Coming Home

by Shirlee Busbee

  He smiled back at her. “OK. Spanish fly it is.” He hesitated, feeling the need to say something else. “I'm not going to risk getting my face slapped again,” he began quietly, “by saying, I'm sorry, but I am sorry if I've made the situation worse between us.” He grimaced. “On a good day we can barely tolerate each other—I'd hate for us to have really bad blood between us.”

  Roxanne bit her lip. For reasons that totally escaped her, she discovered that she didn't want there to be serious trouble between them either. What she wanted was for this morning never to have happened and for them to go back to their usual exchange of insults. “I know what you mean,” she admitted. Thought for a second, then added, “Um, listen, I don't know how to say this without offending you"—she flashed him a half grin—“something I enjoy doing enormously—but not in this case.” She hesitated, then blurted, “Do you think we could just pretend th-th-that what h-h-happened, didn't? Just go back to our usual snarling and growling at each other?”

  He took in a deep breath. What she was asking was impossible, but probably not for the reasons she thought. He'd never be able to forget the glorious slide of her sleek body against his, the hot glove of her wrapping around him … didn't want to forget. He looked over at her, saw the embarrassment, the uneasiness, the bewilderment in her eyes. He was corn forted to realize that she was equally as blown away as he was by what had occurred on her countertop. But that didn't mean he was going to wipe out the memory of the explosive sex between them. He couldn't explain it, but he didn't want to forget it. She obviously did. Which left him, he thought ruefully, with only one thing to do.

  “OK,” he said mendaciously. “We'll forget about it. Just go back to being what? Enemies? Not friends? Unfriends?”

  She smiled slightly. “We've never been enemies … exactly. I guess 'not friends' works as well as anything.”

  “Shake on it?”

  Solemnly they shook hands, their eyes met, the same expression of wariness and confusion in both pairs.

  “Not friends,” Jeb said.

  “Right,” Roxanne said, “not friends.”

  She watched him get into his truck and drive away. She should have been glad that he was finally gone, but as she slowly turned and walked back to the house, she was conscious of a nagging sense that the day had somehow become duller, that some vitality, some spark, was missing from it. Hogwash, she thought as she reached the front door. It would be a cold day in hell before Jeb Delaney's presence, or lack of it, made any impression on her life.

  A careless smile composed on her lips, she pushed opened the door and walked over to where Sam Tin-dale was still examining the plans. “So where do you want to start?” she asked brightly.

  Unlike Roxanne, Jeb had time to consider the situation as he drove down the twisting road from her place. He wasn't in the mood for pie and chatter at Nick's place. A quick call on his cell phone took care of that. He thanked Nick for the offer but said that he was taking a pass on the pie today. “Tell Maria I'll eat twice as much the next time,” he promised as he rang off.

  Not in the mood for company, he drove home. He let the dogs out and prowled around with them as they sniffed and marked several intriguingly scented trees and bushes. Inside the house, the dogs sprawled on the cool kitchen floor watching Jeb as he fiddled around, putting away the clean dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter, and folding and tossing the newspaper in the paper recycling bin outside the back door. His housework done for the moment, Jeb sat down on the comfortable blue and green plaid couch near the kitchen table.

  He sat there a long time, staring at nothing, his thoughts on Roxanne … and the incredible sex they had shared. He shook his head. It was inexplicable. If anyone had asked him to name the woman he'd least like to have sex with, he'd have sworn that Roxanne's name would have been dead last on his list. He grimaced. And now she went right to the top of the list of the women he'd most like to have in his bed. What a hell of a scary admission that was.

