“I suppose. I’m not sure…” Harriet took a quiet breath, calmer. “I always thought I’d want to know the truth, one way or the other. But I’m not sure I do.” She picked up a tiny hazelnut, placed it carefully on her tongue. “Jack will be here soon. He called after he left the hospital.”
“What’s your take on him?”
She blushed, but her eyes brightened, warmed. “He’s independent and defiant, a rule-breaker.” She smiled at her cousin, some of her moodiness dissipating. “He reminds me of a male version of you in some ways. He’s harder-edged, of course, because of the work he does.”
Penelope frowned. “He doesn’t remind me of me at all.”
“You’re both dedicated, determined, a little stubborn.”
“But you’re not attracted to me—”
She gasped, laughing. “Penelope, you’re awful.”
“And you’re just saying I’m like Dunning so I won’t think he’s such an arrogant bastard. He doesn’t like me, you know.” She grinned, pleased to see the spark in Harriet’s eyes. “I don’t see how you can fall for someone who doesn’t like me.”
“Well, if that’s my criterion, I’m doomed to stay a spinster.”
“Harriet!”
Her cousin waved a hand in dismissal. “I know ‘spinster’ isn’t politically correct, but I like it. It conjures up images of Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of wicked stepsisters.”
“We’re getting giddy,” Harriet said. “It feels good, doesn’t it? But I should warn you—your mother’s on her way over from the sugar shack.”
Penelope scooped an apple out of the fruit bowl. “Then I’ll clear out now. I’m sure that’ll be easier on both of us.”
“Are you staying here tonight?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call, okay?”
She met Wyatt as he was coming down the stairs. He’d changed clothes, washed up. He wasn’t really handsome, she realized. He was memorable, sexy, striking in an edgy, hard way, especially for one born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. “How’d it go with your father?” she asked.
“I didn’t reach him. He’s on the golf course. I talked to my sisters, but they’re too young for tales of old plane wrecks.”
“Ellen and Beatrix. They’re good kids?”
He smiled. “They’re perfect.”
“And I suppose they adore you.”
He came to the bottom step. “Of course. I’m their big brother, and I have a cat.”
“You don’t strike me as the cat type.”
“I’m not. Pill was left by Madge, with whom I had a brief fling—just long enough for her to feng-shui my apartment and decide we were not compatible, which I’d discovered through more ordinary means.”
“Ah.”
He smiled. “Madge and I never were. Not to worry.”
“I’m not worried. I was just thinking—you have a whole life I know very little about. Little sisters, New York, Wall Street, a cat named Pill.”
“His real name’s Sarsaparilla.”
“You’re kidding. Well, my point is—” She sighed, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if you and I ever ‘were,’ either.”
He pushed open the door, held it for her with a mock bow of chivalry. “I’m letting that one go,” he said, “but only for now.”
They drove her truck to her place, grabbed crackers and cheese and made their way to Bubba’s one more time. It was getting close to dusk, the sun low in the sky, the temperature starting to drop. Penelope could hear Bubba’s two dogs barking and picked up her pace, eager to see how the old hermit was doing. Wyatt had no trouble matching her pace, and she tried not to think about how much she appreciated having him along. That was dangerous thinking. Harriet thinking. The Scarlet Pimpernel, Scaramouche, D’Artagnan. Wyatt was a Sinclair. He wasn’t Spiderman. But she liked having him walking beside her, solid, capable and just there.
Instead of finding Bubba, they found Andy McNally, the two dogs circling him and growling. Andy ignored them. “Pete and I stopped up here after we heard Bubba checked himself out. Figured we’d make sure he’s all right and ask him what the hell happened up in the woods—but he’s cleared out. Pete’s looking around.”
“You’re sure?” Penelope asked. “He wouldn’t just up and leave his dogs.”
“What makes you think you know Bubba any better than the rest of us? We don’t know what he’d do and wouldn’t do. Door was open to his shack. You just got the feeling he’d left. No sign of him. Probably figures someone’ll look after the dogs.”
“He must be scared,” Penelope said.
McNally frowned, all cop. “Or hiding something.”
