by Meryl Sawyer
Then there were the girls. No one in her crowd would be caught with the likes of Zach Coulter, but there were several wild girls who bragged about going out with him. Even though few girls were brave enough to be seen with him, all the girls watched him.
And wondered.
“What are you doing?” she asked as nonchalantly as possible considering the fluttering in her tummy.
He shrugged as if it should be obvious to any idiot that he had been swimming in his cutoffs and now he was whittling, the sharp knife still in his hand. His gaze meandered from her bare toes, which were curled against the bottom of her sandals, roaming upward, taking in legs that were too long and too thin to shorts that suddenly seemed to reveal more of her thighs than proper. She stared right back at him as he inspected the T-shirt that did nothing but emphasize embarrassingly small breasts.
His eyes met hers, and he smiled, his lips canting just slightly to one side. It was an adorable grin, the type meant to lure girls. Of course, she knew better.
“Is the water cold?” she asked, knowing she sounded foolish, but needing to say something to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“At first it’s cold, then you get used to it.” He twirled the knife between his fingers. The sharp blade reflected the light, sending sparklike flashes toward her. “You goin’ in, or are you going to talk it to death?”
She resented his attitude. Zach had a recklessness about him, a way of goading people that she didn’t like. He made her feel off-balance, defensive. “I’m going in, of course.”
She kicked off her thongs and waded into the water. It was so cold she shuddered, and she would have bolted for the grassy bank except he was watching her. The stones beneath her feet were smooth and slick. She teetered to one side, nearly felling. She managed to regain her balance, then waded around in the water, pretending not to notice Zach.
Suddenly, he began to chuckle, a deep sound that escalated into a rich masculine laugh. She ventured a look in his direction and saw him standing in ankle-deep water, his hands on his hips, his head cocked to one side as he laughed at her.
She tried the haughty tone that worked on other boys. “What’s so funny?”
It took a minute, but he did manage to control himself. “You. You’re kickass funny. You probably did come all the way up here to prance around with all your clothes on.”
“Of course,” she responded without thinking. “There’s no place to change into a suit.”
This time Zach roared, a loud laugh that frightened the birds out of the brush along the stream’s bank. He slapped his bare thigh just below the spot where his cutoffs ended and his tanned legs began to show.
“Suit? Hey, babe, nobody uses a suit.”
Heat prickled the back of her neck and inched up her cheeks. She kept her eyes on his face, but couldn’t help noticing his cutoffs weren’t soaked the way they would have been had he swum in them. They were damp, wetter in some places than others. Oh, mercy. Had she not stopped to watch an eagle catch an updraft and soar up the ridge to Taos Mountain, she might have come upon Zach Coulter in his birthday suit.
He grinned as if he knew what she was thinking. Sure-footed despite the slick rocks, he strode out to her. “Isn’t it a pain in the ass being Miss Goody Two-Shoes all the time?”
She bristled at his vile language, but reminded herself that he was merely trying to bait her. She mustered a smile. “I like being good. Do you like being bad … so bad no one wants to be seen with you?”
His expression didn’t change; his eyes didn’t flicker, but she sensed an invisible current of anger in the still summer air. She looked down, cursing the tongue that got her into trouble too often, but her toes were concealed by the water. The blade of the whittling knife gleamed, catching a bar of sunlight filtering through the pines.
Every wild story she’d heard about Zach whirled through her head. He was a troublemaker, possibly even dangerous. What was she doing alone with him? She swallowed hard, mesmerized by the razor-sharp blade on the knife. She could scream until Christmas, but no one was around to hear her except the squirrels.
With a flick of his hand, he snapped the knife shut, then shoved it in his pocket with the piece he’d been whittling. “You’d better get out of here while you’ve got the chance. I’m so bad, no telling what I might do.”
Her mother’s words whispered through her head as she waded quickly toward the bank. Zach only does those things to get attention. More often than not, her mother was right. She had no reason to believe Zach would harm her.
She reached the bank and sat down to put on her sandals. When she finished, she remained sitting. Zach was still in the water, his back to her.
He had a man’s body, she thought. Tall. A fullback’s shoulders. Powerful legs. She remembered how he’d grown up over one summer. He’d been just another one of the boys in the grade ahead of her that spring. He’d returned the following fall, intimidatingly big and with an attitude.
What had happened over the summer, she wondered. People said he’d spent the summer camping in the mountains with his father and taking pictures. Would that turn him into the town’s bad boy? It didn’t seem likely. Something else must have happened.
“What are you whittling?” she asked.
He turned, obviously startled to find her still there. His expression sullen, he stalked through the water and up to the bank where she was sitting her knees together and drawn up to her chin. She told herself the thud-thud of her heart was due to her bravery and not the sight of Zach stretching out on the grass beside her, his legs splayed, his bare heels digging into the soft grass.
He poked his hand into his jeans pocket, stretching jeans that were indecently tight, and it occurred to her that he had nothing on beneath the faded denim. Worse, he didn’t care. He hadn’t bothered to button the top button.
