by Eileen Wilks
He leaned back in his chair. "You didn't come here to comment on the condition of my office."
"No." For the first time she looked at him dead-on. Why, he's exhausted, she thought, but then couldn't figure out where that thought came from. His shoulders were straight, his expression unrevealing. Yet she had the impression of a man who was weary down to his bones, but kept on going because it was all he could do. She told herself not to be foolish, yet she had to fight the urge to go to him and hold him. Just hold him.
That urge startled her into blurting out what she'd come there to ask. "What did the sheriff want?"
The straight eyebrow and the bent one conspired to give him a sardonic expression. "Afraid you'll be out of job if I get hauled off to jail?"
"No." She sighed. No, she didn't even have that much of a reason to pry. "I just want to know, that's all. If there's something wrong, I want to know."
His chair creaked when he leaned back, waking Trixie, who blinked sleepily. "He came out to see if I had an alibi."
"And do you?"
"No."
She waited. "You're not going to stop there, are you?"
The corner of his mouth kicked up. "I ought to. But…" He straightened, and the humor that had briefly touched his hard face slid away. "You'll hear about it sooner or later. Someone has been taking potshots at cattle lately with a .22 rifle."
She winced. "Ouch." It was a problem ranchers had to contend with from time to time—kids looking for kicks who decided to shoot something other than bottles. In this part of the country, a lot of teenagers learned to shoot when they received their first rifle—often a .22. "But why would you need an alibi?"
"The last two cows that have been shot both belonged to Ben Rydell. He thinks I did it. Sheriff Thompson checked to see if I had an alibi for last night, when the most recent shooting took place."
"But that's absurd! Why would this man think you shot his cows?"
"Revenge."
Hannah shook her head. It didn't make sense. Taking potshots at cattle was a kid's stunt, and this man was anything but childish. "Why would he think that?"
"Because six years ago his sister got me convicted of murder."
After a moment, Hannah remembered to close her mouth.
His voice—that wonderful, winter voice—was mocking. "Were you imagining that it was all some misunderstanding? That when I said I'd killed a man, I didn't really mean it?"
"You don't— I didn't—" She finally collected enough of her wits to put together a sentence. "I thought it must have been an accident."
Something flickered in those hard black eyes. He didn't speak.
She licked her lips nervously. "Did you tell the sheriff you were picking me up at the bus station last night?"
"I didn't spend the entire night picking you up," he said dryly, and the words sounded suggestive.
Or maybe it was the late hour, and the fact that she was in her nightgown, or the hint of heat in his eyes that made her restless. "You shouldn't need an alibi. The whole idea is ridiculous." Hannah tried to imagine Nate setting his alarm for two a.m. so he could get up, get dressed, drive ten or twenty miles and shoot a cow. The image was so ludicrous that she chuckled. "The sheriff didn't take this guy seriously, did he?"
"No," he said slowly. Trixie stretched and went over to Nate, who reached out to pet her. "As a matter of fact, he didn't. He doesn't think I'm stupid enough to own a gun when that would put me behind bars."
She was startled. "It would?"
"Convicted felons aren't allowed to own firearms." He stretched out his legs. "So why were you so sure I didn't do it? Are you such a Pollyanna that you don't think I'm capable of revenge?"
"Oh, you're capable of it." Was it fear, excitement or some other emotion that made her heartbeat so slow and heavy, like the music in a movie just before some silly woman opens the door with the monster behind it? "But this is too petty, too—" she struggled to find the right word "—it's small-minded. No, if you had an enemy, you'd either leave the man alone, or you'd destroy him."
"Thanks," he said after a moment. "I think."
She had asked what she'd come here to ask. It was time to leave. Except that she didn't want to go, which bothered her. She started for the door. "I'd better get some sleep. You should, too. You look tired."
She was almost out the door when he said her name. That was all he said, just her name, but there was something odd about his voice, something that made her heart pound in wary expectation when she looked over her shoulder at him, her hand on the doorknob.
The light from the lamp on his desk slanted light and shadows across his face, making him look severe, like a man who had reached some inner limit. Yet his voice was supremely level. "You were right earlier," he said. "It was an accident. I was convicted of murder, but it was an accident."
Relief shivered through her like sunshine. "I'm glad." Her voice embarrassed her by coming out in a whisper. She cleared her throat. "I'm really glad to know it was an accident, Nate. Thank you for telling me that."
She closed the door softly behind her.
* * *
Nate sat at his desk staring into space, one hand fondling Trixie's ears. He didn't pretend that he was still working.
How many times had he said those words? "It was an accident," he'd told the deputy who was first on the scene. He'd said it to the sheriff, too. To the DA, eventually. And to God-only-knew how many others.
Once, he'd believed his word meant something, that a lifetime of honesty mattered. He had learned differently. After the trial, Nate had promised himself that he wouldn't say those words again. Ever. People were going to believe what they believed, regardless of what he said. Yet tonight…
He hadn't meant to say that. It had just slipped out. He didn't know why.
It was an accident.
Hannah had said she was glad. She'd thanked him for telling her, as if she had some idea of what it had cost him to say those words one more time.
