Whisper a Warning

by Christine Bush

  She looked up as he entered and she smiled, hanging up the phone. That smile filled his heart, filled his soul. The restlessness flowed away, effortlessly, and he felt peace.

  “Hi, Blondie.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  “So where were you, counselor, when I needed you? I had to tackle Porter Blank myself. He’s a slimy thing, you know.”

  “I was at the bank. It’s a long story. I don’t know Porter well myself, but I’ll take your character reference as gospel, if you’ll go to dinner with me.”

  She cleared the debris from her desk with a swipe, filling the trash can. “Best offer I’ve had all day.” She stood, wiggling her feet around under her desk to retrieve her shoes.

  His heart felt light.

  “I’m out of here, Gail,” she said to the receptionist. “Leave any messages on my home machine, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Gail smiled in agreement, as the two went out the door, arm in arm.

  Willow felt a surge of happiness, of completeness as they stepped onto the sidewalk. The good feelings ended abruptly.

  “My car,” she whined.

  “We’ll take whatever car you want, crazy lady.”

  “No,” she whined louder. “My car!” He looked at the Miata then, parked as usual by the curb. The black convertible roof was slit viciously across the top in a crisscross manner. Pointed strips of ruined vinyl hung down into the interior.

  They looked at each other for a silent moment. Random vandalism or pointed message? The good feelings had ebbed away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Willow pulled her portable phone out of her bag, and called the police. Detective Dunn took down the information glumly. The police made arrangements to meet at Willow’s house. “I can’t leave the car here in town; it might rain.”

  So in the end, they took both cars, Willow driving the Miata, and Rockford following in his rental.

  When the police arrived, she gave the information for the police report. She contacted her auto insurance agent. She felt violated and angry. He helped her haul a blue waterproof tarp from the barn, draping it over the forlorn Miata to protect it from the elements.

  Rockford had followed her into the little cottage at the back of the farm. He felt a bit like a useless appendage as he watched her competently handle the details of the vandalism. But despite her control, he could see she was upset and he had a strong urge to comfort her. What would she think if he crossed the small room and enveloped her in his arms?

  She’d push him away. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. So he pushed the thought away, instead. Willow Blake was a mystery. She was a complicated, intense person, and he was drawn to her with an intensity that amazed him. When it came to Willow, he was a little like a rat caught in a maze, with no map, no compass. Uncharted territory.

  He smiled to himself. Maybe they just needed time. She was worth it. He sat back, and waited for her to make the first move.

  Willow had been busy on the phone, but Rockford’s presence hadn’t been out of her mind for an instant. He sat across the room, quiet and attentive. It was mesmerizing, she thought suddenly, how he filled the room. He was a big man, broad shoulders, long legs. But it was more than that. It was his presence, his personality. She felt a tingle travel her spine like an electric current through a hot wire.

  “Thanks for your patience. This has made me a little crazy.”

  “No problem,” he said softly. “Done the phone calls?”

  “Police, insurance, and ordered a replacement top from a friend. They’ll get it up here by tomorrow.” She was biting her lip, deep in thought. She stood with her back to him, staring out the window.

  “Was it just random vandalism? Or do you think it was a warning, Rockford? Do you think somebody’s trying to intimidate me to stop looking for the Burdetts?”

  “I don’t know. So are you intimidated?”

  She turned and grinned. “Don’t know the word, counselor. But it’s interesting that someone would try . . . I can’t stop, though, no matter what.”

  He nodded, watching the way her eyes flashed when she was thinking. He stood up suddenly, trying to fight the wave of emotion that was suddenly roaring in him like an August forest fire, uncontrollable, unquenchable. She was gorgeous, she was so brave and so alive, and he wanted her more than anything in his life. But he was afraid she wouldn’t feel the same.

  She saw him stand, saw him looking at her, heeding the fact that the room had gotten even noticeably smaller. She swallowed hard. Rockford Farquahar Harrison III was a man to be reckoned with. Her pulse was hammering as she watched him from across the small room. His strong jaw-line was offset by the look of vulnerability in his eyes. His strong shoulders were noticeably tense. He was knockdown gorgeous, and he didn’t even know it.

  Willow had come to an emotional crossroads as she stood there absorbing the unspoken messages that flashed like current between them.

  Pull back, sever the feelings, said one of the voices in her head. You can’t trust a man . . . you can’t let yourself be vulnerable.

  But it’s Rockford, strong and true, answered another of the voices. You can learn to trust. . . .

  She watched the fine, hard lines of his face, and knew that he was watching her. He knew. He stood there, watching the silent battle that went on in her head, and let her work it out. No coercion, no impatience, no self-doubt. Her heart swelled at that realization, filled with a strange and humbling emotion that was totally new. It was love. She drew in a deep long breath, her eyes locked with his, feeling her knees begin to tremble.

  His eyes were warm, and encouraging, but he didn’t say a word. He just watched her. It was up to her, she realized. He was giving her the power to choose.

  He was giving her freedom, and by that very allowance, he had captured her heart. She could trust this man.

