by Linda Howard
She should’ve left this place weeks ago.
She could leave now. Tonight.
But she wouldn’t. She was caught in a balancing act: this was a safe haven from Brad, she was socking away money, and damned if she didn’t like what she was doing. On the other side of the seesaw was the emotional cost of staying here, and that cost was growing larger with time. There had to be a tipping point, but she could only trust that she’d know when that time came, when she sensed the cost of staying outweighed the benefits. That was when she’d move on.
But right now, she had to deal with her sleeplessness. No matter what had happened today, in the morning she still had to get up at the same friggin’ ungodly hour to start breakfast. She needed to relax, settle her mind.
She threw back the covers and stepped into the warm slippers that were sitting beside her bed, then grabbed the bathrobe that hung over the footboard and headed for the door with great purpose. There was one piece of apple pie left. That and a glass of milk would help her get to sleep. And if not, well, she’d be sleepless and happy instead of sleepless and fretful. Maybe it wasn’t a win-win, but it definitely rated a win.
There was a nightlight in the hallway, another in the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the sound of the buffeting wind. Zeke was an early riser, which meant he went to bed early, too; he’d probably been asleep for a couple of hours. It was unlikely that he could hear her from his upstairs bedroom, but still, she made an effort to be quiet as she raided the fridge.
She sat at the small kitchen table with the last piece of apple pie, a fork, and a small glass of milk. The simple task of gathering the midnight snack hadn’t stopped her mind from spinning, and it certainly hadn’t done anything to settle the wind, but still … apple pie would make everything better.
She didn’t hear him coming, didn’t have a clue, but without warning he was there, looming in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, filling the space and charging the air with the electricity that seemed to be part of his aura. When he entered a room, he owned it, somehow.
He stopped in the doorway, surprise flitting across his face. Of course he was surprised; if he’d expected her to be in the kitchen, he probably wouldn’t have come down in nothing except a pair of jeans, which told her he didn’t sleep in pajamas—but then, she already knew that, because she did his laundry, and there had never been even a pair of sleep pants. Whether he slept naked or in his boxers, she didn’t know, and damn, she sure wished her mind hadn’t gone there, because, damn, he looked good. No shoes, no shirt. Long and lean and hard. He hadn’t worked out in a gym for those muscles, he’d gotten them the old-fashioned way, with hard labor. The bare skin on his shoulders gleamed, his arms were sinewy and thick with ropes of muscles, his big hands rough with calluses, the knuckles raw from the fight that afternoon—
This time she didn’t panic; panic was the furthest thing from her mind. She looked at him and had to swallow hard, because she knew what those muscles felt like, knew how his skin smelled, how warm, how heavy he was—oh, thank God for the pie, because it gave her an excuse for swallowing again. Her mouth was literally watering.
“Sorry,” he said, and then he turned to go back the way he’d come.
“Wait.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it. Bad idea. The smartest thing would be for him to go back to bed. Maybe she could forget what he looked like, barefoot and shirtless. Maybe she could forget how he smelled. Yeah, and maybe she’d find a magic wand under her bed and she could wave it around and all her troubles would be gone.
But this was his house, after all, and she really shouldn’t run him out of his own kitchen, even if she considered it her kitchen, for the duration.
He stopped, turned. The light from his new position didn’t offer as tempting a view, since he was almost entirely in shadow, which was just as well, she supposed. She swallowed another excess of saliva. “What do you need?”
He gave a short, sharp exhale, not quite a snort. “I came down for that last piece of apple pie. You beat me to it, fair and square.” She heard the soft humor in his voice. There was none of the bite she often heard when he gave her a hard time.
“It’s a big piece. I’m happy to share.” Before he could protest she got up and fetched an extra plate from the cabinet. She grabbed another fork, too, and a knife to cut the pie in half. “Milk?” she asked. He wasn’t much of a milk drinker, but there was no decaf coffee made.
