by Janet Dailey
After a quick "hello" in her direction, Tad dashed off for the garage and his bamboo pole. Cathie murmured a quiet greeting to Rob, letting her gaze slide away from the look of lazy amusement in his dark eyes. She stood silently by as Rob introduced himself to Ray Smith and listened to their brief exchanges about the weather and the crops until Tad came sprinting back with his pole in his hand.
Charlie urged him into the back seat of the car and Cathie found it hard to believe that Charlie had been the one to lead the rest of the class into chanting "tadpole." Although there was still a certain air of reserve around Tad as he sat next to Charlie, there was still the triumph of being able to show another boy where to catch fish which had an equalizing effect. Despite all Charlie's mischievousness, even to starting that horrible chant, Cathie knew there wasn't a malicious bone in his body. Everyone was his friend.
"Tad has been fishing every day since you were last here," Rob stated after the Smith car had left the driveway.
"Being with Charlie will do him good," Cathie commented. "That's one boy who's all boy. Tad will probably learn a lot that you'll regret."
"Snakes in the pocket and that sort of thing," Rob chuckled. The throaty sound was a pleasing accompaniment to the gentle rustle of the breeze in the cottonwoods. "I eagerly await that day."
Cathie didn't want to get into any discussion about his son. She was already too involved in their affairs, so she had to swallow back that shared feeling of victory that she and Rob had coaxed Tad out of his shell.
"I appreciate you letting me know about the trunk," she said, deftly changing the subject. "I can't imagine how mother and Aunt Dana missed it."
That knowing look came across his face and the small crescent scar near the one eye almost made it look as if he was winking at her inability to behave normally with him. But Rob smoothly slipped into the new conversation.
"The attic is very dimly lit and the trunk was in the far corner, so it's not inconceivable that they overlooked it. It's in the house," he said, stepping to the side so Cathie could precede him.
Her heart was skipping beats as she walked along the path to the house with Rob right behind her. His arm brushed hers as he opened the back door for her and followed her inside. Her sandals made a tapping sound on the linoleum steps up to the sun porch with the more solid sound of Rob's shoes right behind her. She hesitated at the top, glancing around for some sign of the trunk and, more importantly, the reassuring presence of a third person, namely Mrs. Carver.
"I left the trunk upstairs," said Rob, walking ahead of her to open the almost full-length door leading into the living room. "I thought you might want to go through it. As I said, there seemed to be mostly old clothes on top and I have a box of Tad's clothes I was going to give to the Salvation Army. You would be welcome to include whatever you didn't want to keep in with it." A crooked smile was tossed over his shoulder. "That way the trunk wouldn't be quite so heavy to carry down the stairs."
"Where's Mrs. Carver?" she asked.
"Visiting her daughter," Rob replied.
Cathie just wanted to take the trunk and run, then chided herself for being so cowardly. So she didn't trust Rob? Apart from the way he so arrogantly mocked her sometimes, there was no reason to feel that way. And she was quite able to take care of herself. Besides, there was that glint of amusement in his eyes that said he knew very well that she didn't want to spend an extra minute in his company. Her blond head tilted back defiantly as she gazed coolly at the brown head leading the way. She would show him that she was totally immune to his supposedly irresistible charms.
Cathie paused in the living room, ignoring Rob, who had reached the door leading to the stairwell. Her green eyes glanced around the room, taking in the large hooked rug that covered the floor and the comfortable Early American furniture in warm yellows and browns with a sprinkling of persimmon for color. It filled the room with old-fashioned ease and down-home warmth. She spitefully wished that the room would have been redone in those ugly modernistic furnishings that she disliked instead of this style that fitted so well into the simple farmhouse.
"Well?" Rob said softly from the stair door. "Do you find any drastic changes?"
"It's very nice," she said grudgingly. Her gaze trailed around the room again, stopping at the partially opened double doors that led into the parlor. The slight opening revealed unfinished wood shelving on a wall that had always been bare. "Are you remodeling the parlor?" Without waiting for an invitation, Cathie Walked to the walnut-stained doors and pushed them open.
