Not until she reached the foot of the stairs did she realize that he hadn’t come back alone. Clancy was with him, still wearing the same blue denim dungarees he’d worn all day. They stood in the doorway to the living room, waiting for her. Was she going to have to scold them into changing for dinner?
Stepping forward with a smile, she said, “You’re back early.”
“The roads are open again,” Clancy said, an odd reply even without the accompanying grimness of tone.
Her heart stumbled a warning which she ignored. “So?”
“There’s nothing to keep you here,” he said.
Her heart tripped again, an ominous, unsettling occurrence that left her feeling slightly sick. “Are you...am I being...?”
She left the questions dangling and shook her head at the foolish notion that she was being quite literally kicked out of the house on Christmas night. “Morgan?”
He met her gaze unflinchingly and there was nothing in his eyes—no desire, no passion, no shame. “It’s time you were on your way,” he said, confirming fears that should have been outlandish but which were, suddenly, all too real. “Get your things and I’ll drive you to Sentinel Pass.”
“Wait a minute!” she cried. “How do you know the road’s open again and what’s the sudden rush to be rid of me?”
“We got a phone call, woman,” Clancy declared. “And, like Morgan said, it’s time you got on the road again before the next storm hits.”
“Wouldn’t you at least like me to serve dinner first?” she pleaded, and cringed inwardly that she should degrade herself like that. Where was her pride, her selfrespect?
“We can serve ourselves,” Morgan said bleakly. “Please, Jessica, it’s best not to prolong this.”
Prolong what? They had been happy together as recently as two hours ago. He had hinted that they might have a future together. What had happened to change things so dramatically?
She looked again from his face to Clancy’s and saw the same stubborn determination stamped on the old man’s features. “You’ve done this, haven’t you?” she whispered. “You’ve talked him out of—”
“Clancy has nothing to do with this,” Morgan said. “It’s a simple matter of making the most of improved conditions while they last. I know how anxious you are to see your sister.”
The dismissal was unmistakable, echoing in his voice, reflecting bleakly in his eyes. Had she been deluding herself to think he’d ever shown her a hint of tenderness? Had those unsmiling lips ever softened against hers in a kiss?
“Oh, Lord!” she mumbled, feeling her mouth begin to tremble and seeing Morgan’s image blur as her eyes filled with tears. It was the same old story she’d tried to write a hundred times, one in which she insinuated herself into a home, a family. As if baking a few tarts or mopping a floor were enough to earn a place in anyone’s heart, least of all a man like Morgan Kincaid who must have women taking a number and lining up to keep him company!
“Bring the truck round to the front while I go get her things, Clancy,” she heard him say as she strove to deal with the thudding lurch of her heart as it raced to absorb the blow it had been dealt.
He moved out of her line of vision and left her staring at the teary sparkle of lights on the tree that she’d so lovingly dressed in its best for this special time of year.
She should have chosen the artificial tree with its chichi decor, she thought bitterly. It might have reminded her that nothing about this Christmas was permanent or real.
Soon—too soon—he came back down the stairs with her suitcase and bag. He opened the front door and Clancy was there, waiting to relieve him of his load. Turning back, Morgan took her coat, the mohair coat he’d dismissed so cuttingly as being no more appropriate than a party dress at a funeral, and held it out for her.
Numbly, she slid her arms into the sleeves, then stood there like a child while he did up the buttons. When he’d finished, he indicated her west coast city boots that had also earned his scorn. “Put them on,” he said, and obediently she stepped into them.
“Good.” He blew out a breath of relief. “Let’s go.”
“No,” she said, emerging from the almost hypnotic trance that had taken hold. “Not until you make me understand.”
“Not here,” he insisted. “We’ll have time to talk in the truck.”
But the time passed too quickly, he saw to that, taking the road at such reckless speed that, if she’d cared a scrap about living to see another day, she’d have thought he was trying to kill them both.
