Sunrise Crossing

by Jodi Thomas

  Only, this time he couldn’t leave. No matter the danger. This time he wasn’t planning to take someone in. His mission now was to make sure she stayed exactly where she wanted to be. He owed this one favor to a son he’d never known.

  Gabe needed to be near to protect her. And to do that he had to make sure the deputy wouldn’t interfere. He figured that Fifth Weathers wouldn’t be an easy man to bury, so he’d better come up with another plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AT DAWN, YANCY woke and stared at Tori sleeping next to him. Her midnight hair had come loose from her braid and flowed over her pillow. She was so beautiful. So perfect. It made no sense that she could be here in his little back room of the office. He was just a handyman, a carpenter maybe. Not the kind of guy who slept with a woman so pretty.

  She’d cuddled against him last night. She trusted him. In this crazy mixed-up world he was her hero. Yancy had never been anyone’s hero. He’d never had any expectations to live up to. Men like him didn’t even meet women like her. But she’d come to him last night and for some reason she’d stayed.

  He climbed out of bed. He wanted everything to be ready when she woke. Taking her clothes from the dryer, he draped them over the one chair in his room. He put on coffee in the meeting room, even though he knew no one would be in for another hour or two. Then he pulled on his coat and slipped out the side door of the office lobby.

  He wanted to get to the café when it opened, so he could buy breakfast and have it waiting when she woke. They’d laugh about the way she’d looked last night and talk about the professor she’d met in the storm. He might even offer to take her over to the bed-and-breakfast so they could check on the old guy. Yancy hadn’t really been that polite to him when he’d dropped by, offering to buy the house, but Tori had said he was a sweet man, so Yancy figured he could make another effort to be friendly. After they talked to the professor, he’d see if she’d be willing to come back to the lobby and meet all the retired teachers. He’d like that, and he knew a few of them would make her laugh.

  Yancy planned as he waited to order, hoping she’d let him take her home later. If she said no, he promised himself he wouldn’t push it. She was afraid of something, and if keeping where she stayed private made her feel better, then he wouldn’t mind not knowing.

  Of course, if she felt safe enough to sleep with him, she must trust him.

  Last night, with her cuddled in his arms, he knew, for the first time since he’d met her, she felt safe and the feeling made all worries rest for the night.

  The new waitress at the café didn’t ask why he was ordering two breakfasts or why he wanted extra jelly, one of every kind they had. She just placed his order, took his money and told him to have a great day.

  In fact, he planned to have maybe one of the best days ever. When Tori woke, they’d eat, and then he’d take the day off and they’d do something fun. They could go to the canyon if it wasn’t too muddy or drive into Lubbock and see the huge windmill museum. He didn’t really care what it was as long as they were together for a while.

  Yancy was still thinking about what they might do as he walked back in the lobby of the long office that had once been the check-in counter for a cluster of bungalows that made up a small motel.

  All was quiet.

  He slipped into his back quarters to set up breakfast.

  The first thing he saw was his bed, all made up. Tori’s clothes were gone from the chair. Her yellow rain boots had vanished, as well.

  For the first time since he’d moved into the space, the room seemed empty, hollow, dead. She was gone and he had no idea which way to look.

  Yancy dropped the two breakfast boxes in the trash. A sorrow built in him. He felt her loss deeper than any loss in his life. He was a man who’d learned not to want much, not to dream too large, but he wanted her. Maybe not forever, but at least for a whole day.

  One whole day of being with Tori would be enough, he told himself. He wouldn’t ask for more. And, for the first time, he didn’t want to settle for less.

  For a few minutes he felt like he didn’t even breathe. He had no idea how to find her. He’d just have to wait and hope that she returned. With the list of chores that needed tending around the place, he stormed out back to his toolshed. Maybe he could work hard and long enough to forget about the ache in his heart.

  A lifetime of disappointments seemed to settle in his gut. One day. One day with her was all he’d asked for. All the birthdays and Christmases never celebrated didn’t matter. All the lies that things would get better, that something would go his way, that he’d win just once, didn’t matter.

  Yancy put all his wishes in one day that would never happen. He didn’t blame her; he blamed the whole world, from the father he’d never met to the cook at the café taking so long.

  The hours dragged by endlessly. It wasn’t the lack of sleep or the heavy lifting he did cleaning out the rose garden or dragging huge bags of mulch from the shed to the flowerbeds. It was the loss of Rabbit, of Tori. She was never his Rabbit. She was never his, period.

  He didn’t eat all day and barely noticed when several of the residents asked him if he was feeling bad. Yancy told himself he would simply push through the day, survive, like he used to do in prison when no sun shone in his world. Like he did during his childhood when his mother would say things would get better, but they never did.

  It was almost sunset when he walked over to his house, telling himself maybe it would cheer him up to see the work they’d done.

  He hoped she’d come tonight, but she hadn’t taken the time to say goodbye this morning. If she didn’t come, at least he’d feel closer to her at the house where they’d worked together.

