by Lisa Bingham
She grabbed a water bottle and again he saw the laughter dancing behind her eyes. “I knew there was a reason why I like you so much.”
Again, his eyes zeroed in on her lips. “You like me, huh?”
She twisted off the cap and took a long swallow, then handed him the bottle.
“How much?” he asked before taking a drink.
“Just you wait and see.”
The remark was so full of promise that Elam nearly choked on his second draft of water. Then, knowing he had to be off this damn buggy as soon as possible, he handed her the bottle and slapped the reins onto the horse’s rear, urging it to a faster clip.
*
TWENTY minutes later, Elam turned the buggy down another gravel drive. Fields of wheat bordered them on either side. The wind ruffled the heavy tips until the fields resembled a green rippling ocean.
“You’re sure this is the place?”
“Yep. We’ve got ground we lease just over there.”
He pointed to several fields of grain and alfalfa.
P.D. remained skeptical since there wasn’t any water in sight except for rivulets of ditchwater escaping from a series of cuts and flowing into the field ahead.
“Please tell me Looking Glass Lake isn’t a flooded pasture.”
“You’re not high on patience, are you?”
She grimaced. “Not really, no.”
“Then watch this.”
The road passed through an open gate, then abruptly turned to the right. And there, opening up below them, was a tiny hidden valley thick with ancient willow trees.
Sensing that the end of the journey was near, the horse quickened its step, its ears flicking, its head bobbing. The buggy zigzagged down a winding track to where the gravel path abruptly ended in a pasture of tall grass. Elam followed a faint set of tracks around the trees, revealing a tiny cabin nestled up against the hill and, below it, a crystal-clear pond. A bright blue paddleboat bobbed in the water next to a wooden gangplank that ran a few yards into the pond. A rope swing swayed in the breeze, suspended from one of the overhanging branches. And a zip line had been strung from a tree across the pond to a post near the top of the hill.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” P.D. breathed. “How long has this been here?”
“Years and years. But not many people know about it. It’s one of the best kept secrets in Bliss.”
Elam rolled to a stop in front of a huge metal barrel that had been cut in half to form a trough. A pipe dribbled fresh water into the trough before the cool liquid overflowed into the pond.
“The water’s pure as long as you drink from the pipe. It’s brought in from an artesian spring.” He stepped from the buggy, tying the horse to a hitching post near the trough. The animal immediately sank its velvety nose into the water and began to slurp noisily.
“Are you sure this is the place? I don’t see any contest people.”
“They’ve got to be here somewhere.” As he untied the other horse so that it could also drink its fill, he called out, “Hello?”
There was a bang from behind the trees, and a few minutes later, a rotund man wearing a straw hat and overalls emerged from a path to the side of the cabin. “Hello, folks! Sorry for the delay. I had to avail myself of the facilities.” He gestured a thumb to a tiny wooden shed on the hillside, one with a telltale crescent moon on the door. “Don’t worry. I heard you comin’ and made a note of your arrival time.” He patted his bib pockets, one of which held a notebook and pencil while another displayed a watch chain hooked to a strap.
He hurried toward them, quickly washed his hands under the running water, then wiped them on the legs of his pants. “Hey, there! Miss … Raines, isn’t it? I recognize you from Vern’s.”
“Yes.” She shook his hand and allowed him to help her down from the buggy.
“Who won?”
P.D. struggled to comprehend his comment. “Sorry?”
He chortled and pointed to the bandage on her forehead. “Looks like you’ve been in a barroom brawl.”
She laughed, saying, “I’d say the hill won the first round, but I intend to win the war.”
“Good for you!”
At that moment, Elam ducked under the horse’s neck and walked toward them. As soon as the volunteer caught sight of him, he blurted out, “Elam Taggart, you son of a bitch!”
Elam shook his outstretched hand. “Hello, Henry.”
“You’re looking fat and sassy.”
