"But it could be only fifteen thousand," he murmured softly, suppressing a twinge of shame for baiting her.
"It will be twenty-five." She spoke with absolute confidence.
"That's a lot of money."
"Don't worry. I have it, and if you want more, I'll get that."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"Then you'll do it?" There was so much hope, so much need in the question that Cody found himself temporizing instead of just giving her a flat no.
"Let me think about it."
"Think about it!" Sara caught herself before she said anything else. When she spoke again, her words were carefully chosen. "It's already been ten days, Mr. Wolf. There really isn't a whole lot of time in which to think about it."
"I have a fence to check. Why don't you go into the house and have some coffee and read a magazine or something and I'll be back in a couple of hours?" He was lifting a saddle off a rack as he spoke.
Sara bit back the urge to scream at him that she had to have an answer now. They'd come from absolute refusal to at least a possibility that he'd help her. Realistically, two hours wasn't going to make any difference. She drew on the hours she had spent smiling for the camera no matter how she felt and forced her lips to curve.
"All right."
Cody thought he'd seen grizzly bears with more-sincere smiles, but he gave her points for self-control. He watched her turn and walk away, his eyes skimming over the slim lines of her back, and his admiration was tinged with a purely masculine appreciation of the female shape of her. In snug jeans, tucked into black boots, her derriere was delightfully inviting. And the bulky warmth of a periwinkle-colored sweater didn't disguise the graceful curve of waist and bust.
Small but nicely formed, he admitted reluctantly. He carried the saddle out into the corral and draped it over a section of fence. A sharp whistle brought Dancer over to him, and he ran his hand along the proud arch of the stallion's neck.
"And worlds apart from us, boy," he whispered softly. Dancer nodded his head in apparent agreement and pushed his nose demandingly against Cody's shoulder. A smile broke the frown between the man's brows and he laughed softly, "you're right. I shouldn't have called you over here just to chat."
A few minutes later, he leaned down to open the corral gate and then shut it with his foot once they were through. He turned the stallion up the valley and urged him into a gentle canter. The saddle still lay on the fence. The only thing between man and horse was the softness of a saddle blanket.
Cody could feel the horse's powerful muscles rippling between his knees as the bay paced across the grass. Checking fences could be done another day. Right now, he needed to think.
He let Dancer find his own path, his eyes skimming over the land as the horse slowed to a walk. She'd certainly hit the nail on the head when she said that ranching cost a lot. He wasn't broke, but it was going to take time to build up a reputation for his horses. In a few years he'd be able to sell every foal he produced, but in the meantime...
Twenty-five thousand dollars would go a long way, but that wasn't the reason that he was thinking about her proposition. She was so sure the boy was alive. What if she was right? Could he take that chance? And then there was the dream. Twice before he had dreamed, and each time he'd gone into the mountains to find death. He didn't want that again. But what if the boy was alive?
❧
Sara restlessly paced back and forth on the porch. What was she going to do if he came back and still refused to help her? No, she wasn't even going to think of that. Cody Wolf was the best chance she had of finding Cullen and he was going to help her. She had to believe that.
The air was taking on a distinctly chilly edge, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She stopped pacing to lean against the porch rail, casting a glance over her shoulder at the screen door. It would be warm in the house.
When she first left Cody at the barn, she had accepted his invitation to wait in the house. But she hadn't stayed there long. The painting she had only glimpsed earlier hung in a prominent position on one wall. At least four feet by six feet, its very size would have made it a focal point. But it was the subject matter of the painting that caused it to dominate the room.
Against a snowy background, a lone wolf stood braced, its head turned to look out of the canvas. The artist had captured every magnificent aspect of the creature, from the heavy winter coat that was just a few shades darker than the snow that surrounded it to the look of wary intelligence in the golden eyes.
It was the eyes that had finally driven Sara onto the porch. At first, she had sat down across from the painting, admiring the artist's skill. Then she had picked up an issue of National Geographic and started to flip through it, not really reading but glancing at the pictures and skimming an article or two. After a few minutes, she began to feel as if she were being watched. She tried to dismiss the sensation but it just kept growing. Feeling like an idiot, she had moved to a chair off to the side. It was a tribute to the artist that the wolf actually seemed to be looking at her. But the sensation didn't go away, and she looked up impatiently to find that the wolf's eyes still seemed to be focused right on her.
She quickly discovered that those eyes followed her no matter where she was in the room, watching her as if real intelligence lay beneath the painted canvas. Feeling like a total fool, she abandoned the living room and retreated onto the porch. She could admire the artist's skill, but right now her nerves were in no condition to deal with those watching eyes.
It seemed as if eons had passed, but it couldn't have been more than an hour or two before Cody returned. She had abandoned pacing in favor of the porch swing. One foot pushed against the worn planking of the floor, setting the swing into creaky motion. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on making each breath slow and deep, trying to block out every thought. It was a simple relaxation technique that had made it easier for her to tolerate the inevitable delays a model faced: waiting for props to be set up, waiting for garments that had mysteriously disappeared to be found.