  When he opened the workshop door and flipped on the light, he saw a board propped against his toolbox.

  Anything out of place stood out in his shop. Yancy liked everything in order. But when he stared at the piece of scrap wood, he didn’t care if the entire barn burned down, tools and all.

  Written in a painter’s bold script were four words. Missed you. Love, Rabbit.

  Yancy lowered his head against the workbench and let out a breath. He didn’t have all the answers, but she’d said enough to make him believe in hope.

  She hadn’t vanished. She’d be back.

  The door creaked.

  Before Yancy could move, a male voice said, “You all right, son?”

  Yancy turned and smiled at the professor. “Yeah, I’m fine. How can I help you?” If it hadn’t been for the professor, Tori might not have gone into town and wouldn’t have passed his place at all last night.

  Yancy wished he could thank the professor for his part in what had happened. For the best night of his life. “I’m glad to see you’re still here, Dr. Santorno. We haven’t had time to get acquainted.”

  Santorno seemed to be surprised at the greeting. He ventured in another foot. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I wanted to thank your friend for helping me out last night. The little dear may have saved me.”

  “I’ll tell her if I see her,” Yancy said.

  “You know where she lives?” Santorno asked. “I’d like to do something special for her. Maybe take her flowers. Women like that, I’ve heard.”

  Yancy shook his head. Even if he had known where Tori disappeared to, he wouldn’t have told the professor or anyone else.

  The professor sighed. “Too bad. I brought her some of the Franklin sisters’ muffins. If you see her, would you give them to her?”

  “Sure.” The guy was just being nice. Maybe Tori was right and he was just a sweet man, but something about him told Yancy it might be best to keep him more in the stranger category than friend.

  Santorno put down the basket of muffins, but then hesitated.

  Yancy waited. The guy obviously had more to say. Yancy ho
ped it wasn’t a pitch to make another offer for his house.

  “I was wondering, Yancy, if you’d be willing to talk to me about this house you own, the gypsy house. I’ve heard from a few people that it has a colorful past.”

  “I guess I could, but the Franklin sisters know more about the history than I do.” Yancy saw the professor’s shoulders drop. “But if you’re willing to ask while I’m working, I’d be happy to tell you what I know.”

  Yancy was surprised at how pleased the man looked. He even adjusted his dark glasses as if he were about to cry. Maybe this research he was doing was real important to him. If so, Yancy could spare some time.

  “Wonderful. I’ll go get my notepad.”

  The professor was at the door before Yancy thought to add, “But if Tori comes, you have to leave after you thank her. We’ve got work to do tonight.”

  Santorno nodded several times. “I understand. I’ll be thankful for any time you can spare.”

  Yancy smiled down at the message on the board. On impulse, he took a hammer and nail and hung it above the door. Now every time he walked out of the shop he’d see Tori’s note.

  Missed you. Love, Rabbit.

  He’d look up and know that someone loved him.

  “I wish I’d said it first,” he whispered, “because I’ve felt it from that first night.” He reached up and tapped the bottom of the board. “I’ll be waiting, Rabbit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Scarlet Mars rising

  PARKER WALKED ALONG the lane where the oak tree spread its long shadows. She couldn’t help wondering why she was taking a chance with a cowboy at this stage in her life. If she were healthy, if she had years to live, it would be one thing, but Laceys never lived past forty and she was now less than three years away.

  She’d told Tori about the doctor in Dallas. Tori suggested she might be overreacting. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Parker thought. After all, she hadn’t given him time to say much. But Parker knew the signs. She wouldn’t waste her time on false hope like her parents had.

  Parker breathed in the pure air, loving the silence around her. In this place she could hear herself think. She wouldn’t worry about what waited for her in Dallas. For once, she’d run toward life. Toward Clint, no matter how short the time was that they had. She’d make a memory she could hold on to.

  If it didn’t turn out for the better, it was just a fling she might regret, but it wouldn’t matter in the overall canvas of her life. If the time they spent together meant something, then that would be nice for her to remember.

  But what if she left him hurting?

  The memory of Clint Montgomery ten years ago flashed in her mind. He’d been young, barely in his thirties, and still had a wildness about him that said he’d never settled for anything.

  Only that day, he’d been a broken man when he’d sold her the little slice of land next to his place. She remembered he didn’t even seem to see her in the room. His eyes were as dead as coal. He looked like a man bucked off his only dream.

  Would those brown eyes go dead again if she led him into love and disappeared as quickly as she had appeared? The thought of hurting him tore at her heart. No one could kiss like he did and not feel deeply. She’d tasted wild passion in the man, and if she left, he might suffer loss again.

  Parker told herself she was overthinking the whole thing. All he’d offered was a one-night stand. Love probably wasn’t a word Clint knew how to use. She’d made a habit of never using it. Love wasn’t something she’d had time for. Or sex, for that matter. Of course, she liked sex. It just wasn’t worth the emotional tumble she had to take when the skydive into love was over.

