Heat of the Moment (9 page)

“Duchess, Lady, Countess.”

“That's weird.”

“Weird is what you make it.” I was weird, but I'd done my best to make sure no one knew it but me. “You didn't have to stay.”

“I had no place to be.”

“You could have slept in a bed.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But probably not.”

Before I could follow up on that statement he blurted, “People are treating me differently.”

“Okay.”

“Chief Deb didn't accuse me of animal mutilation.”

“No, she accused your mother.”

“Actually she accused my mother's imaginary friends.”

“She accused your mother's coven.”

“My mother isn't a witch, so she doesn't have a coven any more than she has friends.”

Poor woman. She'd been a miserable mother but not on purpose. I'd always hoped that someone could help her, but apparently crazy like that was beyond help.

“Emerson shook my hand,” Owen continued. “The last time I saw him he shot me.”

“So?”

“So?” he echoed. “Once someone shoots at me, they don't come back later and shake my hand.”

“What do they do?”

He didn't answer, and I didn't press. I probably didn't want to know. The very idea of someone shooting at Owen made me twitchy.

“I doubt it'll be the last time someone shakes your hand around here.”

“Why?” He seemed horrified.

“Heroes get their hands shaken.”

“Reggie's the hero, not me. I just hold his leash.”

“I highly doubt that's all you do. But you can always have them shake Reggie's paw if you want to.” Owen cast me an exasperated glance, which I ignored. “Why do you downplay what you've accomplished?”

“You have no idea what I've accomplished.”

“You've been in the service for ten years, Owen. I doubt you had your thumb up your ass.”

He choked.

“If it bothers you to have your hand shaken, get over it. It's going to happen a lot.”

“Not if I hide.”

“Good luck with that.” Once people knew he was in town, and why, they were going to come searching for him. And a guy of his size, with a dog of Reggie's size, in a town of this size?

He wasn't going to be able to hide for long.

*   *   *

“I didn't join the corps to be a hero,” Owen said.

“Why did you?”

He cast her a quick glance. “You know why.”

“I know what you told me.” Her mouth tightened. “You had to make something of yourself. But to me, Owen, you were everything.”

She'd been everything to him too, which was why he'd had to go. This place had made him feel like nothing, like no one, and even her love couldn't change that. But how could he tell her that she wasn't enough?

“I didn't mean to lie.” Which was a great, big lie. He hadn't
wanted
to lie, but he
had
meant to.

“You lied?”

“I said I'd write.”

“You were going to leave and never write?” Her face crumpled, confused, in the soft, early morning light.

He'd also said he'd come back. But one lie at a time.

“I should have told you, but I…”

He had a sudden memory of her eyes—stricken. Her tears—salty. Her kiss—desperate. Her touch …

Everything.

How could he tell her it was over when all he'd wanted was for it not to be? Then he'd made love to her and …

He certainly couldn't tell her then.

“I didn't want to hurt you,” he finished.

She laughed, one short, harsh burst of sound. “You think it hurt less to wait and wait for that letter, then open it and find out how stupid I was to believe in you, than it would have hurt to know you didn't love me in the first place?”

That wasn't true. He'd left
because
he loved her. He'd leave again for the same reason. But he couldn't tell her that any more now than he could then. Just because Emerson Watley had shaken his hand didn't mean anyone else would.

In Three Harbors, Owen would always be the delinquent son of a crazy drunk-druggie. Just as Becca would always be the daughter of one of the founding families. People used the word
doctor
before her name. Just because he carried the rank of sergeant before his wouldn't change anything. If he lost that rank, then what would he be?

No one all over again.

“It was a long time ago.” Becca stared out the passenger window where the tip of one of the silos on the Carstairs farm had just become visible.

“Feels like yesterday.” She looked the same, smelled the same; he wanted to kiss her … just the same.

“Sometimes it does,” she agreed. “Then other times it all seems so long ago, so far away, so hazy, like it happened to someone other than me. As if you were a story I told myself.”

He didn't care for that at all, but who was he to judge? He'd coped with the loss of her by throwing himself into his training. Becoming so exhausted he could do nothing but move forward with little energy left to look back. Because looking back hurt so badly he could hardly breathe.

Owen turned into the long, gravel lane that matched the one at Watley's and led to a similar farm at the end. House, barn, sheds, machinery, all pretty much the same, though in slightly different locations.

A big, floppy tan mutt came racing out of the barn, braying either a welcome or a warning. From Reggie's grumble, he thought it was the latter.

Owen set his hand on the dog's shoulder. “Easy, boy. His place.”

“Moose is harmless,” Becca said.

“Reggie isn't.” He didn't play well with dogs not of the working variety. Probably because he'd never had much chance to. Or maybe because, to Reggie, work was play and vice versa. He had no time or patience for anything else. He lived to sniff out bombs and terrorists. But, hey, so did Owen. He rubbed his bad leg.

Becca rolled down the window a few inches. “Barn, Moose!”

The dog appeared crushed, but he went where he'd been told, leaving a looming, waiting silence behind.

Owen shifted the truck into park. “Becca, I'm sorry—”

“Me too,” she interrupted, then took a deep breath. “I know I asked you to breakfast…”

His lips curved. “I wasn't going to come.”

She nodded as if she'd known that. She probably had. She'd always known him better than anyone. And despite other people treating him as if he were a completely different person than the one who'd left, he wasn't. Deep down he would always be the same.

Just like his mother.

“It's probably best if we don't see each other any more than we have to while you're here.”

Owen blinked. Hadn't seen that coming.

“Not at all would be my vote.” She scrubbed her nails lightly between Reggie's eyes. The dog practically drooled. “However, with the problem at your house, that probably isn't going to happen.”

“You kissed me,” he said stupidly.

