by Lynn, Sheryl
She’d imagined such a response to him. His response to her thrilled her to her toes. He pressed her tightly against his belly and chest. His thigh nudged hers, urging her backward, over the threshold, into the trailer. The flooring creaked. His damp mouth was as sweet as summer rain, his tongue erotic and demanding, exploring her mouth as hotly as she explored his.
When he lifted his head, she touched her tongue to her lips. They felt full and lonesome. She forced her eyes open. He appeared dazed, solemn, hungry. He turned her loose and her whole body felt as lonesome as her mouth.
“Thank you,” she said.
He scowled. “That wasn’t pity.”
She placed a hand on his broad chest, flat over his heart. “I wasn’t exactly thanking you.” She turned away. “Have a seat, I’ll make you some breakfast.”
“I shouldn’t stay.”
Diana knew fear when she heard it. She sensed in him a heart not easily mended once broken. Who or what had broken his heart, she hadn’t a clue. Not even the biggest gossips in the valley had any ideas about Tate Raleigh’s life before he left New York City and settled in McClintock, Colorado. While in his apartment she hadn’t seen any clues to his past, not even a photograph. All she knew was that he’d been a police detective and he had a large family.
Tippy was winding and wriggling around Tate’s legs, his happy noises growing increasingly frantic. Tate finally dropped onto the sofa and bent over to pet the dog. Tippy practically swooned in ecstasy over the attention.
“Ric left some coffee.” She pulled a small can from a cupboard and looked for an expiration date. Not finding one, she decided it smelled all right and set about making a pot. Then she put water on to boil for tea.
“So why’d you give it up?” Tate asked. “Being a doctor.” Tippy draped over his lap, his paws in the air, his tongue lolling. Tate rubbed circles over the puppy’s belly.
His question surprised her. She’d never heard him asking personal questions of anyone. “Dharma.”
“What’s that?”
“Each of us has a place and purpose in life. When one discovers what that is, there’s balance and bliss. Dharma.”
“Huh.”
She placed a bowl of brown eggs on the counter. The kitchen held an assortment of mismatched pots and pans. She rummaged until she found a cast-iron skillet. After rinsing off the dust, she put it on a burner. “My father was a cardiac surgeon. A brilliant man. To please him, I went to medical school. I was first in my class. After I finished my residency, I received offers from hospitals all over the country.”
“Sounds like you were good.”
“I was driven. There is a difference.” She cracked eggs into a bowl, and whisked them with a fork. “So driven in fact I never realized how ill-suited I was for the path I chose. I worked in an emergency room at a large county hospital. That way I stayed so busy I didn’t have time to think. I even married a fellow doctor. We spent our honeymoon at a medical convention.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I didn’t have a social life. My husband and I discussed case histories when we bothered to talk at all. Patients were nothing but body parts and diseased or injured flesh. Nurses and orderlies were mere staff.” She chuckled, a self-deprecating note. “They called me Dr. Do-it-over, or worse. All that time I thought I had a good life, but my soul knew better. My body knew better.”
“What happened?”
She ran her tongue over her lower lip, imagining his taste, wanting to taste him again. Now would be a good time to tell him about the cancer. How she’d survived, but sacrificed a breast in order to do so. Except, it didn’t feel like the right time.
“God gave me a gift. I paid attention.”
Maybe she was afraid of running him off, of never feeling those muscular arms around her again. Her ex-husband, medical degree notwithstanding, had been repulsed by her illness and scars. His sexual rejection had hurt; his emotional desertion had crushed her. She’d survived, emerged stronger for the experience, but she needed some time to explore her reticence about telling Tate.
She poured clarified butter into the pan. While it heated, she sliced bread and cantaloupe. She poured the eggs into the hot pan, whisking them fluffy while they cooked.
Fear was a cold fire she needed to walk through. If Tate was repulsed, then so be it. She wouldn’t think less of him. They’d still be friends. “A tech was in training at the hospital, learning how to operate and read mammography results. All female staff had—”
Chin to chest, hands folded over his belly, he’d fallen asleep. She smiled, lifting her face to the heavens. “Fine,” she murmured, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
TATE PUSHED HIMSELF upright. He vaguely recalled Diana urging him to remove his shoes and pistol. He didn’t remember her sliding a pillow under his head or covering him with an afghan. He’d forgotten how pleasant it was to have a woman fussing over him.
He stretched and yawned. He’d slept so hard, he hadn’t even dreamed. He checked his watch, incredulous about how long he’d slept.
He wandered around the small trailer in search of Diana. He made a stop in the bathroom. A bar of soap rested in a dish. He brought it to his nose and sniffed, smelling honey. Desire jolted him, and he quickly put the soap down and rinsed his hands. Shouldn’t have kissed her. It was stupid, reckless. He didn’t want that kind of relationship with her.
He desperately wanted to kiss her again.
A plastic box caught his attention. It was filled with pill bottles. Vitamins, herbs, calcium tablets—brown prescription bottles. He clenched his fists at his sides. He refused to stoop so low by snooping.
