Читать книгу No Place Like Home - Robin Nicholas - Страница 11

Time hung suspended on the hot, dusty air between them, Rafe weighing the consequences of physically moving Mariah from his path so he could climb into his truck to chase a storm he instinctively knew would be less threatening.

A light, sweet scent lifted from her skin, wafting through the heat and the grit. With his next breath, he knew the consequences would be high. He kept his hands to himself, determined to turn down her request for his time—and his story.

But the refusal wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her inside the café, giving Jess a dollar, tipping Trixie a twenty for her trouble, all the while aware she’d just lost the interview that would save her job. Even knowing the threat posed by the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.

“All right, get in. But I’m not promising anything.”

She turned in the small space between them, tossing her purse on the truck seat. Rafe sucked in a breath, leaning back in a halfhearted effort to give her more room. Then she was pressing her hand to his chest, her bright crimson nails seeming to burn through his drab field shirt.

“I’ll be right back—I have to get my things.”

She edged by with a brush of curls and silk and curves. Rafe exhaled, bracing his free hand atop the truck.

A chase required precision forecasting and an eye to the elements. Only the merging of specific atmospheric elements and events at the same time could form the kind of storms that produced tornadoes. And only perfect timing on his part would put him in the right location for a photograph.

Mariah promised to thoroughly distract him.

Even now, she leaned inside her rental coupe, her flirty shorts hiked up her silk covered thighs. Rafe grimaced. Who would have thought a journalist would be the one to stir his hormones back to life?

She straightened, her arms filled with electronic gear—a laptop, a tape recorder, a cell phone. The lady meant business, he realized grimly. He hauled himself into the truck, her little black purse occupying the passenger seat. He ought to toss it out and drive off. As she started over, Mariah’s wary gaze met his, as if she suspected he might do just that.

Then it was too late. She deposited her gear atop her purse, scrambling in with a flash of leg. Rafe thrust her things in back with his equipment. Buckling her seat belt, she said breathlessly, “Ready.”

Gravel sprayed from beneath the truck’s wheels as he shot out of the parking lot.

Mariah clutched at the dash, disturbing neatly rolled maps, earning a frown from Rafe. She straightened them, sinking into the bucket seat.

At least he drove reasonably near the speed limit. Panning the endless blue sky for clouds, her focus suddenly narrowed. On the passenger side, tape had been placed in a “X” over a star cracked into the bug-splattered windshield. Dents riddled the hood. Hail? she wondered. What kind of storm produced hail large enough to cause that much damage? An image of the truck’s mud-crusted wheel wells registered in her mind. Considering Rafe’s reputation for risk taking, joining him on a chase seemed foolish in retrospect.

But she had a job at stake.

Putting herself at ease the best way she knew how, she perused the truck’s interior. Video camera mounted on the dash, radios, scanners, even a TV monitor. She peered between the seats. He’d apparently gutted the back for storage.

Awareness tingled through her, triggered by an earthy scent she recognized as Rafe’s. His shirtsleeve grazed her cheek; his body heat warmed her. A glance revealed the clench of his stubbled jaw. Unfamiliar as she was with meteorology, Mariah recognized the charged atmosphere between them. She eased back into her seat.

And she proceeded to grill him on his interesting array of equipment, right down to the cell phone she knew he carried in his pocket.

“So, you’re saying your cell phone system interfaces with your laptop for on-road reports?”

“That’s right.”

A man of few words. “What about that odd-looking instrument mounted outside? Not the antennas, but the staff with the three little cups attached?”

“The anemometer. Measures wind speed.”

She attempted a closer look out the window, pushing at the creeping hem of her shorts. “How does it work? Do the cups rotate—”

“Yes. They do. Just…sit back. I need to…listen to the radio for NWS reports.”

More curious than apprehensive now, Mariah caught her lip. Then she asked, “What’s NWS?”

“The National Weather Service. Look, this isn’t Tornado Tours.”

“They give tours to see tornadoes?”

“That’s it! No more questions. Just…study the map.”

He thrust “Kansas” into her lap. Mariah slumped in the seat, chastened by his tone. She’d bet Stormy “Charisma” Taylor didn’t pad his income giving tours.