The parlor, that lovely old-fashioned room that had always sprung to life at Christmas time when a huge evergreen tickled the ceiling and brightly wrapped presents tumbled all over the floor, was no longer. Rows of shelves filled the entire north wall of the room, framing the large window in the center. The mint-green paint of the rest of the walls had been covered by rich walnut paneling. The floor space in between was a jumble of boxes and crates. Two over-stuffed chairs were draped with white sheets that still had fragments of sawdust clinging to the cotton cloth.
A typewriter stand stood in one corner, an iron-gray cover protecting the typewriter, and beside it was a desk cluttered with papers and books. Somehow, in the middle of the mess, was a long cylindrical roll of carpeting waiting patiently for the floor to be cleared so it could take its place. A vibrant dark gold color peeped from the ends as tufts of thick pile shag escaped the roll.
"I suppose it's somewhat of an understatement to say that the room is a mess right now," Rob commented in a complacent tone from his place behind her left shoulder. "Mrs. Carver swears it will be autumn before I ever get it done."
"Are you making this your.…" Cathie glanced around the partially redecorated room, wanting to feel resentment for the destruction of the parlor and all its old memories, but her mind's eye was visualizing the room as it would appear in its completed state. She knew it would be a room she would like. "Are you making this your office?" she finished.
"Office, den, study, whatever."
She could feel his shrug of indifference at placing a label on the room. A package of books rested on top of a large box, partially opened with two books sticking out. Their vividly colored jackets attracted her and Cathie stepped over to pick one up. The name Robert Douglas leaped at her where the author's name was written. Her startled expression turned to Rob.
"Are you a writer?" she gasped. The question itself was almost an insult since she was holding one of his books in her hands.
"Is that an accusation or a question?" Laughter danced from his eyes at her chagrin.
The discovery had caught her off guard as Cathie fumbled around for the words to cover her confusion. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just didn't know.… No one has ever mentioned that you wrote books."
"Now my secret is out. Or at least, you hold it in your hands."
"Is it a secret?" Her jade-green eyes rushed to his face, trying to read the impenetrable expression that mocked her so openly.
"Since I don't use a pseudonym when I write, I don't see how it could be," he replied calmly, turning his attention from her to survey the room.
"Then why doesn't anyone know?" she asked, puzzled by this suggestion of modesty that didn't fit in at all with her conception of him.
"It didn't seem necessary to broadcast it to the world. I write mystery thrillers meant solely for the reader's entertainment and not any thought-provoking best-sellers designed to gain fame and fortune." Rob turned back to her, his gaze racing over her face with penetrating thoroughness. "Which doesn't mean I'm ashamed of what I write. I'm fairly good and enjoy myself while I'm working, but I don't believe I have false beliefs in my own importance."
Cathie glanced down at the book and opened the cover. The inside leaf contained a list of other books by Robert Douglas. "Why are you here? Working in the fields and remodeling rooms when you could be writing?"
"I told you the truth when I said that I had moved here to Iowa for Tad's benefit. I kno
w you'll find it hard to believe, but I was brought up on a farm and I remember vividly the many pleasurable hours I spent roaming the country-side; taking part in the planting and harvesting." The surprised expression on Cathie's face drew an open laugh from Rob. "What's the matter, don't I look like your typical farm product because I don't have a band of white on my forehead where my hat sits?"
"We were told you were from Long Island, New York. How could any of us know that you might have been brought up on a farm?" she defended herself.
"So what did you do?" he asked, with mocking emphasis on the "you." "Did you brand me as a playboy, an adventurer?"
"I had no idea what you did for a living," she replied, avoiding a direct answer. "Are you still going to write?"
"Of course," he nodded. "I have the evenings in the summer and the long winters here will give me quite a few free hours. Writing and farming will blend well together, with just about the same amount of satisfaction." Rob inclined his head toward her in mock deference. "Now, if I've satisfied the 'cat's' curiosity, would you like to see the trunk?"