He holstered his weapon, put on his shoes and looked around for his telephone. It wasn’t on the coffee table or the bookcase. He pawed through the cushions on the couch, shook out the afghan. It wasn’t there. Muttering obscenities, he lifted the couch. There were jackrabbit-sized dust bunnies on the floor, but no telephone. He knew he’d had it when he arrived.
Any number of developments could have occurred while he’d been sleeping. Bernadette could have been apprehended. The mope who’d shot at Diana could have talked. Lab results could have come in. This was no time to lose his telephone.
He rushed outside. The sun had lowered to the treetops. He looked around wildly. He opened his mouth to shout when he spotted Diana. She was down the meadow where she sat on the ground with Tippy next to her, watching the goats graze.
He jogged down the slope. The goats lifted their heads to watch him. Tippy ran to meet him. Diana turned her head and smiled.
“I lost my telephone! Have you seen—?”
Wordlessly, she pulled the small unit out of her shirt pocket and offered it.
Dumbfounded, he took it. It was activated.
“I didn’t want it to disturb you,” she said. She patted the grass next to her. “Have a seat.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation and a fugitive search.” He shook the phone at her. “It’s my job to answer calls.”
Her smile quirked.
“This is serious,” he said.
She held a two-by-two piece of lumber across her lap. She rose, then leaned on the stick as if it were a staff. Smiling gently, she faced him. “When everything is important, nothing is important.” Her serene blue gaze heightened his temper.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if I answered a call that was a true emergency, which absolutely required your attention, I would have awakened you. But your sleep is important. You were dead on your feet.”
“Who are you to decide what is important?”
“Somebody needs to.”
“That somebody ain’t you!” He leaned in close, but she didn’t even flinch. “Who called?”
“Nobody.”
“Liar.”
Her eyebrows arched. Then, she laid a hand on his cheek. He was so astonished by her boldness, he didn’t move. “Haven’t you fig
ured out by now that no matter how many miles you travel, no matter how many hours a day you work, you still can’t run away from yourself?”
He pushed her hand off his face. “I am not in the mood for your touchy-feely crap. I have a job to do. I decide what’s important and what’s not.”
Her smile faded. “Whatever you say.”
His gut ached. He felt as bad as if he’d kicked Tippy. Unable to bear the disapproval on her face, he turned away. He stomped up the hill. Dried grasses and weeds snapped and crunched beneath his shoes. He punched in the number for his voice mail. No messages.
He was an ass.
He turned around. Leaning on the stick, she watched him. He shoved the telephone into its holster, then raked both hands through his hair. She’d let him sleep—not exactly a class-A felony.
He should go home. The Track Shack was closed on Sundays, so he could make much-needed repairs without customers to worry about. He could pop over to the station, make some phone calls, light a few fires under lab technicians.
Grumbling, he walked back down the hill. He jutted his chin at the goats. “Did they escape? Need some help rounding them up?”
“Apology accepted.”
“When I’m sorry, I’ll say I’m sorry.” He glowered at his shoes. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay. And to answer your question, no, they didn’t escape. I let them out. No sense all these lovely weeds going to waste. And Tippy and I need goatherd practice.”
“Thanks for letting me sleep.”
“You’re welcome. Are you hungry?”
His gut felt like a raw hole. “I’ll go home, fix a sandwich. I’ve got some work to do.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s Sunday, a day of rest. I have plenty of food. Let me put the babies in the barn.” She thrust the stick at him. “Here, keep the wolves away.” She headed for the barn.
A white goat bleated and trotted after Diana. The others took up the cry and broke into their funny, windup toy gallop. Tippy barked and raced after them. Bemused, Tate followed. The goats darted into the barn, their hooves scrabbling on the concrete floor.
Diana’s laughter echoed through the small barn. It was impossible not to smile. Impossible to remain grumpy around her.
She held a bucket and the goats were going nuts trying to get at it. The tricolored goat reared on its hind legs, arched its neck, then head-butted a white goat. Diana called to Tate to shut the door. He did so, latching it securely.
“They sure like you,” he said.
“They sure like grain,” she answered. She poured small piles of grain on the floor.
He leaned against a stall door and watched her fill a water tank. The barn was fairly clean, smelling faintly of raw wood. Tippy sneaked around a goat, trying to get it to do something, but the goat was preoccupied with vacuuming up food.
“Are they girl goats or boys?” he asked.
She chuckled. “The proper terms are bucks and does. And these are wethers. Castrated males.”
He tightened his thighs. “Oh.”
“I don’t know if I want to breed goats. So I bought wethers to see how we get along.” She turned off the water hose. “By next winter, I should be able to comb them for cashmere. Come on, let’s get you fed.”
Once inside the trailer, he said, “I really am sorry for acting like a jerk.”
“It’s okay, really. I know where you’re coming from.” She laughed, a saucy sound. “Besides, you’re a coffee addict. Lack of it makes you grouchy.”
He knew better than to ask, but he did anyway. “Where exactly am I coming from?”
“Fear.” The word and her direct look challenged him to say she was wrong. “The real problem with overwork is that you get into the mindset that the whole world rests on your shoulders. That if you miss a call or don’t supervise every task or do it yourself, then the world will collapse.”
