by Laurie Paige
Was it her imagination or was his tone decidedly cooler than his earlier greeting? Had she offended him by thanking him for his help?
"That's very commendable," she replied with the exact inflection he'd used on her, irritated without knowing why.
There was a brief silence. "Your hair looks nice," he commented.
Shannon's hand flew to the bristly section at her temple. "I had it shampooed and cut before I let Megan bring me home. Marilee said it would blend okay in a few days."
"It looks great now. You can hardly tell one side is shorter than the other."
She didn't want to ask, but there was something she'd worried over during the hours when she couldn't sleep for thinking about the future. She thought he would tell her the truth. "What about the wound? Can you see where the bullet went in or … or anything?"
She hated the hesitation, as if she was afraid of his answer. She squared her shoulders and waited.
When he moved from the chair, she felt a stir of air near her face. Warmth touched her an instant before he did.
Fingers caressed the side of her jaw before sliding under her chin and lifting her face. She stared up at or where she imagined him to be.
She was wrong. When he spoke, she realized his face was nearly level with hers and very close. His breath caressed her cheek as he answered.
"The scar at your temple won't be visible. Your hair will cover it completely when it grows another half inch. Now under your chin…"
She waited, her breath shallow, for his pronouncement.
"That might be noticed if someone is specifically looking for it, or if they happen to be at this level with your head tilted just so. Otherwise, it isn't obvious. The surgeon did an excellent job of stitching it up."
Her breath rushed out in audible relief. Feeling self-conscious, she tried to laugh. That sounded even worse.
"Nothing like being vain," she finally managed.
"Everyone is," he said softly, "to a certain extent. No one wants to feel like a freak."
His tone was deep, with an unexpected huskiness that surprised and disturbed her. He'd sounded amused, cynical, maybe bitter, but also gentle and understanding. Which didn't fit her image of him at all.
"Well, that's one worry you've certainly never had," she said, injecting wry amusement in her voice.
"Haven't I?"
Wondering what he meant, she instinctively reached toward him, as if to check for herself that he was as she remembered. She encountered his lean cheek and chiseled jawline. He had classical good looks, the bone structure strong and masculine, his nose straight, his lips … she tried to think of a descriptive word and failed.
She traced the outline of his mouth with her fingertips. His lips were warm, firm and yet surprisingly soft. When they moved slightly under her touch, a tingle of electricity zinged up her arm.
She drew back, startled.
Her unthinking action was too intimate. She'd invaded his personal space. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, to touch you like that."
A hand caught her wrist and brought her hand into contact with the warm flesh again. "Go ahead," he invited. "I like being touched. By you," he added in a very soft voice, as if it were a surprising afterthought.
Thus encouraged, she outlined his nose, ran a finger over each eyebrow, then glided over his forehead to his hair. The strands felt crisp and clean under her hand.
She knew it was inky black. So were his eyebrows and lashes. His eyes were a light, pure blue. It was a startling combination and extremely attractive.
The scent of shampoo and aftershave came to her. His cheek was smooth to her touch as if he'd showered and shaved recently. She thought how it might be if they kissed—
"You're as handsome as ever," she reported, dropping her hands to her lap, feeling foolish and inept in a way she hadn't felt since her first date.
He stood and moved away.
Toward the fireplace, she surmised. His tall – six-two or so – frame blocked its warmth. Odd, but she sensed something was bothering him. She couldn't imagine what.
Rory was a man who had it all – looks, money, respect, the career he'd chosen even though she'd heard his father had wanted him to go into law. What was his problem?
It occurred to her that he'd never married. He'd dated various women, none of them for long, according to local gossip. Why settle for one when so many were available?
The black depression returned. Hearing Megan's footsteps, she was glad he'd moved away. An odd picture they would have made, her exploring his face as if she'd never seen the man before.
And him letting her … even encouraging it.
Well, weirder things had probably happened. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and felt the tingle lightly play over her fingertips and up her arm again. She'd never felt that before, not just from touching someone.
"Why don't you stay for dinner?" Megan said to Rory, coming into the room. "Grandfather would love to have a man to talk to for a change. He and I rattle around the house like two lost souls most nights. That's why I'm delighted Shannon's here. She can entertain us now with wild exciting tales of her work."
"Thanks, I'd like that. I imagine Shannon's had some interesting experiences," Rory said.
"Well, nothing else as exciting as the robbery and 'shoot-out,'" she said, using the media's term with a large dollop of droll humor.
Megan and Rory laughed at her stories as she recounted some of the odd things people did in unexpected situations – like the man who carried the cash register out of his burning store and set it on the hood of his burning car.
To her surprise, the next hour passed quickly. She even began to relax as Rory took up the conversational reins and amused them with stories of pets and their owners.
She found herself listening intently. There were nuances in people's voices she hadn't noticed before … such as the husky, sexy quality in the masculine baritone. A tingle raced along her scalp and down her neck.
A noise came from down the hall. "Here's Grandfather," Megan announced, rising. "Rory is staying for dinner with us," she told the older man. "I told him you would be glad of some male company."
