All Through The House (9 page)

"I couldn't blame her. Dad beat her when he'd had a
little too much. Since he boozed every night, that was pretty often. She saw
her chance and ran."

Abigail touched his arm. "You don't even
sound...." She groped for a word.

"Hurt? Mad?" A flicker of emotion she couldn't
quite read crossed his lean face, though his tone was matter-of-fact. "I
was both. But that was years ago. I survived. And now I'm ready...." he
raised his voice as he stood, stretching, "to hit the snow field. What
d'ye say, short stuff?"

Kate giggled. "Yeah!"

"How about you?" He raised a brow, looking down at
Abigail.

Shock still clutched at her. How could a mother walk away
from a childlike Nate and never look back? How could a boy deserted like that
grow up to be a man as strong as this? His father certainly wasn't responsible.
Had he done it alone?

In the face of her silence his smile faded, leaving his
expression inscrutable. But his voice was still humorous. "Guess we're on
our own, short stuff."

On our own. But never the way he had been. "Let
me...pack our trash," Abigail said. "I'll be along."

His gaze didn't leave her face for a long moment, until at
last he inclined his head. "Sure."

Sandwich bags and juice cans stuffed in the pack, Abigail
trailed the tall man and her small daughter up to the snow pack. Standing
beside it felt like opening a freezer door. Chilly air poured off the ice,
hitting the wall of July heat. Stepping gingerly, Abigail slipped and slithered
to where Nate was holding Kate's hand as she ran a few steps and slid, giggling.
The snow crunched underfoot.

Nate flashed a grin at Abigail. "Shall we ski?"

"Who's going to hold me up?" she retorted.

"At your service, ma'am." He held his free hand
out.

The invitation was too tantalizing to ignore. She remembered
the romantic, magical walk on the dock, how secure his hand had felt. Kate was
giggling and chattering, but Abigail couldn't hear her. She lifted her hand,
watching Nate's face as his closed around it. He smiled lightly, even
self-mockingly, but his gray eyes were dark and grave. His fingers were as
strong as she'd remembered, as gentle, as warm.

She was totally unprepared when he tugged, and her feet
slipped out from under her. Abigail tumbled against him, and he released her
hand to wrap his arm around her waist. One corner of his mouth lifted in a grin
so wicked, so sexy, her heart flipped over.

His eyes didn't leave her face, his mouth wasn't more than
inches away from hers, though he spoke to her four-year-old. In a low, husky
voice, he said, "What d'ye think, Kate that rhymes? Does your mom need a
lesson in snow travel?"

"Watch me, Mommy," Kate declared. She jumped and
slid a whole foot, secured by Nate's strong grip.

All the while he hadn't released Abigail. The long, hard
line of his thigh and hip were imprinted on hers. She'd instinctively braced
herself against his chest, and under her palm his heart beat in a slow,
powerful rhythm. When Kate looked inquiringly up at her mother, Abigail
struggled loose.

Her cheeks were hot despite the cold. Flustered, she declared
childishly, "If Kate can do it, so can I!"

Nate's devilish gaze met hers. He held out his hand again.
"Care for a safety line?"

She brushed dark curls back from her face. "So long as
it doesn't trip me."

This time his hand felt both warm and secure. The three of
them ran and slipped, falling onto the shockingly cold snow a couple of times.
Laughing, wet, at last they stepped off the ice into the heat.

"Onward and upward," Nate declared.

They half scrambled up a rocky ridge, following faint,
scattered trails and the sound of voices. Abigail had to stop Kate from picking
the wildflowers, small red columbines, and purple larkspur. After one last
glance at Big Four above, waterfalls tumbling hundreds of feet off its face,
they topped the ridge and saw the caves.

Ice bridges arched above gravelly streams. The underside of
the snow field had melted, leaving the top intact and forming caves that
reached back beneath the ice. The first one was broad, several feet higher than
Nate. The depths were shadowy, but they could see light toward the rear.

