Someday Soon

by Janelle Taylor

  Her blue eyes looked into his bland gray ones. “You?” To his nod, she asked, “How?”

  “A needle. I think I’ve got one in some travel kit around here.”

  “A needle?” she questioned, not liking the sound of that at all.

  “A doctor would just drill a small hole in your nail to release the pressure. It’ll feel better instantly, believe me. But I can sterilize a needle myself with alcohol and punch it through if you want me to.”

  “Good grief, no!”

  He shrugged. “I’ve done it to myself before.”

  “Well, no thanks, mountain man. I think I’ll just let nature take its course.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know,” he said, turning back to his breakfast.

  For her part, Cammie was having a tough time even eating her toast and juice. It was easier to swallow coffee and hope for a little caffeine jolt. Even so, she felt bad that she hadn’t done justice to the meal, and her mumbled, “I guess I’m just not hungry” was met with an indifferent nod on Ty’s part. She noticed, however, that he hadn’t had much of an appetite, either, and though she tried to help carry dishes to the sink, he gave her a long look that told her to stop being so helpful given that she only had one hand available.

  But leaving Ty to those domestic duties only made her realize how superfluous she was. She stood in the middle of the living room, admiring the stone fireplace anew, though her mind was elsewhere. With a sigh, she turned her attention to the view from the massive windows, all the while fighting not to examine her injury.

  Maybe she should just let him do his worst, she decided, wondering why she felt so compelled to thwart him. She wasn’t quite as squeamish as she’d led him to believe, but for reasons that escaped her, she couldn’t let him help her.

  When he was finished cleaning up, he headed for the door next to the kitchen that led to the back deck. “Where are you going?” she demanded, afraid she was about to be abandoned.

  “To split some wood. I thought we could use a fire.”

  “Oh.”

  His lips slanted. “Did you think I was leaving without saying good-bye?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Ahh…yeah…” he conceded, opening the door. A swirl of rain-drenched April wind blew into the room, as cold as any January bluster. Cammie shivered in her jeans and white cotton shirt. Ty, dressed warmer in a dark-green flannel shirt, blue jeans designed totally for durability rather than fashion, and a pair of thick brown boots, seemed impervious to the weather. Through the window she watched him head down a short flight of stairs to the back of the cabin where a thick round stump, axe buried deep inside its grayed wood, stood at the ready. Ty grabbed a hefty chunk of fir, set it on the stump, then swung the axe in a strong arc, splitting the fir cleanly into two manageable pieces. He sliced through these again, and when he returned to the cabin, it was with four solid blocks of firewood.

  She held the door for him, and he entered in a swirl of damp breeze smelling slightly of the sea mixed with the dank, yet comforting, scent of wet wood. But when Ty dumped the chunks of fir into the fireplace and methodically stuffed the space beneath with newspaper, lighting the waiting pyre with a long match, the fir crackled and caught fire almost instantly, belying its wettened condition.

  “The wood’s dry,” Cammie said, surprised, seeing its damp outer layer.

  “It’s been tucked beneath the deck. I just put some pieces by the stump last night because I thought I was going to make a fire. The wood’s only damp from the wind driving spray water off the bay.”

  “The fire was out when I arrived last night,” she observed, more for conversation than out of any real interest.

  “I wasn’t planning on hanging around here,” was his slow reply. He glanced across the room to the row of boxes near the windows. “I decided to get drunk and pack instead.”

  “Pack?”

  “I got a call that my hiding place had been discovered, then, lo and behold, you showed up.”

  “Who called? No one knew I was coming. Not for sure anyway.”

  “I got a call from a friend—the one whose house was broken into.”

  Cammie shook her head. “That had nothing to do with me,” she stated positively.

  “Maybe, maybe not…Dear old Dad seems the most likely culprit, however, and he sent you.”

  “He did not send me.”

  Ty pushed at the logs with his booted foot, causing sparks to scatter in a fury up the chimney. “I’m sorry, Cammie. It can’t just be coincidence. Someone broke in and got to my files.”

  “What friend is this?” she asked, frowning.

  “You don’t know him. He takes care of my financial interests.”

  “And he lives in Los Angeles?”

  Ty was beginning to believe she knew nothing about that particular break-in, which made him wonder if he wasn’t jumping to conclusions after all. His father could have known his address for years, he supposed, although that was highly unlikely. Samuel Stovall wasn’t a man of patience; far from it! Ty’s instincts told him the break-in and Cammie’s appearance were related in some way, even if she didn’t know of the connection.

  Which was all academic anyway, given that Ty’s whereabouts were public knowledge no matter what the sequence of events. Now, he had to decide what to do about it.

  “Forget it,” he told her, since Cammie was regarding him with concern, her expressive face full of consternation that he might think she was somehow responsible for this state of affairs. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you seriously thinking of running away again?”

  “I don’t know why it has to be considered running away when all I want is some privacy,” he said tersely.

  “You’d never consider going back?”

  “To Hollywood? To acting? Are you kidding?”

  “Was it really that bad?” she asked, linking her hands together, then wincing at the pain in her finger. For a moment, she’d almost forgotten.

  “Yes,” he said shortly.

