"Not if you intend to wear them."
"Okay, wise guy," Deanna shot back readily at his reference to the late kitchen curtains. "I'm a few hours older and a wash load wiser now... and at least your clothes didn't fall apart. They are clean, folded, and in the basket by the dryer, thank you very much."
"Thank you very much, Miss Manetti. Now I have to get some shut-eye so I'll have the energy to wear them. Good night."
"Good night, Mr. Jones," she mimicked, the proximity of her voice taking Shep by surprise.
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her ponytailed profile flit into the bathroom, the silky ensemble tossed over her arm.
"Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite." She closed the door behind her. A few seconds later the shower came on.
Oh yeah, he was going to sleep tight... like an overwound watch. There were federal agents in his yard and a charming criminal in his shower. Piece of cake.
***
In the semidarkness of dawn, a piercing whinny sliced through the white noise of the radio, jolting Deanna upright from a dreamless sleep. Never had she heard such a noise—like someone was chopping wood with a hammer. Rolling out of bed, she peered out the window at the silhouette of the ramshackle buildings, expecting to see them flying apart, board by board.
The tall A-framed livery stable, which, with only one of its double doors open, stood like a one-eyed, pointy-headed monster on the verge of exploding with the shrieks of horses and the smashing of lumber. From her limited knowledge of TV Westerns, only fire or a wildcat caused that kind of terror in a horse.
In the other room, the scrape of a chair and a muffled exclamation told her Shep was just as alarmed. The porch door opened and slammed in his wake as he darted out into the yard, barefoot and struggling into his jeans. From the other end of the buildings, a barking Smoky barreled around the corner ahead of Ticker, who was as fully dressed as he'd been the night before, rifle in hand.
Excitement clearing the sluggishness from her mind, Deanna pulled on the matching robe and rushed out onto the porch just as Shep reached the half-open side of the barn door. Suddenly, he lunged aside. From out of the black interior, a dark horse streaked past him. Deanna looked down. She was barefoot, and the horse was galloping straight for the house. She ducked back inside.
The thundering of the horse's hooves competed with men's shouts as she scrambled to find her shoes. By the time she emerged again, the livery stable lights both inside and outside had been turned on. Arms folded across her chest against the morning chill, she wobbled, stockingless, in her fashion pumps toward the open door. "Can I help?"
Slowing at the door with second thought, she spied one of the men from the shiny trailer hustling around it, struggling to don his jacket.
"Thunderation," Ticker shouted above the heavy-hoofed scramble inside the barn.
But it was an ungodly sound that warned Deanna to sidestep in time to avoid the animal that trotted out of the barn—not a horse, but like one.
"Molly, you buck-toothed daughter of..." Ticker, hot on the animal's trail, stumbled and caught himself. "If I get my hands on your scrawny neck..."
"Hey!" the geologist from the trailer shouted, waving wildly to avoid being run down by the irate critter.
Molly turned in a scatter of dust and headed toward the house, but Ticker and Smoky herded her back toward the barn... and Deanna. Eyes growing with each snort and bellow of the mule, Deanna could almost feel its hooves pounding into her chest. The vision spurred her frozen limbs into action. Darting around the closed half of the barn door for cover, she slammed hard into the man trying to open it.
Reality slowed into clips of awareness, punctuated by the staccato of Molly's hooves and the bizarre dance of arms and legs trying simultaneously to catch each other. Deanna clung to Shep's solid torso as they tumbled, gravity refusing to stop. Shep was atop her, shielding her from the hooves that took a fleeting pause along with Deanna's heart, and then resumed somewhere beyond their heads. Had she blacked out?
Shep's voice penetrated her daze. "You okay?"
Deanna nodded. She hadn't enough wind in her lungs to answer. She kneaded his chest as if to prove that she was still alive and not a mangled mess from Molly's hooves. Relief uncoiled her fear-drawn muscles in one sweep.
"Deanna?" Shep rolled away from her in alarm.
The abrupt withdrawal of his warmth exposed her to a cool rush of the early morning air, prompting her to open her eyes. "What?" She lifted her head from the dirt floor, looking about wildly. "I'm alive, aren't I?" She clutched at her chest, as if to be sure. "Where'd that animal go?"
