Читать книгу A Knight In Rusty Armor - Dixie Browning, Dixie Browning - Страница 8

Two

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Ms. Roberts.”

“How did you know my name?”

He frowned. “Your name?”

“You called me Ms. Roberts. I didn’t tell you that.”

If there’d been any color at all in her face before, it was gone now, except for the shadows under her eyes. “It’s on your registration. Ruanna Roberts? That is you, isn’t it?”

The lady was a walking minefield. “Look, I’m sorry. If you’re a spook on assignment, or in the witness protection program, I don’t want to know about it. It’s none of my business. I just thought it might be a good idea to clean out the trunk of your car before it—Anyway, I grabbed the papers from the glove compartment while I was at it, and I happened to see the name.”

Her shoulders lifted and fell, making him aware for the first time that she wasn’t quite as skinny as he’d first thought. At least, not all over.

“I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not—not either of those things you mentioned. It’s just that—well, I have this thing about privacy,” she finished weakly.

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m sorry. I’m being silly about this, I know—it’s just that I don’t really know anything about you, yet you’ve taken me in and fed me, given me your bed—given me the shirt off your back. Literally.” Her voice was still husky, but it no longer sounded quite so painful.

“No big deal. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” As the bag he’d brought along the first night had held mostly shoes, he’d lent her a pair of his old sweats to sleep in, and because her sweater was still damp, he’d lent her a flannel shirt.

“Maybe not to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She rolled her eyes. “I talk too much. I always do when I’m uncomfortable. Why don’t I just go change your bed and pop the linens and sweats into the washer before I leave? I appreciate all you’ve done, I really do.” She stood up, all five feet six or seven inches of her. All hundred fifteen or so pounds, nicely—if somewhat too sparsely—distributed.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his gaze following her as she walked away. Her hips swayed, they didn’t twitch. It was a subtle distinction, one he didn’t normally notice and didn’t even know why he was noticing now. “I’ll wash ’em next time I get up a load.”

Pausing in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do before I leave.”

He shrugged. If she wanted to do his laundry, who was he to stop her? She wouldn’t be going anywhere today, though Too many bad stretches of road that weren’t going to get much better until the scrapers could get down here and uncover any highway that was left under all that sand.

Besides which, her car was a total loss. One of the linesmen had taken a look at it while he was out checking poles. They might be able to use it to help fill up any washout, but that was about all it was good for. He hoped she had insurance on the thing.

She dragged her luggage into the living room, and then she looked at him expectantly. He pretended not to notice. Whether or not she realized it, she was in no condition to go off on her own, even if she had a means of transportation. Whatever bug she’d had had knocked the starch out of her.

This situation was getting pretty dicey. Unfortunately he couldn’t come up with a single regulation that covered it. “I’ve got work to do,” he muttered.

“But—”

“Road might be clear by this afternoon. I’ll check it out in a couple of hours.”

While he laid out another wall of paneling in the room that would be Matt’s, Trav tried to come up with a solution. The woman was sick. She was without transportation and Hatteras Island didn’t run to streetcars and taxis. The friend she was expecting to visit was currently unavailable, and as for the job...

Dicey situation. About all he could say for it was that it took his mind off the frustration he’d felt ever since he’d learned about his son.

Trav had always considered himself a patient man. He worked hard at cultivating the trait. His father hadn’t had the patience to deal with a wife and a son. His cousin Harrison had ended up in the coronary care unit before he’d learned that a man had to accept certain limitations and shape his life around them the best way he could, if he wanted to survive.

He held up another board and reached for his hammer. Working outside on a pair of sawbucks, he’d measured and cut all the paneling to size before the weather closed in. His carpentry skills were on a par with his housekeeping skills. Adequate, with room for improvement.

Most of the work had been contracted, but he’d wanted to do as much as possible with his own hands, not only to save money. There was a lot of satisfaction in building a home for his son with his own hands.

