Roan

by Jennifer Blake

  “Donna,” he repeated, reaching for her hand and carrying it to his lips while rich appreciation rose in his dark-gray eyes that were so like his son’s. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Benedict,” she said, then flushed at the absurdity of feeling grateful for the salute.

  “Call me Pop, everyone else does.”

  Something about his gallantry and the warmth of his smile made her want to respond in kind. “I’m sorry if you were put to extra trouble because of me.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “It was just an excuse to get him here,” Roan said in offhand explanation before he smiled at his dad. “How long is it you’ve been gone this time?”

  “Not that long,” the older man protested.

  “Since just after Christmas. Long enough, in fact, that I think a little family get-together tomorrow as a welcome home is in order.”

  “Think so, do you?” The look Pop gave him was intrigued. “For a family council, would that be? Or you have something else in mind?”

  “Might liven up the place,” Roan said. “You know Donna surprised us the other night by turning out to be a good cook? She makes a great custard thing.”

  “Crème brûlée,” she corrected. She might have been more impressed by the compliment if she didn’t suspect its primary aim was to change the subject. She thought his father noticed the tactic as well. The way he narrowed his eyes was so much like his son’s habit that it was all she could do not to laugh.

  “Crème brûlée? Lord, she must be a gourmet chef instead of a mere cook,” Pop said. Releasing her hand that he was still holding, he flung his arm around her shoulders in a casual embrace and swung around in the direction of the tall steps into the house. “Speaking of which, I’ve just remembered that I’m starved as well as in need of a cup of coffee. Let’s get to be friends over a late breakfast, honey bunch. What do you say?”

  “Friends?”

  “By all means. Tell me you can make a decent omelet, and I may even adopt you into the clan.”

  Tory glanced back at Roan as she wondered how he would take the last suggestion. She could have sworn it was satisfaction that she saw in the stern lines of his face. But that was not possible. Was it?

  13

  The plans for the family gathering got underway at once. Before Tory knew what was happening, she was delegated to make garlic-baked brisket and blackberry cobbler, and cousins of all degrees, or their wives, were calling to see what they should bring in the way of covered dishes.

  Pop or Jake answered the phone most of the time, but every now and then she fielded the questions. She could hear the curiosity in the women’s voices as they discussed food and drink, but not one of them came right out and asked why she was in the middle of a Benedict clan gathering instead of shut up in jail where she belonged. She’d have thought it was her own distant manner that prevented it, except that she knew better. After hearing Roan and his son and father as they answered the phone, she thought it was respect that held everyone silent, that and the obvious protective cordon they seemed to be drawing around her. Their voices turned stiff and unresponsive when they talked about her. They invited no questions and answered none. Pop and Jake did it, she thought, because they had taken a liking to her, and also because they were following Roan’s lead. Why Roan bothered was another question.

  That mystery revolved in her brain until she thought she’d go crazy with it. Was it simply a matter of principle? Could it be because some in town objected to the license he was taking in keeping her at Dog Trot, so he had to prove there was no danger in it? Or was it only the sanctity of his home he was protecting?

  One other reason came to mind. He could be using her as bait to catch Zits and Big Ears. That would certainly explain his extra vigilance.

  The trouble was that anything was possible with Roan. Anything at all. She found out how true that was late that afternoon while picking blackberries for the cobbler.

  The berry patch was not far from the house, but out of the allowable range for the monitor. Roan gave his okay for the outing and arranged temporary override for the surveillance. Shortly afterward, he drove away to town for party supplies, leaving Jake to help her pick the berries and Pop on guard duty.

  The blackberries were hybrids planted back in the fifties or sixties, according to Pop, and located in what had been a large kitchen garden and fruit orchard alongside the track beyond the barn. Roan apparently mowed between the rows from time to time to keep down weeds, but that was the extent of cultivation. The vines were huge, a tangled mass of arching canes loaded with thorns, and also with fruit in all stages from green to red to the near-black purple that signaled sun-warm ripeness. The fruit, as big as plums and of ambrosial sweetness, promised a wonderful cobbler.

  Tory and Jake picked berries in companionable silence, accompanied by the drone of bees and the occasional squawk of a blue jay startled from its nest among the briers. Now and then, she caught a sweet whiff of summer honeysuckle that tumbled over a rotted stump. The old garden area was shaded from the late-afternoon sun by the encroaching trees, but it was still warm. Tory was hot, her fingertips were purple, her hands stung from raking against the thorns as she pulled berries from among the thick tangle, but she didn’t mind. It was grand to be away from the house. She enjoyed being with Jake, and liked the idea of being useful. It was peculiar, but she was happy.

  She was happy. How long had it been since she’d felt such near-euphoric content? She couldn’t remember. A long time. The reason for it was not something she wanted to think about however, not now or any time soon.

  Tory’s berry bucket was less than half full when she heard the motor home start, then go trundling off down the drive. She looked at Jake with raised brows.

  “Pop doesn’t get it, I guess,” he said as he frowned in the direction of the departing vehicle.

  He meant Roan’s dad was having trouble remembering that she was a prisoner. She’d noticed that, as well. It was nice that he was so unconcerned. “He said something earlier about delivering invitations.”