“We’ve imposed on your good nature long enough,” he dared to say, at one point.
“That’s certainly a unique way to describe what we’ve shared,” she replied, growing anger reviving some of her fire.
His profile, illuminated by the dim green glow from the dashboard, gave nothing away. “What would you like me to call it, Jessica?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She waved a deliberately languid hand but her voice was edged with pure steel. “A wild, explosive attraction based on nothing but proximity, perhaps? Sexual favors in return for domestic service?”
That elicited a response! He swore, spitting out a socially unacceptable four-letter word that crudely described what she’d have called making love until he’d relieved her of any such illusion.
“Yes,” she said, Miss Simms the headmistress resurrecting herself too late to reverse the damage he’d done, “I dare say that’s how you would describe it. You must forgive me for not having had the good sense to recognize that sooner.”
Enraged, he slammed his gloved hands against the steering wheel. “Goddammit, Jessica, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Really? You could have fooled me—did, in fact.” The last words wobbled embarrassingly. Biting the inside of her cheek, she steeled herself not to break down in front of him. “But that’s all right, Morgan. I’ve been made a fool of before by better men than you.”
“Stuart, you mean?” He ground out the question with barely restrained fury. “Hell, Jessica, I don’t deserve that.”
Ahead, a sprinkling of lights showed in the dark. Subduing the urge to let him know exactly what she thought he did deserve, she said coolly, “Are we almost there?”
“Yes.” He swung around a curve that ran parallel to a frozen river winding along the valley floor. “We’ll be at Stedman’s service station in about five minutes.”
Time had never flown so fast. The seconds slipped away from her like her life’s blood and there was nothing she could think of to halt their progress, nothing she could say to change his mind. All she could do was try to find an answer. “Why did you ever let me into your life, Morgan?”
“Because when I first started...working, a man murdered a young woman while she was on her way home from seeing a movie with her girlfriend,” he said as the first buildings appeared. “She’d walked the last few blocks alone and was killed almost within sight of the house she lived in when it happened.”
Ignoring Jessica’s murmur of sympathy, he continued, “She was nineteen, the same age as my sister at the time, and the tragedy of it struck home to me in a way I’ll never forget. I vowed then that I’d never knowingly let the same thing happen to another woman if I could possibly prevent it.”
“So you rescued me for my own good,” Jessica said bitterly. “Was that why you made love to me, too?”
He sighed heavily. “No, Jessica. But I thought I knew myself well enough not to contemplate the idea of remarrying. I’ve never had reason to re-evaluate that decision until the last few days.”
Was she supposed to feel better, knowing he’d had to think twice before rejecting her? Don’t hand me placebos, she wanted to shriek. I don’t want to be your almost-ran!
“I quite understand,” she said stonily. “I, too, decided commitment to one individual is a poor investment and made my work my life. And although I am fond of my students I always hold something back.” She paused, struggling to contain the pain that howled within her,
then uttered the last lie she’d ever tell him. “I never give everything to anyone, any more.”
The flashing lights in the window of the service station flung red and yellow ribbons out into the road. Steering between the high-banked snow left by the plows, Morgan swung into the parking lot and brought the truck to a halt.
Leaving the engine idling, he turned in his seat to face her. “I guess we both made the right decision, then.”
She looked at him feature by feature, committing him to memory and wondering how long it would be before the image blurred enough around the edges for her to forget how blue his eyes were, how thick and dark his lashes, how sexy his mouth. How many nights would she awake from dreaming of him and find herself weeping for the loss?
“I guess we did,” she said.
He swung open his driver’s-side door. “I’ll give you a hand with your suitcase.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t bother. We’ll just say goodbye here and get it over with.”
“You’re right.” He pulled off his glove.
Oh, please! she thought. Don’t ask me to shake hands and part friends!
He touched her face. He leaned forward. “Goodbye, Jessica,” he said huskily, and kissed her lightly not quite on the mouth.
