Sunrise Crossing (9 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Crossroads

Y
ANCY
DECIDED
TO
drop by his house while he was out running errands. He pulled into the drive, thinking soon he'd be doing this every day when he came home from work. He'd be like everyone else in the world, coming home to his own place.

When he unlocked the back door, the house was silent, as if napping in the afternoon sun. He loved just looking at the staircase he and Rabbit put together. It was not just beautiful; the design looked like it belonged here. A magical, one-of-a-kind piece.

He walked through the rooms picturing how everything would someday blend together. One project at a time. One night of work at a time. A few minutes later when he unloaded boxes of tiles that would eventually become the backsplash behind the sink, he glanced up and thought he saw movement on the second floor of his house.

Yancy froze. There was still a part of him that believed ghosts walked the earth. He blamed it on his gypsy blood. Folks in town had told him how there were stories about the old house. Stories of people seeing shadows and spirits drifting past the windows on cloudy nights.

He stood rooted in the afternoon shadows beside his back door, trying to think of what to do. Telling himself he wasn't afraid, Yancy tried to decide if he was imagining things or if someone really was in his house. Maybe that man with the fedora had come back, hoping to talk him into selling the house.

Maybe kids had broken in and were just poking around inside. There had been break-ins before. Once four teenagers got hurt when they went inside. Part of the flooring gave way, sending a few of them to the hospital.

When a blink of a shadow crossed one of the upstairs windows, Yancy decided not to rule out a ghost as the third possibility. From what he'd heard about his relatives, they weren't the type to rest in peace.

He set the tiles down and grabbed his best hammer from the tool wall. Whoever, or whatever, was inside his house, they hadn't been invited.

As he slipped in the back door the thought crossed his mind that he should have called the sheriff. Only backtracking didn't seem like a good idea. And
calling the police
was too new to his vocabulary to feel natural.

Crossing the kitchen, he headed up the stairs, for once not taking the time to admire his work. Raising the hammer, he moved slowly into the first bedroom. The floor had been repaired when he'd rebuilt the ceiling of the first floor, but on the second floor the boards were still rough and unpolished.

They creaked as he moved across the room. “Whoever's up here is trespassing.”

He heard a giggle and relaxed. “Rabbit?”

“I saw your car parked by the barn and decided I had to come save you. Yancy Grey, you are a workaholic. I'm taking you to rehab.” She moved slowly out from behind a broken closet door, looking more spirit in the shadows than real.

“Okay.” He surrendered without a fight. He'd follow her anywhere. “How about we break away for a while? I've got the afternoon off. Let's go for a drive.”

Five minutes later they were on the open road, heading east. The afternoon sun was warming and he had a full tank of gas. Life didn't get any better than this.

“Did you have a good day, Rabbit?”

She stopped playing with the radio long enough to answer. “You bet. We had doughnuts for breakfast.”

Yancy didn't like the sound of “we,” but he knew he couldn't ask. This was the first time she'd ever mentioned being with anyone. “I'm happy to see you, but I'm surprised you're out before dark.”

“Me, too,” she answered. “But I ran out of supplies, and more won't come till tomorrow. I thought I'd just go over and explore your house. I didn't think you'd be there. You never have been before.”

“You mean you've broken in on other occasions?”

“It's not that hard. The key to the side door is on the windowsill less than a foot away from the lock.”

He laughed. “Oh, so you're a regular prowler in the neighborhood?”

“Nope, just in your house. I've explored every inch of it.” She laughed again. “And, by the way, I found that hand in the basement that kids used to say crawled across the floor all by itself.”

“I'd believe you, honey, but my house has no basement.”

They talked about things she'd been afraid of growing up. Slowly, she volunteered a few pieces of information, and mile by mile, he learned tiny scraps about her life. She hadn't been able to sleep without a light after her father had died. She'd never had a pet. She'd never had a brother or sister to talk to. She hated Halloween and dreamed once that every day was Halloween, where people wore masks and tried to frighten one another.

He told her about also growing up as an only child and she said she understood totally and had hated it, too.

Before, they'd always been working and their discussions were usually about the project, but now conversation flowed as the miles passed by. He loved the way she saw the world, the way she got excited over things he'd passed a hundred times and never even noticed. For her the earth was a canvas and nature the painter.

