Never Alone (43 Light Street)

by Rebecca York

  Shifting his position again, he manually inspected the tree root. Yeah, that was it. The root must have grown through the side of the well. Lucky for him, because if he hadn’t caught himself on it, he’d have plunged a lot farther.

  Now the question was, how far was he from the top?

  Not far enough to be seriously injured. At least he knew that much.

  He looked upward again. The top of the well must be about level with the ground, which was why he hadn’t seen it. From this vantage point, it looked as if he was about nine or ten feet into this damn thing. Too far to climb up, unless there were other protrusions he could use.

  Running his hands over the wall, he felt nothing useful and cursed. Then he decided there might be a way. What if he wedged his back against one side of the shaft and his feet against the other? Cautiously he shifted his position and found the shaft was narrow enough so that he could brace his back against one side of the tube and his feet against the opposite side.

  Slowly, with difficulty, he began to move upward, the rough surface scraping his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

  After a few minutes, a section of concrete or whatever it was crumbled under the pressure of his heel, and he slipped back a foot. Without sparing the breath to curse, he hung there panting. Then he started inching upward again, his teeth clenched with effort.

  He had managed to move himself about five feet toward the surface when he heard Beth calling his name, her voice high and strained.

  “Cal! Cal! Are you all right? Answer me!” she cried, her voice edging toward the hysterical. Her dog barked in concert with her frantic words.

  A surge of emotion flowed through him—part worry, part anger. Whether with himself or with her he wasn’t sure.

  “Stay back,” he ordered, his voice echoing and re-echoing in the hollow space. “I’m in a damn well. Stay back before you fall in, too.”

  “Oh Lord, are you all right?” she asked again. Then, speaking more sharply to the dog than he’d ever heard her do before, she ordered, “Granger, quiet.”

  The dog stopped barking at once, and Cal answered her question. “I’m more or less okay. I caught hold of a tree root, so I didn’t fall too far. I’m on my way up.”

  She was close enough so that he heard a breath sigh out of her. Then she was leaning over the rim above him, blocking out most of the light so that all he could see was her darkened shape above him.

  “I told you to stay back, dammit.”

  She remained where she was. “I can’t see you.”

  Perhaps because he was embarrassed about his current indecorous position, he growled, “Why didn’t you have the sense to cover this damn thing up? What if one of your sheep fell down here?”

  “Cal, it was covered. It’s supposed to be covered.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what the hell am I doing down here?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered and he could tell from her sudden note of panic that she was telling him the truth. She’d thought this hole in the ground wasn’t a hazard, but it had turned into one.

  He’d give that careful consideration later. The task for the moment was to get himself out. With a grunt he started moving upward again.

  The pressure was killing his back, pulling the muscles, scraping the skin raw, but he kept moving.

  He wanted to ask how she’d happened to come running out here looking for him, but there was no question of sparing the breath, not when he was already panting.

  Above him, he heard Beth breathing almost as hard as he was himself. He thought about telling her she’d be in the way when he reached the top. But he kept his jaw clenched as he inched his way toward freedom.

  The goal was within reach, when a section of the curved surface gave way under his foot, and he felt himself lurching downward again. His fingers clawed at the sides of the well, but there was nothing to stop his fall.

  Chapter Six

  “Cal! Oh, God, Cal!”

  In a frantic lunge, Beth grabbed his arms, her fingers digging through his shirt to his flesh as she yanked him upward. She was almost sobbing, panting hard, but somehow she stopped his downward progress without going headfirst into the well with him. Then she hauled his body over the upper rim.

  He was holding tight to her shoulders as they tumbled together in a heap on the ground under the tree, the performance accompanied by the loud barking of her dog. But the sound blurred in his ears, wiped away by more pressing considerations.

  He was on top. She was on the bottom, and he knew he should heave himself off her. Still, for long moments all he could do was lie there panting after the hazardous climb up the cylinder and the frantic scramble at the end. When he could find the strength to move, he shifted to the side.

  Somewhere in his mind he was thinking that he should loosen his grip on her shoulders. But it had become impossible to break the contact, as though the silken strands of her hair that slid against his fingers were holding him captive.

  She breathed his name, and he raised his face to look at her. Her skin was so white in the moonlight, her eyes so intense, her slightly parted lips so inviting.

  One of her hands lifted, and he thought she intended to push him away because that was sure as hell what she should do. Instead, the hand flattened against his shirt. He felt the pressure of her fingers, felt her stroking his flesh through the thin layer of fabric.

  He wondered if she knew what she was doing, if she knew that the sensation of her fingers touching him like that was setting up a buzz in his mind and in his body.

  Again, he ordered himself to pull away. But those fingers on his chest made him powerless to break the contact. Craving more of her, he gathered her close, simply absorbing the feel of her body against his. She felt good. Too damn good. That was his last coherent thought as he slanted his mouth over hers.

  She tasted of homemade sweetness and innocence and the richness of the night. One draft of that potent combination was not enough. Not nearly enough. On a surge of need, he increased the pressure of his lips on hers, urging her to open for him.

