Читать книгу One True Thing - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 9

She had regrets—a lot of them. More than any ninety year old who’d squandered her life should be burdened by on her deathbed, and she was nowhere near ninety. Looking into his amazingly handsome face, with his sharp black eyes, his straight nose, his stubborn jaw and his full, sensuous, sensitive-looking mouth, and lying through her teeth to him was only the most recent in a long string of regrets.

He believed in honesty between a man and a woman—had said so in no uncertain terms, and yet she had lied to him.

And all the regrets in all the world wouldn’t stop her from doing it again.

Cassidy directed her sharpest scowl at herself. She didn’t regret lying to Jace any more than she regretted lying to anyone. There was nothing special about him, nothing that separated him from the countless people she had deceived in the past.

Except for the fact that he was handsome as sin.

And more tempting than chocolate.

She hadn’t looked twice at a man in thirty-five-and-a-half months— No, that wasn’t true. She looked two and three and four times, searching faces, praying she didn’t see any particular face. She looked at men as a potential threat to her freedom, her safety, her very life.

Jace was the first one she’d looked at as just a man. Someone to be attracted to. Someone to share a meal with. Someone to stir her long-sleeping hormones back to life.

Someone she couldn’t even think about getting involved with. He had that honesty thing going for him. She had a million lies and counting. He belonged here, with his family all around. She didn’t belong anywhere. He was an easy-going, unsophisticated part-time cowboy. She was a woman for whom people would kill.

All those things were among her regrets.

And hopefully, when she left here, Jace Barnett wouldn’t be.

Avoiding him would be the best way to prevent that. No matter that he was handsome and friendly and his mother made the best strawberry pie she’d ever had. No matter that she had been—to borrow a line from Hank Williams—so lonesome she could cry. She needed to stay away from him. He asked too many questions and she didn’t have the right answers. He was suspicious of her—she had seen it in his eyes yesterday at lunch. Maybe he wouldn’t do anything with his suspicions.

Or maybe he would.

The hell of it was, it was her own fault. All she’d wanted was a little time to do nothing. Peace and quiet in a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about fitting in, having friends or meeting enemies. She’d wanted to be as alone in her private little world as she was in the world at large.

She shouldn’t have lied to Paulette Fox, but the woman had been so damn nosy, wanting to know why Cassidy had chosen Buffalo Plains, refusing to believe that anyone would come to the shores of little Buffalo Lake for a vacation. After all, the lake offered no amenities beyond a few picnic tables. There was no resort, no place to rent a boat or Jet Ski, no charmingly quaint vacation cottages, not even a convenience store for a quick run. The only cabin for rent had no telephone and lousy television reception and depended on a window air conditioner to keep it cool.

You can tell me, honey, the woman had wheedled with a gleam in her eyes and a confidential air. What are you really here for?

Cassidy had thought of the paperback in her purse and the lie had found its way out before she’d even thought about it. I’m a writer. I’m looking for a quiet place to finish my book.

It wasn’t the first time she’d lied and wouldn’t be the last. Besides, how hard could masquerading as a writer be? It wasn’t as if she needed a degree to hang on her wall. She skimmed the author biographies in every book she read—and for the past few years that number was in the hundreds. There were doctors, teachers and lawyers writing, sure, but there were also housewives and mothers and high-school graduates.

And what did a writer do? She sat around dreaming up stories, then put them on paper. Cassidy sat around dreaming up stories—that sounded so much better than making up lies—and she could pretend to put them on paper. In fact, she’d decided to actually try her hand at writing. Lord knew, she had a story to tell.

There was just one small problem—at least, it had started out small. It seemed to get bigger with each passing day.

What she didn’t know about being a writer would…well, would fill a book.

And Jace was reaching that conclusion, too, if he hadn’t already.

Suddenly too antsy to sit still, she exited the Free Cell game, then stood and stretched before grabbing her car keys and purse. She needed a few groceries—she never wanted to eat another ham sandwich as long as she lived—and she could certainly benefit from some fresh air and a change of scenery.

After locking up, she climbed into her blisteringly hot car, backed out, then headed down the narrow dirt lane. The air conditioner was turned to high, all the windows were down, and the wheel was so hot that she steered using only the tips of her fingers, but she felt damn near giddy at the prospect of getting out and seeing people.

She was not cut out for a life of isolation.

