How he could then turn it around to make it look as if she were the one with the problem, was hard to excuse. If you did, it would all be easy.
Easy to dismiss her? Easy to keep her out of his life?
Was she letting what she wanted his words to mean mislead her? Should she even be wanting the words to have that meaning? Wasn’t that asking for trouble? Wasn’t that letting her emotions rule her?
The way they had when he’d ...
She didn’t form the rest of the thought. It didn’t matter. Her body didn’t need a complete thought to respond.
Okay, so there were emotions going on – hot and potent emotions. Okay, so she wasn’t accustomed to this. Okay, she’d even admit she found it all ... startling. Even a little frightening,
Was this how my mother felt?
She’d always thought her mother must have been an out-of-control emotional type. Surely that fit with a woman who would let herself be taken in by a man. But what if Suzanne Dahlgren had been reasonable all her life? In a way that made more sense, since she had been Antonia’s daughter, her only child. So if she’d once been sensible, then fell apart over a man ....
The completion of that thought was frightening.
And all the more reason for Rebecca to keep her mind on the business of tracking down the missing link to her personal history.
She had made some progress. Sorting through the records that were available, she’d determined that none of the ranch’s employees in the file-room records with Indian-sounding names had been old enough at the time of her birth to have been s likely candidate as her father.
A list of names from the five years before had been in one of the folders, and it had possibilities. Until she saw the complete files with age and other information, however, she couldn’t know for sure. And to see the file she needed the storage area key from Luke.
Who had just walked away from her. Again.
“Damn him.”
She looked around. No one was there to hear her. That meant no one was there to see what she did, either.
He was not going to distract her. He was not going to stand in her way – more accurately, he was not going to walk away when she needed his cooperation.
She hesitated only long enough to suck in a good supply of oxygen, then headed for the battered door with a black-painted frame of glass near the top and a half-dozen boot-toe-shaped dents at the bottom. The metal handle felt suspiciously sticky. She gave it a quick turn, and released it as soon as possible.
From the dazzle of the setting sun, she entered a cave. A black hole where she knew life existed only because she could smell the yeastiness of spilled beer and the staleness of old cigarettes, hear the thump of glass against wood and feel the warmth of a number of bodies packed into a confined area. She couldn’t see a thing for those first few seconds.
She couldn’t hear much, either, as she became aware of a decided hush. Only the juke box speakers wailed on unfettered about someone drinking alone under the light of a neon moon.
“You need help, honey?”
A woman’s voice, a little raspy, not unfriendly, came to her out of the darkness.
Rebecca blinked and a face to go with the voice separated itself from the shadows. Uncompromisingly red lipstick on a small mouth, robin’s egg blue eye shadow over tired looking eyes.
“Uh, no, thank you. I think I’ll just ...”
The rest of the room, which stretched one narrow arm to her left and one to the right was coming into focus, and with it, the unabashed stares of the half dozen or so men scattered along the bar and at a few tables. To the far left, two stood beside a pool table, cue sticks in hand, game temporarily suspended while they gawked at her.
She felt like the proverbial fish out of water. She could only hope her flopping around wasn’t too visible. Doggedly, she looked into face after face. A few were vaguely familiar, none was the uncompromising visage of Luke Chandler.
“Did your car break down? You need to call somebody?”
“No, thank you. Someone I need to speak with came in here, so I followed – ” Which no longer seemed such a good idea. “ – and ...”
“Someone you need to talk to, in here?” the woman repeated, as if the two halves of that thought wouldn’t fit together.
“Yes, I – ” She swallowed, gathered her wits and her aplomb to turn back to the woman with a gracious smile. “Thank you. I see my party in the corner.”
Luke was facing the door. His were the only eyes not pinned on her as she made her way to his table. He had his right elbow hooked around the back of the chair and his left hand curled around a bottle of beer. With one knee bent and the other leg extended into the aisle, he presented a picture of relaxed male arrogance.
“Luke, we got, uh, sidetracked, I still need to talk to you – about business.”
He raised his chin. He said nothing.
“May I sit down?” That had a bit of an edge to it.
“Suit yourself.”
“Thank you.”
The chair leg scraped against the uneven wooden floor with a goose-bump-raising squeal. Instinctively, Rebecca looked around. Every face was turned to her. “Sorry.”
No one said anything. No one looked away.
As she sat, Luke took a swig of beer.
“Nothin’ to be sorry for. They don’t mind the noise, and they were looking at you anyway.”
“I know you don’t like my manners – ”
“Can I get you something, honey?” The waitress had materialized at her side.
“Oh, I...”
“They don’t have white wine,” Luke said flatly.
Rebecca couldn’t decide if he’d said that to spare her the embarrassment of asking for it, or to emphasize that she didn’t belong here.
“How ‘bout a beer?” the waitress asked.
Her nametag said Sally. Rebecca smiled at her. “Thank you, Sally. I don’t care much for beer – ”
“No mai-tais or Pink Ladies, either.”
