by Eileen Wilks
"Mark's got a bit of a temper, but he's okay."
"Not the young one." She shot Hannah a disgusted look. "The other one."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Jones?" Hannah said coolly. "I can't imagine why that would bother you."
"Oh, you can't, huh?" She smiled and leaned towards Hannah. Her mouth was wide and nearly lipless. Hannah kept expecting her tongue to shoot out after a fly. "You don't know, then. You haven't heard about his record." She dragged out the last word, relishing it.
"You mean his prison record?" Hannah smiled sweetly back at her. "Of course I have."
"And you don't mind?" Two pale eyes opened as wide as they could. "You don't mind living out there alone with a murderer?"
"Nonsense. There are five other people out at the ranch, and I find Mr. Jones an excellent employer. He's fair and even-tempered and very pleasant to work for." Hannah perjured herself without hesitation, and it was worth it to see the clerk's face screw up confusion. "Oh, I didn't find any whole wheat pastry flour. Do you not carry it?"
"You'll have to go into Amarillo for fancy stuff like that." Her hands started moving again. "So you find him pleasant, do you? Well, I guess he just might be real pleasant to someone who looks like you do. Pays pretty good for your … time, does he?"
Hannah reminded herself that ladies didn't punch store clerks in the nose. "I think you charged me twice for those cherries."
"What?"
"That can of cherries. When you stopped working to gossip, you'd just rung them up. I think you accidentally rang them up again."
The woman gave her a dirty look and leaned forward to peer at the register tape. The phone rang, and she picked it up. "Jenks's Grocery. Uh-huh. Sure, Mr. Jones. No problem." She hung up the phone and smirked at Hannah. "Your employer won't be able to pick you up for a while. He's getting a flat tire fixed over at Joe's. Don't worry, though. I'll put the perishables in the cooler for you while you wait."
Oh, great, Hannah thought. She was trapped here with Jabba the Hutt.
* * *
"She what?" Nate said.
"Said she was going to the library. Well, she asked where it was first, and it would've been rude for me not to tell her, now, wouldn't it, Mr. Jones?" Darilee Jenks smiled her wide, lipless smile.
Nate kept his temper with an effort. He got along well enough with Ed, but the man's wife set his teeth on edge. She had an oily respect for money. "Did you tell her how far away the library is?"
"Well, now, how could I do that? Do I drive around counting the blocks between one place and another? And the Lord knows I'm on my feet all day, so what seems like a long walk to me might not seem much of a stretch to a young thing like her, and so I told her. I gave her directions. You go down Second till you get to the corner where the Cut'n Curl sits, I said, and that's Frisco. You turn right on Frisco, and go straight until you hit Canyon Road
, then—"
"You sent her down Canyon?" Nate turned and started for the door.
"But—your groceries! Mr. Jones?"
"I'll be back."
He couldn't decide whether he was more aggravated with Darilee for sending Hannah off clear across town through the only bad neighborhood in Bitter Creek, or with Hannah for wandering off. Why hadn't the fool woman stayed where he left her?
The truth was, he admitted as he slammed the door of his truck, he was aggravated with himself, too. Because he'd misjudged her. Right from the start he'd judged her based on her appearance—all flash and no substance—because he'd wanted to see her that way. Damn, he hated being wrong. He pulled out of the parking lot quickly and headed for Canyon Road
.
There wasn't much Nate respected more than loyalty. Hannah had given her sister everything she had, stranding herself in the company of strangers to do it. That kind of unquestioning support was how things should be between sisters.
Or brothers.
Canyon Road was a long stretch of dirt and gravel that skirted the arroyo that some people in Bitter Creek liked to call a canyon. The oversize ravine did get fairly deep where it ran along Canyon Road
, the dry creek bed at its bottom hidden in the tangle of stunted trees and scrubby growth that covered its sides. On the other side of the road, faded houses with sagging eaves sat in yards that were equal parts dirt and weeds.
Most of the people who lived along here were unfortunate or unskilled, but decent enough. Some were unpleasant. A few were unsafe.
