Читать книгу No Place Like Home - Robin Nicholas - Страница 9

There was nothing like knowing she had to do something to trigger the stubborn side of Mariah Morgan’s normally outgoing nature.

Such was the case, as, south of the Kansas/Oklahoma border and several miles west of Highway 35, she opened the door to the dubious ambience of rundown Trixie’s Café. The vanity plates, STRMY F5, on the mud-splattered 4×4 sport utility truck parked outside told her she’d finally tracked down the elusive, reclusive “Stormy” Taylor. But instead of feeling relieved, she struggled with resentment.

A feature on the storm photographer could save her job at Plain View Magazine—so her editor said of her “lackluster work” of late. But she found it hard to get excited over a story on a thirty-five-year-old who chased tornadoes for a living. Only an ingrained aversion to poverty had brought her here.

A hot, dusty breeze trailed her through the door, tugging wisps of her curly, dark hair from its tidy bun. Slinging her purse strap over the shoulder of her royal blue short suit, she shut the door resolutely, sealing in an onslaught of onions and coffee. Conversation came in bursts laced with adjectives like snaky and hellish, and terms like vortex and dryline, all from an unkempt group who looked more than capable of chasing down tornadoes.

All eyes turned her way and talk ceased abruptly, save for the husky voice of a tawny-haired man seated at the far end of the counter. His wrinkled field shirt hung loose of his jeans, his back turned to her as he continued to drawl sexily into the cell phone he held to his ear.

“You know how to reach me, sweetheart. Just be waiting.”

There came a pause during which he seemed to notice the quiet. Half turning on the creaky stool he slouched on, he zeroed sharp hazel eyes on her as the cause of the sudden silence. His gaze turned cautious yet aware as he spoke succinctly into the phone. “Later, sweetheart.”

Mariah flushed hotly as he pocketed the phone. The responsive flutter in the pit of her stomach annoyed her. Only one kind of man eyed a woman that way when he was talking to his sweetheart.

She turned her attention to the group occupying the table in the center of the café, wondering which one was Stormy—the burly old man in coveralls, the dark-haired devil using a laptop or one of two slender young men who looked like they belonged on safari. Realizing she’d have done better to blend with this group clad in khaki and denim, she envisioned herself in her Levi’s and forced a smile.

“Hello. I’m Mariah Morgan from the Wichita office of Plain View Magazine. I noticed the plates on the white truck outside and wondered if one of you folks might be Stormy Taylor.”

Eyebrows raised. Skeptical glances were exchanged. No one offered a word.

Then a husky voice drawled from behind her, “I’m Rafe Taylor.”

Mariah clenched her jaw. Hanging on to her smile with effort, she faced those assessing eyes once more. “Mr. Taylor.”

The occupants of the table behind her snickered.

“Rafe will do.”

“Rafe, then.” She would remain gracious; she preferred gracious to groveling, which was probably closer to the truth, all things considered. He hadn’t responded to any messages she’d left him at his headquarters in some obscure little map dot in southwest Kansas called Tassel. His secretary had finally deigned to take her call, only to send her on this goose chase to track him down—an obvious ploy to discourage her. The death of his wife during a tornado last spring, leaving him with a daughter to raise, had apparently triggered an animosity for all journalists, not just those who went after his tragic story. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she continued, “Your secretary helped me locate you.”

Another round of snickers ensued, which Rafe silenced with a wry glance.

…eight…nine…ten. Mariah exhaled and continued again. “As I told your friends, I’m from Plain View Magazine. We’d like to do a feature regarding your work as a storm photographer.”

“Why?”

Why? Most people didn’t care why. They just wanted to be written up in a magazine. Heaven only knew what it would take to tempt this man who obviously despised journalists. Striving for professionalism, she quoted, “Editors at Plain View believe your occupation appeals to human interest, thus enabling us to entertain readers while at the same time raising their awareness of the dangers of—”

“What do you believe?”

Feeling suddenly transparent, her jaw aching with tension, she said tightly, “Pardon me?”

“Why do you want to write this feature?”

