Finding You

by Carla Neggers

  He got halfway into explaining what he’d found before she had to go into the kitchen and check her junk drawer for herself. She banged it shut, flying around at him. “It wasn’t you?”

  “No, Cozie, it wasn’t me.”

  He told her about his search of the premises, and then about the call. She listened without interruption. When he finished, she shook her head, still taking it all in. “I should have told someone about the calls weeks ago. I thought ignoring them made the most sense.”

  “At the time maybe it did.”

  “They seemed so innocuous at first—annoying, of course, but not as unnerving as you might think. But now…” She pushed both hands through her hair, tearing at small tangles. “I could scream.”

  “Go ahead. Might make you feel better.”

  She eyed him. “How about you? Would it make you feel better if I screamed?”

  “Sure. I dream about screaming women every night.” He gave her a sardonic look. “Ms. Cozie, you are the damnedest woman I’ve ever met. Where do you get these ideas? Must be the mountain air. Scream if you need to. But don’t think it’s going to make me feel better.”

  She didn’t back off. Not Cozie Hawthorne. No way. “You know what I mean. You’ve got a macho streak about as wide as the Rio Grande.”

  He wondered if she had any idea how wide the Rio Grande was. “So?”

  “Don’t go thick-headed Texan on me.”

  “Okay. You stay away from uppity Yankee and we’ll do just fine.” He moved closer to her, close enough to make her really think about just how wide his macho streak was. “If you’re suggesting screaming might make me think you’re vulnerable and I’d want you more—hell, sweetheart, I can’t imagine wanting you more than I already do.”

  A small breath escaped her tightly compressed lips. She wasn’t looking at her junk drawer, her trashed kitchen. She was, he knew, trying not to think about who had invaded her house—her life—and why. Her eyes reached his, and he saw the pain, the confusion, the anger—and the desire. He felt a small stab of guilt.

  “Cozie, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Are you going to take it back?”

  He didn’t answer at once. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’d be lying if I did, and I don’t want any more lying between us.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Standing so close, the smell of her, the possibility of her, assaulted his senses. He ran one finger along the angular line of her jaw. “I never thought I’d want to kiss a smart-mouthed Yankee.”

  She almost smiled. “Believe me, rich, macho Texans haven’t been high on my list.”

  She could have drawn away. He wasn’t even holding her. But she didn’t move, and he touched the corner of her mouth, dragged his finger across her lower lip. He saw her swallow.

  “Cozie,” he said, “stop me.”

  “I don’t think I want to.” Her voice wasn’t even a whisper.

  He cupped her chin and tilted her head toward him, and if she looked away he’d have gotten the hell out of there. But she met his gaze dead-on. A different kind of tension gripped him, one he wasn’t nearly as comfortable with as when he faced down unwelcome intruders.

  Lightly, gently, he touched her mouth with his, but she seized his upper arm and held on, and he opened his mouth, opened himself to her urgency—to his own. Her lips parted. He drew his arms around her, pulled her against him as he explored her mouth with his tongue, tasting her, wanting her as he’d never wanted a woman before. The ache spread all through him, taking his breath away.

  Moaning softly, she clasped her hands at the back of his neck and tilted back her head so that he could kiss her throat. He obliged. Her skin was soft and smooth and tasted of a fragrant, feminine soap. She pressed herself against his throbbing maleness, and shut her eyes, and Daniel found her mouth again, probing harder, deeper, in a rhythm that told her in no uncertain terms what he wanted.

  Then his eye caught the shut junk drawer, the swinging cupboard above it, and he remembered the voice on the phone. Hello, Cozie Cornelia…

  He knew what she was doing. What he was doing.

  And he pulled away. Forced himself to do it.

  Her mouth was swollen with the same heady desire that shuddered through him, but she looked neither embarrassed nor angry—at him or herself. “Why did you stop?”

  Because he was crazy. But he said, “Because we have a few things we need to deal with before I haul you upstairs and make love to you until we loosen the rafters—”

  “We weren’t to that stage yet,” she said primly.

