Authors: Becki Willis
Forgotten Boxes (5 page)
SEVEN
She could not leave, however, without one last visit to Dan’s
Market. A long shot that bordered on pathetic, she made one last attempt to see
the sugarmaker again. There was no sign of the bearded giant on any of the crowded
aisles, so it was with a resigned sigh that Charity bid farewell to the brief but
sweet dream of connecting with the man. Her consolation prize was one of the small
hand-carved trinkets she had previously admired.
Typical
, she lamented, as she drove out of town. Her luck
with men was less than stellar. Sad though it was, she could count her past boyfriends
on one hand and still have a finger or two to spare. Why should her luck be any
different this time?
Not that she had time to dally with romance right now. She had
a mission to accomplish. A mystery to solve. A life to get back to.
“Okay, so it’s hardly a glamorous life,” she admitted aloud.
“It’s rather boring, to be honest. Stale and stagnant. And, yes, it’s lonely. My
best friends are a hypochondriac stepsister and a fellow graphic artist I’ve never
even met in person. Being self-employed, I don’t even have an office life. I haven’t
had a date in two years and I’ve developed this nasty little habit of talking to
myself… exactly like I’m doing right now!” She thumped the steering wheel in aggravation
as she realized what she was doing.
She set her jaw in a sulk and concentrated on driving.
A few curves later, and her mood lifted. It was a beautiful day,
bright and sunny with only a few clouds dotting the azure sky. It was one of those
rare weeks in Vermont, where the days were suspended in a season without a name.
Summer lingered in the warmth of the afternoons, dawdling through still-lush grasses
and late summer flowers. Autumn had yet to arrive, but it was on its way. The promise
was in the chill of early morn, in the shift of sunlight filtering through leaves
with their first hint of color. Another week and much of the green would be transformed
to a glorious mix of yellow, orange, and red.
Maybe she would stay. Maybe she would find a nice little cabin
somewhere and settle in for the show. Maybe, she mused, she would go back to Aunt
Nell’s: free lodging, no reservation needed, no fighting over space with leaf-peepers.
What more could she ask for?
Answers, of course. Answers like what really happened to her
uncle. Answers like where he died. Answers like whether it had been suicide or murder.
For a reason she could not explain, she was reluctant to buy
into the suicide theory. Her hesitance had no rationale; she never knew her uncle,
after all, nor knew anything about his life with Aunt Nell. Yet suicide was so…
so stark. So drastic. Maybe she was being foolhardy, and just hated to accept such
a desperate reality existed within her own family circle, but the notion of an untold
story had planted itself in her mind, and she could not shake it.
Even if she never knew the truth of her uncle’s untimely death,
she hoped that delivering the packages would give her a sense of closure. And if,
in the course of carrying out her mission, she learned more about that fateful day,
all the better. Maybe then, she could consider returning to the cottage.
Determined to think happier thoughts, Charity concentrated on
the scenery. It could have come straight off a postcard, or gleaned from the pages
of a travel magazine. She had taken a southwestward path that led through the farmlands
of Vermont, traipsing her way through pastures dotted with fat jersey milk cows
and fields ripe with orchards and early fall crops. At one point, she pulled over
on the shoulder of the road and whipped out her camera. With views like these, she
would hardly need stock images for her designs. The red barn, perched high on the
hill and overlooking the green meadows below, would be perfect for one of her newest
clients.
By the time she came into the sleepy little village, she was
in fine spirits. When she saw a small market called Dan’s Vermont, she pulled in
on a whim. Not only did it remind her of another store with a similar name, but
she could use a snack about now. No telling how far out of town she would have to
travel to reach the first address on her list. She might be in the right zip code
but still be an hour away, especially if Cunningham Road was on that mountain she
saw up ahead.
Tucking her camera away and locking the car, Charity stretched
her back as she walked up to the store. One step inside, and she wondered if Dan
had a chain of stores strung along the highway. There were marked similarities to
this store and Dan’s Market. Her heart quickened when she saw a familiar kiosk in
the center of an aisle, filled with maple syrup.
