Night Moves

by Nora Roberts

  know that up to two years ago I was married. I had a husband, and as ridiculous as it sounds, was faithful for six years.”

  “My question didn’t have anything to do with that.” His voice was so mild in contrast to hers that she stiffened. Maggie had learned to trust him the least when he used that tone. “It was more personal, as in you and me.”

  “Then let’s just say I have a rule of thumb not to hop into bed with men I don’t know. You included.”

  He crossed the room, then laid his hand over hers on the piano. “Just how well do you have to know me?”

  “Better, I think, than I ever will.” She had to fight the urge to snatch her hand away. She’d made a fool of herself enough for one day. “I have another rule about steering clear of people who don’t like who and what I am.”

  He looked down at the hand beneath his. It was pale, slender and strong. “Maybe I don’t know who and what you are.” His gaze lifted to lock on hers. “Maybe I intend to find out for myself.”

  “You’ll have to have my cooperation for that, won’t you?”

  He lifted a brow, as if amused. “We’ll see.”

  Her voice became only more icy. “I’d like you to leave. I’ve a lot of work to do.”

  “Tell me what you were thinking about when you wrote that song.”

  Something fluttered over her face so quickly he couldn’t be certain if it was panic or passion. Either would have suited him.

  “I said I want you to leave.”

  “I will—after you tell me what you were thinking of.” She kept her chin angled and her eyes level. “I was thinking of you.”

  He smiled. Taking her hand, he brought her palm to his lips. The unexpected gesture had thunderbolts echoing in her head. “Good,” he murmured. “Think some more. I’ll be back.”

  She closed her fingers over her palm as he walked away. He’d given her no choice but to do as he’d asked.

  It was late, late into the night, when she woke. Groggy, Maggie thought it had been the dream that had disturbed her. She cursed Cliff and rolled onto her back. She didn’t want to dream of him. She certainly didn’t want to lie awake in the middle of the night, thinking of him.

  Staring up at the ceiling, she listened to the quiet. At times like this, it struck her how alone she was. There were no servants sleeping downstairs, as there had been all her life. Her closest neighbor was perhaps a quarter of a mile away through the woods. No all-night clubs or drugstores, she mused. So far, she’d yet to even deal with getting an outside antenna for television. She was on her own, as she’d chosen.

  Then why, Maggie wondered, did her bed suddenly seem so empty and the night so long? Rolling to her side, she struggled to shake off the mood and her thoughts of Cliff.

  Overhead, a board creaked, but she paid no attention. Old houses made noises at night. Maggie had learned that quickly.

  Restless, she shifted in bed and lay watching the light of the waning moon.

  She didn’t want Cliff there, with her. Even allowing herself to think that she did was coming too close to dangerous ground. It was true her body had reacted to him, strongly. A woman couldn’t always control the needs of her body, but she could control the direction of her thoughts. Firmly, she set her mind on the list of chores for the next day.

  When the sound came again, she frowned, glancing automatically at the ceiling. The creaks and groans rarely disturbed her, but then, she’d always slept soundly in this house. Until Cliff Delaney, she thought, and determinedly shut her eyes. The sound of a door shutting quietly had them flying open again.

  Before panic could register or reason overtake it, her heart was lodged in her throat, pounding. She was alone, and someone was in the house. All the nightmares that had ever plagued a woman alone in the dark loomed in her mind. Her fingers curled into the sheets as she lay stiffly, straining to hear.

  Was that a footstep on the stairs, or was it all in her imagination? As terror flowed into her, she thought of the gully outside. She bit down on her lip to keep herself from making a sound. Very slowly, Maggie turned her head and made out the puppy sleeping at the foot of the bed. He didn’t hear anything. She closed her eyes again and tried to even her breathing.

  If the dog heard nothing that disturbed him, she reasoned, there was nothing to worry about. Just boards settling. Even as she tried to convince herself, Maggie heard a movement downstairs. A soft squeak, a gentle scrape. The kitchen door? she asked herself as the panic buzzed in her head. Fighting to move slowly and quietly, she reached for the phone beside the bed. As she held it to her ear, she heard the buzz that reminded her she’d left the kitchen extension off the hook earlier so as not to be disturbed. Her phone was as good as dead. Hysteria bubbled and was swallowed.

  Think, she ordered herself. Stay calm and think. If she was alone, with no way to reach help, she had to rely on herself. How many times in the past few weeks had she stated that she could do just that?

  She pressed a hand against her mouth so that the sound of her own breathing wouldn’t disturb her concentrated listening. There was nothing now, no creaks, no soft steps on wood.

  Careful to make no sound, she climbed out of bed and found the fireplace poker. Muscles tense, Maggie propped herself in the chair, facing the door. Gripping the poker in both hands, she prayed for morning.

