Echoes (35 page)

"It's been hell with you gone," he muttered against the sensitive skin of her throat.

His beard rubbed her chin and made her lips feel tender as windblown petals, but she didn't pull away. He pressed his mouth to her forehead, his breath coming in heavy labored draughts that sent warm thrills through her. "I want to marry you," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "As soon as we get to California, I want to marry you."

His words swelled through her heart but with them came the beat of reality. Right now, here in his arms she felt like the princess in a bedtime story. But every fairy tale had a villain and this one was no exception. She'd managed to banish Brodie from her daily life, though she'd not been able to keep him from her thoughts. But she couldn't avoid him forever and she knew it.

Adam pulled back to look into her face. "That's not the reaction a man usually gets when he tells a woman he wants to marry her."

No, it wasn't. But she wasn't any woman and he, most certainly, wasn't any man.

When she didn't say anything, he asked, "What is it, Molly?" Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. He dropped his hands and moved back. "Have I misunderstood—"

"No," she said quickly. "It's not that. It's— There are things we must discuss before we can talk of our future, Adam."

Silently he nodded. Molly gathered up her thoughts and tried to place them in an ordered manner.
Did your brother murder my sister?
was not the place to begin, though she knew without a doubt that it must be the place to end.

"I want to know about Arlie," she said at last.

Her words cooled the warmth in Adam's eyes. Fearing a complete withdrawal, she rushed on. "I have guessed who his— He bears a strong resemblance to a trusted friend of my father's, but Vanessa never confided in me about...about anything."

He dropped his hands back to his sides and said, "Well I guess that makes two of us that she kept in the dark. It wasn't until after Arlie was born that I figured things out."

"When you realized—did you feel betrayed?"

"There aren't words for how I felt," he said bitterly.

"Brodie told me there was an awful scene between you two."

Adam paused, frowning. "When did he tell you that?"

"Months ago, when we first began the journey. He said you had a terrible row and then a few days later she died."

He made a sound of disbelief. "I don't know why he'd tell you something like that. Vanessa never did tell me the truth. She didn't have to tell me."

Molly stared at him, trying to see through the words to the truth. Trying to find a way to ask the one question that she'd avoided since Rosie's death. But there was no way to circumvent it. She must speak of Rosie's confession, or forever question what had really happened to her sister.

Adam scooped up a handful of pebbles and began lobbing them over the edge of the plateau. Silently, Molly looked down at the rocky surface on which they sat. Off to the side, industrious ants were hard at work dragging the remains of an unlucky insect back to their nest. Next to her, a sprig of green defied all odds by sprouting from a crevice in the stone.

"Adam, before your mother passed on, she spoke to me about Vanessa. She told me that she couldn't leave this world without telling me the truth about my sister's death. She told me Vanessa was killed."

Adam shook his head, whether in denial or disbelief, she wasn't certain.

"She said, 'he pushed her to it, but he killed her all the same.'"

"Who?" Adam demanded.

"I am convinced she was speaking of your brother."

With a muffled curse, Adam pushed to his feet and paced away. Anger knotted the muscles beneath his shirt and drew tension to his jaw. "No one killed Vanessa, Molly. How many times do I have to say it? She died in an accident. She fell. Every one of us warned her to be careful going up and down the ladder to the loft, but she wouldn't listen. She wouldn't hear of having her things moved down. She didn't want to be too close to the rest of us."

What he said sounded conceivable, likely even. And yet an accidental fall could be contrived, could it not?

"Molly, think about it. Why in the hell would Brodie want to hurt my wife?"

This brought her eyes up and round. In that instant, the answer leapt between them. Memory of the day by the river flashed though her mind as quickly as it did his.

Adam shook his head. "No. He's a boy, Molly. He may look like a man, but inside he's a boy. He was afraid to even talk to her."

"Your mother said she taunted him. She did, didn't she Adam?"