Luke’s second contribution left little doubt of his motivation. “I’d like an ice water – ” Without looking at him, she knew Luke’s mouth was slipping toward a smirk. “ – and a scotch on the rocks, please, Sally.”
Sally blinked at her, then nodded and headed off to fill the order. Luke said nothing, and neither did she. When Sally returned, she brought the water, the scotch and another bottle of beer for Luke, though he hadn’t finished the first.
“I’ll get this round,” Rebecca said with a bit of a flourish. She looked at the figure scrawled at the bottom of the standard restaurant form. “Sally, I think you missed my drink. This only covers the beer.”
The waitress leaned over, bringing a wave of perfume with her. Rebecca steeled herself to keep from drawing back.
“Nah, that’s right. Scotch and the beer.”
Rebecca paid the amount and added a more than generous tip.
“Say, thanks!”
When she saw Luke leaning back with one eyebrow cocked up, she said defensively, “I believe in tipping,”
“That wasn’t a tip, it was a bribe. You planning on doing something you don’t want Sally to talk about?”
Defiant, she looked directly in his eyes, which glinted with amusement and something else. “Like what?”
“Like,” he drawled, “drink that scotch, maybe?”
She picked up the glass and did something she’d never done before in her life – she didn’t sip, she didn’t take a mere swallow. She put back a slug.
CHAPTER SIX
“What I want to know is how come you got all that education and now you’re puttin’ all your time and heart into fussin’ about dead men instead of live ones you got right in front of you.”
The tilt of Luke’s head took in the other denizens of this bar and somehow excluded himself, even though he was the live man most right in front of her.
He slanted her another of those looks from under the shadow of his cowboy hat that made her want to snatch
it off or pull it hard down on his nose
“Because,” she snapped, “the dead men are more interesting.”
When he’d ordered a burger and fries, she’d declined to get anything to eat, hoping her restraint would convey that she was here strictly on business. She’d steered clear of family issues, but he’d pulled a good deal of information out of her about her education and professional background.
“Well now,” he drawled, “I’d never have figured you for kinky. Not – ”
“Kinky?” she sputtered.
“ – with that prim kind of look, and those careful clothes.”
She opened her mouth to dispute those assessments, then stopped herself. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she said, making a show of folding her hands precisely on the table. “I strive to give an impression of professionalism and decorum.”
“Always said you couldn’t judge a book by its cover,” he murmured. “And you’ve proved my point.”
Anyone who spoke in such a low tone deserved to have their words ignored.
“In the interest of broadening your mind, I will say that I am interested in what you call dead men and others call history because the choices people made three hundred or two hundred or one hundred years ago affect what our lives are like now. Look at Far Hills Ranch.” She leaned forward. “Imagine how different things might be if Charles Susland had stayed with Leaping Star instead of pushing her aside and marrying a rich white wife. There probably wouldn’t be a Far Hills Ranch today, or a town. I’m not saying he was right – not at all – but his actions, his personality have an effect, even now. Or what if he had listened to Leaping Star? If he’d taken care of their child and that child had survived, what might have happened then? Would his marriage to Annalee have endured? Maybe the Susland line would have died out a hundred years ago.”
The corners of his mouth tucked in like he might be fighting a grin. “You sure there’s nothing kinky about this? You get awfully worked up about it.”
She became aware that she was leaning so far forward that her breasts nearly brushed against where her hands were still crossed atop the table. She straightened with assumed ease.
“People make a mistake when they look at history. They see it as a straight line. They see what did happen and they think that’s what had to happen. But each step was filled with choices. And the people living then – just as we do now – had to make choices.”
“What difference does it make knowing what their choices were? Those old choices were decided and it’s done. Can’t be undone. It’s called history because it’s not happening now. And we live now.”
“You’ve thought more about this than you’ve let on.”
Something flickered across his face that she suspected was irritation – at her or himself?
“Hard not to with Marti going on about the old fort and the ranch’s history.”
“History teaches us the mistakes not to repeat, and sometimes it teaches us the things we should repeat. Besides, it affects what’s happening now, right now, every day in your life and mind.”
“You mean that stuff about Far Hills Ranch not existing? If it didn’t, I’d be at another ranch. I’d still be the same.”
No, you wouldn’t.
The thought hit her even more powerfully than the scotch. He was part of Far Hills Ranch, and it was part of him. She couldn’t explain it any better than that.
“Other things, too,” she said lamely.
He tipped the beer bottle nearly upside down as he drained it. Then he challenged, “Like what?”
Like what? Her mind went blank. She could think of nothing. She took a quick gulp of the scotch, feeling the burn of it down her throat and into her chest.
“Take your name, for instance,” she offered, her relief making her sound incredibly pleased with herself. Or was that the scotch?
“What about my name?”
“Chandler’s something you use every day, and it’s a piece of history. It’s what they called the craftsman who made candles. Somewhere in your ancestry, you must have had a candlemaker.”