  He couldn't figure it out. It made no sense. Oh, sure, she was an eyeful and for some reason he believed her when she said that she didn't do that sort of thing. He didn't either, and while the tabloid stories about her would lead one to believe she jumped from one bed to the next as regular as fleas got on dogs, the expression on her face when they came to their senses had reflected the same shock and horror he knew had been on his. He rubbed the back of his neck. What in the hell had gotten into the pair of them? It'd been a while since he'd been intimate with a woman, but he wasn't a teenage sex maniac either. He was long past that stage. And today with all the diseases out there, when he did go to bed with a woman, he made damn sure he knew her sexual history and that he wore a condom …

  Jeb jerked upright, his eyes going wide. Oh, shit! He hadn't worn a rubber. He swallowed. They'd had unprotected sex. Funny thing though, it wasn't the idea that he might get a disease from her that sent his stomach flipping, it was the knowledge that in those moments of frenzied sex they might have created something else … a baby. He swallowed again, his throat tight, his breathing constricted. Oh, Jesus. He really didn't want to go there. Almost hyperventilating, he considered all the reasons why there should be no lasting repercussions from this morning's event. Surely Roxanne was on some sort of birth control? Yeah. Sure. Had to be. Woman with her past must take precautions all the time. There was nothing to sweat. But just in case she wasn't on birth control, he thought uneasily, luck couldn't have been so against them that they had happened to go crazy just when she was ripe and fertile. But what if she had been ovulating? Feeling like a fist had just slammed into his chest, he groaned and buried his head in his hands. Jesus! He didn't want to think about this. Didn't even want to think for one second about Roxanne having an abortion. Didn't want to think about her bearing his child and tripping off to New York with it. What he discovered to his fascinated horror was that he liked the possibility of the pair of them raising a child together. He froze, his eyes almost starting from his handsome head. The idea that he had actually considered having a child with Roxanne made him break out in a cold sweat.

  He sat up and ran a hand across his forehead. He felt a little hot. Maybe he was coming down with something. Summer flu? A cold? Brain fever? Yeah, his brain was all scrambled, fevered. That was it. He was sick. His brain not processing information the right way.

  Getting up from the couch, he walked into his bedroom to the master bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet took out a bottle of aspirin. He swallowed two of them, threw some cold water on his face, and accompanied by the two dogs, lay down on his bed. The dogs joined him, Dawg laying her head on his chest and Boss on the opposite side curling up next to his hip.

  Both dogs were mixed breeds—Boss part Dobie and shepherd with maybe some pit bull thrown in for good measure; Dawg appeared to be some sort of poodle/cow dog cross and if her wrinkled forehead was anything to go by, sharpei. He'd found Boss five years ago, a half-grown, half-starved black and tan pup prowling around Joe's Market, and even knowing he was being a soft-hearted fool had taken pity on him and brought him home. Even at that young age, from the size of his feet, Jeb had known that Boss would grow up to be a big dog and he'd been right. Boss's back came to Jeb's knee, and he was close to seventy-five pounds. Dawg was smaller, her head barely reached Jeb's knee, and like Boss she'd been a stray. She'd just shown up one day about four years ago, a spotted curly-haired puppy not weaned for very long, starving and dehydrated. She'd been lying in the shade next to Boss's kennel and had met Jeb with a shyly wagging tail when he'd come home from a particularly bad day—a murder/suicide on the coast, father, mother, and six-month-old baby. He'd taken one look at the flea-bitten, mangy little lump of skin and bones and some of the anger and pain of the day ebbed. It had been, Jeb informed her frequently, Dawg's lucky day. Neither dog would ever be called beautiful, neither having picked up the best genes from their respective parents—whatever they may have been—but they suited Jeb just fine.

  The fam
iliar weight of Dawg's head on his chest comforted him, as did the warmth radiating from Boss. Absently he scratched Dawg's floppy ears, trying not to think about Roxanne, sex, or the prospect of parenthood. It was difficult. Just about the time his thoughts would be drifting in another direction, like steel to a magnet, they would switch right back to Roxanne and this morning's events.

  Finally he gave up trying not to think about it and attempted to consider the situation realistically. After chasing various scenarios around in his mind for the better part of two hours, he concluded that if, and it was a big if, Roxanne did become pregnant, he would support her in whatever decision she made about the baby. He would support her, emotionally, financially, morally, whatever—with no strings. His mouth twisted. That would be the hard part—no strings. And in the meantime, if fate was kind, the question would become moot and he could get his life back on track. He'd have to talk to her, though, at least discuss the possibility of a baby, so she'd know that he'd be there for her if needed.