Because if I don’t, my job will vanish, as surely as if one of your tornadoes swept it away. Mariah swallowed, her throat dry as Kansas dust. “Perhaps you’ll let me buy you lunch while I explain what the ed—what I have in mind.”

She thought he might refuse. She could see it in his eyes, in the stubborn thrust of his unshaven jaw. He was a handsome rogue, with an almost sultry sulky mouth and high cheekbones buffed by wind and sun. His brown hair shone as if in sunlight, some crisply cut strands standing on end—more a reflection of his impatience than the wind, she imagined. But it was her fingers, not his, that she envisioned pushing through the silky looking strands….

A cup clattered atop the counter, making her jump.

“Here’s your coffee, Stormy. Now quit harassing my customer and let her sit down.”

Trixie, Mariah surmised, flashing the small but sturdy woman behind the counter a grateful smile. Rafe shrugged his acquiescence, rising slightly from his stool in a faint show of manners. She’d bet there wasn’t an ounce of fat hidden beneath his rumpled shirt, his body lean and long, his jeans stretched taut over his muscled thighs. Mariah slipped onto the stool beside him, her black pumps tangling with his dusty hiking boots, her gaze locked with his for an electric moment before he sat, too. Hooking her heels on the rungs of the stool, she placed her purse on the counter, battling another irritating round of flutters.

“What’ll you have, miss?” Their hostess waved her hand dismissively at Rafe. “He’s already eaten.”

Taking an immediate liking to the denim-clad woman with her firm drawl, coffee-brown eyes and shoe-polish-black cropped hair, Mariah smiled. “I’d like iced tea and a BLT.”

“White or wheat?”

“Wheat, please.” She turned to ask politely if Rafe cared for anything, only to find his attention turned to the dark-haired devil at the table, who’d slipped on a headphone. Rafe seemed to wait for some sign as the man listened intently, obviously tuning out the conversation that had picked up around him.

Mariah took the moment to study Rafe. He didn’t strike her as crazy, as he was purported to be, following some of his risky chases. Despite the unholy gleam she’d seen in his eyes, he seemed intelligent, a deliberate type, diligent in his quest for…storms. Mariah sighed. There was just no getting around the fact that the man chased storms for a living, an absurdity she had to showcase on paper.

Trixie set a glass of iced tea on the counter and, murmuring a thank you, Mariah turned dismally to it, stirring in extra sugar from small pink packets on the counter. She was tired and hungry and more than a little discouraged. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately. After a restless night, she’d left Wichita, driving a hundred miles in search of “Stormy” Taylor, to write a story she didn’t want to write in order to save a job that her thoughts hadn’t centered around of late.

The scrape of a chair from a corner of the café drew her attention. A small boy, clad in an oversize T-shirt and baggy, denim shorts, climbed to a standing position on the chair and fed a quarter into an ancient pinball machine, putting a ball in play. He was cute, maybe six, with a mop of black hair that made her suspect he belonged to Trixie. It seemed she was always noticing kids these days. Probably because her sister and brother-in-law, who lived in Kansas City, had a baby on the way. Her brother and his wife in California already had three sons. The twinge of envy that accompanied her thoughts had become familiar. Turning thirty, with no husband in sight, apparently left a woman susceptible to such feelings.

The game ended abruptly. The boy stood forlornly on the chair, stirring her sympathy. Having grown up the poor kid on the block, she knew all too well what he felt like. When the quarter was gone, it was gone.

Which served to remind her why she’d chosen to write the story of her career about “Stormy.” She turned to face Rafe, only to find him studying her, as if he had his camera in hand, contemplating a portrait. Mariah froze, unblinking, acutely conscious of their knees brushing, of her face turned up to his.

“Ever seen a tornado?” he asked, the way one might ask if she’d ever seen a rainbow.

But there was a gleam of challenge in his eyes that put her on the defensive, that reminded her he was a journalist, too. “My mother always made me go into the basement when there was a tornado coming.”

Her sarcasm had Rafe chuckling before he could stop himself, a fact his fellow chasers didn’t miss, judging by the second silence from the table behind him. That she’d categorized him as an “outlaw” who chased only for the thrill was obvious. But it didn’t take a professional chaser to spot the storm brewing in Mariah’s pretty blue eyes. They were downright turbulent. Though when she’d watched Trixie’s boy, they’d gone soft and gentle, in that way a woman’s eyes softened only for a child.

