by Cait London
Fine. Roman Blaylock’s rugged face and build, his soulful dark eyes, would make any woman take a second look. His skin had a tanned healthy and weathered sheen that made a woman want to stroke those hard cheeks, that unrelenting jaw, and soften that grim mouth with her own—Then there was that arrogance that just made her want to take him down and make him pay. But the nice packaging wasn’t the man, and Debbie had clearly been frightened of her husband.
Kallista picked the door lock and stepped into the shadows of Roman’s deserted, dark house. A modern ranch home, built of rock and logs and surrounded by pines, the house settled into the slope of the Rocky Mountains as if it had always been there. After testing the dead light switch, Kallista panned her flashlight across the living room’s rough timber paneling, noting the lighter squares where once pictures had hung. The house was cold, shadowy and empty. The huge rock fireplace spanned one side of the room and a rumpled sleeping bag lay in front of it. An antique walnut church pew stood in the center of the living room, like a huge dark monument, marking the absence of a woman’s touch. Three of the bedrooms were empty; a fourth, a small one, was decorated in frills and flowers with Alice in Wonderland figures hanging from the ceiling. The tiny room was packed with antique furniture, piled haphazardly. A box of framed pictures sat on a tiny tea table, and a collection of arrowheads, Native American beads and hunting knives were stuffed into another box. Only the child and the man were noted in this room; Debbie had not taken remembrances of either with her into her new marriage.
Debbie. Petite, blond, blue-eyed—a dreamer, an intellectual and an innocent. Debbie would always need protection, unable to fight her own battles. Four years ago, pitted against Roman’s dark predator intensity, Debbie had paled.
Kallista had a lifetime of fighting to survive behind her; no one had protected her—except Boone. She ran her hand over a large scarred rocking chair, and cobwebs clung to her hands like shredded memories. She shut the door, remembering the daughter that Roman had lost; from Hannah, Kallista knew that he grieved—or did he? Was his grief a call for sympathy so as to shield his takeover of The Llewlyn?
She entered a large office, lined with filled bookshelves, and could sense Roman’s dark presence. Layered with dust, the rifle case was empty, the modern desk aclutter. The pantry was empty, the laundry room stripped. The kitchen was bare except for a half-full bottle of whiskey, a scattered array of photographs, some of them rumpled as though crushed in a furious fist. Kallista smoothed a photograph of Roman holding a baby in his arms, a tender smile on his tanned, rugged face. The other pictures were portraits of Roman as a loving father and Debbie the “little woman,” standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. A clutter of unopened mail lay on a card table. The house had been stripped, the windows without drapes. Kallista shivered; the house was a cold tomb.
She stooped to collect a crumpled ball of paper, smoothing it open on the counter and scanning it with her flashlight. Debbie’s faded big loopy writing spread across the page.
“I’m marrying Thomas and taking everything. We’ll need the start. I paid for it by living with you for thirteen years and by putting up with the Blaylock family. Though I appreciated you marrying me when I was pregnant with John’s baby, I want a man I can share my dreams with and my mind, and my bed. With Thomas, I won’t want separate bedrooms.”
Kallista remembered how four years ago, in the dreadful scene at the shop, Debbie had called out Thomas’s name. Later, she’d introduced him as a “friend” and a professor of literature, though their gazes had shared emotions more than “friendly.” Frowning, Kallista read on.
“He would have never come after me like you did at the Bisque Café. He lets me make my own choices and I like taking care of him. I am expecting his child. I won’t be back. Do not fight the divorce, or I’ll tell your family that the marriage was all a sham. That you married me to protect me from gossip and that I couldn’t bear to have you touch me all these years. Debbie.”
In contrast to the shattering note, but in keeping with her light-brain personality, Debbie had drawn a smiley face. She also dotted her name’s i with a circle. The P.S. was hurriedly scrawled, an afterthought.
“Thank you for being a good father to John’s daughter. Michaela’s birth hurt too much for me to really love her. I took the mortgage payment.”