“Horse thief more likely.” Still, he sounded not quite as unyielding. “Even if it’s so, I’m just using that string of letters, not caring where they came from.”
“Okay, well, I’ll tell you one with practical use.” She lifted the glass of scotch, which had only a quarter of its golden liquid left. “I use the six wives of Henry the VIII any time I have something to drink.”
“How’s that?”
His voice was ripe with skeptical amusement, but she answered solemnly, “If I can say the names of the six wives of Henry the VIIIth, in order, then I know I have not had too much to drink.”
“How often you have to use that?” he asked wryly. “Can’t imagine a lot of partying at Grandma Dahlgren’s, unless – ”
He stopped abruptly, and she knew he’d remembered what she’d said about her mother’s drinking. It didn’t bother her. She felt oddly insulated. Besides, partying was not what her mother had been doing.
“It got me safely through college.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.” Supporting his crossed forearms on the table he leaned far across it, until his face was only about twelve inches from hers. “Let’s hear those six wives. Right now.”
“You think...? Are you intimating that I have had too much to drink?”
“I am not intimating anything – ” The sound of that word, or maybe the way he said it, seemed to reverberate through her. “ – I’m saying I want to hear those six names – in order – right now.”
Chin up, eyes level, she recited: “Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard and” – she couldn’t keep the triumph from her tone – “Katherine Pair.”
That should show him.
“That last one – was that Pear like the fruit? Katherine Pear?”
She frowned. “Henry never married anyone named Pear. Why’re you trying to confuse me?”
“Not me, Ms. Dahlgren. You’re doing it all by yourself.”
She had a very odd feeling – a simultaneous certainty that his statement had significance, and an inability to puzzle it out.
Why would he say Henry the Eighth had been married to a piece of fruit? Pear? Where could he have ...?
“Parr,” she enunciated clearly. “Katherine Parr. She was the only one to outlive him.”
She sat back, waiting for him to look impressed. He didn’t.
“Oh. Maybe Anne of Cleves ... They lived apart from the start, and I don’t remember when she died. It might have been after him. I used to know.”
But she couldn’t remember the details now to save her life – or her dignity. And she’d said Pear instead of Parr. That could only mean –
She stood abruptly.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving now.”
“Rebecca – ”
“Good-night, Luke. I know we didn’t finish our business, but I feel it’s time for me to go home. I will contact you – ” She spoke with care. “ – at your earliest convenience.”
* * * *
He sat for a moment, watching her walk precisely between the tables and barstools. Very precisely. Damn.
He dropped some bills on the table for his meal and headed after her.
“Oh, hell, no, Chandler’s not interested in some rich broad,” Robby Greene said with loud derision as he passed.
Luke pushed out the door without pausing.
A quick glance showed him she was crossing the parking lot – away from her car, parked precisely amid the welter of casually angled pickups. As he closed the gap between them. the overhead light was bright enough that he could see the crease down the back of her slacks, the belt where her blouse neatly slid inside the waistband and the shift of her hips as she walked.
He stretched his stride so he’d catch up with her faster, and trim his observing time.
“Where’re you goin’, Rebecca?
”
She turned her head, without stopping. He matched his pace to hers.
“To my apartment.”
“Walking?”
She looked at him, eyes serious. “I am not precisely drunk, but I believe it would be wiser to walk than drive.”
He muttered a curse, sighed, and snagged her elbow, drawing her to a stop. “I’ll drive you.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think – ”
“I can’t name the six wives of Henry the VIII, but I never could, so you’ll have to take my word on it. I’d pass any Breathalyzer.”
“I believe you. You ate a full meal with those two bottles of beer.” He was torn between amusement and surprise that she’d kept an eye on his intake of alcohol and food. “My concern is, if you drive me home, how would I get my car in the morning?”
He refrained from pointing out that she would have faced the same problem if she’d walked home. “I’ll drive your car.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
She turned and started back toward her car. Her movements were remarkably steady for someone who’d missed the detail that if he drove her car, he’d have to find a way back here to his truck.
She handed over her keys without fumbling and settled into the passenger seat, hands cupped in her lap, staring straight ahead while he adjusted seat, mirrors and steering wheel for his larger frame.
“You don’t drink much, do you, Rebecca?”
“No.”
Her mother’s legacy, he suspected. He’d already stepped into that one once tonight, he wasn’t going to do it again.
“Why’d you do it tonight?”
“I was nervous.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, and she added nothing. They drove in silence until they stopped for a red light at otherwise deserted Main Street.
“I live on Canyon Street, off Seventh,” she said.
As if he hadn’t picked her up there. As if he hadn’t taken her back there. As if he hadn’t almost kissed her in that driveway more than two weeks ago.
“I’ve been there, remember?”
“Oh. Of course. I wasn’t ... thinking.” She’d faced him to say those words, now she turned straight ahead. “I don’t want to go home yet. Can’t we go someplace else?”
Hidden in a Heartbeat (A Place Called Home, Book 3) Page 12
