Читать книгу The Missing Maitland - Stella Bagwell - Страница 9

He didn’t know how it had happened. One moment he’d been wrestling with her in an attempt to stop her flying fists. The next thing he knew her soft, warm lips were on his.

Ribbons of heat radiated through both his shoulders, and slowly it dawned on him that the source was her fingers pressing gently into his flesh. Yet those two spots of warmth couldn’t begin to compare to the twin furnaces of her breasts thrust tightly against his chest. They were burning right through to his lungs, robbing him of his breath and his senses.

The small part of his brain that was still working told him that this was how a man slipped and forgot the dangers stalking him. It shouted that if he wanted to get killed he should just keep on letting Blossom Woodward dally with his senses.

The idea sent cold reality surging through him like an icy wave, and with it he found the strength to tear his mouth away from hers.

“What in hell is going on here?” He barked the question in a hoarse voice.

Blossom stared at him, her expression a mixture of dreamy bemusement and self-deprecation.

“What’s the matter with you?” she snapped. Then, pushing out of his arms, she jumped back to her side of the seat and began to tug down the straight skirt that had ridden up along her thighs. “Haven’t you ever had a woman kiss you before?”

“Not like that!”

Blossom’s face flamed with embarrassed heat, but she still managed to meet his gaze directly. “I hope that’s a compliment.”

He groaned loudly, then said several curse words she couldn’t have brought herself to say even if she’d been in a dark closet with no one around for three miles.

“It means you’re crazy and so am I!” he yelled. “It means you could have just gotten us killed!”

Jerking his head to the right, he squinted through the back windshield of the truck at the darkness beyond. He could see no lights anywhere, but that was hardly enough to make him happy. Anyone wanting to slip up on them could have turned out their headlights and walked right up to the truck door, stuck a gun to their heads and blown them away without either of them knowing what happened.

Angry at himself more than her, he jerked the gear-shift into low and gunned the vehicle back onto the highway.

Across from him, Blossom decided it was time she put on her seat belt. Escaping was not foremost in her thinking now. In fact, it wasn’t in her thoughts at all. She was too preoccupied with her own rash behavior and with trying to understand what had prompted her to initiate the kiss that had just taken place between them.

Blossom silently groaned as the whole incident replayed in her mind. She had to admit she’d been giving Larkin more than just a kiss. She’d been making love to the man! As for him, she didn’t know what had been going on in his mind. But hers was still generating X-rated images.

Had she totally lost her senses? she wondered helplessly. She had no idea who this man was or what he was up to. She did know that he was arrogant and insolent and he was holding her against her will.

Yet she couldn’t stop the erotic thought that he’d also been holding her against his body as well, and she’d relished every second of the captivity. My word, she wasn’t just losing her mind, she was turning into her mother!

Refusing to let that horrible notion remain in her head, she gave him a sidelong glance full of accusation and, God help her, appreciation.

“I fully intend to make you reimburse me for the cellular phone. You shouldn’t have thrown it out the window!”

He flipped on the turn signal and directed the truck onto a dirt road. Dust boiled in their wake as he once again stomped on the accelerator.

“If I’d wanted to alert the police, I would have done so back in Austin,” he explained with an exaggerated patience that grated on Blossom. “But you’re smart enough to know that.”

Darkness had completely fallen over the landscape, but in the arc of the headlights, she could see that the road they were traveling was carrying them deep into the woods, probably somewhere in the Pedernales park, she figured. She tried not to picture where they might be going or what tomorrow would bring. If she did, she would surely become hysterical, and that was a luxury she couldn’t afford at the moment.

Peering at his profile, illuminated by the muted lights from the dash panel, Blossom asked, “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A criminal?”

“No.”

She took a deep breath and raked her disheveled hair back from her face with both hands. “A few moments ago, you implied that someone could or might be following us. Do you honestly think those goons with assault rifles wanted to kill you or me? Or both of us?”

His jaws tightened. “When you can feel the wind off a bullet, that pretty much implies it was meant for you.”

Blossom wasn’t convinced. “Look, I know I’m not the darling of Austin’s reporters. I realize people frown on what I do and how I do it. But that doesn’t mean they want to shoot me down. And as for you—well, to hear you tell it, you’re just a simple gardener. I doubt anyone would risk spending the rest of his life in prison just for the kick of taking out a groundskeeper.”

“So you’ve got it all figured out. Guess you can put your speculations to rest now.”

He was so smooth, so sarcastic, that she wanted to bash him over the head with something. Mainly her fist. But her knuckles were already sore from her earlier assault on him. Besides, she didn’t want to risk ending up in his arms again. The temptation—or she should probably view it as the danger—was simply too great.

