by Jule McBride
“He owns one of the places Clive mentioned to Wesley.”
“Can we run out there and look around, Luke?” The sudden catch in her voice made Luke realize she was getting genuinely worried. She said, “Clive’s been gone two nights now....”
“What time’s the wedding Saturday, Claire?”
“Two in the afternoon. After morning church services.” She darted her eyes toward a window, as if expecting night to fall suddenly like a stage curtain. “It’s so close to Christmas, Luke. Yesterday, I figured he’d turn up. But now...”
Luke felt more torn than ever. He’d do anything for Claire, but the more time he spent with her, the less he wanted to see her and Clive reunited. Rein it in, Lydell. Their wedding’s on Christmas. Last night, Claire had freed him of any obligation by saying she no longer wanted his help, but Luke couldn’t stay away. Unbuttoning his shearling jacket, he reached inside and dug a finger into his flannel shirt pocket. His frown deepened when he found only his notebook, and then he realized Claire was watching him.
“There’re some in the kitchen,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows, feeling distracted. “Hmm?”
“Some of those toothpicks you’re looking for. You know, the ones that help you think.”
He smiled. “What? Do I look confused?”
“Very.”
He felt that way, too, when he remembered how she’d snatched away the toothpick in his mouth last night. Unwanted warmth settled in his lower belly, and a sudden pull of desire made him ache. Drawing a quick breath, he tried to quit thinking of how close he’d come to kissing her. That had been the very least of what he wanted to do to her, too. “Well...if you really want me to find that fiancé of yours, I guess I ought to get myself a toothpick.”
He reached for his hat and put it on, releasing another sigh. Last night, he’d driven out to Cross Creek after leaving the Buchanans. Dealing with cattle had occupied his mind until bedtime, but later he’d found himself lying in his underwear in the dark, thinking about Claire until he was hard and wanting. He’d thought of the picture he’d seen above her bed of the log cabin in the woods, and he’d imagined sharing it with her. All night, alone with his fantasies, Luke kept feeling that it was he, not Clive, who was the lost man. I think the emptiness can go away, Claire had said. Deep down, Luke wanted to believe the love of the right woman would make him complete, and that the emptiness he and Brady felt would disappear.
Dammit, Luke cursed silently. Every time he encountered Claire he found himself thinking this way, but Claire was marrying Clive. Yesterday, when she asked why Luke had never returned her affection, she was probably just curious, nothing more. Luke’s gaze returned to hers.
She was watching him thoughtfully. “Ready for that toothpick?” she asked.
“Something in particular you want me to think about?”
She shook her head. “No, not really.”
“A man’s thoughts should be his own,” he agreed mildly. But he had the distinct impression he should be doing some more hard thinking about his relationship with Claire.
CHAPTER SIX
A FEW HOURS LATER, they were standing in Elmer Green’s stables. The double doors at the far end were off their hinges, leaving an opening big enough to drive a truck through, and freezing air was racing inside the barn, tunneling through the rickety structure. Claire surveyed some charred stains where fire had licked up the wood walls, completely destroying a tack room and office, then she glanced beside her at a shaky-looking wood-plank ladder that led to a hayloft. Sniffling, she tried to ignore the dank mustiness of the place. She was allergic to hay, and her nose was already starting to run and twitch. “Well,” she said with a shiver, “now we know why the phone was disconnected.”
Luke removed his gloves, shoved them into the back pocket of his faded jeans, then continued poking around. “Elmer Fudd ought to run an ad and sell whatever hay’s left in that loft.”
“Elmer Green,” Claire corrected him, glancing upward toward the loft where icy air blasted through the large, uncovered square window of the hay chute.
“The guy was more like an Elmer Fudd.” Lifting his eyes from where they were searching the ground, Luke glanced in her direction. “C’mon, it wouldn’t kill you to smile.”
