Concern was the last thing Starr expected from him. That, coupled with a feeling of panic and followed by letdown, prompted a trickle of tears.
Those tears proved to be Clay’s undoing. He gathered her onto his lap as he might have done Morgan or SeLi and rocked her gently. “Shh,” he crooned. “There’ll be other days for us. You took a rough fall from the pinto. I should be shot for letting things get out of hand.”
She drew back. “Patches didn’t throw me. My God, I just remembered! I know what’s killing the sheep!”
“You what? You know? That’s good, isn’t it?” But his heart sank. Clay couldn’t help feeling taken aback that she’d so easily made the transition from lovemaking to work. He stared bleakly at her for long seconds before he moved.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he set her aside, stood and yanked on his briefs and stiff jeans. He was in the process of zipping them when a staccato spurt of loud bleeps made them both jump.
Across the room, a green light winked on the shortwave radio. Hopping on one foot as he donned his socks, Clay was out of breath when he hit the button that silenced the nerve-racking noise. “Yes?” he all but shouted into the microphone. The volume sent the needle flat against one side of the gauge. Clay knew he’d made a mistake when Harrison’s well-modulated voice floated out, sounding amused.
“Not interrupting anything, am I, old son?”
“Nothing,” Clay snapped, deliberately turning his back on Starr, who quickly pulled on her clothes, her cool eyes were now icy cold. “What in hell is there to do on a mountaintop in the middle of a damn snowstorm?” Yelling at Harris eased Clay’s tension.
Harrison laughed. “Well, brother of mine, I know how Vanessa and I spent the long, cold night. You aren’t exactly alone on that mountaintop, now are you?”
Clay heard Starr’s swift intake of breath. Guilt prompted his sharp reply. “Did you call to brag about your love life, or have you got something important on your mind?”
Harrison’s gleeful chuckle let Clay know that his retort was received and recognized as a useless evasive tactic.
“Actually I was checking to see how you two weathered the storm. Hank mentioned that Starr had some kind of accident. He didn’t elaborate, but SeLi’s been beside herself with worry since breakfast. I thought it’d be good to set her mind at ease.”
Clay shot Starr a quick glance. She refused to meet his eyes, and that irked him. Because he wanted more from her than one night in bed.
“Come talk to Harrison,” he ordered. “Before he gets it into his head that you weren’t a willing partner in this...encounter.”
She marched past him, chin angled high.
Clay saw and leaned closer. “You were,” he reminded her pointedly, shoving the mike into her hand just before he clicked it back to his brother. “Don’t even think about denying it.”
She was forced to temper her response in case SeLi was within hearing range. “Senator, hello. Tell SeLi I’m fine. Patches didn’t throw me. I had her tied to a branch. She broke it and ran off. Left me stranded.”
Harrison murmured an appropriate consolation.
Clay eavesdropped openly. He stroked his sore knuckles along grim lips and let a flood of emotion sweep over him. He wanted her to talk to him with that same warmth in her voice. Wait—what was she telling Harrison about the sheep being poisoned?
“I know it sounds farfetched,” she said. “Just ask your little black-market oilmen if they used Drixathyon.” She touched the knot on her head. “We’re not talking one dead ram here. Animals are dying right and left.” She shuddered. “I think the chemical is in the stream.” There was a pause. “Why do I think so? Because I drank the water and reacted. Hallucinations—big time.”
Forcing her eyes away from Clay’s bare chest, Starr made herself listen to the senator’s vigorous denial.
“Starr, you can’t accuse Calexco of...” For a moment his voice faded out, then came back stronger. “We need this oil strike, dammit. I can’t have you jeopardizing it on some supposition. I won’t let you.”
“Senator, I can’t believe you said that! We have federal laws protecting these animals.”
“Now, now, calm down, Starr. Clay told Hank you suffered quite a bump on the head. It’s possible this is all fantasy.”
