Kitabı oku: «Almost a Hometown Bride», sayfa 2

“I don’t have one.”

That earned her a frown that made him appear tougher and angrier. Add that to the wind and cold’s effect on his hair and square-jawed face, and she thought it gave him an otherworldly air—an unholy one. How on earth could Leroy think she could be taken by such a force of nature, even without knowing her past?

“You walked the whole way?” he asked, his tone as scornful as his expression. “What kind of glutton for punishment are you?”

That was just what she needed at this point, a warrior god with a vegetable for a brain. “A poor one,” she snapped back.

Cain fell silent again, but he continued to study her. Merritt wanted badly to get inside and out of the wind, but she wasn’t budging while he was blocking her way.

“How long have you been in Almost?” he finally asked. “Not long enough to learn that it’s dangerous to walk outside town by yourself.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve been doing just fine. From what I’ve been told, I guess I arrived not long after you left.”

The right corner of his hard mouth twitched and a timeless sensuality lit in his black eyes. “So you’ve been asking about me?”

“What I asked was why some of our regulars are so uptight over your return. Alvie gave me a quick recap.’”

Cain snorted. “No wonder you looked like a lamb ready to bolt when you saw me walk in. Relax. Having just arrived, I’m not about to get myself a one-way ticket back into prison. Besides,” he added with another cursory glance over her shivering body, “there’s not enough to you to make an appetizer for someone with my tastes.”

“Rape isn’t about desire,” she said without thinking. “It’s about anger and control.”

“Is that so?”

Merritt all but lost the rest of her courage under his narrow-eyed stare. She felt as though he was doing more than stripping her; he was peeling the layers of her skin. Seeking what, she didn’t know. But she had to lower her gaze in self-defense, afraid that her cold shivers would turn into an outright shudder. Belatedly, she thought about how to casually dig for the pepper spray buried in the large tote beside her wallet.

When she didn’t come back at him with any cheeky answer, he asked almost kindly, “What’s your name? It’s only fair,” he added when she shot him a doubtful glance. “You know mine.”

“Merritt Miller.”

“And I thought I got stuck with a whopper. Was your daddy hoping for a son?”

“No, I was named after my paternal grandmother. I’m told she was very pretty and had a sunny disposition, and they called her Merri. Me, they called Merritt.” The wind was bringing tears to her eyes and she blinked them away, hoping he didn’t see them and misunderstand. “Now that we have that out of the way, would you mind going on about your business? I have to get the stove ashes emptied and a new fire going. You may not have heard that there’s a storm coming, and I’m working the dinner shift. It’ll take half the night to warm that cabin if I don’t keep a good bed of coals in that thing.” As soon as she spoke, she wanted to clap her hand over her mouth. Why tell him the house would be empty later?

However, Cain didn’t focus on that. He asked instead, “You mean you’re walking back to town? What the hell is wrong with those people? Why doesn’t Leroy or someone pick you up?”

“Because they’re busy. Besides, I need to walk whether I want to or not. It’s therapy.”

“Therapy.” Once again his gaze swept downward. “You’re healing from an operation?”

“No.”

“So you should have an operation, but you won’t, and to keep your hip from totally freezing up you have to keep moving?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet that feels like crap. What happened?”

For a seemingly quiet man, he’d suddenly turned into a blabbermouth. “I fell.”

“Uh-huh. Probably from clumsiness again, like this morning?”

Merritt knew what he was trying to do; however, the words stung anyway. “That’s right,” she replied, stiffly.

Cain glanced at the dwindling pile of firewood on the porch. “I’ll get the stove going for you, but you need more wood than what’s left on your rack.”

“There’s more in back. I just haven’t brought it up yet.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

Dear heavens, was he looking for work? “Mr. Paxton, I meant what I said about being poor. I get by with what I make at the café, but that’s about it.”

“Did I ask you for a job?”

“No.”

Maybe it was her honest reply and expression that made him relax and shrug. “You led me to the best table in the café for someone in my situation. You didn’t treat me like poison, or worse yet, dirt, as some have. Can’t that be reason enough?”