He’d apparently meant it when he said no promises. Well, he’d underestimated her determination. She was part of this chase, no matter how he tried to shut her out. Before the day was over, he’d be so convinced of her sincerity regarding his absurd career, he’d be begging her to write the feature.

But concentrating on the map she spread over her lap quickly proved unnecessary; how much expertise did it require to drive straight up 281? And watching the sky seemed pointless when there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Chasing storms apparently involved a lot of driving in perfectly lovely weather. Mariah stifled a yawn, wondering if his reputation, like that of so many famed personalities, was more fiction than fact.

When he finally spotted a storm, she supposed he would stop and wait for a tornado to form in the distance, then take a picture. After all, this wasn’t the movies. She’d seen news footage of what happened to fools with video cameras who got too close to storms. You didn’t drive right up to a tornado and take photographs in real life. That was what zoom lenses were created for.

Mariah absently folded the edge of the map with her fingers, only to smooth it when she caught Rafe’s frown. Sighing, she slid farther down in the seat, heedless of her tidy bun. As she gazed through the windshield, past the taped-over crack, the clear line of the horizon blurred. Even in the company of a handsome man, chasing storms was actually quite boring….

Mariah stirred in the warm cocoon of her blanket, breathing deeply of a fragrance she’d come to savor, an earthy scent that triggered a basic need deep within her—

She stilled, hiding behind lowered lashes. She wasn’t in bed. This wasn’t her blanket she’d just curled her fingers into, a button poking into her palm. The heat encompassing her came from the body invading her space. And the earthy scent she breathed wasn’t fragrance, it was Rafe.

Mariah blinked and gazed into Rafe’s startled eyes.

He leaned over her, perilously near, his weight braced on his hand atop the seat, the tail of his field shirt grazing her silk-covered knees. The heat of him seemed to press upon her, intensified by the glow that came into his eyes. The glow deepened to a burn and expectation shivered through her. He was going to kiss her….

Mariah closed her eyes as he settled his mouth over hers, a soft touch that reached deep. With the rasp of his whiskery jaw and the warmth of his breath on her skin, longing rose within her, had her pressing her lips against his. A kaleidoscope of color whirled behind her closed lids, his kiss stealing her breath, that same mix of awe and apprehension she’d experienced facing the storm spinning through her. Helpless, she felt her heart race as he blew her away with his kiss.

His mouth left hers, his shirt tugging against her clenched fingers. Mariah opened her eyes, her pulse pounding as he hovered over her. Yearning speared through her. She realized now the extent to which she’d neglected her sexual side in her quest for a career.

Rafe’s breath rushed out. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Her face burned. She let go of his shirt. “Neither did I. Let’s just forget it happened.”

“Deal.”

Deal? Mariah curled her hand in a fist. Maybe he’d like her to sign a contract, too?

“I need my camera.” He pressed close again, reaching past her to open a cupboard in the back of the truck. She suffered the near choke hold of his muscled arm, his dusty shirt falling across her face. Settling into his seat, he adjusted the settings on a still camera. “I have to scout out a place to shoot from.”

He climbed out of the truck, shut the door and left her frowning after him, still feeling the effects of a kiss he’d already put behind him.

Well, she was as willing as he to ignore the kiss he’d stolen. She was especially willing to overlook the fact that she’d kissed him back.

Locating a clock among his myriad gadgets, she realized she’d wasted almost two hours sleeping. Kissing.

At some point, he’d left the highway for a northbound gravel road. Getting out to stand on the grassy shoulder, she noticed “Kansas” was no longer spread over her lap, the map rolled neatly on the dash once more. Rafe must have slipped it from her hands while she was asleep.

Recalling the startled look in his eyes, she realized he hadn’t intended to wake her at all.

She gritted her teeth. He hadn’t intended to wake her, but he’d been willing to kiss her when she did.

Stiffening her travel-weary legs, she trudged to the back of the truck, where Rafe was in the process of unlocking the hatchback. She gave him a lethal glare. “You could have wakened me.”

Then she ducked as he raised the door.

“Sorry. I’m kind of busy right now.” He pulled out a tripod with a video camera mounted on top. Hefting it to his shoulder, he lowered the hatch, brushing by her to hurry up the roadside slope.

Mariah hiked after him. Dry weeds tugged at her sheer stockings. Silk stockings. She wondered if they were an accountable expense.

