LET ME CALL YOU SWEETHEART

by Nancy Gideon

  "Risked your life to save me."

  He couldn't argue with her conclusion, nor would she let him make light of it as she drew him down for a kiss sweet enough to make angels weep. He could taste her tears and traces of smoke. And suddenly the urgency was gone, replaced by a need to show this woman just how precious she was—worth waiting for, worth dying for.

  She moved beneath him, her arms wreathed about his neck, her damp face buried there as her hips lifted to meet each deep downward stroke. He took his time, quickening the tempo only after he heard her breathing alter into shallow gasps, thinking of himself only after he felt the wild spasms shake up through her legs and grip about him like a tight fist. He went off like a lunar launch.

  When he was able, he whispered a shaky, "Wow," and felt her smile.

  She kissed his cheek and answered, "You're damn right, wow."

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Bess woke to an exquisite dream, one she'd had since she'd realized that humankind was made to move in pairs.

  She wasn't alone in bed.

  She'd expected that the uniqueness of having a big male animal intruding upon her space would keep her up all night, alert to every movement, reveling in every resonating breath from the man beside her. To her disappointment, she'd slept hard and deep, oblivious to her special companion.

  She half expected him to be gone when she opened her eyes. An illusion, a trick of a lonely mind. Or just gone to avoid complications. But he was still there, making her feel guilty for even considering him cowardly enough to sneak out before they could say their first good morning.

  She didn't look at the clock. There was no reason to. She had nothing pending, no work, no job half as important as lingering here, watching her lover sleep.

  Lover. A term both exciting and shameful, implying forbidden pleasures best shared in the dark. What would they call what they shared, now that morning brought it to light? She smiled to herself. Boyfriend sounded so old-fashioned, the scope too regimented to contain the intimate elements they'd enjoyed. A fling, a passing fancy, an affair? Her features took a downward turn. That's not how she wanted to file last night away among her other dusty memories.

  Outside her window she could hear the sounds of Sweetheart coming to life. The click of Timmy Bartlett's bicycle as he delivered the morning edition, the barking frenzy of the Pattersons' dog as neighbor, Jerry Posten walked out to his car to go to work. Regular, daily sounds simple in their routine sameness. Outside life went on as usual while in her upstairs room, within her prudish bed, Elizabeth Carrey was lying naked with a man after a long night of impassioned lovemaking. Not just any man, but the town's unreceived outcast.

  What would they say if they knew? Would the smoothly timed gears of Sweetheart grind to a halt because she'd had the audacity to slip from her cog?

  Blocks away in the town square, the courthouse clock chimed seven.

  Zach stirred with a husky mutter.

  And Bess went stone still in panic.

  She had a naked man in her bed. Not just any man: Zach Crandall, the object of her dreams, her fantasies, her demons. She'd given him her heart and her body when they were teens. Last night she'd added her trust and soul to that package.

  What in heaven's name was she supposed to say to him? Starkly aware of her nudity, she tucked the covers in around her, cocooning her from even the most accidental touch of his big, bare frame.

  How was she supposed to act with the man who knew her body better than she did herself? Who'd spent patient hours teaching it to respond with total abandon to his most subtle caress? Would she greet him with weepy-eyed gratitude or sultry confidence? With a kiss or hot coffee?

  She wondered wildly where she could find one of those books he'd talked about. Why hadn't she hidden her forbidden copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover better, giving her a chance to get to the "good parts" before her mother had discovered it while changing the sheets, and burned it in the fireplace?

  Before she could decide on an expression of sweetness or sophistication, Zach turned his head toward her, his laser-bright eyes catching her look of flustered despair. He said nothing for a long minute, giving her a chance to swallow hard and offer up a tentative smile.

  "Hi. I was just wondering what you might like for breakfast."

  A flicker of desire, dark and volatile, flashed through his eyes, followed quickly by a cooler caution, making her curse the casual way she'd left her statement open for interpretation. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel obligated … for anything. But before she could clarify that, and in doing so make things much worse, he answered.

