If Cherokee Corners had an official handyman, it was Jeb Tanner. Skilled not only in carpentry, but also in plumbing and wiring as well, Jeb's truck was a familiar sight around town.
Clay didn't have to tell him what had to be done, the quiet young man simply went to work, pulling plywood from the back of the truck as he nodded to Clay.
Clay turned back to Tamara. "Ready?"
She nodded and they walked side-by-side up the porch stairs and to the front door. He heard the deep breath she drew before she stepped through the threshold and into what had been her living room.
"Oh." The single expression fell from her lips as she viewed the damage. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as if the sight made her stomach ache.
He followed her gaze around the room and felt as if he were seeing it all for the first time. Stuffing hung from the sofa, spilling from knife wounds that had rent the fabric. The beautiful collection of glass and crystal hummingbirds now crunched underfoot. Plants had been overturned, books ripped apart and the walls all had the mark of the bear claws scarring them.
He followed her into the kitchen, where the same kind of damage had been done. Cabinets had been ripped open, the contents crashed to the floor. Ceramic shards were all that was left of her dishes and mugs.
Again he found himself admiring the inner strength that seemed to hold her together. Her back remained ramrod straight, her eyes utterly tearless as she silently viewed all the things that had been broken.
For some reason, her unemotional calm bothered him more than if she'd screamed and cried with each discovery of ruin. It was as if her pain was too great for tears.
As they returned to the living room, he finally broke the silence. "You should gather some things together … clothes and toiletries … whatever you'll need until this place can be cleaned up and made livable again."
"I can't believe this," she said. "This took so much unbridled energy to do all this damage." When she looked at him her eyes were dark, like tumultuous storm clouds. "This frightens me."
"It should," he more gruffly than he intended. Again he felt the need to pull her against him, chase away that darkness in her eyes … darkness he knew was the result of fear.
He certainly was no stranger to fear. He woke up with it every morning, went to bed with it as his nightly companion. The fear for his mother was a constant ache in his chest and he knew she must be feeling that same kind of uncertainty.
She picked up a torn canvas with a half-finished painting from the floor. "Nothing was spared, was it?"
Clay jammed his hands in his jeans pockets as if to stop himself from reaching out to her. "It would appear not."
"I'll just go get some things together." She started for the bedroom, but had taken only a step or two when she cried out and bent to the floor.
He couldn't see what it was that had caused her pain, but when she stood she held two pieces of something wooden in her hands and as she looked at him her eyes filled with tears. "It was my mother and father's courting flute." She bit her bottom lip as tears trailed down her cheeks. "How could anyone be so cruel?"
Clay pulled his hands from his pockets and gently took the two pieces of wood from her. Someplace in the back of his mind he knew that taking the wood was far safer than taking her into his arms. "Go get your things," he said gently.
She swiped at her tears and disappeared into the bedroom. He didn't follow her. Instead he remained in the living room and stared down at the two pieces of wood in his hand.
He could hear the sounds of Jeb's hammering coming from someplace in the back of the house. He assumed he was covering the bedroom windows that had been broken.
His fingers rubbed against the smooth wood of the broken flute. He remembered his mother telling him about the courting flute, that when a Cherokee man fell in love, he went to the river and searched for the perfect river cane to make into a flute. He then supposedly listened to his heart and composed a song for his loved one.
Clay knew nothing about composing songs, but he did know how important it was to follow his gut instinct, and his gut instinct was singing to him that Tamara was in danger.
She came out of her bedroom carrying a suitcase. Her shoulders now slumped and her eyes appeared reddened, indicating to him she'd shed a few more tears while packing her things.
"Tamara, it's clear to me that you are in danger," he said, deciding not to mince words. "If this is, indeed, an enactment of the legend of the bear, we both know the ending isn't exactly happy for the young Native maiden."
"I don't know what to do … I don't even know where to go."
"You can come to my place," Clay said, making the decision instantly. "I've got plenty of room and you'll be safe there. In fact we'll leave your car here, so nobody will see it around my house and know where you are."
"You really think that's necessary?" Her eyes were huge, filled with more vulnerability than he'd ever seen.
"I think you need to give us a couple of days to see if we can round up who is responsible for this. In the meantime it would be good if you kept an invisible profile and the best place to do that is at my house." He flashed her a dry smile. "Nobody ever comes to visit me."
* * *
Tamara felt as if she had been thrust onto the back of a wildly galloping horse. It seemed as if one minute she'd been standing in the ruins of her own home and the next minute she was being led down the hallway of Clay's ranch house to a spare bedroom.
She felt as if her brain had been wrapped in cloth and wasn't quite firing on all cylinders. The only emotion she seemed able to sustain at the moment was sheer, bone-aching exhaustion.
She scarcely looked around the room as Clay left her alone. All she wanted was to go to bed and wake up in the morning and realize this had all been nothing more than a bad dream.