CHAPTER TEN
JESSICA stood in the bitterly cold parking lot, watching Morgan drive away. As his brake lights disappeared around the bend, a spasm of grief clutched her, for the love she had briefly known, for the beauty he had brought into her life.
Swallowing to relieve the ache in her throat, she gave herself a mental shake. Enough! It was over. The real world waited—her world of dependable older sister, of conscientious headmistress. Sober, practical roles for which she was so eminently well suited.
Picking up her bags, she turned toward the service station. Inside, the air was thick and stale with tobacco smoke. On the counter next to the cash register stood a tiny lopsided tree, its spindly branches looped with a dusty foil garland. On the wall behind hung an assortment of flashlight batteries, fishing lures, windshield scrapers and other sundry items. Tire chains and sacks of road salt were stacked to one side on the floor.
A horseshoe-shaped lunch counter filled the other half of the room. Three hefty men, truckers probably, judging by the semis she’d noticed parked outside, straddled stools closest to a serving hatch and joked with the middle-aged waitress busy wiping the tops of plastic ketchup bottles with a damp rag. At the other end, a slender man hunched over a bowl of soup.
From a television set mounted on the wall, a well-known singer hosted her annual Christmas show amid a glitter of sequins and special effects. The orchestra played “Let It Snow”.
The truckers spared Jessica a cursory glance. The lone man ignored her, his attention split between his soup and the TV show.
“Ma’am?” A young mechanic in blue overalls appeared from a side door. “You looking for a fill-up of gas?”
“I’m looking for my car,” Jessica told him. “It was towed in three days ago for repairs and I believe it’s ready for me now.”
“Heck, yes, the maroon Taurus. Mr. Kincaid’s man phoned not half an hour ago to make sure it would be ready for you when you got here. We’re still working on it, but it shouldn’t be too much longer.” He wiped greasy hands on a rag and shrugged apologetically. “Things are a bit backed up with all the weather we’ve been getting. Have a seat while you’re waiting, why don’t you?”
She nodded, too dispirited to argue. Morgan’s anxiety to be rid of her, even though it meant her waiting around in this godforsaken outpost of civilization, added fresh insult to injury.
“Hey, Linda!” the young man yelled to the waitress. “Get the lady here a cup of coffee.” He glanced again at Jessica. “You hungry, ma’am? Marty, the cook, makes a mean hot turkey sandwich.”
The mere thought sent her stomach into revolt. “No, thanks. Just coffee will be fine.”
Climbing onto a stool equidistant from the other customers, she propped her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her hand.
“You goin’ far, miss?” Linda, the waitress, plunked a thick mug down in front of her and filled it with coffee from the Thermos jug.
“Whistling Valley ski resort.”
Linda pursed disapproving lips. “Rotten night to be driving. You take care, you hear? You’d’ve been better off to wait up at Mr. Kincaid’s place till conditions improved. Road’s only been open a couple of hours and littered with more abandoned cars than a scrap yard.” She jerked her head toward the truckers. “The boys here say tryin’ to get past them all is worse than running a slalom course down a foggy mountain.”
“Maybe I’ll check into a motel.” Jessica poured cream into her coffee.
“Ain’t no motel before Wintercreek and that’s another eighty miles down the highway. You get that far, you might as well go the rest of the way and be done with it.” The waitress hitched her bosom onto the counter and leaned forward confidentially. “You sure you wouldn’t rather go back to the Kincaid ranch? Morgan ain’t the type to turn a person away on Christmas night, ’specially not a woman traveling on her own.”
“My sister’s been hospitalized in Whistling Valley and I’m anxious to see her.”
“Better to wait till it’s light out, just the same. Ain’t no point in both of you ending up in hospital.”
“Mr. Kincaid didn’t seem to think I’d have any trouble getting through,” Jessica said, wondering why she was even bothering to argue the point. “In any case, I’m not sure I could find my way back to the ranch in the dark.”