“I can’t under the circumstances.” Claire was getting too worried about Clive. What if she was wrong, and he hadn’t disappeared because of their fight? Her eyes scanned the hayloft another moment, then she thought of the bales outside; they were stacked behind the barn covered with snow, near where Luke had parked the Jeep. She sniffled again, crinkling her nose and wishing she could sneeze, just to get it over with. “Clive was looking to buy some hay,” she added, chill air pulling down into her lungs with the words. “Maybe I’ll tell him about it.” Under her breath, she continued, “If we ever find him.”
“We’ll find him.”
She glanced up, eyebrows raised. “You’ve got good ears.”
Luke didn’t say anything but merely nodded. If anyone could find Clive, it was Luke. He was carefully walking around the barn, his boots creaking on the frozen ground, his straight black hair tucked behind ears that were half-hidden by the black Stetson. She studied his easy movements and the rigid set of his jaw. As he peered into each of the empty stalls lining the walls, his eyes intently scanned the hard-packed dirt floors strewn with frozen hay. Claire slipped the camera from her pocket and snapped a quick picture of him, even though there wasn’t really enough light. “Elmer said all the horses made it out of the fire, right?” she asked.
“Elmer said they were fine,” Luke replied. “He got an offer right after the fire and sold ’em. Of course, since he’s a horse trader, his business is ruined until he rebuilds the stalls. If he can afford to, which I doubt. But he said nobody’s made an offer on his property.”
“They still could,” Claire said, glancing around. “You think somebody torched the place?”
“It’s likely.” Luke offered a curt nod. “And curious that the Lazy Four had a barn fire this year, too.” Coming closer and lifting his gaze to hers, Luke observed her from beneath his hat brim, his eyes piercing the shadowy darkness. Using his tongue, he shoved the toothpick to the side of his mouth. “Is there anywhere he’s supposed to be tonight?”
“You mean Clive?” Claire shook her head. “We talked about us and the Stoddards having a turkey dinner together before Christmas Eve, but Tex said he wanted to eat at home, since it’s the last Christmas season...before I get married.” She sighed, thinking of Tex, who kept acting as if he’d never see her again. Tex...who’d taken to Luke like a fish to water. Guilt flooded her, and she wondered if she should tell Luke everything. Were they wasting time, looking for evidence that Clive had been here?
Eyeing Luke, she suddenly wished he hadn’t fit in so easily with her family, too, and taking in his shoulders, she couldn’t help but remember how good it felt to mold her hands over them last night while they’d danced. The touch might have been innocent enough, but Claire’s thoughts hadn’t been nearly so tame. Nor, she figured, had Luke’s. But how she could even think about Luke when she and Clive hadn’t completely settled things? What kind of person was she?
“The Stoddards usually have a dinner on Christmas Day,” she suddenly continued, crossing her arms and hugging herself to ward off the cold. “But they’re skipping it this year because of the wedding. Mama invited them to the Stop Awhile tonight, but then Jenny—that’s Clive’s mother—said she wanted to tend to Clive’s pa, since he’s sick. And Evander said he wanted to rest, so he’d have more energy for the wedding.”
“I heard Clive’s pa’s ailing. What’s wrong?”
“Leukemia. It’s an unusual type for adults to get, but things are looking up, and he’s responding to treatment.” Claire sighed, her heart hurting for the man who’d been a second father to
her. “Anyway,” she continued, “Clive said he’d probably come to dinner, so I just assumed he would. Anyway, it wasn’t really definite....”
Claire’s voice trailed off. The bothersome twitch of her nose returned, and she drew in some breaths without exhaling, preparing for a sneeze that never came.
“Luke,” she began again suddenly, rubbing an index finger beneath her nose to satisfy the itch. “My mind’s starting to run so wild with ideas about what could have happened. Yesterday, I was only a little worried. But what if Clive had a wreck? Or got run off the road in this weather?” She glanced outside, where snow was falling again in thick white flakes.
“He keeps provisions in his truck, doesn’t he?”
That much was true. Everybody in Wyoming knew to carry flares, shovels, salt and sleeping bags. “Of course he does, but the roads...”