Her voice hardened. “Ask Calexco if it’s fantasy. You have until this storm blows over, Senator.” Eyes flinty, she abruptly pushed the mike back into Clay’s hands and marched across the room to search for her boots.
Clay stared after her. At last he clicked on and questioned his brother. “What’s any of this got to do with you, buddy?”
Briefly—very briefly—Harrison explained. But beyond mentioning the state’s debt and the need for oil money, he refused to talk. Following an uneasy silence, the brothers signed off.
Eager to clarify the situation with Starr, Clay turned. In the interim, she’d gone into the bathroom and shut the door.
Well, he didn’t want to argue with her, anyway. He’d misjudged Harrison once already and her, too. This time he wanted to get all the facts straight first. Starr had been in pretty bad shape when he found her. That bump on the head might have caused her to hallucinate. People did strange things when they were close to freezing, too. It probably was that, and she’d recognize as much when she calmed down.
Clay pulled on his boots, shrugged into his jacket and went out into the raging snowstorm to find grass for the horses. When he finished with that, he’d go back inside and they’d discuss the issue like two rational adults.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE BATHROOM DOOR rattled when Clay left the cabin. At the sound, Starr glanced up and met her own eyes in the mirror. She gazed at the livid bruise on her forehead, then bent her head to rinse her face with the cool water. She cupped her hands to catch some for a drink, her mouth puckered. The instant the water touched her lips, more of her memory flooded back. As the tap water ran over her fingers and disappeared down the drain, her hands began to shake. The sheep drank from a tainted stream and died. By the grace of God, she hadn’t.
Starr mulled over possibilities. The most logical was that Drixathyon only stunned. In the case of the sheep, maybe they’d actually frozen—making them appear to die of natural causes. If, in the earlier instance, the fish had lost their bearings and accidentally flopped onto the shore, they would have died being out of water.
My God! If not for Clay, the fate of the sheep would have befallen her. While she stood in the tiny bathroom, weighing all she owed him, Starr wondered whether a debt of such magnitude was repayable.
Outside Clay cursed the snowdrifts that made gathering winter grass tedious. Snow fell, thick and wet, as he carried what grass he’d found to the horses. Before long, his pant legs were soaked to the knees. But the work left his mind free to wander. He hoped that Hank had brought the last bull in off the range, and that the hands remembered to mix warm mash with the horses’ feed.
Harrison mentioned that SeLi was worried about Starr. Maybe the kid wasn’t as tough as she wanted everyone to think. Clay recalled the incident with the pictures. Did Starr know how badly SeLi wanted a father?
He’d do his best to make her a good one.
Then it hit him—he hadn’t asked Harrison about his involvement in SeLi’s adoption. Damn! Clay assumed he’d broken down all the barriers between himself and Starr. Now he wasn’t sure. Two questions remained. Who was SeLi Lederman, and why was her file closed?
Yesterday during his very informative chat with Harrison, the only thing they’d really cleared up was that nothing—nothing at all had gone on between Harrison and Starr, or between Van and himself. Come to think of it, Harris had still acted damned funny. He’d called his own brother nosy, and now he refused to discuss his dealings with Calexco. Clay didn’t like loose ends.
He left the shed and sucked in a bracing lungful of icy air before fighting his way across the deep drifts. When he finally pushed past the broken door, he was determined to press S
tarr for answers.
Startled by his sudden entrance, Starr glanced up from where she stood on tiptoe searching a kitchen cabinet. Moments ago she had promised herself that she could be sophisticated about what had happened between them. Now she desperately groped for something clever to say. “You look like the abominable snowman. Tell me,” she teased, “what do snowmen eat? Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is almost bare.”
Clay put a shoulder to the warped door and closed out the blowing snow. Even then he was forced to tuck a chair beneath the handle to keep it shut. He gaped at Starr, but suddenly not one question remained in his head. When he found his voice, he called forth lightness, too. “I’m afraid the sight of auburn-haired witches turn abominable snowmen into puddles. Feeding them won’t help.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Maybe that’s good. I can’t cook without a deli down the street. We’ve got no eggs, no milk, no bread. No...anything.”
