Sighs Matter

by Marianne Stillings

  She finished combing her hair, made the bed, and with one last glance at the wonderful paintings, closed the door behind her.

  More oils lined the hallway upstairs and followed the staircase as it descended to the first floor. Splendid paintings on every subject imaginable, from a bowl of lavender hydrangeas, to a schooner sailing the sea. All were powerful, all breathtaking.

  At the foot of the stairs, Claire glanced into the living room and nearly dropped to her knees. Dear God, the room looked like a frat house on a Sunday morning. Empty bottles, crumpled cans, newspapers, and discarded neckties littered the coffee table. A pile of clean socks waiting to be matched and put away sat in a plastic basket next to the recliner, and books of every kind and color were scattered on the end table and floor. A pair of boots had been shoved under the coffee table, and a bowl stacked high with pretzels and chips rested on the floor near the chair facing the TV.

  She was about to turn away from the clutter, when she raised her eyes to the fireplace, and her breath caught.

  Above the mantel hung a large oil painting depicting a runaway cattle drive. Dust blurred the bawling cows while wranglers with ropes and rifles, atop galloping horses, tried to turn the herd. The colors, the movement, the enormous energy of the painting held Claire in thrall. She searched until she found it, then felt her lips curve into a smile.

  Seeking out the kitchen, she entered and looked around. By comparison, the living room had been as clean as a hospital surgery.

  “You are a slob,” she said to Taylor’s back.

  He stood at the sink, rinsing out a couple of brown earthenware bowls. On the counter, amid the rubble of empty coffee mugs, teaspoons, stacks of plates, and a baseball glove and ball, the coffeemaker burbled and popped as the rich scent of coffee filled the air.

  Without looking around, he said, “Slob is such a harsh word. I prefer creatively disheveled. Besides, only boring people have immaculate houses.” He yanked a dish towel from an open drawer and began drying the bowls.

  “Not into calling a spade a spade, I gather.”

  “Sure, when I’m playing poker. Other than that sneeze,” he said, pronouncing the word as though he’d never heard it before, “did you sleep okay last night?”

  “Great,” she fibbed. “Like a baby.”

  With a barely concealed look of doubt, he opened a packet of apple-cinnamon oatmeal and poured it into her bowl.

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically, placing her open hand over her heart in a dramatic move she’d seen Aunt Sadie perform a hundred times. “You’re going to make some woman a wonderful husband.”

  “Was once.”

  Claire immediately regretted her remark. She looked up at him, but he avoided her gaze. “Right. Sorry. I’d, um, I’d forgotten. You’re divorced.”

  He shrugged and opened four oatmeal packets for himself. “I’m working on forgetting it, too.”

  She gave a little sort of I-see nod, pressed her lips together, then slid into a chair.

  To Taylor’s credit, the table was clean and devoid of hazardous waste. He’d set down two fresh plastic placemats, and the fact his said “Merry Christmas” in elaborate script did nothing to diminish the realization that he had obviously tried to make things nice for her.

  Straightening her blue and green plaid placemat, she ventured, “If you don’t mind my asking, do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

  “Sure.” He went to the cupboard and pulled out some paper napkins, tossing them on the table in a fluttery heap.

  “But wasn’t the divorce hard on you?”

  “It was a walk in the park compared to the marriage.” Reaching for the steaming copper kettle on the stove, he poured boiling water on her oatmeal as she stirred it with a spoon. “Besides, I don’t plan on getting divorced again.”

  He caught her gaze and held it until she had to look away.

  Angry at herself for her inability to remain as detached as she’d like, she pushed herself up from the table and went to retrieve two mugs from the hooks under the white pine cabinet.

  “Did you . . . like being married?” She avoided his eyes by pretending to check the mugs for spots.

  “You don’t have to get out your disinfectant, Doc,” he said, his brows snapping together. “They’re clean. Everything’s clean, it’s just that everything’s everywhere. And, yeah, I liked being married well enough. The good parts. The unfaithful-slut part didn’t set too well with me, but I plan on being a lot more selective next time.”

