To Wear His Ring (31 page)

Sara stared. “Dog.”

“Yes. Well, not adopted, officially. It probably belongs to someone up the road. But it comes around, and I…pet it. Talk to it. Feed it leftovers. He loves salmon patties. Isn’t that funny?”

“You expect me to believe you were feeding a dog at midnight?”

“I know. He likes to eat at the oddest times. I didn’t tell you, because…this dog looks just like poor old Skipper, and I know how upset you were when Skipper died.”

“I was ten when Skipper died. I’m over it.”

“Good for you!” Nettie yawned again. A great, noisy, stretched-arm yawn. “Oh, boy, I’m pooped. I’m going to bed.” She walked past Sara and up the porch steps. “’Night.”

Sara stood with her arms crossed. She didn’t say a word, just let Nettie walk past her and into the house. As the screen door clanked shut, Nettie expelled a pent-up breath. Lying was not something that came easily to her. On the other hand…

She giggled. She was doing lots of things tonight that didn’t usually come easily to her. A delicious jittery excitement tingled through her. She’d almost been caught kissing Chase Reynolds by the side of her house at midnight. Sounded like a countryand-western song.

Heading up the stairs to her bedroom, she realized that sleep was the last thing on her mind. Why go unconscious when there was so much to think about, so many wonderful sensations to relive while they were still fresh?

Two weeks. She had two weeks to make new wonderful sensations that she would remember long after he was gone and this lovely interlude had ended. A tiny dullness threatened to encroach upon her mood. Resolutely she shook her head. She had made a decision, struck a bargain, in a sense. Whatever happened over the next two weeks, she would accept the inevitable
finality of her parting from Chase. Two weeks and no regrets.

Call me tomorrow…

Nettie returned to her bedroom, closed the door softly and climbed under the covers once more. The sheets were cold and she had to mush the quilt around her to retain some warmth. She would have fourteen exhilarating days to look back on when nights got cold in the future.

And, she had tonight to wonder what “temporary girlfriend” would mean for an experienced man like Chase and a daredevil woman like herself.

S
ara moved around the house like an angry bear the next morning. Plagued by a spate of post-fib guilt, Nettie cut into her own work schedule to prepare waffles for breakfast, but Sara declined, grumbling that she was watching her weight. Standing over the sink, she crunched her way through a bowl of shredded wheat, which she detested, then left the house without saying good-bye.

Wishing she really did have a dog to stuff full of leftovers, Nettie dumped the waffles and wrapped the sausage up for later. Darn it! Sara never watched her weight, and she never turned down pecan waffles. She never turned down food, period. Her gusto for life was all-encompassing.

That’s all I’m doing now, Nettie thought, feeling gusto. She simply wanted to do it without an audience.

Heading upstairs to her studio, where work on her sixth There I Go Again! book awaited her, Nettie decided to put everything—Sara and the future and even Chase—out of her mind until later.

“Later” came midmorning.

Working on a particularly fun section of a watercolor painting
that depicted her little-boy hero, Barnaby, wandering through a Moroccan bazaar, Nettie was vaguely aware of noise downstairs. Thinking it must be Sara coming home for lunch and perhaps a truce, Nettie continued to work as she waited for her sister to let herself in. A series of firm thuds on the front door convinced her to put down her brush. She wiped her hands on the rag she kept looped through her jeans. Tugging at the blue, paintsmeared man’s shirt she wore over her T-shirt and jeans, she headed downstairs, but even as she reached the front door, she was thinking “Sara” or “delivery person,” not—

“Chase!”

Dressed in pale blue jeans and a blue shirt—as she was, but minus the paint—Chase stood on the front porch, facing out toward the road, apparently thinking about leaving. He turned when he heard his name.

A smile so naturally sexy it should have been outlawed lit his face. “I saw your wagon, but thought you might be out on another run.” That intriguing almost-dimple on his left cheek deepened. “I know I said I’d call first, but I realized I didn’t have your number.”

“Actually, I was supposed to call you.”

“That’s right.” Chase snapped his fingers. “I forgot.”

Nettie leaned against the edge of the front door, but left the screen closed. “That is a big fat lie.”

Affecting deep dismay, he placed a hand over his heart. “Journalists do not lie. We interpret facts.”

“The fact is you’re lying.”

Chase moved in so close, his nose almost touched the screen that separated them. “The fact is I didn’t want to wait. And I’m usually very good at waiting.” The glibness, the teasing was gone. “Were you going to call?”

Thudding happily, Nettie’s heart responded before she did. A fall breeze streamed gently through the screen door, the sun shone and a beautiful man stood on her porch. All in all, not a bad morning.

She took a moment to appreciate “the facts”: His hair looked like a sea of coffee-hued waves. His even white teeth were perfect. Ditto the muscular shoulders that tapered to a lean waist and truly excellent hips. Shallow physical attributes aside, however,
Chase Reynolds also had an exciting life and a wonderful future.