"Oh, yes. That she did. She made him cry a time or two. She made him cry like a baby, like a child." He came back to her and squatted down. "Molly, Ma was out of her mind with fever before she died. I could hear her crying and babbling to people that have been dead for years. She didn't know what she was saying."

It was true. Rosie had been delirious, hallucinating, talking to the haints...

"I found Vanessa. I swear to you, nobody killed her."

They stared at one another across the dry vista, on top of the world and completely isolated. The sense that the rest of her life would hinge on this moment felt as overwhelming as the dust and heat of the trail.

"What about me, Adam?" she whispered.

"I'll talk to him."

"And tell him what? That day by the river Brodie was not the person you think him to be. I know that it must be very painful to consider that he might—that he could... But Adam, I beg you to open your eyes before someone else pays the price."

"You're wrong, Molly."

She shoved up her sleeves so that he could see the bruises Brodie had left on her arms. "For a boy, he has a strong grip," she said.

He winced, reaching a gentle finger to touch the green and purple skin. "There's no excuse for what he did," Adam began. A tremor rumbled in his voice. "All I can say is that I promise you it will never happen again."

"He imagines there is an infatuation that we share. He will not be discouraged from his fantasy. Lord knows I have tried to dissuade him."

"Oh, he'll be plenty discouraged when I get through with him," Adam said. "Don't doubt that for a minute. Before, he didn't know how things were between you and me, Molly. He does now. He'll respect it."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm his big brother," he said simply. "You've got to trust me on this. You have to. Please, trust me."

Though deep inside a frightened voice warned her against it, Molly nodded and let him pull her into his arms.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The knocking on the door joined in Tess's mind with the desperate thud of her footfalls on the packed and dusty trail. The sound had a menace that she couldn't outrun and it grew louder and louder until it jerked her into awareness with a gasp. She looked around, fighting her disorientation. She was sitting on the floor, still in Tori's house. Not in
Adams arms. Not walking the endless miles. Not Molly.

She glanced at her watch. The hands on it had barely moved, yet it felt that too much time had passed. The knock came again, insistent now. She rose and shuffled toward the front window, cautiously pulling back the thin curtains to see outside. Grant's truck was parked in the drive. Grant stood on the porch.

He was watching the window and lifted a hand when he saw her. They stared at one another for a charged moment before Tess let the curtain fall back in place. Thoughts of her behavior in his car made her blush as he stepped inside. She'd given herself to him like an idolizing fan. What had possessed her? But really, she knew the answer to that question all too well. Grant had.

"I just heard about finding Tori's car at the bus station," he said. "I'm sorry."

"She didn't drive it there."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

Wisely, he didn't argue. Shifting his weight, he glanced around, as if for inspiration. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt and she steeled herself against the impulse to put him at ease.

"What do you want, Grant?" she finally asked.

A dull flush crept up his cheeks at her sharp tone. For a moment she glimpsed something like torment in his eyes.

Letting out a pent breath, he said, "I was abrupt earlier. I didn't want to leave it like that." He hesitated before going on. "It's an old habit—a bad habit, leaving when I don't know what else to do."

"What else was there to do?"

A smile flitted over his lips and vanished, but not before it filled her head with images of the two of them, locked together in the heat of their need. He looked away, as if the contact he'd initiated had become too intense for him to manage.

"Do you ever stop?" she asked.

"Stop what?"

"Acting."

He looked stunned by the accusation and again she glimpsed something raw in the quicksilver of his eyes. Something vulnerable and hurt. She sensed the feelings building in him, looking for a vent. He ran fingers through his hair, shaking his head.

"I don't know anymore," he said finally. "You tell me."

"That's why you don't like Tori, isn't it? Because she could see through your bullshit."

"I don't like Tori because she used my old man. She landed on my doorstep with her problems and her—"

"Wait a minute—what do you mean, landed on your doorstep? You hired her."

"I need a bookkeeper like I need a dead horse."

Tess stared at him, uncomprehending. "But—"

"There are no books. There's no money to tally. There's just bills and back taxes." He turned away and lowered his voice. "I was doing my buddy a favor. Take in his girlfriend and he'd throw some work my way. He's paying her salary, not me."