Rafe stationed the tripod halfway up the knoll, fiddling with the video camera. Curiosity overrode her pique. Brushing back wispy curls the breeze blew across her cheek, she queried, “What, exactly, are you doing?”

He straightened from behind the camera and gave her a pointed look. But she couldn’t help it. Her mother claimed she’d been born asking questions.

“I’m trying to align the viewfinder. Could you step out of the way, please?”

“I don’t see what the rush is.” She tilted her face to the sky, a scattering of fluffy white clouds floating by.

He stepped from behind the camera, looming over her for a moment during which his height was imprinted on her mind. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face the northern sky. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm moving by.”

For a moment she didn’t notice; there was only the heat of his strong hands cupping her shoulders, obliterating even the perpetual Kansas wind in her face. All she could think was that she wanted him to kiss her again. The way his hands lingered told her he wanted it, too.

A strong sense of self-preservation made her focus intently on the distant storm. Though acutely aware when he took his hands from her, she drew a breath of surprise at the panorama building before her.

“Oh my.” A few miles to the north an explosion of pure white cloud billowed in high puffed layers. Beneath the mass, varying shades from greenish-gray to dark blue, from glistening white to black, extended from the northeast reaches to the southwest edges of the storm. “It’s beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting a picture of it,” Rafe said dryly. She faced him with a determination meant to convey she was here to stay. He’d already raised his still camera, shooting away. Seemingly at her.

Mariah moved hastily out of range, conscious of her windblown hair, wrinkled clothes and run stockings. There was obviously no use in talking to him now. He fired off that camera like an automatic weapon, going through a roll of film in less than a minute, trading it for a fresh roll from his pocket, reloading and shooting again.

The storm was indeed a magnificent sight moving across the prairie, more imposing than when viewed from the confines of the city. Yet she felt that same safe feeling she’d felt as a child, watching the rain from the shelter of her parents’ front porch. With Rafe standing between her and the approaching front, broad-shouldered and enlightened to any danger, it was easy to understand where that sense of security came from.

Her untrained eye began to distinguish the storm darkening as it traveled in a northeasterly direction. Questions gathered in her mind as he captured the scene on film. But he seemed to have forgotten she was there.

He already regretted her presence; rather than interrupt him, Mariah took a moment to survey her surroundings. Behind her, the land rose, leveling off at a barbed-wire fence. Cropped pastures lined the roadsides, and she wondered if there were cows grazing up there. Or maybe even a horse. Like most females, she was drawn by the equine mystique.

Lightning crackled in the distance. Mariah flinched, glancing over her shoulder. Rafe’s back was to her, his camera aimed at the flashes that streaked the sky. If she found a horse and rode away, he wouldn’t notice until he ran out of film.

Calmed by his lack of alarm, she climbed to the top of the knoll and curled her hands around the fence.

Disappointment swept through her. Not a horse in sight. Not even a cow, though evidence of them lay in pungent dried chips on the ground.

The breeze seemed stronger at the top of the slope and felt good on her skin after the climb. Goose bumps pricked her arms, tingled her scalp—

Rafe reached around her, closing his hands overtop of hers, prying her fingers from the wire. Before she could protest, he swung her away from the fence. Jagged bolts dropped from the clouds, effectively closing the miles between them and the storm. Thunder reverberated, but failed to drown out his curse—likely over the picture he’d just missed. He ushered her down the weedy slope to where he’d set up the video camera, and her temper flared with each step she took.

He faced her abruptly, grasping her arms as if tempted to shake some sense into her. “Are you crazy? If lightning strikes that wire, even milesaway, you might as well grab hold of a power line! Always keep your distance from a fence in a storm.”

“Well, excuse me. But I don’t chase storms for a living.”

“I know. Your mother sends you to the basement.”

She glared at him and his hands tightened on her arms. Then they gentled. Cold then hot, he was as changing as the weather. Mariah shivered; she felt the heat. But she couldn’t help wondering if the scare she’d given him had turned his thoughts to Ann.

The breeze buffeted their bodies against each other and abruptly, he released her.

“Just…stay by me, okay? I need to get some more pictures.”

He didn’t like that he wanted her. And she liked it too much. But he clearly felt responsible for her well-being, if only because he was stuck with her.