  Cammie. curled back on the couch, her knees tucked close together. “Why?”

  Ty stomped on the chunks of fir again, although there was no need to fuss with the fire anymore. He just needed something to do, to get her slim, sweet image from imprinting on his brain. He was appalled at himself, yet he seemed incapable of looking at Cammie in any other way than as a male in search of a mate.

  “Why was it so bad?” she persisted, either oblivious to his ostracizing stance or impenetrable to it. Either way, her probing bugged him, making him tense and irritable.

  “Does there have to be a specific reason?”

  “No…but you were having so much success, and then poof.” She snapped her fingers together. “You were gone. I always figured there had to be something more, and when I saw you—” She sucked in a sharp breath, shocked because she’d almost added, “that last night we were together…”

  Ty jerked around. Cammie’s eyes were wide and scared. “What happened?” he demanded. “Is it your hand?”

  Her lashes swept downward. She moved her fingers as if they were stiff and unresponsive. “Ummm…yes…” she murmured.

  “I’m getting that needle,” Ty declared, stalking toward his bathroom and the overnight kit in the top drawer which contained a small sewing set.

  Cammie stared after him in horror. It wasn’t her hand. At least not at this particular moment. And it wasn’t the fear of his intended minor surgery, either; she could handle that if she really had to.

  No, she couldn’t get over the fact that she’d nearly brought up that evening! That evening they’d spent making sweet and fiery love! That evening that he clearly remembered next to nothing about!

  …that last night we were together…

  Her own words, unspoken but so loud to her ears that it was like a roaring surf inside her head, had nearly annihilated her on the spot. If he didn’t already remember—and please, God, don’t let him remember!—sh
e would just as soon he never remembered.

  “Here.” Ty reappeared, striding toward her with a small travel kit, a bottle of alcohol, and a bag of cotton balls filling his hands.

  Cammie pulled back, a bit daunted. But it was his proximity that really got to her, not his intended role as healer of all wounds. He sank down on the couch beside her, his thigh hard against hers.

  “Give me your hand.”

  Her heart was palpitating all over the place. She found it hard to remember to breathe. Her lungs had forgotten their involuntary movements, apparently, for she felt dizzy and starved for air.

  He doused a cotton ball with alcohol, then liberally applied it to the needle. Next, he swabbed her fingernail, and she must have made some small protest, because his eyes searched hers. “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m such a wuss,” she demurred.

  “Don’t look.”

  She tore her gaze from his and stared fixedly at the window. To her shock, Ty next placed her palm on his hard thigh. She glanced down, supremely conscious of the pressure of his muscles beneath her palm, but then he pressed the needlepoint onto her nail. A sudden sharp pressure. She moaned, inhaled a breath and squeezed her eyes closed.

  Biting her lip at the tiny stab of pain, Cammie nearly drew blood from it. The needle pierced her nail. Instantly, the throbbing abated. Blinking against unwanted tears, she opened her eyes in time to see Ty regarding her with something approaching serious concern.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked tensely.

  “No, no. It’s fine.”

  “You’re crying…”

  “I am not!”

  “There are tears in the corners of your eyes.”

  Tears of fear and reaction. “I told you I was a wuss,” she disabused on a soft laugh. Her hand still lay on his thigh and she was loath to move it. Yet, the tensed muscles beneath his jeans were drawing all her inner attention even while she fought to keep her gaze anywhere but on Ty.

  His fingers picked up her palm, examining his handiwork. As he’d predicted, the skin beneath the nail had filled with blood and a tiny droplet oozed from the minute vent hole.

  Instantly, Cammie felt sick. She wasn’t good with blood. She wasn’t good with any of that stuff, though she sure as heck could pretend she had a stomach of iron.

  “Cammie…?”

  Ty’s voice sounded from far away. Oh, for God’s sake, she thought in self-disgust, I’m going to faint.

  And promptly did.

  She awoke to a strange sense of coolness and realized a damp rag lay on her forehead. Her head pounded. She lifted a heavy hand to the washrag and heard a sudden rustling.

  “Cammie…”

  Ty’s face swam into view above her. She was lying on his bed, she realized with a jolt. The thought of him carrying her limp body brought a new wave of humiliation crashing over her.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered.

  “I should have taken you to the clinic,” he berated himself. “What the hell was I thinking? You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “No, no…I’m always like this. How long—how long was I out?”

  “Five, ten minutes. Just long enough for me to bring you in here. I could call a local doctor and—”

  “No! Don’t make things worse. Please.” Cammie struggled upward, and Ty gently pushed her arms back down. She felt weak. It was easy to give in and just collapse.

  “I’ll get you some water,” he said, following a silent moment, and after he left, Cammie suddenly realized that her white shirt was unbuttoned to her waist. No wonder she’d felt a draft. With her good hand, she probed her bra and realized he’d left that alone. Its front clasp was still tightly closed and the lacy cups covered enough to make her feel her modesty was still intact.

  Her thoughts were ridiculous! Ty had no interest in her that way. He’d loosened her blouse to increase air to her throat and lungs. He felt guilty about being the cause of her fainting spell, not lust! She was the one who noticed every little detail about the both of them in that manwoman way. She was the one making a fool out of herself over him.