When they saw an old billboard, she made him turn around and go back for a second look. A hundred signs must have been glued onto the boards over the years. Then the weather had peeled off pieces again and again until no one advertisement stood out, only a patchwork of ads. Tiny scraps of posters slowly weathering, slowly blending.

She tried to reach high enough to touch the sign. “There is every color of the rainbow here. Bright colors, water-washed colors, some muted and faded by the sun. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Yancy tried looking at it sideways, then backing away for the big picture, but he couldn't see it. “Tell me more,” he said, hoping her vision would show through.

“Don't you see? It's like a whole town of people. Young and old. Bright and faded. Withered and twisted. Each scrap looks different as it stands against another.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” Yancy lied.

“Individually, they're just scraps of paper, but put them together and you have a work of art.” She smiled. “If I had any money, I'd buy this for you.”

She'd finally said something he understood. “Rabbit, if you're broke, I could loan you whatever you need. I have plenty, you know.”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I'll be fine.”

“I'm not kidding. I got seven thousand, three hundred and seventy-two dollars in my checking account. If you need it, it's yours.”

“I need enough to buy more doughnuts. Could you loan me that much?”

“Sure. Next town we hit we'll buy as many as you want. We can go shopping in the junk stores, too. You can find anything there.”

“I could use a coat. And rain boots. I've never had rain boots.”

An hour later they'd found her two coats and a pair of rubber boots that were yellow with ducks on them.

“I need to buy Parker some boots, too.”

“Parker?” Yancy didn't realize he'd said the name out loud until she looked up. “Who is he?” Yancy wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Rabbit seemed to read his mind, and for a moment, he thought she was feeling sorry for him. Then she took a deep breath and whispered as if the guy at the desk might care enough to wake up. “Parker is a woman. She's my friend. I have no idea what size her feet are, but she could use some cowboy boots. Since she arrived she's worn nothing but socks.”

Yancy relaxed. “Is she tall or short like you?”

“A head taller than me, but thin.” Rabbit touched his shoulders. “Almost your height, but not as wide.”

Yancy looked over at the pile of worn boots and, for the first time he could ever remember, decided to waste a little money. “Let's get one pair two sizes bigger than you wear and one four. Then we'll buy boot socks. Put on a few pairs and you can wear the little ones if they are too small for her.”

“They make socks just for boots?”

“Sure. Doesn't everyone know that?”

Rabbit was already into the mountain of boots. Finding sizes was easy; finding a pair proved more difficult.

As they walked back to the car, loaded down with clothes and boots, she asked to drive. He didn't really want her to, but he couldn't turn her down.

“I'll pay you back,” she said when they shoved the bags in the back.

“Don't worry about it.” It was worth ten times what he'd paid to watch her wander the store and discover things. She'd bought a sweater that hung to her knees, a scarf that looked like it would go with nothing, socks for both her and Parker, and those ugly yellow rubber boots.

She leaned near and kissed his cheek. “I will pay you back someday, Yancy.”

She surprised him by being a very good driver, though she did like to go fast. He didn't mind. He sat close enough to put his arm around her shoulders, almost holding her.

He was enjoying himself until a highway patrol car pulled them over.

Yancy tried very hard to act normal. He pulled his driver's license out and his proof of insurance. He even mentioned that Fifth Weathers was a friend of his, but the patrolman didn't seem to know the deputy or care.

When he asked Rabbit for her ID, she pulled out a small wallet from her jeans. In the lights of the dashboard he noticed all she seemed to have inside the wallet was her driver's license and a ticket stub. She hadn't lied about not carrying any money.

“I'm just giving you a warning, miss,” the officer said as he shone his light in on her face.

“Thank you. It won't go on my record, will it? I've never had a ticket.”

“No, miss.” The highway patrolman handed her back her ID. “You folks have a safe night,” he added as he disappeared into the night.

Yancy wished the guy had said her name. He felt cheated. This cop, a stranger, knew her name and Yancy didn't.

When he looked up, she was watching him and he guessed she'd figured it out, because she whispered, “My friends call me Tori.”

He nodded. “What about me? What do I call you?”

“I've gotten used to Rabbit, but if you like you can call me Tori. I'm vacationing at a friend's house and she joined me this morning. That's all I can tell you. The rest is all boring.”

Yancy smiled. “That's enough. I thought you were on the run.”

“I am. I'm hiding out, on the run, lying low.”

Yancy brushed her hair out of her face. “I'm very fond of outlaws. Especially ones who get excited about ugly yellow duck boots.”