“Come on, Andy, he didn’t beat himself over the head.”
“Could have been a setup. He wanted you to think he’d had his head knocked in.”
She groaned. Wyatt, who’d been listening patiently, said, “Do you have evidence or are you just keeping an open mind?”
“We don’t have evidence of jack shit. Which isn’t official police talk, but there you have it. We’ll take a good look at the wreckage tomorrow, see if there’s any sign Bubba’s been through it. If there is, or if he doesn’t show up soon, we’ll get a warrant and search his place here. If he stole anything, he could have panicked and tried to get the heat off him.”
“The heat wasn’t on him,” Penelope interjected.
“All depends how you look at it. You and Wyatt were by here yesterday, weren’t you?”
Her mouth snapped shut. She spun up the trail, but Wyatt didn’t follow. He said to McNally, “I didn’t get the impression when I talked to Bubba yesterday that he was paranoid or worried.”
“A man like that, living out here alone—he likes to stay in control. So, we’ll see. I hope the old guy has a warm place to stay tonight. He’s not in great shape. I’d hate to see this thing escalate if he’s just worried because he stripped a forty-five-year-old plane wreck.”
“Do you think he could have buried Colt and Frannie’s remains?”
“I’d like to ask him.”
Penelope stopped dead and turned to the two men. The dogs had quieted and were at her heels, and she stood still, sensing Andy’s suspicion.
“Sinclair—if there’s anything you need to tell me, do it now. Don’t make me wait. You don’t want me to have to drag it out of you. I’m a small-town cop, but I know my job.”
Wyatt looked him straight in the eye and said, “There’s nothing.”
“Penelope?”
“If I knew anything I thought would help you find Bubba or whoever left him for dead this morning, I’d tell you.” There, that wasn’t an outright lie. “Is it okay if I take these dogs home with me? They seem to have taken a shine to me, and I’d hate to leave them out here without Bubba.”
McNally sighed, nodding. “Ten to one that’s what he figured you’d do.”
Pete came up the hill from the brook and shook his head. “I can’t find a thing. With so many people out in the woods today and the warm temps, there’s not much for tracks.”
“All right, Pete, thanks. Bubba knows these woods better than any of us. I guess if he doesn’t want us to find him, we’re not going to find him. I just hope he’s in his right head.”
McNally and Pete returned by the trail that led to the main road, Penelope and Wyatt by the trail that led to her house. The two mutts trotted amiably at her side. “I have it,” she said. “They can be my protection tonight. I’ve got new locks on the side door, and I can block off the slider with a chair. With Granddad’s Winchester and Bubba’s mutts, I’ll be fine.”
They came to the first of her tapped trees, and she quickly checked the buckets, aware of Wyatt’s dark eyes on her, of her out-of-control reaction to him. “And where do I fit into that scenario?” he asked.
“Well, I figure you’ll be safe and snug in your bed at the inn.”
“Just th
ink of how safe and snug you’ll feel if you have not only your Winchester and Bubba’s dogs, but a Sinclair to—”
“To what?” she broke in. “Protect me?”
He grinned, sliding in behind her, touching her hair, lightly kissing the corner of her mouth. “To make love to you.”
Andy McNally came for his nightly beer a half hour later than usual. Somehow, his scar made his moods seem that much easier to read, although he wasn’t a complicated man. Harriet could see his fatigue, his worry. She was against the wall at the far end of the bar with her glass of wine, and she felt ashamed for her self-absorption.
She smiled at him. “Hard day?”
“It could have been harder. Bubba could have been dead.” He glanced at her. “Or your cousin. She’s got to get herself under control, Harriet.”
“I know. So do her parents. But she’s not a child—”
“That’s the hell of it. She’s a grown woman.”
“She was with Wyatt—”
His gaze bored into her. “You trust him?”
She shrugged, amazed at Andy’s curtness. He was usually so calm and tough to rile. His wife’s death and his work had given him an unusual perspective on life. He wasn’t driven or restless, and he understood life’s hardships and how they could affect people. Even when he groused about Penelope, which he did often, Harriet seldom detected the kind of soul-deep frustration and concern she did now.