She’d only done her job, and she wasn’t one to buy into gossip. As far as she was concerned, he’d needed to be seated before he cost Alvie business. As a new, stronger blast of wind cut through her jacket, she couldn’t quite stifle a groan. She wanted a hot mug of tea—and a painkiller—more than she wanted to argue semantics or social prejudice with this man. Besides, if he was a threat to her, he could easily have already made his move.

With a curt nod, she climbed the stairs in the only way she could—left leg leading, right leg slower to follow. When she made it to the porch, she unlocked the door.

The cabin was cooling, but not yet uncomfortable. Merritt went immediately to the fish tank and tapped on the glass. “I’m back. It’ll be better in a few minutes.”

The door closed with a thud. “You’re talking to fish?”

Merritt didn’t bother looking over her shoulder; she could tell by the tone of Cain’s voice that he thought her ridiculous. “I work too many hours to have a dog or cat.” She wasn’t going to admit there were cats in the barn. They were wild—or at least independent—and she was a bit scared of them.

“How smart is it to torture yourself for a couple of overpriced goldfish?”

“They know their names—Wanda and Willy.” She finally made herself glance back at him and got a blank stare in return. “From the movies A Fish Called Wanda and Free Willy?”

With a brief shake of his head, Cain crossed to the stove and flipped open the damper in the flue. That’s when his expression changed. He’d undoubtedly noticed what she’d been fretting about since lighting her first fire this season.

“It feels like the damper is about shot. It’s hanging on one side. By chance do you have another?”

“Do you mean this?” Merritt went to the brick wall behind the stove and picked up the round piece of metal that had been on the ledge for as long as she’d been a resident. Early on, Alvie had told her it would need to be changed one day when the old one wore out. “I’d hoped it would last until spring when I could let the stove cool enough to work in there.”

“You thought you could do this yourself? First of all, your arms are too short to reach in and up that high. Second, how did you expect to hold it in place and still stand outside and slip in the rod to secure it?”

“I guess I didn’t think,” she admitted.

He grunted his agreement and opened the door on the stove to gauge what he was dealing with. A moment later, he slipped off his jacket and tugged his T-shirt over his head.

“What are you doing?” Merritt gasped.

“These are the only clothes I own at the moment. I’d like to avoid ruining them.”

The last man she’d seen in this state of undress had been her stepbrother, Dennis, whose skin was as pale as a corpse with a beer belly that hung so far over his jeans he resembled cupcake batter overflowing a pan. In comparison, there wasn’t an ounce of flesh on Cain Paxton’s bronze body that wasn’t hard muscle.

“But you’ll burn yourself.”

Testing the side of the stove with his hand, Cain shrugged. “It’s cooled down quite a bit. It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll need you to help, though.” He pulled the stem from the outside of the flue and the subsequent rattle and thud was indication enough that the old damper fell into the remaining few coals. “See this?” He showed her the steel pin with its twisted end designed for control by hand of the level of airflow. “When I stick the new damper up into the stack, you watch through that hole. When these slots are aligned to the opening, you stick this pin back through. You have to slip it all the way and make it come out the other side of the stack. Understood?”

“Is that even possible?” The slots weren’t half the width of her pinky nail—and she’d heard too often than she had the hands of a preteen.

“It better be, or you’ll freeze tonight as all of the heat rushes up and out of here through the stack.” After opening the stove door, he nodded. “The buildup of ashes over the remaining coals will help suppress the heat,” he said, lowering himself to his knees. “I’ll leave them until I’m done.”

Merritt didn’t think he would get so much as his head and a shoulder into the opening, but he managed. Nevertheless, it took several tries to get the damper replaced, partly because Merritt’s hands were shaking from nervousness, partly because Cain had difficulty maintaining the correct position. But—after several muffled curses from him—suddenly the pin slid all the way through and out the opposite hole.

“Thank God,” she whispered, almost weak with relief.

“As soon as I clean up, I’ll get rid of those ashes and get you that wood,” Cain said, trying not to touch his jeans as he rose to his feet.

Merritt saw how filthy he had indeed gotten on her behalf. “Please, the bathroom is to the left just before you go out the back door.” She pointed through the kitchen. “Help yourself to soap and towels. Whatever you need. I really am grateful for your help, Mr. Paxton.”