A few hundred yards from her cabin, another narrow lane forked off to the northwest. She’d paid it little attention the times she’d been by it, but now she knew it led to Jace’s house—partly because it was logical, and partly because he was sitting there in a dusty green SUV, half in his driveway, half in the road, watching her approach.

Her car was small enough she could ease around him, give a neighborly wave, then drive on—and let him drive in her dust for the next ten miles—but she politely slowed to a stop.

Instead of driving on, he got out of the truck and leaned in the passenger window. “Where are you off to?”

“The grocery store.”

“Me, too. Why don’t you park your car and ride with me?”

She wanted to coolly say no, thanks, almost as much as she wanted to agree. She needed conversation, to hear other voices, and his was a damn easy voice to listen to.

But he asks questions, her own inner voice reminded her, and he wants answers. She could be satisfied talking to the clerk at the grocery store, couldn’t she?

Oh, sure, that would be a great conversation. How are you today? Will that be all? You want paper or plastic?

Apparently her reluctance was obvious, because he grinned a killer grin. “Aw, come on…I bet you don’t even know where the closest grocery store is.”

“The only grocery store is in Buffalo Plains.”

He made a sound like a game-show buzzer. “The Heartbreak store is five miles closer. I’ll even treat you to lunch at the Heartbreak Café.”

Heartbreak. Sounded like her kind of town, she thought with a touch of irony and rue. And lunch…in a restaurant…with people. Sounded too good to pass up. And it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Not just this one time?

“Let me take my car back.”

With another grin, he lifted his hand in a wave, then returned to his truck.

It took some effort, but she managed to turn around without getting too far off the road. On the brief drive to the cottage, she tried to talk herself into reneging, but when she got out of the Honda, she didn’t blurt out an excuse, rush inside and lock the door. No, she climbed into the cool interior of the SUV, buckled her seat belt and glanced at Jace.

He wore gym shorts in white cotton with a gray T-shirt, worn-out running shoes and no socks, and his black hair was pulled back in a ponytail again. As a general rule, she didn’t like to see men with hair longer than her own, and she couldn’t help but think he would be a hundred times handsomer with it cut short. Even so, he was still incredibly hot. Heavens, she was hot just looking at him.

She adjusted the vent so the cool air blew directly on her, then crossed her legs. Deciding it would be in her best interests to start—and therefore hopefully control—the conversation, she asked, “How big is Heartbreak?”

“A better question is how little is it. I believe Paulette likes to refer to it as ‘a wide spot in the road.’”

“Yeah, I heard that phrase from her a couple of times.”

He grinned. “You don’t need to spend much time with Paulette before she starts repeating herself. She can be annoying, but at heart she’s a good person.” At the end of the lane, he slowed almost to a stop, then turned east onto the dirt road. “Heartbreak…let’s see…. It has an elementary school, middle school and high school, though if the number of students keeps dropping, they’ll have to close them and bus the kids to Buffalo Plains. There are a couple of cafés, a hardware store, a five-and-dime, a grocery store, a part-time doctor and lawyer, a post office—oh, and a boot-and-saddle maker. If you want to take home a one-of-a-kind souvenir, you should see her. There’s also a couple of small junk stores—pardon me, antique stores—and a consignment store. That’s about it.”

“All the necessities of life,” she said with a faint smile.

“If you’re not looking for anything fancy. If you are, you have to go to Tulsa or Oklahoma City.”

At the intersection where they would have turned left to go to Buffalo Plains, he turned right instead, then asked, “Get any writing done today?”

So much for controlling the conversation. “A little.”

“After you write the book, what happens then?”

She stared out the side window for a time, some part of her brain registering pastures dotted with cattle, occasional houses, barbed wire fences and acres of the scraggly trees Paulette had identified as blackjacks. Finally, when the expectant silence began to gnaw at her nerves, she gave him a narrowed look. “Didn’t we agree yesterday that I didn’t want to talk about my career?”

His laughter was warm and unexpected. “Oh, honey, we haven’t agreed on anything yet except that my mom’s a good cook. Besides, you said that about the book you’re currently writing. I’m just asking about the process in general.”

“Why?”

He gave the same answer he’d offered in regard to the Wanted posters. “I’m curious.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t met many writers before, and most of them were newspaper or TV reporters.”

She grabbed the chance to turn the conversation back on him. “Now you’ve made me curious. How does a small-town Oklahoma cowboy manage to run into so many newspaper and television reporters? They do many stories on branding and castrating around here?”