  "I don't have the time. I've got to get home and change before work."

  "Oh."

  Of course he would. What had she expected? Him to take the day off as a personal holiday?

  His expression softened slightly in response to whatever misery artlessly displayed itself in hers. "How 'bout I make coffee while you grab a shower?"

  "Okay." Geez, think you could sound a little more wimpy there, Bess? she chided herself. She was about to speak up for herself with a more respectable degree of control, when Zach chose that moment to swing out of bed and reach for his jeans. He didn't seem fazed by his nudity, but it hit Bess like a Mack truck.

  She forgot to breathe.

  Gorgeous. He was gorgeous. Tall, broad through the back and shoulders tapering down to hard flanks and sturdy thighs, every firm, muscled inch molded with raw power. Sunlight detailed each unyielding contour in molten bronze. He tugged up his pants and fastened them in front, the movement creating an image of rippling poetry upon her stunned senses.

  Then she saw the splotchy burns upon bare skin, and reality knocked the legs out from under her daydream.

  He turned, pausing at the oddness of her expression to ask, "Are you all right, Bess?"

  "Fine. I'm fine. The coffee's in the cupboard on the left of the sink."

  And those were the first words she exchanged with her lover, discussing coffee and being late for work.

  Not the dream she'd imagined.

  But when she came downstairs, fresh from a vigorous shower, the sight of him moving easily about her kitchen started all sorts of crazy ideas.

  Like how great it would be to see him there every morning for the rest of her life.

  Zach leaned back against the counter, coffee warming his hands but not his expression. He'd put on his shirt and shoes. A second cup sat a world away from him on the table. She paused to test the relationship waters. Then he spoke.

  "Feel up to some questions?"

  She understood without meeting his impassive gaze. This morning it was business, not pleasure, between them.

  "Sure. I'll tell you what I can."

  She sat down, noticing he put her at an angle to him, not facing him. She stirred a packet of sweetener into her coffee and waited for him to begin. And when he asked, she told him everything she could remember, keeping her voice low and level even as her internal terrors ran rampant.

  "So, you've no idea who it was or what they were looking for?"

  She shook her head. "None." Then she looked up at him. "Except I think it has something to do with your father's murder."

  Surprise blinked through his eyes. Then he was all tough demands. "Why? What makes you think that?"

  She relayed her talk with Doc Meirs and with his sister while he listened expressionlessly. Until her conclusion.

  "That car running us off the road was no accident, was it? And neither was what happened to Melody's flowers."

  Again, his guard faltered.

  "Zach, whoever killed your father is getting nervous. We must be getting close."

  "We?" He had her by the shoulders before she could register his movement. "There is no 'we,' Bess. You understand? I don't want you involved—"

  She slapped aside his hands, annoyed, alarmed by his brusque manner. "Too late for that, don't you think? Obviously someone thought I was involved enough
to tear up my store and clobber me."

  Leaving her to die. His stark expression finished it for her. Realization stunned her. He was scared out of his mind. That's why he'd pushed her away. That's why he would do the same now—if she let him. Because the thought of separation was scarier than the threat of danger, she made her voice all gentle practicality.

  "We have to figure this out before Mel or your mom or Faith gets hurt."

  He didn't move, but the calm center behind his eyes blew apart as if she'd applied a twelve-gauge. He started pacing, strides dangerously compact.

  "What happened at your store was vandalism. That's what you'll say, and that's what will go in my report. You don't remember getting hit on the head. It must have happened when you fell."

  "Zach—"

  He put up his forefinger to silence her. "I can't do my job if I'm worrying about you. Now I figure—"

  "I figure whoever did it will show himself faster if he thinks I know something."

  "No."

  "What do you mean, no? I may not read the right kind of books but I do watch TV. I'll be the bait to draw him out and you—"

  "—will wring your neck if you even mention something that crazy again. Dammit, Bess, you sell old books, you're not Miss Marple. If we've got someone's attention, I want him coming after me. I know what I'm doing, and I'm good at it. It's about the only thing I've ever been good at." He paused, sucking a harsh breath to smooth the edge of emotion from his words. "Let me do my job."