Clay shucked his wet jacket, pulled off his boots and shook himself in front of the fireplace like a wet pup.
“Out of the kitchen, city girl,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Everything in the country is either powdered or canned. Step aside and let this cowboy get a meal together.” He spanned her waist and moved her over.
“You’re soaked,” Starr exclaimed, staring at his jeans which were dark to midthigh. Form fitting, they hugged his muscular legs and set her heart thrumming.
“What did you expect? Sunburn?” He’d seen her pulse speed, and suddenly the tension was back. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re marooned in a blizzard. You’d better learn to like C-rations, lady. It’s your fault we’re here.”
The tension between them kindled.
Stepping forward, Clay grasped her arms. When she winced, he saw that he’d unintentionally caused her pain. He eased his hold and ran his hands lightly down to her elbows. “God, Starr.” His husky voice broke. “When I think how easily I might have missed you...that I might have been too late...” His throat worked convulsively. His eyes reflected the torment he was feeling.
Staring deep into them, she whispered, “I never thanked you for saving my life. Clay—let’s not fight.”
She leaned into his embrace.
Clay’s rough cheek rasped gently against her hair.
Starr’s hands inched around his waist. Slowly the racing tempo of their heartbeats blended into one. She found it comforting to be held by him.
He broke away first. “I’m all wet,” he protested. “And you must be starved. It’s past time for lunch. I’ll rustle up something if you’ll find me dry pants in one of these closets. Maybe the ranger left something.”
Stung by his hasty withdrawal, Starr pivoted away and accidentally struck his hand with her body.
He flinched.
She paused, skimming her eyes over the scraped skin on his knuckles. “Clay, you hurt yourself out there.” She caught his hand and ran her thumb over his injury. “I saw bandages and stuff in the bathroom. Let me clean this before it gets infected.”
“Save the Nightingale act. I didn’t get this feeding horses.” He pulled back brusquely. “I banged it on Harrison’s teeth while defending your virtue.”
“My vir— You two were in a brawl?” First she looked appalled. Then angry.
“It’s over, Starr. Surely you see why I assumed the two of you were having an affair. But I can’t believe either of you thought Van and I—”
“Really?” Starr’s eyes blazed. “When you lived together?”
“I told you that apartment had two suites. Besides, I wasn’t the one acting weird.” Clay stepped past her and yanked open a cupboard. “Just find me some pants, will you?” He wanted to have this out with her and clear the air once and for all, but everything considered, he worried that the feelings of mistrust might run too deep. Not only that, she still looked pale from her experience. No, he decided, it was too soon for the kind of no-holds-barred discussion he wanted.
Seeing the closed expression on his face, Starr crossed the room to the closet. She sneaked a quick peek at him and wondered what he was thinking.
Clay found a skillet and slammed it down on the small electric stove. He immediately regretted his behavior and opened various cans more quietly.
A few minutes later Starr was back with a variety of pants and shirts. The smell wafting from the skillet made her mouth water. “I think the ranger who lived here must’ve been Paul Bunyan’s twin.” She reached around Clay to lift the skillet lid, then dropped it when the steam burned her fingers.
Lost in thought, Clay gave a start. Her face twisted in pain, and he rushed her to the sink to run cold water over her hand. “Paul who?” he muttered.
“Bunyan. These shirts and pants are the biggest I’ve ever seen. Even belted, I think the pants would fall off you.” Starr pulled her hand away and showed him a pair of blue jeans big enough for both of them with room to spare. The shirt she draped around her shoulders hung like a granny gown.
“Well, maybe the shirt alone will be enough. If I put my jeans by the fire, they should dry by the time I have to go out and feed the horses again.” Clay snatched the shirt from her and handed her the spatula.
“Dish this stuff up, will you? I’ll be back in a flash.” He disappeared into the small bathroom.
Using a pot holder this time, Starr removed the lid. “Yum.” She peered hungrily at two stacks of golden pancakes and thick slabs of canned ham.
