by Carol Grace
She stared back at him. Lord, he was maddening. She kicked off her shoes, grasped the rungs of the ladder and started to climb up in her narrow, hip-hugging, knee-length skirt.
He steadied the ladder. Looking up, he had a glimpse of long, smooth legs that didn’t quit, a lace slip and panties to match. He felt a sudden dizziness, as if he was the one in danger of falling off a wobbly platform twenty feet above the ground, instead of the one gripping the ladder with both hands.
What was wrong with him? He hadn’t looked at a woman for two years. And he hadn’t looked up a woman’s skirt since he was on the junior high playground. But now he stood there watching her firm rounded bottom stretch the confines of her narrow skirt and her lace underwear, and waiting for her to fall into his arms.
Chapter Three
“Don’t come up,” Dylan shouted to his mother. “This is my house. Private. Keep out.”
Halfway up the shaky ladder, Laura hesitated. If he wouldn’t come down voluntarily, how could she force him, either physically or verbally? She couldn’t. Not twenty feet off the ground. Uncertain what to do next, she looked down over her shoulder and met the gaze of the owner of her land. He was staring up at her with an intensity that startled her so much she almost lost her grip.
A wave of dizziness hit her. So this was vertigo. She’d never been afraid of heights before, but she was now. She was afraid of falling. Falling into his outstretched arms.
“Don’t look down,” he yelled.
She wrenched her gaze from his, stared straight ahead at the bark of the tree and put one foot down, then the next, one rung at a time until her feet hit solid ground. She stumbled and Brandon grabbed her by both arms. She fell backward against his chest.
“Don’t you know any better than to climb a tree if you’re afraid of heights?” he demanded.
She jerked out of his grasp, startled by the rocklike muscles that she’d encountered and by the way her pulse raced. Bending down, she grabbed her shoes. “I’m not afraid of heights,” she said.
“You could have fooled me.”
“I’ve climbed this tree a hundred times.”
“Recently?”
“When I was a child.”
“You’re not a child anymore.” His cool gray gaze assessed her, traveling from the top of her head, down her wrinkled uniform to the low-heeled shoes she’d slipped into. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Damn, he was making her uncomfortable. He made her even more uncomfortable when he reached over and removed an oak leaf from where it was tangled in her hair. Just the touch of his hand surprised and disturbed her.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.
“For what?”
“Holding the ladder.” She’d just realized that while Brandon had been holding the ladder for her he’d presumably gotten a good look up her skirt. If he’d cared to look, which he probably hadn’t.
He shrugged. “Coming down was a wise decision.”
“I wish I could convince my son of that.” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. What now? She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was her son—and the hard place? The man next to her who looked like he’d do anything to get rid of them.
She swallowed hard. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“Not any sorrier than I am.”
“You must think I can’t control my own son.”
“Can you?”
“Of course. I’m just going to give him a few minutes to reconsider. When he realizes he has no choice…”
“He’s waiting for his father to come and get him,” Brandon repeated.
“You said that,” she said stiffly “It’s not going to happen.”
Brandon didn’t say anything. Unlike most people, he didn’t ask why not, or where he was, or when he was coming back. He just stood there gazing off in the distance across the timeless land to the magnificent mountains in the far distance.
“It’s a nice view,” she said, following his gaze. “My father always called it God’s country.”
“Your family owned this land for some time I understand,” he said.
She nodded. “Four generations. I thought we always would, but—” She stopped abruptly. She’d cried enough over the loss of the land. This was not the time. Not in front of the new owner. She didn’t want pity. Especially not his pity. She took a deep breath. “My great-grandfather came by wagon train. On his way to the gold fields in California. He never meant to stop in Nevada, but his wagon broke down, he lost his team and he never made it over the Sierra Nevada.”
“Bad luck,” Brandon said sympathetically.
“Not entirely. While he was looking for his lost mules, up there in the mountain behind our ranch, he accidentally stumbled over an outcrop of a greenish ore that looked worthless but turned out to contain silver. Enough so he could buy up all this land, build a house and send for my great-grandmother back in St. Louis. He chose well.”
“You mean your great-grandmother or the land?”
She smiled. “Both. Great-Grandmother Kimpton was a city girl, but she adjusted beautifully. Started the first school in Silverado and even taught there. As for the land, Great-Grandpa saw the springs in the mountain up there when he was prospecting. He knew the value of water in this high desert, so he channeled it and later my dad dammed up the stream and built the reservoir. Which is the story in a nutshell of why we’ve been here ever since. I mean, we had been here ever since.”
How long would it take to get it through her head that she didn’t live here anymore? That it wasn’t McIntyre land any longer. That a dynasty was over. She brushed her hands together briskly. Trying not to think of her ancestors who’d built and planted and worked the land so she could have a life here, so she could leave it to her children. What would they think? What would they say?
Brandon stared off into the mountains as if he was picturing her great-grandfather, looking for his mule, stumbling over silver.
