Still, she had to tell someone the whole nasty story. It was time.
And for no good reason, except that he’d already seen the note on her Jeep, she thought of her big, gray-eyed Texan up the road.
“Geez,” she muttered, and crawled back into bed, curling her fingers around the cool steel of the crowbar. She felt only marginally better.
Tomorrow, she thought, she’d go to her office and check the references of the man who’d come all the way from Texas, paid in cash to rent her sawmill, wormed his way into a Vanackern dinner, and looked up the Hawthornes in the town library. He might be as innocent as he said he was, but at least she’d be doing something.
Chapter
6
It took under two hours with his rental application, the telephone, and a Vanackern computer for Cozie to find out just how big a liar the Texan who’d rented her sawmill was.
She cranked her Jeep up to the speed limit and charged up Hawthorne Orchard Road from her office, past her white clapboard house and down the steep driveway to her sawmill.
Her slate-eyed tenant was at his truck, fiddling under the hood. If she aimed right, she could launch him straight over the dam into Hawthorne Brook. She could claim it was an accident. She was a native Vermonter. People would believe her.
But she forced her foot off the gas, applied the brakes, and came to a hard stop within maybe eighteen inches of him. He looked around at her. Military-style sunglasses hid his eyes, but he did not appear ruffled by how close her Jeep had come to giving him a few more scars.
Cozie leaped out and slammed the door shut. “How appropriate to find a Texas oilman putting oil in his truck.”
He still had the oil can in one hand. “Been busy, have you?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Foxworth. Or are you still called Major even after early retirement?”
He set the oil can on the truck’s front fender while he replaced the cap. His movements were precise and steady, in contrast to her own barely contained anger. She was mad enough to pick him up and throw him over the dam herself.
“Checked my references?”
“I did. I got a Houston laundry service, a gas station, and two recordings saying the number I’d called was not in service. It’s Sunday, but I checked Houston information for the banks you listed. They don’t exist. And you paid my realtor in cash.”
“No wonder King George wanted to hang your great-great-whatever-granddaddy.” He exaggerated his drawl, making himself sound less like the educated, privileged Texan he was. He adjusted his sunglasses, his gaze pinned on her. “Must have been a pain in the ass, ol’ Elijah.”
Cozie stood her ground. “Sal should have checked your references, all of which are phony.”
“Don’t be too hard on her.”
“Your Texas charm might work on her. It won’t on me.”
He grinned. “Is that a challenge, Ms. Cozie?”
“Of all the arrogant responses—”
She broke off. Unable to see his eyes behind the impenetrable sunglasses, she had only his straight, hard mouth, his erect stance, the length of his pause to judge what he was thinking—all of which told her he wasn’t planning to try charming her anytime soon. He shut the truck hood without banging it and turned back to her. “Look, honey, I’d love to listen to you stand here spitting fire all afternoon, but I’ve got places to go and things to do.”
“Well, that’s too damned bad!”
He moved in close to her, and it was all she could do not to take a step back, away from his tall, hard body. But that would only tell him he’d gotten to her, and she didn’t want him getting the idea he had the upper hand.
“Don’t you want to know what else I found out about you?” she asked.
He picked up the empty oil can and walked back toward the sawmill. “Reckon not or I’d have asked.”
“Don’t you ‘reckon’ me. You’re about as much a bad-boy Texan as I am.”
He glanced back at her, his gaze taking her in from head to toe. Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t count on that, Ms. Cozie.”
“Your real name is Daniel Austin Foxworth.” She marched across the driveway after him, undeterred. “You’re an heir to the Fox Oil fortune. You had an ancestor who really did die at the Alamo, another who was a general in the Spanish-American War, another who was a general in World War I. Your great-grandfather founded the family oil fortune. He was an East Texas wildcatter in the days of Dad Joiner and Glen McCarthy, neither of whom I’d heard of until today, but they were big, big oilmen. Your grandfather is Austin Foxworth, Korean War hero and Cold War general. He served at NATO headquarters before retiring to become chairman of Fox Oil. Your father is a graduate of Texas A & M and CEO of Fox Oil. Your sister, likewise a Texas A & M graduate, is a vice president. Your mother is a tireless volunteer for numerous Houston charities.”