“Thanks.” Elam hooked a thumb toward the volunteer. “This is Henry Grover, P.D. This is his cabin.”
“They twisted my arm, I can tell you. But the minute they offered to throw in a steak at Vern’s, I had to give in.”
“So what’s the challenge?” Elam asked, leaning an arm against the horse’s saddle.
“You have to send up a flare.”
Elam squinched his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell?”
“This is the Happy Home challenge, buddy boy,” Henry said.
Elam sighed. “What does that mean? And what does it have to do with sending up a flare?”
Henry chortled and held up a warning finger. “Patience, or I’ll add ten minutes to your time.” Henry’s expression was fierce, but then he looked at P.D. and winked. “Come on, you two. This way.”
He led them to a grassy area between the house and the pond. With evening falling, the long shadows had bled together under the trees, creating a blessedly cool patch of shade.
“This here’s the deal,” Henry said, rocking back on his heels. “On that table there is a package of balloons, some old shaving soap, and a straight-edge razor. You have to blow up a balloon, tie it off, cover it in soap, and shave it clean.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Elam said.
Henry let out a bark of laughter. “Maybe so, but you ain’t the one who’s gonna do it. Since yer a mixed gender couple”—he made a face to show what he thought of the terminology—“she’s gotta do it.”
P.D. eyed the long, thin blade of the razor and was glad she only had to shave a balloon.
“After she’s done with that, you”—he poked Elam in the side—“get to shear a goat.”
Henry pointed to a pen of animals in the distance. Several dozen goats grazed in shadows. Unlike most of the local goats P.D. had seen in the area, these had long white hair that had matted into tufts and ringlets.
“Are those Willis’s angora goats?”
“Yep.”
“And he’s letting us do the shearing?”
“The contest committee paid him for the wool in advance, so he don’t care. As you can see, most of the shearin’ that’s been done so far ain’t worth shit.”
P.D. had to admit that many of the goats who’d already been cut looked like they had the mange. For the most part, they’d been relieved of their wool, but there were spots with longer tufts of hair—and even a few areas that hadn’t met the shears at all. P.D. could have sworn that the animals gazed back at them in forlorn embarrassment.
“The shears you need are hanging on the gate support and there’s an empty bucket to catch the wool. Bonus points may be awarded for how pretty the job has been done. Those bonus points will be awarded by yours truly.”
Elam lifted his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. “Is that all?” he asked wearily.
“Nope.” Henry pointed to a table under the eaves of the cabin. “After that’s done, there’s a bonus puzzler. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but if you solve it within three minutes, you can shoot off a flare and the organizers will take twenty minutes off your time. If not, there’s no penalty.”
He walked them toward the table where there was a huge wooden bowl, a bin full of flour, a metal scoop, an old-fashioned grocer’s scale, and two paper sacks.
“This here is a five-pound sack. If you fill it completely full, you’ll have exactly …” He pointed to Elam for the answer.
“Five pounds of flour.”
&n
bsp; Henry cackled. “He’s not as dumb as he looks, is he now,” he said to P.D. with a wide grin. “The other’n is a three-pound sack.” He pointed to the grocer’s scale, which had two brass platforms balanced over a teeter-totter-type bar. On one of the platforms were several shiny metal weights. “Your goal is to come up with four pounds, in a sack. No more, no less. You can use all the flour you want, but you can only weigh the sack once.” He fixed them each with a stern gaze. “Got it?”
“Got it,” P.D. echoed.
Elam sighed, but finally said, “Sure.”
“All right. Just let me get settled here.” He sat down in an old metal porch chair that looked like a refugee from the fifties. He removed the pad and pencil from one pocket, made a note on a blank page, then removed his pocket watch from the other. He waited with the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, then abruptly yelped, “Go!”
P.D. immediately ran toward the table of balloons, ripping open the package and selecting one. But when she tried to blow it up, she couldn’t force enough air into the narrow opening to get it to expand.
“Here.”
