A click and the line went dead. Goddammit!
He walked outside to the front deck and stared at her lights. She was up there weeping. He knew it. He wished he had taken her in his arms and held her. He could have comforted her, let her cry against his chest. He wished he had demanded she let him take her somewhere to a doctor. He wished he were up there with her now. He wanted to be her friend and ally, wanted to be in her life. And he wanted her in his.
Shit. A bad night was ahead of him. He knew the signs. He punched on the television. An hour later, she was still on his mind. He looked out his living room window. Her lights still shone. What good was he doing down here awake when she was up there in pain? And afraid?
He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then strode to her Jeep and shaved a good seven minutes off the trip to her house.
He jogged up her deck stairs and tried the front doorbell, but didn't hear it chime inside. She had to know he was here. No one could drive up at night without being seen or heard and he had made no effort to muffle the sound of his steps up onto her deck.
He banged the heavy brass knocker mounted between the two cut glass panes, but she didn't answer. He tried the knob, found it locked. A tinge of panic darted across his stomach. Then, the heavy door creaked opened and there she stood, looking small and bedraggled in the tall, wide doorway. Her eyes glistened with tears.
Emotion swelled in his chest. He mustered a grin, feeling as awkward as a twelve-year-old. “Hi. I figured since we’ve both got insomnia, we could suffer together.”
She stepped back and gestured him in. They reached for each other simultaneously. Her arms slid around his ribs and up until she clung to his shoulders and her forehead pressed into his shoulder. He could feel her battered soul and he held her for what seemed like a long while.
She reached for his hand and led him down the two steps into the living room, to the sofa. He sat. She knelt in front of him and pulled off his shoes. He leaned forward, caught her hand and stopped her. “You don't have to do that.”
Cupping her shoulders, he pulled her up and took her with him as he leaned back to rest his head on the sofa arm. She nested between his legs, her head on his chest. “Rest now,” he murmured, running his hand over her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Everything's gonna be all right.”
She must have believed him because she handed him a fancy pillow for his head and neck and pulled down the afghan that was draped across the back of the sofa and covered their lower bodies. She snuggled against his chest like a child and let out a great sigh. He folded his arms around her. Together, they drifted away.
****
Doug awoke to the same thing that woke him every morning—a deep ache in his damaged shoulder. But this morning, something was different. A dead weight lay on his chest and he had a feeling he was being watched. His eyelids fluttered open and he saw an orange cat perched on the sofa back. Its green eyes stared down at him and it made a feline chirp.
Memory of last night fought its way through the foggy maze of sleep and his orientation returned. He attempted to stretch his left arm without disturbing the disheveled blond head on his chest. He had a hard-on. Usually, if he awoke in that condition and was belly-to-belly with a good-looking blonde, he knew what steps to take next. None of them were appropriate this morning. She must have felt his erection because she sat up abruptly and scooted down the sofa.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall behind the stair,” she said. She touched her swollen cheek and winced, then eased to her feet. “Use the shower if you like. Towels are in the vanity.” She hobbled toward the kitchen.
Doug's left leg felt numb and his shoulder throbbed worse than usual. He leaned forward and dangled and flexed his left hand between his knees.
After a minute of that therapy, he got to his feet and found the bathroom. In it, he discovered a tiled stall shower much bigger than his metal shower at home and a massaging shower head. The luxury of room to turn around without bumping into the walls was too much to resist and the warm water massage would feel good to his aching shoulder. A little butterfly-shaped soap bar lay in a dish by the sink. He opened the vanity cupboard and pulled out the thickest, sweetest-smelling towel he had ever touched.
All through the shower, he thought about last night. Showing up at her door had been the right thing to do. For her to have welcomed him as she did, then snuggled against him all night, she had to have needed someone. Don’t be fooled into thinking it’s you, ol’ buddy, he warned himself. It could just as easily have been Ted or anybody else.