  There was a moment of resistance. Then she gave him what he wanted, so naturally and generously that he felt his heart melt.

  When she murmured something incoherent, he deepened the kiss as needs he never knew he possessed welled inside him.

  Warmth flowed through his body. Rocking against her, he devoured her mouth, using his tongue, his lips, his teeth in an assault that should have gotten him arrested.

  He was aware of so many sensations, all of them swimming in his head. The silky feel of her hair as he plunged his fingers into the golden strands. The insistent pressure of his lips on hers. The sweet taste of her. The feel of her breasts pressed to his chest. His legs, one wedged between hers, one to the side so that his erection was pressed to her thigh. The faint surprised sound that she made as his mouth moved over hers.

  “Darlin’, you’re so beautiful. So sweet,” he murmured against her mouth.

  She didn’t answer him in words, only cleaved to him, her hands restless as they moved over his back and shoulders.

  For long moments, nothing existed in the universe besides the two of them giving and taking pleasure in the other. Every reaction, every nuance ricocheted through him, each sensation reinforced the others until his senses were swamped.

  Then from somewhere outside the protective bubble that surrounded them, the barking of a dog filtered into his consciousness. A large dog. Very near his ear.

  He lifted his head and found himself staring into Granger’s liquid eyes.

  A startled exclamation tumbled from his lips. Sitting up, he looked around, aware for the first time in minutes that he’d been lying in the middle of a sheep field with a woman he had no business holding in his arms.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The apology sounded lame to his own ears. And the confused, stunned look in her eyes made his chest tighten with unfamiliar pain.

  He was feeling just as confused as she looked. Because i
t was damn difficult to think when his insides were tied in knots. It wasn’t simply from lust—although that was a big part of it. But tangled with the lust were feelings he dared not articulate.

  Standing, Cal dusted off his pants, thinking that they should go straight into the washing machine when he got back to the house. That is, if she planned to let him back in the house after his demonstration of extreme unprofessional behavior.

  “We can’t stay out here,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” she answered in a voice so low he could barely hear her.

  He started to offer his hand to help her up. Then he pulled it back, not knowing if she would welcome the contact.

  As she got awkwardly to her feet, he turned slightly away, so that he was momentarily startled as she walked past him, heading at a rapid pace for the house, the dog trotting ahead.

  He caught up with her, limping because one foot felt as if he’d caught it under a bulldozer.

  She didn’t look at him, only kept walking, speeding up so that she was practically running as they neared the house.

  He might have reached for her shoulder. Instead, he kept his hands to himself—something he should have thought about in the first place.

  “You said there was a cover on that well,” he said in a voice that came out more sharply than he intended.

  “Yes. My dad had it covered a long time ago, after we dug a new one. That tree’s grown up since we used it last.”

  “And the sheep couldn’t have pushed the cover off? Or Granger?”

  “Of course not. It’s concrete.”

  “Then how did it turn into a death trap?”

  “I don’t know!”

  He wanted to ask more questions, but not out here, not when somebody could be listening.

  She charged through the front door, then barreled down the hall to her workroom.

  He started to follow, then hesitated, realizing she was right. What they both needed was some time to cool off, literally and figuratively. But that didn’t mean they could skip the discussion period.

  If the sheep or the dog hadn’t moved the cover from the well, then some person had done it. The murderer?

  That didn’t seem to fit the pattern. But if not the murderer, who, then? Someone else who was out to get her? The same person who had set the fire in her field and poisoned some of her sheep? The guy parked at the end of her driveway?

  The thought of someone stalking her sent a shiver through his body. He was suddenly very glad that he was staying here, that he could protect her.

  He stayed downstairs for several more minutes, waiting to see if she would reappear. He still wanted to ask her more questions, but he wasn’t willing to follow her down the hall, because he didn’t blame her for being shy of him now.

  Finally, he decided that if she wasn’t coming out of hiding anytime soon, he should go ahead and get cleaned up.

  Back in the guest room, he opened his suitcase and took out fresh jeans and another T-shirt. As he looked over the other items in the bag, he realized he’d made a strategic mistake. He didn’t own pajamas, but somewhere in the back of his closet was a bathrobe he should have brought. Now he was going to have to undress and dress again in the bathroom.

  Actually, the bathrobe was pretty ratty, he decided as he carried a change of clothing and his Dopp bag down the hall. Tomorrow he’d buy a new one at the Columbia Mall. Too bad he couldn’t deduct it as a business expense.

  After using the facilities, he turned on the shower, and pulled off his shirt. The back of it was shredded from the contact with the rough wall of the well. After tossing the shirt in the trash, he stepped under the hot water. The showerhead was leaking slightly, running down the tile wall and making a streak. He’d fix it for her tomorrow, he thought as he washed his hair, then lathered his body.

  When he turned so that the water hit his back, he winced, fingering the skin. It must be cut up as badly as the shirt.

