A Weaver Vow

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  Her dimple flashed.

  He decided he hadn’t fallen through a hole after all. “Where’s your car?”

  She shook her head. “The weather’s so nice I decided to walk here.”

  “Murph?”

  “At home.”

  “Alone?”

  “I think he had a good day with your mother and I decided that an hour on his own wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I rented a DVD he wanted to watch.”

  “Sounds like progress.”

  She nodded. “I hope so.” She adjusted the strap over her shoulder, and the sweatshirt fell open even more.

  Evenings and mornings were still cool, yet he was suddenly sweating. He looked toward the darkened studio for a moment and felt a drift of evening air. “So you gonna bring him out to the ranch in the morning or leave him home for the day?”

  “The ranch,” she said quickly. “An hour tonight is not the same as a full day. If that still works for you,” she added.

  Everything about her worked for him. So damn well he was in pain, and only a portion of it was physical. “Yeah,” he said abruptly. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?” Might as well add to his torture for a few minutes more.

  Her brows pulled together as she gave him a close look. “Are you sure? I don’t mind walking. It’s what I’d planned.”

  “Of course I’m sure.” He reached around her to open the truck door behind her but she shifted suddenly, and his hand landed on her shoulder.

  They both went still.

  His fingertips flexed. With no effort at all, he could pull her to him. If he kissed her well enough, long enough, maybe she’d forget everything except him.

  God knew he could barely remember anything but her.

  But she moistened her lips. Laughed a breathy, false laugh. “Sorry.” She acted as if he weren’t touching her at all and opened the door herself, climbing nimbly up onto the high seat.

  Maybe to her it was as if he wasn’t touching her at all. Maybe, no matter what he’d thought, believed, felt, she would only ever want the touch of the man she’d lost.

  Colby’s door opened again, letting out a burst of music and voices. The noise only seemed to underscore his unwelcome black thoughts.

  He pushed the truck door shut, walked around and got in on the driver’s side, then drove out of the parking lot. He joined the few other vehicles on Main. Turned automatically when he needed to turn. Pulled up in front of the little white house that looked pretty much the same as it always had.

  One step at a time.

  Just get home.

  Get your act together and remember that Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that bloody crap.

  “Erik?”

  His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

  “Thank you.”

  His jaw tightened. “No problem. It was only a few blocks.”

  “I don’t mean for the ride. Though I appreciate that, too.” Her hand touched his rigid arm. “I mean for everything else.”

  “You’re welcome.” The words came from somewhere deep inside him, an automatic response due to simple training in manners by his folks when he was a kid. Because he damn sure wasn’t feeling mannerly now.

  Particularly when Isabella unclipped her seat belt and, instead of mercifully leaving him to his personal misery, pressed her other hand against the console between them and pushed herself upward and over to brush her soft lips against his cheek.

  His grip tightened even more. There’d be new ridges in his steering wheel after this. He’d rather have no contact from her at all than this pale shadow of what he really wanted.

  “Isabella,” he managed carefully, “unless you want to put those lips on mine right now, you need to hustle your butt out of the truck and go inside.”

  She caught her breath. She was still leaning over the console. Not only did he hear that sharp inhale, but he felt it, in the push of her rising chest against his arm.

  Closing his eyes against it was no help. It just heightened every other sense that was already acutely tuned to her. “I’m a patient man,” he added grimly. “But at the moment I’m clean out.”

  She hadn’t let out that breath.

  And he was a drowning man.

  “Dammit, Izzy.” He turned to glare at her.

  Her eyes were wide. Her lips parted softly as she finally exhaled. “Do you see me hustling?” Her voice was husky. Unsteady.

  He felt like shaking his head to dislodge the sudden buzzing in his ears. He couldn’t have heard what he’d heard. But he had.

  And she proved it when her hand moved from his locked elbow to his cheek. And then those fathomless eyes of hers closed and she found his lips with her own, moving slowly, sweetly.

  Temptingly.

  Her fingers stroked along his jaw. “Don’t you want to kiss me back, Erik?”

  He wanted a lot more than a kiss. He wanted heart. Soul. And body.

  But a drowning man grabs what he can.

  He closed his hands around her and hauled her over the console, right onto his lap.

  She gasped but didn’t protest, and when he closed his mouth over hers and kissed her the way he’d been wanting to ever since he’d lied about his mom’s leftovers, she gasped again. It seemed like an eternity before he finally lifted his head and hauled in air.

  Isabella’s heart was a careening train inside her chest. Her lips felt hot and swollen and she didn’t seem to have the strength to lift her head from Erik’s hard chest. Everything about him was hard. And she was so...not.

  His hands slid around her waist, pulling her more tightly against him, and she nearly melted. She pressed her lips against the hot saltiness of his throat and felt the sound he made. He suddenly lifted her, though, and dumped her rather less than elegantly back into her own bucket seat.

  Her hands closed around air. “What—”

  He raked his hands through his hair, making the short strands even more disheveled. “We’re sitting in front of your house under a streetlight.” His voice was gruff. “If we don’t stop, we’re gonna be front-page news for sure.”