“The name is Cain. The only Mr. Paxton in these parts wouldn’t take kindly to hearing you using his name in reference to me.” Cain grimaced at his hands and the soot smeared over his arms and chest. “Do you have a couple of old rags? I don’t want to ruin any frilly lady things. This creosote won’t wash out easily.”

As she wiped at a miniscule streak of soot on her hands, Merritt felt another blush threaten. “I don’t own any frilly things. You use what you need to, and I’ll put on a kettle for tea. You’ll welcome that after being out in the wind again.”

Chapter Two

As he headed for the bathroom, Cain’s mood soured anew. He didn’t want any tea, he wanted a beer … or better yet something stronger. But he doubted Miss Merritt Miller had ever tasted anything more potent than Communion grape juice, let alone allowed anything alcoholic in her house. That was yet another reason to get out of here, he thought, shutting the door behind himself.

It was ironic that he’d arrived in town early this morning with a deep-seated fire in his belly for justice; however, he’d barely begun digesting breakfast, and this scrawny, ghost-pale woman had succeeded in resurrecting the last two or three ounces of human compassion left in him and thrown him off his plan. He’d had no choice but to help her; there was no way she could have managed to repair the stove herself. Hell, he thought, gingerly checking the spots on his inner right arm and abdomen, he’d gotten burned himself a couple of times on the still-hot metal.

No telling what all needed attention around the place, he mused as he turned on the hot water tap and started soaping his hands. He remembered the house being old when he was a kid. Alvie and her first, then second, husband were living there then. And a baby. To the best of his recollection, the child had died in infancy—some influenza that had wreaked havoc on the area.

The Miller girl was keeping things spotless, he would give her that. As he noted the neatly folded, dark blue towel on the rack, which would do nicely for drying off, he figured she would get all puffed if she knew he was thinking of her as a girl—she was probably in her mid-twenties. But she didn’t need him thinking of her as a woman. Having been deprived of female company for over three years—counting the months he’d gone crazy sitting in the county jail while his worthless public defender was bulldozed by Paxton money and influence—his fingers itched to bury themselves in Merritt Miller’s lush brown hair. She wore it in a loose braid down her back, and not once did it sweep saucily across her cute butt. She was that quiet and steady of a mover. Everything moderated and even, despite the hip—maybe because of it.

Her scent was here, which made sense—it was the soap. Simple, clean. On her body it became feminine and delicate. Surrounded by it again, he breathed in deeply and almost groaned with pleasure. To regain his equilibrium, he leaned into the sink and scrubbed his face and hair. The amount of work it took reminded him that he needed a haircut. Badly.

He ended up having to use the hand towel as a washrag to get the soot off. By the time he was done, the burn on his belly and arm were seeping, so he checked the medicine cabinet for antibiotic ointment. He found it and a gauze pad for the worst one on his abdomen. He also found a package of throwaway razors. He’d inherited the Native American sparseness of body hair, but there was enough to get his attention, so he reached for one of the razors, too.

While there wasn’t much room to maneuver in the small confines, Cain took a small pleasure in the privacy of the closed door. That’s the one thing he had been most offended and affected by in prison. He was tempted to strip and step into the tub under the hot shower spray, but the little waitress didn’t deserve to be thrown into another tailspin. He did, however, let himself imagine her behind that clear plastic shower curtain, naked and sleek from the water sluicing down her body. Her head would be tilted way back, her wet hair cupping her sweet bottom the way he wanted to.

What is her story? he wondered as he hung the soaked towels over the shower rod. While hardly beautiful by today’s commercial standards, she had a child’s flawless skin and pleasant enough, though not remarkable, features. Her serious eyes were a shade lighter than her mahogany hair. When she wasn’t studying him like a dubious owl, there had been a sadness in their depths, and secrets. Those eyes would probably make heads turn if she used a little makeup, as would her mouth. It was small, but formed like a bud. Hell, he thought, if she just licked them moist, she could make a man lose his train of thought. If she would lick him—

A spasm in his groin reminded him that he’d been successful in the weight room and needed to look into getting a size larger jeans. He hissed as he adjusted his clothing, then slid on his T-shirt.

Get the damned wood for her and get out of here.