And all that perfection wants me!

She grinned. To deny the pleasure of this moment would be to look a cosmic gift horse in the mouth.

“Well, I thought about calling, but then—” shoulder and hip against the door, she swayed with it slightly “—I remembered what my sister Lilah said about making men wait.”

Chase grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” he murmured. “What did Lilah say?”

“She said, ‘Men who wait seldom hesitate.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea. But Lilah’s always had a healthy social life.”

“Mmm.” Chase turned away to walk toward the porch steps.

Amazed by the disappointment that socked her square in the chest, Nettie opened her mouth to call out to him, to tell him she’d only been teasing and that Lilah had said that back in high school and who took high-school dating advice seriously, anyway? but then Chase plunked himself down on the top step of the porch.

She opened the screen. “What are you doing?”

Picking up a small twig lying next to him, he tossed it lazily into the yard. He checked his watch, stretched his legs out and leaned back on his elbows. “I’m waiting.” Arching his neck, he looked up at her. “Any idea how long this will take?”

Nettie ran over and swatted him with her rag. “Brat!”

Smiling broadly, Chase raised an arm to fend her off. “Hey, I’m not complaining. It’s just that it’s almost lunch time and I may get hungry.” Grabbing one end of the cloth, he held on and tugged, pulling so that her only choice was to let go or bend down.

Nettie bent.

Inches away, he said quietly, “I’m sorry for coming over without calling. Have lunch with me anyway.”

She usually worked right through lunch. She usually ate a sandwich that wound up having watercolor fingerprints on the bread. She usually adhered to a firm work schedule, and she’d already deviated from it this week when she drove out to Nick’s. She was under deadline…

“There’s nowhere to go in Kalamoose where we wouldn’t be
seen.” Whispering just seemed right when you were literally face-to-face.

“We’ll have to come out of the closet or go someplace farther away.” The tension remained taut on the towel they both held.

“Farther away,” Nettie chose.

“Done.” He tugged the rag, levering up at the same time to plant a swift, firm kiss on her lips. Jumping smoothly to his feet, Chase raised the towel between them. “This is wet.” Waterbased paint stained his palm lightly.

“I was working when you knocked.” She examined his hand and giggled. “It looks like a henna tattoo.”

“Mmm. Very exotic. You a painter?”

“An illustrator. Come in the house. I’ll show you where the bathroom is so you can wash off while I change.”

“Okay. What do you illustrate?”

Chase followed her into the old farmhouse. Nettie had grown up here. It had been her home on and off for most of her life, and it offered a simple comfort she loved. The house provided a good indication of the kind of life she led: simple, perhaps even provincial when viewed through the eyes of a man who’d traveled in style all over the world.

In the living room, Nettie turned to gauge Chase’s reaction to braided rugs, rough-hewn floors and an overabundance of checks.

He appeared to be holding up pretty well under the “Country Living” assault. His gaze roamed from the fireplace mantel, wreathed in dried flowers and branches and topped by family photos, to the old sofa covered with throw pillows, including the needlepoint cushion Nettie’s mother had made which read God Bless Our Happy Home.

Returning his smiling gaze to Nettie, he took a stab at his own question. “You illustrate the
Saturday Evening Post.
”

She thwacked him again with the towel. “I suppose you’re a chrome and leather man.”

“Depends on whether we’re talking about furniture or ladies’ lingerie.” Laughing when Nettie went speechless, Chase addressed her with utter sincerity. “I like your house. I like the way it’s decorated. It looks like you.”

“Oh.” She mock-winced. “Comfortable?”

“Welcoming.” He indulged himself by delving his fingers
into the black-as-night waves she’d clipped up in some kind of loose twist behind her head. “A sight to come home to,” he said, having had no idea until that moment that he’d been thinking any such thing. “Like open arms.”

Once the words were out of his mouth, Chase realized that he absolutely meant them. Still, it was the wrong thing to say, truthful or not.

“That’s nice,” she responded simply, smiling but obviously not reading anything deeply personal into the comment. Chase should have been happy for small favors. Instead, he wanted to kick his sorry butt. This was exactly what Nick had been talking about. Chase’s future resembled a jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces. He and Nettie had already agreed—wisely, maturely—that their relationship would be…non-permanent. The line between “for now” and “forever” should not be blurred—not in her mind. Not in his own.

He dropped his hand, but didn’t have to recover verbally, because Nettie had apparently moved on already in her own mind. “There’s a downstairs bathroom in the hall by the staircase.” She walked him over to it. “It used to be a closet. These old farms typically had lots of bedroom additions, all built around one poor, overworked bathroom. My father put this one in after I was born. I think he anticipated a loss of good humor if he had to share one bathroom with a bunch of women.”