  It was several hours later before Roxanne was alone and able to think about what had transpired on her kitchen countertop that morning. Unlike Jeb, she'd realized almost immediately that they'd indulged in unprotected sex and that had horrified her as much as the fact they'd had sex at all. She had never acted in such an irresponsible manner. And it didn't matter that Jeb was probably healthy, it mattered that she hadn't taken the time to find out. But as for a child, she wasn't worried—her period was due any day now and it was unlikely that she'd be in a state to conceive.

  Sitting out on her deck that evening, the bowl and plate that had held her dinner at her feet, the thought of a child did cross her mind again, but she brushed it aside. Wrong time of the month. Sipping on a bottle of water, she stared down at the valley, a few lights coming on as darkness fell. Her gaze was drawn to the twinkling lights on the place on the mountain across from her and she smiled. Her neighbor across the way.

  She lifted her bottle in a toast. “Dear neighbor,” she said softly, “I hope, I really do hope, that your day was less stressful than mine. And makes more sense to you than mine to me.”

  She shook her head at her silliness and took another drink. Tindale had stayed until almost dark, both of them checking and double-checking the plans for any last-minute changes. Since she was financing the place herself, they didn't have to have any minor changes approved by a lending institution. Beyond discussing the possibility of slate terraces at the back of the house, instead of wood decking, she and Tindale were satisfied with the plan.

  “Big day on Monday,” he'd said as he'd turned to get into his car.

  Roxanne had let out a happy sigh. “Yes, it is. I can't wait. It's like Christmas and birthday and every daydream you ever had rolled into one.”

  Sam laughed. “Hold on to that thought—once we start tearing the place apart and construction starts—and all the unexpected troubles and holdups that come with it, you may be singing a different tune.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I'll just find somewhere quiet and tell myself it'll all be worth it.”

  “Good plan.” He'd slid into his car and pulling away called out the window, “Have a nice weekend. See you Monday.”

  Alone finally, Roxanne had turned and walked slowly to the A-frame. She'd fixed herself a can of tomato soup and a fried egg sandwich for dinner, concentrating fiercely on the simple tasks to keep her thoughts from dwelling on Jeb Delaney and what they had done together this morning. As she walked out of the kitchen on her way to the deck, her gaze skittered across the countertop and she stopped and stared at its scratched surface, still unable to believe that she'd actually had sex on it … with Jeb Delaney. She even managed to keep thoughts of him at bay while she ate outside, but once the food was demolished. …

  She took another sip of water. She couldn't believe what had happened between them. They'd been like animals. Coupling like minks, she thought with a sour smile. And unprotected. Stupid on both their parts. She bit her lip. She'd have to tell him that he had nothing to worry about catching something from her and find out if she had anything to be concerned over. She grimaced, imagining the expression on his face. Oh, man, she really didn't want to have that sort of conversation with him—with anyone, for that matter, but with him in particular. She touched the cold bottle to her forehead. What had gotten into her? Into them?

  One thing was for damn sure—she hadn't come home to start a torrid affair—with anyone. She had no intention of getting herself entangled in a complicated situation with the opposite sex. She wanted to concentrate on her house, her new life; there were many things that she wanted and men were presently at the bottom of the list. And that it had been Jeb who'd rocked her socks left her floored.

  On one level she'd always been aware that Jeb was an attractive man. OK, very attractive. Very virile. And maybe, before the incident with the marijuana joint, she'd had a few daydreams about him. She made a face. Which put her in league with most of the women in the valley. Maybe that was it, she thought slowly. Maybe because so many females fell all over him, coupled with her chagrin and humiliation over the way he'd treated her involving the marijuana joint, she'd been determined that she wasn't going to worship at his feet. Of course, she hadn't been about to forgive him for embarrassing her the way he had and to prove that he hadn't cowed her, that she wasn't the least impressed by him, she'd started sniping at him, letting him know that she didn't think he was so cool and handsome. That he was dirt beneath her feet. All the others could run after him, but not her. Not Roxanne Ballinger.

