by Ruth Wind
"I guess you would be." She felt him lift the brush and let a hank of hair fall. "God, it's pretty." He gathered all of it into his hands and made a rope. Heather shifted to look at him. He twined the pale length around one forearm. Her breath caught in her throat at the strangely intimate gesture. He stroked the hair with his other hand, as if it were an animal he was admiring. His fingers were clean and long, with neat, oval nails. He moved them steadily, deliberately over the coil around his wrist and Heather simply watched, enthralled by his absorption. After a moment, he looked at her with his deep, soft eyes.
Heather glanced away, feeling vulnerable and exposed.
He dropped the "rope," as if sensing her mood. "How'd you like to go see the scene of the accident?"
"It's the middle of the night!"
He smiled. "So? I'll protect you."
Heather raised her eyebrows. "Who will protect you?"
"I reckon I could handle almost anything."
"Bears?"
"Even a grizzly." He grinned. "If there was such a thing in a prairie this flat."
"Okay." She might as well—it certainly beat sitting in her cubicle. "I'll meet you at the top of the stairs in five minutes."
He struggled to a standing position, and Heather didn't miss his wince as his feet took his weight. She watched him silently as he limped out on obviously stiff legs.
A few minutes later, bundled in her thick coat and boots suitable for the coldest Missouri winter day, she met Ben at the arranged spot. He wore his hat and a heavy down parka. His cowboy boots thumped on the floor. "You're such a tiny thing," he remarked.
"I'm five-five. That's not tiny."
"I'm seven inches taller than you. That's tiny." Outside, the air was soft with gigantic snowflakes, and the ground was covered with a thick blanket of white. Heather tasted the fresh air with pleasure. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"If you like snow."
"Don't you?"
"Sure. I like all weather. Some people are rabid about snow, though."
They walked along the tracks in the snowy field next to the rails. "You play the guitar like an angel," Ben said.
"How does an angel play the guitar?"
"You know what I mean. How long have you been playing?"
"Since I was eight. A friend of my father's found the guitar in an abandoned car he'd towed in with his wrecker, and my father bought it for ten dollars. I loved it. My parents gave me lessons."
"Why don't you find yourself a place with a symphony or something?"
"Not much call for guitarists in that capacity. I do occasional guest appearances and things like that." Her feet made no sound at all in the soft snow. "I'm not really that good. I'm competent—no more."
Ben took her arm. "No. You're much better than that."
His tall, warm body felt comfortable close to her and she glanced up at him with a brief smile. "If you were a musician you would understand what I mean."
"I'm no musician," he conceded. "But I've struggled with that damned instrument for most of my natural life and I know how hard it is to play really good guitar."
A wash of light illuminated his nose and jaw. Heather simply looked at him. It was flattering, of course, for someone to think she had talent. And perhaps she did—a small one. She also knew, with a clearsightedness born of fruitless tryouts, that she wasn't as gifted as he would like to believe. After a moment, she said, "I do love playing. The theater group I work with is doing Twelfth Night this weekend and all next week. Whenever there's a performance, I'm guaranteed an audience for my own music. Although it's fun to just play, composing is my true love."
As she spoke, she realized she rarely shared that deep center of herself with anyone. What was it about Ben Shaw that made her talk and talk and talk whenever he appeared? She turned away from him to look toward the dark scene in front of them. Ahead, the lights of a police car flashed on a road that would intersect the tracks around the next turn. "Are you sure no one was hurt?" she asked.
"Positive. The steward said the guy just fell asleep. The truck wasn't even mangled much. It's just a mess due to the cargo."
"I always hate it when people mob accident scenes."
"Gory, isn't it?" He paused. "This is a little different, though. And anyway, it's not like we have a TV to watch."
Heather smiled. "True. Not that I have one, anyway."
"You don't have a television?"
She shook her head. "I never watched it when I was a child, and I guess I just never got around to picking it up."
"Didn't your husband watch it?"
"Endlessly. But I always got restless." She looked at him. "Are you one of those die-hard addicts who watch everything?"
"Nah. I watch movies, mostly."