  The reminder served as a good, cold dousing.

  “Right.” Half of the customers who came into the diner already referred to her as Erik’s girl. She corrected them every time.

  A kiss didn’t make her anyone’s girl.

  But if someone had seen them, she’d have a hard time convincing the town’s grapevine of that.

  She’d have a hard time convincing herself of that, too.

  Every muscle she possessed seemed to be shaking, but she managed to right herself in the seat. She tugged her snug, stretchy camisole back down over her hips where it belonged. Then she pulled up the scooped neckline that had dipped dangerously low.

  Her skin felt too tight. Too hot. Too everything. She’d never felt so consumed by a kiss. “I...I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure you didn’t.” For the first time since she’d known him, he sounded weary.

  She gnawed the inside of her lip and looked at him. His gaze was rigidly directed out the front windshield.

  A calm, patient man who’d do the right thing no matter what. Who’d promised her time and space.

  But she could see the strain on his face. In the tight white line of his jaw.

  She hated knowing she was the cause of it.

  “I do know who I was kissing, Erik,” she said softly.

  He angled his head after a moment and looked at her. Even in the dim light, she could see the shadows in his eyes. He picked up her hand. Ran his finger over the engagement ring she still wore. “Do you?”

  Her fingers curled, instinctively protective of the ring. Something warred inside her.

  As if he understood, his hand moved away from hers. Settled on the steering wheel. The shadows in his gaze turned darker still before he looked away, and she knew she wasn’t the only one feeling torn up inside.

  “Make sure
Murph brings his cap tomorrow morning.” His voice sounded like gravel over glass.

  Her throat tightened. She felt like crying.

  Crying for what she knew she’d lost with Jimmy. Crying for what she feared she would lose with Erik. Even if it was only for a chance that she hadn’t been able to believe she even wanted.

  But all she did was nod. “I will.” She quickly pushed open the truck door and slipped out, nearly racing into the house. As soon as she was safely behind the front door, she heard him drive away.

  She exhaled, shuddering. Luckily, Murphy’s attention seemed glued to the explosions and car chases on the TV screen. He was sprawled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn propped on his belly. It was the same spot she’d left him in less than two hours earlier.

  Trying to gain control of herself, she hung her sweatshirt on the coatrack by the door and went over to the dining-room table where she’d left her notes after calling NEBT that morning. One of the girls she’d worked with there had promised to overnight several items to her. She picked up her notes and headed toward her bedroom, even though it was a few hours earlier than her bedtime.

  “Shut off everything when your movie is over and go to bed,” she told Murphy as she passed him. “And don’t forget to set your alarm for tomorrow morning. We have to leave extra early to get out to the Rocking-C before my shift at Ruby’s.”

  He didn’t reply, just shoveled another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

  Everything normal there.

  She closed herself in her bedroom and stared at Jimmy’s ring on her finger.

  Nothing normal here, though, at all.

  * * *

  “Come on, Murphy. Get up.” It was still dark outside when Isabella pounded on Murphy’s bedroom door the next morning. She’d already tried twice before, to no response, but this time, she pushed the door right open. She’d already showered and was dressed in her uniform for Ruby’s. But he was an unmoving lump beneath the pillows

  She stifled her impatience. Her head ached from too little sleep, but that was no reason to take it out on him. And she knew rising this early wasn’t his particular forte. “Murph. Up and at ’em. You’re going to have to eat your breakfast in the car. You know how long it takes to drive out to Erik’s.”

  Just saying the man’s name made her feel unsteady. Or maybe that was simply the result of the tumultuous dreams she’d had about him during the brief stretches of fitful sleep she’d managed last night.

  She went to the aging but perfectly serviceable dresser, pulled open a drawer, grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and tossed them onto the bed. “We’re leaving in five whether you’re dressed or not.” She reached out and tugged the blankets away from Murphy’s head.

  But his head wasn’t there. Only a bunched pillow. And his airplane jammies rolled into a messy lump.

  Panic, cold and coppery, flooded her.

  She yanked the blankets clean away from the bed, half expecting to see him still hiding beneath them. The bedding collided with the shelf on the wall, jostling it off its bracket. Ball caps, schoolbooks and baseball cards crashed to the floor. She barely noticed, dropping to her knees to peer under the bed. Then she searched the minuscule closet. Then the rest of the house, looking in, under and on top, even though the dread settling inside her told her what she’d find.

  Nothing, save a few dust bunnies and boxes from New York that remained unpacked even after being in Weaver all this time.

  She ran to the kitchen and snatched up the old phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator and jabbed the buttons.

  As if he’d been waiting, Erik answered his cell phone before the first ring could even finish trilling. “Don’t tell me you’re not bringing him.” His voice was strangely tight. “I’ll come drag his ass out of bed myself if I have to.”

  “I can’t find him.” Saying the words made it way too real, and she clawed at the back door that opened onto the small lot behind the house. She stepped outside, the long, coiled cord of the old phone going with her. Her eyes searched the dark yard behind the house, but all she found were more shadows, and she sank weakly down onto the cold concrete steps. “I can’t find Murphy,” she said again. “God, Erik—”

  “Hang up and call Max.” His voice, steady and deep, cut across hers.

