Grounds to Believe

by Shelley Bates

  “It also says to try the spirits, so you won’t be deceived.”

  “Do you think I’m deceived?”

  She sighed. “Most of the world is. It’s not easy to find the true path of God. Or His will.”

  He had the feeling her meaning was a little more personal than she intended. He also had the feeling that he had been lumped in with a deceived world. That, at least, he recognized. Most closed groups kept the “us against them” philosophy alive as a protective measure.

  She was looking at the passenger seat and the fringed saddle bags. He had a sudden brilliant idea, something that would counteract her attempt to separate them in her mind.

  “Did you drive down?”

  “I walked. I just live up the hill.” She gestured vaguely to the east.

  “Want to go for a spin? I’ll drop you off at home.”

  With a whirl of skirts, she twisted away from him and wound up with her back against the screen of bushes. “I can’t do that.”

  He could hardly see her in the shadows, but he could hear her agitated breathing in the silence. “Why not? I promise I won’t kidnap you. You can tell Melchizedek my intentions are completely honorable.”

  Humor didn’t have the least effect on her instant denial. “I can’t. It’s not…Thank you, but I can’t.”

  “It’s not what? Not proper? What?”

  He could sense her misery from where he stood. “Something like that,” she said at last, very reluctantly.

  “At least you’re honest.” A rare quality, in his experience. She belongs to a cult, he reminded himself. You can’t trust anything she says. “But I’ll tell you straight, I’m not going to let you walk all the way home by yourself. It’s—” he checked the luminous dial of his watch “—almost ten-thirty. And I’m not going to leave the bike here to get stolen while I go with you. So you’re going to have to stay here and make meaningless conversation with me until you let me take you home.”

  She stepped out of the dark and looked at him uncertainly, obviously weakening. He held his jacket out again. “Put it on. You’ll need it. The temperature is always lower when you’re moving.”

  “I don’t know….”

  She wanted to go, and they both knew it. He released the spare helmet from the locking ring on the back of the bike and handed it to her. She fitted it awkwardly over her hair. When she held the chin strap, obviously at a loss as to what to do with it, he took it out of her hand. The skin of her throat felt soft and warm against the backs of his fingers, a delicate pulse fluttering beneath it.

  “Okay?” She nodded, like a little girl having her buttons done up. Her face was tilted toward his, her lips parted slightly. His hands felt heavy as they fell away from her skin.

  He turned the key and touched the starter switch. The motorcycle fired up with a smooth roar, and he put his own helmet on. Swinging his leg over the seat, he braced his feet on the ground and pushed the kickstand up with one heel.

  He looked at her over his shoulder and gently revved the engine. “Hop on.”

  Chapter Seven

  His jacket still held his body heat. Julia pushed her arms into the sleeves, and the heavy leather settled onto her shoulders. The faint scent of his cologne drifted out of the lining and past her nostrils. She still felt the brush of his fingers on her throat.

  She must be out of her mind.

  “What do I do?” she asked, her voice nearly a shout over the engine. The helmet felt strange, thick, damping her hearing.

  “Ever mounted a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same way. Put your foot on this peg. You can brace a hand on my shoulder if you want.”

  At least the saddle on a motorcycle was closer to the ground. She set her left foot on the peg, and her left hand on his shoulder. His warmth burned her fingers right through his cotton T-shirt. Rattled, she swung her right leg over, felt the other peg under her instep more by luck than aim, and fell into the seat behind him.

  “Whoa. You okay?”

  No, she wasn’t okay. She wanted to wriggle backward and close her legs. The machine vibrated under her. Ross’s body was warm and solid. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

  “Next time wear jeans,” he suggested over his shoulder.

  She didn’t even own a pair of jeans. Women didn’t wear men’s clothing. And there wasn’t going to be a next time. Her dress bunched up between them in what seemed like a huge wad of fabric. If she pulled it loose, it might get caught in the wheels.

