by Cora Seton
“What kind of skills?”
“Karate is a good example, but I don’t teach karate. I do train people to shoot firearms, though, and that skill often gives people confidence, too. Especially women, who tend to be afraid of guns. Have you ever fired a shotgun?”
“No.”
“Pistol? Anything?”
She shook her head and he felt a surge of satisfaction.
“How about I take you out on Saturday morning? Just for an hour. That’ll leave you plenty of time to work on your shed or whatever other projects you have. What do you say?” He waited for her reaction impatiently.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “I think you’re right. I do need to learn to be assertive.” She scraped her plate into the trash. “But now I guess I’d better help you clean up and get going.”
“It’s early,” he said with a glance at his watch. “I’m not in a big hurry to call it a night. Want to catch a movie on television?”
He regretted the offer the moment he made it. He’d meant to play it cool. He didn’t want to rush her. Now she’d turn him down and he’d lose all the ground he’d gained with her tonight.
“Okay,” she said.
She’d watched this movie with Cab for nearly an hour, and she had no idea what it was about. The minute she’d followed him into the living room, her nerves had set alight. The tears she’d shed earlier seemed to have washed Jason clean from her system and left her feeling lighter. Freer. Like a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest. It felt good to admit out loud that she and Jason were over, although she wished the actual breakup was out of the way already. At least her tree house was underway. Now she needed to find an apartment. And a job. Without using Emory as a reference.
Cab shifted, distracting her. He was so close. Too close. She had sat at one end of the couch and expected Cab to take the other end, but to her surprise he sat down right beside her. And since he was probably a hundred pounds heavier than her, he put a significant dent in the cushion that left her sitting on an incline. As much as she tried to hold her ground she kept sliding toward him.
He shifted again and she slid some more until their thighs touched. Rose held her breath, aware of the man beside her in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever been with Jason. His long legs, encased in faded jeans, played havoc with her nervous system. Everything about Cab was masculine and it made her want to melt against him. In the early days she must have felt something similar for Jason. Now when she thought of him she didn’t feel a thing.
She felt something for Cab, though. Touch me, she thought at him. Go on. Touch me.
He shifted a third time and she found her cheek nearly pressed against his arm.
“Hello,” he said, looking down at her and chuckling, his voice a low rumble.
“I’m not trying to make a move on you. I just keep sliding,” she said.
“Well, come here, then,” he said, and she shivered in anticipation. What did he have in mind? He lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her even closer. “Comfy?”
His voice, a sexy murmur, shot right through her. “Um… yeah,” she said. She was comfy. She could hear Cab’s heartbeat where she leaned against him. Slow and steady. Strong. She let out her breath in an uneven sigh. She wasn’t sure what they were doing here. She might not be making a move, but it sure seemed like Cab was.
She wished he would. Kiss me.
He brushed his fingers down her arm and laced them between hers, and for one heart stopping second she thought he would bend down and kiss her. Instead, he sighed, tugged her ring gently and let go of her hand.
Disappointment flooded her. She wanted to yank her ring off right now, but that wouldn’t be enough. Cab was right; she needed to end her relationship with Jason before she could start a new one. At least he didn’t remove his arm from around her shoulders. She’d take what she could get for now. She settled in to watch the movie, but every minute next to him was delicious agony. If he wouldn’t touch her, she wanted to touch him. She struggled not to rest her hand on his knee and feel the muscles beneath his jeans. She wanted to slide her palm up his thigh. She wanted to tilt her head back and kiss him. Once in a while he moved his hand over her arm in a light caress and she had to bite back a moan.
An hour later she walked with Cab to her truck, dizzy with longing for him. Despite her best intentions her thoughts had been full of images of them together. Cab stroking her, suckling her breasts, pushing her legs apart. She was thankful for the darkness as he opened the door for her, but as she moved to get in, he took her hand and for one moment Rose thought he’d pull her close and give her a kiss.
She leaned toward him, all too ready.
But he didn’t. He squeezed her hand and let go. A little dizzy and highly disappointed, she climbed into the seat.
“Rose?” he said when she’d strapped on her seatbelt. His face was in shadow; she couldn’t see his eyes. “Talk to Jason.”
A zing of electricity shot through her as she completed his sentence in her head. Talk to Jason so we can be together.
“I will,” she said, her voice husky. She cleared her throat. “Good night.”
But Cab hesitated, his hand still on the door. He leaned down closer to her. “You know, I don’t like the idea of you driving home by yourself at this time of night. I’ll just grab my truck. You go first. I’ll follow.” He must have seen her look of surprise because he added, “Don’t worry; I’m not going to come in. I won’t even ask. I just don’t like the idea of you being alone on these country roads.”
Rose frowned. If he going to make a move after all, he wouldn’t do it in the carriage house Emory Thayer owned. He’d keep her here where they couldn’t be observed. He actually meant he wanted to drive behind her all the way into town. As if she was incapable of making it home by herself.
The buzz of longing that had grown inside her during the last couple of hours faded. On the one hand, his concern was sweet. On the other hand, his concern was… ridiculous. It was something her father would try. Or Emory. “Cab, it’s a ten minute drive,” she said gently. “I’ll be fine.”