"I wasn't trying to pry in your private life," Cathie retorted, drawing herself up to her full height which still left her several inches shorter than Rob.
"Of course not, you were just curious," he agreed smoothly, leading her again into the living room and to the stairwell door.
Cathie held tightly to the smooth banister railing of the el-shaped stairs, her nervousness increasing with each step. All her preconceived ideas of Rob were being eliminated one by one. She preferred thinking of him as an egotistical Easterner, far removed from rural community life. It made him easier to dislike.
"Tad has the room at the head of the stairs and Mrs. Carver sleeps in the bedroom over the kitchen," Rob spoke, climbing the steps ahead of Cathie. "The middle bedroom is so large I don't know what we'll ever use it for, since I'm using the large bedroom off the study downstairs."
"My grandparents intended to have a large family when they built the house, but there ended up being only three? Cathie felt the need to explain the reason for the spacious upstairs. "There were always plenty of relatives to keep it filled, though."
The middle room was virtually empty with only a few boxes sitting around and the trunk that had brought Cathie here. It was difficult to step into the room and not expect to see the large four-poster bed on one side of the room and the single feather bed where she had slept as a child or the picture on the wall of a shepherd boy guarding his flock by moonlight. Before the memories crowded too close around her, Cathie walked quickly toward the trunk, opening the lid to lift out the men's clothing packed on top. The gentle scent of lavender clung to the tweeds and wools.
"Here's the box I was putting Tad's old clothes in," said Rob, carrying a cardboard box over to the trunk where Cathie was kneeling.
"Thank you," she murmured absently, placing the clothes in the box knowing they would be of no use to her.
Below the men's clothing was a horsehair blanket. With a gasp of happy surprise, Cathie shook it open, running her hand over the silken fineness of the dark brown and white spotted hide.
"I remember this!" She turned excitedly to Rob. "It's the hide from Uncle Andrew's horse, Pal. When the horse died, he sent the hide off to a tanner in Minnesota to make a blanket out of it. In the old days, they used them as buggy blankets. When I was a little girl, Grandma used to let me put it on my bed."
"Then I'm glad I found the trunk." Rob watched lazily as she fingered the green velvet material on the reverse side of the blanket.
Cathie lovingly folded the blanket and set it to the side, turning to the layers of tissue in the trunk. As she carefully lifted them away, her hands touched satiny material.
"It's grandmother's wedding dress," she breathed, very gently pushing away the tissue and holding the ivory and lace dress up. Her grandmother had been several inches shorter than Cathie and was quite small as a young girl, judging by the tiny waist of the dress. "I wish I were that small," she grinned. "I would wear it for my own wedding."
"Have you set the date, then?" Rob asked, his gaze flickering from the dress to her.
"No, not yet." Cathie shook her head, arranging the dress back in the bottom of the trunk surrounded by the protecting layers of tissue. There was something in the way that he asked the question that put her on the defensive.
"You and Clay grew up together. Did you know all along you were in love with him, or did you just discover it all of a sudden?" His head was tilted inquiringly to one side as he studied her.
"I knew when I was in high school, but Clay discovered it when I followed him into college," Her reply sprang easily to her lips. It was a carbon copy answer to similar questions that friends and relatives had asked over the years.
"How long have you been engaged?"
Cathie touched the cluster of small diamonds that adorned the ring on her finger. "Clay gave me my ring after he passed his bar exams a year ago."
"And you aren't married yet." The movement of his brown head echoed the mocking disbelief in his voice. "What are you waiting for?"
"We're trying to find a house we like. As soon as we do, we'll get married.
"For two people who are as in love as you profess to be, you're both exhibiting an admirable amount of patience." Humor etched itself in the tanned lines around his eyes and mouth.
"Why?" A trace of temper added a sharpness to her words. "Because we're being practical? Because we didn't dash to the altar the minute we decided we were in love? Just because we had the good sense to wait until Clay could get himself established in a good law practice and we could find a nice home to live in isn't a reason to doubt the way we feel toward each other."