"Out the back." A hand appeared in front of her face. It belonged to one of the geologists, the one in the suit. "Can I help you up, Miss Manetti?"
Something about the way he said her name sent a shiver along her spine. She stared at him for a moment, disconcerted, and then accepted his help. "Thank you, Mister..."
"Voorhees, Jay Voorhees."
"Yes, I'm sorry. Mr. Voorhees." Deanna straightened her robe and brushed as much of the dirt off as possible. They hadn't been formally introduced last night, but she'd heard Shep tell Ticker the geologist's name.
"Can I help you into the house? You look as if you're about to swoon."
"Swoon?" She ran her fingers through her hair. New Yorkers didn't swoon... did they?
"I got her," Shep spoke up, no question at all in his voice or his actions as he slipped an arm around Deanna's waist.
"You can help me with the mule, young fella," Tick called from where he dug into a barrel with a metal can. "All you gotta do is shake this feed to get her attention, and she'll follow you right back to her stall there."
The older man pulled a splintered stable door out of the way It looked as if it had been kicked to bits. So did one of the other doors, but a solid bar blocked the way of a beige horse with a dark mane and huge black nostrils that quivered as it whinnied. Suddenly, it pulled back and circled inside the stall, as if looking for another way out.
"Reach inside and dump it in her feedbox," Tick said, not the least concerned that the horse next door looked as though it would try to bolt through the sturdy bar at any moment. He pointed to the box just inside the opening of Mollys empty stall. "Stand back, and she'll trot right on in, happy as you please. Then just slide that bar across to keep her there."
"I'll be back in a minute, Tick." Shep pulled Deanna away from her leery study of the snorting, whinnying horse. Even Patch—the horse she'd heard had walked without flinching through firecrackers tossed in mischief during the last Fourth of July parade—was becoming restless
"No rush," Tick assured him. "We got everything under control." The older man directed Voorhees out the back door where Molly disappeared, while he moved to head Molly off from the other side in case she decided to act mule stubborn.
"Just remember," Tick reminded the greenhorn, "all you got to do is get her attention with that feed. O' course, with that blamed stallion sportin' about, she ain't actin' like herself so keep an eye out."
Sixteen
What happened back there?" Deanna leaned into the crook of Shep's arm as they walked toward the house. She loved horses—on television and at a distance. But up close, they were too big for comfort. Would she ever get used to them?
"The bay is in season and that red came courting."
Deanna hardly heard Shep's answer. Like she was going to be around long enough to get up close and personal with a horse.
"The vixen kicked down the door to let him in, and Molly... well, she just got caught up in all the excitement." Shep let the door slam behind them, flipping on the light. "Sit down before you fall down and let me take a look at that knee."
Knee? What knee? Deanna looked down, tugging her robe out of the way, to see caked-on dirt and a trickle of blood down her shin.
"What made you run out there in the first place?" he asked, heading for the sink. He took a clean cloth from the drawer and ran it under the faucet.
"Well I..." Why had she run out? She was terrified of horses. "I guess I just didn't want to be left alone." Now that was lame, really lame. But then she'd been lamebrained ever since she'd heeded the call of the West. Shep's explanation of the chaos finally caught up with her.
"Did you say the girl horse kicked down the door and not the stallion?"
"The mare," Shep amended, his wry but disarming grin spreading as he squeezed the excess water from the cloth and knelt in front of her.
"The shameless hussy!" Deanna exclaimed, adding with second thought. "Although, I guess I wasn't a whole lot better."
Shep's head came up so sharply, he nearly bumped Deanna's.
Heat flushed her face. "No, n-not that way," she stammered, wishing she had a rein on her tongue. "I meant that I'd made it easy for a guy to lead me astray, away from my home and a good job and... and now I have nothing but a beat-up sports car. You know, like I had a sports car life envisioned and wound up with a wreck."
Deanna grimaced at the sting of the wet cloth he pressed on her open cut despite Shep's gentleness. Why hadn't she met the Jeep man before the sports car one? She hadn't needed speed. She needed durability—someone to weather the terrain of life.
