MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  He gave the pot a dubious glance. Chicken sandwiches, maybe? "Do you like to read?" he asked.

  "Love it," she said promptly. "I usually don't travel without a book or two, but I didn't have time to pick any up before I came here."

  Didn't have the time, or didn't have the money? "I've got some old paperbacks in my office—thrillers, mostly. I don't know if they'd be your type, but I'd be glad to dig a couple out if you like."

  "What, no Louis L'Amour or Elmer Kelton?" She grinned. "I don't think my dad has ever read any book cover-to-cover except for Louis L'Amour's westerns."

  "My father used to read Louis L'Amour." The scene came back to him suddenly—his father sitting in the big, green recliner with his sock-clad feet on the footrest, one of his western novels in his lap and his reading glasses sliding down his nose. As far back as Nate could remember, Garwood Jones had only owned one pair of reading glasses and they had never fit right. There had been three cone-shaped lights on the floor lamp beside the recliner. One had always been turned off; another always pointed at the recliner for Nate's father to read by; the third had been directed at the pale blue armchair where Nate's mother had sat, working on one of her endless needlepoint projects.

  After her death, Garwood never sat in the recliner again. "Back when I was growing up, he read a lot in the evenings. All sorts of books—everything from Louis L'Amour to Steinbeck. I don't think I ever saw him read any kind of fiction after my mother died."

  "You said that her death took a lot out of him."

  "That's one way to put it." His gaze focused on her and the present once more. "He missed her to his dying day, and he never understood why. I don't think he understood anything except ownership. As far as he was concerned, he owned the ranch, his wife and his sons, along with a good part of the county and the people in it."

  "He … wasn't as well-liked as your mother was, I take it."

  "A lot of people couldn't stand him." He met her eyes steadily. "And a lot of people will tell you I'm just like him."

  "Nonsense. You don't think you own people."

  "I've got his temper and his selfishness."

  "Well, I have noticed some traces of a temper—though for my money, Mark has you beat there—but you aren't selfish."

  "Don't fool yourself. I'm determined to have you in my bed, and my motives are entirely selfish."

  Her throat moved when she swallowed. For a moment she looked at him, her eyes large and uncertain, and he wondered what kind of an idiot he was for giving her another reason to change her mind.

  Then she pushed her chair back and stood. "Listen, do you know how to make dumplings?"

  "What?"

  "I'm craving dumplings," she explained, heading for the pantry. "If you don't know how to make them, I'd be glad to show you. It's easy. We'll put some vegetables in, too. When I mentioned chicken and dumplings to Mark, he really—oh, darn, I nearly forgot to tell you. Mark wanted you to stop by his room when you got back."

  * * *

  Nate strode down the hall, wondering what had made Mark ask for him. Not once since his brother came home from the hospital had he asked Nate to come see him. He didn't seem to mind when Nate stopped by to visit, though, so Nate kept coming around. Sooner or later, he figured, Mark would realize he could depend on him. Sooner or later the failures and constraints of the past would fade.

  But Mark wasn't waiting for his brother when Nate reached the door of his room. He was asleep.

  Nate stood in the doorway and looked at his little brother, and some unknown feeling took him by the throat and squeezed. Feelings hit him like that sometimes, quickly and desperately. When they did, he could no more name them than he could smell music or sort the wind.

  Like the first time he'd seen Mark after the accident. His brother had lain there naked and broken beneath a white sheet in that bed in CCU, hooked up to beeping machines, with tubes at his nose, his arm and his groin. Nate's throat had gotten so tight he'd thought he was going to pass out.

  What kind of name did you put on a feeling like that?

  Mark's color was better now, thank God, the lines of pain smoothed away. One of his arms was outflung. The other, the one in the cast, was cradled protectively close, and the sheet and blanket were drawn up over his chest.

  He still slept the way he had when he was little.

