On the front porch she stood aside while he unlocked the door.
“Dad,” she said gently, “you know you don’t need my approval.”
He looked at her.
“I won’t be living with you forever. In fact, maybe this would be a good time for me to get an apartment.”
He didn’t like that, she could tell. “I’d hoped…” He didn’t finish.
“What had you hoped?” she asked with sudden sharpness.
He held her gaze. “That you and Ben were talking marriage.”
“No,” she said flatly. “Can we go in?”
Daddy hesitated, but after a moment pushed the front door open and stood aside for her to go ahead.
The rooms had been stripped of furniture, so their footsteps were too loud. The air wasn’t musty, but felt peculiarly still, making Faith wonder how long it had been since Lillian Ewing had died.
The living room was small, with hardwood floors, a fireplace of white-painted brick and an arched doorway. On the other side of the front entry was a dining room with a built-in, glass-fronted buffet and another arched door leading to the kitchen. It was old-fashioned, but nice, the cabinets painted the same bright blue as the trim outside, while blue-and-white gingham curtains framed the double-sash window over the sink. At the back of the house were two bedrooms and a single bathroom. Out of one of the windows Faith saw that there was a detached garage off the alley, big enough for a single car and perhaps some gardening tools. And that was it.
She could live here with him for a little while. Perhaps they both needed that, but it was really a house for one person. Or for a couple. Dad hadn’t dated since Mom’s death, to Faith’s knowledge, but she wondered for the first time if he’d begun to imagine remarrying.
Faith gave her head a bewildered shake. She felt like Alice in Wonderland, where nothing fit the rules she understood.
“I like it,” she finally said, turning to face her father, who leaned against the door frame. “Wait. Is there a laundry room?”
“Back porch is glassed in. The washer and dryer hookups are out there.”
“Will you want to garden?”
He tugged meditatively at one earlobe. “I think I might. I could put some vegetables in back, maybe a row of raspberries, but I like flowers, too.”
She went to him, laid her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I love you.”
He hugged her. “Love you, too, punkin.”
How long since he’d called her that? Faith blinked hard, eyes burning. How long since she’d told him how much she loved him, how grateful she was for his unfailing, silent support?
Too long.
After a moment she sniffed and let him go. “I say go for it, Daddy.”
Looking pleased, he nodded. “Then I will. I want this to be your home, too, Faith.”
“For now,” she conceded, because it mattered to him. And she wasn’t quite ready yet to live alone, to give up the sound of her father’s snores in favor of silence.
As he locked the front door behind them, she asked, “Have you showed it to Char?”
“No. Just you.”
“It’s good that it’s empty. You—we—won’t be held up moving.”
“I thought about asking if we could rent it until closing. Then we could start moving in any time.”
Her anxiety swelled, but Faith nodded as if considering. “Might be a good idea.”
“Why don’t we get some dinner?” her father suggested. “Just you and me. Bob and Silvia asked me to play bingo with them later at the grange.”
So she would be alone for a few hours. It would be the first time at night, but she thought she’d be all right. That’s really what Dad was asking, without coming out and saying so. She smiled at him. “Sounds good.”
They ate at Clara’s Café where he and Mom had often taken the girls after church on Sunday. He had chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, Faith the macaroni and cheese that had been a favorite of hers as a child. Nothing had changed, not the red vinyl booths, not the collection of fanciful salt-and-pepper shakers beneath glass by the cash register. Even the waitresses were the same. Theirs called Dad by name, although her gaze skittered from Faith. Dad didn’t seem to notice.
After they finished eating, he dropped her at home, waiting until she unlocked the back door and waved at him. Once inside, Faith refused to feel uneasy about the silence or the knowledge that she was alone. She couldn’t afford to let herself.
Out of long habit she focused on what had to be done next. There was plenty to keep her too busy to even remember Dad wasn’t home.
Why not start on the kitchen? Goodness knows how long it had been since anybody had even opened the upper cupboards, too high up for everyday use. Dad wouldn’t have room for half of what was in here.
Faith was standing on a step stool, stretched to reach the back of the cupboard above the refrigerator, when she heard a vehicle pull in. Not Daddy’s pickup, which ran rougher.
She wasn’t panicked, not exactly, but she did climb down and felt her heart pounding a little faster as she waited for someone to appear at the back door. The porch light was on, so she’d be able to see whoever came knocking. Of course, he or she would be able to see in, too….
At the sight of the big, dark-haired man looming outside her back door, something very like panic jolted her. Ben. She should be relieved, and was. In a way.
He rapped lightly even as they looked at each other through the glass pane.
Her pulse didn’t slow, although now it hurried for a different reason. She let him in and stood back.
“I suppose Dad set me up,” she said with resignation.
Ben’s “Huh?” sounded genuine. Over jeans, he wore a crew-necked, rust-colored sweater that made her all too conscious of the breadth of his shoulders. He walked past her, carrying a shoe box that he set on the kitchen table. “To do what?”
If only her whole body wouldn’t quake just because he was here, a few feet from her. “Nothing,” she muttered.
“I don’t hear the TV.”
“Dad’s playing bingo tonight down at the grange.”