Surprisingly, as he resumed shooting, he offered a grudging explanation from behind the camera. “That dark cloud close to the ground, beneath the center of the updraft base, is a wall cloud.”

Updraft base? Wall cloud? Intrigued, she followed him, edging along the roadside in the direction of the storm. “The wide one with the rather jagged looking edges?”

“That’s right.”

“The one kind of…hovering there?”

“Yeah…”

“The one kind of…churning?”

“Rotating…Damn.” Rafe lowered the camera. “It’s started to rotate.”

“That’s what I said. And just feel that cool fresh air.” Standing beside him, Mariah breathed deeply of the rich country scent, the invigorating breeze combining with Rafe’s more cooperative mood to perk up her spirit. She’d never thought of a storm as beautiful, but she’d like to have a picture of this one. Rafe seemed almost a part of it, the wind combing through his crisp hair, his loose shirt whipping from his lean body. His eyes seemed to reflect the electric atmosphere of the storm.

“Here.” He lifted the strap from around his neck and pushed the camera into her hand. Mariah fumbled to catch hold of it, wondering if he’d read her mind. He gave her a nudge toward the truck. “Go on back. I’ll be right there.”

He moved swiftly toward the video camera, apparently ready to leave. She stared after him, exasperated. He did everything in such a hurry. But at least he was talking to her. On that positive note, she started down the slope, inspecting the camera, her head bent to the wind.

It looked a lot like her own 35mm at home. Mariah glanced up the knoll as Rafe hoisted the tripod to his shoulder. She caught her lip, then faced the storm, raising the camera and focusing through the viewfinder until she’d framed in the impressive wall cloud. Amazing. The storm appeared perilously closer through the eye of the camera….

“I should have made you sign a waiver,” Rafe muttered from close behind, in the same moment she clicked the shutter.

“I only took one picture. I didn’t break anything.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of liability.”

“What do you mean?” Surely they weren’t in any danger. The storm was miles away, moving east.

“Never mind. Come on.”

He caught her hand and pulled her the last few feet down the slope. The ground was rough along the gravelly edge of the road, and Mariah stumbled, grasping his arm for balance. The muscle beneath her hand was like iron. Tense. She glanced up at him. His jaw was set, his mouth pressed grimly, his mind clearly on the business of packing up.

Mariah moved back as he opened the hatch to store the tripod. She stepped slowly from behind the truck, breeze flowing over her, along with a sense of unreality as she surveyed the storm. The beauty of the massive white clouds seemed suddenly eclipsed by the sinister air of the wall cloud, the blackish-blue mass churning faster, holding her mesmerized. The branches of a nearby cottonwood bowed and cold air rushed over her skin. She should have been frightened. But when the snaky gray funnel dropped from the cloud, she instinctively raised the camera.

“Mariah!”

Rafe’s voice came faintly from behind her, the wind whipping her name away. He wouldn’t like it if she used up his film…. She stared through the viewfinder, entranced as the funnel touched down.

“The Wizard of Oz tornado…” she murmured.

Click. The base darkened—with dust and debris, she realized. And it was coming closer….

She lowered the camera, eyes wide.

“Mariah!” Rafe gripped her arm, hauling her toward the truck door despite the fact that her legs didn’t seem to work. “You’re crazier than Jeremy! Get in!”

He hustled her inside. The wind beat at him as he rounded the truck, dust swirling, making him shield his eyes with his hand. He yanked open the door and shot onto the seat. Firing the engine, he swung the truck in a U-turn, skidding out of it to tear down the road, spraying gravel.

Mariah drew a choked breath at the sight of the churning funnel through the rear window, and her sense of unreality effectively vanished. But Rafe had only to keep heading south and they would drive out of the storm.

“We’ve got a right mover, Jeremy,” Rafe shouted into the CB mike. “I’m on a gravel road, west of 281. Are you in the path of the storm?”

Jeremy’s voice crackled over the airwaves, barely distinguishable as he transmitted. “…road ends…get the hell out—”

For Mariah, the last was clear enough.

“Hang on!”

She gripped the dash as Rafe turned the wheel sharply, heading east on a strip of gravel—straight on a course of interception with the storm.

And he’d called her crazy.