Elam grabbed a balloon from the package and quickly blew it up to full size, then twisted a knot in the end.
While he held the balloon, she grabbed the cup of shaving soap and ran to the trough, allowing a generous amount of water to dribble inside, then ran back to the table. Snatching the brush, she mixed the soap enough to cover the brush, and then began to coat the balloon.
“Make sure I can’t see any of the green, or you’ve got to start over,” Henry called out.
Sighing, P.D. became more deliberate, double-checking the balloon until she was sure that she had it completely covered. Then, she set the brush and soap aside, ignored the strop, and grabbed for the razor.
The instant she touched the razor to the balloon, it suddenly exploded, sending shaving cream and bits of latex everywhere. P.D. squealed, her face suddenly pelted with soap.
When she opened her eyes, she found Elam wiping white foam from his cheeks. His right hand still hung suspended in midair, holding nothing but the shattered stem from the balloon.
“Sorry,” she said, tamping back a giggle. “I assumed the blade wouldn’t be that sharp.”
“Maybe you’d better check it,” Elam said wryly.
She carefully raked her finger sideways over the blade, determining that the razor was very sharp indeed.
Elam blew up a bright red balloon and fastened the end.
“Careful this time.”
“Copy that,” she muttered.
She slathered the second balloon with soap, then grasped the razor. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she placed a finger on the top of the balloon to hold it steady.
This time, she angled the blade more and carefully swiped down the length of the balloon. When she reached the bottom, revealing a swath of red, she let out her breath.
“Atta girl,” Elam murmured.
Very carefully, she repeated the procedure. When she reached the bottom without mishap, she straightened and rolled her shoulders.
“If I can get through this, I might have to join the EOD,” she muttered.
Elam laughed. “It is a bit like diffusing a bomb.”
She readied herself for the next pass, but paused to shoot him a quick glance. “Why would you ever want to do something this nerve-racking for a living?”
His voice dropped. “Because the process feels so great. Your heart is pounding, your pulse is jacked up. Every sense is heightened. For a few short minutes, every ounce of your attention is focused on a single task until you can disable the ignition switch or force a safe detonation. Then … bam! In a single explosion, all your frustration and concentration explodes, leaving you panting and joyously relieved.”
P.D. stared at him, wondering at what point his description had become loaded with sexual innuendo.
Bam!
Too late, she realized she’d let the blade hover too near to the balloon again.
Sighing, she wiped the shaving soap off her face. From the porch, Henry cackled in delight.
Chuckling, Elam reached for another balloon.
*
IT took four tries for P.D. to shave the balloon. When she finally managed to complete the task, Elam watched in amusement as she tried to “spike” the balloon on the grass and do a victory dance. He indulged himself in the sight for only a moment before grabbing her hand and pulling them toward the goat pen.
The shears they’d been given looked like old-fashioned lawn clippers and Elam feared that they would work about as effectively. But with P.D.’s help, they cornered one of the goats and separated it from the herd.
Spying a length of baling twine on the ground, Elam flipped the goat, bulldog fashion, and tied its hooves together.
“Are you supposed to do that?” P.D. asked when the goat bleated in distress.
“How the hell should I know? I deal with cattle and horses, not goats.” He began cutting at the long wool. “Hold its head.”
P.D. sank onto the ground and pillowed the goat’s head in her lap, crooning to it like a baby. Although Elam knew that time was of the essence, he kept getting distracted by her lulling voice and the tender stroke of her hands against the goat’s ears and nose. If the goat had been a cat, Elam knew it would have purred—and he couldn’t blame it. He inexplicably wished that it was his head resting there and her hands were stroking him.
Which suddenly made him work at an even more furious pace. He wanted time alone with P.D., away from the pressures of the Games. And if cutting the fur off a damned goat was the price, he was more than willing to do it.
It was growing dark by the time he finished the last cut. After releasing the goat—who didn’t seem too inclined to move—Elam pulled P.D. to her feet and grabbed the bucket.