He frowned. “I figured he’d be home.”
Okay, Dad hadn’t told Ben this would be a good time to catch her alone. Faith studied him more closely, realizing for the first time that his expression was somber, as if he’d come to say something he knew would be unwelcome. He didn’t step forward to kiss her, and he wasn’t smiling.
She backed up until she bumped the edge of the counter. Her throat constricted, Faith said, “What?”
“I didn’t know if you’d want it back.” Ben nodded at the shoe box. “But we’re done with it, and it is yours.”
It. Her gaze darted past him to the innocuous box. Horror rose in her. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t make anything come out on the first attempt. At last, in a voice that cracked, she whispered, “The gun? You’re bringing back the gun?”
HIS GUT HAD TOLD BEN this was a mistake even before he’d gotten into his SUV to drive over here, but he hadn’t listened. A gun owner had a right to reclaim possession of a weapon after a shooting, assuming it had been properly licensed in the first place. Faith had done everything right; the Colt was hers. It hadn’t been cheap. She might want at least to resell it.
But he hadn’t finished speaking, hadn’t taken the lid off the box, and she was hyperventilating and staring at it as if a bomb were ticking on her kitchen table.
In a tormented whisper, she said, “The gun? You’re bringing back the gun?”
He stepped forward. “I won’t leave it if you don’t want me to.”
Her face was stricken and paper-white when she tore her gaze from the shoe box and met his. He’d never wanted to see her look like that again. “I don’t want it,” she gasped. “Get it out of here!”
Ben gripped her arms, feeling again her fragility. “Faith. Honey. I’ll take it back out right now. Calm down.”
“Calm down? How co
uld you?” Wrenching free of him, she swung away and hung over the sink, her body heaving. He couldn’t tell if she was sobbing or wretching.
“It made you feel safe before,” he tried to explain. He didn’t know if he should touch her again or not, but he couldn’t help himself. He laid a hand on her back and rubbed.
Faith erupted, turning and pummeling his chest with her fists, sobs torn from her throat. Her eyes were wild, her face wet. “How could you?” she screamed. “How could you?”
His own eyes blurred as he let her hit him. He didn’t try to defend himself, physically or with words. All he could do was stand there and take it while he watched anguish pour from her, the acid that had been eating her alive. She could hurt him all she wanted, if only it would make her feel better.
The outburst was violent but brief. When her knees buckled, he grabbed hold of her, pulling her against him. She buried her wet face against his shoulder and trembled from head to foot.
Ben held her as tight as he could and whispered against the top of her head, “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just didn’t think. Blame me all you want. It’s all right.”
When he felt the tremors pass, he started to ease back, but her arms clamped around him and so he tightened his again. Rocking slightly, he kept murmuring soothing words, or maybe they were just sounds, into her hair.
He hurt inside, hurt so damn much he hated knowing he was also aroused, just because she was resting against him. If he didn’t back up soon, she’d notice.
“It’s not your fault,” she mumbled, her lips tickling his throat.
“What?”
She scrubbed her face against him, dampening his sweater, then looked up. “I said, it’s not your fault I fell apart.”
“I should have called and asked you if you wanted the damn thing.” He sighed. “Or known you well enough to guess you wouldn’t.”
“How could you have guessed? I bought it, and I used it.” Her eyes were puffy and dampness clung to her lashes. Her nose was red, too, and needed a good blowing.
Tenderness stirred at the sight of her face so woebegone. Ben looked past her and spotted a roll of paper towels on the counter amidst the clutter she’d apparently been removing from upper cupboards. Without letting her go, he grabbed the roll and, one-handed, pulled a sheet off.
Sniffing, she took it from him, gave a firm, undignified honk, swiped her eyes and then crumpled the paper towel in her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It was more what needed to come out of you,” he suggested.
Faith leaned back a little more to see his face better, although she kept the one arm around him as if she didn’t want to let go. At his back, she had a wad of his sweater in a death grip.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean you’ve been tamping too much down. Not letting yourself scream and kick and rage.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Why should I have to? It doesn’t make sense to get mad.”
“Sure it does.” He gave her a little shake. “The son of a bitch just would not back off, not until he made you do something so goddamn horrible you’ll never be able to forget it. Nobody managed to save you from that awful ending.” He swallowed. “I sure as hell didn’t. Meantime, your father’s pulling the rug out from under you…”
“He has to sell!”
“Maybe so, but I’m betting deep inside you don’t believe that.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes huge and so blue he couldn’t look away. “You’re right,” she whispered. “I agreed, too, and I know it’s the best thing to do, but…”
“You’re hurt anyway. And pissed. But you’re too nice a woman to let anyone see that, especially your father.”
Faith abruptly let him go and tried to step back, stopped by the counter. “How do you do it?” she asked sharply.
He should back up, too, give her some space. He didn’t. “Do what?”
“See inside me?”
He shook his head. “I just know what I’d feel.”
After a long moment of that disconcerting scrutiny, she abruptly bowed her head, her lashes veiling her expression. Very quietly, she said, “I’m maddest at myself.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Why?”
