. As she stepped outside, the landscape crew pulled in. Cilla’s eyebrows quirked up when she spotted Shanna. Just who did Steve get lucky with? she wondered. Shanna lifted a hand in a wave, then, carrying a to-go cup of coffee, wandered over.
“Morning. Brian’s got to site another job this morning, but he’ll swing by in a couple hours.”
“Fine. I’m heading in to pick up some materials. Do you need me for anything?”
“We’re good. But you ought to come
around when you get back. We’ll be starting on hardscape—the patio and walkways today.” Shanna glanced at the house. “So, is Steve among the living this morning?”
“Haven’t seen him yet.”
“I’m not surprised.” Adjusting the cap over her dark braid, Shanna flashed a smile. “We about closed the place down last night. That Steve, he sure can dance.”
“Yes, he can.”
“He’s a sweetie. Followed me home to make sure I got there safe, then didn’t push—or not hard—to come in. He’d pushed a little harder, and who knows?” She hooted out a laugh.
“He didn’t stay with you?”
“No.” Shanna’s smile faded. “Did he get home all right?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him inside, so I assumed . . .” With a shrug, Cilla jingled her keys. “I’ll just go see if his bike’s in the barn.”
Shanna fell into step beside her. “He was fine when he left, I mean he hadn’t been drinking much. A couple of beers all night. I only live about twenty minutes from here.”
“I probably just missed him in the house.” But her stomach started to jump as Cilla reached the barn door. “Maybe he went up while I went down.”
Sunlight splashed into the barn and erupted with dust motes. Cilla blinked to adjust her eyes and felt a fresh wave of anxiety when she didn’t immediately spot the Harley.
Stepping in, she noted some of her storage boxes were tipped over, the contents spilled. An old chair lay broken on its side. She saw the Harley then, on the floor, handlebars up as if its rider had wiped out. Steve, arms and legs splayed, sprawled under the weighty bulk of it.
“Oh God.” She sprang forward, Shanna beside her, to lift the bike off Steve. Blood matted his hair, and more stained his raw and bruised face. Afraid to move him, Cilla pressed her fingers to his throat. And nearly shook as she felt his pulse beat.
“He’s alive. He’s got a pulse. Call—”
“I am.” Crouching, Shanna punched nine-one-one on her cell phone. “Should we get a blanket? Should we—”
“Tell them to hurry. Don’t move him.” Cilla leaped up and ran for the house.
HE COULD USUALLY sleep through anything. But the shouting scraped along Ford’s consciousness, then the sirens drove straight in. Too bleary to put them together, he rolled out of bed, stumbled out onto the veranda. Yawning, he scanned across the road, wished he could conjure a cup of coffee with the power of his mind. The sight of the ambulance outside Cilla’s barn had him snapping awake. When he didn’t see her in his quick, panicked search, he rushed back inside to drag on clothes.
He streaked across the road, up Cilla’s drive, keeping his mind blank. If one image, even one image, formed, a dozen horrible others would follow. He pushed through the crowd of workers, said her name once, like a personal prayer.
When he saw her standing behind the portable gurney, his heart started beating again. Then it slammed into his belly when he realized Steve lay on the gurney.
“I’m going with him. I’m going.” Her voice teetered on the thin edge between control and hysteria. “He’s not going alone.” She gripped the edge of the gurney, stuck like glue as they transported it to the ambulance.
The fear in her eyes chilled Ford to the bone. “Cilla. I’m going to follow you in. I’m going to be there.”
“He won’t wake up. They can’t wake him up.” Before anyone could deny her, Cilla climbed into the back of the ambulance.
He took her purse because Shanna had retrieved it and pushed it into his hands. Shanna, Ford thought, who’d had tears streaking down her face.
“He was in the barn,” Shanna choked out, and slid into Ford’s arms for comfort. “Lying on the floor, under the bike. The blood.”
“Okay, Shan. Okay, honey. I’m going to go. I’m going to find out how he is.”
“Call me, please. Call me.”
“First thing.”
After a wild drive to the hospital, Ford carried Cilla’s purse into the ER, too worried to feel even marginally foolish.
He found her standing outside a pair of double doors, looking helpless.
“I gave them his medical history, the stuff I could remember. Who remembers all of that kind of thing?” She pawed at the neck of her shirt, as if looking for something, anything, to hold on to. “But I gave them his blood type. I remembered his blood type. A-negative. I remembered.”
“Okay. Let’s go sit down.”
“They won’t let me in. They won’t let me stay with him. He won’t wake up.”
Ford put an arm around her shoulders and firmly steered her away from the doors and to a chair. Instead of sitting, he crouched in front of her so her eyes were on his face. “They’re going to fix him now. That’s what they’re doing. Okay?”