"Brandon Forsythe."

Grant looked at her over his shoulder.

"He told me he gave Tori money," she went on, "because he couldn't give her anything else. He had to let her go."

"I'm sure he did. But obviously he didn't want her to go too far."

"Just far enough that his wife wouldn't know."

"I told you that you wouldn't like what you found here."

Yes, he had. And with each answer came another question attached. Like where was all this money Brandon had given Tori? And what other favors was Grant willing to do for his friend? Get rid of Tori altogether? She lowered her gaze and noticed the white bandage covering his left hand. "What happened?" she asked, pointing at it.

He gave the bandage a glance. "Hurt it."

They stood like opponents, facing each other across the small expanse of the living room, but between them was a sense of seeking, of needing to find a way to breach that gulf. He hadn't come to fight with her. He'd come to offer solace when he'd heard about Tori's car. He'd come to hold her and no matter what doubts she still harbored, Tess desperately wished he would.

He lifted his hands, palms up. "So what now?"

She looked helplessly into his eyes, captivated by the gold-flecked grays swirling within them. "I don't know."

"Do you want me to go?"

"I don't know what I want anymore. I mean—well, you were right. I don't know you from—" Adam, she'd been about to say.
I don’t know you from Adam.
"I don't know you at all."

His pause felt baited, alluring in its very existence. When he spoke, his voice vibrated off her senses, cocooning her in its resonance. She found herself wanting to lean closer, to catch the breath of it. "Yes," he said. "You do. You know me."

Dry-mouthed, she shook her head.

"Then why do I feel like you should?" he said, at last closing the distance between them. "Why is it that something about you keeps at me? Every instinct I have is telling me you're as much trouble as your sister. Trouble I don't need. But then I look into your eyes and I feel like…" He shook his head slowly, not looking away. "Like I've been waiting for you." He let loose a short laugh. "Sounds like a crappy pick up line, doesn't it?"

It should have, but of course it didn't. Hadn't she felt it from the moment she'd met him? That undeniable pull that was stronger than reason?

She stared at him, standing there in his faded blue jeans, scuffed boots, and denim button-down. He looked like any honest, hardworking Joe that
Hollywood had ever dressed down and passed off as the real thing. And that's what worried her. Images were deceiving. Still, he mesmerized her, convincing her with one look that he was what she needed him to be.

She gave herself a mental shake, trying to focus on the moment. The here. The now. But she couldn't. It felt as if the hue of that other life had cast a glow on him and she was incapable of looking away.

"Don't be afraid of me, blue eyes," he murmured, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. His bandage was rough against her skin, his fingers warm. The look in his eyes sucked Tess into a world of swirling colors and unlikely truth. And she felt her last ounce of willpower give way.

"I'm not," she whispered. "I'm not."

His mouth settled over hers with undeniable possession. It was as if the doubt didn't exist. As if the kisses in his truck had never stopped. Her arms went to his neck, her fingers curling in his hair. In her mind, past and present melded into one and she was Molly, kissing Grant; she was Tess, holding Adam.

She felt weightless and realized he'd lifted her. She wrapped herself around him and deepened their kiss as his hands slipped low to her hips. He crossed to the couch without taking his mouth from hers and followed her down to the soft, cushioned length of it.

His hands slid beneath her top to cup her breasts while hers fought their way under his clothes to his skin. Her fingers hesitated at the button fly of his jeans and then they were each shedding the last barriers until the only thing separating them was the heat of their skin. Each touch, each movement overwhelmed her with the weaving of past and present, displacement and intense belonging. He stared at her, eyes glowing like pewter, so like Adam's. Why hadn't she noticed it before? Her two worlds slammed together into that one moment. Then the soft hair that veed from his chest to his belly pressed against the sensitive skin of her ribs and stomach and it no longer mattered who or when or where they were.

