“So far as you know.”
She sighed. He leaned against the wall and pulled her against him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. “So far as I know,” she repeated.
“Mind telling me something?”
“Anything. Name, age, weight, childhood nickname?” It was a deliberate effort to ease the tension, they both recognized it as such. Recognized the need for it, as well.
“None of the above. Although the childhood nickname sounds interesting.”
“It’s not. What else do you want to know?”
“What’s a turbid medium?”
She actually laughed aloud at that. Eyes sparkling, she leaned back against his arms—at least as far as he would let her—and said, “Art theory. Did I tell you I studied art in college? Lord knows why, you can’t make a living at it, but at the time, that wasn’t a consideration.”
“And the meaning is…?” he drawled, smothering the uncomfortable knowledge that by pursuing trivial answers he was avoiding more meaningful ones.
“It was a painting technique used by some of the old masters. Using a thin white wash over a warm color. The result was cool, sort of like blue without being actually blue, if you know what I mean.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’d better write that down before it gets lost. Never can tell when you might need to know something like that.”
She laughed, and he did, too, and then his face moved toward hers. The atmosphere was suddenly fraught. Pending. The way it had been just before the tornado had come roaring down on him.
The kiss started almost as an experiment. His lips brushed against hers, caressing gently—moist flesh dragging softly against moist flesh. It was an incredibly tender kiss. When the tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth, she gripped his shirt with both fists. The heavy jacket he was wearing—her husband’s jacket—was suddenly too warm. There were no romantic trappings, none at all, yet never had he been more moved by any woman. By any kiss. Without knowing how he knew, he simply knew.
It was the sound of a breaking dish that tore them apart. Ellen jerked in his arms and blinked up at him, her lips still damp from his kiss. “I’d better—”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Seven
Grateful for the distraction, Ellen hurried into the kitchen, followed more slowly by Storm. “Need a hand?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It just slipped out of my hand.”
“Right. And your supper just slipped into the garbage can.” Confronted with the evidence of her son’s wasted meal, Ellen was forced to deal with it. She’d been avoiding too many issues for too long, using the excuse that Pete had just lost his father, that she was too tired or too busy. Or both.
There followed a brief lecture—brief because she really was tired and there was still Clyde and Booker and the fence to deal with. After a hug and a promise, Ellen sent Pete to his room with orders not to come downstairs again until he’d done his assigned reading and written the one-page essay for history. “That doesn’t mean you can write three words on a line and call it a page,” she warned.
“Yes, ma’am.” Suitably chastised, the boy trudged upstairs, looking as if he’d lost his last friend.
“I’ll be interested in reading it if you get through before my bedtime,” Storm called after him. “Your mama makes me go to bed early, though, so don’t take too long.”
Pete smiled weakly at the joke.
“I’d better ride out before dark to see how far they got with the fence,” Ellen said.
“You stay, I’ll go.”
“Not in my truck, you won’t. You don’t have a license, remember? Besides, you don’t even know where to look.”
“Then I’ll take one of the horses and you can tell me where to go.”
“One of us needs to stay here with Pete.”
“You stay. Or come with me if you insist. He’s eight years old, Ellen. It’s not like we’re going to be out until all hours.”
“Eight years old is too young to be left alone. Besides, what do you know about children?” She knew she was irritable because she was worried and because she was tired. Knowing the cause, however, was no excuse for rudeness. Storm was only trying to be helpful.
If he truly wanted to be helpful, he would open his arms and let her hide in his embrace until she was ready to face what had to be faced.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ellen, why not whine? she jeered silently. You’re so darned good at it!
In the brief silence that followed Storm said, “About children? At the moment, not much.”
She had to think back to recall what she had asked. It was not only rude, it was insensitive. “Sorry.”
“No need. Look, if I thought Pete couldn’t handle being alone for half an hour, I’d insist you stay here. What if you got into trouble? You could trip over a strand of wire and break a leg, then I’d be stuck here waiting for you to come back. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for you.”
“So now it’s all about you and your comfort level. Oh, for goodness’ sake, come on, then. It won’t take more than a few minutes to drive out and see how far they got.”
Neither of them spoke on the bumpy drive until Ellen said quietly, “I’m sorry, Storm. I’m being even bitchier than usual. It’s been one of those days.”
He shifted slightly on the bench seat, trying to find a place where a spring didn’t poke at his back. He had an idea about what was bothering her most, and it wasn’t Pete. Nor was it the fence, which might or might not have been repaired.
It was her father. Whatever had happened between the two of them in the past, Storm suspected she’d told him only a small part of the story. Now, thanks to Sanders’s showing up today to remind her of her filial obligation, her conscience was eating at her. He wished to God there was something he could do, but not only was it none of his business, he was in no position at the moment to do anything for anyone, other than the most menial of chores.
It hadn’t rained since the day of the twister. A setting sun tinted the dusty air, lending the entire scene an aura of unreality. The air smelled of cattle, citrus fruit and pine trees, not an altogether unpleasant combination.
