Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (12 page)

“Hey, you all right?” He stood. “Come here.” He took my elbow and tugged me to the living room, sat me on the couch, put the scotch on the coffee table. “Want a drink?”

It caught up with me, and his being there and being kind, just made it worse. It was my whole life—and how stupid I’d been the night before with JJ, and everything that had happened today, and Wastrel and…the list went on. I shook my head.
 

He tilted his to one side. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Shouldn’t.”

He nodded, went to the kitchen, got himself a tumbler and me a glass of water. I took a few sips while he sat in the easy chair, poured a couple of fingers of scotch into the glass, swirled and sniffed it, set it down, looked at me.

I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I wouldn’t. I wanted him to leave, and to stay, and that was perfectly in keeping with how confused I’d been all day starting with that stupid dream. I couldn’t ask him to go because I was afraid if I tried to speak, tears would come and not stop. Why his presence was so soothing, I don’t know. Jesus.

“Mind if I look at the kittens again?” he asked.

“Course not,” I managed to say.

~~~

When I awoke in my bed, I had one of those moments of true blissful ignorance. I didn’t know where I was, or what day it might be. The bed was familiar, but not. Without opening my eyes, I knew that if I was supposed to have fed horses, it was late. Too much light bathed the room. I imagined the hiss and smell of bacon cooking and other puttering sounds coming from the kitchen. Ah, the weekend at Aunt Trudy and Uncle Vic’s house.

All this fluttered in the place between sleep and wakefulness in a heartbeat. In the next, I sank into the dream I’d been having of galloping Wastrel through endless green fields. Then, my feet hit the floor, and I headed for the bathroom, knowing exactly where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. Shit, what happened to my alarm?

Just beyond the opening to my kitchen, I stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen a man standing over the stove where a pan of bacon sizzled. I forced air into my lungs, hoping that would pump enough blood to my brain for me to think straight.
 

Getting my privacy invaded was my all-time least favorite thing. I’d had precious little of it because I rarely lived alone. I guarded what I had, and in only three days at Winterlight, had become possessive about my solitude, such as it was.
 

If Malcolm thought he could waltz in here any time…I was pretty sure it was he. Who else could it be? I swiveled on one heel and squinted toward my bed. The last thing I remembered was sitting on the couch.
 

Noire strolled out of the kitchen, licking her lips. That eliminated JJ—unless she’d eaten him. Not that I thought he would break in. Had I even locked the door last night? Of course not, because I’d expected Malcolm to leave. Had he left?
 

Dex was a possibility. He was presumptuous enough, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had his own key. I tiptoed to the kitchen door, hands on hips.

Malcolm stood turned slightly away, pouring coffee into a cup. He had his nerve. Surely, in this circumstance, smarting off to the boss could be expected? I took another deep breath. Since I couldn’t smart off, I’d no idea what to say.

“Don’t you think I can get my own breakfast?” is what came out.

He jumped and poured hot coffee on his hand.

“God damn it,” he said.

“Oh, shit.” I grabbed his arm and shoved it under the tap, turning on the cold water at the same time. “I’m sorry.” Served him right. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What are doing sneaking up on me like that?”

“What am
I
doing? What are
you
doing in here?”

My fingers didn’t reach all the way around his wrist, but I could feel the bones, and his blood pumping under my thumb. Against my palm, the fine hairs on the back of his arm felt rough. He flexed his fingers, moving tendons and ligaments, and I released him, stepped away. I never, ever should have touched him. Shit.

The night before flooded back, and my face went hot. I must have been as red as his hand. He’d sat with me, that was all. He’d touched my elbow to lead me into the living room. At some point, though, he’d lifted me off the couch and put me in bed. I was asleep, but my body remembered the strength of his arms, the hardness of his chest under my cheek, the few steps he held me against him, how he’d gently lowered me to my mattress, covered me. His fingertips had stroked a few stray hairs off my face.

“Excuse me,” I said. I retreated to the bathroom, heart pounding. There, I filled the sink with cold water and submerged my face for as long as I could. Drowning held a certain appeal, but I’d lived through worse than this. I pulled on the jeans and shirt I’d worn the day before, hauled a brush through my hair, and ran wet fingers through it. Today had low humidity. My brown locks flowed past my shoulders in smooth waves, as if I’d done something to make them look good.
 

I returned to the kitchen where Malcolm had cleaned the coffee from the counter and floor, and put the bacon on paper towels. “Okay,” I said. “Where were we? Oh yes, you were going to explain what the hell you are doing in my apartment at…” I glared at the clock on the microwave. Holy cow. It was past nine.
 

Malcolm stirred the scrambled eggs. “How do you like your coffee?”
 

He leaned against the counter, too relaxed. He filled all available space and sucked the oxygen out of the room too, or so it felt to my lungs. He must have gone home, because he wore jeans and a navy, long-sleeved polo shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His feet were bare. The clogs were at the top of my stairs. If he was pissed I’d overslept, I couldn’t tell.

“What?” I asked.

His gaze slid down to my feet. So, we were both barefoot, what of it? What of it was an intimacy that didn’t belong. When his eyes returned to my face, he smiled a little, enjoying my uncertainty, the bastard.
 

“You drink coffee, right?”

I pursed my lips, unsure of how to approach this situation. I had a right to be mad he’d let himself in. I invited him the night before, but that wasn’t a carte blanche, why-don’t-you-come-up-and-see-me-any-time kind of invite.
 

I noticed fresh flowers on my kitchen table, and it hit me that the horses weren’t whinnying for their breakfast. I pressed my fingers to my temples. The coffee smelled good. “Yes,” I answered. “With cream. But…” my eyes strayed to the stairs.