Yes, he had to go. Word would spread quickly that he was back, and he needed to move on to the reservation and see his grandmother. With the storm about to make driving difficult, he hoped she would put him up for a night or two until he figured out if it would be possible to get a job in the area, or if old prejudices would force him to move on. No doubt his grandmother could use a hand around the place, too.

He raked his hands through his wet hair and wished he’d taken the time for a haircut. No wonder Merritt, the little ferret, was spooked by him, he thought as he checked his reflection one last time before emerging from the bathroom. Better, he thought, but with his chin-length hair, he looked like one of his wilder ancestors.

Merritt was taking the tea bags out of the mugs and adding honey and lemon as he reached her. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he said. “I didn’t know where you wanted the towels, so I spread everything on the shower curtain rod.”

“That’s fine. And you can call me by my name. It’s Merritt,” she said as though guessing he hadn’t paid attention before.

“I remember.”

“I’ll tell Alvie how kind you were.” She pushed the mug across the counter toward him.

Noting her hands were trembling slightly, he murmured his thanks. “You might want to rethink that idea. She’s always been decent to me, but she might not like the idea of me being anywhere near you—or being allowed into her house.”

Merritt glanced up at him from beneath fine but surprisingly long lashes. “She’s the one who told me about your uncle and the price you paid for trying to get justice for him. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too—since I didn’t succeed.”

“Excuse me?”

Certain that Alvie had shared the official Paxton spin on things, he was determined to at least get his side told to someone other than people who would see the truth was buried. “My uncle lived long enough to give me a description of the vehicle and a partial license plate number. That told me the truck belonged to my father’s ranch, and the driver turned out to be the ranch foreman, Dane Jones. I tracked him down determined to haul his worthless butt to the sheriff’s office, only to find out someone beat me to him. Someone had knocked him senseless. And when the deputies arrived right on my heels, Jones let me take the fall for what happened to him.”

“That’s terrible. Couldn’t your father intervene?”

“He died before I was born,” Cain replied grimly.

“What about his father, your grandfather?”

When Cain sent her a “we’re done talking” look, Merritt grew flustered. “Surely the authorities could see that your hands weren’t bruised and that you hadn’t been in a fight?”

“It’s a long story.” He shouldn’t have said as much as he did, but he’d wanted her to understand what it meant to sympathize with a half-breed who was considered an outcast even by his own flesh and blood. The more she kept her distance, the better off things would be for both of them. Ignoring the tea, Cain went into the living room where he slid into his jacket and reached for the galvanized steel bucket behind the stove, then the shovel on the implement stand.

“I take it that your mother has passed, too?” Merritt asked from the wide kitchen entryway.

“I came into the world and she went out.”

“Dear God. I’m sorry. Again.”

“Ancient history. Look,” he said, growing increasingly uncomfortable, “let me just get this stove cleaned out, and I’ll get your wood. There are things I need to do.”

“Of course. I can manage on my own now. Please don’t make yourself late for my sake.”

Embarrassment turned her cheeks the color of raspberries, which in turn made Cain feel like a creep. “I don’t mean to insult you,” he said with a patience he didn’t feel. Why was he treating this little pest with kid gloves? He didn’t care about anyone or anything anymore. At least that’s what he’d told himself six thousand times while behind bars. “I just— I know you feel uneasy around me. For the record, that goes both ways.”

Her expression made him think that he’d suddenly begun speaking in a different language.

“What am I doing that makes you uncomfortable?

There weren’t enough words to answer her question, but she made him feel decades older than his thirty-three years. Concluding that it was best to leave Merritt with her naive perspective on small town law and order intact, Cain set into the task of filling the bucket with ashes, which he carried out back beyond the barn. It took two more trips before he was ready to start adding kindling to the remaining coals and get another fire going.

When he was satisfied that the fire would keep burning, he headed outside without further comment and started loading the rack onto the porch. It was snowing steadily now, and the intensifying wind started to carry the flakes horizontally.

At some point the mug of hot tea mysteriously showed up on one of the half-moon slices of hardwood, and he paused to take a few swallows, grateful for the relief against the cold. This kind of work in this kind of weather required a hat and gloves, neither of which he possessed yet. She knew—and wouldn’t let him pretend it didn’t matter.