Cozie waited for him to comment, but he merely set the oil can on the bottom step of the porch and started back toward his truck. Nothing about the way he moved suggested he gave a merry damn what she knew or what she said.
She resumed her litany of facts. “You’re thirty-eight years old. You were educated at a private high school in Texas and graduated from the air force academy. You quit the military three years ago at the rank of major, although everyone thought you had a shot at general. You started up a small oil fire-fighting company with a former Fox Oil employee, J.D. Maguire. He was seriously injured in a helicopter crash in the Gulf of Mexico three weeks ago. You were the pilot.”
She paused once again. Still no acknowledgment of her words. Daniel Foxworth was opening the door to his truck as if she were relating the latest weather report.
“Julia Vanackern witnessed the accident. She was in Houston with her parents for a broadcasting awards ceremony. They met your grandfather, and he invited them to his ranch, and then the tanker fire started and the Vanackerns wanted to see what you do—”
“Julia did. I’m not sure Thad and Frances cared. But I wouldn’t know since I wasn’t there.” Daniel leaned against his open truck door, his expression calm but unreadable. “Anything else?”
“You don’t want to know how I found out all this stuff?”
“No.”
She ignored him. “Remember last night when Julia told me she had a bad experience on a trip to Texas? I put two and two together: you’re from Texas and you’re interested in the Vanackerns. So I did a computer search on Julia and figured you had to be Daniel Foxworth.” She squinted at him in the early afternoon sun. His calm only put her more on edge. “So then I did a search on you.”
“I’m flattered,” he said, without humor.
“Mr. Foxworth, this is a serious matter.”
“Ms. Hawthorne, you can quit telling me about myself. I already know who I am.”
She gritted her teeth. Finding out there was no Daniel Forrest of Houston, Texas, at least, had pushed her own troubles to the back of her mind. “I hate being lied to.”
“Who doesn’t?”
He moved away from the door, coming close to her, too close. She could see the old scar above the left corner of his mouth, and an unbidden spark of pure physical desire ignited. He brushed a stray hair off her face. She wondered if he could tell what was going on inside her.
“Why use an assumed name?” she asked. “The Vanackerns know who you are.”
Even through his sunglasses, his gray eyes penetrated right to her bones. He let his hand go from her hairline down her temple to her jaw, leaving her skin tingling, hot. “My helicopter crashed before we could meet them while they were down in Texas. I thought using a different name would cause less trouble, which isn’t the first dumb decision I’ve ever made.”
“I presume you would prefer I kept your little lies to myself.”
“I presume,” he said, mimicking her, “that you’re going to do what you need to do. Just as I am.”
“And what is it you need to do?”
“Oh, Cozie.”
Her jaw still cupped in his hand, he bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, as if giving her time to pull away, smack him one, something. But instead she responded. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensations rushing through her. They kissed deeply, hungrily, with an intimacy that left her breathless and half certain she was crazy.
“I can’t be feeling this way,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. But she hadn’t pulled back.
His dark eyes locked with hers. “Why not?”
“I’m usually…more sensible. I mean, you and I have nothing in common.”
He straightened, still standing close. One eyebrow went up. “I don’t know about that, Ms. Cozie.”
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her floppy field jacket. She had to readjust her thinking about this man. He was a Texas Foxworth and he’d come to Vermont under an assumed name. She had to remember that, never mind how tempted she was by his dark eyes, the feel of his mouth on hers.
“Just because I kissed you back,” she said, “don’t get the idea that you can do anything around here you please. I’ll be watching you, Ex-Major Foxworth.”
“Ma’am,” he said, and gave her a mock bow before he climbed into his truck. He eyed her through the open window as he started the engine. “See you around.”