“It’s no trouble and I’ll sleep a lot better if I know you’ve gotten home.”
“It’s barely nine o’clock.” Her voice developed an edge. Damn, she’d had fun tonight—she was on fire for him—and she didn’t want to argue, but she couldn’t let this slide. She remembered what he’d said earlier about her inability to stand up for herself.
“Humor me, okay?” He smiled and she wanted to humor him. She really did. But she was sick and tired of people telling her what to do, as if she wasn’t old enough to make up her own mind. She was twenty-four. Plenty mature to handle a ten-minute drive to town.
“It’s not necessary,” she tried again.
“It is for me. I promise I won’t even stop. I’ll drive right on by and swing back home.” He shut her door carefully and rapped his knuckles on the roof twice, as if giving her the signal that she was allowed to start her truck. Her annoyance blossomed into anger. It’d be one thing if this was a ruse to get closer to her, but it wasn’t; it was just a way to control her. What if she wanted to go visit someone else? What if she wanted to run an errand or stop and get ice cream?
What if she felt like driving in circles around Chance Creek? It wasn’t any of his business.
Damn it, why did everyone feel the need to parent her?
She stifled the urge to gun the engine and roar out of the driveway, but all she needed was for Cab to come after her with his sirens blaring. No, she’d have to handle this like an adult. Next time she saw him she’d explain that she appreciated his concern, but she didn’t need his supervision, thank you very much.
And if that didn’t work, she’d kick him.
‡
Chapter Six
When Fila left her new friends in Washington, D.C., they begged her to come with them.
“You can crash with us,” Carla said. “We’re going to have so much fun!”
>
But Fila knew she had to put more distance between her and the men chasing her. That was another blessing America had to offer: its enormous size. She had money. Anna Langway had seen to that. Anna had first come to her village two years ago with a humanitarian project to immunize children against tuberculosis. Fila had managed to get her alone, and spill her story in rusty English that soon became fluent again. She told her of her youth spent in the United States. About the funeral that brought her family back to Afghanistan. About the shootings, and her delivery into Taliban hands.
Anna promised to do what she could to help, but when she came back the next year she said the organization she’d gone to for aid—Aria’s House, whose mission was to provide a home for child-brides who’d run away—had its funding cut and they had nothing to spare for her. Anna told her not to give up hope; she’d look for another way, but by the time she’d arrived in Fila’s village a third time, Fila had grown into a woman with haunting eyes and long, dark hair. Her high cheekbones and pretty figure made her stand out. Anna took one look and said, “It’s a miracle they haven’t married you off yet.”
“They plan to, next month,” Fila told her, and filled her in on all the details.
“He will be rewarded with many virgins in heaven,” she’d heard the men say of her husband-to-be. “But he will have one virgin while he remains on earth. A taste of what’s to come.”
“Aria’s House is back,” Anna whispered to her. “Aria Cruz is dead, but others have stepped in to endow it and her daughter sent a large donation.”
Fila had felt a surge of hope. Everyone had heard of Aria Cruz, the American woman who campaigned for the rights of Afghani women on her yearly trips to their country. Aria was an inspiration to those who remembered the way things were before the Taliban, when many women went to school and some even had careers outside their homes.
Aria’s work saved young girls from marriages to older or abusive husbands, but the rumor was she’d been killed by the Taliban herself. Others said a car accident claimed her life back in the United States. After Anna’s last visit, Fila had figured Aria’s House’s doors were closed for good.
So when Anna told her she’d be able to help, she counted it as a miracle and thanked God. Two weeks later, Anna passed her money, instructions and the props she needed to pull off her escape. Now she was on a train heading for Montana to find Aria’s daughter and thank her personally.
And to ask her a few questions.
For if anyone knew how to help Fila raise money to save even more women from forced marriages, it would be Aria’s daughter.
He was blowing it, Cab knew as he followed Rose’s taillights through town. She’d stuck exactly to the speed limit all the way in from Carl’s house and now she stopped at every stop sign, looked both ways and never went above thirty miles an hour. He knew Rose well enough to doubt she was usually this much of a stickler for the rules. He’d better stop and apologize for his overzealousness about her safety when they got to her house.
Or maybe he shouldn’t.
Maybe he should do exactly what he’d said he’d do and keep on driving. If he stopped, she’d think he wanted an invitation inside. Of course, he would like that sort of invitation, but not tonight; not while she was engaged to Jason.
The sleepy town dozed around them. In the living rooms where the drapes were open, the residents gathered around their televisions, but most homes were shut up tight, their curtains drawn against the wintery night.
He’d keep driving, he decided, but if he didn’t hear back from her by tomorrow afternoon about their shooting date, he’d give her a call.
Rose pulled into her driveway, climbed out of the truck and slammed the door shut. Cab had kept a respectable distance behind her as they drove into town, but she was still angry that he was there at all. If he thought he could stop at her house and she’d invite him in, he had another thought coming. She couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder, however, as Cab’s headlights swept the street as she walked up to the front door.
