“There’s nothing—”
“There’s something, Penelope. Something had you spooked last night, and something’s got you into a whirlwind right now.”
She shut her eyes, breathed. With his thumbs, he massaged her hands, feeling the heat come into them, some of the stiffness ease out—feeling a certain heat and stiffness of his own, which he pushed way, way to the back of his mind. He concentrated on the creaking and groaning of the naked trees in the chilly breeze, the twittering of chickadees, the drilling sounds of a woodpecker.
Finally, she looked at him and swallowed, calculating, debating. He could see her mind working out her options. She eased her hands from his, shoved them into the pockets of her flimsy anorak. “The footprints—”
“You don’t have to tell me now,” he said.
She stared into the field. “They belong to Bubba Johns.”
“And Bubba Johns would be?”
She looked at him, bit on one corner of her mouth as if not sure she should tell him. “Bubba’s the local hermit.”
Wyatt absorbed her words, then shook his head and gave a short laugh. “Well, hell. I should have known a hermit would turn up somewhere in this mess.”
But that was it. She would say no more. She muttered about having to get to her house to meet the police chief’s daughters and boil sap, and she went around the front of her truck and climbed in behind the wheel. Wyatt glanced at the snow-covered field. A hermit. A baby found on a church doorstep.
And Penelope Chestnut, blond, green-eyed, energetic and on edge.
He would do well to stay alert and at least a tad suspicious. Beware, he thought, of going soft. He was an outsider, he was a Sinclair, and these people weren’t about to trust him. That included Penelope, no matter how much he’d wanted to kiss her with the snow melting and the mud softening under them.
“Bubba’s harmless,” she said.
“That’s what you said about your cousin Harriet.”
“They’re both harmless.”
“Is Bubba the reason you withdrew your story?”
She took in a sharp, shallow breath. “I didn’t withdraw my story. I was wrong about what I saw, and I corrected my mistake. Harriet and Bubba don’t have anything to do with the dump I found in the woods.”
“So why didn’t you want to tell me about this hermit?”
“Because—because of the way you are.”
He settled in his seat, and she negotiated the muddy road with skill and determination. “Well, then, being the way I am, I should have gone ahead and kissed you while I had the chance.”
That got her. The truck sank into a mass of mud, and she muttered, “You’re impossible,” as she downshifted and roared onto firmer ground.
Yep. No question. She wished he’d gone ahead and kissed her, too. Wyatt smiled to himself. It wasn’t finding Colt and Frannie’s plane, but it was something.
Harriet slipped into the private half bath down a short hall from the front desk and locked the door. She shut the toilet lid and set her bag of goodies on it. She’d spent so much money! Twenty minutes in the drugstore, and she’d come away with gobs of stuff. Tubes and bottles and special sponges. She had foundation in two different shades, both very pale, and three shades of lipstick, but just one mascara. She’d stood paralyzed in front of the eye shadows for at least five minutes, finally settling on a collection of four different shades of taupe. She’d put an eyeliner pencil in her basket and took it out again several times before finally deciding, no, that was just too much. She’d smear it all over her eyes and end up looking like a raccoon.
Methodically, she ripped open her treasures, discarding cardboard and plastic packaging into her drugstore bag, which she would take upstairs and throw out in her room. Her hands shook, and her heart raced. Robby didn’t wear makeup. She didn’t oppose it, just didn’t think it was necessary. And she was so attractive without it.
Harriet glanced in the oval mirror above the small pedestal sink. Not me.
Before she let negativity get the best of her, she picked up one of the bottles of foundation and shook it. It wasn’t a top-of-the-line brand, so she couldn’t try it on in the store—she’d had to match the color to her skin as best she could. She felt thirteen again. She couldn’t remember why she’d never really started wearing makeup. At some point, it had suddenly seemed vain and stupid, and she’d always felt so ridiculous, gobbed up with creams and powders.