  “What do I do with my dress?”

  “Pull it up and wrap it under your legs.”

  Pull it up? She did the best she could, tucking the cotton knit under her. Where was she supposed to put her hands? On her own legs? In front of her? On him? She had no idea that riding a motorcycle could be this complicated.

  Ross reached behind him and took both her wrists, pulling both arms snugly around his waist. A sudden sizzle shot through her, and she fought her instinct to retreat.

  This is a mistake, a mistake, a mistake….

  Ross kicked the motorcycle into gear and they rolled forward, picking up speed and sweeping along the moonlit path. When they emerged from the parking lot and accelerated onto the highway, Julia gasped and realized why he’d made her hold on to his waist. There was absolutely nothing to stop her tumbling off the back every time he hit the gas. The seat tilted forward just enough to force her into his body, no matter how hard she tried to put a few inches of space between them. The wind buffeted her face, and the dotted line in the center of the road whipped past in a yellow blur, inches from the soles of her feet. She tried not to think about what would happen if a deer leaped out in front of them.

  “Okay?” he shouted over his left shoulder.

  “Yes!” she hollered back.

  His ribs were rock solid, his control over the machine complete as they cornered. “Stay with me,” he instructed. “Don’t fight it. Keep your body at the same angle as mine.”

  On the next corner she concentrated on his broad back and muscled shoulders under the flapping cotton T-shirt. It was easier to lean with him. The motorcycle growled as he accelerated to highway speed.

  The roar of the engine and the rush of the wind parting around them enclosed her with him in a cell of sound and sensation. Her body moved with his, with the bike, one being fueled on the exhilaration of speed and the night. Julia was blown out of herself by sound and wind, and at the same time anchored by Ross’s heat and strength.

  Five miles out of town, she came back to herself and the road winding between the tree-covered hills resolved once more into something she recognized.

  “Where are we going?” she called. She eased her grip on his waist.

  “Where do you live?” He turned his head enough to give her one-quarter of a grin before he returned his attention to the road.

  “Gates Place. We passed it way back there.”

  “I’ll take you back, don’t worry. It’s a great night for a ride.”

  Julia gave in and let the wind blow her inhibitions away along with the motorcycle’s exhaust. It was a great night for a ride. A great night to make a wicked memory she would never tell a living soul, and add another sin to a list that was lengthening by the minute.

  At the intersection with the cutoff that led north to the interstate, Ross maneuvered the bike in a sweeping U-turn that made the pegs scrape the asphalt. No matter how she tried to hang on to every minute, to savor the changing scent of the wind and the texture of cotton under her fingers, the heat of his body seeping through her hands, they passed the sign that welcomed visitors to Hamilton Falls far too soon.

  “Gates Place, you said?” The bike roared as he kicked it into a lower gear.

  “Would you mind dropping me at the corner?” Even at a respectable twenty miles an hour, the sound of the engine was enough to wake the dead. It would have no problem waking Rebecca.

  “Why?” He brought the bike to a halt next to the street sign for Gates Place
. Tilting it onto the kickstand, he turned the front wheel and shut off the engine. The sudden silence roared in her ears.

  “I don’t want to wake my landlady.”

  “You don’t have to shout. I shut it off.”

  “How do I get off this thing?”

  “Same way you got on.”

  She dismounted awkwardly, caught her running shoe in the hem of her dress and would have fallen if he hadn’t swung his leg over and caught her.

  “Careful.” One hand steadied her at the waist, the other gripped her forearm.

  “Sorry.” Her skin heated where his hand rested on it. He was too tall. Too close. And he smelled too good. She dragged in a breath and stepped away. “Th-thank you for the ride.”

  “I enjoyed it. I hope you did, too.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  Uncertain silence stretched between them. She slid out of his jacket and held it out to him. “Thanks,” she repeated. “Good night.”