Signs forbade entrance to the caves, which could collapse,
especially at this time of year with ice melting.  Even where they stood
outside, the air was considerably colder than it had been above on the snow
field. Icy drips from the ceiling made the rocks slick.  The cave seemed to
muffle all sound, insulated as it was by the ancient ice. They could just see
the end, where sunlight filtered strangely through the ice and through openings
to the sky. Water trickled, the sound like tiny bells.

Abigail shivered with a combination of joy and cold. This
space beneath the ice was like a cathedral made by God alone, without man's
hand. She saw a look of reverence on Nate's face, too. When his eyes met hers,
they shared a glance of complete understanding.

"Mommy, I'm scared," Kate said suddenly.

"We'll leave now, pumpkin," Abigail said. Their
voices echoed richly.

"Here we go," Nate agreed.

After a moment, Kate wriggled to get down. "I want to
walk," she said. They could just see other children climbing a huge rock
outside the entrance. Safely on the gravelly bank of the stream, Kate skipped
in the sunlight to join them.

Still in the shadow of the cold cave, Nate stopped Abigail
with a hand on her arm. Her pulse jumped, then quivered, and she looked up at
the tall man. His hair was wet, darker than usual, and droplets clung to his
jaw. The curve of his mouth was tender, his eyes gentle. But the hand that
pulled her closer was purposeful, not to be denied.

And though his mouth was still tender when it touched hers,
deeper hunger leaped between them. Abigail felt herself melting as surely as
the ice, the force of his need awakening hers. She was scared, too, but
exhilarated.

When he lifted his head and smiled, she saw the arrogance
and wondered how long she could deny him. And whether she wanted to.

*****

Nate dropped Abigail and her daughter off at their house. He
kissed her again, lightly, at the door. "I'll see you soon," he promised,
and she smiled, her mouth soft and her eyes forgiving.

Shaken, he stepped back a pace, only distantly noticing the
puzzlement on her face. Forgiving? Where the hell had that thought come from?
She didn't know she had anything to forgive him for! If he had his way, she
never would.

She stood on her porch watching as he strode to his pickup
and backed it out of her drive, a little too fast. Conscious of her gaze, he
turned in the direction he would have to go home, even though he had no intention
of doing so.

The animal shelter would still be open on Saturday
afternoon. Unless he wanted to add theft to his crimes, he'd better acquire a
cat legally. He liked cats, anyway. Maybe he'd get two, to keep each other
company. Kate would like them, he told himself. And maybe they'd keep the mice
population down. Once, that is, they'd performed their duty—sending the latest
potential buyer scrambling for the door.

Abigail became aware that she was getting a headache the
precise moment she saw the top message on the pile of pink slips centered on
her desk blotter. "Call Susan Richards!!!"

Oh, boy. Either the other agent was ready to present an
offer on the Irving House—which should have excited Abigail, and somehow
didn't—or she wanted to complain. No storm this week, so it couldn't be a
leaking roof. Plumbing gone haywire? Electricity knocked out in a blinding
burst? A rabid German shepherd prowling the grounds?

No point in putting it off. Abigail tossed her purse in a
bottom drawer and sank into her chair, kicking off her shoes. Resigned, she
punched the numbers on the phone. She didn't know whether it was good or bad
when the woman proved to be in.

''The renter assured me his cats were mostly outside. He'd
make certain they were outside Friday afternoon. So I show the house."
Abigail could hear the gritted teeth. "We get to the second floor, a hell
of a long ways from the outside door, we poke our heads into a bedroom, and
guess what? A cat pounces off a chest of drawers practically at our feet. What's
it do but rub against my client's legs."

"Oh, Lord."

Abigail didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Susan
Richards snorted. "You got it. My client screamed, tripped on her high
heels and almost fell, then ran down the stairs still screaming. Let me tell
you, I've had some ugly showings before, but this took the cake. I had to drive
her straight to the emergency room. She was positive she was going to have an
asthma attack."

"Did she?" Abigail asked.

"Nah. To tell you the truth, all she did was blow her
nose a couple of times. But if she had..."

The rest was better unspoken. Who would be liable? Abigail
didn't have the faintest idea and didn't want to know.

"Would you like me to pass this episode on to the
owner?" she had to offer.