Now it was his turn to think before he answered. “Nope, not many. But if there’s a reporter around, they seem to lock in on me. Must be my charm.”

Must be female reporters, Cassidy thought dryly.

“Okay, we’ll drop that part of the discussion. Can you at least tell me what kind of research you did before coming here?”

Absolutely not. She’d chosen Buffalo Lake the same way she’d chosen every other place she’d temporarily lighted in the past three years—spread out a map of the U.S., closed her eyes and pointed. “Just general stuff,” she fibbed. “Climate, topography, industry.” Please don’t ask, she silently prayed, but of course he did.

“And what did you learn about the climate?”

In the outside mirror she watched dust clouds swirl behind them. Looking ahead she saw heat waves shimmering in the air. “That it gets hot in summer. Damn hot.”

“And?”

She gave him another of those narrow gazes. “Why are you quizzing me? I’m not a student and you’re not my teacher.”

“I bet I could teach you a few things,” he said, his voice huskier than normal. Then he gave her a long, intimate look. “And you could teach me a few.”

Her throat had gone as dry as the road they were traveling. She couldn’t think of a response, though, until he turned back to the road, when the air rushed out of her lungs and she sank back against the seat.

As if the moment had never happened, he gestured toward the house ahead on the left, identifying it as Easy and Shay Rafferty’s place, where he helped out occasionally with the horses. Farther down the road on the right was Guthrie and Olivia Harris’s ranch, where he helped out occasionally with the cattle. Two young girls were playing in the yard. One, dangling upside down from a tree branch, waved so enthusiastically Cassidy feared she might fall. The other, sitting primly on a quilt underneath the tree, raised her hand without so much as a wiggle of her fingers.

“That’s the Harrises’ twins. Elly’s the tomboy and Emma’s the prissy one,” Jace remarked. “Which were you as a kid?”

“I wasn’t prissy.”

“Did you play with dolls?”

“Of course. That’s what little girls do.”

“Let me rephrase that—how did you play with dolls? Did you play house with them, like Emma, or cut them open and stuff them with firecrackers to see if you could blow them to bits, like Elly did last week?”

She’d played house, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Instead she folded her arms over her chest and pressed her lips together.

“That’s a clear enough answer,” he said with a chuckle. “Did you ever climb trees? Collect spiders? Make a pet of a mouse and keep him in your pocket? Or did you like to sit in the air-conditioning with your dollies and books and not get dirty?”

“I climbed trees,” she said in her defense. And she had, too. At least, a time or two. Until she’d fallen from an unstable limb and broken her arm when she was eight. After that, she’d kept her feet on the ground.

“And the rest?”

“I kill spiders and the only mouse I want around is attached to my computer.” Her expression slid into something that felt remarkably like a pout. “Besides, what’s wrong with staying cool and clean and reading?”

He laughed again, not a chuckle this time but a full-throated laugh. “So you were prissy. Of course, I could tell just by looking at you.”

“How?” she challenged.

“Because girly girls always grow up to be such womanly women.” Again that low, husky tone. Again the dry throat, the air rushing from her lungs, the general weakness spreading through her body.

Spending the next few hours with him couldn’t hurt, could it? she had convinced herself back in the Honda. Not just this one time.

She would have snorted in disdain if she could have found the breath. He was a dangerous man, and his relentless questions were only the half of it. Questions she could avoid. Emotions, though… She couldn’t escape them no matter how she tried. Feelings in general were okay. Feelings for other people weren’t. Those were the rules that governed her life.

The sooner she remembered and acted on that, the better.

Jace parked in downtown Heartbreak, climbed out of the truck and waited on the sidewalk for Cassidy. As she got out and walked toward him, her gaze was swiveling from side to side and around. Looking for anything in particular or just trying to take the whole town in at once?

He’d never tried to see his hometown through someone else’s eyes. It was so familiar to him that he wasn’t even sure he saw it through his own eyes, but rather through the eyes of the kid who had once lived here. He usually didn’t notice that the buildings looked pretty shabby, that the sidewalks were cracked, that half the buildings on the next block were boarded up. He didn’t pay attention to the paint peeling from old wood or the crack that had extended through the insurance agency’s plate-glass window for as long as he could remember. He looked and saw home.

What did Cassidy see?