From Hannah, Kallista had learned that Roman’s three-year-old daughter had drowned in a shallow plastic swimming pool, a freak accident. Roman had been in the fields, working on the tractor, and had returned to find his daughter drowned. Debbie had said she’d just run into the house for a moment to answer the telephone. He’d been griefstricken for years, and Debbie, a fragile woman, had proclaimed to everyone that she was a good mother. Soon after the child’s death, Debbie had set about making a new life to please herself.
Kallista folded the note and let it flutter into a trash basket. A fat envelope caught her attention, and she scooped it from the trash. Four years ago, the day that Roman had swept angrily into the shop, the checking and savings accounts in the name of Roman and Debbie Blaylock had been emptied. Debbie’s handwriting was on both withdrawals, which left a balance of ten dollars. When pieced together, a torn overdue payment on Roman Blaylock’s mortgage revealed the bank’s foreclosure notice.
Though it was not the present, four years ago, Debbie’s shrill voice cut into the shadows around Kallista. “I told you I didn’t make the last payment because I needed the money for something else. No, I will not replace our savings, not even enough for the payments due. Sell a tractor or a cow, or something—”
Roman had suffered, but he had probably taken other women to his bed for comfort. He was certainly knowledgeable about how to touch lightly, gently, just a stroke of his fingertip to arouse... He’d showered and the scent of soap and man clung to him, his hands rough with work, strong, capable. The heat in his eyes could cause a righteous woman to melt and tremble.
Kallista wasn’t righteous; she was a survivor who knew that with soft looks usually came conditions and payments. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out into the gray predawn light to the knoll where Boone lay. Roman couldn’t be trusted and he had his big fists locked on Boone’s beloved estate. Cattle were milling in the pastures, sheep spread across the small knoll like a soft, creamy cloud, a dog barked, and Boone—the only man Kallista had trusted other than Channing Boudreaux—was dead.
She shivered, the empty house adding to the vacuum of her life. The impression of Roman’s hard tall body on top of hers sent a hot flush through her cheeks and another shiver through her body. He’d been aroused—and so warm, his shoulders sleek and wide, rippling with power. His chest had pressed against her breasts and his heart had raced, a pulse throbbing in his throat. That pulse had become an earthquake from his stomach down to his hips, his thighs heavy, taut, upon hers. Her heart had ricocheted the pounding beat of his and for just an instant as time stood still, a flood of desire wiped away her dislike of Roman. The denim of their jeans had not insulated the heat pouring from him—or was it her?
He knew how to look at a woman, to make her respond. More than likely, Roman hadn’t missed Debbie’s wifely affection. He was probably used to women coming to his bed on a regular basis. Boone’s bed. Kallista scrubbed her face with shaking hands. She’d come back for Boone, to make certain that his beloved treasures and his land were not sacked.
A key rattled in the door and Roman stepped into the shadows, followed by two leggy, thin dogs that moved quickly into the shadows. He lifted his black brows and tipped his Western hat on the back of his head. In the shadows, he looked like his Apache and Spanish ancestors—terrifyingly masculine, dominating, arrogant, an angular blend of sheer power. “Ma’am. You’ve had a busy night.”
Her head went back, ready to fight; she’d seen through those famous Blaylock ladykiller manners. The Blaylock men were known to be courteous and respectful of women—if they weren’t, their mother had applied a wooden spoon. “I can see why you
wanted to move into Boone’s house.”
“It’s...convenient” He nodded slowly, watching her, and tossed his hat to the kitchen counter. Dressed in jeans, a work shirt and a battered flannel jacket, Roman’s shaggy black hair was rumpled, as though he’d been dragging his hands through it He glanced at the shadowy rooms and inhaled unevenly.
Kallista leaned against the kitchen counter and studied him. If he had weaknesses, this man of stone, she’d find them. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small apple and bottled water. She wiped the apple on her jeans and took a bite, studying him. After a sip of water, she asked, “You’re uncomfortable here. Why? It was your home, wasn’t it?”
“I built it for my wife. I thought it would make her happy.” The words were solemn, the promise of a man who took his marriage vows seriously. According to Jasmine gossip, Blaylock men held their marriages and their wives sacred. Boone had said that Blaylock men got moldy when they weren’t stirred up, and she intended to do a little stirring.