She drove the car back onto the highway and they talked about outlaws and the Old West as they drove.

An hour after dark, they stopped and bought a dozen tacos. They drove down another dirt road and ate them while they watched the stars. Then they laughed as they both tried to remember how to get back to the main road. It took them half an hour, but neither seemed to care.

It was after ten when he neared Crossroads. “I can take you home,” he said.

They'd been listening to the radio and he wasn't even sure she was awake. “Tori? Did you hear me?”

“I heard. I just didn't want the night to end.” She curled up against his arm. “I'll walk home from your house, but you have to promise not to follow me. I can't explain, but it's very important no one knows where I'm staying.”

They were back to playing the no-questions game. He wanted to tell her that she could trust him, but he couldn't push.

He pulled in beside the barn and cut the engine. “If that's the way you want it.” He opened the car door and started to step out.

“It's the way it has to be,” she whispered and climbed into his lap.

Her back was against the steering wheel and her front was pressed against his chest.

Yancy smiled. “You can't be very comfortable there, Rabbit.”

Resting her head on his shoulder, she whispered, “I just want to be close to you. I don't think I could ever be close enough to you, Yancy.”

Suddenly the answers to his hundred questions didn't matter. He just wanted to hold her. He slid the seat back a few inches and pulled her against him. He wanted to breathe her in, feel every part of her as close to him as skin.

He wanted her to know how much she mattered to him. How he was falling in love with her. How she was changing the very core of him. But Yancy didn't know the words to say.

He just held her tightly.

And the miracle of it all was that Tori seemed to be holding him just as tightly.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Saffron sunset

T
HE
AFTERNOON
TURNED
sunny as Parker found herself napping on her own porch. It still seemed so odd to think of this as a real place, her place, when it had always been more like a house she saw briefly once but moved in only in her mind.

Tori had vanished a few hours ago saying that she needed to walk and think about what to paint when the new supplies came in.

Parker knew that artists needed their quiet time. She also knew what she had to do.

She hadn't thanked Clint Montgomery for picking her up and now it was time to ask him for another favor. He might not be friendly, but she didn't think he was mad at her. If he had been, he wouldn't have delivered doughnuts and socks. Of course, not being mad probably didn't extend to talking to her any more than he had to or even doing her another favor.

After putting on one of the two outfits she'd brought in her bag, a pair of leggings and an oversize silk shirt, she waited until late afternoon to cross to his place.

The tennis shoes she'd brought weren't really made for wilderness walking, but they'd be much better than heels. The road would have been the easiest way to go, but she'd be far less likely to be seen if she crossed the field. All she had to do was climb over one barbed-wire fence. She could see the roof of his place from her porch.

Maneuvering across her land wasn't difficult; it was like walking through a park. The tall grass served almost as a carpet. She loved the fresh, clean air and the sounds of nothing but nature. If it were any cooler it would have been jacket weather, but with the sun in her face, all seemed just right.

Her knee hadn't ached all day, but then, she hadn't been walking the gallery in four-inch heels for hours. She'd been lying around like a fat house cat.

Once she got to Clint's land, it took her several minutes to find a break in the fence big enough for her to slip through between the wires.

A barb managed to catch her across the back of her shoulder, cutting her as she twisted through. She couldn't reach or see the cut in her shoulder, but it didn't feel deep.

Once on his property, it got far more complicated. Now she was on land that had been grazed, the ground was more uneven, far more muddy and was spotted with cow patties. She stepped in one while trying to avoid another.

When she finally made it to his barn, her cowboy wasn't even there.

Great! Just empty corrals and overgrown peach trees by the back fence.

His truck was parked out front of a low, mission-style home, so he couldn't be far. If she waited long it would be nightfall, and she'd never make it home after dark. If she left, she'd just have to make the journey again tomorrow morning.

Parker climbed up onto a wide porch that ran the front of the house. She was thinking maybe she'd just leave him a note. That should be enough. She'd say thank you and mention the supplies coming. He'd probably be happy not to have to bother to talk to her.

Funny, she couldn't think of exactly what he'd said during the drive from Dallas, but she remembered his touch. His arm had been strong and steady across her back as they'd run from the truck stop to his truck in the rain. He'd lifted her up as if she'd weighed nothing when he'd set her inside. His arm had rested over the blanket across her bent knees as she'd tucked her toes beneath his leg.

His touch had been gentle even though his words were cold.