  He doused his own oatmeal with boiling water and stirred the contents of the bowl into a steaming glop. Adding milk and brown sugar, he sat down while Claire poured hot coffee into both their mugs.

  As he watched her sit and stir milk into her oatmeal, he said, “What about you, Claire? You ever plan on getting married?”

  “My aunt would like it if I did,” she said lightly.

  He took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, leaned back in his chair. “That’s what we law enforcement types call an evasive answer.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I’ll get married when the right man comes along.”

  At her words, he arched a brow. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt the color of slate that fit his athletic body like a second skin. Rubbing his open palm over his flat abs, he said, “How do you know he hasn’t already come along, but your nose was so high in the air, it blocked your line of vision?” He took his thumb and flicked the end of his own nose, then grinned.

  “I don’t think you know me well enough to judge me, Detective.”

  His blue eyes bored holes into her brain. Shrugging, he drawled, “Well, I guess I know you well enough to have made love to you for hours the night of my brother’s wedding. I guess I know you well enough to get out of bed in the middle of the night to help you out of a jam. I guess I know you well enough to bring you to my house for your own protection.”

  Claire set her spoon on the table. In her sweetest tone, she said, “You never let an argument end until you’ve won, do you?”

  He leaned toward her. With a grin Claire would have considered charming on any other man, he said, “Were we arguing just now? And more importantly, did I win?”

  Claire eased herself back in her chair. “You try to be a bully, but I know for a fact you have a sensitive side.”

  He sent her a wary look, as though he was trying to figure out where she was going with this. Finally, he said slowly, “I cry at sad movies, if that’s what you mean. You know at the end of Homeward Bound, when that old dog comes limping over the hill, and the kid runs—”

  “That’s not what I mean, but thank you for sharing.” She pursed her lips. “I’m talking about the paintings.”

  He blinked. “What paintings?”

  “The two oils in the guest room, the paintings along the second floor hall and down the stairs, and that magnificent Remington-esque over the fireplace.”

  His eyes downcast, he fiddled with his spoon. “You . . . think it’s magnificent?”

  She nodded enthusiastically and sat forward in her chair. “Really, Taylor, I do. All the paintings are beautiful, stunning.”

  He took in a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or was he blushing?

  “You have an amazing talent,” she went on. “You must have had art teachers who told you so. Why didn’t you pursue it? Why didn’t you become an artist instead of a police officer?”

  Taylor still didn’t look at her. With a casual shrug, he said, “It’s just a hobby. Helps me unwind.” He raised his eyes to hers. “How’d you know I painted them? They’re not signed.”

  “Yes they are.”

  He lifted his chin. “Yeah?”

  “In the bottom right-hand corner,” she said, “there’s a tiny TSMc scribbled into the oil. A person could miss it if they didn’t know what to look for.”

  “And you know.”

  Picking up her empty bowl, she walked to the sink. “There is no way you would ever paint anything so awesome and not want to
take credit for it. Soldier said something once about you being a good artist, but I thought he was just being kind.”

  Tossing his spoon onto the table, Taylor leaned back in his chair. “If you think that shows you know me, Dr. Hunter, think again.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Macho Arrogant Keep Away From Me Hotshot Typical Stupid Male. Complimenting your talent was not a come-on.”

  Fuming, she turned, scrubbed the bowl and spoon she’d used, dried them, and put them in the cupboard. “There. Now you only have four hundred and ninety-nine things to wa— What are you doing?”

  He rose from the table and began stalking toward her.

  “Okay, fine,” she stated flatly, lifting her hands as a barrier against him. “Your paintings suck, you no-talent dilettante. Happy now?”

  He stopped two feet in front of her, grasped her by the wrists, and held her in place. The heat of his body kept coming, though, wrapping her in warmth like an invisible embrace.

  “I like that you like my paintings,” he whispered.