It took her only minutes to take off her clothes and pull on her nightgown, then she slid beneath the crisp white sheets of the double bed and stared up at the dark ceiling.
It frightened her, the destruction that had been done to her home. And what frightened her more was the thought that if she hadn't gone to the ice cream parlor she would have been in the cottage.
What would have happened to her had she been home? And who was responsible? Who had done such a terrible thing? It was difficult for her to believe that one of her students was responsible. This wasn't some sort of bad prank or joke. It was something more evil than that, something more dangerous than that.
It took a while for her to fall asleep. Her surroundings were unfamiliar both in scent and in sound. The central air was hushed compared to her window unit at the cottage, although definitely more efficient. The room was void of scent, as if nobody had ever stayed here before.
She finally fell asleep and dreamed of bears. The big creatures were everywhere, hiding in her closets, slinking behind trees, watching her … waiting for her … wanting her.
When she woke up she knew instantly that it was far later than she normally slept. The sun was already high in the sky as she sat up and looked around the room where she'd spent her restless night.
The room was just as she'd remembered from the night before, clean and austere with just a bed and a chest of drawers for furniture.
She got out of bed and pulled on the short yellow robe that matched her nightie, then remembering what Clay had said about that particular attire, she grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her suitcase and changed into them before leaving the bedroom.
She didn't hear a sound as she followed the hallway into the living room. Living room was what the room was supposed to be, but it was more laboratory than anything. Two upholstered chairs and a television were the only items to attest that the room was perhaps occasionally used for living and relaxing, not just working.
However the rest of the room was testimony to Clay's work obsession. A stainless steel worktable stood along one wall, holding a complicated-looking microscope and high-powered lamps. There were several other pieces of
equipment as well, but she steered clear from all of them.
Instead she breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into a large, airy, quite ordinary kitchen. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, but the pot on the counter-top was empty. In front of the coffeepot was a note from Clay telling her to make herself at home and not to go anywhere.
Where was she going to go? She had no car. At the moment she had no home, at least not one that was livable. As she waited for a pot of coffee to brew she studied the note that Clay had written.
His handwriting was bold … strong, a reflection of the man himself. She pushed the note aside and rubbed the center of her forehead as she thought of her cottage. An edge of anger rose up inside her. She hated the fact that some creep had chased her away from her home.
Last night she'd been filled with fear. This morning she had more anger inside her than fear. She got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, then stood at the kitchen window and stared outside.
Clay's house was just inside the city limits on the west side of Cherokee Corners. His only neighbor appeared to be an old oil drill that stood unmoving like a frozen, mechanical giant insect.
Funny that he had chosen a place as isolated as she had to live. Her art and the need to regroup after leaving Max had drawn her to the cottage in the woods. She wondered what had driven Clay to this empty stretch of road and the house in the middle of farmer fields?
She returned to the table and drank two cups of coffee before heading back down the hallway to the bathroom for a shower. After showering and dressing once again, she stood in the doorway of the bathroom and gazed down the hall. She knew the first bedroom on the left was where she'd slept the night before.
The other two bedroom doors were open and she walked down the hall and peered into the first one. It was obviously used as a home office. Bookshelves lined the walls and a desk held a massive computer system.
The other bedroom was Clay's and it was the one room in the house that held any signs of real life. The bed was unmade, the sheets twisted as if to indicate the person who'd slept here had not enjoyed a restful night.
The dresser top was littered with odds and ends, loose change, brown paper envelopes, several bottles of cologne and a childish drawing of a forest filled with elflike little people and signed to Uncle Clay with love from Maggie.
The room held his scent, that clean masculine smell that had enchanted her from the first moment she'd met him. She backed out of the room, reminding herself that she wasn't here because Clay wanted her here, or because she wanted to be here. She was in his home for her own safety. He'd just been doing his job in inviting her into his personal space.
She was seated in one of the two chairs in the living room, sketching on a pad she'd salvaged from her bedroom closet the night before when Clay returned home at noon.
"Hope you like burgers and seasoned fries," he said as he came in carrying a sack from a drive-through. "Even if it isn't your favorite, it's better than what you'll find in my refrigerator."
"Burgers and fries are fine," she said. She put her sketch pad down and followed him into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair as he distributed the food onto paper plates. "I'll pick up some groceries this afternoon. I'm not used to having a houseguest. Iced tea?"
She nodded and sat at the table. He seemed wired up, filled with reckless energy and she didn't say anything to him until he was seated next to her. "Busy morning?" she asked.
"Yeah, instead of working in the lab, I've been interviewing some of your students, checking out their whereabouts yesterday after school."
"Which ones?"
"According to his mother, Terry Black came right home from school yesterday to help clean out their garage. You were right, the kid has a bad temper. He wasn't happy about me asking questions about him, got into my face a bit, but I set him straight."
She didn't ask how. She only knew that if the burly teenager and Clay went head to toe, her money would be square on the man seated across the table from her.
"So, he has an alibi for yesterday afternoon," she said.
