by JoAnn Ross
Sunny followed them outside, and helped Tara and Mariah unload the heavy tree and lean it up against the side of the house. “It’s lovely,” she said, envisioning it covered with bright white lights, glass balls and tinsel. She turned toward Mariah. “Is it from your land?”
“Actually, it is. Trace and I found it in a spot where Laura and Clint used to meet when they were younger. Before our father caught them and made them break it off.”
Once again, the message was all too clear. Clint belonged to Laura. It didn’t matter that the woman was dead; her sister was going to ensure that he remained steadfastly loyal.
“I’ll tell him you brought it by,” Sunny said.
The two women exchanged a brief, challenging look. Then, without a word, Mariah turned and walked back around the Jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“She’s still a little sensitive when it comes to Laura,” Tara explained. “I don’t know how much you know—”
“I know everything.”
“Oh.” Tara and Noel exchanged another brief glance. “Well, then, you can understand this is difficult for her. Finding another woman living with Clint.”
“I’m living in Clint’s house,” Sunny said. “Which is not really the same as living with him.”
“That’s true.” Noel agreed. “And I’m certain Mariah will get used to the idea. Personally, I’m relieved that Clint has someone to watch out for him. We’ve all been terribly worried.”
“He’s going to be all right,” Sunny promised.
“Yes.” Once again Noel’s smile suggested that she was finding something faintly humorous about all this. “I believe he’s in very good hands.”
“It was nice meeting you, Sunny,” Tara said. “Oh, and I’m having a little get-together next Thursday evening. Nothing fancy, just friendly conversation. Can we count on you and Clint?”
There was no way Sunny was going to spend an evening with Laura’s sister. “I can’t answer for Clint, but—”
“Oh, of course you can,” Tara insisted. “For heaven’s sake, Sunny, just say you’ll come. And Noel and I promise that Mariah will be on her best behavior.”
From what she had seen, Sunny decided, controlling Mariah Callahan would take a whip and a chair.
“Why don’t you give it some thought,” Noel suggested when she didn’t immediately answer.
“All right.” Sunny doubted many people could say no to the lovely pregnant princess. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” Noel nodded, seemingly satisfied for now. Tara climbed into the back seat. Just as Noel was about to get into the front passenger seat, she turned toward Sunny. “Oh, and I believe you’ll find it much easier to use the dishwasher, rather than do all those dishes by hand.”
“Dishwasher?”
“It’s next to the sink. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an instruction book somewhere in the kitchen. If not, just give me a call. I’m in the book.”
She shut the door. As if more than a little eager to leave, Mariah gunned the motor.
As she stood on the porch, watching the Jeep drive away from the house, Sunny asked herself, what, if anything, Noel knew about her situation.
She also wondered what her odds were of getting away with not telling Clint about the invitation.
“SHE SEEMED NICE,” Tara commented as they drove down the curving road toward Whiskey River.
“If she’s a housekeeper, I’m Princess Di,” Mariah muttered.
Noel glanced over at the woman who’d been so quick to befriend her when she’d first arrived in Whiskey River. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Why don’t you just read my mind?” Mariah suggested grimly.
Mariah was one of the few people in Whiskey River, along with Tara and Jessica Ingersoll, the county attorney, who knew of Noel’s psychic abilities.
“You know I have better manners than that,” Noel answered mildly.
“Surely you don’t want Clint to spend the rest of his life alone,” Tara said.
“What I want is for you to cast a spell over that blond interloper and send her back to wherever it is she came from.”
“I don’t do spells,” Tara reminded her.
“But you could, if you wanted to.”
“I suppose I could. But when I decided to claim my grandmother’s house and take over her herbal mail-order business, I also made the decision not to follow in her Druidic footsteps.”
“That’s a damn waste, if you ask me,” Mariah muttered. “If I could do magic—”
“Sunny can,” Noel said suddenly.
“What?” Mariah shot her a startled look. “Are you saying she’s a witch? Like Tara?”
“She’s not a witch.” Noel’s eyes became thoughtful. “But there’s something there.” She glanced back at Tara. “You sensed it too, didn’t you?”
Tara nodded. “I sensed something. But it was very vague and she was doing a good job of blocking the vibrations. But if she was really capable of casting spells, surely she’d use one to wash those dishes.”
“You don’t,” Noel said.
“Only because I’ve always wanted to live like an ordinary woman.”
“Maybe Sunny has made the same decision.”
“Perhaps.”
A silence settled over the inside of the Jeep. Mariah was the first to break it. “This is just terrific.” Her tone said otherwise. “So, if you two are right, Clint’s living with a woman capable of casting a spell over him.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s going to need magic to do that,” Noel murmured.
Mariah’s answer to that was a ripe, pungent curse.
CLINT FELT AS if he were on display as he pushed the cart around the market. It seemed everyone in town wanted to talk to him, and those who didn’t were gathered in close little clutches, obviously talking about him. He’d gotten used to the stares during those bleak days when he’d been the chief suspect in Laura’s murder. At the time he’d been too shell-shocked to give a damn what anyone thought about him.