  Her heart was hammering in her chest as she took a step toward him, raising her arms. He smiled, his face lighting up with feeling, and opened his arms to her, and she flowed to him, like a flower to the sun.

  They fit. He enveloped her tall, slim body, tucking her into his, and held her close. She could feel her own heart hammering, and after a moment, could feel his. He was warm and solid, and as they stood there, holding each other, not even moving, she realized an amazing thing.

  Instead of the usual feeling of losing something of herself when she got close to a person, the exact opposite was happening. Instead of feeling like she was giving up her personhood, her self of personal power that she had worked so hard to develop, she felt a new sense of power flowing into her. She felt stronger, more alive, as they touched, as if a distinct energy was flowing from one to the other.

  She pulled her head back in amazement, and met the eyes she sought, drinking in their message like a weary desert traveler finding refreshing water. He was holding her, Willow Blake, and she was okay. He wasn’t trying to coerce her, to correct her, to change her, to mold her. He liked who she was. His very acceptance of her opened the floodgates of feeling as she stood looking into his eyes. The feeling was very, very mutual.

  She tilted her head slightly, opening her lips, her hands around his neck gently pulling him toward her. He didn’t need a second invitation. His mouth touched hers, softly at first. She kissed him right back. She heard soft gasps in the silence of the cottage, startled to realize they were coming from her.

  “Ah, Willow, Willow,” he groaned, pulling her close to him. “You are so special. I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to trust me.”

  The phone rang.

  The shrill noise cut through the air, and brought them rapidly back into the present. They both wanted to cling to the tender moment. But the phone couldn’t be ignored. Too much was going on around them.

  It was already the fourth ring by the time Willow reached the receiver.

  “Thank goodness I caught you, Willow,” came Gail’s voice over the wire. The normally unflappable receptionist sounded tense, worried.

  “
What’s going on, Gail?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. But I don’t believe in coincidences. You have a message here, from Bill Boylan at National Realty across town. It’s about that Charley Morse, Willow. Seems our Mr. Morse has just approached him about purchasing a run-down farm for half a million dollars.”

  “I don’t get it. The Burdett deal is already done.”

  “He asked about the Burdett deal, Willow, because he is suspicious of Morse, and he learned you filed the papers for the Burdett sale. It’s another farm, Willow, on the same road, owned by a couple named Harris! Charley Morse is at it again.”

  “Did he talk to the owners, Gail? Do they want to sell?” A sick feeling was creeping up on her, and she knew what Gail’s answer would be.

  “They don’t want to sell. I’m worried for them, Willow, especially since we still can’t find the Burdetts.”

  Willow took down the realtor’s information and promised to call and look into it. A two-minute phone call with Bill Boylan proved her fears were justified. The couple refused to sell when Bill approached them, and Charley Morse had been furious on the phone when he had learned the news. Bill didn’t have a number to reach him.

  Willow hung up the phone, giving Rockford the unhappy news. The Harrises had to be warned and protected. And Charley Morse had to be stopped. She picked up the phone and called the police.

  The day went downhill rapidly. The police reported that the Harris couple weren’t taking the Morse offer seriously, and had declined any police protection, scoffing at the thought of being in danger.

  No one could find the mysterious Charley Morse. There was no word from the Burdetts. The magical moments spent in Rockford’s arms had been relegated to a happy memory, pushed aside by the worry they both felt about what was going on.

  Driving to city hall, they had spent two fruitless hours combing local records. Why did Charley Morse want those decrepit farms? What was so special about them that he was willing to pay several times the market values, even coercing owners to sell? Why those farms, located so close to each other?

  It was not good land for development. The rocky ground with bad runoff made it unsuitable for efficient septic systems, and there was no public sewer available so far from town. There had been no building permits, change of zoning petitions, or any other study filed which would indicate that the land was suitable or proposed for building of any kind.

  They checked the records for any easements, either existing or proposed, that would mean alteration or use of the land by electric, water, gas, or telephone companies, rail lines or oil pipelines. No information existed.

  Willow spoke to a local geologist, speculating on the possibility of some hidden value for the land that was not yet explored. Coal? Oil? Some other valuable minable mineral? The geologist had laughed, reassuring her that the area in question held no such secrets, and that the only thing that would be found under the depleted farmland was rock and more rock.

  But why? Why did Charley Morse place such a value on those run-down farms? There were no answers to be found.

  Willow and Rockford stopped for hamburgers and fries at the end of a long day, sitting across from each other in a well-worn leather booth at the local diner. It was an evening hangout spot for the local teenagers, and the corner jukebox was blasting out an alternative rock song at a decibel level that would challenge even the most insensitive ears.

  Leaning across the table, they kept their heads together to hear each other’s words amid the din. Willow felt a rosy glow as she watched his face react when he told a story, laughing and dramatic. She began to get a feel for the man she cared so much about. His early life, growing up with all of the trappings a body could want, but feeling an emptiness that can only be filled by caring relationships.

  He told her about Peter, vocalizing his feelings, his guilt, his pain at losing his best friend. He actually spoke aloud of the anger and rage that had built in him at Peter’s death, and how he couldn’t go on in the flawed justice system that let murderers like Marco Slergetti go free.