She poured a few drops of foundation into her palm, dabbed it with two fingertips. She looked closely at her reflection in the mirror. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes had been there for several years, the more recent creases at her mouth and in her forehead. She was forty-five. Halfway to ninety. Halfway to Kingdom Come.
She touched the foundation to her cheek and blended the way she’d seen on infomercials. She stood back. There. Her freckles had disappeared. The reddish spots had evened out. Otherwise she looked the same.
The eyeshadow was harder. At first she couldn’t tell she had any on. Then there were big brown blotches on her temples. She used a tissue to get rid of them and tried again, awkward with the little sponge applicators that came with the eye shadow collection. The mascara was a relief to put on, and the lipstick—a soft, pretty shade of plum. But it seemed too garish on her, and she opted for one of the nude shades.
“Better,” she said, giddy.
But her hair. She ran her fingers through it, seeing the gray, the shapelessness of it. Penelope could get away with quick trims and finger combing, could roll her blond curls and pop in those hair sticks and look fabulous. When Harriet had tried the sticks, they’d ended up on the floor. Barrettes and covered rubber bands she could manage. She’d never dyed her hair, although she sometimes fancied herself going copper.
Well, there was nothing to be done about her hair right now. She brushed it, pulled it into a wooden barrette and quickly shoved all her goodies into her handbag, which, of course, was sensible, like everything else about her. If she didn’t feel as beautiful and daring as Frannie Beaudine, she at least felt less dumpy and plain. She grabbed her trash and scooted back out to the front desk.
Jack Dunning was there, having emerged from a late lunch. He gave no indication of noticing Harriet’s transformation. She said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Dunning,” so he’d say something and she could hear that deep, gravel-rough voice with that delicious half Texas, half New York accent.
“Afternoon, Miss Chestnut. Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Not at all. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s just fine. Come on and sit by the fire with me. Wind’s kicked up, clouds’re rolling in. I do believe we’re in for a storm.”
“Yes, they’re calling for snow tomorrow.”
She came around the front desk, and he sat on the couch facing the fire. The only other seat was a ladder-back chair. Harriet remained standing, feeling the fire hot on her back. He patted the seat beside him. “Sit down, Miss Chestnut.”
“Please, call me Harriet.”
He smiled. “And I’m Jack.”
She almost blurted something stupid about loving the way he talked, but instead said primly, “What can I do for you?”
He had one booted foot on the other knee and held his ankle, casual, at ease with himself—and with her, she thought. He made a clicking sound with his tongue, thinking. “Well, I tell you what, Harriet. You can tell me what you know about this hermit. Bubba Johns, I think his name is.”
“Bubba?” It wasn’t what she’d expected. Something about Penelope, perhaps, or background on the town, but not Bubba. “He’s just an old hermit who lives in the woods.”
“On Sinclair land.”
“That’s possible. I don’t really know for certain. He’s been up there for years—since I was in college, I believe. He keeps to himself. Occasionally he comes into town to barter.”
“You ever talk to him?”
“About once or twice a year, I’d say. He brings us fiddl
eheads in the spring.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Fiddleheads?”
“It’s a growth stage of ferns, in early spring when they’re just coming up out of the ground. They’re a little curlicue shape, and they taste rather like asparagus. They’re a favorite here at the inn. Around Christmas, he’ll bring us balsam and princess pine. He never says very much.”
“Is he crazy?”
“I don’t think so. Eccentric, perhaps. But not mentally ill. People around here generally leave him alone.”
Jack grinned, winked. “I’m not from around here.”
Harriet paled. “You’re not going to throw him off Sinclair land, are you? That wouldn’t go over well here at all. He’s an old man. He won’t live forever. He—”
“Easy, Harriet. I don’t care about an old hermit. If my boss cares, that’s another story. Me, I kind of like the idea of living out in the middle of nowhere in a shack. Nobody bothers me, I don’t bother anybody. Sounds awfully damned peaceful.”
“I don’t know, I suppose I’m more of a people person.”