He gave her words some thought. She had him pegged cold. “I actually understand.”
She opened the small refrigerator and peered at the contents. “I’ve been there.” She brought out bowls and set them on the counter. “If your hours are filled with a million and one supremely important tasks, you never have to spend any time with yourself. You don’t have to listen.”
“Listen to what?”
She waved an arm in an expansive arc. “God, the Universe. Your own heart.” She set a large frying pan on the stove. “Life doesn’t have to be as hard as we make it. Ever wonder about the meaning of it all?”
He snorted. “I’m too busy to worry about it.”
“You’re so funny.” She dumped cooked rice into the hot oil. It sizzled and popped while she stirred it. After a minute, she added chopped vegetables to the rice.
The sight of her cooking made him as hungry for her as he was for food. Her hands were deft and sure, her arms strong. The young dog sat hopefully at her feet. The kitchen light bounced and danced off her hair, sparking it with a range of golds, reds and rich browns. A pretty picture all the way around. He wondered what she’d do if he walked up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her hair. If he kissed her neck.
She turned her head, her smile soft and knowing. Positive she knew exactly what he was thinking, he broke eye contact.
“While I was sitting out there with the goats, I thought of something,” she said. She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the pan and gave them a stir. Then she shook a glass jar that held dark liquid. After the eggs had cooked a while, she poured liquid into the pan. Steam wreathed her face and filled the trailer with a spicy aroma.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t think Bernie means to steal another car. We would know it by now, right? Somebody would have seen her or Smoky Joe. She’s hiding until it’s safe to retrieve the money.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a place where Dad used to take us fishing. A lake or a pond. There’s an old mining camp nearby. Falling-down buildings and such. I’m fairly sure it’s on private property.”
“Where is it?”
She shook her head and lifted the pan. She scraped the rice and vegetables into a large bowl. “It’s been so long, I can’t remember exactly. What I do remember clearly is that there’s a mine shaft. It was boarded up. Dad caught Bernie and me trying to pull off the boards.” She rolled her eyes. “Blew his gasket. In any case, it would make a great place to hide. That is, if nobody built a house on it, or turned it into an RV park.”
The mountains ringing the valley were pocked with old mine shafts. At least once a year he could count on some knucklehead falling into one and requiring rescue. “If you had a good map, could you remember where this place is?”
“Maybe.”
She set the table for two, and put the steaming bowl of fried rice in front of him. His mouth watered at the smell. When she placed a basket of sliced homemade bread in front of him, his belly rumbled embarrassingly loud. She urged him to dig in.
He didn’t care for broccoli or carrots, both of which were present in abundance. The vegetables were crisp and nicely seasoned with soy and ginger; they were almost tasty.
His telephone rang. A knowing look from Diana quelled his eagerness. He really was married to the telephone, addicted to busy work. He took his time answering. It was Gil.
“Get enough sleep?” Gil asked.
“Yeah. What’s up? Did you get a statement from Williams?”
“He’s taking seriously his right to remain silent. He used his one telephone call to contact an attorney. We did find the motel where he was staying. Found something interesting.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to see it to believe it.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No hurry. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Chapter Seven
Tate parked in front of the sheriff’s station. He cut the engine, and the old Bronco shimmied an
d rattled before wheezing into silence.
Diana patted the dashboard as if soothing a child with the hiccoughs. “Poor baby. Got the pre-ignition blues.”
“The what?” he asked.
“I don’t know why it’s called pre-ignition. It should be post-ignition. It’s a timing problem.”
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it. “How in the world do you know that?”
She lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’ve always had a thing for mechanical stuff. When I was a kid, I built a lot of clocks and crystal radios. It’s probably why I did so well in med school. Thought of human bodies as machines.” She grinned, still caressing the sun-cracked dash. “I’ve always done my own car maintenance. It infuriated my ex-husband when he caught me changing oil. He didn’t think it was dignified, but it was one of the few things that actually relaxed me.”
He was impressed. “So, this ignition problem, is it bad?”
“It isn’t good. The engine timing is off. So when you turn off the engine, the gas is still pumping and it’s combusting because of pressure. That’s where the vibration comes from. You could need a new distributor, or a timing chain. Or, considering the age of this thing, you could need a whole new ignition system.”
“Expensive?”
“Could be. Think positively.”
He chuckled. “So you’re not just blowing smoke when you offer to help me out at the Shack. You actually know how to fix things.”
“Who do you think repaired the dishwasher and put a new thermostat in the oven? Fairies?”
He focused so much on problems, he had no energy to notice positive occurrences. Maybe she was right about negative energy. “You? First a doctor, now a mechanic. Amazing.”
“That’s the problem with labels. Once you label a person, you limit yourself. People aren’t what they do. They are what they are with unlimited potential.” She slid her hand across the seat, almost but not quite touching his leg. Awareness of her made him tingle. “Once upon a time I used to label people. A clerk, a housekeeper, a nurse, an orderly, an appendicitis. It made it easy to dismiss them.”