  Chapter Six

  After a few days, Maggie had all but forgotten about the noises in her house. As early as the morning after the incident, she’d felt like a fool. She’d been awakened by the puppy licking her bare feet while she sat, stiff and sore from the night in the chair. The fireplace poker had lain across her lap like a medieval sword. The bright sunlight and birdsong had convinced her she’d imagined everything, then had magnified every small noise the way a child magnifies shadows in the dark. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as acclimated to living alone as she’d thought. At least she could be grateful she’d left the downstairs extension off the hook. If she hadn’t, everyone in town would know she was a nervous idiot.

  If she had nerves, Maggie told herself, it was certainly understandable under the circumstances. People digging up skeletons beside her house, the local sheriff suggesting she lock her doors, and Cliff Delaney, Maggie added, keeping her up at night. The only good thing to come out of the entire week was the completed score. She imagined that C.J. would be pleased enough with the finished product not to nag her about coming back to L.A., at least for a little while.

  Maggie decided the next constructive thing to do was to take the tape and sheet music she’d packaged to the post office and mail it off. Perhaps later she’d celebrate her first songs written in her new home.

  She enjoyed the trip to town and took it leisurely. The narrow little roads were flanked by trees that would offer a blanket of shade in a few short weeks. Now the sun streamed through the tiny leaves to pour white onto the road. Here and there the woods were interrupted by fields, brown earth turned up. She could see farmers working with their tractors and wondered what was being planted. Corn, hay, wheat? She knew virtually nothing of that aspect of the home she’d chosen. Maggie thought it would be interesting to watch things grow until the summer or autumn harvest.

  She saw cows with small calves nursing frantically. There was a woman carrying a steel bucket to what must have been a chicken coop. A dog raced along a fenced yard, barking furiously at Maggie’s car.

  Her panic of a few nights before seemed so ridiculous she refused to think of it.

  She passed a few houses, some of them hardly more than cabins, others so obviously new and modern they offended the eyes. She found herself resenting the pristine homes on lots where trees had been cleared. Why hadn’t they worked with what was there, instead of spoiling it? Then she laughed at herself. She was sounding too much like Cliff Delaney. People had a right to live where and how they chose, didn’t they? But she couldn’t deny that she preferred the old weathered brick or wood homes surrounded by trees.

  As she drove into Morganville, she
noted the homes were closer together. That was town life, she decided. There were sidewalks here, and a few cars parked along the curb. People kept their lawns trimmed. Maggie decided that from the look of it, there was quite a bit of pride and competition among the flower gardens. It reminded her to check her own petunias.

  The post office was on the corner, a small redbrick building with a two-car parking lot. Beside it, separated by no more than a two-foot strip of grass, was the Morganville bank. Two men stood beside the outside mailbox, smoking and talking. They watched as Maggie pulled into the lot, as she stepped out of the car and as she walked toward the post office. Deciding to try her luck, she turned her head and flashed them a smile.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” they said in unison. One of them pushed back his fishing cap. “Nice car.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked inside, pleased that she had had what could pass for a conversation.

  There was one woman behind the counter already engaged in what appeared to be casual gossip with a younger woman who toted a baby on her hip. “No telling how long they’ve been there,” the postmistress stated, counting out stamps. “Nobody’s lived out there since the Faradays, and that’s been ten years last month. Old lady Faraday used to come in for a dollar’s worth of stamps once a week, like clockwork. ’Course, they were cheaper then.” She pushed the stamps across the counter. “That’s five dollars’ worth, Amy.”

  “Well, I think it’s spooky.” The young mother jiggled the baby on her hip while he busied himself gurgling at Maggie. Gathering up the stamps, she stuffed them into a bag on her other shoulder. “If I found a bunch of old bones in my yard, I’d have a for-sale sign up the next day.” Hearing the words, Maggie felt some of her pleasure in the day fade. “Billy said some drifter probably fell in that gully and nobody ever knew about it.”

  “Could be. Guess the state police’ll figure it out before long.” The postmistress closed the conversation by turning to Maggie. “Help you?”

  “Yes.” Maggie stepped up to the counter. The young woman gave her one long, curious look before she took her baby outside. “I’d like to send this registered mail.”

  “Well, let’s see what it weighs.” The postmistress took the package and put it on the scale. “You want a return receipt?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay.” She took the pencil from behind her ear to run the tip along a chart taped to the scale. “Cost you a bit more, but you’ll know it got there. Let’s see, it’s going to zone—” She broke off as she caught the return address on the corner of the package. Her gaze lifted, focusing sharply on Maggie, before she began to fill out the form. “You’re the songwriter from California. Bought the Morgan place.”

  “That’s right.” Because she wasn’t sure what to say after the conversation she’d overheard, Maggie left it at that.

  “Nice music.” The postmistress wrote in meticulously rounded letters. “Lot of that stuff they play I can’t even understand. I got some of your mama’s records. She was the best. Nobody else comes close.”

  Maggie’s heart warmed, as it always did when someone spoke of her mother. “Yes, I think so, too.”