The erratic beat tripled when she saw a large man standing near
the display with his back to her. Head bent, she could see little about his hair
other than the fact that he wore a cap. He was tall and broad, and heavier than
she remembered the sugarmaker being. Her feet still hurried down the path, just
in case her luck had finally changed.
Five feet from him, her hopes were dashed. The man raised his
head and Charity had a clear view of his gray nape. She could taste the bitter disappointment
on her tongue.
Feeling the prick of foolish tears beneath her eyelids, Charity
whirled around. She promptly collided with a solid wall of blue flannel.
Even before she lifted her startled eyes to his, she knew it
was the sugarmaker. The moment his large hands came out to steady her, her skin
jumped with awareness. Ripples of electricity ran across her nerves and sent tiny
shock waves throughout her being. In all her twenty-eight years, she had never reacted
to another person’s touch the way she did now. The massive hands steadying her had
to belong to the sugarmaker.
Charity looked up. Up some more. A smile lit her face as she
stared into a familiar set of gray-blue eyes.
His eyes seemed bluer today, perhaps because of his shirt. His
eyes reminded her of a clear mountain lake that was as much the color blue as it
was an indescribable hue; pure water, after all, was clear, but it borrowed its
blue connotations from reflections off the sky and density of depth. The bottomless
pools of this man’s eyes were much the same, a fascinating blend of neutrals and
cools, and yet the source of incredible heat. That heat swept over her now, zinging
her all the way to her toes.
“It’s… It’s you,” she whispered. Her voice came out breathless.
And unabashedly pleased.
Only one thought bounced around in Tarn Danbury’s head– so this
was what it felt like to hold a piece of heaven. He certainly could not have been
more surprised if an actual angel had fallen out of the sky and landed in his arms.
And perhaps one had. Beneath his hands, her skin felt as soft
as a cloud. Without conscious thought, his hands began to gently knead the warm
flesh of her shoulders. As his hands slid slowly down her arms, his touch became
more of a fondle. Even when his large hands stilled just above her elbows, his thumbs
moved in the lazy circles of a caress.
Heaven.
His touch set off a thousand sensations. Too overwhelmed to catalog
a single one of them, Charity simply stood there, wondering if a person could melt
from the inside out.
Tarn misread the confusion in her face, thinking it was fear.
Shame flooded through him. He was a complete stranger, after all, and here he was
fondling her in the middle of a crowded store! He chided himself for the wildly
inappropriate behavior, but his hands were slow to respond to brain commands. Seconds
before he peeled away his recalcitrant fingers, a realization hit him– she was leaning
into him. That light in her bright blue eyes was not from fear. His heart took flight.
Could it be…?
Almost a solid minute had passed. An electrified, energy-charged
minute, with them both staring into the other’s eyes and his hands still on her
arms. It was delayed, but Tarn finally answered. “Yeah, it’s me.”
His voice was every bit as low and delicious as she remembered.
She realized she had craved the sound of it.
They might have stood there longer, but Charity’s purse worked
its way off her shoulder and fell with a heavy thud, jerking his hand away. She
grabbed for the over-stuffed leather bag, the movement bringing her head forward
to bang against him.
“Ouch!” Until now, Charity could have sworn she had a hard head,
but the swift contact actually hurt. Her forehead was no match for the solid wall
of his chest.
Without a word, he took her arm and led her away. It never occurred
to Charity to question where he was taking her. They rounded a corner and she saw
a small lunch counter with a handful of tables scattered out front. The bearded
giant led her to one of the tables and pulled out a chair for her to sit.
“You okay?” Concern rumbled in the thunder of his voice.
She could only nod. Thinking clearly was difficult enough; sensible
talk might prove impossible. It had nothing to do with banging her head. It had
everything to do with the banging inside her heart.
He turned away to the counter and brought back a bottle of water.
With a simple flick of his powerful wrist, the lid popped off and he offered her
the cold refreshment.