The hard muscles of his biceps flexed as he shifted over her. His lips found hers again and in their kisses were meaningless whispered words that seemed to answer every pulsing question racing through her body. She heard her groan of pleasure echoed as the contact became a connection and thousands of sensations traveled back from each and every point of it. Her arms moved to his back and swept down to the dip of his spine and rise of his buttocks. She pulled him closer and deeper, and she heard her name whispered on an intake and moaned on release.

They began to move together in rhythm with their clamoring hearts and frantic breath. It all centered down, down in a hot spiral that coiled tighter and tighter until every inch of her was taut with the tension. And then he thrust deep with a growl low in his throat. Whatever it was between them, he could control it no more than she could. The realization released the tightness inside her in a quake of dark, liquid waves.

For a long time, they lay locked together, slick with sweat and rubber-limbed.

"Tell me you don't know me," he challenged, his voice low and hoarse.

She didn't need to speak the words because he saw the answer on her face. Yes, she knew him. She always had.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The day had ticked by in elongated seconds, but when she was in Grant's arms the minutes seemed to speed past in a blur. Before she was ready to release him, it was time to go.

"I have to pick up Caitlin. I don't want to be late. She'll worry."

He kissed her again and helped her to her feet. They watched each other as they pulled on layers of clothes. She buttoned his shirt, letting her fingers linger on his chest. The steady beat of his heart matched her own. The moment felt solid, enduring. She felt as if her entire life had been spent searching and at last she'd found what she needed.

"I don't want you to stay here tonight," he said, his lips teasing the sensitive flesh behind her ears. "Not after last night."

She went suddenly still. "How do you know what happened last night?"

"Ochoa told me."

Of course.

Together they stepped outside. As she reached back to close the front door, a flashing light caught her eye. Frowning, she stared at the telephone with its attached answering machine. The number one blinked. Like an ancient memory the sound of a woman's voice telling Tess to call her surfaced. It had sounded like Lydia.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ironically, it wasn't the smell that brought them to Lydia's bed and breakfast. It was the lack of it.

As Walter McKinnley told Deputy Ochoa when the cruiser pulled to a stop, "I saw her
Open
sign wasn't flipped and I knew something was wrong. I've been having my afternoon coffee and muffin here ever since she opened shop. She's got me so I'm addicted to her coffee and it just wasn't like her to take off without notice."

He glanced at the
Closed
sign forlornly. "I know something has to be wrong. And with her being…well, I was afraid she'd slipped and broken her leg or something. I looked in back for her car and it's still parked right where it always is."

"It was good you called us, Walter," Hector said, patting the old man on his shoulder.

Hector followed Smith to the front door, wondering at the sheriff's tight-lipped silence. He hadn't said a word since the dispatch came through.

"
Lydia?" Smith called now and pounded loudly on the door. "It's Sheriff Smith. Are you in there? Are you hurt?"

They waited in the silence for an answer that didn't come.

"I tried that," Walter said. "I knocked and rang already."

"That's good, Walter," Hector told him. "Why don't you go on home now? We'll call you if we need you for anything."

Walter looked less than happy with the suggestion, but a glance at his watch seemed to confirm that he did, indeed, need to be on his way. Reluctantly he climbed behind the wheel of his Malibu and drove off.

Hector trailed Smith around the renovated house to the backdoor, which led into
Lydia's kitchen. Smith pounded on the sliding door, trying to peer through the curtain that covered the glass. Hector noticed another window with a view of the backyard and no curtain, but the ground beneath it sloped down sharply. He had to jump and grab the ledge to look in. He only got a glimpse, but that's all it took to solidify his bad feeling into a certainty that Walter had been right. Lydia hadn't simply gone away or decided to close down early that day.

"Looks like a tornado went through there," he said, jumping up for a second time. "Looks like it went through twice."

By silent agreement they circled back to the front. Smith pulled his club from his belt, and smacked it firmly against a pane of glass in the front door. They waited a few seconds to see if the sound of shattering glass would bring a response but the stillness inside didn't shift. Smith reached in to unlock the door and pushed it open.