At least, most women. His wife, Ann, had proved to be in a class all her own. He’d known and loved her all of his life, thought his dreams had come true when she’d loved him back. Sunny had come along before he’d realized that Ann had seen him, and the notoriety that came with his profession, as her ticket out of Tassel. She’d craved media attention as much as he’d come to despise it.

He’d made clear that for him, there was no place like home. Now he had to live with the guilty secret that Ann had been leaving him—and Sunny—the night she was killed. Getting past that guilt wasn’t easy with the press continually dredging up the story of her death. He was determined to shield Sunny from those trying to capitalize on his personal life.

Although, he had to admit, Mariah wasn’t sending out the usual greedy vibes. She seemed downright reluctant, maybe even resentful to be here. He cocked his head. “How come I get the impression you didn’t raise your hand for this assignment?”

Color rose in her cheeks. In her sophisticated clothes and hairdo he’d put her close to thirty, but she seemed very young in that moment, silky curls frizzing about her face, a dash of golden freckles showing through the dusting of powder on her pert nose. But the blush quickly gave way to that determination he’d come to expect from those seeking his story.

“I’m sorry if I gave that impression.” She held his gaze firmly. “I can assure you I’ll do my professional best if you’ll grant me two weeks of your time for an in-depth interview.”

Two weeks?

His comrades seated at the table had quieted again. He could feel their gazes trained on his back with the same intensity they applied to the sky. Stormy Taylor didn’t give interviews anymore, but they apparently sensed a change in the atmosphere.

They were wrong. The lady herself might be tempting, but the “in-depth” interview wasn’t. He rose from his seat, careful to keep from brushing against her silk-clad legs. “Sorry. But I’m not interested.”

“But you haven’t even considered—”

“I don’t need to.” He leaned near her to warn, “I won’t have my daughter reliving the pain of her mother’s death again through Mariah Morgan’s point of view.”

He could see the temper flash in her eyes, like a lightning strike. He could see each dark, curling lash. He’d lost track of position, gotten too close, the supreme mistake of curious chasers.

“Plain View is not a tabloid, and I am not a tabloid journalist.”

“That’s what they all say.” He stepped back, intending to join his chase partner, Jeremy, at the table. But Trixie’s boy, Jess, came running from the pinball machine, blocking his escape.

“Hey, Stormy. You goin’ on a chase?” Acutely aware Mariah listened, he said noncommittally, “Could be.”

“Jess, come around here and fill these sugar bowls,” Trixie directed her son. Then she added pointedly, “Stormy doesn’t have time to answer questions today.”

“Aw, Mom.” Jess rolled his eyes and plodded around the counter, climbing onto the stool his mother pulled up for him. Rafe felt like rolling his eyes, too, but Trixie would be burning his steaks for a month if he did. She could usually be counted on to run interference for him, but for some reason, she’d left him at Mariah’s mercy. Probably sworn off men again. Come to think of it, she’d burned Jeremy’s steak today….

Deciding not to meddle with those particular forces of nature, both women glaring at him now, he strode to the table and leaned over to study the data on Jeremy’s laptop.

But it was hard to concentrate with Trixie frowning at him, Jess pouting and Mariah turning her back to sit stiffly facing the counter, making him feel like he’d made it rain on their picnic.

He refused to feel guilty over turning down yet another risk to his daughter’s well-being. As Mariah focused her attention on Jess and his bowls of sugar, Rafe peered closer at the Doppler image that appeared on the screen.

These past three days, they’d chased storms over western Texas and into Oklahoma, making their way to Jeremy’s home base, a rundown farmhouse near the café. Now chances looked ripe for late-afternoon storms. They needed to check the data, try to narrow their target area.

But the forecast failed to hold his attention when Jess giggled and Mariah laughed; an unaffected laugh that told him she’d momentarily forgotten her mission—namely him. He watched a packet of sugar being exchanged from Jess’s small hand to Mariah’s pretty crimson-polished fingers.

