Honey Moon (18 page)

—"

"Feminine?"

"Yes. Exactly. Silly. You know. Frivolous."

"Instead of being made out of barbed wire and razor blades."

"That's not funny."

"So what did you do?"

"I bundled it right back up and returned it to her."

For the first time he looked irritated. "Now why did you have to go and do that?

I thought we decided that you were going to mend you manners."

"I didn't
throw
it at her."

"That's a relief."

"I merely said that I appreciated the gesture, but I didn't feel right accepting a gift from her because I hadn't bought her a birthday present."

"And
then
you threw it at her."

She grinned at him. "I'm a reformed character, Dash. Emily Post would have been proud of me."

He smiled, then reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to rumple her hair, just like he rumpled Jane Marie's. But his arm fell back to his side, and he walked over to talk to the stable hand who worked for him.

He picked out one of the quarter horses for her, a gentle mare since she wasn't an experienced rider, while he took the spirited Arabian. As they headed out into the hills, the sun felt warm on her head, and she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so happy. Dash sat in the saddle with the easy slouch of a man who was more at home on a horse than he was on the ground. They rode in companionable silence for some time before the compulsion to talk became too much for her.

"It's beautiful out here. How much of the land is yours?"

"All of it used to be mine, but the IRS took a lot of it. Pretty soon it'll be part of the Santa Monica National Recreation Area." He pointed off to a steep-walled canyon on their right. "That was the northern boundary of my property, and that creek up ahead marked the western edge. It dries up in the summer, but it's real pretty now."

"You've still got a lot left."

"It's all relative, I guess. I don't think a man can ever own too much land."

"Did you grow up on a ranch?"

"I grew up just about everywhere."

"Did your family move around a lot?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't mean anything."

"You moved around by yourself?" she asked.

"Just what I said."

"You didn't say anything."

"That's right."

He gazed out at the line of trees that grew near the creek bed. She studied his profile, taking in the deep-set eyes and strong nose, the high cheekbones and square jaw. He looked like a national monument.

Still staring into the distance, he finally spoke. "I'm a private man, Honey. I don't like the idea of my personal life being broadcast to the world."

She looked down at her hands where they rested on the pommel. "You think I'll talk to the writers, don't you?"

"You've been known to do it."

"I don't have to talk to them. It's just that things get bottled up inside me and I don't have anybody else

to tell."

"What you do is up to you, but my business is my own."

"Like you and Lisa."

"Like that."

"Lisa's just praying I'll tell the writers that I found the two of you in a compromising situation."

"Lisa's ambitious."

She sighed. "I won't say anything."

"We'll see."

His lack of faith made her angry. Just because she'd told the writers a few things in the past didn't mean she was a blabbermouth. "Do you love her?" she asked.

"Hell, no, I don't love her."

"Then why—"

"Jesus, Honey, there's such a thing in this world as recreational sex." He looked away, and she wondered if she had actually managed to embarrass him.

"I understand that. I just thought—"

"You thought I was too
old.
Is that it? I'll have you know I'm only forty-one."

"That old?"

His head snapped around and she grinned at him. His irritation faded. She looked out over the rugged landscape. Her mare whinnied and tossed its head.

"I promise you right now, Dash, that anything you tell me stays with me."

"I appreciate your sincerity, but—"

"But you don't think I can keep my word. I guess I deserve that. The thing is—

if occassionally I had someone else to talk to, I wouldn't have to go spilling my guts to the writers all the time."

"This is starting to sound a lot like blackmail."

"I guess you can take it however you like."

Dash released a long, put-upon sigh. "See, from my viewpoint, you're a pretty big talker, and I'm a man with a definite attachment to silence."

"It must have been hard being married to all those women."

"They were mutes compared to you."

"Those writers sure are going to be interested to hear about you and Lisa."

"Honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Remind me to tan your hide."

"You already did. And don't think I've forgotten it."

It was nearly three when they got back to the barn. They cooled off the horses and then handed them over to the stable hand. Dash led her to her Trans Am, which was parked at the side of the house near a heating-oil tank that was partially camouflaged by a hedge of hydrangeas. Honey didn't want the afternoon to be over. She hated the idea of going home to her family's unending complaints. Her stomach rumbled, and she was struck with inspiration.

"Do you ever get hungry for homemade biscuits, Dash? The kind that are so thick and fluffy that when you split them open a big puff of steam comes out.

And the butter melts in this golden yellow puddle right in the middle. Then you pour some warm maple syrup—"

"I knew you were ornery, Honey, but I didn't think you were sadistic." He came to a stop near the trunk of the car.

"I guess I never told you what a good cook I am. That's exactly the way my biscuits turn out."

He was clearly dubious. "You don't exactly look like the domesticated type."

"See. That just goes to prove what a poor judge of character you are. I've been cooking for my family

for years.

My Aunt Sophie was always too tired to fix meals, and by the time 1 was ten, I started to develop this allergy to TV dinners, so I began experimenting, and before long, I became an excellent cook. No fancy stuff. Just plain home cooking."

She pulled the car keys from the pocket of her jeans and jiggled them casually in the palm of her hand. "Gosh, now that I've got my mind on biscuits, I think I'll go on home and make up a batch. Thanks a lot for inviting me, Dash. I had a real good time."

He stuck his thumb in the pocket of his jeans and looked down at the ground.

She jingled her car keys. He poked at a rock with the toe of his boot. She passed her keys from her right hand to her left.

"I guess if you wanted to check out my kitchen pantry and see if you can find what you need, 1 wouldn't object."

She widened her eyes. "Are you sure? I don't want to wear out my welcome."

He grunted and headed toward the ranch house.

Grinning, she fell into step behind him.