Ellen swerved into a small clearing just off the dirt road. “We’ll pull over here. The broken section is…”
“Still broken,” he finished for her. They sat in the truck and stared through the dusty windshield at the broken strands of barbed wire and the leaning fence posts. Long moments passed in silence, then Ellen took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped down.
Storm followed suit, coming around to stand just behind her. His arms reached out instinctively, but at the last moment he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take much to break that brittle control of hers and that was the last thing she needed now.
On the other hand, maybe a good noisy cry was just what the doctor ordered.
Instead of crying, she used her soft, husky voice to express her thoughts, uttering words she probably hadn’t learned in a girl’s finishing school. “I’ll kill those two miserable bastards, I swear I will. I’ll wring their mangy necks until their ears fall off, then I’ll fire their lazy, incompetent backsides.”
Hastily covering a grin, Storm said solemnly, “I couldn’t have put it better myself. First, though, we have to find them.”
“Oh, they’ll turn up eventually. Where else could they get even minimum wage for doing practically nothing? Friday was payday, so they won’t come back until they’ve drunk up the last penny and slept off a monster hangover. It didn’t take me long to catch on. Mondays are usually no-show. Even Tuesdays are iffy—one or the other might make it. From Wednesday ’till Friday afternoon, they get a few jobs done, and that’s it. Then they’re off on another binge.”
The tools were scattered on the ground. More for something to do with his hands than for any other reason, Storm rounded them up and tossed them into the back of the pickup. While he was at it, he tested one of the nearb
y posts to see how sound it was. The thing slowly toppled, dragging down three rows of rusty barbed wire.
Ellen closed her eyes. Her shoulders drooped. “He was right, I knew he was right. I just didn’t want to admit it.”
“There’s nothing we can do today,” Storm said. “Those grapefruit trees on the other side of the fence aren’t going anywhere over the next few hours.” At least the creeps hadn’t stolen her tools.
They were both still standing beside the truck. “I’ll drive,” he said gruffly, and it was an indication of her state of mind that she simply nodded. She made no move to get in. Neither did he. In the rapidly fading light, shadows played over her face, emphasizing her cheekbones and the clean line of her brow.
This was crazy, he told himself. His attraction to her. Ellen Wagner—single mother, small-time rancher, tough as old boots, dressed like an upscale scarecrow? So how come he kept picturing her in that old white bathrobe, smelling of shampoo and baby powder, her hair still damp from the shower, looking like every man’s favorite’s dream?
“I guess we’d better go,” he said before his libido overcame his better judgment.
“I guess so,” she whispered. It was the hint of a break in her voice that finished him off. Without a second thought, he caught her to him and held her, his face pressing against her hair.
“Ellen, Ellen,” he muttered, “What am I going to do about you?”
As the last streak of gold disappeared behind the deep purple clouds, a mourning dove began her soft threnody. Lust mutated into something less tangible, but equally powerful. Eyes closed, Storm allowed his senses to absorb the sounds of the evening, the fragrance of ripening grapefruit and the feel of woman in his arms—her delicate strength and the warm, sweet scent of her hair. He did his best to ignore his body’s rising demands because sex was the last thing she needed now.
He only wished there was some way he could adsorb some of her weariness. How long could she go on this way? To what end? Was she fated to grow old trying to hang on to something for a son who might just as easily decide one day to study medicine or law, or maybe join the service like his father had done? There were no guarantees in life. He was a prime example of that fact.
“Let’s get you back home, hon.” Unconsciously, he used the term of endearment he’d heard her use so often. “You need a good night’s sleep.”
She sighed. Sighed, but didn’t budge an inch. He could feel her breasts pressed against him, feel their soft resilience through the heavy wool shirt she wore. Embarrassed and uncomfortably aroused, he said gruffly, “Let’s go.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, she turned toward the truck. “Don’t look at me,” she warned, and so naturally, he looked. Looked and saw the shiny tear tracks wavering down her cheeks.
They rode in silence. He drove. Back at the house she said, “I’d better check things out here before I turn the lights off.” She headed for the barn, while Storm, not trusting himself to join her inside the hay-scented, shadow-filled interior, veered toward the house.
“I’ll look in on Pete,” he said, waiting until she’d switched on the barn lights.
They’d been gone no more than half an hour. Everything looked the same as when they’d left, only darker. He let himself inside and headed upstairs, feeling the familiar comfort of the shabby old farmhouse close around him. He didn’t know what he was used to, but he would willingly settle for this. Oh, yeah.
The kid was belly-down, sprawled in a four-point position, the quilt dragging onto the floor. Storm took a moment to glance around, smiling at the boyish attempt at policing the area. About a week’s worth of clothes was neatly heaped on a chair. Schoolbooks, a globe and a dictionary had been shoved to the very edge of the student desk to make room for another plastic F-18 Delta Wing, still under construction. Whether the homework in question had been finished or not remained to be seen.
He couldn’t help but smile at an eight-year-old boy’s version of housecleaning. Scrape a section of rug bare and pile everything up on the periphery. He had a feeling Ellen would let him get away with it only so long, and then she’d come down on him like a swarm of locusts. Oh, yeah, he knew about little boys.
