by Nora Roberts
“But this one is spectacular. I'd sell my soul for it.” A calculating look came into her eyes, one that only appeared when she was preparing to haggle for material. “I've got to find out who owns this property.”
“The mayor.”
“Mayor Atherton owns land way out here?”
“He bought up several plots about ten, fifteen years ago when it was cheap. He owns about forty acres along here. If you want the tree, you'd probably only have to promise him your vote. That is, if you're staying.”
“I'd promise him anything.” She circled the tree, already considering it hers. “It must have been fate, your bringing me here.”
“And I thought it was just so we could fool around.”
She laughed, then eyed the bags he still carried. “Let's eat.”
They settled on the ground near the stream where she had a good view of the tree, unwrapping the sandwiches and chips. Occasionally a car cruised by on the road, but for the most part there was silence.
“I've missed this,” Clare said after she settled back against a rock. “The quiet.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Partly.” She watched as he reached in the bag for a chip. He had beautiful hands, she realized, despite the raw and bruised knuckles. She would cast them in bronze, fisted on the hilt of a sword, or the butt of a gun. “What about you? If there was anyone I remember who was jumping to get out of Dodge, it was you. I still can't quite focus on your being back, and as a pillar of the community.”
“Public servant,” he corrected and took a bite of the submarine sandwich. “Maybe I figured out finally that Emmitsboro wasn't the problem-I was.” It was part of the truth, he thought. The rest had to do with the screams tearing through an old building, the blast of gunfire, blood, death.
“You were okay, Rafferty. You just took teenage defiance one step further than most.” She grinned at him. “Every town needs its bad boy.”
“And you were always the good girl.” He laughed when disgust crossed her face. “That smart Kimball girl, acing it through school, heading up the student council. You probably still hold the record for selling the most Girl Scout cookies.”
“All right, Rafferty, I don't have to sit here and be insulted.”
“I admired you,” he said, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Really. When you weren't making me sick. Want some chips?”
She dug into the bag. “Just because I followed the rules-”
“And you did,” he agreed soberly. “You certainly did.” He reached up to toy with the brass hook of her overalls. “I guess I used to wonder if you'd ever break out.”
“You never used to wonder about me at all.”
“I did.” His gaze lifted to hers again. There was still a smile in his eyes, but there was something behind it, a restlessness that put her on alert.
Uh-oh. That one quick thought slammed into her mind.
“It used to surprise me how often my mind wandered in your direction. You were only a kid, and bony with it, from a prominent family on the right side of the tracks. And everyone knew there wasn't a guy in town who could get past first base with you.” When she brushed his hand away from her buckle, he only smiled. “I figured I was thinking about you because Blair and I had started hanging out.”
“When he was going through his hoodlum stage.”
“Right.” He wasn't sure how she managed to make her throaty voice prim, but he liked it. “So did you ever break out, Slim?”
“I've had my moments.” Irritated, she chomped down on her sandwich. “You know, people don't think about me as the skinny, well-behaved nerd from Dogpatch.”
He hadn't realized it would give him such a kick to see her riled. “How do people think about you, Slim?”
“As a successful artist with talent and vision. At my last show, the critics-” She caught herself and scowled at him. “Damn you, Rafferty, you're making me talk like a nerd.”
“That's okay. You're among friends.” He brushed some crumbs from her chin. “Is that how you think of yourself first, as an artist?”
“Don't you think of yourself as a cop first?”
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess I do.”
“So, is there much action in Emmitsboro these days?”
“Something crops up now and again.” Because the cemetery incident was still on his mind, he told her about it.
“That's sick.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. “And it doesn't sound like something that would happen around here. Do you figure kids?”
“We haven't been able to prove otherwise, but no, I don't. It was too neat, too purposeful.”
She looked around, taking in the quiet trees, hearing the musical water. “Too grisly.”
He was sorry he'd brought it up and changed the subject to a do-you-remember-when mode.
He didn't think about his hurts and bruises. It was easy, maybe too easy, for his body to be distracted. He liked looking at her, the way her mussed cap of hair caught the sunlight. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed a decade before that her skin was so smooth, translucent, soft. It was her eyes he remembered most, the golden, almost witchlike glow of them.
Now he enjoyed listening to her voice, the rise and fall of it. Her laugh that rolled like fog. They talked the afternoon away, arguing over points of view, forging a friendship that had been tentative at best during childhood.
Though the stream played music, and sun and shade danced overhead, he sensed the timing was wrong for anything but friendship. When they climbed on the bike again, they were easy with each other.
The only mistake Cam figured he made that day was cutting through town on the way back. That gave Bud Hewitt the opportunity to flag him down as they rode past the sheriff's office.
