It was still relatively early when he drove her back to her apartment, and he eagerly accepted her invitation for coffee. As he eased the MG into a narrow space in front of her building, he suddenly paused, frowning.
“Do you have new neighbors?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
Dan nodded toward the battered blue pickup across the street. “Whoever drives that piece of junk is about to bring down the neighborhood property values.”
Fourteen
“Clay.” His name escaped Rorie’s lips on a rush of excitement. She jerked open the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk, her legs trembling, her pulse thundering.
“Rorie?” Dan called, agitated. “Who is this man?”
She hardly heard him. A door slammed in the distance and Rorie whirled around and saw that Clay had been sitting inside his truck, apparently waiting for her to return. He’d been parked in the shadows, and she hadn’t noticed him.
Dan joined her on the pavement and placed his hand possessively on her shoulder. His grip was the only thing that rooted her in reality, his hand the restraining force that prevented her from flying into Clay’s arms.
“Who is this guy?” Dan asked a second time.
Rorie opened her mouth to explain and realized she couldn’t, not in a few words. “A…friend,” she whispered, but that seemed so inadequate.
“He’s a cowboy!” Dan hissed, making it sound as though Clay’s close-fitting jeans and jacket were the garb of a man just released from jail.
Clay crossed the street and his long strides made short work of the distance separating him from Rorie.
“Hello, Rorie.”
She heard the faint catch in his voice. “Clay.”
A muscle moved in his cheek as he looked past her to Dan, who squared the shoulders of his Brooks Brothers suit. No one spoke, until Rorie saw that Clay was waiting for an introduction.
“Clay Franklin, this is Dan Rogers. Dan is the stockbroker I…I mentioned before. It was his sports car I was driving.”
Clay nodded. “I remember now.” His gaze slid away from Rorie to the man at her side.
Dan stepped around Rorie and accepted Clay’s hand. She noticed that when Dan dropped his arm to his side, he flexed his fingers a couple of times, as though to restore the circulation. Rorie smiled to herself. Clay’s handshake was the solid one of a man accustomed to working with his hands. When Dan shook hands, it was little more than a polite business greeting, an archaic but necessary exchange.
“Clay and his brother, Skip, were the family who helped me when the MG broke down,” Rorie explained to Dan.
“Ah, yes, I remember your saying something about that now.”
“I was about to make a pot of coffee,” Rorie went on, unable to take her eyes off Clay. She drank in the sight of him, painfully noting the crow’s feet that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. She couldn’t remember their being quite so pronounced before.
“Yes, by all means join us.” Dan’s invitation lacked any real welcome.
Clay said nothing. He just stood there looking at her. Almost no emotion showed in his face, but she could feel the battle that raged inside him. He loved her still, and everything about him told her that.
“Please join us,” she whispered.
Any lingering hope that Dan would take the hint and make his excuses faded as he slipped his arm protectively around Rorie’s shoulders. “I picked up some Swiss mocha coffee beans earlier,” he said, “and Rorie was going to make a pot of that.”
“Swiss mocha coffee?” Clay repeated, blinking quizzically.
“Decaffeinated, naturally,” Dan hurried to add.
Clay arched his brows expressively, as if to say that made all the difference in the world.
With Dan glued to her side, Rorie reluctantly led the way into her building. “Have you been here long?” she asked Clay while they stood waiting for the elevator.
“About an hour.”
“Oh, Clay…” Rorie felt terrible, although it wasn’t her fault; she hadn’t known he intended to stop by. Perhaps he hadn’t known himself and had been lured to her apartment the same way she’d been contemplating the horse show.
“You should have phoned.” Dan’s comment was casual, but it contained a hint of accusation. “But then, I suppose, you folks tend to drop in on each other all the time. Things are more casual in the country, aren’t they?”
Rorie sent Dan a furious glare. He returned her look blankly, as if to say he had no idea what could have angered her. Rorie was grateful that the elevator arrived just then.
Clay didn’t comment on Dan’s observation and the three stepped inside, facing the doors as they slowly closed.
“When you weren’t home, I asked the neighbors if they knew where you’d gone,” Clay said.
“The neighbors?” Dan echoed, making no effort to disguise his astonishment.
“What did they tell you?” Rorie asked.
Clay smiled briefly, then sobered when he glanced at Dan. “They said they didn’t know who lived next door, never mind where you’d gone.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised they answered the door at all,” Dan said conversationally. “There ’s a big difference between what goes on in small towns and big cities.”
Dan spoke like a teacher to a grade-school pupil. Rorie wanted to kick him, but reacting in anger would only increase the embarrassment. She marveled at Clay’s tolerance.
“Things are done differently here,” Dan continued. “Few people have anything to do with their neighbors. People prefer to mind their own business. Getting involved leads to problems.”
Clay rubbed the side of his face. “It seems to me not getting involved would lead to even bigger problems.”
“I’m grateful Clay and Skip were there when your car broke down,” Rorie said to Dan, hoping to put an end to this tiresome discussion. “Otherwise I don’t know what would have happened. I could still be on that road waiting for someone to stop and help me,” she said, forcing the joke.