“A man with vision. I like him.”

Nettie inclined her head. “You would have, I think. Politics and current events fascinated him.”

“Nick mentioned your parents passed away when you were very young.”

Nettie nodded. “Uncle Harm, my father’s brother, pretty much raised Sara and Lilah and me.”

“Uncle Harm was a bachelor?”

“Yep.” Nettie moved up a few stairs and leaned on the banister. “Except for us. He blessed my father’s foresight on the bathroom facilities every time Lilah had a date.” She grinned. “Actually, we all did.”

Chase, too, leaned an arm on the banister. “And you? What were you like on date nights?”

“Like any other girl, I guess.”

Chase shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Teenagers are notoriously narcissistic.”

“Were you?”

“Of course.” He grinned shamelessly. “Still am. Not you, though.”

Nettie inclined her head. “You sound awfully sure.”

“I am. I’m a reporter, remember? Good at interpreting the facts.”

“You don’t have all the facts.”

“No. So tell me more.”

For some reason Chase couldn’t fathom at the moment, the mood had changed. Pushing away from the banister, Nettie tried to maintain her smile. She tried too hard. “I think that’s enough family history before lunch.”

She was too eager to stop talking. Chase wasn’t sure whether the reporter in him demanded to know more or whether the man did. In any case, he persisted. “You were raised by a bachelor uncle. You had one sister who was obviously a tomboy and another who grew up, I’m guessing, a little more interested in boys than homemaking. But the jail windows are all curtained and this place is a paean to family life.” He nodded to the photographs, contemporary and old, that decorated the wall behind her. “Somebody worked hard to make that happen. My bet is on you.”

“The curtains in the jail only mean I’m no Martha Stewart. I’m sure she’d recommend something more appropriate. Maybe a
Shaw shank Redemption
theme.”

Chase laughed. “Or
Papillon.
” He reached over the banister to tug on the lapel of her shirt. “I like the blue curtains. Nice little ruffle on the bottom. Very cheery.”

“Sara’s regulars seem to like it.”

“Her regulars?”

“Lefty Bruener, Otto Callendar and Violet Jenks.”

Chase shook his head. “This I have to hear.”

“Lefty shoplifts from Otto’s market every Tuesday like clockwork. Otto gets furious and chases Lefty down the block, throwing old produce at him, which causes a public nuisance. Otto insists on pressing charges against Lefty, and the other shopkeepers want to press charges against Otto because he has terrible aim and usually winds up lobbing moldy cantaloupes at
the hair salon. Sara finally figured out that arresting both of them right away keeps everyone happy.”

“This goes on every Tuesday?”

“Haven’t missed one in years.”

“And Violet?”

Nettie leaned her forearms on the banister again. Her smile softened, becoming once more the winsome curve of lips Chase found so irresistible. “Violet is seventy-eight, almost ten years older than Otto, but she’s been in love with him for as long as anyone can remember.”

Chase held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I want to guess. Miss Violet attacks Lefty in defense of her true love.”

Nettie grinned. “Don’t be silly. Violet wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“What does she do?”

“Spits in front of the jail.”

Chase took a beat to process this information. “And Sara arrests her for that?”

“Violet spits repeatedly.”

“Because…”

“Because she thinks it’s a crime. She wants to get arrested. That way she can stay up all night in the next cell, reading love poems out loud.”

“Otto likes to be serenaded with love poems?”

“Hates it. But Otto is German and Violet makes the best
mandelbreidt
cookies in town. Otto says they taste just like his mother’s. Lefty likes them, too. So for Christmas a few years back, Lefty bought a pair of very discreet earplugs for Otto and another pair for himself. Now they can sit in their cell eating cookies all night while Violet reads next door.”

Chase rested his forehead against the banister. His shoulders shook with laughter.

“Hey, don’t laugh at us,” Nettie protested. “We small-town folk take our romance seriously.”

That sobered Chase up right away. Strolling around the banister he took the first stair. She was standing on the third. Paint stains streaked her shirt, reminding him that she was an artist and that he didn’t know nearly enough about her yet.

Burning with curiosity now, he moved up to the second stair. “Do you have an Otto?” he asked quietly.

Nettie’s hand trailed farther up the banister as he advanced. “What—” she cleared her throat “—what do you mean?”

Standing on the adjoining steps, they were almost eye-to-eye. “You’re a beautiful woman. Is there somebody out there who would be willing to get arrested just to be close to Nettie Owens?” His hunger to know amazed him. Was there a man out there somewhere who wanted this woman completely, who would fight to win her and sacrifice anything to keep her? Chase had always believed that degree of emotion was reserved for books and movies. God knew he’d never noted any evidence of it in the real world. As far as he could tell, people fought for land, for power; they fought to stay alive.

But to risk everything for the privilege of loving someone who may or may not always love you in return?