"I should have been content with public transportation and my job in New York. But the idea of being in love and in charge of a department with a big salary and fancy vehicle has me jobless and up to my neck in debt for a car that won't run."
"'Stay away from the love of money; be satisfied with what you have.' Deuteronomy, I think," Shep added after a short pause for thought. "Sometimes moving up in the world isn't worth it. But hey, at least your car can be fixed." He rose and walked back to the sink.
But could her life—not to mention her heart? Deanna bit her lip as it quivered under the weight of her hopelessness.
"And who knows, maybe we can do something about your life, too."
"Like a complete overhaul?"
"Nah, I think you've still got a few good parts intact." Shep took a Band-Aid and some antiseptic from a first-aid box he pulled from under the sink. "Besides," he said, looking out the window as he rinsed the cloth under the faucet. "The rest of that verse goes, 'For God has said, I will never fail you. I will never forsake you.' He's the master mechanic. He can fix anything."
"Yeah, but I left Him. I haven't exactly been in regular touch."
"Been there. Done that. Came home with my tail between my legs," he reflected with a halfhearted grunt of humor. "But He took me back... a lot quicker than I'd come to Him."
Shep wrung the cloth dry and shook it out, before taking up the other supplies. When he turned, the rippled planes of his chest had been splattered and streaked by the force of the water splashing from the sink.
If God was using Shep to save her, He could be making a real mistake. The most reverent thought that came to Deanna's mind at that moment regarding the straight-shooting rancher was Holy cow.
"You look good in dirt," she quipped, unable to dislodge her gaze from his searching one. She'd fallen for gorgeous before, but this was gorgeous and good.
At Shep's disconcerted expression, she grimaced. Sheesh, she wasn't much better than that mare. Here this guy was talking seriously about God and she was flirting— kicking down a protective door she hadn't finished building yet. Broadsided by a double shot of remorse and panic, she groped in silent prayer for help. God, are You there? I need some help here. I don't know what I'm thinking. No, I'm not thinking, I'm just doing, and I'm not even sure why or how. ..or if I should be having these thoughts at all. Have You sent just a shepherd to protect my hide or a Shepard for my heart? I don't want to get hurt anymore.
"So do you."
Shep's belated, husky reply, his closeness, melted away the psychological bar she kept trying to put between them. Or was it his touch? One hand cradled the back of her calf as he gently applied the antiseptic. The sting registered, shattering the spell holding Deanna breathless and still. "Oh, oh!" she gasped, erupting with a frenzied huffing and puffing to cool the burning wound. "You're killing me here."
The Band-Aid he applied firmly over her wounded knee finally assuaged its outrage. The heat of his hand ironing it onto her skin sent pinpricks of awareness all the way to the nape of Deanna's neck. Then he took it away.
Talk about mixed signals! Her senses flashed and pinged like a tilted pinball machine.
"There," he said, as though caught in the same electric freeze-frame as Deanna, at least on the surface. Was his heart doing flip-flops like hers? Were they supposed to be doing flip-flops?
"You mean you aren't going to kiss it and make it better?" she blurted out. Her pulse accelerated even faster at her spontaneous reply. Her mother and Gram kissed boo-boos and made them better. If Shepard Jones did, her brain would scatter like a dandelion gone to seed. Shep's throaty "Nope" checked the clamor of her thoughts but failed to rescue her from the warm cinnamon depths of his eyes where she floundered, unable to escape.
If there was another saucy reply floating around somewhere, it had sunk to the bottom of her think tank, beyond retrieval. She rose with him as he straightened to his feet. At first she thought it was Shep's eyes that coaxed her from her seat, but his hands reinforced them. Through the silky material of her robe, their gentle persuasion raised gooseflesh in their wake. Goose bumps when she was anything but cold. Go figure.
With the crook of a work-roughened finger, he cupped her chin, tilting her head back so she could almost feel the night's growth of bristle on his face. His breath warmed her lips. As he pulled her even closer, the silk of her gown and robe did little to allay the effect of the masculine torso pressed against her. She could feel his heart beating counterpoint to hers, a dizzying sensation if ever there was one.