“I’ll get it.”
He poured a glass while she returned to the table, cut the piece of pie in half, and slid the bigger half to another place—one on the other side of the table. Zeke sat, flicked an assessing look between their two slices of pie, winked at her, and then dug in. Carlin found herself playing with her pie, taking a small bite, flaking the crust with a tine of her fork. Jesus God, he’d winked at her. No flirting! She couldn’t allow flirting.
The wind picked up, a gust howling like a wolf as it swirled around the house. “The wind is something else,” she said.
“Cold front,” he replied.
“I figured as much.”
“Supposed to be snow by the end of the week.”
Oh good lord, she was sitting in the dimly lit kitchen at midnight with a half-naked man who made her forget that she should be on the move, who made her mouth water, who drove her crazy in more ways than she could count, and they were talking about the weather. How pitiful was that? And even more pitiful was that she was grateful they were just talking about the weather.
“I’ve never seen much snow.” Unless flurries counted—and rare flurries, at that. She still couldn’t believe that she, who loved sun and beaches, was about to willingly go through a Wyoming winter.
He made a sound that might’ve been a half laugh. “That’s about to change.” His gaze lifted, hard green lasers boring into her. “You’re not going to run, are you?”
How had he guessed that every day she was more and more torn? She wanted to be here, she did, so much that she was becoming more and more afraid to stay. She tried for a nonchalant tone. “I thought you didn’t want me here. Spencer will be out of his sling in a few days, and he can always—”
“Just promise me you’re not going to run.”
Carlin picked at her pie, took a small bite, chased it with some milk. She could feel Zeke looking at her. She could feel him waiting. “No,” she finally answered. “I won’t promise. But I’ll do my best to stay until spring.” That was as close to a promise, and a warning, as she could get.
She finished her pie and milk, took her plate and fork and glass to the sink, rinsed them out, and left them for when she ran the dishwasher after breakfast. So much for a nice, relaxing piece of pie. So much for getting to sleep anytime soon. The man she worked for had worked his way under her skin, and she liked it. Damnation.
And then he was there, moving silently on bare feet, placing his dishes in the sink beside hers. He was so close she could feel his body heat, and she could swear every little hair on her body was standing at attention. It was like electricity was running through her veins, like her insides had turned to fire and ice. She waited for him to move away, but he didn’t. He just stood there, close, warm, a temptation.
She turned her head and looked up. She wasn’t sure why, but she was compelled. It was like the stupid girl going down into the dark basement in the slasher movies. He was right there, that bare chest was right there. She could lean forward just a few inches and put her mouth on him, taste him.… She squirmed, but didn’t move away, not even when Zeke’s head moved toward hers, his focus on her mouth, his intent so clear she had plenty of time to back away, to tell him to stop … but she didn’t.
He kissed her. Kiss was much too simple a word for what happened, much too small a word for the powerful connection that rocked her to her core. She felt that kiss in her toes, in the top of her head, all through her body. She felt alive, really alive, for the first time in a long while. With his mouth on hers she wasn’t thinking abou
t running, the howling wind, the coming snow, or Brad or Jina or painful regrets. She didn’t think at all. She just felt.
He slowly lifted his mouth from hers, licked his lips as if he was still tasting her. Maybe the rough sound he muttered was a curse word; she couldn’t be sure. She did know the kiss had been wonderful—more than wonderful—but it had to stop here, or she would have to leave. Apparently he knew it, too. He didn’t move back in, didn’t put his arms around her. She wanted him to, but, God, number one bad idea on her long list of bad ideas.
“Let me help you.”
She shook her head, knowing exactly what he meant. “No. I won’t drag you into this.”
“You’re not dragging me anywhere. I want to help.”
“Teach me how to punch. That’ll help.” She managed a twisted smile. “Then maybe I won’t have to grab the kitchen knives.”
“And shoot,” he added.
“Maybe.”
