The Last Honest Woman (5 page)

Then it occurred to her all at once that Dylan was sitting in what had been Chuck's seat. True, he'd only sat there a handful of times, and those times had been few and far between, but it had been his. Did Ben remember? He'd been barely three the last time his father had stayed at the house. Barely three, she thought, and yet so stiffly adult in too many ways. She felt the elbow nudge her ribs and blinked herself back.

"What?"

Ben pushed his salad bowl aside. "I said I ate most of it."

"Oh." She started to reach for the ladle to spoon out chili.

"I can get it myself."

She started to serve him then caught Dylan's eyes over Ben's head. Something in them made her pass Ben the pot and sit back, annoyed with herself. "The rain seems to be letting up," she commented as she offered the chili to Dylan.

"Seems to." Dylan helped himself. "I guess things'll be a mess for the next few days."

"Mud up to your ankles." Abby set Chris's chili next to him to cool. "If you like being outdoors, I hope you brought something more substantial than your tennis shoes."

"I'll get by." He tasted the chili. Ether it was delicious or he was starving. Whatever the reason he dug in. "The boys tell me you have some horses."

"Yes, we breed Morgans. Use your napkin, Chris."

"Breed?" Dylan deftly avoided being splattered with sauce as Chris jiggled his bowl. "I didn't know you were in business."

"Unfortunately, a lot of people don't." Then she smiled and tugged at Ben's ear. "But they will. Do you know anything about horses?"

"He had a rocker," Chris piped up.

"A walker." Ben rolled his eyes and would have wiped his mouth on his sleeve if he hadn't caught the warning look from his mother. "He said it was sixteen hands."

"Did he?"

"I was raised on a farm in Jersey."

"Seems stupid to be a writer, then," Ben commented as he scraped the bottom of his bowl. "Must be boring, like being in school all the time."

"Some people actually enjoy using their minds. More, Mr. Crosby?"

"A little." He took another scoop. Though he wasn't a talkative man, preferring to listen, he found himself compelled to justify his profession to the boy. "You know, when I write I get to travel a lot and meet a lot of people."

"That's pretty good." Ben made patterns on the bottom of his bowl with his fork. "I'm going to travel, too. When I grow up I'm going to be a space marauder."

"Interesting choice," Dylan murmured.

"Then I can fly from galaxy to galaxy and loot and pil… pil…"

"Pillage," Abby finished for him. "Ben's fond of crime. I've already started saving up bail money."

"It's better than Chris. He wants to be a garbage man."

"Not anymore." The fire was in Chris's eyes as he talked through his last mouthful of chili.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, love." She scooted Ben's milk in front of him as a reminder. "We visited Maddy in New York last year. Chris was fascinated with the garbage trucks."

"Dumb." Ben's voice dripped with scorn as he looked at his brother. "Real dumb."

"Ben, isn't it your turn to wash up?"

"Aw, Mom."

"We made an agreement. I cook, you guys take turns with the dishes."

He sulked a moment, but then a wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. "He's living here now." With a jerk of his head, Ben indicated Dylan. "He should have a turn, too."

Why was it, Abby wondered, that Ben was only logical when it was to his advantage? "Ben, Mr. Crosby is a guest. Now—"

"The kid has a point." Dylan spoke casually, but he was rewarded by a grin of approval from Ben. "Since I'm going to be around a while, the least I can do is follow the rules."

"Mr. Crosby, you don't have to humor the monsters around here. Ben will be glad to do the dishes."

"No, I won't," he muttered.

"You know, when someone cooks you a good meal, the least you can do is pitch in and clean up the mess."

As he pushed away from the counter, Dylan saw Ben hang his head. "I'll take the shift tonight."

Ben's head came up immediately. "No fooling?"

"Seems fair to me."

"Great. Come on, Chris, let's go—"

"Do your homework," Abby finished. She watched Ben's mouth open and close. He knew better than to press his luck. "Then you can watch television." With a clatter of feet, they were down the hall and racing up the stairs. "Such unpretentious children," she murmured. "I suppose I should apologize for their lack of manners again."