Later, after the shock of her death had worn off, leaving him with only that mind-drugging depression, he’d come to hate the looks of sympathy—and even worse, pity—he was forced to put up with whenever he came into town. It crossed his mind that even three days ago, garnering so much attention would have made him abandon his groceries and walk out of the store.
But that was before he’d gotten a taste of Sunny’s beef stew. Before she’d succeeded in stimulating his appetite. For food and, dammit, a whole lot more.
As he threw a bag of potatoes into the cart, Clint’s mind was at war. The part of him that’d become a virtual recluse since Laura’s murder knew that the smart thing to do was to send Sunny back to wherever the hell she came from.
Another part of him, a part he’d thought he’d buried with Laura, admitted that it was nice not having his house look like a toxic waste dump. And real food, after all this time, was definitely a plus.
The problem was, he considered grimly as he selected a plump roasting chicken, was that on the drive down the mountain, he’d spent too much time thinking about her wild blond hair and wide brown eyes. And dazzling smile designed to test any male’s resolve.
“Clint!” A feminine voice shattered his unruly thoughts. “What a nice surprise, seeing you here.”
He drew in a breath and slowly turned to meet Jessica Ingersoll’s smile. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“Isn’t that the truth. Ever since Rory and I began living together, my grocery budget has tripled.” Her smile warmed at the mention of the man she’d recently become engaged to. “Speaking of eating,” she said, a bit cautiously, Clint noticed, “we missed you at Thanksgiving.”
“I was busy.” Then, ashamed to be lying to this woman who cared about him, Clint exhaled a deep breath and explained, “I didn’t exactly feel up to making party conversation.”
“No one would have expected you to have to do that.” She placed a hand
on his arm. “Everyone there was your friend, Clint. And we’re all worried about you. This is no time to be alone.”
He thought it ironic that the woman whose job it had been to prosecute him had become a friend. Or at least she kept trying, even though he admittedly hadn’t given her the slightest encouragement.
“I’m not exactly alone.”
“Oh?” Her intelligent eyes swept over him and he watched as she catalogued the obvious differences in his appearance since the last time he’d come into Whiskey River, about three weeks ago.
“I seem to have hired a housekeeper.”
“A housekeeper.” She studied him again. “That’s a good idea. I assume she’s from around here? I remember Ida Littleton mentioning that she was thinking about going to work to help supplement Walter’s social security check. At the time she’d said she was considering housework—”
“Actually, she’s new in town.” Not wanting to get into a discussion about something he didn’t understand himself, Clint decided it was time to end the conversation. “Look, Jess, I’d love to talk, but I’ve got to get going, okay?”
“Of course.” Although her quick smile was as warm as ever, he caught the tinge of concern in her eyes. Seeming not to care that she was a public official and that with the exception of the Branding Iron Café, this was the most public place in town, she went up on her toes and brushed a light kiss against his cheek. “Take care. And if there’s anything you need—”
“I promise to call you.” He flashed her a genuine, reassuring smile. It was the first time he’d really smiled since Laura’s death and was mildly amazed when his face didn’t crack.
Jessica seemed to be every bit as surprised by that smile as he was. “You really are looking much better. I’m so relieved.”
Clint paid for his groceries, then stopped by Weatherby’s Meat Locker to pick up some of the beef he kept there. It was only as he was driving back up the mountain that Clint remembered he’d forgotten to buy any whiskey.
SUNNY WAS STANDING in the midst of soapsuds that covered the floor, when Clint entered the kitchen.
“Well at least the floor’s going to be clean enough to eat off,” he drawled as he waded through the soapy water to put the groceries on the table.
“Do you always choose such inopportune times to make a joke?” she asked with a hitch in her voice that told him she was close to tears.
Some deep-seated need to comfort made him run his palms over her slender shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“For what?” He smoothed her hair, watching with absent fascination as it sprang back to life again the moment he took his hand away.
She lifted bleak eyes up to him. “Just look around you.”
“Don’t worry. I added flood coverage to my insurance policy last year.” In her deep distress she missed the irony in his tone and took his words literally.
“It wasn’t a flood,” she mumbled, unable to meet his kind eyes.
“I know.”
This time she thought she heard laughter in his voice. Certain she must be mistaken, she tilted her head back.
“I don’t understand what happened. When Noel suggested I wash the dishes in the machine, instead of by hand, it seemed like such a good idea, but about ten minutes into the cycle, the dishwasher started belching all these soapsuds, and…well, everything just went downhill from there.”
He glanced over at the bottle of liquid detergent on the counter, figured out what she’d done, and wondered how a professional housekeeper could have made such a rookie mistake.
But then he was distracted by a tear escaping her distressed brown eyes. As he flicked it away with thumb, he thought he’d never met a woman with skin so amazingly soft. “Noel was here?” .
She swallowed hard against the still threatening tears. “With Tara Delaney. And Mariah.”
“I suppose that explains the tree.”