Those were the ones Hannah had managed to find.
Nate was two blocks away when he saw her bright hair. His blood ran cold. Five punks had her backed up against a big wagon wheel, one of a pair set into the ground to flank a dirt driveway. One of them tried to grab her, and she shoved him. Another one got right in her face—and maybe he did something else, too. Because she slapped him.
He slapped her back.
Nate's blood turned from cold to hot in an eye-blink. He stomped down on the accelerator. Seconds later he braked to a stop and came out of the truck, fast and quiet.
The one closest to him was just a kid, no more than fifteen, so Nate shoved him out of the way. The next one tried to stop him, so Nate hit him in the belly. That one doubled over. Then Nate was in the center of the circle with Hannah. Two of the other punks stood frozen, staring at him. One of them—the one who had slapped her—was the punk from the bus station. Mario Bustamante.
Mario must have seen too many martial arts movies. He yelled something loud and obscene and launched himself at Nate with a flying kick. Nate grabbed Mario's foot and twisted, stepping to one side. Mario gave one high scream and fell to the ground.
A blow landed in Nate's back, just below the kidneys. He grunted and spun, just in time to see Hannah kick his attacker in the back of the knees. He went down with a surprised yelp, and she grabbed his head in an odd-looking hold he'd seen cops use to subdue drunks, applying pressure just below his nose.
The punk's eyes got big, and he stopped moving.
Nate looked around. His hands flexed. Adrenaline had his nerves jumping, but there was no one left to hit. Hannah had hers under control. The one he'd punched in the stomach was still hunched over, looking green, and the third punk was two houses down and running flat-out. The youngest of them—the kid he'd shoved aside—backed up when Nate's gaze landed on him, his hands held out placatingly. "Hey, I don't want no trouble."
Nate scowled. "You're Victoria Smith's youngest, aren't you? Your mama would be ashamed to see you running with this crowd. She doesn't know you're cutting school, does she?"
The kid looked worried.
Mario muttered something and staggered to his feet, but his ankle wouldn't hold him up. He fell back on his rear end and spat something filthy at Nate in Spanish.
Nate shook his head. Mario Bustamante was the worst of the lot, but he was no threat to Nate, much as he'd like to be. With that realization, the last of Nate's fury evaporated, leaving him feeling empty and slightly sick. He hadn't lost his temper in a fight in a long time. Hell, he hadn't been in a fight in a long time. Not for six years.
That time, too, a woman had been involved. "Get in the truck," he growled at Hannah.
She slid him one measuring glance, released her hold on the youth's head, and went to the truck without a word.
Nate bent to pick his hat up out of the dust. He wondered if, at last, she had begun to be frightened of him.
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
"'Chimera.'" Hannah sat on the edge of her bed and read the word for Sunday aloud. "'A mythological monster with a lion's head, a goat's body and a serpent's tail; or a grotesque or unreal creature of the imagination.'"
"Did you say something?" Mark called from the room next to hers. She'd gotten into the habit of leaving her door and his both open, even when she was off duty, so she could hear him if he needed anything.
"No," she called back. "Just practicing today's word." She liked this one. It sounded like a creature that one of the heroes from
her book of fairy tales might have fought. She closed her book, set it on the table with Grimms' Fairy Tales and stood, sliding her stockinged feet into her dress shoes.
Mark had behaved pretty well since they'd had that little heart-to-heart talk the night the sheriff came to see Nate. Oh, he flirted like crazy when he was in the mood, and he snapped at her when he was hurting or tired. But both were outlets for the pain and boredom of his situation. Hannah knew it was torture for an active man like him to be trapped in a bed. She didn't object to a little bad temper or flirting under the circumstances.
The next voice she heard wasn't Mark's. "Are you ready?"
Her heart jumped. It had been four days since she'd watched her employer wade into a gang of five ruffians, flatten two of them, chase off another and back down the only one still standing. Hannah was sure she could have handled things herself—well, almost sure—but every time she thought of Nate's quick and certain defense, she got a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach, a warmth that was almost like sexual desire. But it wasn't. She was smiling as she turned to face him.