"Don't bother. I was a kid once myself."

"I suppose you were." With her elbows on the counter, Abby dropped her chin onto her hands and looked at him. "It's difficult to imagine certain people being small and vulnerable. Would you like anything else, Mr. Crosby?"

"Your kids don't have any problem with my first name. We've had a meal together now, and we're going to be together for a number of weeks. Why don't we try something a little less formal? Abigail?"

"Abby," she corrected automatically.

"Abby." He liked the pretty, old-fashioned sound of it. "It suits you better."

"Dylan's an unusual name."

"My father wanted something solid, like John. My mother was more romantic, and more stubborn."

He was staring at her again in that cool unblinking way she'd already determined meant questions were forming. She wasn't ready to start answering them yet. "My parents always preferred the unusual," she began as she slid off the stool to stack dishes.

"That's my job."

Abby continued to clear the bar. "I'm sure you've earned Ben's undying gratitude for getting him off the hook. But you don't have to fed obligated." She turned with a stack of bowls in her hands and all but ran into him.

"A deal's a deal," he said very quietly, and reached out to take the bowls from her. Their fingers brushed, as lightly as fingers brush every day in ordinary situations. Abby jerked back and nearly sent the dishes crashing to the floor.

"A little jumpy?" He watched her. He had discovered that you learned more from faces than from words.

"I'm not used to having anyone else in the kitchen." A feeble excuse, and one that didn't ring true even to herself. "I'd better give you a hand, at least tonight, until you team where things go. There's a dishwasher." She grabbed more dishes from the counter, filling her hands and her mind with ordinary chores. "It seems ridiculous that the boys make such a fuss over the dishes when they don't have to do much more than load and unload."

"We could spread out the pain a little more if I cooked once a week and you cleared up."

She was bent over the dishwasher, and she had to straighten to stare at him. "You cook?"

He nudged her aside. "Surprised?"

It was silly to be, she knew. But none of the men in her life had ever known one end of the stove from another. She remembered her father quite clearly hard-boiling eggs on a hot plate in a motel room, but that was as far as it had gone. "I suppose when you live alone, it helps."

He thought of his marriage. She heard him laugh, but he didn't sound amused. "Even when you don't, it helps." The dishwasher rattled a bit as he added dishes. "This thing's a little shaky."

She frowned at the back of his head. "It works." She wasn't about to admit that she'd bought it secondhand and, with a lot of sweat and skinned knuckles, installed it herself.

"You'd know best" With the last of the dishes in, he closed it. "But it sounds to me like a couple of the bolts have shaken loose. You might want to have it looked at."

There were a lot of things that needed to be looked at. And they would be, once the manuscript was submitted and the rest of the advance was in her bank account. "I imagine you want to work out some sort of schedule."

"Eager to start?"

Abby went to the coffeepot and poured two cups without asking. "You're here to get background, I'm here to give it to you. The best times for me are mid-morning or early afternoon, but I'll try to be flexible."

"I appreciate it." He took the coffee, then leaned on the stove, dose to her, as a kind of test for both of them. He thought he could just smell the rain on her hair. She stood very still for a moment, still enough that he could see his own reflection in her eyes. When he saw it, he forgot to look for anything else. Incredibly, he found he wanted to reach out, to touch the hair that brushed her shoulders. She stepped back. The reflection vanished, and so did the need.

"Breakfast is early." Concentrate on routine, Abby warned herself. As long as she did, there wouldn't be room for these sudden, sharp desires to sneak up on her. "The kids have to catch the school bus at 7:30, so if you're a late sleeper you're on your own."

"I'll manage."

"If I'm not in the house, I'm probably in the barn or one of the other outbuildings, but I should be ready for you by ten."

And what in hell did a woman with hands like a harpist do in a barn for an hour and a half in the morning? He decided to find out for himself rather than ask. "We'll figure on ten. The time element might vary from day to day."

