If he cared about that kind of thing anymore, he would be embarrassed, Clay thought. But he didn't. He was long past the point when embarrassment had any place on his priority list.
His mouth quirked. He wasn't sure he had a priority list anymore.
But if he did, he thought as he tested his balance by letting go of the barn wall, food just might be on it. And since he'd abandoned pride about as long ago as embarrassment, he would take her handout—and he would admit it wasn't just for the dog's sake.
He did as instructed, welcoming the cool water from the outside tap; he wasn't used to this Midwest humidity. He knew the relief the water offered wouldn't last, that he would soon feel clammy and hot again, but it was worth it for the minute or two of respite.
"You can help me clear out some leftovers," she said as he came in; she was already heating something up in a rather sizable microwave. "That is," she added, "if you don't mind eating them."
"Mrs. Scott, judging by the smell in here, your leftovers are better than anything I've eaten in months."
His stomach rumbled suddenly, as if to underline his words. He felt a sudden queasiness and wondered if perhaps he had pushed too far, when just the thought of food made him wobbly.
"Call me Casey," she said as she pulled a large dish out of the microwave and forked some of the contents onto a plate. "Mrs. Scott was my aunt."
He wondered briefly if she was purposely not making clear if the "Mrs." appellation applied, then laughed at himself; old habits truly died hard, if after all this time questions like that occurred to him so instinctively.
But his inward laughter died quickly; there was nothing funny about it. He hated that the instinct was so ingrained in him, hated that even after he'd tried so hard to exorcise the man he'd once been, it still persisted.
The aroma that hit his nose as she set a plate down in front of him set off another rumble in his midsection. "You have to be the best caterer in town," he said, eyeing the plate full of what appeared to be pork chops, a scoop of pasta salad and a slice of bread he would swear was home baked.
"I am," she agreed with a smile. "But in a place the size of River Bend, that's not saying much. I'm also the only caterer in town."
She had a lovely smile, he thought. Sweet, in contrast to the fiery color of her hair. Which was the real her? he wondered. Or was she some combination? Some paradox that would keep the man in her life on his toes? Not that he'd seen any sign of a man around.
He shook his head, wondering where all that speculation had come from. It must be the smell of this food making him crazy. Only the manners his mother had so long ago pounded into him kept him from pouncing on the food while she set a plate down for Mud, who sniffed it eagerly, then looked up at Clay.
"Go ahead, boy," he said. And with a little whine the dog dug in.
"Don't wait on me," Casey said as she began to fill her own plate.
"I'll wait."
She gave him a stern look over her shoulder. "I'm not the one who nearly passed out. Eat."
He tried to go slowly, but still he ate much more quickly than she did. And much more. Her plate wasn't nearly as full as his. But once he'd tasted the pork chops with their surprising and delicious citrus tang, the pasta salad with a unique touch of both sweet and tart in the dressing, and the bread that proved to indeed be home baked—with not a bread machine in sight—he couldn't stop. And while anything edible would have done the job, he had to admit that this kind of food was a treat he'd almost forgotten existed in the world.
She kindly waited until he slowed down before speaking. "You're a long way from California."
His head came up sharply; he knew he hadn't said a word about where he was from. But then, he recalled, she'd seen the truck, so she'd probably seen the license plate. His father kept renewing the registration, so although he didn't have the current tabs, a simple computer check showed it was current. He'd thought of reregistering it somewhere else, but you needed an address for that, and he was never in one place long enough. Too bad. He could have picked a state where the registration fees were a bit less astronomical.
"A very long way," he agreed, leaving it at that
"Usually it's people from Iowa heading to California on vacation, not the other way around."
He made a sound that he hoped she would take as answer.
"Unless you have family in the area?"
He managed, thanks to long practice, to keep his expression even. "No." Not here. Not anywhere. Not who'd be willing to claim him anymore.
"I suppose not, or you'd be staying with them," she said. "I've always wanted to go there. Where in California are you from?"
"South. Marina Heights."
Her brow furrowed. "I haven't beard of that. Is it near L.A. or San Diego?"
He set down the glass of milk she'd poured him. "You're on a farm in Iowa, drink the milk," she'd teased when he'd lifted a brow at it, and when he had, he'd found it surprisingly good. But now he just looked at her, speaking carefully.
"I'm not on the run from the law, I'm not a serial killer or a thief, nor do I mean you any harm. Beyond that, with all respect, my life is not your business."
She took it well, he thought. She didn't flinch, didn't look shocked or even hurt at his brusqueness. Odd, he would have expected at least one of those reactions.
"Point taken," she said coolly. And then, to his surprise, she went on. "I have a … proposition for you, Mr. Yeager."
"Clay, please," he said, wishing he'd given her another name, any name; his own had too much baggage. "What proposition?" he asked warily.
"As you can see, this place needs work. There are dozens of jobs like the ones you've done today. I don't have the time or the knowledge to do them. You seem to have both."
He stared at her. She couldn't mean what it seemed like she was suggesting. Could she?