“Where are you going?”
But he’d already backed up, turning the truck around before roaring up the steep dirt driveway. Cozie noticed her hands were balled into tight fists. Kissing Daniel Austin Foxworth hadn’t relaxed her at all. It hadn’t even made her stop wondering what kissing him would be like. Now she was wondering what his tongue would feel like against hers, his body…
“Nuts,” she muttered, disgusted with herself and all Texans, and ducked down the path along the brook, heading home.
Her house was too quiet, too filled with memories that seemed to grab at her ankles everywhere she went, and she was far too restless after her encounter with Daniel Foxworth. She called Zep and they set off into the fields together, picking up one of the century-old farm roads that crisscrossed the woods. It was overgrown with grass and ferns, flanked by old stone walls.
Relieved to be alone, she breathed in the pungent smell of evergreens and freshly fallen leaves, and as she came to a narrow stream, she scooped up a handful of soft red leaves and tossed them into the clear, shallow water. She watched them float downstream until one caught on a rock, where it struggled for a few seconds before being overtaken by the rush of water.
She crossed the stream in a running leap. One foot squished into a muddy spot on the opposite bank, drenching her sock, but she didn’t turn back, didn’t slow down as she climbed a short, steep hill to an intersection with another old farm road. She veered off to the right, heading north, deeper into the woods. She’d followed this same route countless times as a kid with her brother and sister, but seldom by herself. She rested a moment in the shade of a tall oak and listened to the woodpeckers and blue jays and crows. The cold had gotten most of the mosquitoes that would have tormented her in the summer.
The woods grew thicker, darker, with more evergreens than hardwoods, and the road narrowed to a winding path. There were no stone walls. The path followed along the top of a ravine with birches and pines growing sideways off its steep bank. One slip and she’d roll a good fifty feet, unless she got hung up on a tree or a rock, like her leaf in the stream.
Zep stayed within yelling distance. He would shoot up ahead of her and wait, then dash off into the woods, and reappear when he felt like it. He was muddy and slobbery and would be full of burrs when they got back.
After another half-mile, the path descended sharply and the woods lightened, with red and orange and yellow leaves adding a glow around her. More ferns and grasses and goldenrod appeared on the path. She pressed ahead. The light forest thinned even more, and she could see the aging orchard across from the red farmhouse where her brother lived.
She heard voices. Laughter. As she came to the edge of the orchard, she spotted a group of about a dozen hikers among the ancient apple trees. The Vanackern hiking party. She’d forgotten. In no mood for company, she considered diving behind the stone wall among the ferns and fallen leaves and waiting until they’d passed.
But Zep tore out into the orchard, barking and carrying on as if he really were a fierce dog. One woman reached for the branch of an apple tree, clearly prepared to make good her escape.
“Zep!” Cozie called.
She chased after him, but he continued to bark. She started to smile at the hikers. Then she spotted Daniel Foxworth among them. So this was where he’d been in such a hurry to go.
Did the Vanackerns know who he was? Were they keeping his identity their little secret? But if Julia had gone aboard his helicopter, she could have been killed.
Zep trotted up to Daniel and let him pat him on the head, and the woman with her hand on the branch looked reassured now that a big, brawny Texan had taken over. Cozie made a point of grabbing Zep by the collar, but he broke free and loped off through the orchard toward Seth’s house. Her brother always had treats. The woman looked annoyed with her.
Cozie, however, had her attention focused on Daniel.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” It wasn’t a question or a demand, just a simple statement of fact. Not that she cared if Daniel Foxworth took offense.
As far as she could tell, he didn’t. “Julia called this morning and invited me.”
“You could have told me—”
“Ms. Cozie,” he said in a low voice, “you were in no mood to let me tell you anything.”
She scowled at him. “Does Julia realize you’re—”
“No.”
Thad Vanackern made his way to the front of the group, his smile strained as he greeted Cozie. “Well, hello. It’s turned out to be quite a lovely afternoon. Would you care to join us?”