Several trips later, he had enough wood to last her a few days. As he looked for a spot to set the empty mug so that he could avoid going inside again, the door opened. She’d wrapped herself in a shawl over her apron and turned away as occasional snowflakes slapped at her.

“I’ll take that,” she said softly. Her gaze only grazed him.

“I appreciate the gesture.” He handed it over, careful not to make contact. Those damned hands were trembling again—or hadn’t stopped. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“Be safe.”

He didn’t know if that was possible. He did believe getting away from here would improve his chances greatly. Nevertheless, when she retreated back into the house and closed the door, he felt—guilty? Something he couldn’t describe, but he resented the feeling.

He turned up the collar of his jeans jacket, and his long-legged stride took him off the porch, skipping the stairs. Then he jogged to his truck, slipping several times, his cowboy boots slick on the wet snow.

Once in the truck, he glanced back at the cottage. If nothing had changed while he’d been gone, it was the only residence for another mile or so. In this weather the place looked more isolated than ever. But that wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself.

He turned the key and had to floor the gas pedal before the old truck coughed and the engine reluctantly started. “Man, are you going to be a money pit,” he muttered. Unfortunately, it was all that he could afford with the money he had.

As he drove toward the reservation, he forced himself to think forward and prepare for the reunion. He’d had no letters from home in the years that he’d been locked away. Except for his grandmother, there was no other immediate family, and Gran had never learned to write. Was she even alive? He tried to recall how old she would be, but couldn’t. His mother had had two sisters besides the brother who’d been run over. The last he knew of either of them, one had moved to Nevada and the other to Wyoming. He needed to prepare for the possibility that there was no reason to stay in Almost.

With the extra-strength pain pill taking effect, Merritt was able to push back the blanket she’d been lying under and ease off the bed. It still depressed her that she moved like someone twice her age when she first got up after a nap, and especially after a full night’s rest, but the house had warmed nicely. After one more mug of hot tea, she would be at full speed again—or as good as someone in her condition could be.

She hadn’t meant to lie down, but the upheaval with Cain Paxton’s arrival in town, added to the weather’s effect on her body, had left her with little choice. Not if she intended to last through the dinner shift. Once in the kitchen, she turned on the oven before inspecting the several loaves of dough she’d reworked a last time and covered with clean damp dish towels before lying down. They would produce beautiful honey-cracked wheat bread and finish baking just in time for her to carry back to town.

Once she got them in the oven, she started on the cheese sticks that Alvie liked to serve with soups and salads. The corn bread would be next. She supplemented her income by baking for Alvie, as well as taking special cake and pie orders for birthdays, anniversaries and holidays. She’d been doing that since school, having learned early in life that she had to rely on her own income if she wanted to survive. Whatever money her mother had earned—when she’d been in any condition to work—went to booze, or was mooched or taken by whatever man was in her life. What had begun out of necessity had evolved into an enjoyable creative process. The labor proved an excellent tension outlet and therapy for a shy, frightened child, who needed healthy ways to escape a basket case home life.

As she mixed the shortening and flour, her mind inevitably drifted to Cain. Had he reached his grandmother? His truck looked to be twice as old as Leroy’s, but at least it ran. For the moment.

She hoped he could make a new start. She had known her share of ex-cons in her twenty-seven years. Her mother had rarely hooked up with any other kind of man—until Stanley Wooten. Although Stanley was just lucky that he’d never been caught and locked away—like his son Dennis.

Shuddering, Merritt pushed them back into a dark hole in her mind and visually locked the door. No, she thought, Cain Paxton might look intimidating but, incredibly, he wasn’t corrupted or evil yet. He’d shown her kindness and concern, and she’d seen shame and regret in his dark eyes. He wasn’t lost. Yet.

The afternoon passed quickly and bit by bit product stacked on the counter, until Merritt knew she had to brave the intensifying storm outside and make the awful trek to town. As she packed her baked goods into the oversize thermal carrier, she hoped against hope that Leroy would show up at the road. But as she fed the wood-burning stove a last time, she knew the folly of such a wish. Leroy loved Alvie; however, that didn’t mean that he was going to compromise his comfort by coming after her, even if she was key to making Alvie’s business more successful. Especially not when he would first have to jump-start a battery that had needed replacing weeks ago.