  She listened. She nodded and acknowledged his words, but she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t soften his words with protests, trying to take the edge off his guilt. But she didn’t condemn him either. She simply understood. And listened. He loved her for it.

  She spoke later in halting tones of her own childhood, of the mean and negative man who had hurt her so badly in the name of fatherhood, and of her own struggle to find a new life. She shared stories about Maggie and the kids and demonstrated the sign language she was learning to communicate with a deaf child.

  They held hands when they left the restaurant, and they walked a few blocks through town together, still entranced at the newness of having someone be so close.

  Willow was amazed at herself and her reactions to this man. The night air was warm, but she shivered at the thought. Anticipation? He felt her tremor, and put an arm around her, pulling her close.

  “Cold, Willow? Let’s head for the car. How about stopping by my house before we head out to the farm? I want to check my messages.”

  She nodded, and climbed into the rental car wordlessly a few minutes later. He drove silently, lost in his own thoughts, pulling up to the white Victorian house.

  “It’s an apartment upstairs. The entrance is around back.”

  She followed him as he led, curious to see where he lived. She wanted to know about his life, what mattered to him, what he liked, what he thought. She wanted him. She swallowed hard at the thought.

  His key opened the upstairs door easily, and he led her into a cute apartment, its big windows filled with plants, and cheerful colorful pillows tossed haphazardly on the couch.

  “Just let me check my messages, and we’ll go.” He disappeared into another room, shutting the door behind him.

  She decided to give herself a tour of the small apartment. The kitchen was clean and orderly, but it had a well-lived-in look. She noticed the rack of spices over the stove. Funny, Rockford hadn’t struck her as much of a cook. There was so much she didn’t know about him.

  Crossing the living room, she was struck again by the color and warmth of the room. It didn’t really match the man she had come to know, the man who wore silk shirts and had been suffering depression over the death of his friend.

  On the other side of the living room she found the bathroom, its door halfway open. Thoughts had already been bombarding her mind, and as the bathroom came into view, the worst of her theories was proven true. With her mouth hanging open, she saw a sight that broke her heart, broke her trust.

  It was laundry. Hanging demurely from the shower rod, from the towel rack, her eyes lighted on women’s clothing. Pantyhose and underwear were drying innocently in the air.

  A woman lived in this apartment. With Rockford. Bile rose in her throat, as remorse for her own foolishness swept over her. She had blindly trusted him, naively assumed that her values would be his, that he would be hers, as she longed to be his.

  But he belonged to someone else, if not legally, at least ethically, by his living situation. And that kind of relationship was not acceptable to Wilhemina Blake. Ever.

  She swallowed hard, mustering up the courage that had gotten her through many a tough day. She forced the tears to retreat from her eyes. Willow Blake would not cry over a man like this. Ever. It was the principle of the thing.

  She turned softly on her heel, and walked noiselessly to the door of the apartment, letting herself out. She bounded down the steps, and around the building before she realized that she had no car. She took a deep breath, and hunched up her shoulders, moving quickly down the street. Three blocks later, a convenience store came into sight. She called Maggie. Maggie was coming to get her. She asked no questions, which was a good thing, because for once in her life, Willow Blake had absolutely no answers, no answers at all. Her heart was broken.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Rockford came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, he was pull
ing a sweater over his head.

  “Willow?”

  The room was silent and empty. She was gone.

  Where did she go? What spooked her? He looked quickly around the apartment, his eyes finally lighting on George’s lingerie. She couldn’t have thought. . . But anything was possible with the gun-shy Willow. He had never thought to tell her about George.

  He got in his car, and began driving around the neighborhood. He tried to convince himself that maybe she had simply gone for a walk, but he knew it was more serious than that. Several minutes later, he drove by the convenience store a few blocks away, just in time to see her long legs disappear into a beat-up Suburban wagon. Maggie’s wagon.

  Well, she was safe, and on her way home. Though he had no idea of how to bring back the warmth and closeness they had felt all day. He remembered the sweet smell of her skin, the texture of her blond hair, the way her lips had opened to his. He wanted her, he needed her. One way or another, he would convince her of that. But for now, she was on her way home.

  He climbed back up the stairs to the apartment, feeling defeated. After a few minutes, when she would have had time to get home, he dialed her number. The phone answered on the first ring. It was her answering machine.

  “Hi, this is Willow. I’m not answering the phone right now. Please leave a message at the beep. Unless this is Rockford. In which case, don’t bother. Ever.”

  He heard the beep, and left a message anyway. “This is Rockford. In this great country of ours, a man is innocent until proven guilty. Circumstantial evidence is thrown out in court. A person should have their day in court, Wilhemina. It’s the principle of the thing. Call me, Willow. I love you.” He hung up the phone, feeling sadness like a physical pain inside of him. He knew she wouldn’t call. It was over.

  At that instant, the door opened, and his sister George came bounding in, balancing a large box.

  “Whoa, get this, big brother. The natives are restless.”