by Lisa Bingham
From what P.D. had been told, Annabel was next to perfect. So girly and feminine and delicate. No doubt, she’d made Elam feel like a manly-man in his need to protect her.
P.D., on the other hand, was wild and stubborn and too independent for her own good. If there was protecting that needed to be done, she would do it herself. Otherwise, she would feel smothered. After years of fighting for her dreams beneath her parents’ indifference, she would never surrender herself to another person’s control.
So there she had it. Even more reasons to keep him at arm’s length.
But as she turned to remove her Victorian garb in favor of well-worn jeans and a T-shirt, she was already anticipating the next time she’d see Elam Taggart.
*
ELAM pulled his truck up to the front of the Big House and strode to the front door. Since Russ would be finishing up the cabin in the next few weeks, Elam figured he might as well start hauling some of his personal stuff up the hill. He’d already made calls to the various utility companies. He should have water and electricity connected by midday and a natural gas tank hooked up by the end of the week.
Anticipating the amenities, Elam had stopped at the grocery store on the way home. He’d forgone anything that had to be refrigerated, but he’d stocked up on some staples and canned goods as well as some junk food for Barry or Jace should they drop by. He figured he’d better have something in the house just in case.
But even as he made the preparations for visitors, he knew deep down that he wasn’t thinking about the welfare of Russ or his brothers, but of a blue-eyed woman with freckles on her nose. Geez. Who knew freckles could get him in the gut?
Opening the screen door, he called out, “Hello?”
Instantly, he heard the thunder of footsteps coming toward him from the back of the house. He barely had time to brace himself before Barry ran toward him full force.
“You’re back!”
“Hey, Barry.”
Barry barreled into him, wrapping his arms around Elam’s waist. “Please say you’ll stay with me. Please.”
Elam frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Jace has to go change the water and I don’t want to go.”
“Why not?” Usually, Barry would fight to spend time outside.
“’Cause he washed my boots and now they’re wet inside.”
“O-kay,” Elam said slowly.
Jace ambled into the hall, rolling his eyes. “He forgets that he started the job. In the tub.”
“Where are you watering?” Elam asked.
“Down on Angle field and over on 62,” Jace said using rancher code for the appropriate areas. “Normally, I’d have the hands do it, but there’s a dance at the armory so I gave them the night off.”
Most of the hired hands were teenagers or in their early twenties, so a community dance would be a hot gig in the area.
“You want me to change it?” Elam asked.
“Nah.” Jace sat on the hall bench and began pulling on his boots. “It would take longer to explain what we’ve been up to than to do it myself.”
“I’ll stay with Barry, then.”
Jace had been stamping his foot more firmly into his footwear, but he looked up and squinted at Elam in surprise. “You sure?”
Once again, Elam realized that it had been a long time since he’d spent so much time at the Big House. He usually came in, grabbed something to eat or spoke with his brothers on ranch matters, then left again as soon as he could.
Elam nodded. “Barry looks like he could use a whoopin’ on the Xbox until bedtime.”
Barry began to hop excitedly. “Can he, Jace? Please?”
Jace rose to his feet. “Sure. That would be”—he paused, then his eyes crinkled in a smile—“that would be great.”
*
IT was pitch black in her office when P.D. awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding, her hair spilling around her face onto the desk blotter under her cheek.
Crap.
She’d been so wound up after Elam had left—so jittery and antsy and aroused as hell—that she hadn’t gone home after closing up Vern’s. Instead, she’d decided to get caught up on bookwork in her office.
Tugging on the chain of the slag glass lamp, she squinted against the harsh brightness, peered at her watch, and groaned. One in the morning. Too early to get up for good, and too late to drive home, take a shower, and climb into bed for a decent night’s sleep. Glancing at the swooning couch, she supposed she could crawl over there and pull the afghan over her shoulders. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept at Vern’s—and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But the piece of furniture hadn’t been restored yet, and the springs sometimes poked through the upholstery.
A rattling noise came from the direction of the delivery door and P.D. froze, suddenly realizing that it had been a similar sound that had yanked her from her sleep.
Pushing herself to her feet, she reached behind the filing cabinet and grabbed the metal baseball bat that had been given to her by a concerned line cook years ago. Even as she wrapped her fingers around it in a death grip and her heart began thudding in her ears, she found herself wishing that she had something more threatening at her disposal.
Like one of Elam’s pistols.
Or his rifle.
Or the man himself.
The jiggling came again—and even though she knew the industrial deadbolt she’d installed would discourage even the most determined of thieves, she couldn’t prevent the roaring of her pulse as she carefully opened the office door and padded down the hall.
“Bad idea,” she whispered to herself, knowing she should stay in her office and call the sheriff, but unable to keep herself from moving closer to the source of the noise. “Bad idea, bad idea.”
She had the fingers of both hands wrapped tightly around the cushioned grip of the bat. She raised it high over her shoulder as if awaiting delivery of a blazing fast ball. From the other side of the door she heard a muttered curse, then drunken laughter receding into the background.
Kids. Nothing but kids.