As Cody came up the steps and onto the porch, she reminded him more than ever of a delicate mountain flower. The periwinkle of her sweater and the honey-gold of her hair, which fell in easy curls onto her shoulders, were bright spots of color against the weathered house.
She stirred up emotions that he didn't trust. Not just desire—that was inevitable and could be dealt with. But he found himself wanting to just hold her and reassure her. He wanted to sit down next to her and stroke her hair and tell her not to worry about anything. Those feelings were not so easily categorized and filed away. And that disturbed him.
Sara opened her eyes slowly, feeling more relaxed than she had since the crash. The sun had slipped behind the mountains, leaving the valley dusky with evening light. Cody was little more than a silhouette in front of her, a shoulder casually braced against one of the posts that supported the porch roof, his hat tilted back on his head. She couldn't see his eyes but she knew he was looking at her.
With his silent arrival, tension was suddenly a living presence. She sat up, swallowing the urge to demand his decision instantly. She couldn't allow herself to have any doubts about it. He had to agree to help her find Cullen. Anything else was unthinkable.
Cody tugged his hat off, slapping it against his thigh as he looked at her. A moment ago she had looked as if she hadn't a care in the world. Now every line of her body bespoke tension. Cursing himself for nine kinds of a fool, he made the only choice he could.
"I'll find your nephew."
Not "I'll try" but "I'll find," Sara noted with the part of her mind that was still capable of functioning. Everything else was blanked out by a tremendous relief.
He was going to help her find Cullen. It was going to be all right.
❧
The Survivor
Cullen settled the last rock into place and stood up. At his feet was a shallow mound of dirt and rock. Not much to show for forty-five years o
f life. Bill Taylor had been a friend of Cullen's father before Cullen was born. After Evan's death, Bill had in some ways filled the gap he'd left behind. Bill had been a friend, camping buddy and teacher.
Cullen ground his teeth and then wiped one gloved hand roughly across his cheek. He wasn't ashamed of the tears. Bill had been a good friend. Tears were a small tribute to that friendship. But right now survival had to be his first priority. Bill would have been the first to tell him that.
He stared at the grave a moment longer and then lifted his hand in a half salute that acknowledged his friend's military background.
"I'm sorry, Bill. I did what I could," he whispered huskily. But first aid couldn't do much for a crushed chest and fractured skull. The older man had never regained consciousness. Less than twenty-four hours after the plane went down, he had died quietly.
Cullen cocked his head, listening to the far-off whir of a plane. Too far off, he decided immediately. Too far off and fading already. He turned his collar up over his ears. It had taken most of the day to scoop out the shallow grave and cover it over with dirt and rocks. The sun was dropping behind the mountain peaks and the temperature would drop along with it. Twenty yards behind him was the twisted wreckage of the plane. It would offer some shelter.
Taking one last look at the grave, he turned away and started toward the plane. His limping stride made scuffed patterns in the light snowfall. Just enough snow to make life difficult, he thought.
By the time he sank down in the shelter of the wreckage, a faint sheen of sweat coated his features. Only a miracle had prevented him from sharing Bill's fate, but he hadn't come away from the crash scot-free. A long, narrow cut skated its way down his face, more annoying than life-threatening, but making any facial movement painful. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been jarred loose by the impact, but he had been incredibly lucky.
The only major damage was to his left knee, and he had no way of knowing just how major that damage was. The joint was badly swollen and bending it was almost a thing of the past. He worked the leg of his pants up past the joint, drawing in a sharp breath as he shifted his leg in an attempt to get a better look at his knee.
His expression didn't change as he examined the swollen purple mass that bore little resemblance to a knee. He eased the fabric back down and leaned back against the fuselage. It had been almost forty-eight hours since the crash, and in that time he'd had little sleep. In a minute, he would get up and pull himself into his sleeping bag. He could pile Bill's on top and that would keep him warm enough tonight. Tomorrow he could try to decide what the next step was, but for now sleep was all he was capable of.
In a minute, he'd move. Right now, all he could do was be thankful that he was still alive.
Chapter 3
Cody dished stew onto two plates and set them on the table. His eyes flickered to the kitchen door. He had spent so much time alone that having someone else in the house felt like an invasion. He opened the oven to check on the loaf of bread that was warming and slammed the door with more force than necessary.
She was trouble. Every nerve in his body told him that. Just as every nerve in his body responded when she came near. He didn't need this. Not now. Not ever. He wanted to send her packing before she could demolish his carefully arranged life. But he couldn't. If the boy was alive, he had to find him.
And something told him that he couldn't just walk away from Sara Grant. He had to meet her challenge head-on. Meet it and conquer it.
He had his back to the door when she entered, but he knew that she was there. It was nothing so definite as a scent. It was almost as if her presence changed the very air he was breathing.
"It smells wonderful."
"Just stew," he said laconically. "Water okay?"
"Fine."
Sara sat down and waited until he was seated opposite her before picking up her fork. Ever since the crash her appetite had been nonexistent, but the rich scent of the stew made her stomach rumble.