“Hey, Sheriff.” Though dressed in civvies, Bud put on his official face as he nodded at Clare. “Nice to have you back.”
“Bud?” With a laugh, Clare hopped off the bike to give him a smacking kiss. “I spent last night eating pizza and getting sloppy drunk with Alice. She tells me you're the town deputy.”
“One of ′em.” He flushed with the pleasure of knowing his name had been mentioned. “You look real nice, Clare.” In fact, his Adam's apple was bobbing a bit while he looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her eyes deep and gold. “Guess you two've been out riding.”
“That's right.” Cam wasn't as amused as he thought he should be by the puppy dog admiration in Bud's eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, I figured you'd want to know-and since you weren't home when I called and I saw you passing through, I stopped you.”
Cam flicked a wrist and had the engine gunning impatiently. “I got that much, Bud.”
“It's about that runaway. The kid from Harrisburg?”
“Has she been located?”
“No, but we got a call this morning from the State boys. Somebody spotted a kid with her description a few miles out of town on Route Fifteen, the same afternoon she took off. Heading towards Emmitsboro. Thought you'd want to know,” he repeated.
“Did you get a name?”
“Got the name and phone number. Wrote them down inside.”
“I'll take Clare home first.”
“Can I wait?” She was already strapping her helmet to the back. “I haven't been in the sheriff's office since Parker used to sit behind the desk and belch.”
“It's not as colorful as it used to be,” Cam said, ushering her inside.
She recognized the man behind the desk as Mick Morgan. He'd been a fresh-faced deputy under Parker, and the years hadn't dealt kindly with him. He'd bloated and sagged, and the part in his dingy brown hair had widened as sadly as his waistline. He pushed a chaw in the side of his mouth and rose.
“Cam. Didn't think you were coming by.” He focused on Clare and managed what passed for a smile. There was tobacco juice on his teeth. “Heard you were back.”
“Hi, Mr. Morgan.” She tried not to remember that
he had been the first on the scene after her father's death. Or to blame him for being the one who had pried her away from the body.
“Guess you're rich and famous now.” There was a crash and a curse from the back. Morgan cocked a brow, then spit expertly into the brass bucket in the corner. “Old Biff's been causing a ruckus most of the day. Got one god-awful hangover.”
“I'll deal with it.” Cam glanced toward the back as a new wave of obscenities erupted. “Bud, why don't you run Clare home?”
She started to bow out graciously, then noticed the tension in Cam's face, his neck, his arms. “I'm fine.” With a casual shrug, she began to study the papers stuck to the bulletin board. “I'll just hang around. Take your time.”
Morgan patted the belly over his belt. “Since you're here, Cam, I'll take my dinner break.”
With a curt nod, Cam strode over to the heavy door separating the cells from the office. The cursing went on after he shut the door behind him.
“Tough on him,” Morgan said and spit again. “Come on, Bud, buy you a cup of coffee down to Martha's.”
“Ah…see you, Clare.”
“Sure, Bud.”
When they left, she wandered to the window to look out at the town. It was quiet as a portrait on a Sunday. A few kids were riding bikes down the Main Street slope. A couple of teenagers were sitting on the hood of an old Buick and flirting. Inside the houses, she imagined, people were sitting down to Sunday suppers of pot roast or baked ham.
From the room behind her, she could hear the vicious-tempered shouts of Biff, bullying and threatening his stepson. She couldn't hear Cam at all and wondered if he spoke or merely listened.
He spoke-in a low, controlled voice that held more power than all of Biff's ragings. Through the bars that separated them, he studied the man who had made his life hell for almost as long as he could remember. Doc Cramp-ton had bandaged Biff up, but one eye was swollen closed, and his nose was a bruised mess against the white adhesive.
And he was old, Cam realized all at once. The man was old, used up, and pathetic.
“You'll stay in until bail's set tomorrow,” Cam told him.
“You let me out of here now, or when I get out, I'll come for you. You understand me, boy?”
Cam looked at the battered face, realizing he'd done that with his own hands. Yet he couldn't remember it clearly. Every blow had been rammed through a blinding haze of hate. “I understand you. Stay out of my town, old man.”
“Your town?” Biff's thick fingers wrapped around the bars and shook. “You're nothing but a pissant punk in this town, and you'll never be any different. Pin a fucking badge on your shirt and think you're big time. You're worthless, just like your old man was worthless.”
Cam's hand snaked through the bars so quickly, Biff had no chance to evade. There was the sound of material ripping where Cam gripped Biff's shirt. “Just who do you think would give a shit if I found you dead in this cell?” He pulled, hard, and had Biff's face rapping into the bars. “Think about that, you bastard, and stay clear of me. And if I find out you went home and took out your little frustrations on my mother, I'll kill you. You understand me?”