“Ain’t no problem, honey.” The waitress licked the point of a stubby pencil, tore a sheet from her order pad and proceeded to draw a map. “You’re here, see? You just follow the road east till you come to the bridge, then, about a hundred yards past, there’s a bit of a rise....”
She droned on good-naturedly. Too weary and heartsick to stop her, Jessica feigned interest and prayed for deliverance. Drumming up a smile of thanks when the discourse finally ended, she placed the completed map next to her coffee cup and heaved a quiet sigh of relief when the waitress turned her attention to serving the truckers slabs of apple pie.
“I’m headed west on the highway and can show you the way, if you like.”
Startled, Jessica swiveled on her stool and realized the man from the far end of the counter had moved and was now standing close behind her.
His jacket collar was drawn up close around his neck and he wore a black wool hat pulled so far down that it almost touched the rims of his heavily tinted glasses. He was well-spoken and looked harmless enough—at least, from what she could see of him—but she’d had enough of accepting kindness from strangers. “Thank you, but I really do have to get to Whistling Valley.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, a tight smile thinning his narrow lips, and moved away again.
Just then the mechanic reappeared and came to perch on the stool next to Jessica’s. “All set, ma’am. Car’ll be brought around the front in about five minutes and filled up so you can be on your way.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, she finished her coffee. “How much do I owe?”
“Not a thing. Coffee’s on the house and Mr. Kincaid’s taken care of everything else.”
Not quite everything, she thought. You couldn’t put a price on a crushed heart.
“Hey, Linda!” One of the truckers banged a meaty fist on the counter. “Switch the TV to the news channel, will ya, and let’s see what the weatherman’s promising for tomorrow? Wouldn’t mind getting home before the kids forget what I gave them for Christmas.”
“I just need a signature here, ma’am.” The mechanic pushed forward a work order and indicated the place. “To say you got your vehicle back with the repairs done to your satisfaction, you understand?”
Jessica scribbled her name, aware of a blast of icy air snaking around her ankles as the outside door opened behind her.
“Might as well stay put where it’s warm
, honey,” the waitress advised, seeing Jessica preparing to leave. “Five minutes, Charlie said, and there ain’t no sense hangin’ around outside freezin’ your butt off all that time.” She hefted the coffee Thermos across the counter. “Have another on the house while you wait.”
Sweet heaven, Jessica thought wearily, was she never going to sever the ties binding her to Morgan Kincaid’s world?
“...conditions expected to hold another day, allowing Christmas travelers delayed by the weather to finally reach their destinations.”
Half-heartedly, Jessica turned her attention to the TV newsman, sprig of holly in his lapel, his jovial tone deepening to assume a more somber note as he continued, “On a different front, escaped prison inmate Gabriel Parrish, believed to be headed west in what police are calling a personal vendetta against the man who put him behind bars for the murder of twenty-one-year-old Sally Blackman almost ten years ago, was reportedly seen in the Rosemont area.”
The picture on the screen changed to reveal a head shot of the fugitive. Short, greying hair, deep-set, intense dark eyes, and something about the cast of the pinched, unsmiling mouth that struck a strangely familiar chord. Where had she seen it before?
Frowning, she turned her attention to the newscast again.
“...leaving behind a clear trail of evidence. A family planning to spend the holidays in their ski cabin arrived to discover the place broken into and several items missing, including men’s clothing, a hand gun, and a small amount of cash,” the announcer said. “Their neighbor also reported a stolen snowmobile, since recovered close to Sentinel Pass, a truck stop not far from where crown prosecutor Morgan Kincaid, the man who brought Parrish to justice, owns recreational property. Parrish is considered armed and dangerous—”
Morgan Kincaid, crown prosecutor...the man who brought a convicted killer to justice? Why had he let her believe he was a simple rancher? And what other lies had he told her?
Christmas With A Stranger_Forbidden Page 15