Home Field Advantage (11 page)

"Why not?" His
voice had a thick, uneven timbre. "You're a very beautiful woman,
Marian."

"I told you before.
You...scare me."

Very slowly, as though to
give her time to withdraw, he lifted one hand to her face, then laced his
fingers into her hair. "You know something?" he whispered. "You
scare me, too."

Marian opened her mouth to
say something, anything, but she became paralyzed when his gaze dropped to her
parted lips. Still slowly, he bent his head, but she couldn't have moved if
she'd wanted to. This was inevitable, necessary, as important as breathing. She
wanted desperately to know what the touch of his mouth would feel like, what he
could make her feel.

The kiss was achingly tender,
his gentleness a startling counterpoint to the rasp of his shaven cheek and
the tension in his hand as it tightened in her hair, tugging at the roots,
tilting her face up. He smelled of hay and leather, with an elusive hint of
cologne. Marian instinctively laid her palms against his chest. Through the
soft fabric of his shirt she could feel his warmth and the heavy beat of his
heart. Still his mouth tasted hers, never demanding, only asking, but with such
sensual intent that pleasure shuddered through her. She swayed against him and
began to answer the kiss with a need she had nearly forgotten she possessed.

Marian felt the vibration of
his groan before she heard it, and realized he had backed her up against the
stall door. She was grateful for the support when the kiss ended and he laid
his cheek against the top of her head. Her legs wouldn't have held her up.

But when she heard John say,
only a little huskily, "Isaiah," as though in greeting, her strength
returned as if she'd been jump-started.

Marian jerked away from John
and swung to face the immense black man who had approached so quietly. Well,
maybe not quietly. He might have stomped down the aisle for all she would have
noticed.

He was downright homely, with
massive shoulders, a disproportionately thick neck, and hands that dwarfed
John's. More disconcerting, however, was his totally impassive face. He didn't
appear disapproving, she thought, so much as uninterested. Either that, or he
was very good at hiding his emotions.

"Isaiah, I'd like you to
meet Marian Wells," John said calmly. "That walking ball of fur out
in the paddock is hers. Marian, this is my partner, Isaiah Jones."

The big black man inclined
his head gravely. His voice was a deep rumble that somehow sounded velvety
soft. "And the goat on your front porch?"

"Goat on my... What the
hell?"

John beat Marian out of the
barn, but only by a few yards. Sure enough, Esmerelda was on the porch, her
front hooves on a windowsill so she could peer inquiringly inside the house.
She took an exploratory nibble at the wood trim just as Marian arrived.

"Esmerelda!" she
scolded.

The goat dropped to all fours
and gently butted Marian. John stared down at her, baffled.

"How the hell?" he
repeated.

"She, uh...climbs,"
Marian said.

"Climbs."

Marian nodded nervously.

"Over a five-foot board
fence."

"I'm...afraid so.
Usually she'll stay where she's supposed to, but sometimes she, well...just
wants to look around."

"Really." His face
was expressionless.

Out of the corner of her eye,
Marian saw Isaiah stroll out of the barn and across the yard toward them.

She rushed into speech.
"I'm sorry, I should have warned you, but I just didn't think. My wire pen
at home has a top, so she couldn't get out, but mostly she's like a dog. I
mean, she'll follow you around..." Her speech trailed off. "I'm
sorry," she repeated. "I can't expect you to build a special pen.
I'll make some other arrangement for her."

"Don't be
ridiculous," John said. "If I can't figure out how to keep one little
goat..."

"You mean, one
overweight, bad-tempered..."

"But not useless."
John's rare grin was devastatingly wicked. "Remember those blackberries.
Maybe we can keep her occupied."

Marian glanced toward Isaiah,
who had stopped one step down, but towered over her anyway. She still couldn't
tell what he was thinking, but he reached out an enormous hand and scratched
the wiry top of Esmerelda's head.

"I don't mind
goats," he said.

The traces of that grin still
lingered on John's face. "I told you," he murmured. "If it has
four feet…”

"Thank you," Marian
said helplessly, looking from one man to the other. "Thank you both."

"No problem," John
said. "Just promise you'll come and visit her often."

She knew in her heart how
dangerous too many visits here would be. But what else could she do?

"I promise."

"Good," he said, very
softly, for her ears alone, before adding in a normal voice, "And now, how
about if you help me get this damn goat in the barn?"

Bad news always came by a
phone call. Numb, Marian slowly hung up the receiver and looked around at her
living room, bare but for the furniture. Bookshelves were empty, even lamps
packed carefully in boxes.

All dressed up and nowhere to
go, she thought, verging on hysteria. All dressed up and she had to go.

Oh, God, what was she going
to do?

From her bedroom she could
hear thumps. The twins were jumping on her mattress, which lay on the floor.
She didn't care. Anything to keep them content.

What could she do? Go to a
motel? She'd be broke in a week. And what about her furniture, the mountains
of boxes? What about the animals?

Panic rose in her throat like
bile, choking her. She seemed to see through a haze, as though her body fought
to distance her from unbearable reality.

She wanted to cry or scream
or faint, but the sound of Anna's giggle anchored her. What was she going to
do?

Dear Lord, she thought
suddenly. John McRae. He was coming to help her move! She had to stop him. With
astonishment she saw that her hand was shaking when she dialed the telephone.
It rang, once, twice, five times. At last she hung up. She had barely done so
when she heard the growl of an engine in the driveway.

The twins tore past her.
"Emma's here, Emma's here!" they chanted. In front of the door they
bounced like eager puppies until Marian opened it for them. Emma was already
bounding up the steps, while John was just climbing out of his pickup, which
pulled a big, four-horse trailer. Isaiah, Marian saw with surprise, was just
slamming the passenger-side door.