"Yes, I understand that." The tension was draining as they focused in on business. Abby relaxed against the counter and savored what would be her last cup of coffee for the night. There were hours yet to fill between this and the cup of herbal tea she'd pamper herself with at bedtime. "I'll do the best I can. The evenings, of course, are taken up with the children. They go to bed at 8:30, so if there's something important we can go over it after that. But generally I do my paperwork at night."

"So do I." She had a lovely face, soft, warm, open, with just a touch of reserve around the mouth. It was the kind of face that could make a man forget about feminine guile if he wasn't careful. Dylan was a careful man. "Abby, one question."

"Off-the-record?"

"This time. Why'd you give up show business?"

This time she really laughed. It was low and smooth, a distinctly sensuous sound. "Did you ever happen to catch our act? The O'Hurley Triplets, I mean."

"No."

"I didn't think so. If you had, you wouldn't ask."

It was difficult to resist people who could laugh at themselves. "That bad?"

"Oh, worse. Much worse." Taking her cup to the sink, she rinsed it out. "I have to go up and check on the boys. When they're this quiet for this long, I get antsy. Help yourself to more coffee. The TVs in the living room."

"Abby." He wasn't satisfied with her, with the house, with the situation. Nothing was precisely what it seemed, that much he was sure of. Still, when she turned toward him, her eyes were calm. "I intend to get to the bottom of you," he murmured.

She felt a little jolt inside, but quickly smoothed it over. "I'm not as complex as you seem to want to believe. In any case, you're here to write about Chuck."

"I'm going to do that, too."

That was what she was counting on. That was what she was afraid of. With a nod, she walked out to go to her children.

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For the second time, Dylan heard his door creak open. In bed, abruptly awake, it took him only a moment to remember he wasn't in some hotel room on assignment. Those days were over, and the gun he'd kept under his pillow for three years running wasn't there. Out of habit, he kept his eyes closed and his breathing even.

"Still sleeping." The quiet, slightly disdainful whisper was Ben's.

Chris jockeyed for position and a better view. "How come he gets to sleep late?"

"'Cause he's grown-up, stupid. They get to do whatever they want."

"Mom's up. She's a grown-up."

"That's different. She's a mom."

"Ben, Chris." Dylan judged the low call to be coming from the bottom of the stairs. "Let's move it. The bus'll be here in ten minutes."

"Come on." Ben narrowed his eyes for one last look. "We can spy on him later."

When the door closed, Dylan opened his eyes. He couldn't claim to be an expert on kids, but he was beginning to think that the Rockwell boys were a different kettle of fish altogether. So was their mother. Pushing himself up, he glanced at his watch. 7:20. It seemed things ran on time around here. And it was time he began.

Twenty minutes later, Dylan walked downstairs. The house was quiet. And empty, he decided before he came to the bottom landing. The scent of coffee drew him to the kitchen. It looked as though a hurricane had struck and moved on.

There were two cereal boxes on the breakfast bar, both open, with a trail of puffed wheat and little oat circles leading to the edge. A half-open bag of bread lay on the counter between the sink and stove. Next to it was a good-sized dollop of what Dylan assumed to be grape jelly. There was a jar of peanut butter with the top sitting crookedly and an assortment of knives, spoons and bowls. Muddy paw prints ran just inside the back door, then stopped abruptly.

Didn't get far, did you? Dylan thought as he searched out a cup for coffee. With the first swallow of caffeine rushing through his system, he walked to the window. However confused things looked inside, outside seemed peaceful enough. The rain had frozen and covered what was left of the snow with a shiny, brittle layer. It glistened as the sun shone brightly. By the end of the day, he decided, it would be a mess. Without the fog, he could see past the barn to the rolling hills beyond. If she had neighbors, he thought, they were few and far between. What made a woman bury herself like this? he wondered. Especially a woman who was used to lights and action.