John had no sooner gobbled his microwave pasta than Evan threw up again. John took the opportunity to give him some liquid acetaminophen in hopes it would stay down long enough to make him feel better, which, miracle of miracles, it seemed to do. A slow, easy back rub and a few stories read aloud, and the five-year-old fell into a heavy sleep. John inspected Maddie's belated social studies project—a cardboard colonial church with steeple that would be the centerpiece of the village she'd be making during the next week—and sent her off to take a bath and get ready for bed.
Not until she was tucked in could he reach for the phone.
"Hey," he said quietly, when Natalie answered. "What's up, Sleeping Beauty?"
"Why didn't you kiss me awake?" she countered.
"You looked so peaceful. And sexy," he added, leaning back against the tiled edge to the kitchen countertop.
She didn't react to the addendum. "Did you have to get home to your kids?"
"Yeah. I'd called Mom to pick them up at day care."
"Oh."
He hated the awkwardness of the silence and the knowledge that she didn't know what to say. That he had destroyed the ease between them.
"I wanted to stay," he said. "But I didn't like the idea of having to call home and tell my mommy where I was."
He almost heard her shudder. "Heaven forbid. I already wonder what she thinks about me. The way I keep popping up at your breakfast table."
"Mom called you 'a nice young woman' last week. In the midst of chewing me out for failing to catch your bad guy."
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry you got a lecture because of me."
"But she does like you."
"I'm glad." Natalie sounded slightly wary.
"Damn, I wanted to see you tonight," he said explosively. "I can't tell what you're thinking when we're talking on the phone."
"My thoughts aren't that mysterious." But that hint of aloofness clung to her voice.
"No? Then what are you thinking right now?" John challenged.
Only the smallest hesitation preceded her saying, "That I wish I could see you, too. For the same reason. Because…" She stopped so fast he could almost hear the screech of brakes.
"Because?" Cordless phone to his ear, John paced across the kitchen and back. "Come on, Natalie. We've been honest with each other. Let's not stop now."
"Have we been?" She gave a small sigh. "Okay. I'm thinking that you might have called tonight just because you're a gentleman. Sneaking out in the middle of the night isn't your style."
He closed his eyes. "Having affairs isn't my style at all. You must know that's not what's going on here, Natalie."
"Then … then what is going on?" Pride mingled with anger—or was it fear?—in the question. "You wanted to see me tonight. Why aren't we together?"
"Evan's sick," he said bluntly. "He puked all over the driveway. I was going to call and suggest we all go out to dinner together. Not exactly a romantic date, I realize, but at least we could have talked. Instead, I took his temp, got some meds down to lower his fever, gave him a back rub, and lent my artistic aid to Maddie's social studies project, which was building a colonial era church out of cardboard." My life in a nutshell, he thought.
She was silent for a moment. "I know how busy you are, John. I shouldn't have even said that."
With an edge, he said, "You mean, what a goddamned mess my life is, don't you?"
"Mess?" For all the world, Natalie sounded genuinely startled. "You've got a beautiful home, a job you seem to love, incredible kids, and a great extended family. Where's the mess?"
He tamped down on soaring hope. "Debbie…"
"Debbie?"
"You know I still feel an obligation to her."
"Of course you do." Faint surprise infused her ready agreement. "She's Maddie and Evan's mother." Then her tone abruptly changed. "Oh. Are you trying to tell me you won't get seriously involved with anyone because you feel too much tied to her? If so, it's really not necessary—"
"No!" He swore. "No."
"Then what?" she asked.
He ached again to see her mobile expressions, the way her eyes darkened with emotion, the softening of her mouth just before she smiled.
"We should be having this discussion face-to-face."
"But then," she pointed out tartly, "the only time we've been face-to-face since I left your house was last night."
He grimaced. "And I said I didn't want to talk."
"That was one of the things you said."
"I need you. I meant that."
"Yes. I noticed."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Not just physically." His voice had roughened. "Even last night, it was complicated. I wanted you, but mostly I needed your arms around me."
After a moment, she said softly, "I'm glad you came over." Another small silence. "I don't think Stuart ever needed me."
"Like I said, he was an idiot."
Then she irked the hell out of him by saying lightly, and not for the first time, "You're good for my ego." This seemed to be her standard line to put him at a distance by implying they were indulging in no more than a frivolous flirtation.
"Is that all I'm good for?" he asked grimly.
Tension quivered in this silence. "No." She spoke quietly. "You're good for me in every way."
Eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against the pantry door. "I love you."
Her breath rushed out, as if he'd winded her. "John?"
He unclenched his teeth. "I shouldn't have said that. Not like this. You don't have to reciprocate. I just wanted you to know. To be thinking about it. About me."
She made a sound. Was she crying? But, no. Incredulous, John realized she was laughing with an edge of hysteria.
"That was funny?"
"No, I…" She hiccuped, then giggled again. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry!"
John straightened and glared at the empty kitchen. Stiffly he said, "I'm glad I didn't show up at your door with a ring and red roses. If you think this is funny…"
"But that's just it!" Abruptly she sobered. "It's the fact that … maybe this is the only way we can talk. On the phone, when we can't see each other. Lately, we've been so constrained in person."
