The Strong, Silent Type

by Jule McBride

  Were those the exact words? She couldn’t remember now. All that mattered was that Leland might have been the caller. Had he been trying to imitate Dylan’s voice? Suddenly, Alice wanted to run for the Toyota.

  “Leland...” She could only repeat her earlier words. “You loved Jan.”

  “I always had feelings for you.” The words were gravelly and harsh with Leland’s barely suppressed fury. “And tonight we’re supposed to be together. We were almost together.”

  She stepped back cautiously from the truck. It was suddenly clear that Leland had been obsessed with her for years. Her heart was pounding so hard that warmth flooded her, making her insides churn with heat while the freezing wind continued to beat against the exposed skin of her cheeks.

  How had her world gone so out of whack? Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing was making sense. Had Leland killed Jan to get rid of Dylan? Even in high school, Leland had treated Dylan as a rivaL So, maybe Leland had made those crank calls to Dylan years ago. Maybe Leland had called, saying Nancy Nolan was in the hospital so Alice and Dylan would miss the senior prom....

  And now Nancy really is in the hospital, Alice thought, recalling Nancy’s once-beautiful body, now limp and wasting away. Lord, had Leland tampered with Nancy’s credit rating a few years back? Leland did understand computers; he’d just installed a complicated new system at the ranch....

  If he was guilty, how could Alice prove it? Sheriff Sawyer wouldn’t believe her theories. That much was certain. “Please,” she said now. “Back off. Quit tailgating me. Just go home, Leland.”

  “I’ll go when I feel like it. Meantime, I’ll be watching your every move. Be sure of that.”

  And she was. Leland had almost been her husband, and now he wasn’t letting go of her. Terrified, she turned and headed back to the car. When she got in, Dylan said, “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  But deep down, she knew nothing could be further from the truth.

  “OH, ALICE, Sheriff Sawyer told me what you’re doing—” Her mother’s pragmatic voice came over the line from the main house. “And I know how strongly you feel about helping people in trouble, but you can’t let that man stay here.”

  ‘Mother, I appreciate your input...but I have to get off the phone,“ Alice said once more. Turning in the small living room of her cottage, anger fueled her blood when she looked at Dylan. Hours had passed and he was still persisting in not talking to her, in playing the strong, silent type. ”Please don’t worry,“ Alice continued. ”I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” Even if she was pretty sure Leland was still out there, parked under the trees in the snow. Right about now, Alice was more worried about him than Dylan. More worried, too, about the phone calls she’d received during the day. The words came back to her again. Jan bled like a pig. You know how that feels Alice? Good, that’s how... Pinpricks rose between her shoulder blades. What if the caller was out there, watching her as Leland probably was? What if the caller was Leland? Her eyes shot to Dylan. That he was the caller was something she wouldn‘t—couldn’t—even contemplate.

  “What?” Alice suddenly said.

  “I said I wish your father was alive,” her mother said. “He’d put his foot down.”

  But her mother wouldn’t, Alice knew. Ward Eastman had always worn the pants around the Eastman ranch, while Beryl Eastman had played the perfect, submissive wife. Where Alice had gotten her backbone, she’d never know. Probably from her father. Either that, or from the cold hard experiences of the last year and a half.

  She softened her voice. “Mother, really. I’m fine.” She glanced at Dylan again, wondering if she really was. The man didn’t even bother to glance at her now. He was seated on her denim couch, watching television and acting just as distant as he had in the car.

  His attitude would drive a saint to distraction. In spite of his injuries, and his obvious need to get off his feet, he managed to look thoroughly self-contained. He was acting so aloof. Distant. Unreachable. Take your pick of terms. It was as if he were inside an invisible capsule. He had to be in severe pain, but he hadn’t once mentioned the bandaged gash on his forehead or his cut leg. Pain didn’t seem to affect him any more than her repeated questions.

  “Fine,” her mother was saying now. “I can tell you’re going to do whatever you please.”