  Though she wanted to speak, words wouldn’t come. The strength of his fingers gripping her wrists, the aroma of his soap coupled with the muskier scent of his clean body, the fiery blue of his eyes, combined to render her mute.

  He released her, stepping away, and she felt suddenly cold, as if the sun had left the sky.

  She realized she wanted to touch him, call him back, but he moved beyond the reach of her outstretched hand. She thought to call his name, but before she could speak, he said, “Finish up and get your stuff. I have a few hours’ work to do, then I’ll take you back to Port Henry. On the way, I want to check out your accident scene. And we can talk some more about what happened.”

  She furrowed her brow and nodded agreement.

  We can talk some more about what happened. Which what happened? she wondered. What happened between them eight months ago? What happened yesterday when she was forced off the road? Or what was undeniably happening between them right now?

  Chapter 5

  Barium

  What to do when CPR fails.

  “It started here,” Claire said softly, gesturing with her hand. Though she hid it well, Taylor was certain her fingers trembled just a little. “About here, I think. It was dark, and I was . . .”

  Terrified, Taylor finished in his head.

  He downshifted, slowed, and took the next bend in the road. “This is where he first made contact?”

  She nodded absently, as though reliving the incident inside her head. “Yes. He hit my bumper a couple of times. His high beams were on so I couldn’t see anything in my rearview mirror but glare. Then he laid on the horn. At first I though he just wanted by me, but he kept ramming my bumper until . . . here. Here’s where he started shoving me off the road.”

  Her eyes were wide, her voice thin. She leaned forward with one hand on the dashboard as she described the accident. Since there was no place to turn out and stop, Taylor checked his mirrors and slowed as much as possible, examining the road ahead and the rocky incline to his right. Ahead of him, the road curved sharply, allowing no view of oncoming traffic.

  “Around this corner,” she said, then swallowed. “I—I saw this bend coming and knew I was going too fast to make it. He shoved me hard. I slammed on the brakes and at the same time, pulled the emergency brake, but I had too much momentum going, couldn’t stop, and couldn’t hold the turn.”

  Slowly, Taylor took the same turn that Claire had been forced to take last night. Thick black skid marks lay like dark ribbons on the pavement where she’d tried to stop. The road curved, the tracks did not. She’d headed straight across the oncoming lane. Anything could have been coming up that hill last night, from a motorcycle, to a semi, to an old farmer in a produce truck, to a family.

  He felt his jaw tighten as he fought down all the what-ifs and how differently this story would have ended if Claire’s guardian angel hadn’t been perched on her shoulder.

  She must have been panicking like hell, wondering what would happen. Even now, her skin had drained of color, her eyes widened and filled with unshed tears. She kept her lips pressed together, her spine straight.

  He knew she was tough, now he knew she was brave.

  “But you made it, Claire,” he said gently. “You kept your head, and you made it.”

  Without looking at him, she nodded. “Um, the turnout’s right around this corner. You’ll be able to see—Oh, no.”

  If Taylor hoped to find a single shred of evidence at the turnout where Claire had been run off the road, it was all blown to hell when he rounded the bend. A logging truck stood parked on the gravel. Between the front fender of the shiny red cab and the length of cut timber filling its extended bed, the eighteen-wheeler took up about fifty feet, and not an inch of turnout to spare. On top of that, last night’s summer drizzle had morphed to muck whatever tire or footprint evidence might have existed.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Not even room enough for me to pull over.”

  He took in as much of the scene as he could, asking Claire questions. Behind the rig stood the bent metal barrier that had saved her from going over, but there was no way he’d find any footprint or tire evidence at this point.

  Waving to the gray-haired driver relaxing in the cab, munching on an enormous sandwich, Taylor shifted gears and rounded the next bend, looking for the spot the driver must have used to park in order to come back and rob Claire just minutes after the accident.

  But there wasn’t one.