“The National Weather Service just issued a storm watch extending from central Oklahoma up into south central Nebraska. North central Kansas is ranked a high-risk zone.” Jeremy grinned as he drawled out the report, his dark eyes lit with excitement, as if he was sitting in paradise instead of Tornado Alley’s hot zone.

Rafe knew that for Jeremy, chase fever, which struck before the primary chase season of mid-April to mid-June, was a permanent condition. He was as close to being an outlaw chaser as Rafe was far from it since the birth of his child. Having a daughter had changed Rafe’s approach to his work for the better. Until lately…

Rafe knew his photos had made a difference in the study of storms that spawned killer tornadoes. That had been the purpose of his career. But the chase had taken on a different meaning since Ann’s death. He was taking risks he didn’t normally take, aware that each storm he “captured” on film gave Sunny a better understanding of the tornado that had claimed her mother’s life, helping Sunny to cope with her loss and her resulting fear of storms.

Mariah shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, no doubt sensing a story in the air. He kept his voice low. “We’re within striking distance if we leave now.”

Their fellow chasers, two impatient young college men aiming for careers in meteorology, and Gus, an old farmer who’d served as a weather spotter for years, had already scooted back their chairs. The college boys left in a whirlwind of khaki, not about to miss any action. Gus planned to go home and warn his wife of fifty years; she liked to tag along when he chased.

Jeremy moved into action, deftly disassembling his equipment. At the counter, Mariah dug bills out of her purse, tucking a twenty under a corner of the untouched plate Trixie had brought her. She slipped a dollar to Jess, and Rafe smiled reluctantly. But when Mariah’s gaze met his, he pursed his lips, straightening from the table. “The dryline looks to merge right on top of Highway 281.”

Jeremy’s eyes gleamed as he rose. “We should drive right into the son of a gun.”

“Let’s go.” Rafe was grimly aware of Mariah hitching her purse over her shoulder, scooting her small butt off the stool, ready to chase him down as surely as he’d chase a tornado.

Jeremy called out to Trixie, “We’ve got weather coming this afternoon. You and Jess be ready to take shelter.”

“I know what to do,” Trixie shot back at him.

With no doubt that Trixie would look after Mariah if need be, Rafe nudged Jeremy out of a stare-down with the stubborn café owner. Jeremy would have better luck facing down a tornado. As for himself, he wasn’t going to get caught face-to-face with pretty Mariah again.

He reached the door first, pulling it open. Jeremy pushed through with his equipment, the competitive edge still there, no matter that they were partners, gathering photos for a stock photography agency. Rafe followed him out, digging keys from his pocket, exchanging a round of “keep in touch” and “watch your backside.” They’d each find their own route, seeking storms based on their own forecasting quirks, converging later in the vicinity of the largest storm.

Jeremy climbed in a battered black pickup that often served as a second home. Rafe curled his hand around the chrome handle of his truck’s door, adrenaline kicking in. A strong jet stream moved this storm. He wasn’t going home tonight without “capturing” a tornado on film for his daughter.

“Wait!”

Impatient, he glanced back all the same when Mariah called out from the café door. She jogged toward him, gravel scarring her leather heels, her purse dangling by its strap from her hand. He grimaced. Anything for the story.

In a sense, he understood; he’d reached the point where he would do almost anything for a picture. Since she’d failed to win his cooperation, he suspected Mariah would resort to the ultimate threat, the way they all did, warning him that she would write her own version of his personal past if he didn’t reveal the facts.

The sun-heated chrome burned hot against his palm, the need to protect his daughter churning through him. Jeremy gunned his pickup, fishtailing by with a grin and raising a cloud of gravel dust. Rafe muttered a curse and yanked open the truck door. He wasn’t waiting around—

He drew up short, Mariah suddenly wedged between his hip and the truck seat, blocking his slide in. She squinted up at him, the sky still a deceptive baby blue—kind of like her innocent eyes.

He braced himself for the threat, or maybe even a bribe.

But her gaze turned dark and desperate, her voice low and gritty as she told him, “If I don’t get this story, I’ll be fired.”