  Alice’s hand tightened on the handset. She loved her mother with all her heart, but there was no way to explain to anyone what was happening to her right now. “Mother,” Alice ventured, “I know this seems strange—”

  “It’s very strange. This just isn’t like you, Alice. What’s happening to you? You used to be such a good girl...”

  There it was again. The second time today. “I’m not being bad,” she defended. “But a lot’s happened in the past couple years and—”

  “I don’t care what’s happened. You can’t bring a stranger into your home. I’m worried—”

  “I know it’s out of character,” Alice interjected, “but...

  Her mother said, “I’m waiting.”

  But this is Dylan. I know it. I saw the way he looked at his mother in the hospital, and now I know I’m not wrong. “Do you trust me, Mom?”

  There was a long pause. Then her mother’s tired voice came over the line. “Yes. I do, honey. But still—” Then her mother sighed. “Okay, honey.”

  Somehow, her mother’s resigned trust both touched her and made her temper flare. Damn Dylan for walking back into her life this bizarre way, and not bothering to tell her what was going on. Yes, her heart had flooded with relief and love. But that was hours ago. Now she needed answers. Hanging up the phone, she turned to him. “Are you going to start talking or not?”

  “About what?” he said lightly.

  “Something other than the weather.”

  He glanced toward the window where the snow was blowing down in sheets. “The weather wouldn’t make for much conversation, anyway. It’s pretty bad.”

  “What’s bad is how you’re acting. How long are you going to keep playing the strong, silent type, Dylan?”

  His voice was level. “Quit calling me that. I don’t know what you mean.”

  She stared at him a long moment, then shrugged. “Make yourself at home,” she snapped. ‘But I guess that should be easy,“ she added, ”since you travel so light.”

  “light?”

  Her eyes drifted over him. “Yes. Surely you’ve got some luggage stashed somewhere in town?”

  His tone was gruff. “Look. You’re angry. And I’m causing trouble with your family. If you want me to go...”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she assured. As her eyes continued falling over him, taking in his body’s ropy strength, she felt a rush of purely female awareness. Heartache quickly followed.

  A lump formed in her throat, and she looked away from him to stare out at the snow. Had there ever really been wonderful summers? Lazy days of lounging in the long grass, held in his arms? Right now, in the bleak darkness, it didn’t seem possible that they’d once made love in Cat’s Canyon, feeling warm sun on their bare skin.

  Leaning, she flicked on a second lamp that didn’t do much to illuminate the room. Usually, she thought of the living room in the cottage as cozy, now it simply seemed dark, wintry. Heading for the wood-burning stove in a bricked-in corner, she opened the doors and gazed at the glowing embers.

  “Here.” The voice was low and rough as he rose from the couch. “Let me.”

  She stepped back, watching him take kindling from the woodpile, then add a log. He knew his way around a wood burner, and he worked slowly, building a new fire that would last. His careful, almost calculated movements were somehow so withholding that they made a whole new rush of anger come over her. Since seeing the recognition in his eyes in his mother’s hospital room—and then realizing he was going to continue maintaining he was a stranger—she’d been livid. Livid in a way she couldn’t hold back, a way she hadn�
�t felt for years, maybe never. Now the anger raced through her body, rushing right beneath her skin, ready to surface.

  When he stepped back, she lithely leaned past him and slammed closed the iron doors of the wood burner. They crashed together, sounding like cymbals, and the quiet left in their wake seemed deafening. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, but she was too angry—and too conscious of him. She could feel his heat as he moved behind her. He came to a standstill in the center of a braided rug.

  Turning, she crossed the living room, headed for a wall unit facing the couch and flicked on the TV. He was scrutinizing the room, taking in the two oak end tables banking the couch, and a blanket of Native American design that her father had bought in Cheyenne. His eyes lingered near the door, on a saddle and a pair of western-style boots she often wore.

  “We were at the hospital longer than I thought,” she ventured coolly, hoping a new topic might bring some response.

  Dylan merely nodded. He hadn’t moved, but was still scrutinizing everything. Catching his eyes, she said, “Does the place meet with your approval?”

  “Yeah. It’s nice.” The words were amiable, but his gaze had turned steely.