Not one of the boys she knew would be so bold. But then, none of the boys she knew were half as interesting. He pulled his hand out of his pocket with a shy smile, and she amazed herself by smiling back. He showed her a small chunk of a cottonwood root, the kind Native Americans used to make kachina dolls.
“An eagle,” she said the minute she saw the nose.
His eyebrows snapped together. “It’s a wolf.”
“Oh, yes. Now I see,” she rushed to tell him even though she personally thought the nose would never suit a wolf. “I just had eagles on my mind.” It took her a few minutes to make up for her mistake, but by the time she’d told him about the eagle she’d seen, his expression had softened. It was clear he shared her love of nature.
They continued talking through the afternoon, and by the time the sun dropped behind the mountains, Claire was already plotting ways to see Zach, yet keep her parents from finding out. He guided her down the trail as shadows darkened the forest, taking her to the turnout on the fire road where she’d left her bike.
“Meet me up there tomorrow,” he said, a demand, not a request. Still, there was a tentative note to his voice as if he didn’t expect her to agree.
“I’ll bring a lunch,” she responded a little too quickly.
He mumbled something about counting on it, then hurried off before she could change her mind.
That night she lay in bed, staring out at the star-filled sky. Was Zach looking up at the same sky, she wondered. Was he thinking about her?
Probably not, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She knew things about him that others didn’t know. He wasn’t as bad as he liked everyone to believe.
And he could be hurt.
Her comment about no one wanting to be with him had struck a nerve. Then he’d been insulted when she thought his wolf was an eagle. Zach Coulter could act as tough as he wanted, but he had a soft, caring side that few people saw.
“Claire! Claire!” someone called, bringing Claire out her reverie. What was she doing thinking about the day she’d gotten to know Zach Coulter?
It was far, far better to remember where that day had led them. To a pl
ace called loneliness, where their young love had not survived the disaster of their parents’ death—a place where heartaches lasted a lifetime.
Twenty
“Claire, Claire,” Maude called to her, and Claire turned around. “The doctor will be down in a minute to give you a full report. Alex is going to be all right.”
Claire embraced the older woman, relief surging through her, and Maude bear-hugged her. A trace of guilt accompanied the knee-weakening sensation of relief. She’d been out here, mooning over Zach Coulter when she should have been inside waiting for word on her father.
“Claire,” Maude said as they walked inside, “I don’t like to say anything, but your father would be so upset if he had seen you dancing with the Sheriff. I have to admit I was stunned to see how close he was holding you.” Maude slowed her pace. “You looked as if you were enjoying every second of it.”
What could Claire say? She had been dancing—if you could call it that—with Zach. She knew better, yet she’d done it. Even now she experienced a flutter of excitement recalling that erotic dance.
“It’s none of my business, Claire. I wouldn’t mention it except I don’t want your father to be upset.”
Something in Maude’s tone brought a flash of insight. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, her warm eyes mirroring heartfelt emotion. “I had hoped one day, Alex might …”
“Marry you?” Claire blurted out, realizing too late she sounded shocked.
Maude turned a dull red, and Claire realized she’d embarrassed her. “I know I’m not much to look at. I’m nothing like your mother, but I really care about your father.”
Claire cursed her too quick tongue as she put a hand on Maude’s shoulder. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in years. So what if you’re not like my mother? She brought him nothing but grief.”
“You saw his reaction to that painting. Alex still loves your mother. He always will.”
Yes, Claire silently conceded as they began walking again. Her father refused to put the past behind him. He had a terrific woman who loved him, but he clung to a memory. He simply would not get on with his life.
“I’d be thrilled if you married my father,” Claire told Maude. “I think you’re wonderful.”
Inside, Dr. Nelson greeted them, looking very tired. “Alex was right. He ate something that didn’t agree with him. I’m letting him go home, but he’s to stay in bed until Monday.”
They asked a few questions about his diet, then Alexander Holt wheeled into the room. He smiled at her and seemed so grateful to see Claire, making her feel even guiltier about Zach.
“It was nothing to worry about, honey,” he said as she kissed his cheek. “Just Maude overreacting. I told her it was the tamale pie.”
“She did the right thing. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Don’t worry so much about me, Claire,” he said, but she could see that he was happy she was concerned.
They walked down the corridor, her father beside them, and Claire stole a glance at Maude. Claire had often wondered why Maude didn’t quit the way the others had. She was upset with herself for not having guessed Maude had fallen in love with Alexander Holt. If only her father would permit himself to be happy, to let another woman take Amy Holt’s place.
What would it be like to be so hopelessly in love with someone, she wondered, looking at Maude. She was a good woman who deserved to have a man love her. But Alexander Holt was as blind to her love as he was to many things.
“Claire’s showing was a tremendous success,” Maude informed Alex. “I went by the gallery to find her and saw red dots on everything but the dogs.”
“Dogs? Did you get another dog?” he asked Claire.
“No. I just have Lucy. I was taking care of a friend’s dog.”
“Good. You don’t need another dog.”