“I have no reason not to trust him,” she said.
“Penelope’s fallen for him, you know.”
She nodded, saying nothing.
Andy heaved a sigh and drank some of his beer. “And old Bubba. I don’t know what the hell to make of him. He had to know that wreck was out there. He’s probably known it for years.”
Harriet shifted on the bar stool, her wine barely touched. Her eyes burned. It took so little to turn her thoughts inward.
“What is it, Harriet?” Andy asked, some of the curtness going out of him.
“You’ve been through a lot, Andy. Maybe you’d understand…” She took a gulp of wine, suddenly breathless. She didn’t look at him. “When I have something I don’t want to think about—a memory, something I’ve done that I’m not proud of—it’s like I put it into a little closet in the back of my mind and shut the door. Most of the time I don’t think about it, it doesn’t bother me. But sometimes the door pops open all by itself, or something happens, and it’s as if a tornado comes through and tears open all the doors of all my little closets…”
She stopped herself, her eyes filling with tears. She stared at her wine, and beside her Andy didn’t speak. There was no bartender tonight. She’d sent him home. And no Jack Dunning, no Wyatt Sinclair. Wyatt would be with Penelope. She didn’t know about Jack. She hadn’t seen him all day. Last night’s walk might have been a mirage.
“I’m not making any sense,” she said, her voice croaking.
“No, Harriet. You’re making a lot of sense. You can’t let the bad memories eat away at you forever. You have to find a way to buck up and carry on.”
She turned to him, knew her stupid mascara would be bleeding. “It’s not denial?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know, I suppose it could be. Does it matter? I know I can’t be thinking about every bad thing that’s happened to me all the time or I’d never get up in the morning. The stuff’s there, I just don’t let it control me. I guess that’s the acceptance part the grief counselors talk about. I mean, you get to a point where you can deal with it.”
“All of the time?”
“Most of the time. There are those times…” He raised his glass, swirled the amber liquid. “There are those times it gets control of you.” He shifted his gaze to her. “I guess that’s when a door pops open or gets sucked off by a tornado, and all the bad shit leaks out of the closet.”
She smiled, embarrassed. “It’s the only analogy I could come up with.”
“It’s a good one, Harriet. I’m just wondering what on earth you could need to stuff into a closet.”
“Ah, the minister’s daughter, the spinster innkeeper.” She could hear her sarcasm, her cracking voice, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “How could she have any skeletons in her closets? She hasn’t lived.”
Andy looked stricken. “Harriet, that’s not what I meant. You know—”
She held up a hand before he could say anything he regretted. “I know, Andy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a rough day for everyone.” He slid off the bar stool, his beer not quite finished. “I’m turning in. Tramping through the woods this time of year takes its toll.”
“Good night, Andy. Say hi to Rebecca and Jane for me.”
After he left, Harriet topped up her wineglass. She’d only taken three or four sips, but it seemed to be the thing to do. She wasn’t ready to go to her suite yet. She could feel the long, dark night ahead of her, feel it crawling in around her, and she took a quick gulp of wine, forced herself to breathe.
“Well, at least this damned miserable day’s going to end right.”
Jack. His gravelly, half Texas, half New York voice. She spun, and he was at the bar. He was so lean, so good-looking in a rough, masculine way.
He grinned at her. “I hate to drink alone. What about you, Harriet? Does an innkeeper like it when she can sit here and drink alone?”
She decided not to mention Andy. “I like people,” she said.
“That’s your weakness, Miss Harriet,” he said, teasing her, but his gray eyes warmed suddenly. “And it’s your strength. Mind if I pour myself a whiskey?”
She smiled, all the struggle and self-loathing of a few minutes ago sliding away. “Pour ahead.”
The night was dark, cool and windy, and Wyatt stayed awake for a long time after he and Penelope had made love. He held her, her body warm against his, her hair smelling of chamomile shampoo. Bubba’s dogs were konked out by the wood stove, the fire in it dying. They’d sniffed everything in the cabin and paced, agitated and out of sorts, until Penelope thawed some waffles she had in the freezer and tossed them into a couple of pitted old frying pans. She said she’d buy Dog Chow in the morning.