  "All right."

  He squinted at her, suspicious of her sudden capitulation. "Bess, I mean it. This is my—"

  "Your what, Zach?" She surged out of her chair, driven by ungoverned fear. Fear of being isolated from him, of losing him. Faced with her unexpected fury, Zach took a guarded step back. "Do you see this as your big chance to prove to all the narrow minds in this town that you're not the bad guy? By taking stupid risks, by painting a bull's-eye on your back, by running into burning buildings?"

  There was no change in his set expression.

  "What does it matter what they think if you're dead!"

  "You don't understand, Bess. How could you? No one in this town hid purses when they saw you coming. No one pinned everything from firecrackers to B and E on you whether you had an alibi or not. No one refused to talk to your sister at a dance because of who she was related to. No one wrote you off without giving you a chance to prove—"

  "What? What do you have to prove to them? You're not that same angry kid anymore, Zach."

  "Yes, I am! To them, I am. They're never going to see me as anything else until I make them open their eyes. I didn't come back here to rub their noses in my success. I came back—aw, hell, never mind."

  She caught his hand as he tried to wave his reasons away. "Why, Zach? Why did you come back?"

  The truth glittered naked and vulnerable in his eyes. "Because this is my home. It's where I was born. It's where I want to grow old. And I can't, Bess, unless they let me. If they can't accept that I've changed, I can't stay."

  Fresh fear catapulted through her. "But—"

  "I can't keep fighting, Bess. I'm tired. This is my last stand. Next time I leave, I won't look back. Not ever."

  She nodded, accepting his words as fact, because he gave her no choice. She'd never confused his need to belong with his outward indifference. He wanted it as deeply and desperately as she always had. In that, they were alike.

  "I don't want you to go, Zach," she told him quietly. "You do whatever you have to. I won't get in your way."

  His embrace was sudden and fierce, bonding her to him by sheer force of strength and will. "Liar," he whispered gruffly against her ear. "Last night was incredible. How am I going to think about anything else but you all day?" He kissed her temple in a hard, nearly bruising demonstration before stepping back. "I gotta go."

  "Zach … be careful."

  His hand was on the doorknob. He glanced down at it then out the back door. "I won't let anyone see me leave." His reassurance held a deceptive calm.

  "No, I meant be careful poking around. I don't want you to get hurt."

  He crooked a smile at her. "I'm always careful. I don't trust anyone in this town." The intense blue of his eyes muted for the briefest instant as he said, "Except you."

  Bess sat in the kitchen for a long time after he'd gone, thinking about that. Those two words that ground her heart down to dust and scattered it on the wind.

  Except you.

  Oh, what a sentimental fool he was for believing that.

  And how was she going to keep him believing it?

  * * *

  He was running a half hour late. There was the quick dash home, through the shower, into his uniform. Endless questions from both mother and sister about Bess…and lots of not-so-subtle inferences that had him grinning in spite of himself. He was striding along the main street when the Drabney sisters emerged from the diner. Instead of sinking back to give him a wide berth, they held their ground in some consternation.

  "How is Elizabeth doing?" The elder asked.

  "She's doing fine, Miss Lorraine." He paused, smiling at the two old biddies. And surprisingly they smiled back, hesitant gestures that rocked him right down to his socks. "I'm sure she'd appreciate a call if you have time."

  "Gracious, yes. Of course, we do. Poor little thing."

  "Such a trauma," Myrt added with her own clucking.

  Zach started to edge around the formidable pair. "Well, if you ladies will excuse me—"

  "Mr. Crandall … Zachary?"

  Mryt's hesitant overture stopped his rush. "Ma'am?"

  "I understand you received some minor burns while rescuing our Miss Carrey."

  "Nothing serious."