“Do you want coffee?” Ruanna Roberts called out from the kitchen. Evidently she’d given up on waiting for him to offer to drive her wherever she was going.

He should have offered to drive her to the nearest motel or, at least, the nearest one that was open this time of year. Rescuing survivors was second nature to a man with his training. Rescuing, offering shelter. That much he’d done without hesitation, only what now? He had an uneasy feeling the job wasn’t done yet.

“Travis? Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure—thanks.”

Come to think of it, he could use something hot to drink. His chest ached, probably from trying to sleep on his stomach on the sofa with his feet hanging off the edge. His throat felt kind of dry and scratchy, too, from all this talking. He wasn’t used to having company.

She made good coffee. “What’s this stuff?” He eyed the plate she set before him suspiciously.

“Sugar toast. Haven’t you ever had sugar toast?” The look on his face told Ruanna all she needed to know. He’d never heard of sugar toast. “If I could’ve found your cinnamon, it would have been cinnamon toast. You know—butter, sugar and spice?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The way he said it made her think he’d never even heard of cinnamon toast. Not that it was important one way or the other. All the same, she had to wonder what his childhood had been like. Cinnamon toast had been one of her favorite treats as a child. Maybe it was a girl thing.

“It’s beginning to clear up,” she observed. Sooner or later it had to. She’d been here three days and had yet to see the sun.

Of course, she’d slept through the first two days. Whatever had ailed her, it had been no mere cold. Flu, more than likely.

As for the depression she’d been fighting off, she couldn’t really blame it on a virus. A person would have to be crazy not to be depressed when, one right after another, like a row of dominoes, her marriage had fallen apart, her family had been rocked by scandal and death, her identity was stolen, her credit rating ruined, her job lost. Let’s not forget the crank caller who had insisted on making her life hell. And then, on top of all that, her car had broken down, which forced her to throw herself on the mercy of a stranger.

Being depressed only proved she was sane.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

It was all she could do not to laugh. As if she’d had any other kind of news for the past few years. About the best thing that had happened to her lately was finding the owner of a stray cat that had shown up on her doorstep back in November. The last thing she’d needed was a cat.

But then, after it was gone, she’d cried for half a day. “Bad news? No thanks, I don’t care to hear it.”

He shrugged. “Your choice. Look, I’ve got to run out to check on a neighbor. Is there anything you need while I’m out?”

Only my car. Only my friend. Only my job and my life back. “I can’t think of a single thing, but thanks. If you’ll just give me the name of the garage where you had my car towed, I’ll see if it’s ready. It was probably only a clogged fuel line. It acted like it was out of gas, but I’m pretty sure...”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, not quite meeting her eyes. “You’re going to tell me it’s not a clogged fuel line, aren’t you? It’s something more serious. Something expensive.”

Ru tried to remember how much money she had left after filling up the gas tank. Three twenties. One fifty. A few fives and several ones. It would have to last her until she was working again. She didn’t owe anyone anything, thank goodness. She would never trust credit cards again; thankfully, she’d learned to get by on practically nothing.

The car had been a necessity. An expensive one, as it turned out—but she could hardly have walked from Atlanta to the Outer Banks. It had been the cheapest thing on the lot, and the dealer had assured her that aside from peeling vinyl and a few dents, it was basically sound. When she’d asked if he thought it would get her to the Outer Banks, he had assured her that it was just what she needed for a long trip. Plenty of trunk space and a comfortable ride.

“They tried to pull it out,” Trav was saying. “Your car? I’m talking about your car.” He had an earth-to-Ru look in his eyes, so she stopped silently damning the used-car dealer and mentally counting her money, and tried to look attentive.

“Like I said, they hooked her up. and tried to haul her out, but she started coming apart They tried digging, but you know how quicksand is.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not interested in learning about quicksand, I just want my car back. In good running condition. There was nothing wrong with it when we left it except that it wasn’t running.”