He gestured toward Café Shay—really the Heartbreak Café, owned by Shay Rafferty—and they started in that direction. Just two days ago he hadn’t wanted Reese and Neely to see Cassidy, and now here he was taking her to lunch in Gossip Central. Somebody would be on the phone to his mother before they made it to the grocery store across and down the street.

But he didn’t even consider taking back the offer.

The bell over the door announced them and several dozen pairs of eyes turned their way. About half the customers greeted him before speculatively looking back at Cassidy.

Hell, they probably wouldn’t even be through with lunch before someone called his mom.

They’d just claimed the only empty booth when Shay showed up, balancing a chubby-cheeked baby on one hip. She set down two glasses of water, then two menus. “Hey, Jace, how’s it going?”

“Not bad. Shay, Cassidy.” He gave the briefest introductions possible, then reached for the baby, who came to him with a toothless grin and a drool. “And this is Liza Beth.”

“That’s her name today because she’s in a good mood,” Shay said, “but we’re thinking of changing it to something like…oh, I don’t know. Difficult. Tough.”

“Nah, she’s too pretty for a silly name like that,” he responded, directing his words to the baby who was gazing with great interest at his finger closest to her mouth. “Besides, one unconventional name per family is plenty.”

Shay smacked him on the shoulder. “Who are you calling unconventional? Easy or me?” Then she smiled across the booth. “It’s nice to meet you, Cassidy. Are you visiting from K—”

Jace shot her a look and she smoothly shifted. “Or are you making your home here?”

“I’m just here for a while.”

Cassidy gave him a vaguely curious look over Liza Beth’s head, no doubt wondering what Shay had been about to say. To distract her, he announced, “Cassidy’s a writer. She’s finishing up a book.”

“Really?” Shay’s blue eyes brightened. “That’s so cool! What kind of book?”

A flush flooded Cassidy’s cheeks, so Jace answered for her. “She writes romance novels. The one she’s working on now is set in this area.”

“How wonderful. What is the name and when will it be out?”

“I—I don’t—” Cassidy broke off to take a sip of water. “I haven’t settled on a title yet, and I don’t know when…when it will come out. Probably never, if the guy next door doesn’t stop interrupting my work time.”

Shay grinned at Jace. “That would be you, I presume. He’s a terrible distraction,” she said to Cassidy. “Wants attention all the time. Just like Liza Beth.”

“Hey, we resent that, don’t we, Liza?” He moved the baby to cradle her in his lap, and she snagged his finger at last, guiding it into her mouth. “I’d’ve been perfectly happy not having any attention last winter, but it didn’t keep any of you away, did it?”

“What happened last winter?” Cassidy asked.

Shay opened her mouth, looked from Cassidy to him, then closed it again and smiled. “I believe I’ll take my child and send the waitress over to take your order.”

“Nah, let Liza stay—at least until the food comes. She’s happy enough for the moment.”

“You don’t have to say it twice,” Shay said with a laugh. “Cassidy, nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

She left and a young waitress appeared. Without looking at the menu, Jace ordered a double cheeseburger and onion rings. Cassidy studied the menu for a moment, then asked for the lunch special. Then she folded her hands together on the tabletop and gave him a raised-brow look.

He ignored it as long as he could before faking a grouchy look of his own. “What?”

“What happened last winter?”

“Not much. Oklahoma winters can be really mild or really cold—but then, you know that, having researched the climate.” He let a little good-natured sarcasm slide into his voice on the last words. “We had a couple ice storms that shut things down for a day or two, and we had a tornado in January. That’s something you don’t see a lot of.”

She continued to look at him, her expression unchanging.

“They have tornadoes where you come from?”

“Occasionally.”

“In San Diego? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Lemon Grove,” she corrected him. “And none of that answers my question. What happened with you last winter?”

He leveled his gaze on her, as steady and measuring as hers was, then smiled coolly. “I’ll make you a deal. You answer all those questions of mine you’ve danced around, like what your pen name is and what your book is about and what kind of research you did, and I’ll tell you about last winter.”

She smiled, too, a bright smile that involved her whole face without bringing one bit of warmth to it. “It would serve you right if I agreed.”

He shrugged.

“Fair enough.” Then she lowered her gaze to the baby. “She doesn’t look anything like her mother.”

“Nope. She’s the spittin’ image of Easy, except she’s prettier and has all her fingers. He’s only got seven.”