  With a groan of misery, she buried her face in the pillow. A moment of that, then she turned an eye to her finger and the result of Ty’s minor surgery. Ugly blackness was taking over, but the pain was minimal. She could even flex her fingers a bit.

  Ty appeared in the doorway and Cammie instantly tugged on her shirt to close the gaping front. Her movement caught his attention.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure nothing was constricting you.” Flicking a look at her bra, he added, “I was just about to unhook it when you came to.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she admitted, swallowing. He gave her a long look that did nothing to her already leaping stomach. “I’m usually not so squeamish. I mean, I’m squeamish, but not so squeamish! I feel like an idiot, and oh, thanks. My finger does feel better.”

  “Good.” He set the glass of ice water on the nightstand, his gaze taking in the partially opened drawer—Cammie’s nemesis. Crooking a finger beneath its beveled edge, Ty slid open the pine drawer and pulled out the sheaf of papers Cammie had so wanted to review.

  Now she concentrated on the ceiling while still holding tightly to the two sides of her white shirt. Should she attempt to button it up? She didn’t trust her fingers to be anything but clumsy, but it was ignominious, to say the least, to have Ty in the same room with her while she lay there, half dressed.

  “You were looking at this,” he said without rancor, as if he’d forgotten his earlier reaction to her snooping. But Cammie wasn’t likely to forget his irritation and anger, and she wanted him to know she wasn’t a complete betrayer.

  “I didn’t get a chance.”

  “You got worried you’d get caught, shoved the script back inside the drawer, then slammed your fingers in the process.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Cammie admitted with a grimace. “I guess I got what I deserved.”

  He shook his head slightly, as if negating her comment. Silence stretched until Cammie’s nerves began to scream with the torture of being so close. “Are you writing a script?” she blurted out. “A screenplay?”

  “I told you, I’m in real estate.”

  “Then whose is this?” She glanced at the pages in his hands. “I mean, it doesn’t look like something you brought with you ten years ago, and unless someone’s sending you their work for some reason, or you bought the script through an agency that sells them…” She glanced at the pages and added, “But those look fresh off a printer. I’m willing to bet that you wrote them yourself.”

  “And if I did, then what?”

  “Then, nothing.” She shrugged. “I mean, why not? You certainly have the acting background, and I remember you were good at writing as a teenager. And even Nanette was once a screenwriter, so it runs in the family.”

  “And besides, what else have I got to do with my time, right?”

  Was he being sardonic? Cammie suspected so, though he made the comment cheerfully enough, as if he were trying to keep her off balance.

  But there was no need for that! She was off balance enough. Good heavens, she’d hardly been herself since she stepped across his threshold. “Now that you mention it,” she murmured, licking her lips a bit nervously.

  “What?” He shifted his weight, setting the pages down, his hands on either side of her body, his face disturbingly close to hers.

  “Selling real estate just doesn’t seem like you.”

  “I don’t sell it. Well, I sell my own,” he amended. “I have different property around, but I’m not an agent, if that’s what you mean. I’m a speculator.”

  “And you’ve been doing this for ten years?”

  “Pretty much. I tried a bit of farming, but I’m better in theory than in practice. Got bit by an old ewe one day and she nearly crunched right through my hand!”

  He was teasing her. She caught the light in his eyes, and she couldn’t help responding to it
. Remembering how much they’d enjoyed each other’s company as teenagers, she spoke her mind without thinking. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  Perhaps if they hadn’t been in such a compromising position already. Perhaps if they’d had more time to reacquaint themselves as “brother and sister.” Or perhaps if they’d both been just a little less lonely, the next few moments wouldn’t have happened.

  But Cammie’s incautious words, coupled with a look of longing that suffused her face and deepened the aqua blue of her eyes, served to ignite a smoldering ember. She hadn’t known that latent fire existed for Ty until that moment, thinking that her own emotions were the only ones involved. But when he shifted his weight to one arm and gently ran the back of his hand down the side of her cheek, she sucked in a sharp, excited breath.

  “I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed you,” he admitted, the timbre of his voice deep and almost throbbing. It struck a chord inside Cammie, and she gazed at him with unknowing longing written all over her face. Any skills she possessed as an actress fled with the need to be with the man she loved—and had always loved, at some level. Ty’s swift intake of breath said he didn’t mistake the signs, but he still hesitated, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips as if he couldn’t tear his eyes from their luscious pink contours.

  “Cammie…?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she heard herself ask from far, far away.

  He smothered a sound of disbelief. “Yes,” he admitted.

  Putting action to words, he leaned forward. She could feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, and her hands released the edges of her blouse to ease their way up his chest. Through the flannel, his skin felt hard and warm, and she wanted to yank the offending garment from his body and crush his bare chest to her trembling breasts.

  Her lashes fluttered closed. Her lips pushed upward, anxiously awaiting his kiss like a blossom opens to sunlight. She’d yearned for this since the night they’d made love, and even from before, when she’d been an adolescent awash in hormones and unrealized dreams, hungry for love and affection and the desire and touch of another human being.