  She shook a finger at him, ever the scolding schoolteacher. "Burns are not something to take lightly, young man. You go see Johnnie Bishop over at the pharmacy and tell him he's to make you up some of my special ointment. It'll heal you up faster than—" She gave him a nervous glance, her words petering out. That's when her sister stepped in for her own strident two cents worth.

  "That was a brave thing you did, Mr. Crandall."

  Zach shrugged, feeling itchy beneath the unexpected praise. "Not really, ma'am. A stupid risk, is what Bess called it."

  Both ladies smiled in genuine humor, nodding, saying, "Sounds like Bess. Such a sensible girl."

  Standing out on the middle of the sidewalk sharing a personable conversation with the two old harpies knocked Zach's focus askew. He walked the rest of the way to the state post in a humbled daze that had him stepping off a curb right in front of the bumper of Bernie Sacks's station wagon. Brakes screeched, but instead of a blast from the horn, the school counselor hollered out his window, "How's Bess doing?"

  At Zach's generic response, the man smiled and said, "Good work going in after her that way. Things like that do a uniform proud."

  Then he drove off leaving Zach feeling all strange and even more off balance. On the rest of his walk, several more of Sweetheart's citizens stopped to ask after Bess and to compliment him on his courage. By the time he was safely inside the post, he was light-headed from the outpouring of goodwill.

  It took the sight of Lloyd Baines in his office to supply a cold dash of reality.

  "Got your report ready, boy?"

  The paunchy sheriff was seated behind his desk, drinking coffee out of his favorite cup. His heavy-soled boots rested in the middle of yesterday's now-crumpled paperwork.

  "I will as soon as you get yourself out of my chair."

  Baines took his time hauling himself up and waving Zach into the chair with mocking deference. Zach bumped past him to plop down, smoothing out the pages on his work space, each suspiciously left out of sequence by prying eyes.

  "So, what did you get out of Joannie's girl?"

  The sneer of innuendo was crude and unmistakable. Zach chose to let it slide. For the moment. He looked up at the sheriff, drilling him with a cold glare.

  "Not much. S
aid she intruded on some vandals trashing the store. Figures she must have tripped over some of the books and hit her head, 'cause the next thing she remembers is the hospital."

  "She didn't see anyone?"

  "No."

  "Any ideas on who it might be?"

  "She doesn't have any." Before the ruddy features relaxed, Zach drawled, "But I might have some."

  Baines stiffened, smirk frozen on his face. "And what might they be?"

  "They might be my business for now, until I have proof of something less friendly than kids playing with fire that got out of hand."

  "Bess?"

  "Thinks it's a careless prank that went bad. And I'd prefer she keep thinking that. No sense getting her worried over what's probably nothing."

  "Damn right, nothing," Baines growled. "Don't go making no federal case here, boy. It was an accident, plain and simple. There ain't a soul in this county who'd want to see Bess Carrey hurt."

  Zach stared at him, saying nothing. He knew better.

  * * *

  Bess knew she wasn't supposed to exert herself, but after Doc Meirs listened to her lungs and pronounced them clear, there was no way she was going back to the house to sit listening to the clock tick while Zach was out provoking trouble.

  With Faith along to watchdog her, Bess pushed open the warped front door to Rare Finds. She turned away as the stench of smoke filtered out, then stepped inside determinedly.

  It was a disaster.

  The fire marshal had pronounced the building structurally sound, but the interior was a charred mass of ashes and soggy pulp from what used to be her stock. Even her records were gone, speaking of long days ahead painstakingly re-creating her inventory by memory for insurance purposes.

  "There's nothing left," Faith murmured in hollow shock. Seeing the scope of damage impressed its magnitude of consequence upon her. The knowledge that her aunt could have been as crisped as the rest of the interior shivered through her in upsetting shudders. She turned her thoughts to something else. "What are you going to do, Aunt B?"

  Bess nudged one of the volumes with her toe. The structure disintegrated leaving several inches of scorched spine. She scanned the smoke-stained walls, the gutted shelves leaning like skeletal remains against each other. And the books, decades, centuries of collecting literally up in smoke. Her family legacy. Her mother's dream.