"Haven't you ever experienced any urgent desire or need to be married?" The sharpness of his gaze refused to allow her to look away.
It took Cathie a full second to understand the point of his carefully worded question. Her back stiffened. "You're confusing lust with love. They aren't the same thing at all."
"I wouldn't begin to argue that they are." The daggers she flashed at him couldn't find any opening in his smooth and mocking countenance. "But there is a physical desire that accompanies love which is part of the reason two people get married."
"Well, our love is based on friendship and companionship. This physical aspect that you keep emphasizing comes quite far down on our list of reasons to get married," Cathie declared icily.
"Did you ever date anyone other than Clay?"
"Of course," she said huffily, closing the trunk and securing the latches. "I went out with several other men before I was engaged."
"Did you kiss them?"
"Yes, I kissed them," she answered in a tight voice of barely repressed anger. "This conversation is ridiculous. None of this is any of your business."
"I never said it was," Rob shrugged. "I was just curious how an attractive woman like you could remain so unmoved by one of the pleasanter and more satisfying aspects of being in love. It crossed my mind that maybe you'd never been properly made love to."
"Kissing is grossly overrated," she snapped, now knowing how prudishly sure of herself she sounded. "It's pleasant and enjoyable, but there's certainly no heart-pounding or earthshaking revelations, as those romance books lead you to believe."
There was a fluttering like butterfly wings in her stomach as Rob appeared suddenly closer to her, although he hadn't moved. A glitter of mischief lit up the depths of his velvet eyes as his gaze settled on her mouth. Cathie moistened her lips nervously, then swallowed, conscious of the trip-hammer beat of her heart.
"There's some truth to that," he agreed blandly. "Would you object to testing your theory?"
"How?" Cathie demanded, eyeing him with marked distrust.
"By kissing me."
His calm statement jolted her. "I will not!" She retorted indignantly. "How could you even suggest such a thing?"
She moved to step past him, but the mockery in his expression halted her. "Probably because
I knew you wouldn't do it," said Rob, lowering his voice to a jeering taunt. "You haven't got the nerve to really kiss me."
Angry words of biting denial formed on her lips until she intuitively realized that that was exactly what Rob was expecting. She would show him! A falsely sweet smile put a sugar coating on her pink tinted lips. Then instead of stepping past him as she had intended to do, she stepped toward him. Cool jade-green eyes stared up into the amused brown ones. Her hands rested lightly on his chest to balance as she raised herself on tiptoes to reach the sensuous line of his mouth.
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Chapter Eight
CATHIE'S LEGS WERE TREMBLING as she drew closer to the smooth, close-shaven face, the delicate lingering scent of lavender from the trunk mingling with the potently intoxicating aroma of masculine cologne that clung to Rob's tanned cheeks. An electric tingling vibrated through her at the joining of his lips against hers. His mouth was warm and mobile, persuading but with a firmness that demanded and received a response.
Cathie had a strange feeling of unreality, of being slowly sucked into a dangerous pool of quicksand without a single attempt to save herself. She was being pulled down, down.… His strong arms circled her waist and drew her against the burning warmth of his muscular chest, arching her to the thrust of his hard body. Cathie found herself totally surrendering to this embrace that was half heaven and half hell. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, letting the hair curl over her fingers while she molded herself closer to his outline. Rob's kiss was consuming her, wholly and completely, dragging out the last vestiges of resentment and inhibitions, making her aware of the true differences of the sexes and what making love meant.
Then slowly there was a disentangling of their lips and Cathie was being gently set away, her feet seeming to be placed on solid ground, free of the treacherous depths of the quicksand embrace. Her blood was singing a wild song of ecatasy in her ears as she fought to bring her breathing to a regular rate. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing shimmering pools of green reflecting the disturbance Rob had caused. Her gaze eagerly examined his face to see if he had been as moved as she, but there was only the slightest irregular beat in the vein running near his temple.