“I’ll tag along for a while,” she said, surprising herself.
But Daniel looked around at his host and said, “I need to be going. Hope you enjoy the rest of your hike.” His gaze, impenetrable behind the dark sunglasses, rested on Cozie. “I’ll see you around.”
Nothing about his demeanor suggested he was worried about her keeping his identity to herself, but she found herself saying, if a bit tartly, “Nice to see you, Mr. Forrest.”
He followed Zep’s trail back up through the orchard. Since she’d already committed herself, she couldn’t very well waltz off with him—at least not with any subtlety. The hikers had meandered off to the shade of the trees along the stone wall leading back toward Vanackern property. It was, truly, a stunning fall afternoon.
Thad Vanackern was still at Cozie’s side. “Sorry about the interruption,” she said.
“Nonsense. We’re used to Zep by now.”
They rejoined the party, Thad making some halfhearted joke about never knowing what would pop out of the woods. Cozie just smiled and kept quiet, and Julia fell back and walked with her. She had on taupe-colored flats with sleek wool pants and a hip-length lambskin jacket, a woman much more from the Foxworth world than Cozie could ever pretend to be.
Julia kicked up one foot. “Like my shoes? They’re suede. Utterly worthless in a bog.”
“They don’t look too much the worse for wear.”
“My passive-aggressive response to being dragged on a hike,” she said good-naturedly, “although I do love looking at the autumn leaves outlined against a blue sky—and having Daniel Forrest along was fun while it lasted. He’s not bad, even though three weeks ago I never wanted to step foot in Texas or see another Texan.”
“Julia…I heard about what happened on your trip.” Cozie paused a moment, to gauge Julia’s reaction. There was none. She simply continued to glide along; she’d always been adept at controlling her emotions, or at least at not revealing them. “It must have been rough, seeing a helicopter crash, not knowing if those on board had been killed.”
She smiled thinly. “It was. How did you find
out?”
“You know this town. Word travels fast, especially about Vanackerns.”
“I was supposed to be on board. Did you hear that?”
Cozie nodded.
“Not one of my finer experiences. One of the men aboard was nearly killed. Apparently the crash was the other guy—the pilot’s fault. He got out with hardly a scratch. I thought—well, from the looks of things I was so sure there wouldn’t be any survivors.” She bit her lower lip, shuddering. “Thank God that’s over.”
“I didn’t mean to remind you—”
“Oh, you didn’t remind me. I haven’t gone a day without seeing the smoke billowing out of that helicopter, seeing it spin out of control, crash into the water. It was awful.”
There was no easy way to bring up the helicopter pilot himself, one Daniel Austin Foxworth, and Cozie had already decided to keep his identity to herself, not that she owed him a damned thing. She just wanted a few more facts before she gave anything away to anyone, even the woman who could have crashed with him in his downed helicopter.
The orchard gave way to a large, rolling field of tall green grass and goldenrod, with spectacular views of the surrounding hills. Up over a rise, across the dead-end dirt road, a beautiful white colonial was tucked behind a stone wall amidst birches and sugar maples. Cozie remembered driving up there with Grandpa Willard and her father and walking around in the then empty field, and hearing them talk about having no choice, doing what they had to do to save the paper and the rest of the land. At least, they said, Thad Vanackern was married to Frannie, and Frannie was one of them. Cozie had been just four. Later, she remembered, she had watched the bulldozers and cement mixers and front-end loaders and carpenter trucks driving past her house to carve up the pretty field up past the orchard.
At first glance, the house with its slate blue shutters and early New England architecture didn’t seem less than thirty years old. The Vanackern “estate” itself didn’t seem particularly ostentatious. It took a second or third glance to notice the tennis courts, the resort-style pool, the greenhouse, the stone stables, the riding pasture, the guest cottage, the extensive flower gardens. And one could never tell exactly where the Vanackern land ended and the Hawthorne land began.
Finding You Page 8