He put his hand under her chin, nudged it upward. His thumb swept over the edge of her jaw. “Do you know, you never use my name?” he murmured.
“Sorry, Mr. Decker.” He was right: she didn’t. She couldn’t say why, unless it was some instinctive—and obviously useless—attempt to keep him at a distance. She tried to keep her voice calm but it was a struggle she lost.
“Really?” His mouth curved in amusement. “Mr. Decker?”
“Just Decker, then. Or boss.”
“No,” he said, his voice low. “Say it, just once.” His thumb rubbed her chin. “Come on, Carlin, how hard can it be?”
She should show him that it was just a name, no different from any of the others. But it was different, because it was his. Her heart pounded.
“Good night, Zeke,” she said, her voice a whisper.
He smiled. “Good night, Carlin.”
Chapter Seventeen
THE WEATHER HAD definitely turned. Zeke walked from the hardware store to Kat’s to find the usual crowd not such a crowd. He told his cousin he’d pick up the pies Carlin had ordered on his way out of town, then left again; he still had a few errands to run. He could’ve asked for Kat’s help with those errands, but he didn’t want to do that. She’d probably make too much out of something that was just common sense, plus she couldn’t exactly leave the café whenever she wanted.
Carlin and Spencer had taken care of the grocery shopping a couple of days earlier. He hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to make the trip to town today with him. After that kiss, he knew spending that much time so close to her would be a bad idea; he didn’t want to push too hard. It was smarter to let her settle down, work the situation over in her mind the way women did, and decide he’d just been comforting her some because of Darby. He mentally snorted. Yeah, right. Like men ever kissed women that way to comfort them. Besides, she’d probably try to stop him from doing what he knew had to be done.
He went into Tillman’s, kind of annoyed with Carlin for making this errand necessary, but at the same time understanding why she held so tightly to her money. He was determined to get this done. Carlin was going to stay through the winter, and she would damn well be prepared before the first snow moved in, which could be any minute, considering how the clouds looked.
He knew Alice Tillman well, had gone to school with her boys. They’d long since moved on, leaving Battle Ridge as so many others had in the past few years. He nodded a greeting to Mrs. Tillman as he headed toward a rack of heavy coats, and she asked him how things were going. He responded with a generic “fine.” If she was confused by the fact that he was headed toward the women’s section of the small store, she didn’t say so.
No way was he going to browse. He picked up a heavy coat that caught his eye, held it at arm’s length and checked it out for size. Deciding it would do, he moved on to the selection of boots. Size seven, she’d said. He already knew what he wanted. He didn’t care how pretty the boots were, didn’t care if they were in style or not. What she needed was something waterproof, with good insulation and a thick sole, something that would keep her feet dry and warm when the snow reached her knees. He lifted one sample and held it in the air. “You got this in a seven?”
“Hardly looks like your style or your size,” Mrs. Tillman said with more than a hint of humor.
“I think they’ll work,” he called after her as she headed into the back room, going along with the joke. While she was gone, he looked over the sale table where Carlin had probably found her ugly-ass green boots. A few boxes, some of them dented or missing lids, sat on that table looking sad and unwanted. It pissed him off that this was where Carlin felt compelled to shop, that she was so terrified of not having enough money to make her next escape that she automatically looked for bargains.
Mrs. Tillman placed a large, sturdy shoe box on the front counter. “I don’t suppose you’ll be trying these on,” she teased.
“No, ma’am.” As he walked toward the counter, she looked at the coat he carried. Her smile faded, just a little. He preempted her with a rueful smile. “The coat’s not for me, either.”
She looked momentarily conflicted, and then she said, “I’m never one to turn away a sale, especially such a good one, but I want to make sure before I ring it up. Did you check out the price on that coat?”
“No, should I?”
“You should.”