“I’ve already fed them,” he said.

Oh great. Again, my plan to get the skinny ones fat and the fat ones slim had been thwarted. Wait, how had I slept through that? It was a noisy activity, what with the horses banging their hooves on stall doors, and buckets of feed knocking into each other, and the metal scoop clanging. And, why were there flowers on the table?

“I found your feeding schedule.” He opened the fridge, pulled out the cream, poured some in a cup. “Good idea about separating them. Wish I’d thought of it.”

The night before I’d written feeding instructions on a white board in the tack room.
 

He caught me staring at the flowers, handed me the coffee. “Happy Birthday, Miss Parker.”

- 11 -

I jerked my head around to look at what I called The Thing—an amalgamation of calendar, almanac, horoscope, and housekeeping hints. It included livestock gestation tables, weight and measurement conversions, and instructions on how to plant by the phases of the moon. It had been hanging on the wall when I arrived and was so fascinating, I didn’t replace it. In any case, I hadn’t turned it from April to May, what with all the excitement the day before. I took it down, flipped the page, and tacked it back in place. Sure enough, it was May first, and I’d forgotten my own birthday.

Malcolm used this lull to load two plates with bacon and eggs and put them on the small table. The only way he knew it was my birthday was if Penny told him. And the only reason she would tell him that was if she told him everything. Crapola. To think I’d been feeling sorry for her, even taken her off my “I hate your guts” list.
 

I sat at the table and considered giving Malcolm an earful of what I thought of his breaking and breakfast making. But the food smelled terrific, even if it wasn’t my usual fare. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he’d brought a posy, and as much as I disliked having my privacy invaded, I rarely received flowers.
 

They were small and delicate and fresh. Purple, white, and blue, with tiny bugs crawling on the stems.
 

“Where’d you get the flowers?”

Malcolm swallowed a bite of his eggs. “In the woods.”

“You went down to the woods this morning and picked flowers?”

“Figured you could use cheering up.” He gently flicked the deep blue blossoms. “Bluebells. Dutchman’s Breeches.” He pointed to several rows of a white flower that did look like poofy little breeches. “Violets, and wild hyacinth.”

“Okay, okay. I’m impressed.” He could identify birds and flowers. “So, do you often let yourself into your employee’s living quarters and cook breakfast?”

“First time offender, your honor.” He put one hand over his heart. “I throw myself on the mercy of the court.”

He had an engaging grin, and I liked sitting at the table with him. I bit off a piece of bacon, narrowed my eyes. “Perhaps a short parole would be best, with time off for good behavior…if there is any.”

He hung his head and pretended to look repentant. “I accept your decision.”

I chewed and stared out the window for a while. The bacon was thick-sliced and peppered, greasy and good.
 

“Do you have any ideas about what happened to Norman, or why?” I asked.

The grin faded. I realized this whole breaking and breakfast making birthday surprise was as much a distraction for him as it was for me, and I regretted spoiling the mood by bringing up
the situation
.

He shook his head. “I didn’t know Norman very well. I hired him as a favor to Sandy. Dex One was against it, said he had a history of drug abuse. But Sandy promised he was clean. And there weren’t any problems.”

“Until yesterday.”

“Right. Until yesterday. I don’t know what he was into, but I guess he got in over his head.”

Yeah, in shit. “But whatever it was, who would want to put him in your manure pile?”

“I was up all night wondering the same thing. But I intend to find out. Whoever did this will pay.”

It was hard to tell what he was more enraged about—Norman’s death or the fact that whoever did it put him in his manure pile—but I think that last statement came out way stronger than he intended. He ran his hand over his unshaven cheek. He didn’t seem to bother with shaving when he wasn’t working.
 

“Look,” he said, “let’s avoid that subject for now. I propose we take the day off. Get out of here for a while.”

“You haven’t been here.”

“Another good point.”

“I’m not trying to make points.”

He stabbed at his eggs. “Look—”

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

He took a moment to stare out the window. The view was mostly of the north roof of the barn.
 

“Your cousin,” he said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you get ready to go while I finish up with the horses. Meet me out front in ten minutes. We can talk in the car.” He rose and took his dishes to the sink, rinsed them off. Considerate.

I followed with my plate and cup. “Where are we going?” It might make a difference in what I wore, I told myself.
 

He left the kitchen, and I could hear him stepping into his clogs. “You’re new here,” he called back to me. “You decide. Zoo, art museum, brewery, the Arch…”

I kept the water running while I dumped the rest of the coffee. I shouldn’t spend the day with him, should I? I raised my voice to be heard over the water. “I can’t go with you. You’re the boss, and…what about your wife?”

During the silence that followed, I shut off the tap and dried my hands, then poked my head around the corner. He stood at the top of the stairs with his back to me. In a rare moment of self-restraint, I kept my mouth shut and waited.

After what felt like five minutes during which I was glad to have the dishtowel to twist, he said, “My soon-to-be ex-wife doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I do with my time.”

In his voice, I heard old resentment and hurt, disappointment and relief.

“We sign the papers next week,” he continued, and faced me. “I can’t do anything about being boss, but I’d like you to consider a working partnership.” He headed down the stairs. “Ten minutes,” he said as he reached the bottom.

~~~

Ten minutes later I shut the door of a 1972 British racing green Jaguar XJ6 and strapped myself in. I’d seen a few when I’d been at school in England, and some still cruised Long Island, too, mostly on the East End. While I consider cars merely a means of getting from point A to point B, I had to admit to a long-held yearning to ride in one of these. I stroked the walnut dash.