He didn’t stop at all. He didn’t even beep his horn as he passed. Just like he said back at Carl’s house, he kept on going now that he’d seen her home safe.
Rose felt a dip of disappointment, but brushed all thought of the sheriff aside as she faced the carriage house and dug in her purse for her key. Letting herself in, she shut and locked the door behind her, taking a moment to lean against it and close her eyes. What a day of ups and downs. What a night. She hadn’t exactly gone a date with Cab, but it sure felt like she had.
And she hadn’t even broken up yet with Jason.
Opening her eyes again, she refused to think about that anymore. Time enough to talk to Jason when she’d found a job and apartment. She hung up her coat, took off her boots and made her way inside. Instantly she knew something was wrong. Emory had been here in her absence; the place had all the signs. A twist of dread tightened her gut. She hated when he came around when she was gone. It gave her the creepiest sensation to know he’d been in her private space. She passed through the carriage house, taking note of what he’d done.
The kitchen counter, already scrubbed to a shine, had been washed again. She knew that because she had lined up her appliances—the toaster, blender and microwave—in the center of the counter and now they were at the far end.
In the living room, the few magazines she’d stacked carefully on the coffee table were now fanned artistically as if inviting her to sit down and read. Indents in the carpet told her the easy chair had been moved half an inch.
Then she caught sight of her bedroom door.
Her open bedroom door.
She’d closed it this morning, like she always did, because as much as she was willing to accommodate the intrusive, OCD elements of her fiancé’s father’s personality, she could not bear the thought of him pawing through her clothing, jewelry and makeup.
If it was open, Emory had been in there, something she’d expressly forbidden him to do. Of course, she’d forbidden him to muck around with the rest of her house, too, and he regularly broke that rule. She crossed to the bedroom, anxiety tightening her stomach. If he was still in there, she would scream.
More than scream.
She pushed it open slowly and scanned the room.
No one was there.
Rose let go of the breath she was holding, entered the room fully and scanned it for changes. Emory had been in here all right; her brushes and combs were lined up on the dresser and—had he cleaned them? The thought of the man pulling hair from them and scrubbing them under the bathroom tap made her skin crawl. She crossed to the dresser in two steps, gathered them up and threw them in the trash.
She’d made her bed and it didn’t seem disturbed, although perhaps the comforter was a tiny bit straighter. The closet door was closed. Good. But when she crossed the room and opened it, Emory had definitely been in it, too. Her clothes were now categorized by type of item and by color scheme within the type. Pants, skirts, shirts… He’d touched and rearranged them all.
She swung around and pawed through her desk. He’d straightened the top drawer where she stored pencils, pens, erasers and all the odds and ends one accumulated. Everything now sat neat as a pin.
One look in the bathroom made her want to throw up. He’d scrubbed and neatened everything there, too. All the porcelain gleamed, the tile floor shone and the mirrored cabinet door over the sink didn’t even harbor a single piece of lint. She opened it and clapped a hand to her mouth. Everything from her hand cream to her toothbrush to her birth control pills stood in careful lines equidistant from each other.
Emory was sick. He was totally sick.
Rose’s skin tingled and her stomach hurt. She felt like she’d separated from her body, or that her mind was losing itself in her utter shock. Emory had never done this before. Her bedroom with its en suite bathroom was the one place she’d felt almost safe. Almost able to be herself.
Almost.
Now any illusion of privac
y she’d ever had was gone.
She was shaking as she approached the second bedroom, the one she used to use as a painting studio before she gave up painting at the house. Emory couldn’t possibly have done anything in here—he’d already invaded this room multiple times, putting her paints away, cleaning her brushes, scrubbing her palettes down to the bone, destroying carefully mixed colors she’d been saving for her next session. She’d given up and already packed most of her supplies in preparation for the move to her tree house when she built it. What could Emory do?
She pushed open the door to the studio and cried out in shock. Nothing was where she’d left it, not even the carefully packed boxes. In fact, they were all undone. The wide table she’d disassembled was put together and back into place. The boxes were gone and all her supplies sat out in pristine rows. The paints grouped by color, the brushes by size.
At first Rose didn’t understand where the piles of paper placed neatly around the floor of the room had come from, but when she did she had to bite back a scream. He’d gone through her sketchbooks—all of them, and there were dozens—ripped out the pages and arranged the drawings by category. He’d divided her landscapes into those that contained buildings and those that didn’t, those that contained animals, but no buildings and those that contained both. Her sketches of people were separated into men, women, children, and combinations of the three. Her animal sketches categorized by mammal, reptile, bird, or fish.
Even her canvasses had come under Emory’s organizing powers. He’d hung every single one on the walls, until there wasn’t an inch of space left. A chill touched her spine when she realized her canvasses couldn’t possibly all fit on the walls of this small room.
Where were the others?
She spun in a circle, but the room offered up no other clues. She raced back out to the living room and looked high and low through the rest of the carriage house. They were nowhere to be seen.
She’d have to confront him. Right now. Before the crazy old man did something unthinkable. Throwing her coat back around her shoulders, she slammed the front door behind her, clattered down the stairs and raced across the yard to the main house.