Had he actually made her feel safe from the storm? Had she actually wanted to kiss this madman?

This morning, thirty had felt old. Now it seemed much too young to die.

Mariah flinched, a cottonwood branch skidding across the truck’s hood. Her imagination, never lacking, conjured vivid images of what else the tornado had sucked up and sent spinning—plant life, homes, the people in them.

Ann Taylor.

How could Rafe take these risks after the death of his wife? His daughter depended on him. He was nothing like the responsible family men her father, brother and brother-in-law were. Not at all the kind of man she should want to kiss.

The next gust shrouded the road before them with thick dust, dragging against the truck until it seemed to crawl. A dark wall of rain closed in, slashed with lightning and rimmed with streaks of bright white. Relief left her weak. “The tornado is gone! Vanished! There’s only rain now!”

“It isn’t gone,” Rafe said tersely. “We just can’t see it. And that isn’t just rain. It’s a hailstorm.”

A tornado they couldn’t see. Like some invisible stalker. And hail. Somehow she suspected it wouldn’t be the tiny stones she used to collect from the sidewalk after a summer rain.

The first drops fell, a light rain that grew louder as hailstones littered the road and ricocheted off the hood. They came harder and faster, like her heartbeat.

Rafe dragged a blanket up between the seats. “Cover up, in case the windshield takes a hit.”

How would Rafe protect himself? She’d raised the thick quilt to her shoulders when a large stone struck the glass with a resounding crack. Dropping the blanket, she snatched tape from the dash, ripping off strips and slapping them across the new star in the window, stemming the flow of rain-washed air. Wind rammed the truck, a jarring reminder of the lurking tornado. They could die—and in that moment, all she could think was how she’d never had a child.

“Hang on!”

Rafe swung the truck in a southbound turn onto 281 and floored the gas pedal. Within moments, the hail stopped. The rain let up. A mile later, they’d driven from beneath the dark canopy of clouds, the skies lightening, the wind lessening to a breeze. Mariah searched for the tornado, but there was only the dark storm rotating across the prairie, leaving a broken trail behind.

Rafe stopped the truck, killing the engine. Her heart pounded in the silence. Gold-tipped fields of winter wheat waved gently on the roadsides in soft sunlight.

“You okay?” Rafe gripped her shoulders, his gaze delving into her eyes. A life-affirming awareness pulsed between them. Then he released her, pulling the blanket from her grip, tossing it to the rear. “I’d better survey the damage.”

The closing of the truck door jolted her. A delayed trembling shook her, the nearness of their brush with disaster striking her anew. They’d almost been killed.

And it was all his fault.

Mariah pushed out of the truck, tromping around front in her scarred shoes and tattered stockings. The flow of clean, damp air over dusty ground and dry pavement only heightened her awareness of nature’s unpredictable power. Ignoring the curls that frizzed across her face, she vented her emotions in a shaky voice. “This is all your fault.”

Rafe straightened from the smashed headlight he examined. “We’re safe now. And if I remember right, it was your idea to come along.”

His calm after the storm infuriated her. “You almost got us killed!”

Frowning, he twisted off the remains of a broken antenna. “Another way you might look at it is that I saved both our a—”

Mariah knocked the antenna from his hand. “I think you drove us into that storm just to scare me.”

His angry gaze bore into hers. “I drove us out of that storm the only way I could. We had a close call, but believe me, it could have been worse.”

“All in a day’s work?”

“That’s right.”

The sun burned over them, warming already heated tempers, fueling underlying sparks before Rafe turned away, continuing a post-storm inspection she suspected he made on a regular basis. He was probably already planning his next chase.

And she wanted no part of it. Her near brush with death had come with a revelation. She knew why she wasn’t sleeping at night, why her work was lackluster, why she noticed children everywhere. She wanted a child, and a dependable man to love her.

She strode to the back of the truck. Her gaze blazed over Rafe, who was nothing like her dear old dad or her brother. “Take me back to my car. And don’t worry—I want nothing to do with writing your story.”

She gave him no chance to reply, stomping back to grasp the handle on the passenger door.

Her breath caught in her throat. Rafe stood at the edge of the highway, the incessant breeze tugging his hair, his clothes. He stared after the departing storm, clearly craving to give chase again.

He was crazy.

And she was crazy for wanting him.