While the dogs ate and Penelope heated a can of vegetable soup and grilled a couple of cheese sandwiches for dinner, Wyatt called his father again. He was back from the golf course, and when he heard the day’s events—his brother’s plane found without bodies or diamonds, the local hermit unconscious at the bottom of the ravine and now missing—he said, “I’ll get a flight out in the morning.”
And that was pretty much that. Wyatt refused to dwell on his father’s uncommunicativeness. It was different, he knew, from Lyman Chestnut’s taciturn manner. He and his daughter managed to communicate quite effectively.
During dinner, Wyatt and Penelope went over every fact and detail of the events since her discovery of the Piper Cub on Sunday. They considered suspects, motives, alibis. And they acknowledged their own biases. He was a Sinclair, she was a native of Cold Spring. They’d both grown up with the mystery, the scandal, the tragedy of Colt and Frannie’s disappearance, and they had their points of view, their blind spots.
She moved against him, her breasts skimming his forearm. She said nothing, but he sensed she was awake. “Tell me how you ended up grounded for three weeks,” he whispered.
She rolled over, facing him. “Is that what you’ve been lying awake here wondering?”
“It didn’t come about just since Sunday. Your father’s been fed up for a while.”
“Weeks,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because he’s an old grouch.”
“Penelope…”
She sighed, easing one leg over him, stroking one finger along the edge of his jaw. He didn’t relent. He wanted to know. Deep down, he knew he needed to know. Finally, she said, “I’ve always been restless. Even as a little kid I’d go my own way—and I always wanted to fly. I’m centered in the air, totally focused and professional. I don’t get distrac
ted.”
“That’s not what your father says.”
“I know.” She shifted, and Wyatt could sense her discomfort. She would distrust introspection as self-indulgence, no matter how clear-eyed her view of herself. “It’s hard to explain. The kind of thinking and distractions that propel me on the ground suddenly have been haunting me in the air. Not dangerously so. It’s not as if I’m even close to hurting myself or anyone else.”
“Just close enough to close,” Wyatt said.
“At least as far as my father’s concerned. I love flying, I love my work. But lately it’s as if I’ve been caught between the life I’ve been living and the life I’m going to live. Does that make sense? I really put my family and friends through their paces when I was younger. I’d get lost, fall through the ice, get stuck up in trees, swim out too far in the lake. It wasn’t for thrills—it was just from not paying close attention. Then I started paying close attention. I’ve tried hard in the last few years to be more…predictable.”
“But you let the pendulum swing too far in that direction?”
She sighed. “And maybe now I’m overcorrecting. If I could press the rewind button, I don’t know if I’d let myself get lost on Sunday. Then I’d never have found Colt and Frannie’s plane, and you never would have come to Cold Spring.” She smiled at him in the darkness. “Maybe it’s all some master plan, and I should just relax.”
“You know what I think?” He smoothed a palm down her side, over her hip. “I think running out of gas at five thousand feet and getting lost in the woods are a damned poor substitute for sex.”
She gasped in mock-horror. “Spoken like a man! I’ll have you know what I’ve been experiencing the past few weeks is a restlessness of the soul, not of the body—”
“But they’re connected,” he said. He let his hand drift lower, feeling how hot she was, knowing her mind and body were very in tune at the moment. “What do you want, Penelope?”
She eased closer to him, letting her hand drift over his hip, lower. “I want to feel like I did two hours ago,” she whispered, her mouth finding his, their bodies coming together, not with the speed and urgency and heat of their earlier lovemaking, but with a searching and deliberateness and power that tested both body and mind. Every time he felt her on the verge of release, he pulled back, prolonged it, probed deeper, gave and demanded more. The darkness of her little room was so complete that he couldn’t see her under him, could only feel her as she held him tight, her body rigid with the aching need for relief, her mind focused, until he couldn’t pull back, couldn’t think or feel anything except his need for release, and they came together.
Kiss the Moon Page 24