Shannon felt her grandfather's kiss on her cheek, then heard him greet Rory in a guttural tone, the words indistinct.
Rory chatted easily, relating news of the ranches around the valley and the people on them, all known to the Windorns for years and years. He'd always been a polite person when they met, even when they argued over local issues, but now she saw – realized, she corrected – that he was a considerate one, too.
He told of his plans to breed an Olympic champion. "Big pie-in-the-sky plans," he admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. "But if you're going to dream, it might as well be a big dream as a small one."
"I agree," Megan put in.
"What's your dream?" Shannon asked. She and her cousin, only a year younger and her best friend, had shared everything as teenagers. As adults, they had put aside long, heart-searching discussions for the realities of living.
Megan laughed. "I want to ride that Olympic champion for Rory."
Shannon pictured the other two working together on their common goal. They would probably fall in love and marry. Their children would be beautiful…
Loneliness swept over her with no warning, a terrible desolate sense of isolation. No one would want her—
With an effort, she pulled herself back from the brink of morbid self-pity. That wouldn't do, not at all. For the rest of the evening, the conversation flowed among the three of them. Her grandfather surprised her by managing to make a few comments, an improvement over his usual silent presence.
He'd been through ten years of living in a wheelchair, barely able to communicate during that time, all without a whimper. She'd never seen him cry over his fate. Clenching her hand into a fist, she vowed to be as brave, no matter what happened nine days from now.
A hand touched her clenched one, lightly, briefly. She realized it was Rory
's, seated at her left. Turning towards him, she smiled to show him she was fine.
"Atta girl," he murmured next to her ear, startling her at how close he was.
After dinner, their guest insisted on helping Megan clean up. While they had someone come in occasionally to clean the house and watch after Grandfather, they couldn't afford full-time help.
A five-thousand acre ranch was expensive to run but brought in little money. Thanks to Kate, the place was solvent, but for a while after her Uncle Sean's death, the cousins had thought they might lose it.
Shannon worried that she would now be an added expense on the household budget. She needed to find a way to make a living. Others managed, she reminded herself, as she mentally cringed at the idea of facing people without being able to see their gestures and expressions.
Besides, she'd be able to see with her right eye at the very least. She was sure of it.
But just in case, what could she do? While the conversation ebbed and flowed around her, she contemplated the future. As a psychologist, she didn't have to have sight. She could record her sessions and dictate her notes. It would be more difficult but not impossible.
"Don't you think so, Shannon?" Megan asked.
"What? I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."
From her left came the sound of a deep chuckle. Rory said, "We were discussing a partnership, Megan and I. We think it makes sense to combine our efforts on a horse-breeding program."
"To produce an Olympic champ?" she asked. "Right," he said, not at all embarrassed about revealing his dreams of the future.
Shannon put aside her own worries and considered. Rory might be good for Megan. Her cousin spent way too much of her time alone or with the kids in the riding classes she taught or with their grandfather.
"It makes sense. I mean, you're both experts with horses. Besides, it would save you an enormous amount of money in vet bills," she told her cousin, then realized how crass that sounded.
He laughed as if delighted with this practical observation. "Well, then, that settles it. We have official endorsement from the sheriff's department."
A wisp of memory floated into her mind. A voice. Deep. Soothing. Reassuring. Someone – a man, she knew that – had examined her with hands so gentle she'd longed to see his face. His touch had been cool on her hot forehead and at her temple. When she'd opened her eyes and tried to see him, she'd been blinded by the brilliant light that had surrounded him like a halo.
"The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow," Rory continued. "Let's go riding. The mare that had the inflamed leg needs some light exercise, and I want to see how she handles herself with other horses."
Silence ensued after the invitation.
Shannon assumed Megan was thinking it over. A hand nudged her arm.
"Hey, you gone to sleep?" he asked.
"Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah. I know Megan wants to go. How about you?"
Fear rushed over her. "I – I don't know. I hadn't thought about it."
"You need to get out," he said decisively. "Don't worry. We'll watch out so you don't fall down a gopher hole."
Shannon heard Megan gasp. "Rory," she scolded.
"I wanted her to know it won't be a case of the blind leading the blind," he said blandly. "Unless she's scared, or doesn't trust us to watch after her."
Shannon's hackles rose. "I've been riding horses since I could sit up by myself. I'd hardly be afraid of one. Especially if Megan is with me."
There, that would let him know her faith was in her cousin, not a handsome charmer like him.
"Good. I'll be over around noon or whenever I finish at the clinic." He paused. "It is okay for her to ride, isn't it?"
"Well, the doctor didn't say she was under any restrictions on activities," Megan told him. "At least, not to me."
"Nor to me," Shannon informed them briskly, determined to speak for herself. After all, she wasn't an invalid.
The clock on the mantel chimed ten times. Shannon hadn't realized it was so late. Fatigue rolled over her. It had been a very long day. Her emotions had gyrated through several ups and downs.
"Grandfather is ready to go to his room," Megan announced. "I'll make us some cocoa and be back shortly."