“You ain't got the guts. You never did.” Biff yanked himself away and swiped a hand under his freshly bleeding nose. “You think you know all there is to know, but you don't know shit. You don't run this town. You're going to pay for putting me in here. I know people who can make you pay.”
Disgusted, Cam moved to the door. “You want to eat, then you watch your mouth. I'm leaving orders for Mick to hold back your dinner until you quiet down.”
“I'll see you in hell, boy,” Biff shouted through the bars, bashing them with his fists when Cam shut the door again. “If it's the last thing I do, I'll see you in hell.”
Alone in the cell, he mopped at his face. And began to chant.
Clare waited until she heard the door close before she turned. One look at Cam's face had her heart going out to him, but she offered a casual smile instead.
“And I thought you had a boring job.”
He avoided her by going to his desk. He wanted to touch her, hold on to her, but a part of him felt stained with filth. “You should have gone home.”
She sat on the corner of his desk. “I'll wait until you take me.”
He glanced down to read Bud's careful, grammar school handwriting. “I need to make this call.” “I'm in no hurry.”
He pressed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose, then picked up the phone. At least Biff had shut up, he thought.
“This is Sheriff Rafferty in Emmitsboro, I'd like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Smithfield. Yes, Mrs. Smithfield. This is concerning the call you made to the state police regarding Carly Jamison.” He listened for a moment, then began taking notes. “Do you remember what she was wearing? Yes, yes, I know that spot. What time of day was it? No, ma'am, I don't blame you for not picking up a hitchhiker. Yes, it can be dangerous. I really couldn't say. No, you and your husband did the right thing. We appreciate your cooperation. Thank you, yes, if I need anything else, I'll be sure to call.”
When he hung up, Clare tilted her head down and smiled. “You sounded real official and diplomatic.”
“Thanks a lot.” Rising, he took her arm. “Let's get the hell out of here.”
“So how old was the runaway?” she asked casually when they slipped back onto the bike.
“About fifteen-female from Harrisburg. Carrying a red knapsack and pissed at the world because her parents wouldn't let her go to Florida for spring break.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Too long.” He gunned the motor and took off.
The sun was setting when she convinced him to relax on the porch swing for a few minutes with a glass of wine. She'd poured the twenty-dollar French chardonnay into jelly glasses.
“My dad and I used to sit out on evenings like this and wait for the crickets to start.” She stretched out her long legs and sighed. “You know, Cam, coming back home means coming back to a load of problems. That doesn't mean it was the wrong decision.”
He sipped, wondering if the glasses made the wine taste jazzier, or the company. “Are we talking about you or me?”
She slanted him a look. “Word around town is that you're a pretty good sheriff.”
“Since most people only have Parker for a yardstick, that isn't saying much.” He touched a curl that lay against her neck. “Thanks. If I'd gone straight home, I'd have smashed a wall or something.”
“Glad I could help. I also heard you have a nifty house.” She watched him as she sipped. “Of course, I haven't been invited to see it.”
“Looks like I owe you a tour.”
“Looks like.”
They drank in companionable silence, watching a car drive by, listening to a dog bark, breathing in the scent of hyacinths her father had planted years before.
The sun dropped lower, and the breeze shifted shadows over the lawn.
It seemed natural, almost familiar, when he touched a hand to her face, turned it toward his. His lips brushed over hers, sampling. With their eyes open, they leaned closer, soothed by the gentle movement of the swing. When he deepened the kiss, was compelled to deepen it, he tasted the quick release of her breath.
One glass of wine shouldn't make the head spin, she thought as she put a hand to his chest. Neither should one kiss, especially from a man she'd known most of her life.
Shaken, she drew away. “Cam, I think-”
“Think later,” he muttered and pulled her against him again.
Exotic. It was strange that the shy, skinny girl from his childhood should taste so exotic. Feel so erotic. He knew his mouth was impatient, but he couldn't help it. He'd had no idea that one touch, one taste, would lead to a grinding need for more.
When she could breathe again, she shifted back an inch, then two, until her dazed eyes could focus on his face. The restless desire in his eyes had her heart racing.
“Oh,” she managed, a
nd he smiled.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Just-oh.” With an unsteady hand she brought her glass to her lips. Wine helped cool the heat he had licked into her mouth. “I thought I was coming back for some quiet and relaxation.” “It's real quiet tonight.”
“Yeah.” And if he kissed her again, she was damn sure she'd go off like a rocket. “Cam, I've always thought in a place like this, things should move slow. Very slow.”