“Jace! You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Hey, I’m just repeating what he said. Besides, I think we’re distantly related. I’m mostly Osage and he’s mostly Cherokee, but a few generations ago somebody from his father’s side married somebody from my mother’s side.”

“So you’re probably tenth or twelfth cousins.”

He grinned. “It still counts as family. At least, when you want it to.”

“You like kids,” she commented, her gaze lowering to the baby.

He looked down, too, at Liza Beth’s dark skin, eyes and hair, her fat cheeks and the mouth that managed a grin in spite of her gnawing on his finger. “I like most people.” Even some of the people he’d arrested over the years. Civilians tended to think that cops and crooks were mortal enemies, but that wasn’t always the case. Sure, most bad guys weren’t anxious to go to jail, and some would do anything to avoid it, but a lot of them didn’t hold grudges. They were doing their jobs and he was doing his. No hard feelings.

“Then why were you trying to avoid attention last winter?”

He gave her a steady, censuring look. “We agreed, remember? If you don’t answer questions, I don’t. No fair trying to sneak around the back way.”

Her only response to his rebuke was a nod, then she glanced at Liza Beth again. “Why aren’t you married and raising a houseful of kids?”

“I always figured I would be, but…” He finished with a shrug, then studied the faint wistfulness in her expression. “You want to hold her?”

Her hands flexed and came up off the tabletop, a prelude to reaching for the baby, then she caught herself. She dropped her hands into her lap, put on a taut smile and shook her head. “I keep my distance from kids.”

“Why? You don’t like them?”

“I like them fine—at a distance.”

There was that itch again. Jeez, why lie about liking kids? It was about as inconsequential as things got in the bigger scheme of things. About the only time not liking kids mattered would be when she already had them. Otherwise, so what?

Maybe she regretted not having any, so she pretended not to like them. Maybe she couldn’t have any, so pretending eased the pain. Maybe she had one or two or three, and had lost them for some reason, so it was guilt she was easing.

His wondering was interrupted by the waitress with plates of food. She set them down, then reached for the baby. “Her daddy just came in to get her, so I’ll take her now.”

“See you, sweetheart,” Jace said, brushing a kiss to Liza Beth’s forehead before handing her over. The kid didn’t want to give up her pacifier, and sucked hard enough to make a pop when his finger pulled free. Immediately she screwed up her face as if to cry, then she caught sight of her father and was all smiles again. How could anyone not want to brighten a kid’s world like that just by walking into it?

He waited until Cassidy had taken a bite of the chicken-fried steak that was the day’s special, then asked, “What made you pick Buffalo Lake for your vacation—uh, work?”

After studying him a moment she levelly replied, “I told you—the book I’m working on takes place here.”

“Here, specifically? Or in the general area?”

Her only response was a shrug.

“The state’s got some really nice resorts, places where you could find the privacy and quiet you want, along with all the conveniences and a few luxuries…but not around here. I’m having a hard time picturing you sitting in your apartment in Lemon Grove, saying, ‘I think I’ll rent a run-down cabin on the shore of a small lake no one outside Canyon County, Oklahoma, has even heard of.’”

As he expected, she chose to answer the wrong part of his comment. “The cabin’s not run-down. It’s rustic.”

“You’re playing with words.”

A smile flashed across her lips, then disappeared. “That’s my job.”

And his job was finding out the truth…at least, it had been. For the first time since the disciplinary hearing last winter, he was tempted to do a little cop work. As temptations went, though, it was a mild one, just a passing thought that he could find out her truth if he wanted. If he cared enough. Since he neither wanted nor cared…

She surprised him when, after a moment of paying proper attention to the potato-and-cheese casserole accompanying the steak, she actually offered him some information. “You’re right. I didn’t leave Lemon Grove with the intent of coming to Buffalo Lake. I knew I was coming to Oklahoma, but I didn’t decide on an exact destination until I got here.”

“Why here? Why not Shangri-La or one of the other resorts?”

“Do you know how much rent the Davison family is charging for the cabin? Two hundred bucks a month. Furnished. I can spend six months there for the cost of—what?—maybe a few weeks at one of those resorts. Besides, conveniences and luxuries are just a distraction I don’t need.”

“That’s redundant, isn’t it? Or is there a distraction you do need?”

Her face colored, making him wonder if she was remembering Shay calling him a distraction. Wants attention all the time, she’d said, which wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t want everyone’s attention—just Cassidy’s at the moment—and he didn’t even want that all the time.