She looked around, thinking that his home might help explain the man, but she saw few clues. The house was built flat to the ground and spread out, becoming almost part of the earth. She wasn't surprised to find the door unlocked. So, taking a deep breath, she decided to step in. After all, it wasn't breaking and entering if you didn't break anything coming in.

The home was silent, with dust dancing in the slices of light coming from the windows. Not one color spoke to her as she looked around. Beiges, tans, pale blues, dull greens, all faded by time. The front room was still, lifeless, like a morgue. Like nothing lived there, not even the man she'd called “cowboy.”

Blinking, she tried again to really see the room. Books were stacked everywhere. Mail piled high on a bar he obviously didn't eat at. A small, boxy TV layered in dust. A desk that faced the wide windows that ran across the front of the house.

Tugging off her shoes so she didn't track mud into the cowboy's home, she moved to the desk. Unlike the rest of the room, it was organized, but void of many personal belongings. It held a computer, a cup with pens and pencils stuffed inside. Folders, trade magazines, stock reports were scattered in no order, and there was an old rotary phone that looked like it had come from the '60s and a stack of sun-faded notes with the initials
CM
in the corner.

She picked up one sheet and turned it over, thinking about what a different life the cowboy lived compared with hers. She could never live in such a bland room, looking out a window that showed only farmland and blank sky. His world must be so insipid, so lifeless.

She wanted to thank him, tell him about the shipment of supplies coming in and then leave. She didn't belong in his world any more than he would fit in hers. Their even trying to be friends made about as much sense as a turtle and a roadrunner dating. They were too different.

She heard a soft jingle, almost like a tiny wind chime, and looked up.

Clint stood in the doorway, the late afternoon sun seeming to fight its way around him. He didn't look any more friendly than he had before. Only now he was obviously dressed for work. Chaps, stained and worn. Muddy boots. A thick chambray shirt and a wide, worn black Stetson.

“Afternoon, lady,” he said as if they were passing on the sidewalk. “Want to tell me what you're doing here?”

“I was leaving you a note.” She held the piece of paper up as if it were evidence.

He shifted, and she saw the rifle in his hand.

Parker straightened slightly. “I suppose you shoot trespassers?”

“Ones without shoes, I do.” He didn't look like he was kidding.

“I came to thank you. I wanted to tell you I gave your address for a shipment that should be arriving in a few days. I thought I should thank you for delivering the tea and the doughnuts. That was very thoughtful.”

“That all you came to say?”

“And the socks. That was nice, too.” She wasn't sure what else to say.

He was making no effort to keep up a conversation. She almost felt the need to explain the rules to him. He'd talk. She'd talk. He'd... Oh, never mind.

She walked toward him and let a breath out when he propped the rifle up by the door. “Well, I'll be going now. Unless you have something to say, Mr. Montgomery. A short ‘you're welcome' would be nice or maybe ‘How you been?' No, that might be too much like a conversation.”

He just stared at her like she was a broken windup Christmas toy stuck on “Jingle Bells.”

“It was nice seeing you again.” She was almost to the door. He needed to move one direction or the other so she could pass. “If you ever need anything just call on me. I owe you a favor now.” She was almost to his nose. “I'd best be getting along.”

“There is one thing.” He watched her as if he thought she might jump suddenly in fright. “If you've no objection, I'd like to kiss you.”

“Why?” The word was out before it passed her brain.

“Just something I've been thinking about and I'd kind of like to get it out of my system. I'm forty-three.”

Parker didn't know if she was the cure or the disease. Or what his age had to do with anything. Maybe he was just picking up scraps of conversation trying to put a thought together.

She'd never had anyone say anything less sexy to her in her life. He wasn't telling her he was attracted to her or even interested. If this was his way of romancing a woman, it was no wonder he lived alone.

“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Dumb idea.”

“No. I guess I have no objections. It's a small favor to ask. In fact, I should think of it as neighborly. I'm thirty-seven, in case you care.” She was starting to sound as crazy as he was. She thought of adding for him to go ahead and kiss her. Get it over with. How bad could it be? She'd kissed her share of frogs in her life and he was definitely not a frog.

She moved right in front of him, leaned her face up slightly and closed her eyes.

What she'd expected was a hard, closed-lip kiss on the mouth.

What she got was a very soft brush of his lips against her cheek.

She heard the slight jingle of his spurs as he shifted.