"I can offer you meals, and a modest wage. However you want to work it out, whatever work you think it's worth. Oh, and Mud, too." She glanced at the dog, who was sitting patiently at Clay's feet, his gaze on her as she spoke. "Although I'm not sure leftover people food is the best for him. I'll pick up something more appropriate in town—you can just tell me what to get."
"You want … me to work for you?"
Her brows lowered slightly. "Isn't that what I said?"
He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Laying his silverware across his now nearly empty plate, he leaned forward and asked, "Are you crazy?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Are you crazy?" he repeated, more emphatically this time. "You ask a total stranger to come to work for you, here, out on this place, where you're completely alone?"
"You told me that the law's not after you, you're not a serial killer or a thief, and that you don't mean me any harm."
"And just like that, you believe me? Wouldn't I say the same thing if I were one or all of those things?"
"Probably," she agreed, annoyingly calm about it.
"How close is your nearest neighbor? Half a mile? And the nearest cop is … what, half-an-hour, twenty minutes' response time at best?"
For some reason he couldn't fathom, she smiled then. It was a sad, painful smile touched with bitterness, and he both wanted and didn't want to know what had made her capable of a look like that.
"Yes, to all of it. And believe me, I know you're a stranger. And I know how isolated I am out here. I also know that sometimes it's the ones who call themselves your friends that you have to watch out for."
She rose quietly, gracefully, gathered her dishes and Mud's plate, took them to the sink and left him wondering who and what had taught this quiet, innocent-seeming woman such a harsh lesson.
And the sudden spurt of anger at whoever it was startled him. It had been a very long time since he'd felt anything like that. And he wasn't sure he liked the fact that it had happened here, now, and with her.
The answer was clear and simple. He would tell her no, thank her for the food, apologize again for Mud
's hunting expedition, and then, having done all he could to even the accounts, he would be on his way. He'd hoped to stay in the area awhile longer—both he and the truck were weary—but…
The truck.
It needed work. A lot of it. It had been new when he'd left California, but that had been five years and more than one hundred thousand miles ago, and now it needed new hoses and belts, probably an alternator, not to mention a valve job, and it was due for tires and more. It could break down at any moment, and he didn't have the money to fix it. Not that he couldn't go on without it—none of his meager possessions, except maybe a few books, meant much to him—but Mud needed shelter, since dogs weren't welcome in many places, and he spent a lot of time in the truck while Clay worked at some short job that would get them back on the road again.
She'd said a "modest" wage, but if she provided meals, he could save it all and maybe get some of that badly needed work done. At least he would have a start, enough to get him to somewhere where he could get a better-paying job. Not to mention that he could get some rest and regular food; that episode out by the barn had scared him more than he cared to admit.
He heard the slap of the dishwasher closing. Casey straightened up and turned around. She leaned against the front of the dishwasher and looked at him.
"Well?" she asked.
He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn't making a big mistake. And knowing somehow that he was. "You're still crazy to hire somebody you don't even know," he said. "But if the offer is still open … I'll take it."
"That you're a stranger," she said, her voice sounding as that smile had looked, sad, tinged with bitterness, "is the only reason I offered. You're hired."
I'm also an idiot, Clay thought. But Lord knows I'm an expert at it. One of the very best at being deaf, dumb and blind, too.
Mud yipped, as if sensing his thoughts. And when he looked down at the little collie, the animal cocked his head to one side quizzically, as if to ask what he was doing.
I wish I knew, buddy. I wish I knew.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Maybe she was crazy, Casey thought as she stood at the kitchen sink, looking out into the growing dusk. He'd worked hard all day, but she still knew only his name, and he'd been oddly hesitant about that. And when it came to anything else, he'd clammed up completely.
She wasn't even sure what had driven her to impulsively make the offer, but now that it was done, she wasn't sorry, Yes, he'd refused to speak of himself, where he'd come from or what he was doing so far from home, but she sensed it was a reticence stemming from pain, not secretiveness or some more nefarious reason. And even if he'd refused to tell her who and what he was, he'd been telling the truth when he'd told her what he wasn't. She was as sure of that as she could be of anything anymore. His response had been instant and incredulous; he truly thought she was crazy for trusting him, which, in a perverse way, convinced her that she could.
Besides, she'd resolved long ago that she could not go through life second-guessing everyone she met just because she'd once been so horribly wrong.
She wasn't, however, foolish enough to invite him to take up residence in one of the spare rooms in the house. It had occurred to her, but she'd discarded the idea immediately. She was nowhere near ready for such a thing as a man living under her roof. It had been tension-inducing enough just to have him around last night.
And he'd been grateful enough when she'd told him that he could move his truck into the yard and stay there at night if he wanted to. That she'd carefully checked the locks on every door and window—not that she didn't do that regularly, anyway—before she'd offered was something she didn't tell him. In this quiet, bucolic area her actions would be viewed as paranoid, if not plain suspicious. Of course, she'd lived in the big city for five years, which got her forgiven for a lot of what the locals would consider odd behavior.
They're right. I never should have left, she thought, as she had so many times before. I should have stayed here in River Bend.