  “Yeah. Pop is probably going to shoot the bull over at Kane’s house with him and his granddad, Pops Crompton. I heard him saying something about it on the phone a little while ago. But don’t worry, Dad won’t be gone long. And old Beau will let us know if anybody tries to sneak up on us.”

  That last assurance was well-meant, but since Beau was sprawled out asleep on the shady track, looking like a road-kill, it was hard to draw much comfort from it. In any case, her concern didn’t run in that direction. She was without a guard, since Allen and Cal weren’t around on weekends. Her monitor had been deactivated. Escape conditions couldn’t have been better if she’d planned them.

  The only thing she lacked was transport, and that was in the barn. All she had to do was figure out a way to get to it.

  Enlisting Jake’s help was out; she’d already established that he wouldn’t go against his dad. The boy would probably feel he had to stop her if she tried to leave, too, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to fight him. He might set Beau on her if push came to shove, and though the dog had developed a fondness for her company, he was trained to obey working commands.

  Tory wrestled with the problem as she continued to fill her bucket. Time was flying and it felt as if her brain and her will were paralyzed. She wondered in despair if her reluctance to leave wasn’t making a fool of her. She should just break and run for it, letting the details take care of themselves.

  What did she really need in order to go? The keys to the barn and to the Super Bird. Roan had put the car back under cover after washing and polishing it. When he decided to go into town, he’d changed out of his old shorts. The keys might still be in the pocket.

  The only way she was going to find out was to look. The best time to do that was now. But first, she needed an excuse that would detach her present guard.

  “My bucket’s getting a bit heavy to hold without straining my shoul
der,” she called to Jake who had worked his way around to the back side of the front row, out of sight. “I think I’ll go empty it and find us something cool to drink.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The words were offhand, as if his mind was on other things. Tory hoped it stayed there.

  Moving at a casual stroll, she set out for the house. In the kitchen, she dumped the berries into a bowl, then sprinted up the stairs to Roan’s bedroom.

  The shorts and shirt he’d been wearing were nowhere in sight; he must have dropped them in the bathroom hamper. It was doubtful the keys had been left in them then. They weren’t on the desk, on the chest of drawers or on the dresser, nor were they in any of the dozen drawers she checked. Tory stood in the middle of the room, surveying it, while frustration beat up inside her.

  The bedside table. Of course.

  Short minutes later, she sat in the driver’s seat of the Super Bird with her hand on the ignition key and the barn door open behind her. Her foot was on the brake, her free hand on the wheel. All she had to do was turn the key, put the car in gear, and go.

  She couldn’t do it.

  Roan had taken her into his home when he didn’t have to, and at considerable risk. He had nursed her, protected her and treated her almost like one of the family. To leave him now would be a gross betrayal of trust. She would be exposing him to the censure of everyone he knew, if not actually jeopardizing his position as sheriff. He’d be forced to chase after her. If he caught her, and he well might, he’d be forced to prosecute her for the escape attempt.

  Where was she going to go, anyway? Back to her stepfather? Harrell would only confront her there, eventually, instead of here. She’d still have to deal with his lies and machinations, only she’d be doing it alone.

  Tory released the key and leaned back, slumping down to rest her head on the low seat back. Grim-faced, she stared at her own reflection in the glass of the windshield. What she was running from this time, she saw clearly, was her own stupid pretenses that had evolved into this charade. If she’d told the truth from the beginning, she wouldn’t need to go. No Benedict would ever have gotten themselves into such a mess because lies and pretenses were not the Benedict way. How much easier, in the long run, was the strict road of virtue.

  What she should do was retrieve her bucket and go back to picking blackberries, then make every minute count of her time remaining at Dog Trot. A couple of days, and that would be it. Her curious idyll as a prisoner would be over. It had to be; there was no other way.

  Abruptly, the door beside her was wrenched open. Roan stood with one hand on the handle and the other braced on the frame above her head. His voice harsh, he asked, “Going somewhere?”

  “Obviously not,” she answered, as she turned her head slowly to meet his hard gray gaze, “or I’d be gone by now.”

  Stillness invaded his features. For long moments they neither moved nor spoke. Then he said quietly, “But you thought about it.”

  “If thinking were a crime, the whole world would have a criminal record. But you’re right,” she added as the urge to try the Benedict method of dealing with problems crept in on her. “I did intend to go. I searched your room for the key, though I’m sorry about that, truly sorry.”

  “What stopped you?”

  She moistened her lips, trying to find the courage to tell him everything, settling, finally, for a half truth. “I discovered that I didn’t have any place to run.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Now what?”

  “Now I go back to my berry picking, I suppose,” she said, her smile uncertain as she swung her legs out of the car and stood up. “Unless you have other ideas.”

  He looked so stern, and it was so long before he answered, that she thought he was going to order her into the house. Then he replied with deliberation, “I have one, but I’m not sure you’d like it.”

  “What?” She waited, searching his face.

  A deep, silent breath lifted his chest, then he shook his head and stepped back out of her way. “Never mind. You’ve lost your help, you know.”

  “Jake? How is that?”