“Tree?” Sunny had completely forgotten the Christmas tree the women had brought.
“You know, that green thing leaning up against the house.”
Sunny had come to the conclusion that she had no choice but to tell him the truth. Besides, she thought, Tara and Noel probably wouldn’t give up easily. And if Clint discovered that she hadn’t passed on the message, he might try to send her away.
Not that he’d succeed, she vowed. But it would be much easier to get about her business of finding him a new love if they were getting along.
“Yes, they brought the tree. And Tara invited us to dinner.”
“Us?”
“Not as a couple,” she hurried to assure him when she heard something akin to horror in his tone. “I’m sure the only reason I was included was because she’s too polite to ask you to go alone, when it would mean leaving me here by myself during the holidays.”
“She could have figured you’d welcome the time to spend with your family.”
“I suppose that would be a possibility. If I had family.”
“So you really are all alone in the world.”
As desperate as she’d been feeling only moments ago, Sunny almost laughed at that. “Yes.” She wondered what he’d say if she told him exactly how alone she was.
“You never said where you were from,” he reminded her.
“Didn’t I?”
Dammit, getting information from this woman was not a job for the fainthearted. “No.”
“Well.” She shook her head. “Imagine that.” The little verbal thrust and parry made her feel better. Her equilib rium was returning and although soapsuds were melting all around her feet, she no longer felt like weeping. “I’d love to chat with you some more, Clint, but as you can see, I have a great deal of work to do, and—”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
He considered that for a minute. “Probably not.”
“Well then, I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”
That was one option. The other option—the sane, sensible one—was, of course, just to send her away. But there was something about her that appealed to him. He was actually enjoying their little contest of wills.
“You know, if this were an old forties movie, you’d be Lana Turner about to poison my soup.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
He shrugged. “Because that’s what mysterious femme fatales always do in old movies.”
“You see me as a femme fatale?” Pleasure lit up her face.
“Sometimes.” She really was quite lovely. Not in Laura’s calm, classically beautiful way, of course. But she was definitely unique.
“How do you see me the rest of the time?”
He was about to shoot back that he viewed her as a pain in the butt, but something in those wide golden brown eyes told him that she’d dropped the game and was asking the question in earnest.
“I don’t know.” That was the absolute truth. “Why don’t I think on it?”
“Good idea.” Her smile was friendly, with no intimate overtones that might have set off warning bells. “And while you’re thinking, why don’t you think about this?”
He took the letter she pulled from her apron pocket and held out to him, scanned the few short lines and tossed it onto the counter.
“No way.”
“But—”
“I am not going to that rodeo.”
“Not even to defend your championship?”
“I don’t give a damn about any championship.”
There’d been a time when he had. A time when winning the bull-riding championship buckle was the high point of his day. Or, even the whole year. But that was before he’d discovered what true happiness was. It had also been before he’d learned, the hard way, how screwed up most people’s values were.
It seemed that everyone Clint knew was always chasing after things—the biggest spread, a new pickup, a rodeo buckle. And although he’d never care
d that much about money, Clint had to admit that the adulation of all those rodeo groupies had been a special perk of rodeoing. Most had been pretty, some had been downright spectacular, and all of them had been more than willing. Especially in those days when he was riding high on the circuit.
But none of them had been Laura.
Sunny tried again. “I don’t want to argue, but—”
“Then don’t.”
His tone was so sharp she flinched. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t argue. I’m not going to Tombstone, Sunny. And that’s it.”
Frustrated, but loathe to show it, she nodded. “You’re the boss.”
His nod was brusque, his expression as grim as it had been when she’d first arrived. “And don’t you forget it.” That said, he walked out of the kitchen. He did not look back.
7
SINCE THIS WAS the first time he’d been absolutely sober in a very long while, Clint decided to tackle the books. He spent two hours in the den, moving numbers from one column of the computer spreadsheet to the other. Unfortunately, the bottom line didn’t get any better. Despite the stabling business he’d started last year, the truth was he was in danger of losing the ranch. And, although only a few weeks ago he wouldn’t have given a damn about that, today the idea stuck in his craw like a piece of tough beef.
Cattle prices were down, costs were up, and what little savings he had managed to sock away over the years had ended up going into the pockets of the Phoenix lawyer he’d been forced to hire after he’d been accused of Laura’s murder. He hadn’t really wanted an attorney, but since Matthew Swann had pulled every string in the state to make sure he was convicted, he hadn’t had a whole lot of choice.
Although at the time he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, he sure as hell hadn’t wanted the real murderer to get away. Which is exactly what would have happened if he’d been convicted.
He glanced over at the photograph on the desk. A young, stunningly beautiful Laura was smiling out of the frame as she had for so many years. The picture had been taken by the Las Vegas justice of the peace after their wedding.
The marriage had lasted less than a day. Matthew Swann had tracked them down and ordered his seventeen-year-old daughter to return home with him. Which, dammit, she had. Forsaking the vows she’d taken only hours before. Forsaking him.