She blushed, hoping he hadn't heard the embarrassingly eager sound. The food tasted even better than it smelled: dark chunks of beef swimming in a rich gravy with thick chunks of vegetables, and warm bread to catch every last drop. She chewed the first bite slowly, thinking that food had never tasted so good.
"It's wonderful," she told him sincerely.
He lifted a brow. "Just stew."
That seemed to be the extent of his interest in conversation for a while, and Sara was content to concentrate on her food.
"Where are you from?" he asked. She swallowed quickly, startled by the sudden question.
"L.A."
"What about the boy's parents? Why aren't they here harassing me into looking for him?"
"I didn't harass you. We have a business arrangement."
"I stand corrected." There was more than a tinge of irony in his words. "His parents?"
"My brother and his wife died in a light-plane crash five years ago."
"You must have been very young. Did you take the boy in?"
"I was twenty-three. There was no one else, even if I hadn't wanted him, which I did."
"A lot of responsibility." He wondered why he was probing like this. Did he really want to know anything more about her and the boy? The more he knew, the more real they became. And the harder it would be to hold them at a distance.
"My parents died when I was eight. Mom had a stroke, and a few months later Dad got pneumonia and died. I guess he just didn't have the willpower to fight. My brother, Evan, had just gotten married, but he and Alicia took me in without hesitation." Sara drew idle patterns on the scratched surface of the table, her eyes focused on the movement, her thoughts turned inward.
"Cullen has been more of a little brother than a nephew. And in the last couple of years, he's grown to be my best friend. He's one of those kids who seem to be born old. He's always known what he wanted to do and why. He's truly special."
She broke off, her voice cracking slightly on the last word. Talking about Cullen made the situation all the more frightening.
Cody swallowed the last bite of stew, and with it the urge to offer her reassurance. In his mind's eye, he could see those other crashes. The people he'd been too late to help. All he was likely to be bringing back to her was a body, and he wouldn't promise otherwise.
"What do you do in L.A.?" He asked the question to distract her from her thoughts and then he frowned inwardly. Why should he care about what her thoughts were? Damn it, he didn't want to know more about her. Did he?
Sara dragged her mind back to the present. "I'm a model."
"I thought models had to be very tall and thin." His thoughts were not really on what he was saying. She had taken off the bulky sweater and replaced it with a midnight-blue shirt. All through the meal, he had been trying not to look at her, resisting the pull of her. Now, she looked up with a half smile and their eyes met briefly. He could not drag his gaze away. In the back of his mind he wondered what his ancestors would have called someone who's eyes changed colors like the leaves in autumn. Witch?
Almost purple this afternoon, tonight her eyes were a deep blue, reflecting the color of her shirt. His thoughts faded for a moment and he was hardly aware of the silence that grew between them, matching the silence in the valley outside.
Sara felt as if her mind had stopped functioning, as if there was not a single thought in it that didn't spin around the man opposite her. Contrasts. His brusque refusal to help her, then his sudden acceptance. And she didn't think it had anything to do with the money. Something else had made him change his mind. He had practically ignored her existence all evening, yet now the look in his eyes spoke of total awareness.
He dragged his gaze away, and Sara was released from the spell that had wound them together. She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes to her plate, trying to remember what had been said just before that moment of silent communication. Oh, yes.
"Most models are a lot taller than I am." Her voice shook at first and then
gradually steadied. "I do some modeling for catalogs and boutiques that specialize in petite sizes, but most of my work is hands and eyes. I've modeled various brands of eye shadow and nail polish. Some lotions. A lot of jewelry where all you see is my hands."
Cody listened to her with half an ear. His eyes were focused on the slender grace of her hands. Delicate bones and long, narrow fingers, the nails—not long, but not short—painted a pale pink. He wondered what it would be like to feel those hands on his body, those nails digging into his shoulders as she arched beneath him. And what color would those incredible eyes be when she was caught up in passion?
As if summoned from memory, he could see them. A hot, smoky gray. Lids half closed, her soft mouth damp from his kisses, her golden hair flowing like satin across a pillow. Not just any pillow, but his pillow. Her mouth swollen from his kisses, her eyes smoky with a passion he had aroused.
Sara broke off, startled, as he suddenly shoved his chair back from the table. "I've got to go check on the horses." Without another word, he was gone.
She blinked, wondering if it was something she'd said, or something about their Being in this kitchen that caused him to make abrupt exits. First this morning and then just now he had abandoned her suddenly. With a sigh, she got to her feet and picked up the plates. He could be as rude as he liked, just as long as he found Cullen.
Maybe it was just his way to be brusque. He hadn't been any too gallant when he suggested that she might as well stay at the ranch tonight and offered her the use of a spare bedroom. She had the strange feeling that there was something about her he resented. Not just the situation in general, but something about her personally.
She had just finished drying the last of the dishes when the back of her neck began to tingle. She was almost getting used to his silent approaches and she turned calmly, her eyes meeting the hooded brilliance of his.
"I didn't want to snoop through the cupboards trying to find where things went, so I didn't put anything away."
Stormwalker Page 3