  She arched an eyebrow. “My tone starting to get on your nerves?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good. I intend it to.” Maybe if she got a rise out of him, he’d start being honest.

  “Really,” he said. “I think I should just go.”

  She gazed through one of the two living-room windows. Outside, the snow was coming down hard again, blowing in sheets. The Eastman ranch was a working cattle ranch, but cottages such as Alice’s dotted the property, some of which were available to guests during the summer months. Although Alice’s cottage was separated from the main house by trees, she could see one light, winking between bare, snow-laden branches. It was the light in her mother’s bedroom.

  Her gaze returned to Dylan. “It’s a little cold for having nowhere to go.” She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you just sit down?”

  He offered a slight lift of his shoulder that might have been a shrug, glanced behind him, then sat on the couch again. “I don’t want to put you out Tomorrow, as soon as the sun’s up, I’ll head out.”

  “We’ll see about that.” No matter how intent he was on denying it, she knew damn well he was Dylan Nolan, and he was going nowhere—not until she had some answers.

  She expected a snappy retort, but realized his attention had shifted to the TV. And not momentarily. His eyes were glued to the set, his attention so absorbed, Alice could have ceased to exist. She turned and stared at the screen. The national news was on, though Alice didn’t recognize the female announcer.

  “...was found brutally murdered at his Bel-Air estate yesterday,” the woman was saying. The image shifted from her to the open wrought-iron gates of a mansion. “The murder has rocked Los Angeles. Outside the stone wall of this exclusive, private estate, Lang Devlyn’s mourners have been gathering all day. Not since the murder of Gianni Versace by Andrew Cununan have such crowds gathered to witness a crime scene—this time, leaving flowers in memory of the rock icon.”

  The sound shifted to a medley of pop songs, while the image shifted to a montage of the once-young Lang Devlyn, signing autographs, zooming down a country road on his motorcycle, singing to screaming female fans while sinuously moving his body, rolling his leather-clad hips.

  “While Generation X may not have heard of this song legend,” the newscaster continued, “Lang Devlyn fueled the fantasies of female fans in the 1950’s with pop songs such as ‘Love Me Again’ and ‘Tomorrow’s Dreams’ before going on to become one of Hollywood’s successful stars. Working behind the scenes, Devlyn arranged scores for films in the sixties, before going on to a decade of producing recording artists of the early seventies, among them Janet and the Sandman, the Tambourine Folk Blues Men, and the Micro-Velvets.

  “Today,” the newscaster continued as the image shifted back to the crime scene, “the singer who Life magazine once called the Man with the Velvet Voice is dead. Tragically murdered in his home, in this isolated, private section of Bel-Air that has also been home to singer George Harrison, actress Jamie Lee Curtis, Barbra Streisand and former President Ronald Reagan.”

  As she talked of Devlyn’s fall from grace in Hollywood—to rumors of his increasing withdrawal from society, drug addiction and failed financial ventures—the camera roamed over an estate that was nothing less than beautiful. Surrounded by a high wall and foliage that kept it hidden from the eyes of curiosity seekers and the tour buses that regularly cruised the Hollywood Hills, the inside was a paradise.

  Contrasted to the harsh, dark snowy Wyoming winter landscape and the steep Rocky Mountains in the distance, the L.A. estate was bathed in sunlight. Behind the imposing house was a crystal-blue swimming pool in a natural setting with leafy tropical plants and a waterfall. Lush green grounds sloped to a private lake, surrounded by trees and white-flowering bushes. A swing set faced the still water.

  The camera paused on the scene, and Alice felt a shudder travel up her backbone, one that started low, right at the base of her spine. It might be sunny and warm in L.A., but the picture was strangely static. There was something creepy about the stillness of it all. The camera lingered on the lifeless image, while the newscaster solemnly detailed what was known about the murder.

  Lang Devlyn had fought an attacker who’d beaten and then stabbed him repeatedly; his murderer had viciously, slowly and without passion committed the act while the aging rock icon, now in his sixties, had slowly crawled from room to room of the massive house, trailing blood.