"You seem like you'd be one of those guys that spend Sunday afternoons glued to the games."
"Well, you're wrong," he said, squeezing her arm playfully.
"What do you do on Sunday afternoons, then?"
He slipped his hand down her arm and into her pocket. His fingers were ice cold. "Do you mind?" he asked, after he'd taken her hand in his.
"No," she replied softly. How could she mind? He felt like a chinook wind, gentle and warm, on the frozen stretches of her spirit. She gingerly touched the long fingers in her pocket.
"On Sunday afternoons," he said, "I take walks with my dog. Or I visit friends, or write. Sometimes, I treat myself to a movie in town or clean the house." He leaned into her easily. "What do you do on Sundays?"
"Nothing, usually." Heather laughed. "Sleep late and listen to music."
He nodded. "That seems nice."
They rounded the curve that led to the accident and stopped at the activity. At least five police cars flashed their lights into the snowy night and dozens of down-clad workers struggled with the spilled boxes. The truck was a semi. The cab lay at a right angle to the trailer and the back doors had been flung open on impact, scattering the contents over the snow. Ben knelt to pick up a small box at his feet. He glanced inside and laughed heartily.
"What is it?" Heather asked.
"Electronic parts—for a computer manufacturer." He laughed again.
"Why are you laughing? Won't that cost the company a fortune?"
"Any company that lost this much stock would lose a fortune. This one can afford it better than a lot of others could." He tossed the box nearer the workers. "It's going to take them hours to clean this up."
Ben felt a sudden rigidity in the fingers clasped within his own and looked at Heather's face. The blue and red lights flashed over her pale skin. Her nostrils flared and he saw her swallow, a strangely stricken expression tightening the skin around her eyes. He caressed her fingers. "Is that how your husband died? In a car?"
She flickered her eyelids down over her huge eyes. "No," she answered abruptly.
Ben gnawed his inner cheek for a brief second. "Why don't we go back and get some hot chocolate?" he suggested quietly. He had an urge to enfold her very gently in his arms, to hold her and sooth that pain, whatever it was. He resisted. Instead, he pulled his hand from her pocket and stretched his arm around her shoulders. "It's too cold to stand around out here."
She leaned against him for a fleeting moment. Ben sighed very softly. As they walked, he wondered if his limp threw her off, and he felt an unusual sense of self-consciousness about it. Get over it, buddy, he told himself. Some women did find him less attractive because of his imperfection, but not any who mattered. A woman compassionate enough to take the coffee from his trembling hands wouldn't judge him over a bumpy walk.
Still, he had no wish to make her uncomfortable, and he moved his hand back to her elbow. They returned to the train without speaking.
When she would have headed for the dining cars, he tugged gently at her elbow. "The steward will bring it to my room. It's quieter there," he said. The truth was, he needed to pull his damn boots off again; the cold walk had made his ankle ache.
She measured him for a moment, her great eyes
almost navy blue in her oval face. A wisp of hair clung to an eyelash and he reached up to brush it away. "No funny business," he assured her. "I promise."
A little light gleamed in her eyes. "I don't know why I trust you," she commented. "But I do."
"Good." He pressed her arm and released her. A steward stood at the top of the steps and Ben paused. "Will you bring some hot chocolate to my room?"
"Yes, sir."
Ben frowned briefly. "Is there any way you could bring a pot, instead of those dinky little cups?"
The young man grinned. "Sure, Mr. Shaw."
His room was much larger than Heather's. It was situated in a corner of the car and boasted a bathroom of its own. The bed had been made up, along the wall, and a chair faced the snowy scene outside. "What luxury," Heather murmured.
"I may as well travel in comfort, since I have to do so much sometimes."
"Do you travel a lot?" she asked, sitting gingerly on the chair.
"It depends on my mood. I had to work out some business with my agent. I figured I could use the change of scenery, so decided to do it in person." He sank down on the bed and winced. It was a fleeting expression, but Heather caught it and felt a response rise in her chest, an emotion she didn't stop to analyze.
"You should rest," she urged. When he reached down to yank at his boot, she moved easily to his feet and grabbed the heel. "Pull."