Had anyone believed him that easily? Had anyone, even once in the last six years, accepted him at his word without doubt edging in to cloud the way they thought of him, the way they looked at him? Even Mark…
Even himself.
"Isn't it true, Mr. Jones, that you hit harder than was necessary? A great deal harder than necessary, in fact, for simple self-defense? Isn't it true you struck Tony Ramos with all your strength because you wanted him dead?"
He'd answered the prosecutor steadily, but deep inside, the questions—all the questions, those spoken and those lingering in the eyes of people who had been his friends and neighbors—had taken root. And sometimes, when the nights were especially long and bitter, he'd doubted himself.
She doesn't know what happened, he reminded himself. Once Hannah found out more about the events of that night six years ago, she'd lose that stupid, blind acceptance. He wasn't fool enough to believe anything else.
But he sat there for a long time, turning Trixie into a melted puddle of doggy bliss by scratching behind her ears, and he didn't let himself think. He couldn't afford to think about the terrible, brief warmth he'd felt when Hannah had accepted him at his word, with no questions at all in her soft brown eyes.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
It was only one-fifteen in the afternoon, but Hannah had been yawning her fool head off for the last half hour. Ever since lunch, really—which she'd eaten with her patient. Her employer hadn't shown up for the meal.
That was entirely his affair, she assured herself as she measured the laundry soap and dumped it in on top of the load of jeans she was washing. So he hired her to cook and clean for him as well as to take care of his brother; that didn't mean he was obliged to show up for the meals she prepared, did it? Even if that meant that she had to throw out some of the food.
She scowled at the table, where a single place setting sat, pristine and unused. It was her own stupid fault if she'd gone to the trouble of making homemade tortillas for
the burritos in a lame effort to impress the man. Why was she so intrigued by him, anyway? No more showing off, she promised herself as she folded the last of the sheets. From now on, he could have sandwiches or leftovers for lunch. If he bothered to show up.
Hannah was seriously considering a nap. She was yawning as she carried the laundry basket full of clean towels and sheets down one hall and across the living room, heading for the newest part of the house. She hadn't had enough sleep lately, what with arriving here after midnight, then staying up fretting about the sheriff's visit last night. And then she'd lain awake after talking to Nate, trying to understand what it was about the man that called to her so. Was she a fool for believing him? She didn't know. Her heart didn't seem to care. He'd needed her to believe in him, and something in her heart had just opened up and taken him in.
Much as she would take in any new friend, she assured herself as she headed for Nate's room. Or a patient. Or a stray dog, for that matter. Didn't she always want to fix things for those around her? That's why she was going to be a nurse, for heaven's sake. The way her mysterious employer affected her was perfectly normal, and nothing to be alarmed about.
Nate's bedroom door was ajar. She shoved it open with her foot and stepped inside. And stopped in her tracks.
He wasn't naked. Quite.
He took his time about pulling his jeans up, then used both hands to zip them. And he looked at her the whole time, not smiling, but not angry or embarrassed or any of the things he ought to be when she'd walked in and caught him in his briefs, with his whole, entire chest bare, along with his washboard stomach and long, muscular thighs.
And oh, my, but he did have an incredible chest. And stomach. And thighs. And…
He spoke at last. "Was there something you wanted?" His hands paused at the waistband to his jeans without snapping them, and then he did smile—the conceited ass.
"I, uh—clean sheets," she said, jiggling the laundry basket. "For your bed. I stripped it this morning and—" poor word choice "—I washed the sheets and was just going to make the bed again, and—and you really should close your door, you know. I didn't know you were even in the house."
"You might want to knock the next time you come to my room." He spoke much too mildly. "If you'd walked in a couple minutes ago, you would have caught me right out of the shower. I'd hate to embarrass you."
Now that he mentioned it, she noticed that his hair was damp—the hair on his head, and the small, silky patch of hair in the middle of that incredible chest. "I'm a nurse," she assured him. "I'm not embarrassed by that sort of thing."
"That's good." At last he finished fastening his jeans. "I guess I don't need to worry about closing my door, then, do I?"
That wasn't what she'd meant. She frowned at him but couldn't think of a way to untangle herself from the situation gracefully, so she ignored it and carried her laundry basket over to the bed.
Nate's bedroom was a large, comfortable room, with lots of wood and not much color. Until this moment she would have said that the most noticeable thing about it were the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves framing the bed. Right now, though, that king-size bed occupied more of her attention than anything else in the room.
Except him.
She set her laundry basket down on the opposite side of bed from him. His sheets were white, as plain as the rest of his bedroom, and might have come from a discount store. His bedspread was a luscious dark blue silk, sinfully silky, and the only evidence of hedonism she'd seen.
There weren't any pictures in here. No paintings, and no photographs.
That bothered her. Something seemed off-kilter. He'd made himself a spacious and comfortable nest in here. Why didn't he have any family photos in his private space?
He was still watching her. She flapped the bottom sheet out over the mattress. "I expected you to come in through the kitchen so you could get lunch."