Just more than was wise.

Without waiting for an answer that he really didn’t think was forthcoming, he polished off the last bite of his burger, then drained the last of his pop. “What do you do on a hot summer day in Lemon Grove?”

“I sit in my air-conditioned office and work.”

“All the time? You don’t go to the beach or into the mountains? No drives north to L.A. or south to Tijuana?”

“I’m not an outdoor sort of girl. What can I say? I’m dedicated to my job.” That much was one-hundred-percent true, Cassidy reflected. Her job was staying alive, and she was committed to it twenty-four hours a day.

She took one last bite of tender, battered steak, then pushed the plate away. As if alerted by some sixth sense, the waitress immediately appeared. “Did you save room for dessert? Manuel baked up some dewberry cobblers this morning.”

Though she didn’t know what dewberries were, Cassidy was tempted. “Cobbler” was enough to do that to her. Peach, cherry, blackberry—she wasn’t finicky. She loved them all, especially warm from the oven with a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream melting over them. But she’d stuffed herself on chicken-fried steak, potatoes and creamy cucumber salad and didn’t have room left for one single berry.

“None for me,” she said politely.

“How about a couple servings to go?” Jace suggested, giving the waitress a smile that made her melt like the ice cream Cassidy had been fantasizing about.

While the woman left to get his cobbler, Cassidy let her gaze slide around the restaurant. The fixtures showed a lot of hard wear, much like the customers. Even so, it held a certain homey appeal. It was a place to meet friends, to catch up on news, to enjoy good food at good prices, to connect with other people. Once upon a time she’d had favorite restaurants where she’d been greeted by name, where the waitresses knew her favorite dishes, where she’d connected.

She missed that.

“You ready?”

Refocusing her attention, she saw Jace was holding a foil pan and their ticket and was about to stand. As she slid to her feet and slung her purse over one shoulder, he dropped some ones on the table, then gestured for her to precede him to the cash register near the door. There she withdrew her wallet, but he gave a shake of his head.

“I can pay for my own lunch.”

“It was my invitation.” He handed a twenty to the waitress, pocketed his change, then followed her outside.

Though the grocery store was only half a block away, they drove. Jace parked in the shade of a huge oak, then glanced back across the street when he got out. “I need to make one stop,” he said when she joined him at the back of the truck. “Why don’t you go on in, and I’ll catch up with you.”

“Sure.” She was not disappointed, she told herself as she crossed the parking lot. She always did her grocery shopping alone and there was no reason to mind it today.

Always shop on a full stomach, her mother preached. The theory, as Cassidy recalled, was that she wouldn’t make impulse purchases based on hunger. The downside was that, with her stomach so full, she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for any of the foods available.

It was going to be a salad kind of week, she decided as she gathered the ingredients for chicken salad, pasta salad, garden salad and potato salad. She added a few staples—cereal, milk, ice cream and chocolate—along with a paperback from the limited selection, and was finishing up on the pop-and-potato-chip aisle when a man near the checkout caught her attention. Jace, she thought with a rush of warmth that was more pleasurable than was good for her.

No, not Jace. The clothes were a match, but this man’s back was to her and there was no long, silky black ponytail to be seen. His hair was short, as short as hers.

Then he turned, saw her and started toward her.

“You cut your hair,” she blurted when he was still fifteen feet away. Damn! As if he hadn’t been handsome enough before. He was a dangerous man, she’d decided on their way into town. Now she amended that to very dangerous.

He combed his fingers through it, dislodging a few stray hairs. “It’s getting too hot to wear it long. I never liked it that way anyway.”

“Then why let it get so long?”

“It was easier than getting it cut.”

She wanted to ask when he’d last cut it. Back in the winter, she would bet, when he hadn’t wanted anyone’s attention. What had happened? Had he undergone some personal crisis, been depressed or sick or in trouble?

He would tell her…if she answered all his questions first.

She didn’t want to know that badly.

Instead of getting his own shopping cart, he turned hers back from the register and took it—and her by default—on a quick sweep through the store. Though he wasn’t working from a list, he knew what items he wanted and in what brands and sizes. He gathered twice the amount of food she had in less than half the time, then steered the cart to the checkout.