"I had a hell of a time keeping my hands off you, you know."
"But even after…"
"And then I was afraid I'd blown it. You wouldn't meet my eyes, you wouldn't talk to me. I thought I'd lost your friendship."
In a near whisper, she said, "And I thought the same."
"I've never had a lover who was my best friend."
"Me, either." Her voice became even more tremulous. "Maybe that's what love is."
He stared out the dark window. "I miss you."
"I have been so lonely," Natalie said in a rush. "I've missed you, and the kids, and…" She broke off, her voice changed. "But then I can't help thinking that we've always been better friends on the phone than in person. Maybe we do best when we're sort of anonymous to each other. Without any attraction complicating things. And that scares me, because talking to you like this isn't enough anymore."
"It doesn't have to be! I love it when I'm with you." John swore. From upstairs, Evan was calling him, in a high, panicky voice. "Damn. I've got to go. Evan's awake, and I think he must be sick to his stomach again."
"Oh, no!" Natalie said quickly. "I wanted to tell you something I've been thinking about Stuart."
Taking the stairs two at a time, John didn't care about her ex-husband.
In a hurry, she said, "It's that … the only thing he bought was Foxfire. I thought he was trying to say he was sorry, or to tell me he cared. But he didn't."
"Oh, damn!" Even with only the light from the hall, John could see that poor Evan had thrown up all over himself and the bed.
Trying to pull his pajamas away from himself, looking so little and miserable it about broke John's heart, Evan sat in the middle of the mess crying. "I couldn't find the bowl!"
"Big guy, it's okay." John crossed the dark room and flicked on the
small bedside lamp. "Hey, don't worry. We'll get you cleaned up in no time." He laid a hand on the boy's forehead, which nearly scorched him. God. Should he call the doctor? Straightening, John said into the phone, "Natalie, I've got to go. Evan's fever has skyrocketed."
"Oh, no. Okay. It's just … I was wondering if Foxfire could possibly be…" She let out a whooshing breath. "Oh, never mind. It can wait. And it's probably a wild idea anyway. Tell Evan I wish I could give him a hug. And I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he promised, and then, "Love you," but he wasn't sure she hadn't already hung up.
It was well over an hour before he'd bathed his son, changed the sheets and tucked him in.
"Don't go away, Daddy," the five-year-old begged.
John smoothed wet hair back from his hot face. "I won't go anywhere," he murmured. "You try to sleep, and I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."
He sat beside him, cooling his forehead with damp washcloths, watching him at last fall into a heavy slumber. Evan's face was flushed, his movements restless.
It was going to be a long night, John could tell. He'd leave the light on so Evan wouldn't wake up scared. If he lay down beside his son and kept the stainless steel bowl between them, maybe he could snatch a few hours of sleep between bouts. If Evan's fever climbed any more, he would call the hospital. They must have a pediatrician on duty at night.
John pulled an extra quilt over himself and stretched out next to Evan. Sleep was slow coming for him.
Maybe that's what love is.
Yeah. Maybe. If so, he was the luckiest man on earth to have found it. She hadn't said, I love you, but he'd swear she meant it. She didn't just miss him, she missed his kids.
He lay there trying to sleep, greedily replaying over and over every word she'd said, every peal of laughter, weighing every hesitation, every nuance.
He heard himself. I've never had a lover who was my best friend.
And her voice, as rich and velvety as if she lay beside him, whispering in his ear. Me, either. Maybe that's what love is.
He wouldn't think about her worries. Sure they'd always talked more easily on the phone. They'd been attracted to each other, and neither one had wanted to acknowledge it. There'd always been a tension in person that had bothered him. All he had to do was persuade her that it wouldn't be a problem anymore, not now that they didn't have to pretend friendship was all they felt.
It wasn't until the third time Evan awakened, endured dry heaves and finally slept again that John remembered the tail end of the conversation.
The only thing he bought was Foxfire. I thought he was trying to say he was sorry, or that he cared. But he didn't.
Abruptly wide-awake, John listened to what he hadn't let her say.
Her marriage was failing, and she knew it. Clearly Stuart had intended to leave her. But when he'd gotten his hands on big money, what had he done with it? He'd bought his wife an extravagant present. Why?
What was it she'd said at the end? I was wondering if Foxfire could possibly be… What?
Morning—and answers—seemed an eternity away.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
How dumb even to have mentioned her crazy idea to John, when she hadn't had a chance to check it out. And it probably was crazy.
Sure, horses were sometimes worth half a million dollars or even more. Stuart could have bought one of those, knowing full well that the average person couldn't tell the difference between a National Champion stallion and a nice Arabian. People did keep commenting on how extraordinary Foxfire was. What was it Pam Reynolds had said the other day? She'd implied that the stallion made the ten-thousand-dollar Arabian in the barn look like a plug. Stuart wouldn't have even had to hide the registration papers; she wouldn't recognize the name of any top Arabian horse. The breed never received the publicity that Thoroughbreds did, where everyone on the street knew the name of the Kentucky Derby or Breeders' Cup winners.