“He was bleeding. His head. His face. Lying there bleeding. I don’t know how long.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know!” She pressed both hands to her mouth, and began to rock. “I don’t know. He wasn’t in his room, and I figured, I thought, well, I figured, he shoots, he scores. That’s all. I almost left. God, God, I almost left without even looking, even checking. It would’ve been hours more.”
“Breathe.” He spoke sharply, took her hands and squeezed. “Look at me and breathe.”
“Okay.” She breathed, and she trembled, but Ford saw a hint of color come back into her face. “I thought he’d stayed at Shanna’s, so I was going to go buy materials, but he didn’t. I mean, she got there and said he didn’t. I worried that he might’ve gotten lost or something. I don’t even know. But I went to see if his bike was there. And we found him.”
“In the barn.”
“He was lying under his bike. I don’t know what could’ve happened. His head, his face.” Now she rubbed a hand between her breasts. Ford could almost hear the slam of her heart against the pressure. “I heard them say he’s probably got a couple of broken ribs, from the bike falling on him. But how did the bike fall on him? And . . . and the head injuries. His pupils. They said something about a blown pupil. I know that’s not good. I had a guest spot on ER once.”
She hitched in three raw breaths, then let them out in a gush. And the tears came with it. “Who the hell has a motorcycle accident in a barn? It’s so goddamn stupid.”
Taking the tears, and the hint of anger, as good signs, Ford sat beside her and held her hand.
When the door flew open, they lurched to their feet together. “What is it? Where are you taking him? Steve.”
“Miss.” One of the ER nurses put herself in Cilla’s path. “They’re taking your friend up to surgery.”
“Surgery for what? For what?”
“He has bleeding in his brain from the head injury. They need to operate. I’m going to take you up to the surgical waiting area. One of the doctors can explain the procedure to you.”
“How bad? You can tell me that. How bad?”
“We’re doing everything we can. We have a good surgical team prepping for the procedure.” She gestured them to an elevator. “Do you know if Mr. Chensky was in some sort of fight?”
“No. Why?”
“The injury to the back of his head. It looks as though he’s been struck. It’s just not consistent with a fall. Of course, if he was driving without his helmet . . .”
“It didn’t happen when he was driving. It didn’t happen on the road.”
“So you said.”
“Cilla.” Ford laid a hand on hers before she could get into the elevator. “We need to call the cops.”
HOW WAS SHE supposed to think? How could she sit in this room while somewhere else strangers operated on Steve? An operating room. Operating theater. They called it a theater sometimes, didn’t they? Would the patient and doctor be co-stars? Who got top billing?
“Miss McGowan?”
“What?” She stared into the blank eyes of the cop. What was his name? She’d already forgotten it. “I’m sorry.” She groped through the chaos of her mind for
the question he’d asked. “I’m not sure what time he got back. I went to bed about midnight, and he wasn’t back. Shanna said he left her before two. Just before two, she said.”
“Do you have Shanna’s full name?”
“Shanna Stiles,” Ford supplied. “She works for Brian Morrow. Morrow Landscape and Design.”
“You found Mr. Chensky at approximately seven-thirty this morning?”
“I said that. Didn’t I say that?” Cilla pushed at her hair. “He wasn’t in the house, so I checked the barn for his bike. And I found him.”
“You and Mr. Chensky live together?”
“He’s visiting. He’s helping me out for a few weeks.”
“Visiting from?”
“Los Angeles. New York. I mean, he was in New York, and he’s going back to L.A.” Whatever churned in her belly wanted to rise up to her throat. “What difference does it make?”
“Officer Taney.” Ford put a hand over Cilla’s, squeezed. “Here’s the thing. A few nights ago, I saw someone walking around, going into Cilla’s barn. It was late. I was working late, and I looked out the window on the way to bed and saw someone, saw a flashlight. I thought it was Steve, and didn’t think anything of it.”
“But it wasn’t.” Remembering, Cilla shut her eyes. “I was supposed to buy a padlock, but I didn’t. I forgot about it, didn’t think about it, and now—”
“What do you keep in the barn?” Taney asked her.
“I cleaned out the attic and stored things there. A lot of things I have to sort through. And there’s other stuff. Old tack, tools, equipment.”
“Valuables?”
“For some, anything connected to my grandmother is valuable. Stupid, stupid to think I could turn it all around, make it new.” Make it mine, she thought. Stupid.
“Was anything taken?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Mr. Chensky went out at approximately eight last evening, to a bar. You don’t have the name of the bar—”
“No, I don’t have the name of the bar. You can ask Shanna Stiles. And if you’re thinking he was drunk and somehow bashed himself on the back of the head, smashed his face into the concrete and knocked his bike on top of him, you’re wrong. Steve wouldn’t get on his bike drunk. You can ask Shanna or anyone else who was in the bar last night about that.”