There was a pause. "Oh, hell, I don't know," the
other woman said. "Maybe the damn cat sneaked in. Maybe an old place like
that has holes. Who knows? And I've got to give it to the renter, the place is
clean. He was cooperative enough on the phone, too. It's up to you. I just
wanted to let you know."

After thanking her and apologizing ten or twelve times,
Abigail hung up and slumped in her chair. "Oh, Nate," she groaned.

Was there any way it could all be coincidence? Could the cat
have sneaked in, the roofers been careless, the plumbing have had a minor
problem? Or....

She wanted to reject the alternative. She didn't even want
to think about it. Because, if Nate was sabotaging the sale of the Irving
House, he was doing it even though he knew it would hurt her.

But why? What did he have to gain? He couldn't fend buyers
off forever. Sooner or later he wouldn't be home. Sooner or later an agent
would get smart enough not to call him ahead. All he'd gained was time. What
difference did a few weeks or months mean to him?

Or was the Irving House symbolic? Was this a petty form of
revenge on Ed Phillips?

Maybe the why didn't even matter, she thought miserably. The
big question was, what was she going to do about it?

She massaged her aching temples with her fingertips, then
automatically thumbed through the rest of the phone messages. In her present
mood, none of them struck her as very important—until the last one.

She dropped the rest on the blotter and sat up straight.
Natasha Waldstein, calling about the Irving House. Abigail had never been very
interested in the doings of the rich and famous, but even she recognized the
name. The Waldsteins owned a chain of department stores and heaven knew what
else. Race horses and a pro football team, Abigail seemed to recall. For whatever
reason, they'd stayed in the Northwest.

And now Mrs. Waldstein was interested in a magnificent
historic mansion. What's more, she could afford it.

This time, Abigail picked the phone up with considerably
more enthusiasm. By God, she was going to sell that house yet, Nate or no Nate.
And this time, she wouldn't make an appointment.

*****

Since she had spent the day hoping he wouldn't call, the
last thing on earth Abigail wanted was to run into Nate at the hardware store.
But there he was, ten feet from her. He was leaning against the counter, back
to her, laughing at a joke the balding owner was telling with evident relish.

She actually contemplated fleeing. How could she hide her
suspicions? But he had such a beautiful back; long and lean, his shoulders
broad without being beefy, his jeans just tight enough to show how gorgeously
he was put together. His sun-streaked hair brushed his collar, and even his
chuckle was low and husky. Her entire body flooded with pleasure at the sight
of him, and she desperately wanted to see his slow smile awakening when he
turned and saw her. She wanted his gray eyes to darken as they lingered on her
face. She wanted...

He turned suddenly, as though he'd sensed her presence. She
felt ridiculous standing there staring at him. "Nate!" Her voice
squeaked as she tried to sound surprised. "I didn't notice you."

"Abigail." His smile was as devastating as she
remembered. It crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes, carved deeper
lines in his lean cheeks, weakened her knees. "Hey, I was going to call
you later."

"How nice," she said inanely.

His gaze fell on the shower-head assembly in her hand.
"Taking up plumbing? I thought that was my role."

Her eyes narrowed, but his held nothing but good-humored amusement.
"I'm a little like you are, Nate," she murmured. "A jack of all
trades."

"Really." His smile faded, replaced by wariness.
Or was she imagining things?

Bud, the hardware store owner, was ringing up Nate's
purchases. She couldn't help noticing that one of them was a live trap for rodents.
"You look like you have problems of your own," Abigail said casually,
nodding at the trap. "Don't you have cats?"

Something flickered in his eyes, though his tone was bland.
"Yeah, two of 'em. It's a big house, though. Figured I'd give the cats a
hand."

"And you don't like to kill things."

Behind the counter, Bud chuckled. "The little lady's
got ya there. No killer instinct. You'd have been a hell of a ball player if
you'd just had that instinct."

"Yeah, but you used to tell me I took my punishment like
a man."

"Well, what the hell." Bud shook his head.
"Can't all go on and play pro ball."

"How's Billy?" Nate asked, as though it were a
logical extension.

Bud told him, at some length. Abigail gathered that Billy
had made it to the pros, though it sounded like he was second string. And
probably still made ten times her yearly income.