"Didn't have any time. I had another heifer jump the gun. I could have used a calf-puller, but we were out on the range, so I had to make do. By the time I finished with her, I was in no shape to go into town without a shower and change of clothes." He moved at last, going over to the ladder-back chair with a white shirt tossed across the seat. He picked the shirt up. "You did say something about needing to go to the grocery store?"
"Yes, but you don't have to go with me." And you don't have to cover up that chest yet, she wanted to say, but she kept her eyes primly on the sheet she was tucking in. "I don't expect you to drive me in when I need supplies. I'll bring you the receipt, of course, so you can see that I'm spending your money properly."
"I'd be foolish to trust you with my brother and not with my money." He disappointed her by slipping one long, muscular arm at a time into the sleeves of a plain western-style shirt. "It will be simplest if I give you authority to sign on the ranch's account. I have to approve you in person, though."
The phone on the bookcase next to the bed rang. Hannah jumped. "Oh—I'll get it." It was too early to hear from Leslie, who had said she wouldn't call until she was settled, but Hannah couldn't keep from hoping whenever the phone rang. Of course, most of the calls were for Mark, and they were usually from women.
This call was for Nate, though. She hurried through the bed-making, and she almost managed to escape while he discussed beef prices with someone. He hung up the phone just as she picked up her laundry basket again. "Ready to go?" he asked.
He obviously wasn't, not with his shirt still hanging open, giving her a nice view of that incredible chest. Had the man never heard of modesty? "Why don't we get me set up to sign on the ranch account another time? You must have a dozen things you need to do instead of playing chauffeur."
"I need to go to the feed store anyway, so it's not a problem."
Oh, wasn't it? Her mouth was dry and her pulse skittered around like a manic squirrel, and she didn't want to stop looking at him. One of them had a problem, all right. But she didn't think she was going to explain that to him.
* * *
"So what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" She frowned at Nate. Hannah had given herself a stern talking-to about the way she was letting this man affect her. She intended to listen to her common sense, too—but it would be a whole lot easier to do that if Nate would quit insisting on being so blasted present.
"You jumped a foot when the phone rang earlier. Then, before we left, you asked Mark to be sure and take a message if anyone called for you, and you've been a thousand miles away ever since you got in the truck. Obviously you are expecting an important call." He stressed the word important just enough to sound sarcastic.
"I did not jump when the phone rang." She certainly wasn't jumpy because Leslie hadn't called yet.
"You're expecting to hear from a boyfriend, I suppose."
"No, my sister. Although I don't really think she'll call for another few days. I just wish she would."
He frowned. "You're worried about your sister?"
"Oh, no," she assured him. "Leslie knows how to take care of herself. Usually. Of course, she's a little bit impulsive sometimes—but that's not the case this time. I just want to know she got out of town safely."
He didn't respond for the next few miles, and when he did speak, the words sounded grudging, as if he resented his own curiosity. "Why did she need to get out of town?"
"Her ex-husband. She left him when he became abusive, but after the divorce was granted he started threatening her. When she came home and found her apartment trashed one night, she was scared enough to be sensible. I don't think she would have borrowed money from me otherwise. She's very proud."
"Is that why you needed this job so much?" he asked, his voice harsh. "You were broke because you'd loaned your sister all your money?"
Now, why would that bother him? She glanced at him, baffled. "Yes."
He muttered something that she didn't catch. Hannah didn't ask him any of the questions his peculiar attitude raised in her mind. Silence was good. If she worked at it, she could practica
lly forget he was there.
The minutes dragged on in stiff silence as they slowed at the outskirts of Bitter Creek, and he turned off on a side street. Two blocks down he turned again, pulling in to the parking lot of a grocery store. The paint that might have once laid out the parking spaces in the lot had long since worn away. It didn't matter, though. In a town this size, everyone knew where the lines were supposed to be, and parked accordingly.
Nate turned off the ignition. "Hannah," he said, resting his arms on the steering wheel and not looking at her, "I need to ask you something."
She resented that, when she'd worked so blasted hard at not asking him anything. "All right."
"Will you let me loan you enough money to replace what you loaned your sister?"
"Good grief! Of course not."
He scowled. "I didn't think so."
"If you're trying to get rid of me again—"
"No," he said, and opened his door. "I have no intention of letting you leave yet." Having thoroughly confused her, he got out of the truck. "I'll tell Ed Jenks to let you sign on the ranch account, then I'm going to the feed store. Get what you need and wait here for me."
* * *
Hannah tried not to stare at the clerk who checked her out at Jenks's Grocery, but she'd never seen anyone who looked so much like Jabba the Hutt. Except for the glasses and hair, of course.
"I tell you, honey, I don't know how you stand it out there," the woman said. Jenks's didn't run to scanners and computerized inventory; this checker actually checked the groceries. The fingers of one pudgy hand flew over the keys on the register while she slid and sorted items with the other.
"You don't like it in the country?"
"Huh? Well, no, to tell you the truth I don't, but that ain't what I meant. No, I was wondering how you could handle being all alone out there with him. I sure couldn't." When she shuddered, the folds of flesh under her chin quivered. Her fingers never stopped moving.