  “Oh, yes, we were.”

  She licked her lips, uncertainty creeping into her eyes. “I don’t even know you. You used to fly fast, expensive airplanes, and now you fight out-of-control oil fires—and something about me…” She struggled for the right words. “Seems to appeal to you. Or maybe it’s just because I’m here and available. Lord. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  “Well, then, honey, you’d best thank me for stopping when I did. Because when we do make love,” he said, “I want you to know exactly what’s happening.”

  She turned to the sink, pouring herself a tall glass of water and drinking it down. “Guess it’s just as well,” she said when she came up for air. “I’ve got a cop friend coming. Will Rubeno. We went to school together.”

  “You’re going to tell him about the calls?”

  “I was planning to, but without proof, I’m not sure he can do anything.” She set her empty glass on the counter. “Well, I’m glad you stopped kissing me because I’ve got to think.”

  Daniel chose not to remind her that she’d done some kissing of her own. As she’d said, she needed to think.

  She leaned against the counter. “I told Meg—my sister—about the calls. She was going to come out here after work but I couldn’t wait, not after the break-in. She wasn’t too happy, and she’ll skin me alive if I don’t tell Will everything. I was going to tell Seth as well, but…”

  “But he’s taken off.”

  “What do you mean, ‘taken off’? He’s taken a job as a hiking guide up in the mountains. He’ll be back in a few days.”

  “When did this job come up?” he asked as neutrally as he could manage.

  He must not have sounded particularly neutral. She shot him a nasty look. “What is this, guilty until proven innocent?”

  “It’s just a question.”

  She sprang away from the counter. “That’s all that matters to you: getting your damned answers.”

  “I owe J.D. that much,” Daniel said quietly.

  “Well, give me some credit for knowing my own brother.”

  “He didn’t tell you about his relationship with Julia Vanackern or his trip to see her in Texas.”

  “I haven’t been around.”

  “He didn’t tell Meg either, did he?”

  “That’s not so unusual. She doesn’t like the Vanackerns.”

  Daniel hesitated but figured he might as well press on. “What about his previous troubles with the law?”

  Cozie stiffened. “That’s in the past—and most of his problems were because he was too quick to jump to the aid of a friend in trouble. He has a tendency to act first and think later. But he hasn’t been in trouble in years.”

  “Your father’s death hasn’t been easy on him.”

  “It hasn’t been easy on any of us.”

  “Then your success—he ever feel inadequate?”

  “Why should he?”

  Through the window above the sink, Daniel saw a police car pull in behind Cozie’s Jeep. “Tell your cop friend everything, Cozie.” His gaze fell on her, and even as mad as she was at him, as suspicious as he was of her brother, he wanted to kiss her again. “Everything—including the Vanackerns’ concern that your brother’s been stealing from them.”

  Anger and no small measure of surprise flashed in her green eyes. “They told you?”

  He sighed. “I figured you knew. Thought you wer
en’t going to lie to me either.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you.”

  “Hair-splitting.”

  There was a knock out on the back porch. Cozie gritted her teeth. “You’re going to hunt down my brother, aren’t you?”

  “Your brother’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  Daniel met the cop, a beefy guy older looking than he’d expected, coming through the back porch. “Who’re you?” the cop asked.

  “Ms. Hawthorne’s new tenant.” It was a pretty decent fudge. “Excuse me.”

  He headed out, resisting telling the cop that Cozie Hawthorne was the stubbornest woman he’d ever encountered. If Will Rubeno had spent any time in Woodstock, if he’d grown up with her, he had to know already.

  Cozie changed her mind about telling Will anything. What could he do with no proof? Nothing to take back to the lab and analyze? He would only tell her—she knew Will—to lock her doors, start a new log, and let him know if her caller actually threatened her. Right now the calls were just a nuisance. If by some miracle he did start nosing around, talking to Daniel Foxworth and the Vanackerns, learning about Texas and the thefts, he could jump to the erroneous, off-base, outrageous conclusion that her brother had it in for her. First she wanted to talk to Seth herself. Then, maybe, she’d reconsider telling Will everything.