He found the tag, lifted it, and came to a stop in the middle of the aisle. “Holy—” He stopped himself in mid-exclamation. “Are the pockets lined with gold?” He had a shearling coat himself so he hadn’t expected it to be cheap, but he hadn’t expected a thousand-dollar price tag, either.
Mrs. Tillman explained. “It’s the best garment in the store, very good quality, but I have to make sure you’re aware of the price before I ring it up. I stock a few of these every year, in case some rich hunters come through and need a heavy coat. You’d be surprised how seldom I have to carry them over to another season.”
He could afford the coat; Carlin needed something good and heavy. But, damn, he was pretty sure his first truck hadn’t cost this much.
“This wouldn’t by chance be for your new cook, would it? Carly, isn’t that her name?” Mrs. Tillman asked as she read the expression on his face and walked past him, snagging the coat from his hand as she went by.
He mentally shrugged. Small towns. If he’d been worried about keeping this a secret, then he’d have gone to Cheyenne. “It is, on both counts.”
“When she was in here a while back she looked at this very coat. I’m sure she’d love it, but I have other coats that will be a lot more practical.”
“You saw her. Did I get the right size?”
“I’d say so. I think she’s about the size of my daughter-in-law.” Mrs. Tillman returned the shearling coat to the rack and grabbed a dark blue parka, fluffy and thick, but about a quarter the weight of the shearling. “This will keep her warm, and it’s a lot easier to take care of.”
They returned to the counter, where the parka and the shoe box sat side by side. He looked at his choices so far, and sighed. They weren’t enough. Carlin wasn’t accustomed to Wyoming winters, and that meant she’d need hats, gloves, scarves, long underwear.
Mrs. Tillman was delighted to help him gather what was needed. He chose good-quality stuff without going for the most expensive. Soon he had all he was going to purchase piled on the front counter.
He had to draw the line somewhere. Carlin was by God going to have to buy her own underwear, long or otherwise.
SHE STARED AT the merchandise Zeke had presented to her with no fanfare at all. He’d practically shoved the bags into her arms, and then he’d left the house. A cow needed him, or something, although how he could have known that when he had just returned from town, she didn’t know; some kind of psychic cow-call? It wasn’t until she’d laid the things he’d bought across her bed that she realized how much all of this stuff must’ve cost.
She was both embarrassed and disconcerted. She hated that he’d spent all this money on her when
she had the cash to buy these things for herself, but she’d made the conscious decision to do without, or make do with what she could scrounge up around the house, because she was saving every dime she could, just in case.
She was beginning to hate those words. “Just in case” had come to define her life, and it sucked.
As for “disconcerted,” what was she supposed to think? It wasn’t as if he’d bought her some lingerie. This was practical, unornamental, much-needed winter outdoors stuff.
When he came back in, a couple of hours after delivering pie and Wyoming-appropriate winter outerwear, she was waiting for him. She wouldn’t have chosen that precise time, because she was all but covered in flour. Agitated, needing something to occupy her, she’d decided to try to make biscuits tonight—real, homemade biscuits, not the frozen or canned kind, not from a mix. Real biscuits. It was messy work. And, from her previous experience, potentially dangerous.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she asked as he came in from the mudroom.
He raised his eyebrows, acting as if he had no idea what she was talking about, but she knew he wasn’t that dense. She pointed a finger at him, a finger that was coated with shortening and flour.
“That coat is much too expensive, and the boots … I don’t even want to know how much those boots set you back.”
“You needed them; I bought them. No big deal,” he said flatly. He eyed the kitchen, and her floured self. “Somebody booby-trapped the flour and it exploded on you, huh?”
“Don’t try to distract me.” Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him, but it was to her. She didn’t want to owe anyone, she wanted to stay unfettered. She was caught, though, because returning the merchandise might insult him, might hurt him—Zeke Decker, with hurt feelings?—and he was the man who had punched Darby out in her behalf. “Fine. I’ll pay you back,” she said, chin up in a defiant pose.
“Like hell you will,” he growled.