  Alice shuddered again, her gaze shifting to Dylan. He was still utterly riveted. His eyes were intent on the screen, his lips parted. And she could swear she saw something more there than horror. It was as if he...recognized the place.

  “And so it ends,” the newscaster finished. “A distinguished musical career, spanning a half century. A man who fueled the fantasies of so many millions, has died alone. Tragically, with no known survivors...”

  Alice suddenly blinked. “You’re bleeding,” she said, staring at Dylan. “That bandage needs to be changed.” Turning away, she headed toward the kitchen, then returned with a damp cloth and first-aid kit. He was still watching the TV.

  “Here,” she said.

  Stopping next to the couch, she deftly removed the bandage, then dabbed his head with the cloth. Jerking back, he grabbed her hand. The movement was unexpectedly quick, the touch electric. She sucked in a quick breath. “I have to,” she said, her voice sounding strangled to her own ears. “You’re bleeding again.”

  “I’m fine.” His eyes darted toward the door, as if he wanted to go, as if he felt suddenly trapped.

  Had the touch of her fingers on his skin bothered him that much? Maybe, she decided. Touching him had made her own heart beat too quickly. So why was the damnable man still denying who he was? Why was he denying what he felt for her?

  Her temper flared. He was still holding her hand, so she twisted her wrist and caught his fingers, twining them through hers. “Dylan,” she implored, her voice strangled.

  As if to fend off her pleas, he rose swiftly to his feet, his body grazing hers. He stared down at her, and the breath left her. Their thighs were touching, their chests inches apart.

  She glared into his eyes. “By damn,” she said through clenched teeth. “You’re going to start talking.”

  His lips compressed into a grim line, and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head—just enough of a movement that she registered it, just enough that a lock of his dark wavy hair fell across his forehead, across the gash and into his eyes.

  Such beautiful eyes. Her heart twisted with the thought. She remembered the light in them when they’d made love in Cat’s Canyon, that first time. He’d followed every nuance of her movement when she’d undressed—her hands trembling on buttons, pulling down the straps of her bra. He’d registered the sudden heat rising in her che
eks when her breasts were free. There was no forgetting that moment. How could he deny it? How could he pretend they hadn’t shared that day? That he hadn’t taken her fully, in the deepest way a man and woman could share.

  In a way that might make him talk.

  The thought came from nowhere. And she was conscious once more of his proximity, of his near breath and the heat of his body. He shifted, as if to step away, but the movement only brought his thigh harder against hers. An undeniable tide of emotion grabbed her then, bringing her to her toes, and the force of feeling pushed her into his arms. Desire was maybe even the least of the emotions. Because there was still fear. And so many questions, so much worry.

  And love.

  She felt that, too. A love that transcended everything else, making her not even care where he’d been. Her palm slid swiftly around the back of his neck, the smooth skin there making her flesh tingle. Tugging, she pulled his head toward her, bringing his mouth close. Then closer. So close he couldn’t resist. Forcefully, her lips collided with his and at the touch, she could no longer stop what was about to happen. His body’s tension was nothing more than hard-won self-containment. Every flex of muscle against her said it was about to be unleashed.

  No, his injuries weren’t on his mind now. He couldn’t stop wanting her. He loosed a soft moan that curled warmth right into her bloodstream. As her tongue greedily thrust against his, heat fanned out, then flowed inside her. A needy sound came from somewhere deep, from his heart or soul maybe. “Alice,” he gasped against her lips.

  It sounded like a protest, but she didn’t care. Already, her hands were gliding under his shirt, over ridges of ribs and the hair of his chest, exploring the man she was so sure she remembered. A man who simply had to be her husband, Dylan Nolan.

  Chapter Six

  He urged her from the windows toward the hallway, as the first kiss punctured a plastic bubble he’d been hiding inside. The second made his heart wrench. The third flooded him with memories. He’d been fooling himself, thinking he could come to town without seeing her. All this time, he’d planned to come back, but never to her arms. He’d meant to ignore her, at least until he cleared his name and found whoever had threatened to kill her. And other concerns plagued him, too. All his own terrifying, haunting memories...