  Her gaze narrowed. Naturally, he hadn't helped matters, she reminded herself. Calling her “Princess” and looking down that bold nose of his at her like he'd just stepped in a pile of cat shit. He'd always been a bit of a pig with her; the marijuana joint incident had been neither the first nor the last time they'd locked horns with each other. It stuck out the most in her mind, but she could remember other times when he'd ream her out for little infractions, while the other kids just got a smile and friendly warning. Yeah. He'd always picked on her, gone out of his way to be annoying and insulting—no wonder she didn't like him. And once she'd become famous and there'd been all those ridiculous stories about her love life … The disapproving look he'd get on that handsome face of his whenever their paths crossed had made her want to smack him! You'd think she was a modern-day Jezebel, seducing men left and right and leaving ruined lives and devastated families in her wake. Who the hell was Jeb Delaney to sit in judgment on her?

  By the time Roxanne went to bed that night, she was certain she had her head firmly on her shoulders when it came to Jeb Delaney. Lying in her twin bed she stared at the ceiling reminding herself again what a jerk he was … But thinking he was an arrogant pain in the ass still didn't explain what had happened this morning on that kitchen countertop. She frowned. Had to be PMS, she finally decided. That worked. Sure. Her period was due and she was a bundle of hormones—they'd all ganged up on her and she'd gone sexually nuts. OK. That sounded good. And maybe, maybe, she thought sleepily, because of all that hormone activity her body had put out an odor that had driven Jeb sexually nuts, too. She nodded and half smiled in the darkness. Yeah. That worked. PMS explained it all. And she'd make damn certain that she was never alone again with Jeb Delaney when her period was due!

  Having solved the puzzle to her satisfaction, Roxanne slept deeply and dreamlessly. She was up early Saturday morning and discovered that she'd been right about her period. It had arrived—along with a severe case of cramps. Feeling sorry for herself, and wishing that men had to suffer through the same misery every month, she dragged around the cabin packing up the few things she'd brought with her. As she packed and double-checked the cabin to make certain she hadn't forgotten anything, she marveled again at all the damage the vandals had done.

  When she'd first seen the place, the floors had been torn up, windows smashed, cupboards ransacked, holes punched into the walls—it had looked like a cyclone had gone through the place. An
d if Danny Haskell, one of the resident deputies, was to be believed, the trespassers had come back more than once, doing more damage each time. In a way it didn't matter because very little of the original structure would remain untouched, but the sight of the holes in the walls and the half-ripped-out insulation made her shake her head. All throughout the cabin, upstairs and down, there was the same sort of damage. She hadn'tbothered to fix any walls because of the new construction, but she had patched the holes in the floor by nailing down some pieces of plywood—the idea of a snake or a skunk coming up from under the cabin to visit during the night gave her the willies.

  After she emptied out the few fresh things from the refrigerator and packed them in a cooler, she loaded everything up in her Jeep. It didn't take long, although she was swearing and sweating by the time she dismantled the bed and had jammed most of it into the back of the Jeep—a few feet of sideboard hanging out the window. The box spring and mattress she wrestled onto the roof of her Jeep and tied it down. She grinned. The Jeep looked like something from the depression era with the mattress on top, the lamp and nightstand perched precariously on the passenger seat, and her suitcases resting haphazardly on the bed rails in the backseat. She shook her head. If her fancy New York friends could see her now.

  The Jeep finally packed, she took another walk around the A-frame. The new refrigerator would be moved to the old garage for the time being and just about everything else inside the cabin junked. It made her a little sad, thinking of Dirk Aston, the man who had built the cabin. It was going to be changed all out of recognition and very little of his handiwork would remain.

  Telling herself not to get maudlin, she turned her back on the cabin and strolled to the greenhouses. They, had suffered some damage from the vandals, too, almost like an afterthought, but it had been minor stuff. They'd torn loose some of the planting trays and benches, knocked some counters over, but hadn't done any serious damage. It hadn't taken long to clean up.