by Pamela Toth
“Are you hungry?” Brandon asked when they reached the outskirts of town. All the way back he’d been thinking over what she’d said. She was right; despite the speed with which they’d first fallen into bed with each other, there were a lot of blanks in their relationship.
He liked the idea of finding out how her mind worked, which movies she favored, what kind of child she’d been, how she felt about politics and sports, what she enjoyed doing on a rainy afternoon. The only drawback was that he assumed she’d expect him to reciprocate. He didn’t much like talking about himself; he never had, but he supposed he could give the idea a try.
“I think I’ll just go on home,” she replied, the first time she’d spoken since they’d driven back through the gates to the ranch.
“Are you sure?” he asked, afraid to push and yet even more unwilling to let her go with nothing resolved between them. “You have to eat. Let’s stop at the Mexican place.” He glanced at her solemn face. “It would give us a chance to talk.”
Emma twisted a strand of her hair. “Like a date?” she asked, a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth. A smile he badly wanted to kiss to see if he could make blossom.
“Yeah,” he replied, suddenly curious about what was going on behind the smile. “Like a date.”
By the time they’d finished their fajitas and driven to the café where Emma’s car was parked, she was feeling much more positive about their chances. True, he hadn’t opened up much about himself, but at least he’d asked her questions and listened carefully to her replies. It was a start, one she hadn’t really thought he’d be willing to make.
Now he pulled into one of the few empty slots in the busy café parking lot and killed the engine.
“I had a good time,” Emma said, unbuckling her seat belt, and then she giggled.
His eyes crinkled into a smile of amusement as she pressed her hand to her mouth. “What?” he asked, sliding his arm across the back of the seat. Over the past hour, whenever she would think they were beginning to relax around each other, he’d look at her in a certain way and awareness would spark between them.
“It seems a little strange that we’re on our first date,” she explained, blushing.
His brow shot up. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” His fingers brushed her hair, sending a shiver of response through her. Despite his lazy manner, being around him was like waiting for a stalking panther to finally spring. Even relaxed as he appeared now, he evoked a sense of danger.
She considered his question with care. “Yes,” she said finally. “Thank you.” She picked at the hem of her shorts. “I work the breakfast shift tomorrow, but I’ll be through after lunch, like today, and then I have the next day off.” Was she being too forward? Maybe he had other plans.
His gaze shifted away and alarm went through her. Some men liked to take the initiative themselves. She had so much to learn about him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked when he leaned back against the headrest and sighed, his expression pensive.
“I have to go back to Reno tomorrow night,” he admitted. “I’ve got a meeting the next day that I can’t postpone.”
He was leaving again! Emma sat bolt upright and reached for the door handle. Before she could touch it, Brandon hit the automatic locks.
“Wait a minute, will you?” he said as she blinked back the sudden tears that flooded her eyes. She should have known he wouldn’t stick around! She smacked the unyielding door with her fist, but the padded leather panel absorbed the blow easily.
“Honey, please,” Brandon murmured, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Will you just listen? Please?”
Emma took a deep, steadying breath and kept the tears from falling by sheer force of will. Embarrassment at her overreaction to his statement flooded through her as she faced him. He’d think he was out with an over-possessive psycho. “What?” she conceded.
“I’d reschedule if I could, but one of the principals in a big investment deal is leaving for Europe at the end of the week. We’d still have most of tomorrow, though.”
“I have to work until two,” Emma reminded him, disappointed.
“Before I go, I’ll give you my cell phone number in case you want to call me, and I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he offered. “Or would you rather beat up my car door?” He raised her balled fist to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Give me a break, sweetheart. This is all new to me, too.”
She doubted that very much—he was too attractive to not have had tons of relationships—but it was sweet of him to pretend he was as inexperienced as she was. “I’m sorry.” She hung her head.
He tugged on the hand he was still holding until she looked up at him. “How sorry?” he asked with an outrageous gleam in his eyes.
Happiness flooded back into Emma. “Sorry enough to buy you breakfast at the café in the morning, but not sorry enough to spend the hours in between with you,” she told him. “Not just yet. A girl needs her beauty sleep.”
He pretended to be affronted. “Don’t you think I’d let you sleep?”
Emma lowered her lashes. “I sincerely hope not.”
“Breakfast it is,” he agreed, sliding his hand around the back of her neck. “After you tell me how you feel about kissing on the first date.”
Emma leaned closer. “Only if I’m really, really attracted,” she whispered right before he covered her lips with his. Although she tried to subdue it, a little flame of hope sprang to life in the general vicinity of her heart.
Four
The next morning, Brandon was enjoying his Belgian waffles with blueberries and whipped cream nearly as much as he enjoyed watching Emma bustle around in her uniform shorts and the T-shirt that clung so intriguingly to her curves. Although he couldn’t fault her for wanting to slow down their relationship, he wondered how long he would be able to keep his hands off her. Not that he would pressure her into anything, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t know what he was missing. He couldn’t be faulted for attempting a little harmless persuasion.
“More coffee, sir?” Her smile was sassy as she held up the pot. Her hair was a mass of curls on top of her head that he would have liked to watch tumble from its confinement. Tiny gold stars dangled from her ears.