He said something about a yellow blob rising above the dunes that didn’t register. She stared at his hair. It was cut too short and turning gray. Prematurely, judging from the rest of him. He was weathered, whipcord tough, but he wasn’t old. She was still studying his irregular features when his words sunk in.

“That’s not possible,” she said flatly. “I left it parked on the highway. You were there—you saw where I left it. It couldn’t possibly sink right through the pavement.”

“Yeah, well—these things have a way of happening. First one wave cuts through the dunes, and then a few more pile in behind it, widening the gap. First thing you know, the road’s undermined and whatever happens to be there gets dislodged and starts sinking when the sand traps more water than it can absorb ”

“Well, do something! Cars can’t just disappear!”

“It didn’t disappear. Like I said, it’s still there, only it’s buried up to the rearview mirror. They’ll probably bulldoze it out once they start repairing the road. I’m sorry, Ru. I’ll be glad to drive you to Manteo to look for a new one once the road’s open again. Or you can wait and go with your friend. She might even be able to find you something down here, but I’d have it checked out by a mechanic first. This climate’s not too good on cars.”

Ru swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to panic. She’d already lost practically everything in the world she had to lose. What was one noisy, smelly, gas-swilling old junker in the grand scheme of things? At least she had her health back.

Trav watched the parade of emotions pass through those rainwater clear eyes of hers. The rims weren’t red now, they were only slightly pink. Her nose was no longer red, either. Pretty damned elegant, in fact, as noses went. As were the cheekbones. Sharon would have killed for cheekbones like that.

“You all right?” he ventured, after giving her tune to absorb the bad news.

She smiled. Actually smiled. He felt something shift inside him and chalked it up to the sugar toast. He wasn’t much for sweets. Now and then he might buy himself a cake or a pie when the ladies had a bake sale, but only to help out the cause. Basically he was a meat-and-potatoes man.

“It looks as if I’ll have to ask you for one more favor. Could you possibly drive me to wherever Moselle lives? If she’s still not there, I’ll camp out on her doorstep until she shows up. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to rain anymore.”

He wouldn’t bet on it. He wouldn’t bet on her hooking up with her friend anytime soon, either. With tourist season expanding at both ends, February was about the only month the business community had to take a break.

“What’d you say your friend did at the restaurant? She owns it?”

“Not yet, but she hopes to. Right now she’s only the assistant manager.”

Before he could comment on that, the phone rang. He happened to be looking at her at the time. She covered it well, but he’d seen panic before. That was pure panic he saw in her eyes before her lids came down and she took a deep breath.

He reached for the phone, never taking his eyes off the woman sitting tensely on the edge of one of his three chairs. “Holiday,” he said. “Yeah. Sure, I don’t mind. No, it’s no trouble. Who? Kelli, what difference does it make? No, it has nothing to do with Matthew. Look, I’ll take care of it for you, all right?”

He hung up the phone, waiting for the questions to begin. Women. Were they all like this? Curious as cats, wanting to know everything about a man’s private life?

He’d liked to think it was due to jealousy, but any illusions he’d had along those lines had evaporated a long time ago. Before she could be jealous, a woman had to care. The only thing Sharon had ever been jealous of was what other women had that she couldn’t afford.

As for Kelli, she was too pretty to be jealous of anyone. His ego had taken more of a beating than he’d expected when she’d dumped him a week before the wedding date. Not that he’d let on. He’d never been one to show his feelings. It had been a mistake right from the first, thinking a wife might make it easier to stake his claim on his son.

He’d told her right up front about Matthew, but he’d told her that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to marry her. He liked her. Who wouldn’t? She was bright and pretty, popular with everyone who knew her. He couldn’t believe she’d even gone out with him, much less agreed to marry him, but she had. He’d just started on the house, and she’d been excited about moving into a brand-new house, although she’d have preferred something bigger, showier—preferably on the beach.

He could still see her, walking around the foundation, going on and on about rosebushes and stuff like that. She’d said she wanted white walls, so he told her he’d paint the paneling he’d already bought. Hell, she’d even picked out the countertop color in the kitchen. He’d figured gray, now he was stuck with pink. Pink, of all damn things.