When Clay reappeared, Starr thanked providence that she’d already taken a seat at the table. Much too much of Clay’s well-muscled thighs showed below the curved hem of the shirt. Need roared through her like a runaway freight train. She couldn’t even meet his eyes.
Unaware of the effect he had on her, Clay took a chair opposite and reached for his plate. “Thanks for waiting,” he murmured.
When she didn’t say anything, he glanced up and caught the hunger in her eyes. It was a dangerous look for both of them. Clay battled his own desires that sent goose bumps along his bare legs. “Don’t tell me you have lecherous designs on my body,” he joked, passing her the syrup.
She flushed and all but drowned her pancakes.
“I was teasing, Starr.” He smiled. “Isn’t that what men get accused of any time they admire skimpily dressed women?”
“Don’t, Clay.”
Shrugging, he cut his ham. “Then you pick a subject,” he invited amiably, “since mine is unacceptable.”
“Do you know how long we’ll be stuck here?” she demanded.
“Not long, I hope,” he snapped back. “There’s not much for the horses to eat. Or for us, either. I don’t think Paul Bunyan planned on company for Christmas.”
Starr dropped her fork. “We can’t be here that long. This is SeLi’s first real Christmas. Not only that, this mountain is littered with dead sheep. I’m in a race against time.”
“Up here, winter storms are unpredictable. Starr, I heard what you said to Harrison about thinking some chemical killed the sheep. I also heard his response. Maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I’m not. He’s putting too much faith in Calexco. I don’t trust them.”
“But you trust Harrison?”
She slanted him a sharp look. “Depends.”
“On what? We have all day—and all night. Suppose you tell me.”
She touched the painful lump on her forehead. Her brain had that disjointed feeling again. She wanted to tell someone. But Clay hadn’t believed her before. What made her think he’d believe her now?
Sighing, she offered a condensed version, beginning with her first contact with his brother. When she got to the part about the chemical, Clay pushed his plate aside, sat back and steepled his fingers. Once or twice his brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
Abruptly Starr got up and carried their empty plates to the sink.
Clay fired off several questions as he rose to help.
She told him all she knew about Drixathyon, taking care not to implicate Harri
son when she accused Calexco of willful misconduct in their drilling practices.
Clay jumped to that conclusion himself. “Why didn’t you explain this to Harrison? He’s so caught up in his campaign he probably can’t see beyond the jobs it’ll bring to the state.”
Starr didn’t think many men could sound as convincing as a court attorney dressed in little more than a khaki shirt. Clay McLeod did. She just wished she was half as sure as he. “Maybe,” she murmured. “Can you swear to that? For a month you’ve thought he was guilty of...all kinds of things. Now you claim he’s Mr. Ten Carat all the way.”
“It’s not that exactly.”
“Then what?”
“People do imagine things when they’re freezing. I’d like more proof that you weren’t dreaming. Or...what if he’s somehow being coerced?”
“Blackmail? You mentioned it before.” She frowned. “But that’s a contradiction if he’s innocent...”
“Of course he is.”
Starr plunged the plates into soapy water. “Why of course?“
Clay raked a hand through his hair. “It’s too farfetched. He’s never done anything illegal or even questionable before—as far as I know.”
“Technically I guess it’s not illegal—some of the federal preserves have been opened for selective oil exploration.” She shook her head. “These preserves were set aside to protect animals in danger of extinction. I’m not sure a state should be able to override that for reasons of greed.” She waved a soapy hand.
“Greed?” Clay’s stomach lurched. “Are you saying you think my brother’s on the take?”
Common sense told Starr to shut her mouth. It was clear that Clay didn’t want to believe her. “I wish he wasn’t involved with Calexco,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Do they contribute to his campaign fund?”
Clay stopped pacing beside her. “Not as a company. But yes, I think both the president and chairman of Calexco’s board support Harrison with donations. Is that a problem?”
Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance) Page 19