  “That’s why I came home, to send him over to Kane’s house. Pop scared one of Aunt Vivian’s kittens up a tree when he arrived in his motor home. She called, afraid Pop was going to kill himself trying to mount a rescue if Jake didn’t come get the poor little thing down.”

  Roan sounded irritated by this task added to his day. She knew better than to believe it now. People wouldn’t call on him so often if they didn’t know he was always willing to help. It was his job, yes, but also his nature. The show of annoyance was to keep people from finding out what a pushover he was.

  He was quite a guy, was Roan Benedict. If she could find the right words to explain just how alone and trapped she’d felt, and still did, would he understand? Would he look past his anger and forgive the lie she’d been living these past weeks? Would his precious honor allow him to help or would he abandon her?

  The impulse to find out was like an ache. It would be such a relief to have it out in the open, to be herself. It should be such a simple act, to relax and tell him all the things she wanted to say.

  It should be. But it wasn’t.

  He was watching her. She had to find some comment, some quip, before he demanded to know what was going on in her mind. Casting an eye over the pristine uniform he’d changed into for the trip to town, she said, “So who’s going to take Jake’s place? You?”

  He sent a wary eye toward the berry patch along the track. “You don’t have enough yet?”

  “Takes a lot for cobbler for the whole clan,” she informed him. The prospect of watching him try to remain cool and neat while helping her with such a messy job had irresistible appeal.

  The look he gave her said he knew exactly what she was up to, but he’d let her get away with it for now. Turning toward the berry patch, he said, “The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”

  They worked for several minutes during which neither of them spoke. The ease Tory had shared with Jake was gone, however. The sun was just as warm, the bees just as busy, but the atmosphere almost vibrated with tension. Did it come from her, or from Roan, she wondered? Or was it from both?

  After a time, he said, “How did Pop get out of this? I thought using blackberries was his idea?”

  “Not quite, though cobbler is apparently his favorite.”

  “And you’re willing to brave snakes and heatstroke for his sake? You and Pop hit it off, didn’t you?”

  “He’s a sweetheart,” she said lightly. “Besides, how could I not love a man who promised to buy underwear, makeup, and other such necessities for me while in town?”

  “I meant to take you shopping when you felt up to the trip,” he protested.

  She suspected that he’d deliberately kept her wardrobe scant as another deterrent to escape, but had no intention of arguing with him about it. “Anyway,” she went on, “your dad is different, a man so good that he sees only the best in people. Consequently, they probably show him the better side of their natures.”

  He stared at her, then gave a low laugh. “You know, you’re right.”

  “It’s a failing, what can I say?” She picked a berry and tossed it in the bucket he held. “I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of the Benedicts, to see what they’re like.”

  “Some great, some so-so, some a real pain in the—a royal pain, just as in every other family.”

  She appreciated the fact that he refrained from using rough language around her. It put her on a different plane, even if she had been known to use a few words in moments of stress that would shock a pirate. “I enjoy listening to you and Jake and your dad. You’re so comfortable together.”

  “Not something you’re used to?”

  She avoided his gaze, unwilling to let him see the pain that surfaced at the idea. “So it seems. I think maybe I don’t have much family.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They�
��d be looking for me if I did, wouldn’t they?” Paul Vandergraff would surely be curious by now about where she’d gone, and possibly even a little anxious. They’d gone their separate ways too long, however, for any family closeness between them.

  Roan paused a second, then reached for a berry so high that she’d missed it before. “I wonder sometimes what kind of home you came from, what kind of life.”

  An unaccountable tightness constricted her throat. She had nothing to share with him, nothing to use to make a bridge of any kind between them.

  “Maybe I’ll never know,” she said finally. “It’ll be like being reborn as a native of Turn-Coupe.”

  He looked up, scanning her features as if expecting sarcasm. Then he let his gaze wander in leisurely appraisal of her tank top and shorts. “Yeah? You don’t look much like it, even in that Dixie Chick getup.”

  “I could fit in,” she protested in spite of the heat that flooded into her face. “I’m getting a feel for country life. Fresh vegetables, animals, the great outdoors.”

  “It’s a lot of work, unless there’s a big family to share it.”

  “Like the Benedicts?”

  “Like kids. You know, curtain climbers? Cereal slingers? Miniature people wanting to slobber in your iced tea at every meal and be cuddled every time you turn around.”

  “Oh, those.” His derogatory description might have fooled her a while back, but now she heard the affection in it, and the longing. He must have enjoyed Jake’s childhood, in spite of everything.

  “Your kids would be something to see, beautiful smooth skin and big dark eyes,” he said in a musing, half-reluctant tone. He seemed to have forgotten that he was supposed to be picking blackberries.

  “Depends on the father, I’d think,” she quipped without meeting his gaze.

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  The words were even lower than before, and freighted with meaning. Was he reading her mind? Or only testing to see how far she’d fallen under whatever spell he was weaving with his talk of babies? Too far, she realized with sudden clarity. She was entranced by the vision, just out of reach, of living in peace and security at Dog Trot, fishing on the lake, tending the garden and belonging to his extended family. Becoming a Benedict.