It had been shortly after that, that things had started to slide downhill. Little things, at first. She claimed headaches. His calls went unreturned. There were quarrels about stuff that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

Trav had never kidded himself about his attractiveness to women. When it came to looks, he was your basic, utility model male. He was healthy. He still had all his teeth. He had the standard allotment of features in approximately the right place, but they weren’t anything to get excited about.

On the other hand, kids liked him. Dogs liked him. When a date was required for a service-related function, he’d never had trouble rounding one up. He might have two left feet when it came to dancing—he might not be much of a partying man—but he could have learned if that was what Kelli wanted. She should have told him so.

Instead, she’d trumped up a quarrel and accused him of insensitivity. Of not being romantic. Of not being any fun. He would have tried his hand at being all of the above if she’d leveled with him about what she was looking for in a husband. He thought women wanted security in a marriage. Someone who would be there for them when the going got rough. That he could have done. He might not be much on frills, but he was good for the long haul.

For the next couple of hours, while Trav measured for window trim, his houseguest stayed holed up in the bedroom. He wondered if she was all right. The news about her car had hit her hard.

But then, that wasn’t the only thing bugging her. He’d had time to study her, even more time to think about her odd reactions. Something didn’t quite add up. He had the distinct impression she was afraid of something. Or someone. And while he didn’t profess to be the world’s greatest host, he didn’t think she was actually afraid of him.

He nailed up a board and reached for the next one, his mind busy thinking over his options. Did he pry a few answers out of her and try his hand at fixing whatever was wrong? Or did he pretend not to notice the occasional flare of panic in her eyes?

Who was she running from? What was she afraid of? Why had she come down here in the dead of winter, when she obviously wasn’t expected?

Not your problem, Holiday, he told himself. You saw your duty and you did it—now back off.

By suppertime Trav had made up his mind to stay out of it. While the casserole—beans and hotdogs, his specialty—heated in the oven and Ru spread his bed with clean linens, he placed a few more calls, trying to track down her absent friend.

In the end he almost wished he hadn’t bothered. Then he could have tossed her bags and boxes into the back of the truck, driven her to Hatteras as soon as the road was clear and dropped her off on the woman’s doorstep.

Now, his conscience wouldn’t let him take the easy way out.

“Um...applesauce? Salad greens?” she said hopefully, watching him remove the pan from the oven and set it on a block of wood on the table.

“Sorry, I should have thought of it. I’m not much on vegetables, but there might be some canned fruit in the pantry. I’ll look.”

“No, that’s all right, this is fine. It looks... tasty.”

Yeah, right. He probably shouldn’t have added all that hot sauce. Not everyone was blessed with an asbestos palate. She was more the type for rare roast beef and dainty little salads and things poached in wine, with a side order of sugar toast.

It occurred to him that she might prefer music to the tide data at the Frisco pier that was currently playing on the weather radio.

So he got up and switched off the local weather and turned on his favorite country music station. Judging from the carefully blank look on her face, that didn’t quite suit her, either.

“You want music or no music? I’ve got some tapes out in the truck.”

“No, thanks, I’m just fine. I tried Moselle’s number again, though, and she still doesn’t answer. I’m starting to get worried about her.”

Speaking of music, it was time to face it. He’d put it off too long as it was. “About your friend...I happened to be talking to a neighbor of hers this afternoon, and she said Miss Sawyer is somewhere in the Bahamas. The neighbor says she’ll be back in about three weeks. The restaurant’s closed for the next couple of months.”

Trav couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, knowing what he’d see there. Dammit, he didn’t want to feel sorry for her. He was the one with the problems. When it came to tough luck, a friend in the Bahamas couldn’t compare with a son he’d never even met. Her friend would be back in a few weeks, but as for him, Matt might be grown before they ever managed to get together.