The boot slipped free and Heather grabbed the other one. Ben eased that foot out more gently, groaning softly as he did so. "Thank you," he said.
Heather returned to her chair. "Sure. No one should have to take off their own boots."
He grinned. "Do you want some help with yours?"
"No, thank you." She shrugged out of her coat. "I'd like to stay dressed in the company of a gentleman."
His smile was appreciative as he removed his own coat and took off his socks. Again, there was the slightest pause as he struggled to reach his left foot, and when he had wrestled the sock off, Heather saw the crisscross of scar tissue along his ankle.
"I see why the weather aggravates you."
He shrugged. "Truthfully, everything aggravates this leg. But life doesn't end with a few aches and pains."
Heather nodded. For a brief moment, thoughts of James brushed her mind, and she resolutely ignored them. "It looks like someone worked pretty hard to put it back together for you."
"I sort of got the impression you didn't like hearing about this stuff." His brown eyes fastened on her soberly.
She sighed and glanced away, then back at him. "I'm sure you think I'm a little strange. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."
"I don't think you're strange at all." He grinned crookedly. "Just a little gun-shy."
She liked his face, she thought—liked the radiating lines around his eyes and the deep tone of his irises; liked the soft look of his multihued mustache and the strength in his jaw and chin. It was a face that was easy to look at, a face that hinted at a complex and interesting nature. "Yes," she agreed softly. "Gun-shy is a good way of putting it."
His eyes tilted up in humor. "I can handle that." He slipped his moccasins on and tied them. "My left leg, to answer your question, was shattered. They spent a lot of hours in quite a few operations piecing it back together, but there wasn't any way to get it perfect. It's got about a dozen pins to hold it all together and it's always stiff." He patted his pocket for cigarettes. "But basically I figure I'm lucky to walk at all." He held up the pack. "Does smoke bother you?"
"Not a bit. I smoked for ten years."
"How long since you quit?"
"About four years." She swallowed in memory. She and James and planned to have a baby—a baby that had never materialized.
"That's great." He brushed his wavy dark hair off his forehead and exhaled. "I don't imagine I'll ever give it up."
A knock at the door signaled the arrival of their hot chocolate, and Heather jumped up. "You sit. I'll take care of it." At the door she paused in chagrin and turned to look at him apologetically. "I don't have my purse."
He laughed and reached into his pocket for a wad of loose bills. "Give him a five for a tip."
Heather raised her eyebrows but did as she was told, taking the tray with its fat pot from the young man and giving him the money and the five-dollar tip. She was rewarded with a broad grin.
"I'll bet they fight to get you in restaurants," she remarked, closing the door. She put the tray down on a small table and poured each of them a cup of the creamy hot chocolate.
"Have you ever done that kind of work?"
"Yes. Often."
"Then you know how hard it is to please folks."
"I'm certainly not criticizing. In fact," she said with a smile, "I'm impressed."
"Don't be. Money's meant to be shared." Another man might have felt he'd earned the right to treat waiters and clerks with condescension. Not many people felt obligated to share their wealth. As he leaned forward to sip his chocolate, she looked at the lustrous darkness of his hair. What, she wondered, would that hair feel like under her fingers? She glanced down the slant of his cheekbone and dropped to the broad, lean frame of his shoulders beneath the sand-colored corduroy shirt. She was jolted by a long-forgotten ripple of sexual awareness in her belly as his soft gaze tangled with her wandering one. A dawning expression of comprehension touched his eyes and some emotion flared there for a second. Heather sipped her chocolate hurriedly and burned her lips, sending a sting of tears to her eyes; when she pulled the cup away, she nearly spilled it in her lap. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said with irritation. "I'm not ordinarily this clumsy."
Ben shifted until he was close to her. His voice held a hint of laughter when he asked, "Are you saying I shake you up?"
At his nearness, Heather felt her nervousness accelerate and she laughed shakily, unable to look at him. The leathery scent of him penetrated her nostrils, and unconsciously she inhaled it. "I don't know. I mean, I—no."