She held the door open for them, noticing her father hadn’t asked who her friend was. He hadn’t congratulated her on The Rising Sun’s success either. Without missing a boat, he rambled on about how he hated to miss the Fosters’ champagne reception, but he promised the doctor he’d stay in bed. The party was held on the last Sunday evening of the Taos Rodeo and Arts Festival. The snobbish Fosters included only the wealthy locals and visiting celebrities like Vanessa Trent with a few artists thrown in for “color.”
What did her father see in those people? Sometimes she didn’t understand him at all.
Angela snuggled in Paul’s arms, her head against his chest. They’d made love three times—always in the missionary position—but Angela hadn’t minded. There was something so endearing about the way Paul made love. He put everything he had into each kiss, each caress. The more he made love to her, the more he seemed to need to make love to her.
“What would you like to do tomorrow?” she asked, hoping he’d suggest a trip into Santa Fe to buy art supplies.
“I’d like to go up in the mountains and ride on those trails.”
Don’t push him, she reminded herself. “We can rent llamas at the trekking station. That’ll be fun.”
Even in the dim light, she saw the surprise on his face. “Llamas? I meant a horse. A nice mare that likes the wind in her mane.”
“Of course, but mares are so ordinary. The llamas have been quite a hit. Wouldn’t you rather try something new and exciting?”
“No.” His fingertips coasted across the rise of her breast, and she knew he was going to make love to her again. It was almost as if he’d spent a lifetime on a deserted island. “I’m a simple man. I want to ride a horse, not some newfangled animal.”
One of his hands stole between her legs and gently stroked her. Angela closed her eyes, thinking she’d get rid of Carleton Cole when she returned to her home. Paul could move in, then she’d be in a better position to encourage him to paint.
Oh, she had to admit that an added plus was his insatiable sexual appetite. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t buff, but she didn’t mind. His talent and the earnest way he made love more than offset those liabilities.
In one smooth stroke he was deep inside her. He paused, levered himself up on his forearms and gazed into her eyes. “Take care of me, Angela. Take care of me.”
Claire unlocked the plank door of the hacienda she was leasing, telling herself not to be so skittish. Since leaving her father and Maude, she’d been looking over her shoulder. Expecting what?
She didn’t know, but the incident with the rattler and the fact that someone seemed to be trying to frame her for murder made her anxious. Well, more than anxious. She was jumpy probably because she was alone. For the last year, Lucy had been at her side, but Zach had both dogs.
She should have spent the night at her father’s the way Zach expected her to. She would have, but she didn’t want to be around her father. Usually, his attempts to dominate her made Claire keep her distance. Tonight was different. Until now she hadn’t realized how truly selfish and insensitive her father was.
A wonderful woman loved him, yet he couldn’t accept her love. No, he’d rather wear his love for her mother like a thorny crown. He reveled in his unhappiness, rejoicing in suffering, Claire decided.
Claire loved him, but she didn’t know how to help him. His uncharacteristically emotional outburst tonight signaled a deep-seated psychological problem. He needed counseling, but she could just imagine what he’d do if she suggested it.
She wandered through the rambling hacienda, trying not to check for someone lurking in the shadows. After all, the alarm system said no door or window had been opened. When she had turned on a light in every room, she went into her bedroom.
She undressed and climbed into bed, but sleep was impossible. Not only were the lights on—a problem, for sure—but she was too keyed up. She was uncomfortable without Lucy. She looked up the number of the sheriff’s station.
She asked for Zach, and he came on the line with a gruff, “Hello.”
“You said to call.” Clai
re cursed herself for giving in to such a stupid impulse.
“How’s your father?” he asked, his voice much friendlier now.
She wanted to say: he’s a mess and I don’t know what to do. “It was a false alarm. He had severe indigestion.”
“That’s a relief. You’re spending the night at his house, right?”
She made a noise that she hoped would pass for a positive response, hating to tell an outright lie. “I’m in bed.”
“That sounds like more fun than I’m having. I’m sitting here watching a bunch of drunks puke up their guts.”
“You have a way with words.” He was so crude, she thought. Why was she the least bit attracted to him?
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that was somehow provocative. “Okay, babe. I should have said that these dudes we arrested for fighting are now getting sober and they’re upchucking all over the place. That’s a drunk tank for you.”
“Poor Lucy. I’d better come get her.” She was positive she could sleep if Lucy was in the house.
“Nah. She’s busy right now licking Lobo’s”—he muttered something she couldn’t quite hear—“Now she’s licking harder. Her tongue’s right on his—”
“Private parts.” Lordy, the man was so crude.
“Actually, Claire, she’s licking his paw. Her tongue’s right between his toes. It looks like a shard of glass from the bottle some drunk busted over my head cut Lobo. It must have been in my hair and fell out.”
“Someone broke a bottle over your head,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
“Yeah, so leave Lobo’s ‘privates’ out of this.” He laughed and she had to laugh, too.
“I think I should come get Lucy.”
“You’re safe right where you are. I don’t want you driving at this hour,” he said, and she heard noise in the background. “Hold on a minute.”
Before she could tell him good-bye, he put her on hold. It was a full minute or more before he came back on the line. “I’m in my office now. Both dogs are with me, and you’re staying put. What I want you to do is think about where Duncan Morrell hid the laser scanner and equipment to produce those phony lithographs.”