His gray eyes, ordinarily so difficult to read, took on a warmth she hadn’t noticed before. “The world needs more of you. I guess I’ve just been wallowing in the flotsam and jetsam for too damned long. I like the idea of sitting on a hillside watching the squirrels.”
“Your work must be trying at times,” Harriet said, feeling inadequate.
“That it is.” He got to his feet, and she saw that he was as rangy and fit as her first impression of him had led her to believe. He had on jeans, a denim shirt, his boots. He must have left his hat and shearling-lined coat in his room. “Well. I’ve taken enough of your time. Thanks for the information.”
She wanted to ask him if he intended to go to Bubba’s, but she didn’t. Penelope would have. She’d have told him to leave Bubba alone. She wouldn’t understand Harriet’s reticence in dealing with a private investigator hired by Brandon Sinclair. That she was attracted to him, too, just made it more impossible. She didn’t want Jack Dunning thinking ill of her before he’d even really noticed her.
So she told him he was welcome, and she sat on the couch, staring at the fire, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. In a few minutes, he came down, hat on, coat in hand. He waved goodbye and promised he’d be back in time for dinner, that voice of his curling right down her spine.
When he’d gone, she ducked into the half bath and tried the plum lipstick again. This time, she didn’t think it looked garish at all.
Eight
T he smell of maple syrup sweetened the air, and the sunset—swirls of vibrant orange, deep lavender, the palest of pinks—filled the sky, despite the ominous clouds gathering to the west. The McNally girls had finally left. Wyatt suppressed a sigh of relief. They were talkative, hard workers and nice enough teenagers, but they’d come along at an inopportune time. As he and Penelope had arrived from their hike, a tall, white-haired, white-bearded man was retreating into the woods. Wyatt had volunteered to go after him, but Penelope had touched his hand and said, “No, don’t. That’s Bubba Johns.” Then Rebecca and Jane McNally showed up, and Wyatt was sucked into sugar making and not asking questions.
The girls obviously adored Penelope. She was something of a mentor for them, a capable and independent woman even if she did have a search party called out on her from time to time. Wyatt suspected he’d inhibited their conversation. He’d sensed the sisters’ mad curiosity about him and twice he’d caught Rebecca, the older of the two, silently mouthing questions to Penelope.
The sap was bubbling, still clear and watery, in a big tub, set on a roaring fire they’d built on the edge of the gravel driveway. When it boiled down sufficiently, Penelope had said she’d transfer it to a canning pot and finish the process inside, hoping, ultimately, to get a gallon of syrup from the forty or so gallons of sap she’d collected. She’d explained backyard maple-sugaring techniques in excruciating detail, presumably since she and her helpers couldn’t talk about him.
Before they’d started, she’d had to change into an old plaid flannel shirt, some sap-boiling ritual. She tossed another log on the fire, her face flushed from heat and exertion. “I know you’re chomping at the bit to ask me about Bubba,” she said.
Wyatt stood close to the flames, feeling the heat on his face. “How far is his place from here?”
“About a forty-minute hike, depending on conditions.”
“Does he visit often?”
“No. Never.”
Wisps of blond curls framed her face, softening her features, stirring in him things better left undisturbed. As much as she’d claim she wanted to be flying, she wasn’t unhappy with her bubbling cauldron. Wyatt struggled to keep his mind on the business that had brought him north. “Tell me about him.”
“What’s to tell? He’s a hermit. Most people think he’s from northern New Hampshire, maybe Canada. Some say he’s a Vietnam vet, but I think he’s too old. Korea, maybe. He just keeps to himself. He doesn’t talk to anyone and he doesn’t hurt anyone.” She poked the fire with a long iron rod. “He’s your basic, old-fashioned hermit.”
“Why do you think he was here at your place?”
“I have no idea.”
“But he’s never stopped by before.”
“That’s right.” She laid her iron rod on the ground and held her palms over the fire. “It doesn’t mean it’s all that weird he would. Usually he takes another route to the main road, then walks in to town. He made himself a wooden wheelbarrow, and he pushes it with whatever stuff he plans to barter. He empties it, fills it up with new stuff and pushes it home. He manages to live on next to nothing.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I don’t know him at all, really. We first met when I was ten and he led me out of the woods.”