  He didn’t take her change of heart well. He knew she was holding back on him. “You decide you want to cooperate,” he said on his way out, “give me a call. You’ve got my number.”

  “I’m just jumpy after this morning.”

  “Yeah. Making money hand over fist would make any Hawthorne jumpy. Tough to feel sorry for you.”

  “I’m not asking you or anyone to feel sorry for me.”

  “No, you’re just wasting my time.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, right. Call me at home if you need to.” He regarded her with one of his grave cop expressions. “Go easy on yourself, Cozie, before you crash and burn.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Will.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “I should have known better. God forbid Cozie Hawthorne should ever bite off more than she can chew. I’m out of here. I’ll go help people who want my help.”

  “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He waved a dismissive hand as he went through the back porch, at least as disgusted with her as she was with herself.

  By the time Cozie had stuffed things back in the cabinets and drawers and returned to the Citizen, Aunt Ethel was impatient for a full accounting from her niece. “Saved my lunch,” she said, following Cozie into her office with a crumpled brown paper bag. Every night she washed out her plastic sandwich bags and hung them to dry. Planting herself on a rickety Windsor chair, she unwrapped a ham salad sandwich smothered in her own butter pickles.

  Cozie, however, could only bring herself to tell her aunt about the Vanackerns’ suspicions of her brother.

  When she finished, Aunt Ethel gave her a look of painful dissatisfaction. “Meg warned me you’d lie.”

  “I didn’t lie!”

  “You didn’t tell me about those anonymous calls you’ve been getting.”

  “Meg told you?”

  “Of course she did. She knows I’m not some crazy old bat who can’t be trusted with the naked truth.”

  “Aunt Ethel…”

  “Don’t think I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

  “You?”

  She pursed her lips. “Now back up and add what’s been going on with those calls.”

  “It’s all so complicated.”

  Aunt Ethel glared at her.

  “Not for you to understand. For me to explain. I’ve got a column to write, and I need to call my agent and—”

  “Okay.” Her aunt picked up an untouched half of sandwich and climbed to her feet. “I’ll come by the house this afternoon and you can fill me in. Have the kettle on for tea. Shall I bring my shotgun?”

  “No,” Cozie said, taking the offer seriously, “I’ve been sleeping with a crowbar.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s better than sleeping with that Texan. I’ll want to know his role in this sordid affair as well. Messages are on your desk. I’m across the hall if you need me.”

  After Aunt Ethel had marched out, Cozie went through the scraps of paper—no “While You Were Out” forms for the Citizen’s receptionist—and marveled at Mondays. She had umpteen calls to return, complaints to answer, and tasks to delegate. There was even a call from Julia Vanackern. But there was nothing that couldn’t wait. She could always go home and carve jack-o’-lanterns and pretend her house and office hadn’t been broken into and searched. That her life hadn’t been turned upside down by a relentless Texan who was far from “hers” or anybody else’s. Daniel Foxworth was very much his own man.

  She snatched her Rolodex and got the number of an inn that often hired Seth to serve as a hiking or canoeing guide for their guests. She didn’t care if he was on some mountaintop somewhere. She needed to track him down and get some straight answers from him.

  But the inn hadn’t hired him.

  She swore. Who else? There were other inns. Outdoor sporting goods stores. Hiking clubs. Friends.

  An hour later, she gave up. No luck. Daniel Foxworth, it seemed, had the same idea: several of the places she called had just heard from him.

  She switched on her computer and stared at the blank screen, determined to forget the whole damned mess for a while and do her work. But her muse had departed. She had long vowed that when she had nothing to say, she wouldn’t say anything. She’d rather run fillers in her space than have her name on something inane.