After the shower, he finger-combed his hair and left it to air dry. He returned to the living room, but saw no sign of her. Three weeks ago, she hadn’t minded if he helped himself in her kitchen, so he headed in that direction. As he passed the eating bar, he glanced at the .357 lying on the counter where he had placed it last night and the cartridges strewn beside it. He wouldn’t be surprised to see the sheriff any minute, coming to call her to account for brandishing a gun in the bar. He couldn’t imagine that the law in Idaho in that regard would be any different from California.
He left it where it was and opened the cupboard where he had found coffee before. A new unopened package of Starbucks Breakfast Blend sat there all alone on the shelf. He paused and blinked at it. He distinctly remembered her saying she didn’t drink coffee.
Mulling over that fact, he put a pot on to brew for himself, then set water to boil for tea for her, behaving as if he lived here. By the time he put the tea in the teapot to steep, the coffee had made, so he dragged two mugs from a cupboard shelf and poured himself a steaming mug. Leaving the second mug by the teapot for her, he ambled to the living room windows to watch the sun bring color to the valley floor.
Soon, he heard her come back into the kitchen. He turned and saw she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and huaraches. “Hey,” he said.
He walked back to the kitchen area and took a seat on a cast iron stool opposite her at the breakfast bar. Her scent came to him—soap and flowers and mountain mornings. “I opened your new package of coffee. Hope you weren’t saving it for something special.”
“Uh, no. I just bought it for—well, whatever.”
Was she blushing? Holy shit. Had she bought it for him? Had she expected him to come back? He had no way of knowing, but she was damn sure stammering. A silly thrill darted through him. Nah, you’re daft, man, he told himself, but he couldn’t let go of the question. “Guess I misunderstood. I thought you said you don’t drink coffee.”
“I don’t....But everyone else does.”
“Right.”
Her right eye peeked from behind a purple lid. Underneath it curved a lavender crescent-shaped bruise. A reddened lump distended from her cheek. All of it looked painful, but if she was suffering, she gave no hint. “I made you some tea,” he said.
Her mouth turned up in an almost-smile, but she didn’t look at him. “I see. Thanks.”
“Eye looks sore.”
She touched her cheek gingerly as she poured a cup of tea. “A little.”
A lot, he figured, but he schooled his tone to be matter-of-fact. “If you don’t want to see a doc in this town, I wouldn’t mind taking you somewhere else. It’s not that far down to Boise.”
She walked over to the cupboard and lifted out a small pitcher. “What’s a doctor going to do but make an X-ray or give me pain pills?” She stepped to the fridge, dragged out a jug of milk and poured some into the pitcher.
“It wouldn’t hurt to have it checked out.”
She came back to the breakfast bar and poured milk into her tea. “No doctors.”
“Okay. No doctors.” He picked up the gun lying within reach and took a closer look. A .357 revolver was more firearm than he would expect a woman to own. “Good piece,” he said. “You get this thing in L.A.?”
“No,” she answered and sipped her tea.
Okay, so she didn’t want to discuss the gun. He rolled his shoulder, trying to chase away t
he morning stiffness.
“Does your shoulder hurt? Ted’s told me about your injuries.”
“Just a little stiff.” He grinned and winked. “War wounds.”
“I hope you tried the shower massage. It feels wonderful on sore muscles. Did my sleeping on it all night hurt?”
His arm had gone numb quite a while before she woke up. “Not at all,” he lied. “Just takes a little while to work the kinks out. You’re worse off than I am. You calmed down this morning?”
She nodded, then came to his side of the breakfast bar sat down beside him, their shoulders no more than a foot apart.
“So what happens now?” he asked. “This seems like a good time to call up your buddy Culpepper.”
“No need. He’s already done what I asked him to. Would you like some breakfast?”
He lifted a palm. “You don’t have to feed me breakfast. In fact, soon as I finish this coffee, I’ll get out of your hair so you can rest.” He stretched across the counter and lifted the receiver from the wall phone. “Ted should be home. I’ll call him to come up and get me.”