So he kept his eyes on her hands. She had nice hands. Long and slender, with smooth white skin and pretty nails. No polish, no rings. White knuckles, though. That was a bad sign.

“Ru, level with me. Did your friend know you were coming? If she did, she probably left a key with a neighbor, or maybe she left a note telling you how to reach her.”

“I—it was going to be a surprise. I sort of...left home in a hurry. I tried to call along the way, but...”

That was about what he’d figured. She must have taken off with no real plan, which pretty much guaranteed disaster. “Let’s think this through before we jump to any conclusions.”

“Frankly, I don’t much feel like thinking.”

Frankly, he didn’t, either. Besides, he had a feeling no amount of thinking was going to change the basic facts. At the moment she had no place to go and no means of getting there, short of hiring a beach buggy from one of the sports centers. Somehow he couldn’t quite see her hitting the road with all her bags and boxes in a four-by-four bristling with rod holders.

Another thing had occurred to him, something he didn’t know quite how to approach. Her finances might not be quite as healthy as her classy tweeds and cashmere coat and sweaters indicated. Even in the off season, rooms down here cost more than a few bucks.

Bottom line: he was stuck with her. Or rather, they were stuck with each other until one of them came up with a solution.

Morosely she forked up three beans and a chunk of wiener. He watched her lips part, showing a set of even white teeth that had probably sent some orthodontist’s kid to college.

And then he watched her eyes widen as steam all but came from her ears.

She lunged for the sink at the same time he reached out to open the refrigerator. “Milk’s better—fat coats the tastebuds. Water just spreads the fire.”

She drank from the carton before he could grab her a glass. And then she lowered the carton, fanned her face, and gulped down some more. “Oh, my heavenly days, that’s incendiary!” she gasped.

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what, the fire extinguisher?” She was breathing heavily though her mouth, her breasts heaving as if she’d been running hard.

“I’ve been cooking for years, but I guess my repertoire’s pretty limited. Are you going to be all right?”

“If I had any lingering germs, they’re dead now. Nothing could possibly live in that environment. Don’t you even care about your stomach lining?”

“Never gave it much thought. I guess it’s pretty well cauterized by now.”

“Yes, well...I think I’ll have cold cereal, if it’s all right.”

“Be my guest. There’s the pink stuff and some of that kind with brown sugar and nuts. You might as well finish the milk—I’ll get more in the morning.”

All thought of the missing Moselle and the interred car was forgotten for the moment. She wasn’t going anywhere right away, and they both knew it.

“This time I’ll take the sofa,” she offered, rising to help him rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. That, too, had been Kelli’s idea. He never used it. It would take him a week to get up a load.

“Keep the bed,” he offered generously. His chest was beginning to feel as if it had been buried under a few tons of wet sand, along with her car. “I don’t mind bunking in the living room. Another couple of days and I’ll have the spare room finished ”

“Don’t hurry on my account. I have no intention of abusing your hospitality any longer than I have to.”

“You’re not abusing anything, there’s plenty of room.”

He watched her take in the cramped quarters, and it struck him that she was no more impressed with the house he was building than Kelli had been. He’d designed it himself, and been damned proud of it It was compact and efficient, with no wasted space or exposed pipes. So what if you had to go through the kitchen to get to the bathroom? At least the plumbing was all in one wall.

“Once I finish furnishing the place, it’ll look better. The room on the end’s going to be an office. The one I’m paneling now is for my boy. I thought maybe twin bunks. Kids like bunks.”

“Your boy?”

He hadn’t meant to mention Matthew. Didn’t particularly want to have to explain the situation to anyone else. Kelli had sounded sympathetic at first. At twenty-five, he’d figured she’d be the perfect age to bridge the gap between a twelve-year-old boy and a thirty-nine-year-old man who’d never spent much time around kids.

“I didn’t realize you had children,” Ru ventured.

Trav- was searching around for a change of subject when Lady Luck beat him to it.

The power went off.