A Family Kind of Wedding (8 page)

“I hope this doesn't cost me an arm and a leg,” she thought aloud as the tow truck eased on to the road and was off in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

“Shouldn't.”

“I've got my fingers crossed.” The worry etching tiny lines across her smooth forehead gave him pause. He noticed the pulse beating at the base of her throat and the way the wind snatched at her hair.

For a second the urge to take her into his arms was so strong he nearly gave in. Standing alone at the side of the road with the sound of the truck's engine fading in the distance and the stars flickering in the sky, he was tempted to pull her against his chest and rest his chin on her crown. She was small and warm, smelling of lilacs and honey, and he knew she'd feel like heaven against him.

She glanced up at him with those luminous eyes, and he had to set his jaw against the overpowering urge to kiss her until they both couldn't breathe.

The thought struck him hard, and he shoved it quickly aside. He cleared his throat. “We'd better get a move on.”

“Oh, right.” She, as if having read his mind, couldn't get to the pickup fast enough. The entire way back to her house she sat pressed against the passenger door, as if she, too, was touched by the growing intimacy between them, and it scared her to death. She looked as if she hoped to bolt the minute he pulled into her driveway.

He switched on the radio, played with the buttons and finally settled for a rock station that was usually more heavy metal than he liked. They didn't talk much, and he tried to ignore her, but his mind was racing down a path that was as dark as midnight, a path he didn't like.

Who was Josh's father?

The kid was ten or eleven. Just the right age.

But it would be too much of a coincidence for Josh to be Dave Sorenson's son. Too much. There were dozens of kids Josh's age who didn't live with their dads. Besides, Ralph wasn't sure if Dave had fathered a boy or girl or any kid at all, for that matter. Ralph Sorenson's grandchild might be just a figment of the old man's imagination, a pipe dream that he couldn't yet give up.

Still, the thought that Josh Kinkaid might be Ralph Sorenson's grandson burned deep in Luke's brain. Like it or not, he'd have to check out the kid's birth records. He slid a glance at Katie as the lights of Bittersweet glowed ever closer. She leaned against the window of the passenger door and chewed nervously on a fingernail.

As if sensing him watching her, she dropped her hand, and Luke turned all his attention to winding through the tree-lined streets of the small town. From what he understood, she'd lived here all her life. It shouldn't be too hard to check out the truth. The knot in his gut bothered him; she'd reacted strongly to the news of Dave's death, with the emotion of someone who was more than just a casual acquaintance.

Was it possible?

Could she and Dave have been high-school sweethearts? Lovers? His fingers tightened over the steering wheel in a death grip as he cruised around the final corner to her house. Hell, what a mess.

He wheeled into the driveway and parked inches from the sagging door of her dilapidated garage. From the open window of Josh's bedroom, Blue gave out a sharp, no-nonsense bark.

“Guard dog,” Luke observed, switching off the ignition and trying to ignore the tension that seemed to invade the pickup's dark interior.

“He thinks he is, I guess.” Katie managed a smile that was feeble at best. Nonetheless, that slight twitching of her lips touched Luke in a place he'd long forgotten. “My guess is that if Joe Burglar ever did show up, Blue would turn tail and run. Deep inside he's a chicken.” She leaned her head against the back of the seat. “But he's loyal and good-hearted. Always glad to see me.” She nodded slightly, to herself. “I've had him longer than I've had Josh. Mom gave Blue to me on my sixteenth birthday.” She shoved her hair from her eyes. “Most of the kids were hoping for a car, and all I wanted was a puppy to love and…” Her voice trailed off as if she'd said too much, as if she'd let a little of her soul slip past her outgoing, breezy, take-the-world-by-storm facade.

