So he let himself out the door, making sure it locked after him. Then he climbed stiffly behind the wheel of his brother’s black pickup and drove out of town. He had to get some answers to the questions plaguing him.
Had to.
Chapter Five
Jefferson had told Sawyer that the horse ranch he and Emily owned was east of the Double-C a bit, and when Sawyer neared the main entrance of the Double-C, he drove the black truck right on past. Another ten miles or so and the road curved and dipped and he spotted the river-stone pillars that held a heavy gate, opened wide. He slowed and turned in, his sharp gaze taking in the gold plate affixed to the center of the gate as he drove past. Clay Farm, it read.
He parked in front of the house and stared for a few minutes at the single-story dwelling, but his mind was still back at the doc’s office; still focused on the tears that had collected in Rebecca’s eyes when he’d apologized for things he couldn’t even remember.
A gust of wind rocked the truck as he got out, lowering his head against the biting wind when he headed up the wide stone steps leading to the front door. He knocked twice and waited, looking back over his shoulder at the snowy landscape. From what he could see, Jefferson’s operation was first-class all the way.
The creak of the door snagged his attention again. Jefferson stood in the doorway. Now that he was here, Sawyer didn’t know what to say. Which annoyed the hell out of him.
Jefferson smiled faintly as if he knew precisely what Sawyer was thinking and stepped back, opening the way into his home. Then he turned and led him through an arched doorway into a spacious kitchen.
“How’s Emily?”
Jefferson hooked open the refrigerator door and pulled out two long-necks. “She wanted a nap once we got home. Which is a good thing since she hasn’t been sleeping well at night lately. The baby keeps her awake.” He held out a bottle. “What’s keeping you awake?”
“What isn’t?” Sawyer took the bottle and automatically popped the top off against the sharp edge of the granite counter. A part of his mind noticed the faint smile that reappeared on Jefferson’s face as his brother twisted off the cap and tossed it alongside the one from Sawyer’s on the counter. “I just want—” He shook his head, the knot in his gut growing. “Hell, I don’t know what I want. My life back. Then I’d sleep.”
Jefferson watched him for a moment, then turned on his heel and led him over to a long room with windows that offered a panoramic view of snow and sparse trees and mountains off in the distance.
Jefferson lowered himself, grimacing slightly, into one of the deep chairs alongside two long couches. “Might as well sit, Sawyer,” he suggested.
But Sawyer prowled around the room, wondering if he’d ever look out at that snowy landscape and feel some sense of familiarity. Even though he was here, ready to talk to Jefferson, it wasn’t because he felt some inner kinship to the man. It was simply that he’d known Jefferson the longest, since he was the one who’d been at the hospital back east. Still, asking the question wasn’t easy. He started to rub his chin, then stopped at the painful tenderness of the healing cut. “How do I know Rebecca Morehouse?” He deliberately loosened his tight jaw. “Aside from now, that is.”
“Got me.”
Sawyer looked over his shoulder at the man. His brother who had barged his way into the hospital even when Sawyer had told his doctors he didn’t want his “family” to know he was there.
“Seriously. Rebecca came to Weaver a few years ago when the town finally got its act together enough to conduct a search rather than wait in vain for some doctor to decide he or she couldn’t live anywhere else in the world. Other than a few details, I have no idea what her life was like before she came to Weaver.”
“I know her.” He almost expected his brother to laugh at the statement, but Jefferson didn’t. Sawyer stepped around the couch and sat down, placing his beer bottle on the table. “I do.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“What else do you want me to say?” Jefferson drew his feet off the table and sat forward, too. He grimaced at the movement. “Wet winter makes my hip ache,” he muttered. “Listen, Sawyer, you weren’t exactly one for keeping the rest of us informed of every little thing in your life. Hell, you were gone as much or more than I was. There’s no way we could know whether or not you knew Rebecca before.” He tilted the beer to his lips, then set the bottle next to Sawyer’s. “Ask her.”