He laughed and brushed her hair away from her face. For an instant, his hand lingered on her shoulder, then dropped away. "I'm putty in the hands of such a beautiful woman. You don't have to be afraid of me."
She looked into his eyes. His lips were only a few inches from her own and yet he simply held her searching gaze without making any move to kiss her. It was strangely intimate, almost more penetrating than his kiss would have been. After a moment, she straightened. "All right."
He stubbed out his cigarette. "Do you know how to play backgammon?"
"I love it," she answered eagerly. "Do you have a board with you?"
"Right here." Ben pulled a small leather case from a bag beside the bed and opened it. "Dark or light?" he asked, extracting two soft bags of playing pieces.
"It doesn't matter. Light."
He spread the mat on the bed. "Come on over here. I promise I won't bite." When she'd moved, he handed her the bag of clear crystal disks.
She poured them into a pile and spread them into a single layer on the dark blanket of the bed, taking pleasure in their glowing sheen. After a moment, she followed Ben's lead and put the pieces in place on the well-crafted board. "This is a beautiful set," she commented.
"One of my sisters gave it to me for Christmas a few years back." He held a handful of round red glass pieces in his palm and fiddled with them. "I warn you. I'm very good and I like to win. Not even a pretty woman gets mercy from me."
"Is that so? Well, Mr. Shaw, I assure you I won't need any mercy."
As they played, it became obvious the two were well matched. Heather started out strong with two naturals, rolls that allowed her to strengthen her home position, and Ben glanced at her with a quirk of his mustache. He worked within the handicap easily, but Heather countered. It was only when a roll forced her to leave a man open that Ben took the lead, getting his men off the board a full two rolls before Heather did.
She cut short his chortle of victory with a demand for a rematch.
They played for two hours, trad
ing victory and defeat between them. When they agreed to quit, Ben was one game behind. "I'm not going to let you get away with this, you know. I can't stand to lose this game."
"Especially to a woman?" Heather prompted.
He frowned. "Woman or man," he corrected. "I know I use a lot of darlin's and sugars and honeys when I talk, but that's just the way I was raised."
"I'll give you a chance to make up your losses tomorrow, then."
"You mean later today."
She smiled in agreement. "I guess I do. What time is it, anyway?"
"Around six, I'd say. It's starting to get light."
"It's morning?" Heather said in surprise. "I'm not even tired."
"It's the invigorating companionship."
"Must be," she replied, smiling. Still, she stood. "I wonder how long it's going to take them to clean up?"
Ben stood, as well. "Could be a while yet. Tired or not, we both ought to get some rest. The halls are too noisy in the daytime."
"You're right."
"I'll walk you to your room."
She didn't demur this time. Heather noted that his limp seemed worse as they walked the short distance to her cubicle—a fact he seemed to be trying to hide.
"That limp doesn't bother me, you know," she commented without looking at him. "Relax."
He glanced at her and laughed a little, and she heard the slightly unsettled surprise in the deep notes. "Habit," he answered briefly.
At her room they stopped. "Thank you for the game," Heather said, turning to look up at him.
Ben lifted one hand to her chin, cupping it with his long fingers. For a moment he simply held it, stroking the underside of her jaw easily, his gaze taking inventory of her face. After a moment, he smiled. "Thank you," he returned, "for a nice day all the way around."
His lips touched hers, warm and surprisingly full. His mustache met the bowed lines of her upper lip in delicate greeting, and his mouth took hers firmly. Heather tilted her head into the cradle of his fingers, unable to think of a reason why she shouldn't give in to her wish to relax with him.
The kiss was as gentle as the man himself—undemanding and giving, with a hint of delicious sensuality in the swell of his lower lip. Heather parted her lips and he teased between her teeth with his tongue, flicking the very inner edges of her lips and the tip of her tongue. The softly probing sensuality sent a sudden sharp shock of pleasure through her middle. For a moment she let herself drift in the forgotten pleasure of a man's touch; the primitive, delicious luxury of feeling small and protected as his shoulders shielded her from any danger—real or imagined. His callused palm was cool along her jaw and the bushy mustache held the scent of his after-shave.