Leaving on a kitchen light and a lamp near the aquarium for Wanda and Willy, she leaned down to the glass. “It should be an early night. Not to worry.”

Outside, the stairs were already treacherous and covered with snow. Merritt tugged the shawl over her head farther down to protect her face and vision and made the descent with care, hugging the carrier like a baby. The wind was trying to turn it into a sail and lift her off the ground. Although it wasn’t yet officially sunset, it was already growing dark. Locals and the errant vacationer would come to the café due to these awful conditions, which was the only reason she plodded on.

When she reached the road, she saw that her trail, even the truck’s tire treads, were covered by new snow. Yes, she would make it to town, but could she make it home later? She hoped the few snowplows in the area were at least keeping downtown in navigable condition.

No more than a few dozen yards up the road, she heard the sound of a vehicle behind her. As she turned, she tried to identify the vehicle, hoping to get a lift the rest of the way—or, if it was a stranger, to have time to jump aside and not be hit. Surely the driver would see her bright red shawl?

The same beaten-up, black pickup that had been parked in front of her house earlier today slowed and stopped beside her. Cain leaned over and shoved the passenger door open for her.

“Get in,” he yelled above the wind and motor.

Relieved beyond words, Merritt planted her thermal tote on the floorboard and then hoisted herself into the truck. It probably wasn’t a graceful maneuver, but she wasn’t auditioning for anything. “I’m grateful, Mr. Paxton—Cain. I didn’t think you’d be back this way again. At least not today.”

“Neither did I. I almost turned into your yard when I saw lights on, but then I spotted you up here. You are one stubborn woman.”

“I like to think of myself as a responsible employee.”

“Who takes foolish risks. You know you’d be less challenge to a wolf than a deer would be, even in this weather. I will admit you smell better than this lousy truck, though,” he added. “I take it the baking was successful?”

“If you’ll come inside for a few minutes when we reach the café, I’ll get you a cup of coffee and a couple of my fresh rolls with herb butter as a thank-you for coming to my aid.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.”

His acceptance and the odd, weary note in his voice drew her attention. “So why are you heading back to town? Didn’t you find your grandmother?”

“I did. She’s dead.”

Merritt didn’t gasp, but all of her major organs reacted as though she had. “Oh, I am—” She paused realizing she’d been saying “sorry” incessantly to him today. “Sincere condolences,” she managed, although the words sounded awkward to her ears. No telling how inane they must sound to him.

After several seconds he murmured, “Thanks.”

“Was there someone to fill you in on what happened and when?” She hoped that he hadn’t walked into an empty house and been forced to come to his own conclusions.

“Yeah, a cousin. It happened a year ago. Pneumonia. She wouldn’t go to the clinic, not that it would have done any good at her age.”

Merritt wasn’t one to run to a doctor herself. She could only imagine how difficult the choice would be for someone who had no reason to trust another culture’s medicine or didn’t have the funds. “What will you do now?”

“Get you to work. Have another warm meal.”

Sometimes it was a good thing to deal with only one detail at a time. She knew that from her own experience. But a million questions flooded her mind. Was there no one else to welcome him home? The cousin’s parents? Siblings? Considering the weather, did no one have room to put him up for the night?

“I’ll seat you in the same place if you like and make sure you get seconds of whatever you’d like.”

“Don’t get any ideas about turning me into your personal charity case.”

And he called her stubborn? “Believe me, I can’t afford to adopt you, and I have better things to do with my time than to beg you to accept my help so I can feel good about myself.”

“Good.”

As they rounded the curve, the lights of town came into view if not the buildings themselves. Merritt refused to speak again, having no desire to irritate what had to be a sore wound, or to be rebuked. She was curious as to where he would go after he ate—if he agreed to eat now. There was no motel in town, not even a bed-and-breakfast.

There were several cars already parked in front of the café. It would appear that a number of the shop owners had closed early, eager for a hot meal. None of them knew if there would be electricity at their homes so they could cook for themselves. A few were likely to spend the night in their own storage rooms on a cot.