“I have.”
A spark of curiosity grew in Jefferson’s expression. “And?”
Sawyer grimaced. “She wouldn’t say.” He clawed his fingers through his hair. Just lifting his arm made his chest ache, but the ache was nothing compared to the frustration churning inside him. Frustration from not knowing. Not knowing his family. Not knowing what he’d done to cause the tears in Rebecca’s eyes. Frustration because his body knew Rebecca’s, whether or not his brain did.
And dammit, her body had answered. He might not remember his own birthday, but he knew when a woman wanted his touch. He knew that this particular woman had wanted it. And he knew that he’d touched her before. He knew it.
Jefferson leaned back again in his chair, propping his boots once more on the table. Sawyer eyed him. “You’re no more help than the rest of ’em.”
“Did you expect me to be?”
Tired of Jefferson’s hedging, Sawyer sighed impatiently and changed tack. “Why were you gone so much?”
“Work.”
“That tells me a helluva lot, Jefferson.”
Jefferson chuckled. And oddly enough, Sawyer found himself smiling, too. “We ran into each other now and then, professionally speaking,” Jefferson allowed.
“You were with the teams?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Does the name Coleman Black ring any bells for you?”
Sawyer thought. His eyes narrowed. He felt as if he should know the name. There was a hint of familiarity in the ring of it. “No.”
“He’s the guy you were supposed to meet with and didn’t. He couldn’t reach you when he called and so he started checking. He didn’t get much from your commanding officer. Cole knew Daniel had just gotten hitched and that Tris was out of the country so he called me. I flew to Maryland and, despite your welcoming smile, sprang you from the place.”
“Why was I supposed to meet with Black?”
“Who knows? It probably had to do with the case you were working on last Thanksgiving. You and Cole are the only ones who can answer that. He heads up an agency called Hollins-Winwood. Maybe that name is familiar?”
He shook his head, feeling a fresh throb set up residence inside his temple. “No.”
Jefferson smiled faintly. “Wish I could forget its existence, too,” he said. “I used to be in special ops for them. Private. Dan was, too, for a while. Tris, however, hasn’t learned better, yet.”
“How’d you get involved in something like that?”
Jefferson waited a beat. Then decided to answer. “The intel community is surprisingly small,” he said. “I got recruited out of school by Cole because of...certain skills he’d learned I possessed.” His lips twitched, without humor. “You and Cole go way back even if neither of you advertise the fact.”
Sawyer looked at his brother. Jefferson was the middle brother of the five Clays. But the cynical glint in Jefferson’s eyes only came from a lifetime and then some of seeing things people weren’t meant to see. And he knew instinctively that Black had learned about Jefferson’s “skills” because Sawyer had told him.
“So you didn’t hang around the ranch, either. What brought you back?”
Jefferson reached for his beer and leaned lazily back in his chair again. But the laziness was deceptive, Sawyer noticed. And recognized it, because it was something he understood. Something he identified with.
“Got a little too beat-up,” his brother said. Then he smiled wryly, his expression lightening. A decade of hard living dis
appeared from his face. “Emily.”
A rustle near the door brought Sawyer’s attention around, but he realized that Jefferson had been aware of the sound long before he was.
Emily walked into the room, her gait slow. She smiled at Sawyer but quietly glowed when she stopped next to her husband’s chair, her hand easily falling to his shoulder. “Did I hear my name?”
Jefferson’s hand covered hers and Sawyer barely heard Jefferson’s response as he eyed the couple, so clearly two parts of one whole.
He couldn’t help but wonder if he himself had ever felt that way. Had ever felt that complete. Wondered if there was a woman out there somewhere who completed him. A woman he couldn’t remember.
The only face that swam into his mind was the beautiful one of Rebecca Morehouse.