Wyatt grinned, picturing her as a preadolescent. “I’ll bet you were a blond-haired hellion at ten. You were lost?”
She nodded, unabashed. “That was the first time I had a search party called out on me. I chattered away at him, but he never said a word. In those days, people were kind of nervous about him. But now we all let him live his life the way he wants to.”
The fire popped, and a gust of wind blew ashes and hot coals onto the driveway. Penelope jumped back, the clear sap boiling wildly. “I guess we should shut this down for the night,” she said. “I’ll just let the fire die and the sap cool off, then I’ll bring it in. I think it’d fit into my canner, don’t you?”
Wyatt didn’t think he’d ever seen a canner. “We can dump whatever doesn’t fit into the lake.”
She grinned at him. “You’re offending my Yankee sensibilities.”
The sunset was fading rapidly, the naked trees outlined in sharp relief against the darkening sky. Wyatt could feel the night settling in, the quiet seeping into everything around him. The nights would be black up here. There were no city lights to ease the isolation, none, either, to blur the moon and stars. He considered Bubba Johns. At times over the past two years, the life of a hermit was one Wyatt could imagine for himself. Simple, with no one else to hurt.
He recognized the danger signs and shook off the melancholy before it could take root. “Do you think Bubba Johns can find your turn-of-the-century dump?”
“I don’t know. I could ask.”
He smiled, probably a little nastily. “I think I’d better do the asking.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She gave an impatient hiss, snatched up her iron rod and leaned it against her woodpile. Wyatt wondered if she chopped her own wood. He would like to see her swing an ax. She was an intriguing mix of independence, kindness, vulnerability and capableness. From tea and scones to hauling sap. He had to struggle not to be too intrigued and concentrate instead on the pack of lies she’d told him.
“Bubba doesn’t talk much to locals,” she said. “I can’t see him talking to a stranger—and it wouldn’t go over well around here if you upset him. People tend to be protective of him.”
“Good.” She dusted off her hands, obviously eager to change the subject. “It’s getting windy. I can smell the storm coming, can’t you? I think I’ll take a hot shower and call it a day.”
She started across the driveway. Something in her walk made him think maybe she was fighting off the same thoughts and urges he was. He scooped up a stray piece of kindling, tossed it on the fire. What was he supposed to do now? Say good-night? The evening stretched in front of him, dark and quiet. He supposed he could sort through what he’d learned today. And what he hadn’t.
“Do you lock your doors?” he asked.
That got her. She stopped in the muddy driveway, spun around to him. “What?”
“Maybe Bubba Johns decided to help himself to your larder. Have you checked to see if anything’s missing?”
“No, and I have no intention of doing so. If I have something Bubba needs, he can have it.” She sauntered over to him, hands on her hips, eyes an even deeper, darker, sexier green at twilight. “You know, Sinclair, you’re starting to piss me off.”
He grinned at her and before he could talk himself out of it, he tucked a finger under her chin, gave her that half second to tell him he was really pissing her off, and kissed her. Hard, quick and with no plans for regret.
“Well, I—you’ve your nerve,” she said, pretending to be stunned.
He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve got all the men around here too afraid to kiss you.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
She sniffed, straightening her ragged flannel shirt, which, he noted, he hadn’t had a chance to unstraighten. He wanted that chance. Now. He’d have taken her right there next to the fire, in the mud, with the wind blowing and the storm coming, if she gave him the slightest indication she wouldn’t pull the hot sap down on him should he try.
All the coolness had gone out of her eyes, and he could see that a part of her—however unacknowledged—was thinking about making love in the mud, too.
“You’re awfully kissable for a crank pot, hardheaded New Englander,” he said. “Come on, jump in the shower and put on a dress. I’ll take you to dinner at the inn.”
Kiss the Moon Page 11