“Rumor has it that Debbie remarried quickly,” she pushed. She wondered just how much control Roman Blaylock possessed when tested.
“She did that. I wish her well.” Roman spoke too quietly.
Finished with her apple, Kallista pulled out a chocolate bar and peeled away the paper. Habit caused her to lick the chocolate tip before biting; she sensed Roman tensing and she cut right to his wound, sparing him nothing. “Come on, don’t hand me that. You were married for thirteen years. She was your childhood sweetheart. A professor of literature took her away from you. That had to hurt your pride.”
“You want it all, don’t you? To place all the pieces in a neat little picture? Well, lady, maybe the pieces don’t fit, no matter how hard you dig.” There was that dangerous edge, the lifted hackles, a warning of a private man as Roman ripped off his gloves and jammed them into his jeans’ back pocket. He crossed his arms, looking down at her, waiting.
Too bad. She wanted to know about Roman, to prove him unfit to be Boone’s executor. She munched on the chocolate bar, taking her time to nettle him. She retrieved a chip of chocolate with her tongue. “This house has been stripped.”
There was that quick intake of breath as though pain had sliced through Roman Blaylock’s big, lean, muscled body. “Debbie took what she wanted.”
The dogs moved restlessly; perhaps they sensed the prick of taut nerves, the clash of emotional steel...
“She left your daughter’s things and yours, the antique furniture.” By reading Debbie’s note, Kallista had insight into Roman’s life, one that the extensive Blaylock family had not known. She tossed her chocolate wrapper into the trash, covering Debbie’s note.
“Do you live out of that bag? What else do you have in there?”
“I travel light. I have what I need.”
Roman ran his hand through his hair and looked out into the predawn light. “Debbie had her own taste. My sister, Else, brought my share of my parents’ things here after Debbie left.” He scanned the house. “There was plenty of room. When Debbie...left, the bank came calling, I almost lost everything. Boone saw that I didn’t. I’m paying him back.”
“I’ll just bet. Several of his collections are gone. The miniature animals, his scrimshaw collection. How much did they bring when you sold them? Don’t tell me they’re in storage. I wouldn’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. Marsha Gerald took care of his nursing needs and he wanted her to have the miniature animals. And Boone wanted Slim Woodard to have the scrimshaw things to remember him.” The words were said without anger or frustration, just a simple statement of fact.
“I’ll just check with them to see if you’re telling the truth.”
Her threat met a mild smile. “You just do that, ma’am.”
Kallista thought of the lovely old rocking chair, handed down from years ago, the massive plain walnut bed meant to last for centuries. The rocker was meant to hold mothers and babies, the creaking blending with lullabies. With a few cushions, the walnut church pew could be... She braced herself against thinking about Roman’s home and found herself studying the loneliness in his expression. “I’m going to take you down, you know.”
He turned slowly to her. “You’re going to try. I made promises to Boone, and I intend to keep them. If you decide to stay, you can stay here.”
Kallista smiled coolly. “Why, thank you, Roman. That is very nice of you. But I’d much rather stay at Boone’s.”
Roman’s black eyebrows lifted and he reached for his hat. “Fine with me.”
“I’ll be staying and I can watch Boone’s house. I have a little inventory I’d like to complete.” She tilted her head and fed him the challenge as she took a small notebook from her bag and checked the items she had noted remaining at Boone’s. “You could move back here and let me have the house.”
She handed him the notebook, which he scanned. Roman smiled slowly, white teeth gleaming in the darkness above her as he stuffed it back into her bag. His finger traced the strand of hair that crossed her shoulder and he tugged lightly. The lines around his eyes deepened with amusement, his black eyes warm upon her. “Now living apart wouldn’t be any fun, would it? That’s what you’re into, isn’t it? Fun? A thirty-four-year-old woman leading a footloose, carefree life. Working as a dancer, a hotel manager, a conference planner, and now a troubleshooter for Boudreaux, Inc.? No ties, no family, just plenty of road and sky and water.”