“Thank you.” She took a long, deep draw in hopes it would clear
her head. Little chance of that, not with him settling into the opposite chair and
staring at her with those intriguing eyes of his. In an attempt to take control
of the riot coursing through her body, she extended her hand across the table. “I’m
Charity, by the way.”
The way he stared at her hand was humbling. You would think she
had offered him a gift wrapped in shiny paper, not a mere hand that trembled with
the anticipation of touching him again. He moved hesitantly, as if afraid he might
crush her with his large paw. Crush
her
, mind you; she who often had trouble
slipping a bracelet over the large bones of her hand.
His touch was as electrifying as before. His massive palm engulfed
hers, making her feel dainty and feminine and oh-so-jittery inside. Her hand fell
into his as easily as her soul fell into the depths of his eyes. “Tarn,” he introduced
himself.
“A mountain pool,” Charity murmured. “How… perfectly fitting.”
He still held her hand. Their arms were outstretched to bridge
the distance. Without conscious thought, their limbs drifted down to rest on the
scarred Formica tabletop, hands still joined.
“That’s what my mother said when she named me.” He never questioned
why he revealed such an intimate fact with a perfect stranger. Perhaps it was because
she
was
perfect, in all the ways that mattered. To him, at least.
“Your eyes are so….” She stopped, at a loss for words. She wasn’t
even embarrassed by the breathless wonder in her voice. She studied his eyes, looking
from one to the other, trying to find a word that adequately expressed their beauty.
The bearded giant nodded in complete understanding. “So are yours,”
he told her.
They stared in each other’s eyes for another long moment, oblivious
to the room around them. Too early for a lunch crowd, the tiny dining nook was practically
empty, but customers milled around in the store behind them. Two women worked behind
the lunch counter and cast curious looks their way, but neither Charity nor Tarn
noticed. They were absorbed in each other, as much delighted, as they were surprised.
Holding hands in public with a total stranger — with
anyone
, for that matter
— was a new experience for them both.
Charity finally broke out into a grin. In truth, she had been
holding it in since her eyes first fell upon him. “This is crazy, running into you
again like this. What are you doing here?”
“Re-stocking. You?”
“Just passing through.”
Alarm sharpened his gray-blue gaze. His hand tightened upon hers.
“You’re leaving Vermont?”
“Not… Not yet.” She only meant to ease his worry. She placed
her other hand atop his and patted him in a gesture of reassurance.
The feel of him, however, was intriguing. Much like the rest
of him, the back of his hand was covered in hair. Beneath the wiry hairs that tickled
her palm, his skin was like tanned leather, soft yet tough. Her fingers lingered,
tracing the vein that pulsed on the top of his huge hand. Was his heart racing as
rapidly as hers was? When his hand flexed into a fist, she felt the muscles cord
into rivulets of strength.
Of their own will, her fingers slipped beneath the edge of his
sleeve. When she realized the suggestive nature of her innocent gesture, she jerked
away. A guilty flush colored her face when she realized the thoughts accompanying
the gesture might not have been so innocent, after all.
For such a large man, Tarn moved quickly. His other hand shot
out to stop her from pulling away completely. His eyes begged her not to break the
tentative connection they had forged.
So there they sat, all four hands up on the table, intertwined,
until someone bumped their table en route to the counter. This time when Charity
pulled away, he did not stop her.
She missed his touch immediately. Suddenly unsure of what to
do with her hands, Charity played with a lock of her hair. Her eyes darted around
the store, searching for a topic that would keep the conversation alive and him
here with her. “So, uh, is Dan’s like a chain of stores?”
A broad blue-clad shoulder lifted in a shrug. “There’s five in
all, scattered around this county and the next.”
“He sells a little bit of everything, doesn’t he?” Her eyes wandered
from the lunch counter to the hardware section of the store, then slid on to the
sporting goods area. This store had fewer products than Dan’s Market, but boasted
a more upscale, less cluttered look.