“Dylan will be down in a few minutes,” she said to break the awkward silence. “I know he will. It’s almost dinnertime and he’ll be hungry. Then we’ll be gone. I promise you. Don’t feel you have to stay out here. You have—you must have things to do. What are you planning to use the land for? Raise livestock, or—”
“No.”
“I see,” she said. But she didn’t see. What on earth did he want all this land for, enough to pay an outrageous sum for it, if he didn’t intend to use it for something? “The rumor in town is you’re going to turn it into a theme park.”
His mouth twitched as if he might smile or even laugh. For some reason she wished he would. She’d like to see what he looked like with a smile on his face. But he didn’t.
“A theme park,” he mused with mock seriousness. “There’s an idea. What would the theme be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a silver mining camp, with an elevator to the bottom of a mine shaft and shovels for the kids,” she speculated.
“Where a visitor might possibly find some more of that greenish ore stuff and get to keep it. Is that what you suggest?” he asked.
“Not me,” she protested, annoyed at the mocking tone in his voice. “I’m certainly not suggesting you build a theme park of any kind. But if you did, at least it would be historically accurate.”
“Didn’t they have gunfights and a saloon on every corner?” he asked.
“My grandpa had a gun.” Dylan’s voice came wafting down from the tree house where he’d obviously been listening to their whole conversation. “Kept it locked in his gun cabinet. I’m gonna get one, too, when my daddy comes back.” Laura jerked her head up and Brandon looked up at the same time. For a moment she’d almost forgotten he was up there.
“Dylan,” she called. “Come down, please.”
No answer. She sighed loudly.
“Dylan,” Brandon yelled. “If you come down we’ll go for a ride in my car.”
“Please don’t promise him anything you can’t deliver,” she sai
d softly.
“At this point I’m ready to deliver almost anything, if he’ll come down out of that tree. It’s not safe, you know.”
She nodded and glanced nervously up at the tree. After a long moment Dylan poked his head out of the door of the tree house. “How fast does it go?” he asked.
“A hundred twenty,” Brandon shouted.
Laura gasped. “You’re not taking him out on the road to break the speed limit.”
“We won’t go over seventy,” he promised. “Isn’t it worth it to get the kid out of the tree?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You can work the sunroof,” Brandon called.
“What about the stereo?” the boy asked.
He shrugged.
“All right.”
They watched him climb down the ladder, his feet flying agilely down the rungs.
“Let’s go,” Dylan said.
“That all right with you?” Brandon asked Laura.
As if she had a choice at that point. It was either Dylan go for a ride in the speed demon’s car or go back up the tree.
“I guess so.”
She stood in the driveway as they pulled away, listening to the stereo blaring, watching the sunroof opening and closing and opening again. She hadn’t seen Dylan so excited for months. Ever since Jason left, he’d been a different child from the one she’d given birth to. His natural joy, his love of life was dimmed like a hurricane lamp running out of oil.
She was encouraged but worried at the same time. She didn’t know why exactly. Driving seventy miles an hour on a deserted Nevada highway wasn’t exactly unheard of. Dylan would be wearing a seat belt. He’d had that drummed into him. It was just…this man and her son…
She paced back and forth in the driveway. Waiting…watching. After long minutes ticked by she walked around to the back of the house to her herb garden. The pungent smells of sage, oregano and basil filled the air. She plucked a sprig of lavender and crushed it between her fingers. She missed her house, her view and her horse, but most of all she missed her herb garden. Her refuge, her haven, her escape from her troubles these past few years.
Every fall she picked the herbs, then retreated to the potting shed where she hung them from the ceiling to dry and packed them away for winter. This year there would be no harvest. They’d wither and die without water. Knowing it would be her last chance, she sprayed the dry earth with the hose attached to the outdoor faucet.
“There you go,” she told the plants. “This one’s on me. Come on, drink up. It may be your last.”
“We’re back.”
She whirled around to see Brandon standing in front of a rosemary plant that had gone to seed and turned into a bush.
“Oh, good,” she said, “you’re back.” Inadvertently she clenched her fist around the hose handle. Water spurted from the nozzle, soaking him from head to foot. He jumped out of the way, but it was too late. His dark hair hung in damp strands on his forehead. The water dripped off his chin. His wet pants molded to the muscles of his thighs and his shirt stuck to his chest. He stood there staring at her so stoically, she gave in to an irrepressible urge to laugh. She laughed so hard she couldn’t stop. She was on the edge of hysteria. Tired, worried, tense, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams.
“It wasn’t that funny,” he said.
She took a deep breath before she spoke and struggled to regain her composure. He must think she was an idiot. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Impulsively she reached out and brushed the water off the front of his shirt. His chest was solid and muscular under his wet shirt. Startled at the way her heart rate sped up just from the physical contact with a stranger, the second time today, she dropped her hand as fast as if she’d been burned.