"Wow, is your house all
empty?" Emma demanded.

Marian didn't answer. She
just stood on the porch and watched John come toward her across the grass with
those long strides of his. Emma wasn't quite real, just a small face turned up
to her, a voice that she couldn't quite decipher. She was frozen, that
sickening terror holding her in a vise.

What was she going to do?

Since the day Mark had walked
out the front door with his suitcase, she had lived on the edge, always knowing
disaster was hungrily waiting in the wings. If her old car broke down, her
washing machine gave up the ghost, one of the children became seriously ill...
Anything. Anything at all could bring her fragile world down. She had nowhere
to turn, no reserves. If only Mark had contributed something in child support!

But for three years now she
had managed, and become overconfident. The worst was past, she'd told herself,
the kids would be in school in only a couple of years and then she could find a
job. Only at night, when the house had fallen silent, did her confidence
falter. Nearly every night her last thought before sleeping was a prayer: Let
me hold on until then. Please, let me hold on. This time, for whatever cruel
reason, her prayer had not been granted.

"Marian?" John
stood before her, his expression puzzled and anxious. She wondered if he had
been talking for a long time. Had she tuned him out, too? She was distantly
aware of the children who looked anxiously at her, and of huge, stolid Isaiah,
who waited at the bottom of the porch steps.

"I'm sorry," she
said, her voice amazingly calm. "I tried to call you."

"Call me? Marian, what's
wrong?"

"My new landlady phoned
to tell me that the people who've been living in the house I rented haven't
moved out. They're months late with their rent. She says she's going to evict
them, but it will take..." With horror, Marian wasn't sure she could
finish. In a rush, she did, "take weeks, or even months. I don't have
anywhere to move to." With that, humiliatingly, she burst into tears.

John didn't even hesitate.
His long arms wrapped around her and pulled her tightly against him. Marian
laid her head on his chest and cried with great wracking sobs. She cried out of
today's fear and yesterday's loneliness. She cried for all the weeks and years
she hadn't let herself. She cried until John's shirt was sodden and her cheeks
burned and her chest hurt. And then she tried to pull away.

He didn't let her go.
Instead, he produced a tissue from heaven knows where and let her blow her
nose. When she was done, he bent his head to kiss her wet cheek and then her
mouth with tenderness so all-encompassing she wanted to cry again, except that
she had no tears left. But this time when she stiffened, he released her.

"Did that help?" he
said softly. "Are you ready to think about what we're going to do?"

We? Did he intend to repeat
his offer? With a surge of renewed panic, Marian wondered what she would do if
he didn't. But if he did, was her independence all she had to lose? Or was she
part of the price?

Drained, she said, "I...I
don't know. I'm going to wash my face."

She gave the twins a quick,
reassuring hug on the way, then hurried into the house. Safely locked in the
bathroom, Marian stared at herself in the small mirror over the sink.
Incredibly, she wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry again.

Sexual desire had to have
been the last thing on John's mind. A face to launch a thousand ships, or even
a dream or two, this was not. It was splotched, puffy, wet. Her eyelashes stuck
together in clumps and her eyes were red. Wisps of hair had pulled loose from
her braid and clung to her forehead and cheeks.

The dreams were hers, not
his. Thank God he couldn't have guessed them.

Marian slowly brushed her
hair and rebraided it, then splashed cold water on her cheeks. Face buried in a
towel, she wondered. Would taking what he offered be so bad?

Wasn't it logical, sensible?
She would be a housekeeper and mother in return for a taste of security and
comfort. A better life for her children in return for a small piece of her
heart.

No promises this time. Just
common sense.

Mark had made promises. He
had told her he loved her, but his love had meant nothing. Love, the real
thing, was what she felt for Jesse and Anna: tenderness, impatience, fierce
protectiveness, laughs, kisses, grumpiness, and the secret knowledge that she
would die for either of her children. That was love. What men and women
promised each other had more to do with passion and loneliness than it did with
forever. When the passion wore out, so did forever. An empty closet and savings
account and a note on the kitchen table. No, Marian wanted nothing to do with
that kind of love.

She hadn't wanted anything
less, either, but was afraid that this time she had no choice. Paler, composed,
she reluctantly left her sanctuary.

Isaiah was nowhere to be
seen. Nowhere near as tactful, John was in the kitchen, a solid, relentless
presence that humiliated her even as she was grateful for it. Emma was stuck up
against him, a limpet to her father's strength. The instant Marian appeared,
the twins rushed to her, returning her embrace with all the fervor of children
who hadn't known their mother could cry.

Marian didn't meet John's
eyes. "Emma," she said, "would you take Anna and Jesse into the
bedroom to play? I need to talk to your father."

"But there's no
toys."

"My mattress is on the
floor. You can jump on it if you want."

"Hey, cool." Emma
immediately became animated. "I take gymnastics," she announced.
"I can even do a somersault. You want me to teach you?"

Jesse tried to cling, but
Marian gently disengaged him and gave his small bottom a push. At last all three
disappeared. When Marian made herself look at John, he smiled ruefully.

"I would have liked to
make you a cup of tea, but..." His shrug was a stark reminder of the empty
kitchen.

"That's okay. I'm fine.
Really." She took a deep breath. "John, I'm..."

"Sorry. I know." He
wasn't smiling anymore. "Damn it, Marian, if you apologize to me one more
time..."

She turned her back on him,
staring out the window at the old rusting swing set that would go under the
bulldozer with her house. "I hate needing help," she said, almost
inaudibly.