She gave Reggie one last pet and got out of the car.

“Won't happen again,” she said, and slammed the door.

*   *   *

Kissing Owen had definitely been a mistake. Despite how good it had been, how right and familiar, I'd known that the instant I'd done it.

Because now all I could think of was doing it again. Which would only lead to a much, much bigger mistake. Sleeping with him. And
that
would be a lot harder to forget than a mere kiss.

“Mere.” There'd been nothing “mere” about it. Not now. Not then. Not ever.

The thunderous swoosh of my shoes through the ankle-deep fallen leaves seemed to announce my presence even louder than Moose had.

The door wasn't locked. Never was. No one got past that dog.

A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table. At Moose's first bray Pam Carstairs would have glanced out the window and seen that someone was coming. She would have stayed at that window until she knew just who. I had seconds before the questions began.

Where had I been? What had I done? Whose truck had I arrived in?

I sat at the table and slurped from my cup as if I'd been lost in the desert and just found an oasis. Sometimes coming home felt like that. My mother's coffee definitely tasted as good as clear spring water after a long summer's drought. No matter how hard I tried to replicate it, I'd never been able to.

“What's new, baby girl?”

I hadn't been a baby for years, and I wasn't “the” baby, but Mom had always called me that, and I let her. I liked it. Mostly because it annoyed Mellie. Her nickname was “squirt.” Drove her bonkers, which meant that the boys and I called her that as often as we could.

“Twin calves at Watley's,” I said between slurps. “Heifers.”

“Nice.” She began to line her cast-iron skillet with thick strips of bacon. First came the sizzle, then came the scent, and I wanted to lick the air the way Moose did whenever he smelled it. Seriously, what
wasn't
better with bacon?

Chocolate? Yes. Lettuce? Hell, yes. Ice cream? Bizarrely, yes.

I refilled my cup. At this rate, I'd have to start another pot before Dad and the boys came in for breakfast. Wouldn't be the first time.

“Emerson called here.”

Just as I'd thought.

“Did that woman get hold of you too?”

“What woman?”

“Didn't leave her name.”

I lifted my eyebrows. That didn't usually stop my mother from knowing who any local caller was. And tourists didn't call my parents' house.

“Weird,” I murmured.

“She was. Asked why you weren't at home or at work, demanded where she could find you.”

“What'd you tell her?”

“That I had no idea. People that rude can take their business elsewhere.”

Since I'd never heard from her, she no doubt had.

I leaned against the counter and watched my mother work. She'd done this dance every morning for the past thirty years. The particulars might vary. Sausage instead of bacon. Eggs instead of waffles. Some days brought pancakes, others toast. Ham or hash? Who knew? But that skillet was always sizzling, and the kitchen smelled like heaven.

Which meant it smelled like home.

“Was that Owen in the truck?”

She'd been able to see him in the cab of the truck from a hundred yards away? My mom had always had the eyes of a hawk. When combined with the ears of a bat and a nose that probably detected as good as Reggie's she'd been a terrific mother. Still was.

I took another sip of coffee, swallowed, then took another while I decided what to tell her. I would have preferred to skip how I'd run into Owen. She didn't need to hear about the animals and the altar.

Except this was Three Harbors. She probably already had. Which explained how she knew Owen had been in the truck.

Grapevine, not spidey sense.

She let out an impatient huff.

“Yes,” I blurted. “Owen.”

If she peered at me just right I'd spill everything in my head. I wanted to avoid that as much now as I had when I was a kid.

She continued turning the bacon slices one by one. “It's unfortunate that he's back in town at the same time something so awful appears in his house.”

Just like I'd thought. She already knew.

I was both glad that I didn't have to tell her about the
awful
and annoyed at her use of
unfortunate
. “He didn't do it.”

“Of course not.”

“Then why is it unfortunate?”

“Because the poor kid had to walk into the place after so long and find that. Why else?” She shook her head. “You're as defensive as he is.”

“He was always blamed for everything.”

“Times change,” she said. “So do people.”

I wasn't sure if she meant Owen had changed, or everyone else had.

“You don't look like you got any sleep.”

“I didn't. I met Chief Deb at Owen's, then got the call to Watley's, then came here.”

“You don't have office hours today so you can sleep.”

“Maybe.” There was something I had to do today, but right now I hadn't had enough coffee to remember what it was.

My mother was suddenly standing before me removing the now empty cup from my hands. “You should lay off the coffee if you plan to go home to bed.” She set the cup in the sink and handed me a plate. “Eat, then I'll have one of the boys take you home.”

I was knuckle deep in waffles and bacon when the men tromped in, bringing the scent of an autumn morning and cattle. The latter was better with bacon too.

“Ginge!” Jamie stole a bite of waffle from my plate. I gave him an elbow in the gut—not hard, but he got his own rather than stealing more of mine. Unfortunately, I could elbow him all day and most of tomorrow and he'd never stop calling me “Ginger.”

If he'd been an aficionado of
Gilligan's Island,
the nickname would have been more appealing. Ginger Grant was a very hot redhead. Except
Gilligan's Island
had been popular during our grandparents' day and I doubted that Jamie had ever bothered watching an episode.

Jamie called me “Ginger” because of
South Park,
which didn't make the comment half as nice. Little brothers, even when they were no longer little, were mostly annoying.

Joe, who always let Jamie do the talking, just winked and followed him to the food. At least he didn't touch any of mine.

Like all the Carstairs, except me, my brothers had light brown hair. When they were three, they'd been blond, just like Mellie. Mellie still was, thanks to a monthly appointment for highlights and root control. All of them also had pretty blue eyes, which made my mud-green shade even more noticeably different.

My flame-red hair was as much a mystery to my parents as to me. I'd asked every relative we had if any Carstairs in memory had ever possessed red hair. None had.