He realized Emily was speaking to him and focused with an effort on her invitation to stay for supper. He pushed to his feet and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve already got plans.” They didn’t question him. Emily simply told him that he was welcome to join them anytime. He waved Jefferson back in place when his brother started to rise. “I’ll find my way out,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”
Leandra was playing in the hallway with a stack of colorful blocks which she’d spread around in an uncanny resemblance of a small town and she hopped up, scattering a tower as she did so. “You going byebye, Uncle Sawyer?”
Sawyer stopped, looking down at his niece. She resembled both her parents; her coloring from Jefferson, her delicate features from Emily. “Yes.”
She smiled and held up her hands, clearly expecting him to do something.
A soft snort from behind told him that Jefferson had followed him to the door after all. “She wants a goodbye kiss,” he said.
Right. Sawyer leaned over and dropped a kiss on her forehead, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung like a limpet. He had to scoop her up or let her fall, so he lifted her and she giggled against his cheek. Sawyer’s arms tightened fractionally around her warm little body. God. Had he ever wanted children of his own?
Leandra smacked her lips loudly against his cheek, then wriggled around and Sawyer set her back on her feet, where she darted back into the center of her block-town and immediately began rebuilding the tower she’d knocked over. Despite the fact that his brother moved rather gingerly, Jefferson folded his long length down onto the floor beside his daughter and began stacking red, blue and green blocks.
Feeling colder somehow, Sawyer pulled on his coat and left. He drove through the main gate of the Double-C and parked in front of the big house. The daylight was dwindling and golden light spilled from the windows. He supposed it presented a pretty welcoming picture, especially considering the light fall of snow that had begun halfway between the drive from Jefferson’s place to here.
He wondered what kind of life he’d led that he couldn’t even seem to appreciate the picturesque sight. Had he ever appreciated the ranch? Or had it always inspired the edgy knot of tension inside his gut that he now felt?
He made a rough sigh of impatience. Sitting here freezing wasn’t accomplishing a damn thing. He suddenly knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to drive Daniel’s truck right back into Weaver and find out if welcoming warm light shone from the windows of Rebecca’s home.
Rebecca peered at the cookbook, checking the recipe for the delicate, lacy cookies. The photograph showed beautifully golden tubes, one end dipped in rich chocolate. What sat on her counter, however, more closely resembled charcoal briquettes.
She went into the pantry to get the trash can and carried it back to the counter, sweeping the flopped results from the counter into it. So much for this particular batch of holiday cookies.
It was probably better if she stuck to her usual peanut-butter cookies that she’d learned how to bake in high school economics. It was just that the photograph in the cookbook had looked so pretty. The instructions so impossibly simple.
“Hey, Mom, look who’s... Oh, gross. Burned ’em again, huh?”
“Don’t rub it in, kiddo.” Rebecca dashed her hand across the counter, sweeping the last of the ruined recipe into the trash and looking over her shoulder at the same time. Seeing the man standing behind her son shocked her so deeply that her fingers loosened and the narrow kitchen trash can slipped from her fingers, sending burned cookies and the empty cans of sloppy-joe mix she’d used for Ryan’s supper skidding across the flour-dusted kitchen floor.
Ryan goggled. “Jeez, Mom.”
Feeling heat climb her face to the roots of her hair, Rebecca yanked the trash can upright and started scooping up the cookies, dumping them back inside. Sawyer’s boot stopped a rolling can, and he crouched down to pick it up and toss it into the can. Their fingers bumped when they reached for the last can at the same time and Rebecca quickly snatched it, tipping it into the trash can. She stood, brushing her fingers over the sides of her jeans. Sawyer rose, too and she decided that her kitchen was too darned small. First her exam rooms, and now her kitchen. If the man didn’t stop coming around, she’d find the entire state too small.
She stepped back and bumped soundly against the counter behind her. Sawyer, darn him, didn’t move. Just watched her with his eyes dark and steady.
Her son, on the other hand, giggled wildly. “Jeez, Mom. You take your klutz pills today?”