Brandon slid his half-full mug toward her. “Please.” He wondered how she’d react if he told her what he really wanted. Whipping cream wasn’t just for breakfast anymore. “Thanks for the meal,” he said, ignoring his body’s surging response to the direction of his thoughts.
This morning her hazel eyes were more green than gray. It had been late when he’d let her go last night and she’d already been working when he got to the café this morning or he would have kissed her senseless. Now all he could do was to wait for her shift to be over so they could spend a few more hours together before he had to leave for Nevada.
“Would you like anything else?” she asked, expertly clearing away his empty dishes.
Ignoring the responses that leaped to mind, Brandon leaned against the padded seat and patted his flat stomach. “Not if I’m going to come back for lunch before you’re done.”
“Oh.” Clearly he’d startled her. Pleasure softened her lips and danced in her eyes. Her glasses had disguised that spark of mischief, but now her shy flirtatiousness was starting to emerge.
“Breakfast was on me, but you’ll have to pay for lunch,” she teased. “A waitress’s salary only goes so far, you know, so I hope you’re a good tipper.”
Before Brandon could answer, he heard the bell over the door. He glanced around to see an old man with long gray hair and an untrimmed beard standing in the entry. His shabby clothes hung loosely on his stooped frame and his lips were moving as though he were talking to himself.
“Who’s that?” Brandon asked Emma.
“His name is Homer Gilmore. He’s Whitehorn’s version of a real character,” she replied in an undertone. “He comes in every so often when he’s not up tramping through the woods, but I haven’t seen
him in quite a while.” She glanced around. “Janie’s on her break and Charlene has an order up, so I’d better see to him. He gets agitated if he thinks he’s being ignored.”
Brandon watched her hips sway gently as she grabbed a menu on her way to where the old man waited.
“Hello, Homer,” she said brightly. “May I show you to a seat?”
For a moment the old man stared at Emma as though he’d seen a ghost. Then he ducked his head and muttered something about aliens under his breath.
“I beg your pardon,” Emma said as he kept sneaking glances at her.
“I saw aliens in the woods, but Sloan says there are no aliens.” Homer seemed to be talking to himself. “An alien with no hair.”
He shook his head, as though he were trying to deny something, while Emma waited uncomfortably. Several people seated at the counter looked around. The low hum of conversation stopped.
Painfully aware of the stares, Emma kept her patience. Everyone knew Homer was odd. “May I show you to a seat?” she asked again.
“No aliens,” he repeated, lifting his head to look her full in the face. Then he pointed a shaking finger at her as he took a shuffling step backwards. “You!” he exclaimed in a hoarse voice. “It must have been you.”
“That’s right. I work here,” Emma explained.
“No-oo,” he howled, holding up both hands as if to ward her off. “The woods! The woods, you were, I saw,” he chanted. “Dark, so dark.” His eyes were wide with fright and spittle flecked his beard.
As Emma’s cheeks went red with embarrassment, Brandon got to his feet and tossed his napkin onto the table. Before he could get to her, the older waitress, Janie, appeared and bustled over.
“Homer, if you don’t quiet down, you’ll have to leave. Do you understand?” She motioned Emma aside, and Brandon put a protective arm around her. Janie did her best to herd Homer toward the counter, but he ducked around her.
“She did it!” he shouted, pointing again as Brandon shifted in front of Emma. “Killed her. Sloan said no aliens. This one, I saw. I saw.” Growing more upset, Homer stamped his foot. “Killed, killed, killed.”
Emma was staring, openmouthed with shock as the color drained from her face. As Brandon tried to pull her away, he could feel her tremble. “You’re crazy,” he told the ranting old fool, prepared to haul him outside if he didn’t shut up.
Janie was trying to reason with him. “No, Homer, Emma hasn’t killed anyone.” The other waitress watched anxiously, glancing at Emma and then back at Homer. By now he had the attention of everyone in the place. Even the cook had come out of the kitchen with a cleaver in one hand and a scowl on his face.
Homer began to sway, his gaze darting around the café. “Yes, yes,” he insisted. “Christina. The woods. She did, she did!” Again he glared at Emma. “Murderer!”
“That’s enough.” Speaking firmly, Janie took his arm as two male customers came over to back her up. “You’ll have to leave now, Homer,” she said, “or I’ll call the sheriff.”
Brandon was prepared to give his assistance, too, but to his relief the old man allowed himself to be escorted out. He had an odd gait, taking short steps as though his ankles were hobbled. Finally he was gone, the bell tinkling incongruously as the door shut behind him.
Emma breathed a thankful sigh as Brandon turned her into his arms to protect her from the curious gazes of the other patrons. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly as he patted her back.
“I’m just embarrassed,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry,” Janie exclaimed. “Pay no mind to Homer. You know how he’s always spotting space aliens in those woods. No one listens to him.”
“That’s right,” Charlene, the older waitress, echoed. “He’s not quite right in the head, hasn’t been for years.”
Emma’s smile was wobbly. “I know. It’s okay.” She looked at Brandon, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Frustrated by his inability to spare her the embarrassing scene, he glared at the other two women. “She’s taking a break. Could one of you bring her some tea?”