His kiss was more of a caress, as tender as the touch of his fingers had been to her battered knee, yet it raised her senses to a state of awareness that transcended earthly senses. He wanted more; Deanna knew it. She wanted more as well. Like Eve with the apple just within her grasp, Deanna inhaled the sweetness of pure temptation, almost tasting it.
"Is there a future worth chasing here?" Hoarseness riddled Shep's whisper of the same question that haunted Deanna's mind.
HolyCow. Is there? Was there? Could there be—
"Well, we got it." The out-of-the-blue statement shattered the magic moment suspending the two of them. Shep all but recoiled as the helpful geologist stepped into the kitchen, followed by a loud bang of the door.
"Don't they teach you to knock in geology school?" he grumbled, crouching down to pick up the first-aid supplies abandoned on the floor.
"Sorry, I figured you'd want to know about the mule." Voorhees tossed up his hands in surrender. "Guess I'm not the only one who got caught up in the excitement." He backed out the spring-loaded screen door, adding with a laconic twist, "Except mine was with a mule."
Shep inhaled, stoking his breath for the thunder she saw gathering on his face, but Jay Voorhees disappeared before it erupted, his footsteps fading in retreat. When Shep turned back to her, his expression was as hard as the thick oak bars across the stable doors.
Her stallion was about to bolt... but not if she beat him to it. Pivoting away, Deanna beat a leisurely path to the bedroom as if nothing at all had transpired.
Nothing had, she told herself as she shut out the walking, talking temptation that had brought her to the brink of... of what exactly? She walked to the edge of the bed and dropped on it, bouncing as though to jolt the answer from its dark hiding place.
"Is there a future worth pursuing here, Deanna?"
Her future was either on the run or in prison for a crime she didn't commit. His was chasing that four-legged Romeo all over creation. The futility of a relationship slammed Deanna like a freight train. C. R. had tied her to the railroad track, but when
Jones had finally come along, it was too late. The wheels had cut her heart in two.
She'd have laughed at the mental picture, but it hurt too much. God, please..
. take it away.
Grabbing a pillow, she hugged it to her chest, as though that might ease her pain. It didn't. There was no relief. No matter what Shep or Deuteronomy said, Deanna couldn't shake the doubt and its consequential guilt that repeatedly overwhelmed her. Sure all things were possible, but were they probable?
God, where are You? Did You send Shep my way just to show me what I might have had if I'd been more faithful?
Outside, an engine roared from the far end of Hopewell's only street where Ticker's departing pickup cast a cloud of dust over the visitors' travel trailer. Blinking tear-blurred eyes, she searched the stillness of the ghost town through the window. Its sun-bleached buildings glowed iridescent in the morning sun now peeping over the horizon. On the outside, it looked alive, but inside it was as abandoned and empty as she felt—and haunted by what might have been.
***
Shep didn't bother to go back to bed. He'd hardly slept anyway, cramped as he was on the sofa. And his knee ached as though someone had shoved a screwdriver under the cap and left it there. He must have aggravated it when he pulled Deanna to the ground and scrambled to shield her from Molly's hooves. Popping a couple of aspirin from a tin he kept in the livery, he washed it down with fresh water from the hose.
What on God's green earth had gotten into him? One minute he was trying to bandage her bloodied knee and the next, he'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her. And that question about a future—that was a masterpiece. It was like pulling a perp's gun from inside his jacket and asking, What's this, buddy? He already knew the answer and so had she, given the way she skedaddled.
He owed Voorhees a debt of gratitude for stopping what could have been a disaster. So why did Shep feel the urge to punch the man's face? Was it professional embarrassment at having been caught doing something that went against their training? Or was it that Shep still couldn't accept Voorhees's charge that Deanna was a crook, not the victim?
"Morning!"
Shep glanced up from the stable door he'd been repairing to see the subject of his preoccupation appear in the opening of the barn, Tick's dog at her side. Or maybe it was that Deanna Manetti was as out of place here with him as a hothouse rose in the desert. He'd never seen jeans that glittered before, but the sun in the open doorway glanced off their curve and taper, holding his attention longer than he intended.
Winsor, Linda Page 14