The kitchen was old-fashioned and roomy, with oak cupboards and toasted-almond paint. She hummed as she gathered up the biscuit ingredients and dug a pound of bacon from the freezer. As she began measuring the flour into a speckled stoneware mixing bowl, she could hear a Sooners basketball game on television in the family room. Although she would have enjoyed Dash's company while she cooked, it was still nice being alone in his kitchen.

Forty-five minutes later, she called him in to take a chair at the antique oak table that sat in the kitchen's small bay. Uncle Earl hadn't liked talk with his meals, so she didn't have any trouble keeping quiet as she flipped back a clean blue tea towel to reveal a bowl full of steaming golden-brown biscuits. He took two of them and speared a half dozen bacon slices onto his plate.

As he broke open the first biscuit, the steam rose up, just as she'd described.

She handed him the butter and a pitcher of syrup she had warmed. It wasn't pure maple, but it was all she'd been able to find. The pat of butter soaked into the biscuit and the syrup sluiced down over the sides. She served herself.

"Good," he murmured as he polished off the first one and began his attack on the second.

She took a sip from the fresh coffee she had brewed. It was a little strong for her, but she knew he liked

it that way. As he finished his second biscuit, she surreptitiously pushed the basket forward so he could take another.

She wasn't a big eater and she was satisfied with one biscuit and her coffee. He ate a fourth.

"Good," he murmured for the second time.

His enjoyment of her food filled her with pride. She might not be pretty or flirtatious or know how to talk to men, but she definitely knew how to feed them.

He ate nine strips of bacon and half a dozen biscuits before he finally stopped.

Looking over at her, he grinned. "You are one fine cook, little girl."

"You should try my fried chicken. Real golden crispy on the outside, but on the inside it's moist and—"

"Stop! You ever heard of cholesterol, Honey?"

"Sure. That's what Lisa uses to bleach her hair."

"I think that's Clairol."

"My mistake." She smiled innocently.

While he was eating, she had been thinking about something he had said earlier. As he stirred a heaping teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, she decided to ask him about it. "Name one person with a weak character that I've attached myself to."

"Pardon?"

"Earlier. You said the strongest people are the ones I turn my back on. You said I only attach myself to weak characters. Name one."

"Did I say that?"

"You said it. Who were you talking about?"

"Well. . ." He stirred his coffee. "How about Eric Dillon for starters?"

"I haven't
attached myself
to Eric Dillon. As a matter of fact, I hate his guts."

"Sure you do."

"He's rude and stuck on himself."

"You got that right."

"But he's very talented." She felt a perverse need to leap to his defense.

"You're right about that, too."

"I'd have to be crazy to care about Eric Dillon. There isn't any way in the world somebody like him would ever look twice at somebody like me—a runty little redneck girl with a big old sucker-fish mouth."

"What's this thing you've got about your mouth?"

"Just look at it." She puckered.

Amusement flickered in his eyes as he studied her lips. "Honey, a lot of males would consider a mouth like yours sexy. If it wasn't moving so much, that is."

She glared at him. "Just try to name someone other than Eric Dillon. I happen to know you won't be able to because I see right through people. I admire strength."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Then why, Miss Great Judge of Human Nature, have you been so all-fired determined to attach yourself to me?"

She could see that he'd meant to say it as a joke, but it didn't come out that way.

As soon as he spoke, his face stiffened and the warmth that had been growing between them dissolved.

Abruptly, he pushed his coffee cup away and stood. "I think it's about time you go on. I've got some things I have to do this afternoon."

She rose and followed him out through the kitchen and across the comfortable family room that stretched along the back of the ranch house. It was decorated with leather furniture and framed posters from his old movies. He led her toward the front door, his boots clicking on the terracotta tiles, the air heavy with tension.

She couldn't stand for their day to end like this. Reaching out, she touched his arm and spoke in a voice so gentle that it hardly seemed to belong to her.

"You're just about the strongest person I know, Dash. I mean that."

He turned to face her, his eyes weary and defeated. "I remember one day when you called me a worn-out old drunk."

Shame filled her. "I apologize for that. It's like Satan has taken over my mouth this past year."

"You didn't do much more than speak the truth."

"Don't say that. It makes me feel even worse."

He rested his hand on his hip, stared down at the floor for a moment, and then looked back up at her. "Honey, I'm an alcoholic. Every day is a struggle for me, and a lot of the time I'm not sure it's worth it. The bottle isn't my only problem, either. I'm hard on women. My own kids hate my guts. I've got a hot temper and I don't care much about anybody except myself."

"I don't believe that."

"You'd better believe it," he said harshly. "I'm a selfish son of a bitch, and I don't have any intention of changing at this point in my life."

He stalked from the house, and she couldn't do anything more than follow after him to her car. Their beautiful day together had been ruined, and somehow, it was all her fault.

11

Monday morning Honey arrived on the set with three dozen Rice Krispies squares and a chocolate sheet cake. The crew was surprised, but delighted.

"Clever, darling," Liz Castleberry drawled as she licked a dab of frosting from her bottom lip. "Bribery

by chocolate."

"I'm not trying to bribe anybody," Honey countered, not at all happy that the Queen of the Bitches had seen through her so clearly.

She waited two days, and then she brought in several dozen homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Adding baking to her already exhausting work day had left her so weary that she kept falling asleep between scenes, but the crew members began to smile at her, so she decided it was worth the sacrifice. Dash chatted casually with her during the day, but he didn't invite her out to the ranch or mention the possibility of taking her riding again. She blamed herself.

February slipped by. The writers began sending her frantic notes to meet with them, but she tore them up. Maybe if she proved to Dash that she could keep her mouth shut, he'd invite her back. But as the weeks passed and he didn't make an overture, she began to despair. They would go on hiatus soon, and then

she wouldn't see him for four months.