Because he’d been one, or because he had one?
He didn’t even know what to hope for. If he had a son of his own, he could help him with his model planes, tell him what it was like to sit in the cockpit, to see his gloved hand on the stick, to feel the thrust of all that harnessed power—
Standing stock-still, he waited for the picture to come into sharp focus. Instead, it faded out as quickly as it had appeared.
J. S. Harrison. Again he was struck by the coincidence surrounding the disappearance of a man named J. S. Harrison and the appearance of a man with no name, but with a handkerchief bearing two of the three initials. The name could be his—probably was, in fact—but until he could make it fit, there was no point in staking a claim. Especially when he kept having these vague feelings of some nebulous threat hanging over him.
After a moment he pulled the quilt up over Pete’s thin shoulders, ignoring the comic books that got covered up in the process, and tiptoed from the room.
By the time he reached the kitchen, Ellen had come in from the barn. “All secure?” he asked.
“All secure. Is Pete asleep yet?”
“Out like a light.” He toyed with a calico potholder shaped like a cow. “You know, I could almost swear I knew something about fighter jets.”
“Maybe you collected model planes as a boy.” She was reheating the coffee and getting out plates and forks.
“Not F-18s. At least I don’t think so. But if I’m military, why wasn’t I in uniform?”
“How do I know? Maybe you’re an airline pilot. Maybe you opened the door at the wrong time and got sucked out of the plane.” She opened the freezer door and stared at the contents, not looking at him. “Hmm. Coconut cake from the freezer or store-bought apple pie?”
“Uh, either. Both?”
“In your dreams.”
He watched her neat movements. There was nothing at all seductive in the way she moved or the way she dressed. Yet just watching her was enough to make him forget all but the most basic urges. She had to have noticed. The jeans he was wearing were large, but not that large.
While she set about dividing the pie into even segments, he began to pace in a tight circle, forcing his mind back on track. “You know, it’s these little things that keep driving me crazy. I let my guard down and first thing you know, here comes another glimmer. I try to grab hold, and it disappears, like trying to hold on to a handful of fog. I ask you, is that normal?” He uttered a bark of laughter and answered his own question. “Oh, sure. Crazy is normal. Not being sure of your own name, that’s normal. Sponging off a woman you never laid eyes on before in your life, that’s perfectly normal.”
“Sit down.”
“Listen, the sooner I get those books and read up on—”
“Sit down and eat. The only thing you’re doing now is stirring up dust and wearing out my vinyl floor.”
“Tell me again about the guys who came looking for me, Ellen.”
“I told you everything I know.”
“Tell me again. Something might click.”
“Then sit down and eat your dessert. With enough sugar in your bloodstream, maybe you won’t go off on a rampage.”
“I never indulge in rampages,” he informed her, all injured dignity. But he sat, all the same. He picked up his fork, then put it back down. “At least I don’t think I do. Describe this pair again. Maybe this time something will ring a bell.”
“All right, stop me when you’ve had enough. There were two of them, as I said before.” She took a deep breath. “It was late and I was tired. I think the term is stressed out.”
“Go on.” Storm tried to harness the frustration that was never far from the surface.
“You know how you keep getting these glimmers? These…I guess they’re sort of like hunches?”
“Yes, well, as I told you before, I had one. And I’m sorry as I can be if I was wrong, but something about those two men just struck me the wrong way. Well, for one thing, I’m almost sure they were lying. I mean, if they were looking for a friend, wouldn’t they have been more distraught? Concerned, at the very least?”
“I take it they weren’t. These two cool dudes identified me as their buddy, J. S. Harrison? I probably am, you know. Harrison, if not their buddy.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do you honestly think I’d have kept you here if you were that kind of person? I couldn’t even bear to have them on my property, much less in my house.”
“Describe them.”
She shrugged. “Like I said before, one of them didn’t say anything—he was short, actually, not much bigger than I am. I couldn’t tell about his features, he had this hat on. The other one had all the tattoos. He was wearing a black T-shirt, but parts of his tattoos showed above his neckline—either flames or snakes…or maybe they were octopus tentacles, I don’t know. I’m no expert on tattoo designs.”
Storm mentally examined two separate parts of the puzzle: the two lowlifes who for some reason were trying to track him down and the nebulous link with a missing district attorney. How did they fit together? Or did they? He stared morosely at the untouched pie. It appeared increasingly likely that the nagging sense of connection with jails and prisons wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
What about his instinctive reluctance to go to the cops? Where did that fit in? Was it another part of the puzzle or totally unrelated?
“I seem to have lost my appetite,” he said quietly.
Ellen looked close to tears, and he forced himself to shove his own problems back under cover. They both knew she should have told him as soon as the two goons had showed up, but making her feel guilty now wasn’t going to solve his problems. Sooner or later another piece of the puzzle would come into focus, and he’d be on his way to solving the riddle.
Her own problems, he suspected, would not be solved that easily, and that troubled him almost as much as his own situation did. But at least he could spare her the burden of guilt.
The Quiet Seduction Page 10