“Let’s go!”
They raced back to Henry, who was regarding them sleepily from his chair. He offered a perfunctory glance at the bucket of wool and made a notation in his notebook. Then, once they’d taken their place at the table, he glanced at his watch and said, “Three minutes! Go!”
Elam glanced at the flour, the sacks, and the scale and tried to summon his wits about him. But if the truth were told, he really didn’t care what the answer to the puzzle might be. After the day he’d had, he wanted to haul P.D. into his arms and kiss her. No, he didn’t just want to kiss her, he wanted to plunge headfirst into his hunger for her. He wanted to touch her, hold her—and yes, he wanted to make love to her. After the past couple of days together, his desire for her had grown to a fever pitch and he didn’t know how much longer he could wait. The threat of being observed had lost much of its power beneath the want raging through his body. But there was also a part of him that was on high alert. After P.D.’s accident, he wasn’t just worried about contest officials anymore. Either someone was out to hurt P.D., or there were contestants who were willing to go further than stealing a mount. That meant that Elam was going to have to keep his eyes open and trust in the instincts that had kept him alive overseas.
A part of him acknowledged that P.D. had started to talk her way through the riddle, that she was reaching out to measure flour into the sacks, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the sweet curve of her lower lip, the soft slope of her cheek. He wanted to touch her there, kiss her there—and more. He wanted to release the buttons to that schoolmarmish blouse to expose her delicate collarbones and the roundness of her shoulders. And if he went farther, undoing all of the buttons, who knew what he would find? He longed to discover the shape of her breasts mounded above her corset, the nip of her waist, and more.
He started when P.D. suddenly squealed and threw herself into his arms. Too late, he realized that she’d solved the puzzle and he hadn’t even noticed how she’d done it. But his guilt was quickly swept away in a rush of awareness at the warmth of her body pressing into his.
Damnit! He had to get a grip on himself. Now wasn’t the time to be
thinking that way. Not with Henry present, the thought of other, unwanted intruders—and shit! The last thing P.D. needed after tumbling down that hill was Elam pawing at her. She had to be hurting like hell about now.
Even so, Elam couldn’t prevent himself from closing his eyes and hugging her tight, just once, before letting her go.
Henry pushed himself out of his chair and handed Elam a flare gun, forcing him to let P.D. go.
“Now aren’t you a smart cookie?” Henry said to P.D. “Only two groups before you have managed to solve the riddle.”
Elam pointed the gun skyward and pulled the trigger. The flare streaked into the sky leaving a trail of smoke, then exploded like a new star that burned out as it fell to earth.
“I hear tell the local airport isn’t too happy about the flares, but I tend to enjoy ’em,” Henry said, looping his thumbs around the straps of his overalls. After the last of the red glow disappeared, he said, “Well now. That’s it for tonight. I’ll bring your next set of instructions bright and early tomorrow morning.” He jerked a hand toward the willows. It was only then that Elam saw Henry’s old Ford parked under the feathery fronds. “Walk me to my truck, Elam.” He paused to grin at P.D. “And you have a good night, Miss Raines.”
“Thanks, Henry.”
Elam followed Henry to his vehicle, wondering if he’d heard Henry correctly and the older man truly intended to leave them alone.
“You’re leaving?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed and he pointed a warning finger his way. “Long as you’ll promise, on your honor and your word as a Taggart, that you won’t leave the premises or do anything against the rules of the competition.” He looped his thumbs around the straps of his overalls. “See, I’ve been stuck here a couple of nights already and that ol’ bed in there is playing havoc on my back. I got a hankerin’ for a hot shower, some of my wife’s good cooking, and an honest-to-goodness mattress.” He sniffed. “If it were anyone else, I’d stay and watch ’em like a hawk. But I know a Taggart’s word is his bond, so do I have your promise?”
Elam nodded, holding out his hand. “Absolutely.”
Henry answered with a hearty handshake.