“I’ve been playing the martyr for a long time. I could have asked for help anytime. Why didn’t I? Even this past year…” She gestured vaguely. “Charlotte came when I called. She would have come sooner. But me, I had to do it alone. I told myself it was for Daddy, but it wasn’t, was it?”
Held mute by tenderness that had swelled until it filled him entirely, Ben shook his head.
Her stare no longer saw him or the kitchen or the here-and-now. She was looking painfully into the past. “I’ve been so self-absorbed.”
“No.” He’d heard as much as he could stand. “No. You were saving yourself, the only way you knew how. And you did a hell of a job. With a few more breaks and some more enthusiasm from your dad, you could have saved the farm, too.”
“For a little longer.”
Emotions swarmed in her eyes like a flock of birds blocking out the sky. “Char,” she whispered. “Char happened.”
“And me.” Unable to read her expression, after a minute he grimaced. “Or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit.”
“No.” This was a mere breath of sound. She was seeing him again. “You happened, too.”
Neither of them moved or said anything for a moment. Maybe thirty seconds.
Then, so quick he didn’t have time to brace himself, Faith rose on tiptoe, flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Hard. Their noses bumped, their teeth clanked together and he fell back a step so that he could wrap her in his embrace and lift her against him.
“I need you,” he heard himself say in a voice he didn’t recognize, and then he fit their mouths together the way they belonged.
This was no preliminary. His tongue plunged deep and hers met it. Their bodies strained together and he reached one hand down to grab her butt and knead even as his hips rocked against her.
When their mouths separated long enough for them to suck in oxygen, she panted, “Upstairs.”
All he had to do was hoist her a little higher and start for the staircase. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She did, and he gritted his teeth at the glory of her riding his erection. Faith kissed and licked his neck and nipped at his jaw as he climbed. A groan tore its way from his throat and he had to stop halfway up to capture that mouth in a kiss so deep he never wanted to surface.
Except he did, because, damn it, he couldn’t take her here on the stairs. He had to lay her down to get her jeans off, and the bed wasn’t that far away. Somehow he lifted his head and staggered upward, bouncing her against the wall once or twice. Didn’t matter; the pictures had all been taken down, leaving brighter rectangles of wallpaper against the faded backdrop.
“In here?” he managed to say, bumping one of the bedroom doors open with his shoulder.
“Yes.”
A few more steps, his mouth devouring hers, and they fell onto the bed. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t try to catch some of his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her, but he didn’t roll to the side. It felt too good, being between her legs, his hips cradled by the clasp of her thighs.
She yanked his sweater over his head even as he fumbled with the buttons on her flannel shirt and spread it open. Ben growled to find her bra wasn’t front-opening. Another deep, hungry kiss and he rolled back, pulling her atop him so he could push off the shirt and unclasp the bra.
She might still be too thin—she was still too thin—but all he saw right now was the narrow, creamy-pale length of her torso and small, firm breasts tipped with rosy-pink nipples that begged for his mouth. A raw sound escaped him as he tugged her down so he could lick and taunt and suckle those breasts, each in turn.
Faith made sounds of her own, and her hands kneaded his shoulders, fingernails making
their mark. Ben looked up to see her face, her eyes a glowing, deep blue, lips swollen from his kisses, color running high over exquisitely formed cheekbones. He groaned again and flipped her so that he could strip her jeans and panties off. Then he just stared.
Her legs were glorious, long and taut with muscle. The curls at the junction of her thighs were barely a shade darker than the hair on her head. Her belly was concave above hip bones that were too prominent. He wanted her curves restored. He wanted her just a little more lush, a little less vulnerable.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Do you know how much I want you?” he whispered, his throat aching.
Her eyes flashed emotions he couldn’t read. “No. I’m not so good at believing anymore.”
“Believe,” Ben said hoarsely. His lips a hair’s breadth from hers, he said again, “Believe,” and then kissed her until words were beyond him, until there was nothing but sensation.
He had the sense to sheath himself in a condom before flinging his jeans to the floor. Another time, he’d make love to her with his mouth as well as his hands, he’d explore and let her explore, but right now need drove him as if he were an addict, blind and stumbling for his fix. Faith’s hands pulling him over her seemed as frantic, her whimpers and moans the flick of a match to his tinder. He parted her legs and plunged inside her, his tongue in her mouth going as deep. He’d never felt anything like this, never wanted a woman so much he couldn’t have stopped if someone had held a gun to his head. The way her hips lifted to meet every thrust, even as her tongue stroked his, had his vision blurring and the end about to pound into him whether he was ready or not. Whether or not he’d given her a quarter of the pleasure she was giving him.
But just as he felt himself explode, she cried out in a climax that was the most erotic caress he’d ever felt in his life.
There was sex, he thought dimly as he collapsed on her, and then there was love.
THEY MADE LOVE one more time, after Ben unplaited her hair and spread the unconfined waves over her shoulders and breasts. He ran his hands through her hair, tangled his fingers in it, his expression rapt as though he’d never seen anything so glorious. Faith managed to block out all her doubts and just feel. This wasn’t happiness, not exactly; happiness, to her, had always been something more placid than this storm of passion that cleansed even as it tumbled her over and over.
Through the Sheriff's Eyes Page 17