  “Where would he go?”

  “Izzy, hang up,” he said again. “Just dial 911. I’m on my way.”

  She shuddered and nodded, though he couldn’t see her. The phone went dead and she scrambled to her feet, going back inside to redial.

  Why hadn’t she called 911 first?

  Why hadn’t she gone into Murphy’s room the first time she’d knocked? Or checked on him in the night?

  Or heard him when he left the house!

  Or, or, or. The accusations streamed nonstop inside her head as she punched out the numbers. A man answered immediately and promised that the sheriff would be there in a matter of minutes.

  Shaking wildly, she hung up and went back into Murphy’s room. It looked as if a tornado had hit it, and this time it was all her own doing. She righted the shelf and picked up the baseball cards that were scattered on the floor, stacking them with exaggerated care back where they belonged. Where are you, Murphy?

  The doorbell rang, startling her so badly she knocked the baseball cards back off the shelf again.

  Leaving them where they lay, she raced to the front door and yanked it open. And even though she knew Murphy wouldn’t have returned—much less rung the doorbell—she wanted so badly to see him that it was a disappointment to see Max Scalise standing there. His wife, Sarah, was with him, her eyes still looking blurred with sleep. “I’m sorry,” she said, entering before her husband and sliding her arms around Isabella in a hug. “I made him let me come.” She pulled back and gave her husband a quick glance. “I’ll make coffee,” she said and headed for the kitchen.

  “Let’s sit down,” Max suggested, “and you can tell me everything.” He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, but he had a radio on his hip that was crackling with gibberish that she couldn’t make out.

  Isabella nodded jerkily and closed the front door after scanning the dark street in front of the house. She went to sit on the couch. A matter of hours before, Murphy had sprawled there eating popcorn. A few kernels were still scattered on the cushions. She covered her face with her hands and tried not to think the worst. “He’s going to try to get back to New York,” she told Max.

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t have to.” She dropped her hands and stared at a tiny white piece of popcorn next to her thigh. “It’s the only place he’d want to go.”

  Max continued asking questions, stopping now and then to respond to his radio. Did Murphy have a cell phone of his own? No. A computer? No. They didn’t have a computer. He used the ones at school when he needed to. Who were his friends in New York? Isabella reeled off the names. Anyone else he might be likely to contact?

  His mother. But since he didn’t know she’d been found, Isabella just shook her head.

  Sarah returned and pressed a cup of coffee into Isabella’s hands. She knew better than to try swallowing any past the lump in her throat and merely curled her hands around the mug for the warmth.

  Is Murphy warm enough?

  “Izzy?”

  She shoved the mug aside and barely had time to stand before Erik strode into the house and pulled her into his arms. He was big and warm and steady and she clung to him, the tears that she’d managed to keep at bay until then stinging her eyes.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured against her ear. “We’ll find him, Izzy. I promise you, we’ll find him.”

  Her fingers twisted into his soft T-shirt. “What if we don’t? I went to bed early.” She didn’t want to face the reason why—because of that kiss. “I don’t know how long he’s been gone!”

  He cupped her face in his hands. Brushed his thumbs over the tears on her cheeks. His violet gaze bored into
hers, so steady and so certain that she was finally able to pull in a deep, calming breath. “We will find him,” he said quietly.

  And despite everything, despite the nightmare of the past year, everything inside her wanted to believe.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun came up and still there was no news about Murphy. After taking her statement, Max departed. He had the entire state of Wyoming on alert. Locally, his department was canvasing Weaver and the surrounding areas. Sarah stayed behind and was soon joined by Tabby. The three of them began cooking up breakfast for the other folks that started showing up, as well. Erik stayed with her for a while, but he, too, soon went out to join the search.

  She wanted to go with him, but he insisted that she remain at the house in case Murphy returned.

  Considering Murphy had run away from her in the first place, she couldn’t imagine why he would.

  “Come on.” Lucy drew her away from the doorway, where she had remained standing long after Erik had driven off. She tucked her arm through Isabella’s. “You should eat something.”

  If she did, she was afraid she’d vomit.

  She looked around at the people crowded into her small home as if she hadn’t noticed them before. “Where’d everyone come from?” Half of Erik’s family was there. The rest, she learned, were out looking for Murphy. Plus, several of the regulars from Ruby’s had come by to show their support.

  Lucy’s worried expression lightened a little. “This is Weaver. And you’re Erik’s girl,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  Isabella’s eyes burned too deep for tears. “I’m not Erik’s girl,” she said faintly.

  No one listened.

  Finally, rather than fight everyone who seemed to think it was paramount that she sit and have coffee and something to eat, she did.

  More people came and went. Erik’s grandparents. His mother, who took Isabella into her arms and hugged her as if she were no older than Murphy instead of a grown woman. “Tristan’s doing everything he can, honey.”

  Isabella appreciated the thought, though she wasn’t sure what Erik’s father—who was pacing around her front yard talking on a cell phone—could do that Erik wasn’t already doing.