Her head snapped up. “No! I’ll take you to your rig after breakfast.”
Okay, so she didn’t want Ted to know he had spent the night here. That must mean she knew how Ted felt about her. Doug re-cradled the receiver.
“Don’t you eat breakfast?” she asked.”
“Every day. Most important meal of the day.”
“Then let’s have breakfast. It’s the least I can do after what you did for me.”
Genuine sincerity showed in her eyes and rang in her voice. She left her seat and went to the refrigerator again, opened the door and studied its contents with one-eyed earnestness.
“Anyone would’ve done the same,” he told her with some doubt. So far, with the exception of Ted, Doug hadn’t spotted anybody in Callister willing to help her.
She began taking food out of the refrigerator. “Everyone had the opportunity, but only you did something. People around here aren’t known for heroics when it comes to facing Kenny.”
Doug didn’t want to be known for it either, but it was too late now. “So I’ve heard.” He watched her make a stack on her arm—bacon, an egg carton, a hunk of cheese. Hey, you’re gonna drop something.” He went to her side and held out his hands. She transferred the food to him, then dragged out an onion and red and green peppers. “I can help you with breakfast,” he said. “What are we making?”
“Spanish omelet and bacon. Right now, I don't know how I’ll pay you back, but I always return favors.”
“It wasn't a favor. It was what had to be done.”
She opened a cupboard door beside the fridge and lifted out a new jar of jalapeno peppers. “Ted’s told me what a great cook you are. Perhaps you’d be better at this than I am.”
Doug suspected she hadn’t bought so much food for herself and she hadn’t done it for Ted, either. He knew—knew—she had stocked up on a few groceries with him in mind. And the knowing did strange things to his insides, even left him speechless. He stood there like a dummy who had never experienced a moment of decision with a woman. “Alex, listen...”
She looked up at him in that way she had and smiled. “What, you want to debate who’s the best cook?”
She dragged more food from the refrigerator—butter, salsa, another hunk of cheese. She pushed the door closed with her hip and they took the food to the cooking island. Side by side, they worked at breakfast. While she put the bacon on to fry in an iron skillet, he grated cheese, liking the closeness of sharing a task with her and liking that they had food and cooking in common.
The pistol still lay within arm’s reach. The cop in him couldn't be suppressed, so as she broke eggs into a bowl and he chopped peppers, he tilted his head toward the gun. “I’ll feel a lot better if you tell me you don't keep that in Carlton’s.”
She stiffened as she sliced off a chunk of butter and scraped it into a second cast iron skillet. “No, of course not.”
He could spot a lie a mile away. “Then you carry it in your purse? Got a permit?”
She dumped the beaten eggs into the hot butter and cut through them with a fork. “No. And no.”
“Then how do you get it into the bar?” He cocked his head for eye contact, but she kept her eyes on the eggs.
“All right. You got me, copper. I have to get it from Point A to Point B, don’t I? Why are you questioning me?”
Trying to keep the conversation without confrontation, he pulled four slices of bread out of its plastic bag for toast. “Just saying you can't carry concealed without a permit and you can’t take a gun into a bar. Stiff penalties for both. A gun in a bar’s a felony. Do you have an office in Carlton’s, where you’re able to keep it outside the barroom?”
“No.” Seemingly unfazed by the possibility she had committed a crime that could have serious consequences, she gathered the cut vegetables and cheese and arranged them on the omelet, then folded it in half like a pro.“Would it be more acceptable if I wore it on my hip?”
He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster “I think that’s at least legal in this state.” He tore off a couple of sheets of paper towel and placed them on a plate, then picked up the meat fork and began lifting the fried bacon slices out of the skillet. “Look, I’m not trying to be argumentative. I’m just telling you that what you're doing is illegal. And foolhardy. It gives the good sheriff a reason to come after you.”