She sighed as she finally rinsed the casserole dish she'd been washing, wondering vaguely how long she'd been rubbing at it with the scrub pad. The luncheon had gone well. The food had been a hit, and only three of the ladies had insisted on telling her exactly what she should be doing with her life, getting married and having babies being first on all their lists.
The remonstrations for leaving River Bend in the first place had finally faded away. Had she been born here, rather than having come to live with Aunt Fay after her parents had been killed when she was ten, she supposed it would have taken even longer for them to die out. As it was, it had been nearly a year before they'd finally given up telling her that she never should have gone to Chicago. She knew that nothing could have stopped her from heading for the big city back then. She'd been eager to leave small-town life behind her, had been young, full of energy, enthusiasm and optimism.
And, she added to herself wryly, naiveté. She'd had lots of that. Five years later she'd come running back, ruing the day she'd ever left.
She hadn't intended to stay here on the farm forever, had only intended to heal, to get over it and go on with her life, but the quiet peace here had been too alluring, too much a balm to her wounded soul to leave easily. And by the time she didn't need it quite so badly, she had a life here. It wasn't the frantic, high-powered pace she'd once thrived on, but it was a life.
That it had recently become a life behind locked doors and windows at night, a life of jumping at every noise, of panic at every phone call, didn't erase the peace she'd found here.
She knew she'd done all she could about the calls. She'd reported them to the sheriff's department when they'd begun a week ago, although she hadn't told them her entire story. She didn't want to drag it all out again unless she had to, and she had no proof it was Jon. As far as she knew, it couldn't be, and she didn't want to make the call that would disprove that. She would much rather believe it was some adolescent-minded male who got his jollies this way.
They'd promised to send an extra patrol her way periodically, but she knew she was too far out for them to come by very often. And that there was little they could do about anonymous calls. The best suggestion they'd had was to change her number, but she couldn't see that that would do much good unless she kept it unlisted, and she could hardly do that and run a business.
And in spread-out farmland like this, you couldn't just not answer your phone. She'd realized that when she'd moved the bedroom phone out to the living room and it had awakened her, anyway. With help far away, the neighbors out here had to be able to count on one another in case of fire or other emergency. Just last year she'd had to go get Cathy Stokes and take her to the hospital to have her baby, when her husband had been snowed in in Minneapolis.
So she'd let it go and yesterday she'd put the phone back in her bedroom, hoping the calls would stop when whoever it was got bored. Unless it was Jon.
She suppressed a shiver. It couldn't be. It didn't sound like Jon; there was a raspy tone to the voice that didn't fit, even in that disguised whisper. He didn't know where she was. He couldn't just get to a phone in the middle of the night, could he? And it had been years. He couldn't still be— The sound of the old pump handle outside drew her attention. She used it only often enough to keep it working, but Clay was washing up after his day of work. Through the kitchen window she saw him shiver—the well was deep enough that the water was cool, even at this time of year, especially on a day as warm as this one—but he kept on.
For a moment she was again aware of how broad his shoulders were, but his T-shirt was wet and clinging to him, and almost immediately she focused on what she could see of his too visible ribs even through the fabric; he was indeed far too thin. The memory of him sagging against the barn wall came back to her, and she realized he most likely had passed out from a combination of heat and hunger. The idea gave her an odd little chill, and she quickly began to expand her plan for meals of hearty, weight-pro
ducing food.
Midwest food, she thought with a smile. Including beef, potatoes, gravy and fresh-from-the-fields corn. She got her share of the sweet vegetable from the Wilsons, who leased her acreage for corn and soybeans. The money helped pay the farm's bills, and not being a farmer herself, she was content with the arrangement.
Clay was right on time; she'd told him dinner was at five. It was earlier than she normally ate, but he'd started early, and he had to be hungry.
He looks like he's been hungry for a long time, she thought, feeling that little internal tug anew. And she wondered yet again who he was, how he'd arrived at this pass, apparently homeless, living out of his truck, without even enough food to eat. He seemed more than willing and able to work, and from all she read, the job market wasn't nearly as bad as it once had been. Could it be by choice? Or had he lied, and was there some hidden reason why he couldn't settle in one place and work at least until he was healthily strong again?
She made herself quash her wonderings as she served up the meal she'd just finished, a savory hash of potatoes, chicken, tomatoes and peppers that was one of her specialties.
"Is there something I can do?" he asked politely as he came in.
"Nothing except eat," she said; she'd set the table while the hash had been simmering to doneness.
"That," he said as she set a full plate in front of him, "I can do."
He seemed so serious, so shadowed that she was a little startled by the quip. There was no trace of a smile, only a slight quirk of his mouth at one corner.
"You've earned it," she said. "I can't believe all you've accomplished today. Hello, Mud. Have fun chasing the squirrels today?"
The dog gave a little yip, then sat as she prepared and put a plate down for him. He politely waited until her hand was clear before he attacked the food. She felt Clay's gaze on her and hastened to assure him, "No peppers for the furry one, just chicken and potatoes. I'll get to the store soon for actual dog food."
For an instant he looked surprised when she sat down with him, but the expression vanished before she could be sure. He took a couple of bites before answering her.
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 3