He made her roving life seem shallow, without love or roots to anyone, and Kallista tilted her head warningly. “I’ve been around. I make my own way and don’t owe anyone. Except Boone. There hasn’t been reason to stop.”
“Uh-huh.” Roman gently slapped his thigh and from the shadows two streamlined greyhounds came to his side. He rubbed their smooth heads. The dogs were old, missing teeth, their pelts scarred by beatings. “Boone took in racing dogs who weren’t wanted. Meet Igor and Luka.”
Boone had been legendary for his quiet moods and his kind heart. “I remember them. They’re shivering.”
Roman crouched to rub the dogs briskly, warming them. “They should be wearing their coats—little knitted sweaters that Else made for them. I’ll take them back to the bunkhouse.”
She reached to pet their heads and Roman’s big hand caught hers as he stood. “They sense your anger. Dusty and Titus will, too. Keep them out of this. I made a promise to Boone, and I’m going to keep it. This is between you and me and Boone. Understand?”
“What was that promise?” Kallista shot at him, looking for angles to destroy his grasp on Boone’s land.
Roman released her hand and jammed his big hands into his gloves. “That is between Boone and me and my wife—if I many again. That’s not likely.”
“No. You wouldn’t like the confines of marriage, now that you have what you want.”
“I don’t want a whole lot of what comes with marriage,” he said flatly.
“If there is a woman sharing Boone’s house with you—and his bed—get her out...or I will.”
Roman’s hair gleamed as he tilted his head. “You’ve got a suspicious mind and a fast mouth. When I live with a woman, she’ll wear a wedding band.”
“Yours?” Kallista asked, pressing him, looking for weaknesses.
“Keep it up,” he said mildly, with a tone that said his hackles were lifting, “and you’re headed for trouble.”
“I’ve always liked a good dollop of trouble.”
At eight o’clock on a mid-May morning, Kallista sat at the small desk in the Bisque’s cubbyhole of an office. She’d had two weeks of investigating Roman and organizing the shop as she wanted it. Hannah, and the rest of the Blaylock women had done an excellent job keeping records and maintaining supplies. The paint shelves were well stocked, the brushes cleaned and waiting in individual pots. The shop had a small but adequate income. The residents of Jasmine liked making gifts for loved ones and decorating their homes. After checking the latest bank statement, Kallista had ordered ne
w supplies of greenware—the molded clay shapes that were then smoothed. After baking in the kiln, they were called “bisque,” which was painted and fired again to produce the final product. Both kilns were in working order. The shop was neat and airy, wire soda shop chairs and tables empty now, its shelves filled with standard bowls, cups, lighted Christmas trees and chess sets. Dragons matching the one that had battered Roman Blaylock peered down at her. Bisque ladybugs and turtles waited for painting.
Morganna, married to Jake Tallman and a cousin of the Blaylocks, breezed into the shop with Hannah. Morganna, Jake and their daughters were visiting with the Blaylocks before returning to their Colorado ranch; Jake, a cousin of the Blaylocks, had been orphaned and the Blaylocks had claimed him as one of their own.
Hannah carried a big box, and Morganna, oblivious to the darkening damp spots on her blouse, a sign that she was a nursing mother, clutched a grocery sack. After warm hugs, Morganna, a city executive turned ranch housewife and mother, dug into the box. “A shop warming gift,” she exclaimed, retrieving a high-tech cappuccino maker from the box.
“Yummy. Thanks. I’d say this gift is too much, but I’m dying for a cup,” Kallista murmured. Morganna read directions while Hannah and Kallista completed the start-up effort. The aromatic scent filled the shop, and soon three mugs of cappuccino, topped by whipped cream, sat on a table.
“Bagels, too.” Hannah placed bagels on napkins and plopped a carton of strawberry cream cheese onto the table. She stuck a spoon in it and grinned. “Dig in. What do you think about the shop?”
“You did a good job. Everything is in order.”
Hannah surveyed the shelves and the neat shop. “We tried. We couldn’t take time to develop new ideas, so everything is running as you left it Boone liked to come in here and watch, just watch, as if he were happy that others were happy. He liked to hold Delilah, our baby. He was such a—”