Shannon kissed her grandfather's cheek when he stopped by the rocker and patted her knee. "Good night," she murmured to the patriarch, again experiencing a fierce protective love for her family.
"What makes you sad?" Rory asked when the other two were gone.
"I was thinking of my grandfather. He's outlived his wife and all three of his children. That must be a terribly lonely thing for a person. Then to have a stroke and be confined in a wheelchair seems so unfair."
"Yeah, it's tough. But so is he. And you."
She smoothed the hair over her temple and managed a smile. "I'm not so sure—"
"I am."
"Listen, about tomorrow." She paused, trying to figure out how to say what she was thinking. "You don't have to … to keep an eye on me. I mean, you're under no obligation to watch after me—"
"I never thought I was."
"What I'm trying to say is that … well, I know you found me and saved my life and all, but you don't have to feel responsible for me. You don't have to check on me. After all, I'm not your patient," she ended stoically.
He snorted, made a strangling sound, then burst into unabashed laughter.
She realized how stupid she'd sounded. "Okay, so I made a donkey of myself. You know what I meant."
He stifled the chortles. "Yes, I know. I don't feel I have to look after you."
She heard him move, then felt his touch on her cheek. She held very still while her heart set up a heavy, alarmed pounding. Fear, unlike that experienced during the past ten days, fluttered through her chest.
"But you do have the most kissable mouth of any woman I've ever met," he murmured in an oddly quiet tone, almost as if he spoke to himself.
Her breath hung in her throat, then she laughed. "You suddenly noticed this? That's a bit hard to swallow when we've lived in the same town all our lives."
"Yeah," he agreed. "Sometimes it takes an incident to change fate, so to speak. Like seeing a person on a snowy night with Christmas lights sparkling in her eyes."
He touched her temple next to the patch over her left eye. When she felt warmth near her mouth, she gasped, unable to believe what she thought was about to happen.
Then his mouth was there, increasing the warmth to heat, then fire.
Stunned, she couldn't move, couldn't think. Except for one question. Why had she ever thought of him as a person of coolness? His touch was that of the sun, radiating warmth clear down to her toes.
Confusion swept over her.
Now he was one with the dark, swirling fog that had haunted her the week of the coma, with the longing that had invaded her soul as she'd searched for a way out of the hot darkness, with the awful need for another person that frightened her because it felt too dangerous.
"Don't," she whispered.
He drew back slightly. "I can't help it. Your lips are too tempting."
His mouth touched hers again. His hands stroked through her hair. She hesitated, then, unable to stop, leaned into the kiss, letting it take her, needing the healing touch.
"No," she said and jerked away.
He didn't insist, but she could sense his gaze on her. "That was an experiment," he said finally.
"To prove what?"
"To see if it was need or desire."
The admission caught her off guard. "Which was it?"
His brief laugh was rueful. "Both."
When he moved away, she was relieved. And disappointed. "Here's Megan," she said, hearing her cousin's footsteps in the hall.
"Saved," he murmured wickedly.
The aroma of hot cocoa preceded the other woman into the room. "It's really cold out tonight," she said. "You might want to warm your truck before heading home."
"I'll be fine," Rory said. "It isn't far a
nd the cocoa will keep me warm enough on the way."
Shannon's face felt hot. There had been nuances in his simple statement, in the huskiness of his voice, that told her he was thinking of more than hot chocolate.
When he finished and left, Shannon stood, too. "I think I'll go to bed. My usual room?" she asked.
"Yes. Do you need any help? Kate lectured me about letting you do for yourself, so I'm trying to be good."
Shannon laughed. "You're doing great. I can get myself to bed."
Later, after she'd washed up and slipped into her flannel pajamas, she sat on the bed, too tense to think of sleep. Sensing warmth, she discovered the light was on. The bed had been turned back, too. Megan's doing.
After flicking off the unnecessary light, she lingered with her hand on the bedside phone. Finally she lifted the receiver and slowly, carefully punched in a number.
It rang once.
She started to hang up, but then it was answered.
"Hello?" Brad said, obviously irritated at the call.
"Who is it?" someone said in the background.
A woman.
Shannon hung up very quietly and sat there in the utter stillness of the winter night. She wanted to believe there was some mistake, that she'd dialed the wrong number, but she knew she hadn't.
He could have called. He could have asked how she was, then casually mentioned that he'd met an old friend while working on a case, anything to let her know there was someone else.
The loneliness enclosed her, and she sat there for a long time in the darkness, her mind carefully blank, her heart beating steadily as if she had all eternity to contemplate, rather than this moment that felt like betrayal.
But, she reminded herself in all honesty, there had been no understanding between them, no commitment … no love.
Lying down and pulling the covers up to her chin, she tried to see through the blackness and find a future that seemed possible. It was scary to be so alone.
Her cousins thought she was brave, but she wasn't. Only Rory seemed to sense the moments when despair came too close and it became an effort to smile.
The memory of a cool, gentle touch at her temple, the tingling sensation of warm lips against her fingertips, the surprise in a stolen kiss, came to her.