“Anyway, Mom gave me this gray bundle of energy with the brightest eyes you've ever seen. He wiggled like mad, peed on the floor and washed my face with his tongue, and I…I just fell in love with him. He's been with me ever since.” She cleared her throat and slapped her hands on her thighs as if to change the subject. “Well, so much for soppy, maudlin puppy stories. I, uh, guess I should thank you.” Turning to face him, her eyes shining with a bit of unwanted moisture, her lips full over a forced smile, she started to speak again. “You've been—”

He lost all control. The resistance he'd so painstakingly constructed disintegrated as quickly as a match striking and bursting into flame.

“Wonderful— Oh!” Without thinking he placed his hands on either side of her face and kissed her with an intensity that he hadn't felt in years.

Her lips were warm and pliant, her skin soft beneath the calluses of his fingers. Her breath caught in a swift, sharp intake, and Luke felt a rush of desire, warm and seductive, flow through his bloodstream.

She moaned, then pulled back to lean against the passenger door. He dropped his hands and inwardly called himself a dozen kinds of fool. What had he been thinking? Kissing her, for God's sake! He couldn't, wouldn't be distracted by a woman—any woman. Especially not one who might just be the mother of Dave Sorenson's kid.

“I…I … I don't know what to say… And that—being tongue-tied, that is—doesn't happen to me very often.” She bit her lip and stared at him with wide, forest-green eyes.

“Don't say anything.” He grabbed the steering wheel. “I was out of line.”

She reached for the door handle of the pickup. “Maybe we both were. I—” she hooked her thumb toward the house “—I've got to go. Thanks. Thanks again.” She was out of the truck and up the path to the back of the house as quick as lightning.

He watched her hurry up the steps, her shorts white in the moonlight, her hair bouncing as she ran. At the porch she cast one final, fleeting glance in his direction, then, with a quick wave, opened the door and disappeared into the cozy, cluttered little bungalow.

“Idiot,” he growled under his breath as he flicked on the ignition. “Damned fool moron.” Throwing his rig into reverse, he rolled back to the street, flipped on his lights and headed toward his rented rooms in the old carriage house.

He thought of her mouth rubbing so sensually against his, and his damned crotch tightened again. What was it about her that got to him?

“Damn.” He'd been a fool for a woman before, a long time ago, and he'd sworn then that it would never happen again.

Until now, it hadn't been a problem.

But then, he'd never met a woman like Katie Kinkaid.

“Ninny!” Katie glared at her reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. What had she been thinking, kissing Luke Gates?

The answer was that she had never let rational thought enter the equation. She'd sensed he was about to kiss her in the pickup, had felt the darkened cab seem to shrink, but she hadn't had the guts, the nerve or whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it to open the damned door and slide out of the truck before his lips had touched hers and the world had changed forever.

Worse yet, she'd spent all night thinking about her reaction, remembering the feel of his hands as he'd taken her face between his palms and gazed into her eyes while his lips had pressed so passionately against hers. Oh, Lord, here she was, thinking about it all over again, feeling tingly inside and stupidly wondering if he'd ever kiss her again. She grasped the sides of the sink for support and mentally counted to ten before letting out her breath.

“Get a grip, Kinkaid,” she said to the woman staring back at her in the mirror. “You don't know a thing about this guy.” She leaned under the faucet and rinsed her mouth.

Steadfastly she told herself that she wasn't going to be swayed by one intimate gesture. She had too much to think about today, the first being her son.

Josh was still sleeping—the result of watching television until the wee hours of the morning. She'd checked on him, seen that his leg was still elevated, and changed the bag of ice that had long since melted. Blue whined to go outside, and Katie obliged, filling his water dish and pouring dog food into his bowl on the back porch. Butterflies and bees flitted through the flowers that grew along the edge of the garage, and two wrens flitted to a stop on a sagging bit of her gutter. She smiled to herself and told herself it was only sane that she should move.

Buying this little house had been difficult, a real stretch for her. She'd borrowed the down payment from her mother and convinced the previous owner, an old man who had been moving to California to be with his eldest daughter, to accept a contract with her. No sane banker would have loaned her a dime at the time.