  To take his mind off the pain, he brought his thoughts back to the well—and the moments before he’d plunged in. He’d heard the sheep bleating, and he’d started off in that direction. Did that mean someone had been out there in the darkness, luring him toward the gaping hole in the ground?

  There was no way to answer the question. Not tonight. Not in the dark.

  Finished with his shower, he shut off the water, stepped dripping wet onto the bath mat, and was hit by an unexpected draft of air much cooler than the steamy bathroom.

  His head swung toward the hall, and he saw the dog standing in the doorway, his dark brown eyes inquiring what Cal was still doing in the house.

  Damn, either the lock on the door didn’t work properly or the dog had learned how to turn knobs with his teeth.

  “Go on,” he scolded. “Get out of here and let me close the door.”

  Granger didn’t move. And it was then that he heard footsteps. Lord, Beth had picked this moment to come upstairs. And he was standing here naked as the day he was born.

  “Granger, get the hell out of here,” he ordered, but the dog still didn’t move. The towel rack was on the other side of the room, next to the sink. Making a quick decision, Cal lunged for it, wrapping the towel around his waist a split second before Beth’s head appeared at the top of the steps. Her hair was wet and hanging down her back, and she was wearing a woven robe. So she must have had the same idea as he and had gotten cleaned up in the downstairs shower.

  Her eyes shot to the bathroom door, to the back end of her dog protruding into the hall, then traveled beyond the dog to focus on Cal as his face heated and he fumbled to secure the towel around his middle.

  BETH STOPPED where she was, her feet frozen to the stair treads. She should look somewhere else, she knew. But she was unable to drag her eyes away from the sight facing her. From where she stood on the steps, she was at eye level with the towel that Cal was trying to fasten around his waist. A pink towel.

  Totally inappropriate. How could she have given him something so feminine, she thought as she watched his large, masculine hands fumble with the ends of the terry cloth, heard him curse as the covering started to slip.

  As he worked at making himself decent, he pulled the fabric tight across his crotch, accentuating the outline of his prominent sex.

  Again she ordered herself to look away. Dragging her eyes upward, she was treated to the sight of very masculine and very naked flesh—the flat plane of his belly, then the broad expanse of his chest. It was smooth and hard, except where dark hair spread out in a seductive pattern around his nipples and across his breastbone, then angled downward toward the pink towel. Again she pulled her gaze up, focusing on the brown nipples and the dark hair glistening with water from the shower.

  She felt her stomach muscles clench in reaction, felt a wave of heat that was as potent as when they’d been rolling around on the ground beside the well.

  He finally secured the covering, looking at her with an expression that was equal parts embarrassment and exasperation.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

  Then, as if that would hide his nakedness, he turned, and she gasped. “Cal, your back.”

  “What about it?”

  “It looks like you’ve been horsewhipped!”

  “Yeah. It feels pretty raw,” he allowed in a low voice, as though he was embarrassed to be admitting to pain or weakness.

  It flashed through her mind that perhaps his brain was so saturated with testosterone that the cells couldn’t function properly.

  “You need something on it. I’ve got some antibiotic ointment.”

  “Where’s the tube?” he said, still with his back to her.

  “In the medicine cabinet. But you can’t do it yourself. Not on your back,” she found herself saying. “You can’t reach. I’ll have to put the salve on.”

  She heard him sigh, watched his shoulders heave. “Maybe. But let me get my pants on first.”

  “Yes. Right.” Realizing she hadn’t been thinking through the i
mplications of her offer, she practically ran the rest of the way up the steps, scurried down the hall and slid into her room, closing the door behind her and standing in the middle of the braided rug, her breath jagged.

  She’d taken a shower downstairs to keep out of his way. But the strategy hadn’t exactly worked out the way she’d planned, and now she’d committed herself to taking care of his naked back. Why hadn’t she simply kept her mouth shut?

  Because the sight of his raw, brutalized flesh had made her insides clench.

  Quickly she took off her robe, pulled on underwear, a shirt, jeans.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when a knock sounded on the door. With a little exclamation, she whirled around. Her pulse had been pounding so hard in her ears that she hadn’t heard Cal’s footsteps in the hall. But here he was right outside her door.

  “Beth, are you dressed?”

  “Yes.” Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door. He was wearing only jeans. His chest was bare, as were his feet, like hers.

  Unable to meet his eyes, she focused somewhere over his left shoulder, at a crack in the wall across from her room.

  “I should have locked the bathroom door,” he said. “I keep making unfortunate mistakes.”

  Like kissing her? Involuntarily she ran a hand through her wet hair, thinking she probably looked as if she’d just emerged from the pond in the west field. “The door doesn’t lock. I forgot about that because I’m usually here alone.”

  “I’ll fix it for you tomorrow. And the showerhead.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Since I’m living here, there are things I can take care of for you.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said again, aware that she was repeating herself.

  She had forgotten why he was standing in her doorway until he held up his hand, and she saw the orange and white tube of ointment. His shirt was in his other hand.

  “Maybe I’d better do this myself.”

  “You’ll miss half the raw places.”