“Who were you talking to when I got here?” he asked, apparently oblivious to the effect he had on her.
“No one. Where’s Dylan?” she asked anxiously.
“He’s still sitting in the car, opening and closing the windows. And testing the air conditioning.”
“Aren’t you afraid…?” she said.
“Yes, I’m afraid he’ll never leave.”
“I’ll get him,” she said, taking a step around him. “Thank you for doing what you did. I appreciate it. Sometimes it’s hard, raising a child without…” She trailed off, embarrassed to be caught admitting to having problems. To being a single parent. Admitting anything negative to anyone at all, especially this man.
“Don’t thank me,” he said blocking her way. “Do me a favor. Send someone to tear down the tree house and get rid of these weeds.”
“But…”
“Naturally I’ll pay for it. I just don’t know who to call.”
“They’re not weeds. This is my herb garden.”
“Whatever. I don’t want an herb garden. I don’t want any garden, and I don’t want a tree house. The next thing you know your son will be back up the tree, and this time we won’t be here to catch him or coax him down and he’ll fall out of it. I can’t take a chance like that.”
“No. I won’t let him come back. This is the last time, I promise you. But please don’t take down the tree house. Not yet. It doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s all he has.”
“Then take it with you.”
Dylan came running through the garden out of nowhere and threw himself against Brandon like a whirling dervish, pounding him with his fists. “You’re not gonna tear it down,” he yelled. “And we’re not gonna take it with us. It’s gonna stay here until my daddy comes back. And so am I.”
With that, the boy turned and raced around the house, with Laura and Brandon following close behind. He raced across the driveway and scrambled up the ladder once again, two steps at a time, and flung himself into the tree house while they watched helplessly from below. A silence fell over the meadow, broken only by the slight breeze that ruffled the leaves. Or was that the sound of a boy’s muffled sobs? Laura stood staring up at the tree house, shoulders slumped, only vaguely aware of the man next to her, whom she was sure oozed disapproval from her lack of control over her son.
“Well?” he said.
“Well,” she said, “I’m not going up after him.”
“A wise decision,” he said brusquely. “Considering the condition of the steps and your inability to climb them.”
She glared at him and bit her tongue to keep from blurting that it was his fault Dylan was back in the tree house. If he hadn’t threatened to tear down the jerry-built structure… “My inability to climb the tree has nothing to do with it, nor the condition of the ladder. It’s the principle, my approach to parenting that’s the reason. I don’t expect you to understand, not being a parent yourself.”
He stared at her with an expression as stunned as if she’d slapped him across the face. His mouth opened as if to say something, to put her in her place, as she’d try to do to him, but he never said a word. He snapped his mouth closed, and without speaking, he turned on his heel and marched off in the direction of the house, leaving her feeling like she’d done something terrible, but she had no idea what. Whatever it was, she had no time to worry about him.
Her son was hurt, angry and up a tree, and she had no idea of how to get him down. Despite her brave words, and her bluster about child psychology, she didn’t know what to do next except to wait. She would wait there until he came down and then they’d go home. How long could he stay up there, waiting for his father, after all? As she’d told Brandon, he would get hungry, he would get discouraged, he would see reason. After all, he was a reasonable kid and he’d soon realize there was no point in staying up there and come down. They’d drive home, they’d have dinner with Aunt Emily…Aunt Emily. Aunt Emily was expecting them for dinner along with her guests. Laura had promised to make the salad. It was almost six o’clock and she’d be worried, she’d be wondering…
“Dylan,” Laura shouted, “come down here this minute or I’m coming up to get you.” His words echoed in her head. I
wouldn’t recommend making threats you can’t carry through on.
Silence.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Not coming down,” came a muffled voice.
She looked at her watch and sighed loudly. Now what? Dylan wouldn’t come down and she shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t go up. Even if she did go up, she couldn’t force him to come down. So what was the point?
“All right,” she said. “Stay up there then. I’m going—I’m going to make a phone call and I’ll be right back.”
No answer. She backed away from the tree, her eyes on the tree house, watching for a movement, listening for a sound from him. Hoping against hope he’d come down now. Because if there was anything she didn’t want to do, it was to visit her old house and intrude on Brandon Marsh. Not after seeing the look on his face when she’d lectured him on her approach to parenting. She dreaded even asking him to use his phone. He’d made it abundantly clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. But how disturbing could it be to take a moment to make a phone call?
She couldn’t shake the thought of her aunt leaning over the stove, stirring her sauce, listening for the sound of Laura’s truck, then instead of joining the guests in the living room for sherry and hors d’oeuvres, she’d have to start tearing lettuce and chopping vegetables for her salad, the one Laura had promised to make for her, her forehead puckered with worry lines. Aunt Emily was under doctor’s orders not to worry. Laura turned her back to the tree house and ran to the ranch house and knocked on the front door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Louder. He had to be there. His car was in the driveway.