Her breath emerged in a whoosh and she lowered the bat, leaning over to gulp air into her lungs. She needed to call the sheriff, all right, but only to warn him that there was probably a keg party somewhere nearby.
P.D. had just straightened and begun the trek back to her office when a crash came from the kitchen around the corner. Anger bubbled inside her as she realized the kids must have circled around to try a new tack on getting inside. But as soon as she’d pushed through the double doors, she was assaulted by a wall of heat and smoke from a fire that was raging toward her.
“No, no, no!”
Throwing a hand over her nose and mouth, she raced toward the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall, knowing even as she reached for it that it was too late for such a puny defense.
*
ELAM let his voice trail into silence, then waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
When Barry didn’t stir, Elam leaned forward to pull the blanket more securely around his brother’s shoulders. Then he marked the page in Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, flipped off the lamp, and set the book on his brother’s nightstand.
For long moments, he remained in the huge wooden rocking chair. The piece was an artifact from all their childhoods. Some of Elam’s earliest memories were of his mother sitting in the chair, reading them stories or comforting them when they were sick. And now, even though Barry was in danger of growing out of his childhood bed, the rocking chair remained, a symbol of comfort to a teenager who would remain a boy and the love of a mother whom he couldn’t really remember.
Idly pushing against the floor with his toe, Elam began to rock, absorbing the creaks that were as familiar as breathing. His brother was hell on wheels when he was awake, but in this unguarded moment with the faint beam of the nightlight washing his face, Barry looked sweet and innocent and little-kid-lovable tucked beneath his S
piderman sheets.
The door to the hall opened with a soft squeak—one that Jace refused to oil because he said it was his “Barry alarm.”
“He looks all cute and cuddly, but I can assure you it’s an illusion. As soon as he wakes up, he’ll be chasing frogs and trying to teach that damned goat of his to pull a wagon.”
Elam’s lips twitched at the mental picture Jace painted.
“You take good care of him, Jace.” Elam pushed himself to his feet. “I should have been more help to you.”
Jace shrugged. “You’ve had a thing or two on your mind.”
“It’s time I gave you a hand.”
“I’ll send him your way every now and then as soon as you’re done with the Games.”
Elam didn’t doubt that he would.
Barry frowned in his sleep and twisted to lie on his stomach, dragging the blankets with him so that his feet dangled off the edge.
“He’ll need a new bed soon,” Elam remarked.
“You can help with that, too,” Jace said good-naturedly.
This time, Elam laughed, a low rusty-sounding half grunt that underscored how long it had been since he’d found anything amusing. He bent to readjust Barry’s covers, then swore, saying, “Where did you find footie pajamas his size?”
Jace grinned. “P.D. gave them to him for Christmas.”
The two of them moved into the hall, then down the ornate narrow staircase that generations of Taggarts had tread for more than a hundred years.
“Thanks for staying through the movie marathon,” Jace said as they reached the main level. “I don’t think I could have handled one more viewing of Star Trek: Into the Darkness on my own.”
“Thanks for grilling the steaks.”
As they crossed into the bright light of the kitchen, Jace threw him a knowing look. Outside in the darkness, moths threw themselves with suicidal abandon against the window. The soft thumps provided a staccato accompaniment to the emergency scanner chattering to itself on top of the refrigerator. Since Jace worked every other weekend as an emergency EMT, the sporadic radio traffic made a familiar white noise in the background.
“You seem to be getting your appetite back,” Jace said as he grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. Pulling a chair away from the worn farmhouse table, he twisted it around backward and draped his arms over the back, extending a bottle toward Elam.
Elam shook his head, knowing he still had the drive home, but even more, knowing he needed a clear head to think things through once he was on his own again. “The way P.D. has been feeding me, I’m going to need to start running an extra mile in the morning.”
Jace twisted the top off his own drink and took a long draft. “A few pounds wouldn’t hurt you.”
And there it was, the glint of concern in Jace’s eyes. But this time, rather than feeling uncomfortable beneath his brother’s regard, he felt … fine.
“Where’s Bodey?”
Jace shrugged. “Catting around, most likely. He’s been after one of the waitresses at Vern’s and I don’t think she’s putting up much of a fight.”
Elam stared down at the dusty toes of his boots. “So he and P.D… .”
Jace laughed. “He calls her his sister from another mother.” Jace shook his head. “I don’t know what his problem is.” He waved his bottle in the air to punctuate his disbelief. “That girl is pretty, smart, and talented as hell, but he can’t seem to see her as anything more than a buddy.”
Elam’s heart began a slow measured beat in his chest.
“So she’s not … an ex.”
“Hell, no. He’s too stupid to see what a great thing he has right under his nose.” Jace broke off, his eyes narrowing consideringly.
Not wanting Jace to get the wrong idea—or any ideas at all—Elam pushed himself away from the counter. “Well, I’d better head back up the hill. I’m supposed to meet Russell in the morning.”
“You could bunk here again.”
Elam shook his head. “Thanks, but not tonight. I’ve got some stuff in the truck that I need to get inside the cabin before I turn in.”
“’Night, then.”