The cashier was a pretty woman with auburn hair and a name tag identifying her as Ginger pinned to a snug-fitting T-shirt. “Hi, Jace,” she said warmly before turning her attention to Cassidy. Her gaze narrowed and her smile slipped a bit, but when she finally greeted her, it was with almost the same warmth. She rang up Jace’s purchases first while a teenage boy in baggy denim shorts sacked them.

“Are you visiting Jace?” she asked as she started on Cassidy’s groceries.

Cassidy glanced at Jace, talking football with the bagger and paying them no mind. “No. I’m renting the Davison cabin out at the lake.”

“Oh, you’re the one—the writer from Alabama.” Ginger smiled. “I go out with Buddy Davison from time to time. He mentioned it.”

“Actually, it’s South Carolina,” Cassidy corrected her. Ask the same question ten times and she would give ten different answers. That was one of her methods of survival.

“No, I’m pretty sure Buddy said Alabama. He says you write history books.”

Had she told Paulette Fox that? Cassidy wondered. Maybe. Hell, she’d told the woman she was from Alabama, when she’d never set foot in the state. She’d gotten in the habit of not paying a great deal of attention to her lies. After all, she was rarely in one place long enough for her untruthfulness to catch up to her, and this place wasn’t likely to be any different. “Not history books. Historical novels.”

As soon as the words were out she inwardly grimaced. That was dumb. If she knew little about writing books in general, she knew nothing about writing historical books. The only history she was intimately familiar with was her own, and it had always been fairly innocuous…until six years ago. Then it had gotten interesting. Three years after that it had become movie-of-the-week material. Now it was boring and lonely, but tempered by the certain knowledge that it could all blow up at any moment.

Baseball, her father liked to say, was a game made up of long stretches of tedium broken by brief spurts of excitement. It was an apt description of her life.

“I don’t read much,” Ginger said, “but I always thought it would be cool to write a book. Of course, I just barely squeaked through senior English, and I don’t have a clue what I would write about, and really I don’t think I have what it takes. I can’t even bring myself to write a letter from time to time, so I think a book is pretty much out of the question.”

That was something else Cassidy had learned in her brief “career”—not only was everyone planning to write a book someday, but they equated completing a four-hundred-page novel with writing a one-page letter to Grandma. It was as if they defined write in its simplest form—putting words to paper—and never acknowledged the difference between that and telling a logical, compelling, cohesive story.

She had learned the difference all too well in her past few days at the computer.

Ginger read out the total of her purchases and Cassidy handed over three twenties. She glanced up as Jace moved to her side again, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was on her open wallet. The wallet where a Wisconsin driver’s license was half revealed behind an old photograph. Abruptly she snapped the wallet shut, accepted her change and dropped it, coins and all, into the bottom of her purse.

“See you, Jace,” Ginger said, then added to Cassidy, “Nice meeting you.”

Cassidy murmured something appropriate—she hoped—then followed the bagger toward the door, Jace right behind her. Her jaw was clenched as she waited for him to say something about the license, but when he finally spoke, the subject was harmless.

“You like to fish?”

The relief that rushed over her was enough to weaken her knees. It must have been the photograph he’d seen and not the driver’s license, or surely he would be questioning her about it. He’d never hesitated yet to ask whatever came to mind, and surely a license in a different name from a different state would rouse a curiosity too strong to resist.

“I don’t know,” she replied, hoping her tone was as casual as the question deserved. “I’ve never tried.”

Naturally that wasn’t entirely true.

There had been the time with her dad, when she’d impaled a fish hook in her foot and required a trip to the emergency room to remove it. And the time with her brother, David, when she’d knocked his precious hand-tied lures overboard and he’d tossed her after them. And the time with Phil, trying to impress him by removing the ugly creature she’d caught quite by accident from its hook. It had latched onto her finger the way Liza Beth had claimed Jace’s, and in her resulting hysteria, that time it had been Phil who’d gone overboard. Not surprisingly, none of the three had ever invited her fishing again.

“It’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon. We’ll give it a try sometime…when you don’t mind being distracted.”

She frowned at him and saw he was giving her a sidelong look and grinning. He was entirely too handsome when he grinned, with all the mischievousness of a boy run wild…and all the sexiness of a man full grown. It made her want to blurt, How about now? Thankfully she managed to keep the words inside and politely said, “That sounds like fun.”

And for once, she thought as she climbed into the truck and turned the air-conditioner vents her way on full blast, that was the honest truth.