“Yes,” Dan admitted, clearing his throat. “I suppose I should thank you for assisting Rorie.”
“And I suppose I should accept your thanks,” Clay returned.
“How’s Mary?” Rorie asked, quickly changing the subject as the elevator slid to a stop at her floor.
Humor sparked in Clay’s gray eyes. “Mary ’s strutting around proud as a peacock ever since she won a blue ribbon at the county fair.”
“She had reason to be proud.” Rorie could just picture her. Knowing Mary, she was probably wearing the ribbon pinned to her apron. “What about Skip?” Rorie asked next, hungry for news about each one. She took the keys from her bag and systematically began unlocking the three bolts on her apartment door.
“Fine. He started school last week—he’s a senior this year.”
Rorie already knew that, but she nodded.
“Kate sends you her best,” Clay said next, his voice carefully nonchalant.
“Tell her I said hello, too.”
“She hasn’t heard from you. No one has.”
“I know. I’m sorry. She wrote after I got home from Canada, but I haven’t had a chance to answer.” On several occasions, Rorie had tried to make herself sit down and write Kate a letter. But she couldn’t. At the end of her second week back home, she’d decided it was better for everyone involved if she didn’t keep in touch with Kate. When the wedding invitation came, Rorie planned to mail an appropriate gift, and that would be the end of it.
Once they were inside the apartment, Rorie hung up her sweater and purse and motioned for both men to sit down. “It ’ll only take a minute to put on the coffee.”
“Do you need me to grind the beans?” Dan asked, obviously eager to assist her.
“No, thanks. I don’t need any help.” His offer was an excuse to question her about Clay, and Rorie wanted to avoid that if she could. At least for now.
Her apartment had never felt more cramped than it did when she rejoin
ed the two men in her tiny living room. Clay rose to his feet as she entered, and the simple courtly gesture made her want to weep. He was telling her that he respected her and that…he cared for her…would always care for her.
The area was just large enough for one sofa and a coffee table. Her desk and computer stood against the other wall. Rorie pulled the chair away from the desk, turned it to face her guests and perched on the edge. Only then did Clay sit back down.
“So,” Dan said with a heavy sigh. “Rorie never did tell me what it is you do in…in…”
“Nightingale,” Rorie and Clay said together.
“Oh, yes, Nightingale,” Dan murmured, clearing his throat. “I take it you’re some kind of farmer? Do you grow soy beans or wheat?”
“Clay owns a stud farm where he raises American Saddlebreds,” Rorie said.
Dan looked as if she’d punched him in the stomach. He’d obviously made the connection between Clay and her earlier interest in attending the horse show.
“I see,” he breathed, and his voice shook a little. “Horses. So you’re involved with horses.”
Clay glanced at him curiously.
“How’s Nightsong?” Rorie asked, before Dan could say anything else. Just thinking about the foal with her wide curious eyes and long wobbly legs produced a feeling of tenderness in Rorie.
“She’s a rare beauty,” Clay told her softly, “showing more promise every day.”
Rorie longed to tell Clay how much it had meant to her that he’d registered Nightsong in her name, how she cherished that gesture more than anything in her life. She also knew that Clay would never sell the foal, but would keep and love her all her life.
An awkward silence followed, and in an effort to smooth matters over she explained to Dan, “Clay was gone one night when Star Bright—one of the brood mares—went into labor…if that’s what they call it in horses?” she asked Clay.
He nodded.
“Anyway, I couldn’t wake Skip, and I didn’t know where Mary was sleeping and something had to be done—quick.”
Dan leaned forward, his eyes revealing his shock. “You don’t mean to tell me you delivered the foal?”
“Not exactly.” Rorie wished now that she hadn’t said anything to Dan about that night. No one could possibly understand what she and Clay had shared in those few hours. Trying to convey the experience to someone else only diminished its significance.
“I’ll get the coffee,” Rorie said, standing. “I ’m sure it’s ready.”
From her kitchen, she could hear Dan and Clay talking, although she couldn’t make out their words. She filled three cups and placed them on a tray, together with cream and sugar, then carried it into the living room.
Once more Clay stood. He took the tray out of her hands and set it on the coffee table. Rorie handed Dan the first cup and saucer and Clay the second. He looked uncomfortable as he accepted it.
“I’m sorry, Clay, you prefer a mug, don’t you?” The cup seemed frail and tiny, impractical, cradled in his strong hand.
“It doesn’t matter. If I’m going to be drinking Swiss mocha coffee, I might as well do it from a china cup.” He smiled into her eyes, and Rorie couldn’t help reciprocating.
“Eaten any seafood fettuccine lately?” she teased.
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s my favorite dinner,” Dan inserted, apparently feeling left out of the conversation. “We had linguini tonight, but Rorie’s favorite is sushi.”
Her eye caught Clay’s and she saw that the corner of his mouth quirked with barely restrained humor. She could just imagine what the people of Nightingale would think of a sushi bar. Skip would probably turn up his nose, insisting that the small pieces of seaweed and raw fish looked like bait.
The coffee seemed to command everyone’s attention for the next minute or so.
“I’m still reeling from the news of your adventures on this stud farm,” Dan commented, laughing lightly. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when you said you’d helped deliver a foal. I would never have believed it of you, Rorie.”