  When Mark had first come to them all those years ago, Nate's mother had still been alive. Every night at bedtime she'd tucked Mark in just the way he was tucked in now, with the covers drawn up to his chest and his arms free. He'd been a scrawny little kid, all wary eyes and tangled hair. And dirty. Nate didn't know much about Mark's life before he came to them, but what he did know wasn't good.

  Three years after Mark joined their family, Nate's mother died. Her death hit them all hard, but Mark had been really lost. Their father hadn't been much help, since he was convinced sentiment softened a boy, so Nate had started tucking Mark in at night. He'd done that until Mark decided he was too old for that sort of thing.

  Nate stood in the doorway and watched his brother sleeping. He thought about waking Mark up to see what he'd wanted, but in the end he turned around and let him sleep.

  * * *

  Hannah was delighted when she found out that Nate planned to eat with her and Mark. The brothers needed to spend some time together, or how would they work out whatever troubled their relationship?

  Her rosy attitude didn't last long.

  Nate kept touching her. The whole time they were setting up trays and bringing the supper things into Mark's room, he found excuses to put his hands on her. He caressed her arm when they came into the room together. He stood too close, his hand resting on her shoulder, while she set out plates. He touched the back of her hand when he spoke. It confused her. Shouldn't she enjoy being touched by the man she'd agreed to go to bed with? But she didn't like it. Oh, he stirred her, she couldn't deny that—her body responded with a yearning that was far less subtle than his light touches. But he was making her uncomfortable, too.

  She didn't understand why until they sat down to eat.

  The meal didn't start out too badly. When Mark found out that Nate had cooked the chicken and dumplings, he teased his brother about it. Nate took the teasing well enough, then mentioned someone named Earl who was giving a party next Friday.

  Mark looked interested. "The Navarettes are having a party?"

  "That's right. Everyone's invited, of course—you know Earl. He claimed the party is for Susie, but I don't know if that's true."

  "Why wouldn't it be?" Hannah asked, confused. "And who's Susie?"

  "His wife. You'll like her. Hannah, I want you to go with me."

  She shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "You aren't worried about what people would think, are you?"

  "Of course I am. It could be very awkward if everyone thought—well, you know how people are. You're my boss. It would look odd for me to go as your date."

  "Hey, what about me?" Mark said quickly. "Aren't I invited, too?"

  "Of course you are," Nate said irritably.

  "Well, then." Mark smiled at both of them. "Why don't we all go together? No food for the gossips in that."

  Nate didn't look as if he appreciated Mark's suggestion. "Since when have you worried about what the gossips said?"

  Mark shrugged and broke a roll in half. "Just because you and I are used to that sort of thing doesn't mean Hannah should have to put up with it if it bothers her." He looked at her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "So, Hannah, did you enjoy your ride this afternoon?"

  "I loved it. Of course, I may give you a different answer tomorrow," she said ruefully, "when some of the muscles I abused today start reporting in."

  "I wouldn't be surprised. You were gone a long time for someone who hasn't been on a horse in a while."

  "We weren't riding the whole time," Nate said blandly.

  Surely he didn't mean that as suggestively as it sounded. Hannah gave him a
quick frown and said to Mark, "We rode out to a large outcropping of rock. Nate showed me the way to the top. The view was gorgeous."

  "Lookout Rock?" Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's kind of a long ride for someone who's not used to it."

  "Hannah held up just fine." Nate met Mark's curious look straight on. "She was on the right mount. That can make all the difference to a woman."

  This time Hannah couldn't mistake his meaning. She stared at him, and all at once she understood why Nate's touches had bothered her. He hadn't been touching her because he wanted to. No, it had all been for his brother's benefit. Nate was staking some sort of sexual claim on her, showing Mark that he had the right to touch her. Like she was some kind of sexual trophy.

  Suddenly Hannah wasn't hungry anymore.

  "That wasn't necessary," Mark said, tight-lipped.

  Nate shrugged and reached for his glass. "I don't agree."

  "That's clear enough. Once a bastard, always a bastard, right?"

  "Dammit, Mark, I've never thought of you that way, and you know it!"