“I figure he’s got studs and chains, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
“So, I’m sure he’s fine, Claire.”
She sighed, then followed Luke’s lead and began pacing, scrutinizing the frozen dirt floor around the hayloft ladder. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything,” Luke returned. “The match cover Clive wrote the office number on looks new. Chances are, Clive called here before the fire, day before yesterday. The phone here’s been disconnected less than twenty-four hours.”
Claire shoved her hands into her pockets, both from frustration and a need for warmth. “Too bad Jim-Bob’s gone,” she said. “Guess we can’t get any help from him.” The man who’d occupied the office, Elmer Green’s only hired help, hadn’t returned since the fire, and now he’d left town for the holidays. No one had a number where he’d gone. Cold was seeping through Claire’s jeans, and she stamped her feet to get her circulation going again. “What else did Elmer say?”
Luke shrugged. “Not much.”
Claire had basked in the warmth of Luke’s Jeep while Luke talked to Elmer on the porch. Now she suddenly muttered, “This place is so creepy!” She shuddered as she stared through the open end of the barn again. The barn was isolated, perched on a plateau, surrounded by pines, cottonwoods and aspens. Endless snow blanketed the dirt road and meadow that were visible through the entryway, and next to the evergreens the bare trees seemed fuzzy and muted, their branches against the snow-filled white sky looking like dark capillaries fanning out beneath pale skin. Just outside the barn, limbs of snow-laden gnarled trees twisted like candles left in the sun, making it seem as if the trees had melted in the barn fire. Slipping a hand into her pocket, she curled her fingers around the camera, then changed her mind about taking another picture; there really wasn’t any light. She blew out a long sigh.
And it’s almost Christmas, she thought. Her heart lurched as she stared at the ground, redoubling her efforts to find something showing Clive had been here. “Think we should talk to Clive’s folks again?” she asked.
“Up to you,” Luke said.
Clive had been staying at the new A-frame, and without alarming his folks, Claire had already discerned that they hadn’t noticed his disappearance. Clive was grown; they hardly kept tabs on him. The cowhands figured Clive was stuck in Laramie, Douglas or Cheyenne, and since he was the boss, they hadn’t bothered to check up on him, either. As her eyes roved the earth floor, Claire suddenly became aware of the pulse ticking in her throat. For a second, the soft beat of it reminded her of a clock, and she felt that time was running out....
She and Luke had to find Clive.
But was he really going to call off the wedding? And should she fight for a marriage to which her fiancé might not be completely committed? Maybe they weren’t deeply in love, but she’d always thought she and Clive could share a solid future. Wouldn’t it be foolish to throw that away? Eventually, everyone had to grow up, she thought. Relationships were all about compromise, weren’t they?
Her eyes slid to Luke. Just looking at him made her realize that a part of her didn’t want to grow up and compromise. Luke’s head was bent low over a tangled mess of exposed electrical wires, and his hat brim cast interesting shadows over his chiseled face. Nothing about him moved except for the toothpick in his mouth.
Suddenly, he glanced up. “Recognize this?”
She squinted as Luke stood and headed toward her. “What?”
“This.”
She still couldn’t see. Inadvertently dropping her gaze, she let it drift over the jeans hugging his legs. Her pulse leaped when her eyes settled at the apex of his firm, muscular thighs and the strong curve of his maleness. Blowing out a surreptitious breath, she turned her attention to the silver object dangling from Luke’s finger. It was a sterling charm depicting a cowboy on a bucking bronc. “That’s Clive’s key chain.”
“Found it over by the power box. There’re no keys attached.”
“The keys were on the chain the last time I saw him,” she said, thinking back.
Luke considered that a moment, then suddenly glanced over his shoulder toward the doors, his eyes turning flat and watchful.