  Some people were wired to love someone till-death-do-us-part, but not her. Not Clint. She wasn’t sure he even had enough heart left in him to break.

  Looking up, she saw him at the end of her lane waiting and remembered him saying that he was waiting for her to run to him. Well, she wouldn’t run; she’d never run after a man. When she got in his truck, she’d set the rules this time. She’d let him know just what she wanted out of this affair. An affair. Short. Passionate. And over when she went back to Dallas.

  If there was going to be an affair. The thought of being nude in front of a man who didn’t seem to listen to a word she said wasn’t all that appealing. All she wanted was a memory. If that was all he wanted, then maybe they’d talk. If not, she’d get out of the pickup and forget all about the cowboy.

  When she walked up, his head was down, his elbow out the open window and a book propped on his steering wheel.

  “It’s too dark to read,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. He simply closed the book, climbed out of the truck, held the door open and said, “Get in, Parker.”

  She huffed, starting a new mental list of things that needed to be discussed. No one ordered her to do anything. He needed to start listening to her now and then. Maybe talking to her more. No, wait. Maybe she’d like him better if he just kept quiet.

  Climbing into the cab, she tried to think of where to begin. The man had so many things wrong with him that he’d need a team of specialists to figure him out.

  He folded in beside her and closed the door, then leaned toward her and kissed her on the mouth. From her reaction it might as well have been a slap, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  When he pulled back smiling, he said, “I missed you, pretty lady.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.” She frowned. How could she think of being attracted to a man who had no idea how to read her?

  “I plan to end that problem right now.” He circled the pickup around and headed toward his place. A few minutes later they passed his little brown house and drove toward an old wooden windmill. From there they turned left and went over a rise in the ground so gentle she’d never even noticed it. The brown house disappeared behind the rolling landscape.

  She saw fences and watering troughs and an old tractor that looked like it had got stuck in the mud thirty years ago and no one had bothered to dig it out.

  Parker was beginning to feel as lost as Hansel and Gretel. She wouldn’t have been surprised to pass the gingerbread house with a witch at the door, waving them in.

  Finally, just as full dark settled over the valley, they pulled up to a barn painted the same blue as his pickup.

  “You brought me to see a barn?” she whispered to herself more than him. At this point, she didn’t even want to talk to him. Any man who thought she liked looking at farm animals was so far off the mark she considered him hopeless.

  He jumped out of the pickup and held the door for her. “I brought you to see where I live, Parker.”

  She climbed out. “But you live in that mud-colored house at the turnoff by the main gate. Right?” It was stucco, so close enough to mud, and whoever decorated it twenty years ago must have got all the furniture wholesale because dull brown had gone out of style.

  “No, you thought I lived there. If I hadn’t had to take my horse back to the corral that night, I might not have seen the door open and known you were in the old place. I only stop by there a few times a week to collect my mail and do the ranch office work.”

  He tugged her toward the barn. “Come on. You need to see where I live.”

  She might have dug in her heels in protest, but now she was interested. She’d thought the little dull house was bad. How much worse could his life get? He lived with the pigs and cows?

  He pulled a wide, sliding barn door open. “This is where I store stuff. You know, like a garage? Folks do still have them in Dallas, right?”

  Now he was talking down to her, and she felt like decking him.

  In the dim light she noticed a couple of pickups parked. One was an old piece of junk with the paint all scratched off. The other looked like it was from the forties and in mint condition. Se
veral other cars were lined up, each looking like it was being repainted or restored. Workbenches lined the space between each vehicle, forming individual stalls. Toward the back was a Mustang in good condition and a Jeep that looked new.

  “You restore cars for a living?” She thought of asking if maybe this was one of those chop shops where people steal cars and take them apart to sell, but not even a thief would drag a car all the way out here to take it apart.

  “No. It’s just a hobby. I live upstairs, and I come down here when I can’t sleep.” He took her hand and led her up a long line of stairs made with unfinished wood. The open trapdoor rested against the wall.

  When he reached the top, he flipped a light and the loft came into full view. One huge room with an area for living space, bedroom and kitchen. The walls, which held what looked like framed ranching magazines, were polished oak, and the floor had been stained darker, giving the space a welcoming warmth. All the furniture was fine quality and circled around a fireplace in the middle of the room. A huge desk faced one window to the east that stood ten feet high and almost twice as wide.

  In a way, the space—cozy and welcoming—reminded her of a loft apartment in the warehouse district in New York. The kind a rich artist would kill to have.

  “You want to know me, Parker. This is me. I’m not a rancher or a farmer, though I play around with both.”

  “You’re a writer,” she whispered as she moved along the wall, seeing his name on every cover of the framed magazines.

  “Not exactly. Mostly it’s research I write about. My own research as well as others, some schools like A&M and Tech and companies that work in the ranching industry. They’re usually inventing or improving products and want me to have a look. The business of raising cattle isn’t as simple as it used to be.”