  But she’d been thinking about pumpkins, and pumpkins were what she wanted to think about, and maybe they were what other people wanted to think about, too, and she could get that across somehow. Pumpkins as diversion. As savers of sanity.

  The words came, the calls went unreturned, the complaints went unanswered, her brother and Daniel Foxworth and Julia Vanackern went right out of her mind. Her staff, no idiots, were left to their own devices. Assignments were generally routine: state and local governments, education, arts and entertainment, business, police. That she herself was at the center of a brewing story was, at the very least, a good reminder that the press didn’t always know as much as it thought it did.

  Without reading them back—she was too close to be a good judge yet—Cozie saved her jumble of words and switched off her computer. She decided she should at least return Julia Vanackern’s call before she headed out.

  Frances answered. “I’m returning Julia’s call,” Cozie said as casually as she could manage—never mind that the Vanackerns thought her brother was a crook.

  “Oh, I know what that’s about,” Frances said cheerfully. “We want to invite you to dinner this evening up here at the house. Several people from Vanackern Media headquarters are going to be here, and I know they would love to see you.”

  Under the circumstances, it wasn’t the kind of evening entertainment Cozie would have chosen for herself. “Frances, given your suspicions about my brother, I wouldn’t think—”

  “I wouldn’t classify our concern as suspicion. Our primary concern is his welfare. More than anything we want to make sure he’s all right. We’re not out to punish him. If he has problems that compelled him to resort to—well, to stealing, then we would like to help.”

  “Seth would never resort to stealing,” Cozie said stiffly.

  Frances, who had always hated confrontation, didn’t argue. “The Hawthornes have always been a close family. I admire that. At any rate, tonight has nothing to do with Seth. Please consider joining us.”

  Cozie knew she was caught. Without Thad’s direct intervention with Vanackern Media, the Vermont Citizen would have been relegated to a shelf in a Woodstock Historical Society display. She would likely have had to leave Woodstock, even Vermont, to find similar work. Her family would certainly have los
t their land. And that meant if the Vanackerns wanted her to come to dinner now that she was a national “celebrity,” she needed a damned good excuse to turn them down.

  But perhaps, while she was there, she could get Julia into a quiet corner and grill her about her relationship with Seth.

  “We’re serving cocktails at six-thirty,” Frances said.

  “I’ll be there. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Slipping her blazer back on, Cozie headed upstairs, where the nineteenth-century surroundings were overwhelmed by Vanackern Media computers. Tapped into the media conglomerate’s computer network, the little Vermont weekly had access to more news than it needed or could ever print—including information on Daniel Austin Foxworth of Houston, Texas.

  The half-dozen staffers up there all wanted to know if she had anything more on the break-in that morning.

  “Do any of you need my guidance pertaining to your jobs?” Cozie asked.

  No one did.

  Downstairs, Aunt Ethel was waiting. Tea and the gory details. She wasn’t one to forget.

  “Can you drive me or shall I go ’round for my car?”

  Her car, a 1972 Dodge Dart, was like new, largely because Aunt Ethel was very good at getting other people to drive her around. Cozie, of course, offered to drive.

  Daniel’s truck was still parked in her driveway. She hoped nothing in her demeanor suggested she and her tenant had kissed and then some in the kitchen. Zep trotted out to greet her, but he’d learned the hard way not to come within a yard of Aunt Ethel.

  Daniel had a fire going in the woodstove and was sitting on the couch with a detailed road atlas of Vermont opened on his lap. Cozie hoped her aunt didn’t notice her sudden shortness of breath, but the man was, she now accepted, going to have that effect on her.

  “Made yourself right at home, I see,” Aunt Ethel said.

  He shut the atlas and rose, giving her a gentlemanly nod. “Afternoon, Miss Hawthorne.”

  “We’re having tea,” Cozie said, hoping he would take the hint.

  Aunt Ethel checked the fire in the woodstove, a fixture in the back room even since her own childhood. “Aren’t you even going to ask what he’s doing here?” she asked Cozie.