“I brought a picture of Nightsong,” Clay said, cautiously putting down his coffee cup. He unsnapped the pocket of his wide-yoked shirt and withdrew two color photographs, which he handed to Rorie. “I meant to show these to you earlier…but I got sidetracked.”
“Oh, Clay,” she breathed, studying the filly with her gleaming chestnut coat. “She ’s grown so much in just the past month,” she said, her voice full of wonder.
“I thought you’d be impressed.”
Reluctantly Rorie shared the pictures with Dan, who barely glanced at them before giving them back to Clay.
“Most men carry around pictures of their wife and kids,” Dan stated, his eyes darting to Clay and then Rorie.
Rorie supposed this comment was Dan’s less-than-subtle attempt to find out if Clay was married. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Clay’s engaged to a neighbor—Kate Logan.”
“I see.” Apparently he did, because he set aside his coffee cup, and got up to stand behind Rorie. Hands resting on her shoulders, he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her cheek. “Rorie and I have been talking about getting married ourselves, haven’t we, darling?”
Fifteen
No emotion revealed itself on Clay’s face, but Rorie could sense the tight rein he kept on himself. Dan’s words had dismayed him.
“Is that true, Rorie?” he said after a moment.
Dan’s fingers tightened almost painfully on her shoulders. “Just tonight we were talking about getting married. Tell him, darling.”
Her eyes refused to leave Clay’s. She had been talking to Dan about marriage, although she had no intention of accepting his offer. Dan knew where he stood, knew she was in love with another man. But nothing would be accomplished by telling Clay that she’d always love him, especially since he was marrying Kate in a few weeks. “Yes, Dan has proposed.”
“I’m crazy about Rorie and have been for months,” Dan announced, squarely facing his competition. He spoke for a few more minutes, outlining his goals. Within another ten years, he planned to be financially secure and hoped to retire.
“Dan’s got a bright future,” Rorie echoed.
“I see.” Clay replaced his coffee cup on the tray, then glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. “I suppose I should head back to the Cow Palace.”
“How…how are you doing in the show?” Rorie asked, distraught, not wanting him to leave. Kate would have him the rest of their lives; surely a few more minutes with him wouldn’t matter. “Kate wrote that you were going after several championships.”
“I’m doing exactly as I expected.” The words were clipped, as though he was impatient to get away.
Rorie knew she couldn’t keep him any longer. Clay’s face was stern with purpose—and resignation. “I’ll see you out,” she told him.
“I’ll come with you,” Dan said.
She whirled around and glared at him. “No, you won’t.”
“Good to see you again, Rorie,” Clay said, standing just inside her apartment, his hand on the door. His mouth was hard and flat and he held himself rigid, eyes avoiding hers. He stepped forward and shook Dan’s hand.
“It was a pleasure,” Dan said in a tone that conveyed exactly the opposite.
“Same here.” Clay dropped his hand.
“I’m glad you came by,” Rorie told him quietly. “It was…nice seeing you.” The words sounded inane, meaningless.
He nodded brusquely, opened the door and walked into the hallway.
“Clay,” she said, following him out, her heart hammering so loudly it seemed to echo off the walls.
He stopped and slowly turned around.
Now that she had his attention, Rorie didn’t know what to say. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way Dan was acting.”
He shook off her apology. “Don ’t worry about it.”
Her fingers tightened on the doorknob, and she wondered if this was
really the end. “Will I see you again?” she asked despite herself.
“I don’t think so,” he answered hoarsely. He looked past her as though he could see through the apartment door and into her living room where Dan was waiting. “Do you honestly love this guy?”
“He’s…he’s been a good friend.”
Clay took two steps toward her, then stopped. As if it was against his better judgment, he raised his hand and lightly drew his finger down the side of her face. Rorie closed her eyes at the wealth of sensation the simple action provoked.
“Be happy, Rorie. That’s all I want for you.”
The rain hit during the last week of September, and the dreary dark afternoons suited Rorie’s mood. Normally autumn was a productive time for her, but she remained tormented with what she felt sure was a terminal case of writer’s block. She sat at her desk, her computer humming merrily as she read over the accumulation of an entire weekend’s work.
One measly sentence.
There’d been a time when she could write four or five pages a night after coming home from the library. Perhaps the problem was the story she’d chosen. She wanted to write about a filly named Nightsong, but every time she started, her memories of the real Nightsong invaded her thoughts, crippling her imagination.
Here it was Monday night and she sat staring at the screen, convinced nothing she wrote had any merit. The only reason she kept trying was that Dan had pressured her into it. He seemed to believe her world would right itself once Rorie was back to creating her warm, lighthearted children’s stories.
The phone rang and, grateful for a reprieve, Rorie hurried into the kitchen to answer it.
“Is this Miss Rorie Campbell of San Francisco, California?”
“Yes, it is.” Her heart tripped with anxiety. In a matter of two seconds, every horrible scenario of what could have happened to her parents or her brother darted through Rorie’s mind.
“This is Devin Logan calling.”
He paused, as though expecting her to recognize the name. Rorie didn’t. “Yes?”
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