Claire barely noticed. Her gaze was too busy drifting all the way down Luke’s lean, long body, from the Stetson and the warm tan shearling jacket, to the lovingly worn jeans and boots. He was the living image of the Wyoming cowboys she loved to paint, she realized, as her eyes returned to the hard, pragmatic set of his chin and took in the dark skin that probably came from his native heritage. Someone in his family had been Cheyenne, Claire guessed. Maybe Crow. Countless boys from Indian reservations around the state had wound up at Lost Springs over the years, their mothers too poor to adequately care for them. Luke was hardly the first.
“Somebody’s coming,” he said.
She turned toward the doors. “I don’t hear anything.”
“You will,” Luke assured her, eyeing the ladder beside her. “We’d better get to the loft.”
As she hazarded a glance upward, Claire’s nose tickled again, and she crinkled it, fighting a sneeze. Her eyes flitted to his. “Are you sure?”
He offered a long, unwavering look. “Trust me.”
But maybe he was just being paranoid. The creepy, isolated barn would do that to anyone. “It’s bad enough down here,” Claire protested, knowing she’d never survive being so close to that much hay. “Heaven only knows what’s up there, Luke. Probably mice. Wild cats.”
“If there’re cats, there’re no mice,” Luke stated. “C’mon. This is no time to turn into a priss.”
“I am not a priss.”
“The truck’s coming up the road,” he said, “so he won’t see the Jeep around back.”
The last place Claire wanted to go was to that hayloft. Even down here, the scent of hay was stealing her breath, making her nose itch uncomfortably. “Oh. Now you know it’s a truck? As opposed to a car or Jeep?”
Luke surveyed her a long moment, his eyes starting to look lethal from beneath the hat brim, his lips locking together. “You’d better start scurrying, darlin’,” he warned darkly.
Suddenly the rumble of an approaching motor cut through the silence. Luke had the ears of a born tracker. “You really think it’s somebody...”
“Dangerous? Probably not. But Clive’s been here recently, and we’re trying to figure out why, Claire. So, let’s see whoever it is before he sees us.”
Darting her eyes to the hayloft again, Claire rested her hand on a rung of the ladder, her chest squeezing tight with an impending sneeze. “It could be a she, you know.”
“He or she—” He shoved a frustrated hand in his back jeans pocket. “I don’t think it matters right now.”
He had a point. “But he’ll see our tracks,” she protested, even as she grasped and tested the rickety-looking rungs of the ladder.
Luke blew out an exasperated sigh. “Would you just move? And he won’t see the tracks. The snow’s already c
overed them.”
The motor was rumbling closer, so Claire started climbing. Taking shallow breaths as she ascended, she fought the urge to sneeze. Suddenly, her foot slipped. Quickly jamming her boot heel over the frosty rung, she caught herself. Realizing Luke was right behind her, she gasped. “This ladder can’t hold us both.”
“It’ll have to, Claire. The truck’s almost here.”
Wrenching around, she stared over her shoulder, just in time to see an aging red pickup truck lunge over the crest of a hill. Hitting the snow-covered dirt road, the truck headed straight for the barn, snow spewing from beneath the wheels. Her fingers froze around a rung. “He can already see us, Luke!”
“Not yet,” he growled from beneath her. “It’s too dark. But we’ve got to hurry.”
She scrambled upward. “I’m hurrying.”
“Not fast enough.”
Suddenly, she felt his hand clamp onto her backside, the warm heel of the palm curling right beneath her female center. Shooting blazes of heat licked through her, feeling as dangerous as the fire that had destroyed the barn. Censure touched her voice. “Luke!”
“Oh, c’mon.” A sudden hard push sent blissful awareness through her body as she tumbled into the hayloft. “You know you liked it, Claire.”
“Did not,” she returned, feeling so flustered she could barely speak. With just one stolen touch, the man had completely frazzled her nerve endings. As she crawled away from the ladder, she could still feel Luke’s hand, alive and pulsing beneath her. Even worse, she wanted to feel his warm touch there again, this time with no clothes between them. Yes, she wanted Luke touching her, flesh to flesh. She wanted him to finish what he’d only started years ago in the woods at Lost Springs. Her heart hammering fiercely, she managed to shoot him a furious glance.
He had the nerve to smile back.