“’Night, Jace.” Tossing an absent wave at his brother, Elam strode through the house and into the cool evening air. He paused a moment to make sure that the ties he’d thrown around the boxes loaded in the back were still secure, then shooed away Bitsy, Barry’s pet pygmy goat.
“Get out of here,” he growled good-naturedly, “or I’ll have you made into chops and slapped on my grill.”
The goat merely looked up at him hopefully, wagging her triangular tail as if she were an eager puppy, her rotund figure blocking his way to the door.
Knowing that the goat probably had an IQ higher than his own—and that she would not be dissuaded with false promises—Elam reached into the bed of the truck, where he’d placed the box of groceries. Ripping open a bag of corn chips, he scattered them on the ground.
Bitsy bleated in delight—and damn if it didn’t sound like she was offering her thanks.
“You’re welcome, you little extortionist.”
Elam was just swinging into the cab of his truck when Jace suddenly burst through the screen door, drawing Elam’s attention with the same piercing whistle he used to alert the horses that feeding time had finally come.
Rolling down his window, Elam paused with his hand on the gear shift.
Jace ran toward him, his feet bare beneath the hems of his jeans.
“There’s been a call over the scanner. P.D.’s restaurant is on fire!”
Elam didn’t even wait for his brother to close the distance between them. Throwing the truck into drive, he jammed his foot onto the accelerator, causing a spray of gravel that sent the goat scampering for safety.
“Make sure P.D. is all right,” he heard Jace shout after him. “Sometimes she spends the night on the couch in her office!”
Elam threw a hand out of the open window to show that he’d heard, then urged his Dodge even faster down the lane.
*
P.D. stood with her arms wrapped around her body, the strobing lights from the fire engines and police cars whirling in the darkness like the beams of alien spacecraft. The entire scene had been surreal from the moment she’d confronted the flames in the kitchen. But now, the situation was bordering on the absurd.
True to the workings of a small town and a primarily volunteer staff, there were no fewer than three fire engines, a paramedic truck, and two ambulances. There were three Sheriff’s Department cruisers, a member of the Highway Patrol, and even a representative from Animal Control. Then, as if that weren’t enough, half of Bliss’s population had a police scanner in their homes and her parking lot was filled with cars and pickups belonging to those who had come to see if they could “help” or take a look. Apparently, since nothing much happened in Bliss in the middle of the night, no one wanted to miss out on the action.
P.D. didn’t know if she should be grateful or embarrassed. She should have called 911 immediately. But like an idiot, she’d thought she could put out the flames with the fire extinguishers. After she’d emptied the first one without making a dent in the inferno, she’d tried the second extinguisher. It was only after that had proved ineffective as well and she’d begun to feel light-headed from the smoke that she’d realized an accelerant must have been used.
Thankfully, the Fire Department had been able to beat down the flames before they could move beyond the kitchen into any of the other rooms. Now they were picking through the embers and pulling down ceiling tiles and wallboard to ensure that there weren’t any unseen dangers that remained.
George Hamblin, the local sheriff, strode toward her, the lights glinting off a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate. “We’ve got a witness over there who saw a couple of figures running across the street about the time you think the fire started. They were being chased by the neighbor’s dog. He got a good look at their car, so I’ll see what I can do to track it down. Like you said, I think a co
uple of drunken teenagers might have been responsible.”
George regarded her with the quiet somber eyes of a basset hound, and with his pronounced jowls and the scruffy beginnings of a beard, P.D. wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d suddenly begun to bark.
Lordy, she was tired. Tired and punchy and running on the remaining fumes of adrenaline.
“You’ll probably have to close down for a while to make repairs.”
A tightness gripped her throat when she thought of the lost revenue and the employees who would be without pay in the meantime. In an instant, her mood swung from weary silliness to crushing defeat, leaving her without the ability to speak, so she merely nodded. Thankfully, her insurance agent had been among the gawkers. She’d already spoken to him and a call had been made to an emergency restoration service. A cleanup crew and a pair of security guards were on the way from Logan to begin the process of bringing Vern’s back to working order as soon as possible.
“P.D.!”
Twisting, P.D. saw Helen making a beeline toward her with such speed and determination that the crowd parted to avoid being mowed over. In her wake, following much more slowly, was her husband, Syd, who carried two camp chairs and a thermos.
Helen quickly embraced her, then stood back to study her face. “Lord-a-mercy, are you all right? You look white as a sheet.”
P.D. nodded then said, “Hello, Syd,” to the tall, quiet man behind her friend. With his full beard and waxed mustache, he could have walked out of the pages of a Louis L’Amour novel. But his looks were deceiving. Behind his eyes was the wicked brain of a chemical engineer. Before his retirement, he’d been part of a team at ATK in charge of making the solid rocket boosters that put the space shuttle into orbit.
“What a shame,” he said, squinting at the scorched area of the wall outside the kitchen window. “Is there much damage?”
“I—I don’t know yet. They’re telling me I can’t go back in until morning, just in case they need to take care of any hot spots.”
Helen made a tsking noise with her tongue. “Didn’t I tell you she was probably here when the fire started?” She squeezed P.D.’s arms, then motioned to Syd. “Why don’t you set things up while I take her home, honey?”