  As he took it, he let his gaze linger on her face until she raised her eyes to meet his. “Good night.” His voice was low, husky. He smiled. Her heart hitched in her chest and she moistened suddenly dry lips. What a beautiful mouth he had—with the kind of full lower lip that made you think about kissing whether you wanted to or not. For the first time in an hour, she remembered she was supposed to be helping him work out his salvation. Accepting an offer of a cup of coffee and talking about his soul. Not riding behind him and secretly enjoying her sin.

  She took a step back, and then another. When she reached the edge of the cone of harsh light cast by the streetlight, his voice stopped her.

  “I’ll see you.”

  Possibilities whirled through her—hope and denial mixed with the racing adrenaline of attraction. “I don’t think so,” she gasped, and fled into the concealing dark.

  Ross stretched out on the hard queen-size bed in his motel room, and dialed Harry Everett’s pager number from memory. Time for a progress report. When the phone rang, he hooked the receiver up with two fingers and drawled, “I’m in.”

  “Yeah? That didn’t take long. Who is it?”

  “The sister. Julia McNeill. I’ve got an invitation to their missionary meeting. She told me she wouldn’t be seeing me again, but I’m going to work on that. I can probably get into the principal’s house by the end of the week.”

  He’d bet a hundred dollars Julia’s family would invite him to dinner if he showed up at the mission a second time. There was something quaintly old-fashioned about this group. Behaviors that had slipped out of the mainstream years ago were still real here.

  “Nice work.” Everett’s voice brought him back.

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Ross dropped the phone in the cradle and lay back, following his previous train of thought. The Elect were living in a time warp. A Victorian time warp, complete with mourning clothes. And the hair. No hasty wraps around those fabric scrunch things—these women used real pins. Nothing else would hold up those swirls and braided loops. How many pins did Julia have to use to keep her hair from escaping all the time?

  He compared the rigid conformity in appearance with the spontaneous joy of his Sunday-morning services, where kids turned up in shorts and young mothers had never even seen a hairpin. There, the focus was on worship, on singing, on learning about Jesus. He hadn’t heard Julia mention the Lord’s name once, which, the more he thought about it, was pretty strange.

  Their good-night had been hard on her, probably for a couple of reasons. Fear that he was going to try something physical? Maybe. Fear of discovery? Definitely. She was almost phobic about that. Not surprising if she’d been brought up in a closed culture. Outsiders were bad until they became Insiders.

  He tipped his head back against the headboard. It was going to take a little more work to gain her confidence than he’d anticipated, which would mean investing more time with her. His mouth twisted. And he was going to have to adjust his image. The outlaw biker part of his persona wouldn’t work here. He sighed. It would never occur to his pastor at home to say anything about his hair. But it mattered here.

  Oh, well. At least he’d made a start. If she trusted him enough to ride a bike for the first time, he was doing okay. Once trust was established, he could really get to work.

  He thanked God for his instincts and the movement of the Spirit, and breathed a prayer for guidance. He hadn’t run into such an odd group before.

  Julia stumbled through Monday and Tuesday in a state where flashes of longing were immediately followed by thunderclaps of guilt. She’d calmed Rebecca’s concern about the scene Sunday night by telling her that their Shepherd knew all about it and had the situation well in hand. She wished she could say the same for herself.

  Sunday night was all she could think about. Ross’s knuckles brushing her skin. The wind rushing in their faces. Ross saying, “It was fun,” and “See you,” and looking at her. Oh, the way he looked at her, with such intensity that she blushed just thinking about it. Not even Derrick looked at her like that, as though he not only saw her, but what lay behind her eyes as well.

  No doubt about it, the girl who shared Derrick’s hymnbook was in trouble. She had to find a way to conquer this infatuation for a complete stranger, and focus on his conversion. She had to stop thinking she was free to spend time with him, period.

  Wednesday night after prayer meeting, Madeleine called. “Melchizedek is coming for dinner Friday. Have you seen your…friend lately?”