Then another light brush of his lips and another as he moved toward her mouth. Gentle encounters, almost shy. He made no effort to hold her. It seemed enough for him to just be so close to her she could feel the warmth of his body.

When his lips did finally brush over hers, she felt his breathing slow and knew he was relaxing. As he did, the kiss turned tender. Not a payback for a favor. Not an attack on her senses, but something with meaning.

Her body mutinied to the other camp and she moved closer. When her blouse brushed his shirt, his hands slid around her waist, deepening the kiss.

Her last thought before her brain melted was how did her cowboy, out here in the middle of nowhere, learn to kiss like this? She'd been kissed by men who bragged of having many lovers, but none could compare to this one tender kiss.

Suddenly she was hungry for something that, a moment ago, she hadn't even known she wanted. Her hands moved into his chestnut-brown hair and pulled him closer, demanding more.

He lifted her off the floor, her body pressed against his. The man felt like he was made of rock, only he was warm, so warm she felt like she was melting into him and loving the feel of being so close.

When he lowered her slowly, without breaking the kiss, she almost wanted to cry out that she wasn't ready for this to be over.

Only he wasn't ending anything yet. Apparently, he was just getting started.

His big hands moved up her sides, slowly warming her through the thin layer of silk. When he reached the edges of her breasts, he pulled back slightly, almost touching her, almost caressing her, far more intimately than a friendly kiss might allow.

Parker let out a sigh, wishing he'd be bolder but loving that he hesitated.

As his hand moved over her shoulder, he froze, then pulled away so suddenly she cried out.

“You're hurt,” he said as he turned her in his arms. “You're bleeding.”

“It's nothing. Just a cut I got on the wire.”

She kept protesting, but he pulled her to the bathroom and tugged a first aid kit from the shelf.

Parker took quick gulps of air, feeling the loss of his warmth as she wondered what had happened to the man she'd just kissed. He couldn't be the same man standing before her now swearing under his breath.

“Take off that blouse,” he ordered as he washed his hands.

“I will not.” Didn't the man know that no one ordered her around? She was Parker Lacey. She was a self-made millionaire. She was thirty-seven.

Oh, wait. He already knew that.

“Take it off so I can see the cut. It could get infected. Every animal on the prairie has probably rubbed up against that fence.”

The thought grossed her out. She didn't even like the idea of people having pets that sat on the furniture. The possibility that a cow and her open wound might have brushed the same fence turned her stomach. She might contract rabies or foot-and-mouth disease or who knows what else.

She unbuttoned the first few buttons of the blouse, and he tugged it over her head.

Parker kept her eyes closed as he cleaned the cut and applied ointment. So he was seeing her back. Big deal. His voice was gruff, almost as if he blamed her for the accident, but his touch seemed caring.

“It's only a little cut,” she said more to calm herself than him.

“It's deep enough to bleed.”

She opened her eyes and looked into the mirror at his worried expression.

Then she realized all he had to do was look in the mirror to see her front because her lace bra hid very little. When she met his gaze she thought she saw a smile at the corner of his mouth. He'd read her mind.

“I'm sure you've seen a bra before,” she snapped.

He spread a big Band-Aid over her cut and whispered close to her ear, “I wasn't looking at the bra.”

He stepped back. “I'll get you one of my shirts to wear home.”

She thought of saying “no, thanks,” but the idea of putting on a bloody shirt really wasn't appealing. “It will be too big,” she finally answered.

“So was that one you had on. I don't know where you buy your clothes, but your shirt must have belonged to a giant and those jeans you got on are way too tight. Plus, you don't seem to own a pair of shoes you can keep on.”

“They're leggings and I don't need help with dressing.”

“I wasn't complaining, just observing.” He handed her a denim shirt. “I won't mind helping with the undressing if you ever need it.”

“Thanks. Fat chance,” she added, but he had already backed out of the bathroom. Parker took the time to wash her hands and run his comb through her hair. He'd been right to doctor the cut. It felt much better. Her hundred-dollar blouse would have to be tossed. Cuts in silk never patched.

The soft denim shirt felt warm against her skin.
Another reason to thank you, cowboy
, she thought.

She found him on the porch, scraping the mud off her tennis shoes.

“You don't have to do that,” she said. “I'll just get them muddy again on the way home.”

“No, you won't,” he said without looking up. “I'm taking you home. I don't want to take a chance on you bleeding all over my good barbed wire again.”

“But...”