  “He must have taken the chance this road is seldom used,” he said. “Probably pulled over, left it idling, jumped out and ran back to your truck. Maybe he wanted to see if you were hurt, but when he got there, and you were unconscious, he decided to take your stuff.”

  As Taylor spoke, a car came up behind him. Dammit. There was no way he could pull over, so he had to keep going. Since this part of the road was paved side to side, he wouldn’t be able to get any tire tread evidence anyway.

  Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he sped up and said, “Robbing you couldn’t have been his plan all along, because there was no guarantee you’d hit your head and pass out. Taking your things must have been a crime of opportunity.”

  “Okay, but what about the bottle?”

  “You got me. My guess is, he was drinking and he just brought it along when he came to check on you. Set it down when he gathered up your stuff, and forgot to grab it when he saw the lights from the cruiser coming down the hill. Or he left it on purpose to put you in hot water.”

  Easing back into her seat, she said, “I guess. I’m just glad it’s over.”

  He shot her another glance. “You’ve been coping okay, right?” he ventured, as certain puzzle pieces began clicking into place. “Being assaulted by Betsy’s stalker, and now this. Heavy-duty traumas, even for a doctor who—”

  “I’m coping just fine,” she interrupted. “Thanks for your concern, Detective, but I’m right as rain.”

  No you’re not.

  The realization struck Taylor with the force of an ecclesiastical epiphany. Not only was she not all right, she was doing her best to mask her true feelings. He wondered if she’d let down her guard with anybody over the last eleven months. Her aunt? Her best friend?

  He’d bet even money she hadn’t.

  When he’d first seen her at the station last night, he’d assumed her up-tight attitude was a result of the accident, not to mention unexpectedly running into him again. She’d been scared and tired, true. But he’d been viewing her though a combined filter of frustration, anger, and, yeah, unwanted attraction.

  Now that he’d had a chance to talk to her and let his emotions dissipate a little, he was beginning to suspect there was a lot more going on inside her head than she was willing to admit.

  She’d had a nightmare last night, and had screamed.

  I sneezed, she’d said. My ass, he’d thought.

  Had her nightmare been related to the car acciden
t, or was this new trauma too close on the heels of the old one?

  Claire was a doctor. She’d survived medical school and internship and boards and whatever else doctors had to go through to get to be doctors. She was used to being in charge, the one others looked to for answers, for strength.

  What had happened nearly a year ago had undoubtedly shaken her confidence, but because she was supposed to be tough in the face of adversity, she probably fought to maintain her image even though her mind and her heart were still coping with such a brutal attack.

  It gnawed at him a little that he hadn’t seen it sooner. His very presence must be a reminder of the night she’d nearly been killed. She’d needed him then, and he’d been there for her—as a cop, and as a man.

  Now she was shutting him out. Whatever had caused her to scream in her sleep was obviously something she didn’t want to talk about. Not to him, anyway.

  “I don’t think you’re right as rain,” he said. “In fact—”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, her tone dry. “I promise not to play detective with you if you won’t play doctor with me.” Placing her fingertips at her temples, she closed her eyes and muttered, “I can’t believe I just said that. Talk about an opening . . .”

  “Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Playing doctor with you sounds like a whole lot of fun, bunny hugs.”

  “Stop calling me by those fake endearments. We don’t have an audience, so there’s no need for it.”

  “What makes you think they’re fake?”

  Her mouth flattened. “And stop pretending to be so charming.”

  “Who’s pretending? I am charming. Everybody says so.” He smiled at her, just to drive the message home.

  “So insufferable,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Take the next right, please.”

  The chickens and the goose flapped and squawked and scattered as Taylor pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse at the end of the long gravel drive.

  He gave a quick glance around, pretending he’d never laid eyes on the place before. It was closing in on five in the afternoon. Sunshine glistened off the pond just beyond the barn, while graceful trees shaded the house. Agatha lay sprawled under a rocking chair on the porch, trying to escape the heat. Other than the animals, the place seemed quiet.