My, but that man could fill a doorway. His head barely cleared the frame. If he'd had his hat on, he would have had to duck. With his dark hair and dark eyes, and in that blue shirt he had on, Nate was a sight to make any woman's mouth water, Hannah thought. But he would have looked even better if he'd been dressed to go to church with her.
That notion was foolishness, so she ignored it. "Sure," she said, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. She wore her favorite cold-weather church dress, a dark green corduroy with French cuffs on the long sleeves and a notched collar. It was ankle-length and buttoned all the way down the front, and she thought she looked rather pretty in it.
If Nate agreed, he hid it. He sounded more impatient than admiring. "We've got to leave if you're going to get there before the opening hymn."
"Okay." She grabbed her purse and followed him, but stopped to stick her head in Mark's room. Abe sat in the extra chair, reading the funnies, his feet propped up on a box that held a pile of old magazines he'd brought Mark. The issue of Life on the top of the pile had a cover picture of Mickey Mantle in his Yankees uniform.
"You're sure you don't need anything else from town? Just the ibuprofen?" she asked. This morning, Mark had suddenly changed his mind about taking an over-the-counter pain reliever. After a search failed to turn up the bottle Nate was sure should be in the kitchen, he'd decided to drive Hannah to church himself so he could stop by the convenience store.
"That's all I can think of."
"And you've got everything you need for now?"
"Hannah, this is your day off, remember? Quit hovering." Mark softened his words with one of his grins. She was getting used to them. Sort of.
Abe looked up from the funnies. "You'd better go before Nate forgets himself and tosses you over his shoulder. The boy's looking a mite impatient."
"The boy" was looking downright grim. Hannah waved at the other two and, as instructed, got out of there.
* * *
As soon as Nate and Hannah were gone, Abe sat up, moved his feet and took the issue of Life off the stack. Beneath it was a pile of vintage Playboy magazines. He handed one to Mark. "None of them sad-looking things with their ribs showing in here. Nothing dirty, either."
Mark smiled as he took the magazine. A pretty blonde pouted her lips at him from the faded cover. "I'm going to be real disappointed if these ladies have all their clothes on, Abe."
"They're not dirty," he insisted. "These gals are just showin' off a little bit. Not like those pictures they put in girlie magazines today."
Mark had heard Abe on this subject before. According to him, the people that made men's magazines stopped showing respect for women in 1967. "I'm still not sure why I let you talk me into meddling," he said, opening the first magazine with due care for the fragile paper.
"You need that ibu-whatever, don't you?"
"No," he retorted. "But I'm going to have to take it now that Nate's made a special trip into town for it—since you hid the other bottle."
Abe gave one of his dry chuckles. "He didn't have to go. Hannah offered to pick some up. He just needed a little nudge, and we gave it to him." Abe opened the cover of a 1957 issue that featured a lush brunette in a filmy negligee. "Fact is, whether he knows it or not, the boy needs a woman, and he is powerfully drawn to Hannah. She's a good woman. She'll do right by him."
Maybe, Mark thought. Maybe Hannah was exactly what Nate needed, though Mark wasn't ready to place any bets yet. "What about Nate, Abe? Will he do right by her?"
Abe shifted uneasily in his chair. "He's a good man."
"I know that. But he's not the man he was. That's not surprising, after all he's been through, but sometimes…"
"Sometimes what?" Abe said testily. "Don't just dangle that word there and not finish up.
"Sometimes he reminds me of the old man."
Abe's weathered face turned stern. "I heard more of that sort of nonsense six years ago than I could stomach. Nate might look like your dad, but he don't have Garwood's nature. He keeps a grip on his temper, and he don't need to make everyone dance to his tune."
"But the ranch comes first, doesn't it? With Nate, just like with our old man, the ranch is what matters. All that matters."
"Now, if that's not the most ungrateful thing I ever heard. He brought you home after you got yourself banged up, didn't he? Stayed with you up at the hospital in Lubbock, then brought you home as quick as he could. And now he's got you the prettiest nurse I ever did see."