  Hannah looked from one angry face to the other. This was getting unpleasant, fast. She pushed her tray away, thinking it was time for her to leave.

  Mark's lip lifted in a sneer. "Don't rush off before you find out what we're talking about. I'm the bastard in the room, not Nate. In both senses of the word."

  "That's enough, Mark," Nate said warningly.

  "Don't you think Hannah should know? Everyone else sure does. The whole town knew about it the entire time our father was carrying on with my mother, right up until she got sick of the scene and dumped me on his doorstep. Isn't that part of the reason you've had your hands all over Hannah tonight? You wanted to make sure I'm not following in the old man's footsteps and grabbing at anything in skirts?"

  Nate stood. In complete silence, he left the room. Hannah sat there, shaken and miserable. Gradually, the certainty grew in her that what she'd heard, unpleasant as it had been, had skirted around the underlying problem between the brothers rather than uncovering it. Nate didn't hate his brother for having been illegitimate. And Mark knew that.

  She was beginning to have a sick suspicion about what that problem might be.

  Finally Mark stirred slightly, glancing at her, then away. "I'm sorry."

  She stood. "You want to tell me what that was all about?"

  He was silent for a long moment. "No. I don't think I do."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  Hannah was glad to get out of that room. She was glad, too, that the kitchen was empty. She didn't know where Nate had gone, but she was sure she wasn't ready to see him. Not yet. Not until she had some idea of what it was she was feeling, other than confused.

  After the way he'd acted in there, she ought to be furious.

  Why wasn't she?

  A frown lingered on Hannah's face as she scraped the leftovers from their plates into a big bowl for Trixie, but the expression arose from thought tinged by sadness, not anger. Nate had behaved badly, yes, but his behavior had been aimed at Mark, not her. She didn't want to jump to conclusions. She was trying not to do that, but it was hard not to assume that the trouble between the brothers, which had flared up so suddenly tonight over her, must have begun in a situation involving another woman.

  Jenny.

  She squirted dish soap into the sink, turned on the faucet and told herself not to speculate when she had so little to go on. She picked up the pot that the chicken and dumplings had cooked in. There was enough left for lunch tomorrow, so she went hunting for a container.

  Maybe Mark had had a crush on his brother's wife. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened. And if Nate had known about it—no, that alone wouldn't make him act the way he had tonight. Mark had been very young when Nate married—fifteen or so. Surely Nate wouldn't bear a grudge all these years over an adolescent crush. There was more to it.

  She shut off the water. It wasn't any of her business. Maybe her instincts were shouting at her that an important key to understanding Nate and his attitude toward her lay hidden in the scene with Mark tonight. It didn't matter, because she couldn't still be considering going to him—not after the way he'd behaved.

  Could she?

  Hannah emptied what was left of the chicken and dumplings into the container she'd found. Nate was a man scarred by his past. A woman like herself—a practical woman, who knew how easily she could be hurt—shouldn't want to have anything to do with a man like that.

  But she did.

  She scowled and soothed herself by scrubbing the pot. For Hannah, the need for clean dishes and decent meals was a reassuring constant. When all else in her life was chaos, she knew she could take care of the basics.

  She made a lot of decisions impulsively. Nine times out of ten, that worked out fine. The way she saw it, decisions always resulted in some sort of problems, anyway, no matter how fast or slow you made up your mind. So why drag things out? Tonight, though, she was deep-down, heart-and-soul undecided. She could see all too many reasons to change her mind about going to Nate tonight, and only one to follow through.

  She wanted him. Oh, how she did want him.

  It would be nice, she thought wistfully, if she could empty herself of feelings as readily as she'd emptied and cleaned out the cooking pot. If that were so, she wouldn't hesitate about going to bed with Nate. Wanting was easy.

  But she didn't just want Nate. She was a hairsbreadth away from falling in love with him. And, dammit, she didn't want to be in love with a man who looked her in the eye and told her love was a myth. An excuse. Scowling, she finished wiping down the counter and slapped the dishrag back in the sink. She didn't want to be in love at all. It was sure to interfere with her goals.