She stopped and looked at him, one fist planted on her hip. “Well, now. I think that would be classified as my business, wouldn’t it? Jim Higgins doesn’t scare me.”
Doug flinched as an icicle pierced him. He had thought he was making progress, but obviously not. Still, he managed a laugh, hoping he sounded lighthearted. “You’re a regular outlaw, aren’t you?” Determined to not get into another contest with her, he raised his palms in surrender. “You’re right. It’s your problem.” He returned his attention to the toast “Just tell me one more thing. Is Miller the reason you’re packing a gun?”
“I bought it to defend myself against Charlie, in case he went completely off the deep end. At the time, I never dreamed I might have to protect myself from Kenny.” She flawlessly scooped up the omelet and slid it onto a platter. “I think we’re ready to eat. How’s that toast doing?”
They ate at the long shining table on heavy stoneware plates with primitive designs. The omelet was cooked to perfection. They chatted about books and movies. Surface talk, nothing deep. Still, it was something he hadn’t done with a woman in a long time. She was warm and friendly and he thought she might be trying to make up for cutting him off at the knees when he had tried to discuss the gun.
He began to understand why Ted enjoyed her friendship. She was clever-tongued. She had to feel like hell, but she laughed and made cynical jokes about current events. Her conversation proffered no sexual innuendo or leading remarks, no misunderstood motives. Yet he thought she was the sexiest woman he had ever met.
When his plate was empty, he rose, walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself another cup. She stood up and carried her dishes to the sink. “If you're ready to go, I’ll take you downtown,” she said.
Oops. Evidently there would be no lingering and relaxing over an after-breakfast cup of coffee. “Okay. Whatever.” He set his coffee cup on the counter, went back to the table and cleared away his dishes.
Before he could count to double-digits, they were on their way out the door. Easing down the driveway, she avoided the deep pothole that had grabbed him both going and coming in the dark last night. The road condition didn’t distract her at all.
“I don't suppose you’re gonna tell me what’s really going on with you and this logging dude. All I’ve heard is the gossip. I’d like to know from the horse’s mouth why I made an enemy of him last night.”
Chapter 16
Alex sighed. Her eye hurt, her cheek hurt. She felt as if she had gone a round with a heavyweight. Did she owe it to a relative stranger
to tell him the whole hateful story? Possibly she owed him something. She had scarcely been civil to him since they met, yet he had come to her rescue twice. He couldn’t be all bad.
And with his scruffy day-old beard and mussed hair, he looked more appealing than he should. In fact, he looked like they should be hanging around the house enjoying private weekend.
She stopped the Jeep, put on the hand brake and twisted to the right. “Look high on the mountain over your right shoulder at that stand of timber.”
The morning sun showcased a mass of deep green wallowing endlessly against the brilliant azure of a cloudless sky. Her heart ached if she let herself think about the fact that it had once belonged to her. “That’s called Soldier Meadows. It covers most of the lower mountainside visible from here. It’s about five sections. Charlie and I used to own it.”
Ten years ago they had come to Idaho to raft the Salmon River, a change of scenery, a heart-healing escape after burying their daughter a few months earlier. Alex always read real estate ads wherever she found them and she had stumbled across one touting “the only private property on Wolf Mountain.” Knowing the rarity of private property in a bastion of national forest lands, she had insisted they rush to inspect it. She hadn’t known then that the pin dot on the side of a huge mountain would become one of her greatest obsessions. Her assistant had even accused her of replacing her lost daughter with a house in Idaho.
Doug twisted in the bucket seat and looked, too. “Sections? How big is that?”
“Six hundred forty acres. A square mile. Soldier Meadows is about thirty-two hundred acres, more or less. It used to be attached to the land my house sits on.”
“Looks more like a forest than a meadow.”
“It is mostly forest. But the name comes from a small clearing where an army camp existed, post-Civil War. There were roughly five thousand acres in the beginning. Charlie sold the part that was known as Soldier Meadows to Kenny.”
The Love of a Stranger Page 16