And aside from that, Mark thought, he only visits for five or ten awkward minutes every day to ask how I'm doing.
Not that Mark blamed his brother for avoiding him. Ever since he had left home, Mark had tried make things easy on Nate by keeping his visits short. That had worked out okay. Nate didn't seem to mind Mark coming around every so often. Maybe they didn't have a lot to say to each other, but the two of them got along, and Mark didn't want to mess that up the way he'd messed up so much else. Then he'd had the damn accident. Nate, of course, had done the right thing. That was one of the things that used to drive Mark crazy about his big brother: Nate always did the right thing.
But he didn't have to like doing it, did he?
Mark found a smile—the nice, easy sort of smile that no one ever looked behind. "Sure. You're right, Abe. I'm just feeling mean after all these days in this damn bed."
"Reckon you're entitled." Abe looked at his magazine and turned a page. "Don't imagine it matters if we meddle a bit. Hannah lights up when Nate walks in a room. All we're doing is helpin' things along."
Yeah, he'd noticed that. He'd seen the way Nate's eyes followed her, too. But while Nate might be looking, he didn't want to be. "I don't think she knows about Jenny, or what happened that night."
"She hasn't asked you about it?"
"No."
"She will," Abe said grimly. "After a couple of those folks up at the church finish filling her in on their version of things today, she'll have some questions. Unless she flat-out believes the worst. But Hannah's not like that."
"We'll see if you're right about her soon enough, then, won't we?"
* * *
"I appreciate your driving me in," Hannah said, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. They'd just turned out onto the highway.
"No problem. I had to go into town anyway." Nate had been bound and determined to go into town. She glanced at him. His hat sat on the seat next to the little black patent-leather purse that she carried for dressy occasions. His hands both rested on the steering wheel. He had such strong hands, with long fingers and broad palms. Fascinating.
Hannah dragged her attention away from those hands. "I guess you don't mind an excuse to get into town once in a while."
"Bitter Creek?" The twist to his mouth wasn't a smile. "If I never saw it again, I wouldn't miss it."
That was a bit of a conversation stopper, but Hannah persevered. "I could have brought some ibuprofen back
with me."
"Look, if you were wanting to drive in yourself today so you could do something after services, you should have spoken up. When I hired you I agreed to let you use a vehicle on your days off."
Oh, right. Like he would have listened. The man was on a quest. "There isn't anything I needed to do other than get to church. You said the grocery store is closed."
"Bitter Creek is a small town. Most places close on Sundays."
"It's a good thing the 7-11 is open, then," she said. "And that it stocks ibuprofen. Or you'd probably have taken off for Amarillo."
"You have a point?"
She smiled. "You were glad to have the chance to do something for him, weren't you?"
"I don't mind running to the store. Not much else I can do to help."
Apparently not, Hannah thought. From what she'd seen, Nate couldn't eat supper with his brother, or watch TV with him, or play cards, or keep him company in the evenings. She sighed. "You shouldn't stay away from your brother just so you can avoid being around me."
"I don't."
"But you do stay away," she said quietly. Every morning just after breakfast, Nate stopped by Mark's room. The two men talked about the weather, the ranch and maybe the news for five or ten minutes. Then Nate asked Mark if there was anything he needed, Mark said no, and Nate left.
"That's how Mark wants it." He reached out and turned on the radio, and the fifties' sound of Buddy Holly filled the pickup cab, hinting that Nate was ending the conversation. Yet after a moment he spoke. "I thought you'd be more comfortable if I wasn't around much, after what happened in town."
"You mean because you chewed me out for ten minutes for trying to walk to the library? I was mad about that, I'll admit, but I don't stay mad forever."
"I mean the fight. You were shook up."
"I was not!" she said indignantly. "I took care of one of them myself!"
"So you did." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "How did you manage that, anyway?"
"My sister taught me." Leslie would have been proud of her, she thought.
He gave her another glance—longer, more considering. "You weren't frightened?"