  She picked up Trixie's bowl and headed for the side door. She'd started feeding the dog a few scraps every night, and Trixie had quickly figured out what time she needed to show up at the house for her treat. When Hannah opened the door, the big Lab was waiting, her tail wagging a mile a minute.

  Hannah stepped outside. The crescent moon hung low in a sky as dark and unrevealing as Nate's eyes, and the temperature had dropped along with the wind.

  She set the bowl down and stood there hugging herself for warmth, unwilling to go back in yet. Nate was devoted to Trixie, and unwilling—or unable—to admit it. What chance did a woman have with a man who trusted his heart so little he couldn't even admit he loved his dog?

  Hannah was contemplating that unhappy question when Trixie lifted her head and turned to face the darkness, growling.

  "What is it, girl?" She remembered how Trixie had acted on the night the sheriff came and she moved away from the house, looking for headlights.

  Trixie let out one belly-deep woof and took off running across the yard toward the barn. Hannah hesitated, unable to decide if she should go after Trixie or go get Nate.

  The flat crack of a rifle split the silence, followed by the enraged bellow of a bull. Hannah quit thinking, and acted.

  She ran after the dog.

  Trixie was barking as she vanished around the corner of the barn. Hannah ran after her, but slowed when she reached the barn. Impulse had brought her this far, but the light set high on the outside of the barn didn't reach the paddocks or the rough area beyond.

  What should she do next?

  The door to the bunkhouse, which lay some fifty yards on the other side of the house from the cow barn, flew open. Someone called out a question.

  Trixie's barking grew more insistent even as it faded slightly with distance.

  A second gunshot smacked the night.

  Instinct nearly sent Hannah around the corner, but common sense prevailed.

  She flung open the small door to the barn. A forty-watt bulb gave enough light for her to grab the flashlight that sat on a shelf near the entrance, and the hammer someone had left sitting out after working on King Lear's stall.

  She spun around—and swallowed a scream.

 
Nate stood in the shadowed doorway. He grabbed her shoulders. "You little fool, what do you think you're doing, running around out here when someone's shooting?"

  "The same thing as you!"

  He grabbed the flashlight out of her hand. "Stay here."

  Of course she followed him out the door.

  He turned back around. "Dammit, Hannah!"

  "You don't have a weapon," she said, and held out the hammer.

  He took it from her, shook his head and moved quickly off into the darkness.

  Hannah waited several seconds so he would get far enough ahead that he wouldn't try to stop her. As she rounded the corner of the barn, she heard an engine in the distance. The sound came from the other side of the row of elms that lined the mile-long driveway leading to the house.

  The light from Nate's flashlight moved across the rough ground beyond the paddocks. She hurried after it, and prayed.

  Headlights came on, shining through the skeletal limbs of the trees lining the drive. Hannah left the yard behind for the scrubby grass and weeds in the strip of land between the paddocks and the driveway. It was dark and the ground was rough, and her heart was trying to pound its way right out of her chest.

  Nate's flashlight beckoned her, but it would give the shooter a target, too.

  The motor of the vehicle revved. The headlights took off down the driveway, heading for the main road. Thank God, she thought. They're leaving. She tripped over a rock in the darkness and moved faster.

  Nate's low-voiced curses reached her seconds before she caught up with him. She jerked to a stop. The flashlight lay on the ground beside him, its beam throwing light and shadows across Nate where he knelt in the dirt next to Trixie's motionless body.

  * * *

  Almost everything in the vet's waiting room was some shade of brown. The walls were beige, the wooden counter was stained a dark brown, and brown tiles covered the floor. Behind that counter, high on the beige wall, was a white-faced clock just like the one at the bus station. It read 8:05. Three drops of blood on the brown floor pointed toward the door to the rear of the facility, where the vet and his assistant worked to save Trixie.