“Good idea. Take as long as you need,” Janie replied. “Charlene, why don’t you circulate with the coffeepot.”
“I’ll watch your tables,” Charlene offered Emma as Brandon escorted her back to where he’d been sitting and handed her his untouched water glass.
“Was that nut talking about that woman who was missing?” he asked. “I don’t know much about it.”
Emma took a sip of water. “It’s a tragedy. About eight months ago, a woman named Christina Montgomery disappeared. Last November her car was found, and then her body, in a shallow grave.”
When Emma set the glass down, her hand shook, spilling a few drops. “I haven’t been following the investigation, but I wasn’t anywhere near where they found her.” Her gaze was beseeching. “Homer couldn’t have seen me in those woods.”
“Of course not,” Brandon replied, covering her hand with his. “You don’t have to justify anything to me.”
Emma was grateful for his reassurance. She was about to say so when Janie came back with a tray holding a pot of tea and an empty mug. She set them in front of Emma.
“Forget about what Homer said,” Janie told her. “He’s a kook. No one listens to his wild notions.”
Thanking Janie, Emma opened the tea bag and dropped it into the mug.
“Give yourself a few minutes,” Janie told her. “Charlene and I can manage. As soon as they have something new to fill their pea brains, everyone will forget Homer was even here.”
Emma managed a smile.
“That’s better,” Janie said. “Drink your tea.” She glanced at Brandon. “Keep her here until she’s calmed down.”
“I won’t let anything happen to her,” he replied.
Janie winked at him. “I’m glad to hear it,” she told him. “This gal is one of my best waitresses.”
“Has that old crackpot bothered you before?” Brandon asked after Janie hurried away. His eyes were dark with concern. Emma remembered how he had rushed over to her the minute Homer had started shouting all those awful things.
“No, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually waited on him,” she said. “He usually sits at the counter.” His strange way of walking and garbled language had always made her uncomfortable. Then she’d feel guilty for being glad she didn’t have to figure out what he wanted.
The bell tinkled again and she looked up quickly, afraid Homer had come back, but it was only a woman and a little girl.
Emma went limp with relief. She’d hated the way everyone stared at her. What on earth had set Homer off in the first place? It was a good thing no one knew about her connection to Lexine or they might jump to conclusions. What a terrifying idea.
The locals must be used to Homer’s ranting. No one was paying Emma the slightest bit of attention now. Grateful, she dunked her tea bag up and down in the hot water. When it was ready she took a tentative sip, pleased to note that her hand was steady.
Brandon was watching her with an expression of concern stamped on his face. “If he comes anywhere near you again, call the sheriff,” he said bluntly.
Attention from the law was the last thing she wanted. “Oh, that’s not necessary. Everyone knows Homer is harmless.”
Brandon gripped her free hand. “I don’t want you taking any chances. You’d better fill out a report, just to be safe.”
Emma contemplated whether his bossy tone bothered her and decided it didn’t. “I’ll think about your suggestion,” she hedged.
He glanced at his watch. “Do you want me to stick around? I told Garrett I’d help with the chores, but I can call him. He’ll understand.”
She shook her head. “You go ahead. Take as much time as you need.”
“If you’re sure, maybe I’ll skip lunch and come back when you’re done instead,” he said, his expression torn.
Emma drained her cup and
got to her feet. “That’s fine. I’ll see you later. It’s going to get busy pretty soon and I wouldn’t be able to visit with you, anyway.” Already the lunch crowd was starting to drift in. Thank goodness the scene with Homer hadn’t happened when the place was full.
After she had reassured Brandon a couple more times, he finally left. Watching through the window as he walked to the car, she permitted herself a glow of pride. Although he wasn’t all bulked up, like some men, it was easy to see from the easy way he moved that he’d been an athlete. It was exciting to know she was going to see him again later.
She was about to go back to work when the sheriff walked in the front door. In his gray uniform and matching Stetson, Rafe Rawlings was a frequent customer and Emma had waited on him several times herself. Janie’s husband was one of his deputies.
“Hi, Sheriff,” Emma said now with a smile as she passed him. Too bad he hadn’t been here sooner. Perhaps he could have stopped Homer from going off on her the way he did.
Sheriff Rawlings didn’t return Emma’s smile. Instead he glanced around the café before settling his gaze back on hers. “Miss Stover, I’d appreciate it if you’d come by my office so we can talk.”
Someone must have told him about Homer.
“I don’t want to press charges or anything,” she replied, tucking her ticket book into her pocket. “Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s not like he’s entirely rational, is it? I mean, he’s pretty old and I suppose he’s senile, so he didn’t really know what he was saying.”
Sheriff Rawlings was frowning as though Emma wasn’t making any more sense than Homer did with his strange ramblings.
“You don’t have to arrest him, do you?” she asked, puzzled. “Because I won’t sign a complaint and I’m sure Janie won’t, either.”
When she finally wound down, the sheriff cleared his throat. “Emma, I just talked to Homer, but there are a couple of things you and I need to clear up. I want you to come over to my office so we can discuss your whereabouts the night Christina Montgomery was murdered.”