Cheeks hot, Rebecca looked past Sawyer to Ryan. “Don’t you have some work to do? You promised.”
Ryan’s grin died. He rolled his eyes but went. Only a moment or two passed when they heard the distinct thud of a door being shut rather enthusiastically.
“What did he promise to do?”
Rebecca moistened her lips, turning away from Sawyer to grab the dishcloth from the sink and wipe down the sticky countertop. “Clean his room. It’s an ongoing war between us.” She thrust the cloth under the faucet and rinsed it. She wrung the cloth harder when she realized her hands were shaking.
“Typical of that age, I’d imagine ”
She really wasn’t standing in her kitchen like this with Sawyer. She wasn’t. Annoyed with herself for letting him get to her, she pushed past him to snatch up the trash can, returning it to the pantry.
When she re-entered the kitchen, Sawyer was leaning against the counter, his arms folded across his wide chest. She stopped in the doorway between the pantry and the kitchen. “Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
It took some effort to ignore the jolt that went through her. She busied herself untying the chocolate-spattered apron from her waist. “That’s quite a line, Captain Does it work often?”
She looked up in time to catch the pained expression on his face, and wished she’d missed it. “Not in recent memory,” Sawyer said blandly.
She wadded up the apron and tossed it on the counter. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t attack you, you know.”
The empathy that had swelled inside her deflated like a popped balloon. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
He moved, uncrossing his arms, and Rebecca couldn’t prevent the nervous start she gave. His mobile lips flattened and he held his arms out to the side, palms up. “Would you feel better if you frisked me? I’m not carrying.”
“Oh, sure.” The words came abruptly, without thought. “I really want to pat you down.”
His expression eased, his lips twitching. “I’m crushed.”
“I doubt it.”
His hands dropped to the counter on either side of him. The position seemed to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders beneath his shirt. It was the same brown and black shirt he’d been wearing earlier that day. Had it only been that day?
She rubbed her fingertips across her forehead.
“You’re tired.”
She was. The last person she needed pointing it out, however, was him. “It’s been a long day.”
“So go sit down and relax.”
While he was inside her home? There was a laughable thought. “I have
to get some cookies baked. I promised to donate several batches for the community Christmas dance next week.”
Eyebrows rising, he glanced to either side of him. “Oh. I see.”
“Listen, Captain, I can bake.”
“Okay.”
“I can.”
His lips twitched and despite everything she felt a chuckle rising within. “Okay, so sometimes I have a little trouble with it.” The smile that stretched across his lips knocked her sideways a bit. She blinked and turned hurriedly to the refrigerator, pulling out the carton of eggs and setting it on the counter, alongside the tipped-over bag of flour.
Get him out of your house. The internal order lacked teeth. Particularly when she heard water running and looked over to see him washing the beaters for the electric mixer. She couldn’t help herself. She stared. And stared even harder when he dried the beaters and popped them into the slots of the mixer. Then he started washing the collection of mixing bowls she’d left piled in the sink. “What are you doing?”
He kept right on washing at a dried smudge of cookie dough. “Being helpful. Don’t you recognize it when you see it?”
Not when it’s coming from you. She swallowed, and stuck the eggs right back into the refrigerator. Allowing him to remain in her home was pure madness.
Rebecca prided herself on being totally sane. She didn’t have time in her life for madness. She certainly didn’t have time in her life to deal with Sawyer Clay.
She didn’t want to deal with Sawyer Clay.
“Too tired, after all, to bake more tonight?” He finished rinsing the last bowl and extended one arm, opening the third drawer from the top in the row of six, to find a clean dish towel. He spread the towel on the counter and turned the clean, wet bowls upside down on it, leaving them to air dry.
Rebecca dragged her attention from the drawer he’d opened with such unerring accuracy. She’d kept her dish towels in the same drawer in a half-dozen different homes, including the small San Diego apartment of long ago. After so many years of moving around as a child, she cherished order.
“Bec?”
A Child for Christmas Page 7