Clay shrugged. "A mother's alibi … not exactly without suspicion. On the other hand, Charlie Tamer has an airtight alibi. He was at a counseling session with his psychologist. I checked it out with his doctor and he was there all right."
"What about my class this afternoon? And the adult class tonight?"
"I spoke with Will Nichols this morning and he agreed that you're finished teaching for the summer. He said with just a week left it was ridiculous to take chances with your safety. I agreed with him."
She frowned thoughtfully and toyed with one of her fries. "Don't you think maybe we're overreacting a bit?"
His gaze held hers with a light of disbelief. "Have you forgotten what happened at your cottage yesterday? Have you forgotten that in your legend the bear wreaks havoc to show his prowess before he corners the Native maiden and kills her? Are you willing to take a chance that whomever is responsible for this is going to stop before he reaches the end of the legend?"
"No." The word fell from her lips in a grudging whisper.
"Look, I know you don't particularly want to be here, but you need to be someplace safe until we figure out who is behind all this. The bad news is, I'm not a great host. The good news is I'm not home much."
His words should have assured her, but they didn't. "I just feel like I'm imposing." In truth, even though she had only spent a single night and half a day here, she already felt ill at ease.
But it wasn't because he might be a poor host, it was because having seen the bed where he slept, she wanted to sleep there, too. It was because her desire for Clay James was reaching a proportion that was getting more and more difficult to ignore.
* * *
He watched her on the cameras that were built into the ceiling of her rooms and gave him a bird's-eye view of everything she did.
She had yet to open the dress box he'd sent in through the slot in her locked door. She'd carried it to the bed and now stood staring at it as if afraid of what it might contain.
She need not have been afraid. The dress box contained exactly what it was meant to hold … a lovely gown. He'd ordered it specifically for her, knowing the coral color would look exquisite next to her bronze skin.
A sweet rush of anticipation swept through him as he watched her. He could already imagine her in the gown. She would look so beautiful.
He was rushing things a bit with her. With the others he'd waited three months before making his first contact and giving them a gown. But with Rita, he was as anxious as a schoolboy, eager to know that finally, finally he'd gotten the one that was meant to last forever.
As she sat on the edge of the bed and drew the box closer to her, he felt a bead of sweat run down the side of his face. "Open it, my sweet," he said to himself. He could have flipped an intercom button and spoken directly to her, but he knew it was far too soon for that kind of personal contact.
"Open it and put it on. Wear it for me." His hands clenched into sweaty fists as he continued to watch the screens.
She picked up the box and shook it, then once again set it on the bed and drew off the lid. He watched closely as she pulled away the white tissue paper to expose the coral silk.
She withdrew the gown from the box and held it up. His breath caught painfully in his chest. It was like a coral waterfall, so beautiful. The only thing that would make it better was if it was on her, draping from her proud breasts, emphasizing her slender waist.
"Put it on." His heartbeat raced faster than he could remember as he willed her to do as he bid.
There was no way to anticipate her actions, no way to be prepared for what she did. She appeared completely calm as she held the dress in front of her, then with a cry of sudden outrage, she began to rip the dress apart in a frenzy.
He heard the tearing of the expensive material, along with her screams of outrage. His heartbeat slowed and the sweet anticipation he'd felt only moments before faded.
Too soon. She wasn't yet ready to accept his gifts. He shut off the cameras and leaned back in his chair, fighting a wave of disappointment. Oh well, he'd been disappointed before. Patience. He needed to have a little patience.
He'd been patient before. Unfortunately in the other two cases, his patience hadn't been rewarded.
He hoped Rita was different. He hoped he didn't have to start the process all over again for the fourth time.
* * *
Chapter 10
«^»
Clay had thought it wouldn't be difficult having her in his house, but he'd been wrong. He'd thought because she seemed even-tempered, undemanding and generally pleasant that he'd hardly notice her presence. He'd definitely been wrong.
For the past three days that she'd been in his house, he'd been on a slow burn. Her scent eddied in the air, filling his nose and seeping into his pores. She'd brought a new energy to the house that he found both irritating and pleasing.
For the past two nights he'd been kept awake by visions of her in that damnable nightgown, visions that kept him tossing and turning with the desire to make love to her.
She'd even brought in several handfuls of wildflowers and placed them in glasses around the kitchen, adding color and scent to what had otherwise been austere surroundings.
He now eyed her across the kitchen table, wondering if she could feel his desire for her. How could she not be aware of it? It seemed to be taking complete possession of him.
She'd surprised him by having dinner ready when he'd come in from the lab at seven. It was a fairly simple meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and corn, but it was the best meat loaf, the creamiest mashed potatoes and the sweetest corn he'd ever eaten.
"You're a good cook," he said, breaking the silence that had grown to mammoth proportions between them since he'd come home.
She shrugged, her shoulders bare and looking far too touchable beneath the light pink sundress she wore. "I like to cook when I have somebody to cook for besides myself."
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