Stuart could easily have decided in a couple of months that the horse was too much for her. Or pled poverty and admitted that he shouldn't have spent so much. What could she have done?
The idea had been niggling at her for a day or two, with her trying to dismiss it. How silly to think the horse she'd taken trail riding just yesterday was a blue blood worth that kind of money!
If he was, she would lose him. Of course he would have to be sold. Probably he should be, because his value was at stud. But the desolation that gripped her even at thinking of kissing him on his soft muzzle and watching as he was loaded into a trailer was enough to make her reject the notion out of hand.
Foxfire couldn't possibly be more than he seemed.
The trouble was, she knew in her heart that he wasn't. He was exactly what he seemed. She had always known that he was magnificent, ridiculously beyond the kind of horse she'd even dared to dream of owning. He had never quite belonged in Port Dare, Washington.
Now, after hanging up the phone from her conversation with John, Natalie moved restlessly through the house checking locks and wondering how on earth she would ever sleep.
She was torn between exhilaration and depression. He loved her! But only long-distance, it seemed. Or was she being absurd?
Maybe she was the one who caused the strain when they were together. A telephone friendship wasn't real. It could be as intimate as she chose, because it didn't have consequences. In person, though, that was different.
But then there had been times when she felt wonderfully comfortable with him. She remembered once when he had been rebuilding her fence. Drinking lemonade, they sat on her tiny deck in the sun. He'd had his back to the house wall, his jean-clad legs stretched out on the planking. Sawdust clung to the denim and to the fine hairs on his powerful forearms. Natalie even remembered what they'd said. Debbie's diagnosis had been followed with shocking rapidity by her move into a nursing home. The kids had just moved in with him, and he'd talked about his shock and guilt. Hours somehow passed. The ice melted in their glasses and the late afternoon sun sank toward the west, casting long shadows.
That wasn't the only time. There had been others. She wished now that she had talked as much as she'd listened. Why had she left him with the illusion that her marriage to Stuart had been perfect? That she felt the grief a widow was supposed to feel?
Had she not wanted to admit her secret shame, the certainty that she was to blame for the failure of the marriage, for Stuart's disinterest? Or had she felt safe because John assumed she still loved her dead husband? Did being a widow, with all it implied, give her an excuse not to examine why her heart leaped when she heard John's voice on the phone or knew he was coming over?
Even while she was staying at his house, she admitted, they'd had good talks. That one night, for example, when she was in her bathrobe, or even when she finally did confess what a mistake her marriage had been.
She wished he'd told her in person that he loved her; but then he would have had to wait another day, or two days, or three, depending on how sick Evan was and whether another major case descended on his shoulders. Given a couple of days, she would have been certain he was using her, that he had only had sex with her because she was available.
And now she knew, even if she still wanted to see the truth in his eyes.
Natalie hugged herself and did a quick two-step, her stockinged feet thudding on the kitchen floor.
He loves me!
If only she were still staying at his house. She could have offered to take a shift with Evan. They could have stolen a few kisses in the hall. She could have seen him sleeping, his face younger.
She wanted to stay home tomorrow with Evan, not go to work and wonder how John was coping. She wanted to be entwined in his life.
Would he ask her to marry him? Natalie hugged herself again. Please, please, let him ask. Could fate possibly be that kind to her?
Oh, it was going to be a long night.
Her wanderings had brought her to Stuart's study. Natalie
stood uneasily in the doorway. She'd come in here this past year because he'd always paid bills here, and so she did. Obedient to the last, she thought ruefully. The records and spare checks and whatnot were all in his ugly desk and the metal filing cabinets. She'd put the manila envelope with Foxfire's registration papers in the cabinet after she'd brought it home on impulse that day from the bank.
She didn't know what looking at them would tell her. Foxfire was only the short form of his name. His full registered name was on them. But how did you research a horse's career?
Perhaps she could call the Arabian Horse Association. They must keep records. Or at least somebody there could tell her how to find out about a particular horse. Couldn't they?
Weighted by the quiet of the house, she went to the filing cabinet and opened the drawer, grabbing the manila envelope. Hairs on her arms stood up. The study was downright creepy. Last night she'd tried to feel Stuart's ghost, but she'd been in the wrong place.
In here, in this room stamped with his personality, he'd left more tangible traces. Or perhaps Stuart wasn't the one haunting the study. A man had, after all, died violently here.
Natalie scuttled into her bedroom. She didn't lock the door. After all, she still had to turn lights out, and it wasn't as though anyone would break in. She just didn't like Stuart's study.
The phone rang as she was pulling the papers from the envelope. Her heart leaped. John might be calling again if Evan had fallen asleep.
"Natalie," Geoff Baxter said. "I hope this isn't too late for you."
She was a little ashamed of her disappointment. Geoff had been a good friend this past year, too.
"No, of course not. I heard about your big arrest yesterday."
"Yeah, that was an ugly one." He paused. "Hey, how are you?"
With her finger, she found Foxfire's registered name: Al Nahr's Foxfire. His dam and sire were listed, as were their dams and sires. The dam sounded Polish, and Natalie vaguely recalled that Egyptian and Polish strains had their own distinctive characteristics.
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