  “You sign this here.” As she obeyed, Maggie felt the postmistress’s eyes on her. It occurred to her that this woman saw every piece of correspondence that came to or from her. Though it was an odd feeling, she found it wasn’t unpleasant. “Big old house, the Morgan place.” The woman figured the total on a little white pad. “You settling in all right out there?”

  “Bit by bit. There’s a lot to be done.”

  “That’s the way it is when you move into a place, ’specially one’s been empty so long. Must be a lot different for you.”

  Maggie lifted her head. “Yes. I like it.”

  Perhaps it was the direct eyes or perhaps it was the simple phrasing, but the postmistress seemed to nod to herself. Maggie felt as though she’d found her first full acceptance. “Bog’ll do well by you. So will young Delaney.”

  Maggie smiled to herself as she reached for her wallet. Small towns, she thought. No secrets.

  “You had a shock the other day.”

  Because she’d been expecting some kind of comment, Maggie took it easily. “I wouldn’t care to have another like it.”

  “Nope, guess nobody would. You just relax and enjoy that old house,” the postmistress advised. “It was a showcase in its day. Louella always kept it fine. Let the police worry about the rest of it.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.” Maggie pocketed her change. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll get this off for you right away. You have a nice day.”

  Maggie was definitely feeling pleased with herself when she walked back outside. She took a deep breath of soft spring air, smiled again at the two men still talking beside the mailbox, then turned toward her car. The smile faded when she saw Cliff leaning against the hood.

  “Out early,” he said easily.

  He’d told her it was difficult to avoid anyone in a town that size. Maggie decided it was his accuracy that annoyed her. “Shouldn’t you be working somewhere?”

  He grinned and offered her the bottle of soda he held. “Actually, I just came off a job site and was on my way to another.” When she made no move to take the soda, he lifted the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. “You don’t see too many of these in Morganville.” He tapped a finger against the side of her Aston Martin.

  She started to move around him to the driver’s door. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said coolly, “I’m busy.”

  He stopped her effortlessly with a hand on her arm. Ignoring her glare, as well as the interested speculation of the two men a few yards away, Cliff studied her face. “You’ve shadows under your eyes. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

  “I’ve been sleeping just fine.”

  “No.” He stopped her again, but this time he lifted a hand to her face, as well. Though she didn’t seem to know it, every time her fragile side showed, he lost ground. “I thought you didn’t believe in evasions.”

  “Look, I’m busy.”

  “You’ve let that business in the gully get to you.”

  “Well, what if I have?” Maggie exploded. “I’m human. It’s a normal reaction.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t.” The hand on her face tilted her chin back a bit farther. “You fire up easily these days. Is it just that business that has you tense, or is there something else?”

  Maggie stopped trying to pull away and stood very still. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the men watching them, or the postmistress in the window, but she had. “It’s none of your business whether I’m tense or not. Now, if you’ll stop making a scene, I have to go home and work.”

  “Do scenes bother you?” Amused now, he drew her closer. “I wouldn’t have thought so, from the number of times you’ve had your picture snapped.”

  “Cliff, cut it out.” She put both hands on his chest. “For heaven’s sake, we’re standing on Main Street.”

  “Yeah. And we’ve just become the ten-o’clock bulletin.”

  A laugh escaped before she even knew it was going to happen. “You get a real kick out of that, don’t you?”

  “Well …” He took advantage of her slight relaxing and wrapped his arms around her. “Maybe. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  A woman walked by with a letter in her hand. Maggie noticed that she took her time putting it into the box. “I think we could find a better place.” At his snort of laughter, she narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t mean that. Now, will you let go?”

  “In a minute. Remember when we went out to dinner the other night?”

  “Yes, I remember. Cliff—” She turned her head and saw that the two men were still there, still watching. Now the woman had joined them. “This really isn’t funny.”

  “Thing is,” he continued easily, “we have this custom around here. I take you out to dinner, then you reciprocate.”

  Out of
patience, she wriggled against him and found that only made her blood pressure rise. “I haven’t the time to go out to dinner right now. I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.”

  “I’ll take potluck.”

  “Potluck?” she repeated. “At my house?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t say—”

  “Unless you can’t cook.”

  “Of course I can cook,” she tossed back.

  “Fine. Seven o’clock?”

  She aimed her most deadly, most regal stare. “I’m hanging wallpaper tonight.”

  “You have to eat sometime.” Before she could comment, he kissed her, briefly but firmly enough to make a point. “See you at seven,” he said, then strolled over to his truck. “And Maggie,” he added through the open window, “nothing fancy. I’m not fussy.”

  “You—” she began, but the roar of the truck’s engine drowned her out. She was left standing alone, fuming, in the center of the parking lot. Knowing there were at least a dozen pair of eyes on her, Maggie kept her head high as she climbed into her own car.

  She cursed Cliff repeatedly, and expertly, on the three-mile