  Julia was tempted to say, What friend is that, Lina? just to have the pleasure of hearing Ross’s name. The big bad biker. The unmentionable. Worldly and desirable and completely unsuitable.

  “Not since Sunday,” she said instead. It never did any good to get sarcastic with Madeleine; she would just sound mystified and slightly hurt, and Julia would feel terrible. Madeleine had been hurt enough to last a lifetime; Julia couldn’t bear to deal even the smallest poke to her right now.

  “Do you think you might see him before Friday?” Madeleine asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Not if she could help it.

  “Julia, for heaven’s sake, stop being so evasive.”

  “I wasn’t being evasive, I—”

  “Melchizedek thought it might be nice if we invited you and your—Mr. Malcolm as well. I’m not sure I’m ready to entertain quite yet, but for the work of God of course we’ll put our own concerns aside. Could you phone him and ask?”

  All at once Julia realized that she had absolutely no way to contact Ross Malcolm. She didn’t know where he lived, what his phone number was, or anything about him. Just that he rode a big, rumbling motorcycle, liked John Donne, and had a voice that sent shivers up her back.

  She could just imagine what Madeleine would say to that.

  “Um, sure. I’ll ask him the next time I see him.” Whenever that might be. Maybe he’d had second thoughts and was feeling the wind on his face—as he headed east for Idaho and out of her life. Which would definitely be the best thing for all of them.

  “All right,” Madeleine said. “Let me know by Friday morning if you can. We’ll see you about six-thirty.”

  “Okay.” She rang off and leaned her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. She couldn’t do this. She could read a Keep Out sign as well as anyone—and the words were plainly written all over Ross Malcolm. The problem was, everyone kept pushing her toward him. Even Madeleine, who, while she might disapprove of the man, still welcomed the lost sheep. Besides, why would Ross Malcolm accept such an invitation? It probably wasn’t like his usual Friday-night dates. What did a man like that do for amusement? She couldn’t imagine. Maybe they could go for a ride again, and she could hold him the way she’d done Sunday night.

  She collapsed on her secondhand couch and stared glumly out into the oak tree whose leaves brushed her living-room window. On a night like this she could almost wish the Elect believed in owning televisions. It would be a lot less sinful than the pictures in her head.r />
  Chapter Eight

  Ross walked into the bookshop the next evening at ten minutes to closing time.

  “It occurred to me,” he said, leaning over the counter and looking down at the top of her head as she sorted wrapping paper and green bags, “that even if you wanted to call and ask me out, you couldn’t, because I didn’t give you my phone number.”

  Julia banged her head on the underside of the counter. “Ow!” Clutching her skull, she stood up slowly.

  “Are you okay? Why am I always scaring you to death?”

  “I’m fine. Really. My bun took most of the impact.” She was babbling with relief and a sort of delirium as she took in the sight of him. The jeans were the same, but instead of the white T-shirt, he had on a tropical shirt in cobalt blue that turned his eyes a smoky slate. She pulled herself together and made herself stop staring.

  “Nice flamingoes,” she said with just the right casual touch, and bent to slide the rest of the wrapping under the counter.

  “Aren’t they great?” He put his hands on his hips so she could get the full effect. She got it, all right. Between the flamingoes and the smile she was down for the count. “So do you want it?” he went on.

  She was standing here with her mouth open and her knees weak and he was asking? Maybe she’d better make sure. “Want what?”

  “My pager number,” he said very slowly. “Write it down. 555-1287. Put your number in, and I’ll call you back.”

  Oh. She got a pencil out of the cup next to the register and wrote the numbers down. The bump on the head must have scattered her brain cells more than she realized.

  “What makes you think I’m going to page you?” she asked, flashing him a look up through her lashes.

  “I don’t. But I’ll never know unless I give you the number, will I?” He paused. “That offer of coffee is still open.”

  “When, now?”

  “You close in—” he checked his watch “—three minutes and forty seconds. The coffee bar doesn’t. Ergo, now.”