But she'd proven herself by paying promptly each month, and this little cottage had been her home ever since. She sighed. Now she and Josh were going to move. She supposed it was long overdue, and the repairs that she'd put off—painting the interior, replacing windowpanes, cleaning the gutters and shoring up the sagging garage—would have to be done for the next tenant.

Leaning against a post that supported the overhang of the porch, she smiled as her old dog nosed around the backyard, and she thought of Luke Gates—elusive cowboy with the killer kiss. Her whole body tingled at the thought, and she pushed herself upright, slapping the post and telling herself that it was time to forget about one stupid act of intimacy. Inside the house, she phoned Len's Service Station and was told that her car was in the process of being checked out by the mechanic. Len would call her back as soon as he figured out what the problem was. “Wonderful,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm as she hung up and imagined she heard the sound of a cash register dinging each time one of the mechanics fiddled with the wires and hoses attached to the engine. For the fiftieth time she promised herself that she would sign up for an auto-mechanic's class offered by the local community college.

But not right now. She picked up the receiver again and quickly punched out the number of her office. Winding the cord around her finger, she stared out the window and waited as the phone ran.

“Rogue River Review,”
Becky, the gum-chewing receptionist, answered in her typically bored voice.

“Hi, it's Katie. I'll be a little late because Josh had an accident. Nothing serious, but it's gonna keep me home this morning.” After explaining to Becky what had happened, she was connected with the editor and repeated herself, telling him about her car and Josh's injury. “I'll work here until I get the word on the car, then I'll be in,” she promised.

She'd had a second phone line installed months ago so that she could, over the summer months, work from the house while Josh was home for vacation and was grateful that the powers-that-be at the newspaper understood.

She hung up, feeling a little better, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and settled in at her desk. Hidden in the top drawer was the letter. Was it a fake or the real thing? She reread the typed words she'd memorized since receiving it in yesterday's post.

Dear Ms. Kinkaid,

I've read your accounts of my disappearance with some degree of fascination. Though others have written similar stories, your columns have been the most insightful.

Therefore I decided that you were the person to trust.

I would have come forward earlier, but circumstances have prevented me from doing so. I will contact you again soon.

Sincerely,

Isaac Wells

Katie's heart beat a little faster each time she read the short note. When she'd opened the hand-scrawled envelope yesterday, she'd been stunned. Was it a prank, or had Isaac Wells really reached out to her? And why? Why not go to the police or just come home? What “circumstances” had prevented him from returning? If he'd been kidnapped, he surely wouldn't have been allowed to write the missive. Was he running from the law? Or an old enemy? She pulled out a thick file and skimmed its contents—copies of police reports, the columns she'd dedicated to the Isaac Wells mystery, notes from interviews with what little there was of his family and friends.

What had happened to the old guy? Had there been foul play involved? Leaning back in her chair she tapped the eraser end of a pencil to her front teeth as she scanned her own articles for the millionth time.

Wells, who owned the ranch so close to Luke Gates's property, had been a loner. Mason Lafferty and his sister, Patti, were his only relatives living in the vicinity.

He had resided in the area for over sixty years, but had kept to himself, wasn't very friendly. Some people in town thought he was a miser, even a cheat. There was talk of him being involved in some kind of crime, but, as far as Katie could learn, it was all just gossip.

He'd never married, never fathered any children and had lived alone for most of his life. He'd gotten by meagerly, and had struggled for years to keep his scrap of a ranch afloat. But he'd had a passion for old cars and had owned a collection of classic and antique cars that he'd restored himself. He'd hunted once in a while, usually deer or elk. He hadn't been a churchgoer, and had been a solitary man who didn't talk much—a man whom no one, including the few members of his family, really knew. Despite local conjecture, he'd never been in serious trouble with the law.

Why would he take off?

Had be been coerced?

Had he been getting senile and just wandered away?

Or had he left on purpose?

No one, including the police, insurance-company investigators or his family, seemed to have much to go on.

Until now. Katie stared at the note with a jaundiced eye.