“I don’t have anything put to rest,” she retorted. “The last thing I remember before you grabbed me was that Megan Maitland, her friend Clyde Mitchum, and her grandson Chase had just walked out of the clinic. In case you don’t know, Megan is more than just the CEO and co-founder of the Maitland Maternity clinic, she’s incredibly wealthy and a very prominent and notable citizen of Austin. She dotes on her grandson, Chase. Which would place a high ransom on the kid’s head. And let’s not discount Clyde, either. From what I can gather, he and Megan knew each other in the past. He’s come back to Austin to close the distance between them and so far Megan hasn’t exactly pushed him away. In my opinion, those three are much more likely to draw attention from maniacs with guns than you and me.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

Flustered and weary, she stared at him. “Can you be certain those three weren’t the target?”

No, he thought with a silent curse. He couldn’t be sure of anything right now. But as soon as he got Blossom and himself out of imminent danger, he was going to find out.

“I’m not certain of anything, Ms. Woodward.”

Once again she crossed her legs and folded her arms against her breasts. The toe of her high heel swished up and down with agitation. “So we’re back to Ms. Woodward now instead of Blossom. What’s the matter? Afraid if you get too personal I’ll try to kiss you again?”

He’d never encountered such impertinence or bravado from a woman. Especially one as young as Blossom Woodward. If the situation hadn’t been so risky, he’d have the pleasure of taking her down a notch or two. But for now, he had to make sure she didn’t get to him—in any way.

“You can try, but that’s as far as you’ll get.”

Stung by his retort, Blossom clamped her mouth shut and stared out the passenger window.

She’d die before she touched the man again, she silently swore. He could choke her with his own hands or toss her back to those idiot gunmen. Either way, he would never be the recipient of her kisses again!

Nearly twenty minutes later, the pickup came to a halt in a small clearing. Blossom whipped off her seat belt and peered through the windshield. They were parked on a rough incline with the nose of the truck a great deal higher than the rear. In front of them was some sort of structure shrouded by huge shade trees.

“What is this place?” she asked. The words were the first she’d spoken since her silent vow to hate the man forever.

“A cabin that belongs to a friend of mine. Where we can stay. Hopefully, where we won’t be used for target practice.”

He opened the door and slid to the ground. When he came around and opened the passenger door, Blossom remained rooted to the seat.

“What’s the matter?” he drawled. “Your legs won’t work?”

Blossom wasn’t sure if anything about her worked anymore. Especially the common sense she’d always prided herself in having. But the last impression she wanted this man to have of her was that she was a weak, helpless female.

“My legs are fine. But I’m not at all certain I want to go into that—house—with you,” she told him frankly.

He shrugged, then lifted the baseball cap from his head and ran a hand over his thick hair. “Suit yourself. As for me, I’d rather eat and lie down on a regular bed than stay out here in the dark.”

Not waiting for her reply, he turned and left her on the truck seat. Blossom watched his dark figure walk onto the shallow porch of the cabin, then disappear through a door. Moments later the dim glow of a light appeared in a single window on the front of the structure.

Apparently the man actually intended to spend the night here, she concluded. And since they were so far back in the boondocks that a bloodhound couldn’t find them, he wasn’t the least bit concerned about her taking flight.

Damn the man, if he hadn’t thrown her cell phone away, she could have used it now. But that was mostly her own fault. She should have sat tight and waited for a better opportunity to attempt to dial 911. Instead, she’d panicked and tried to carry out the plan right in front of him. Stupid, Blossom. Real stupid!

With a weary sigh, she flopped over sideways on the seat and closed her eyes. She could sleep here in the truck seat if she had to, she thought. In a couple of hours, the night air would begin to cool. With the windows rolled down she wouldn’t melt in her own sweat. But right behind that encouraging thought came the realization that the mosquitoes would make a feast of her. Just the thought had her rubbing her legs and arms in anticipation of the itchy pain.

Pushing herself upright, she gnawed fretfully at her bottom lip while staring at the cabin. Was there water and a bathroom inside? she wondered. Food and a place to lie down? If there was and he was enjoying those luxuries without her, she’d make him suffer.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she grabbed her purse and climbed out of the truck. Carefully choosing her steps over the rough ground, she stopped now and then to glance around her. There were no lights connected with other human inhabitants, no sounds except for a choir of frogs and katydids and the occasional call of a whippoorwill. She’d never been in such an isolated place in her life.

When Blossom finally gathered the nerve to open the door and step inside the cabin, Larkin was standing with his back to her at a crude counter made of wooden crates. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her presence with words or even throw a glance her way, and Blossom realized that he’d been expecting her, as though he’d known what she would do long before she knew herself. The idea was unsettling. Even more so than being stranded here alone with the man.

“There’s a bathroom on the back porch to the right,” he said. “It’s supplied with gravity-flow water. I’m sure you’ll want to use it before we eat.”

Relieved by this bit of good news, Blossom scurried across the room and out a narrow screen door. As he’d stated, there was a tiny bathroom built on one end of the porch, complete with sink, shower closet, towels, washcloths and bar soap with the tangy scent of pine.

After using the basic facilities, she washed her face and hands, then brushed her hair and secured it into a ponytail with a rubber band she found in the bottom of her purse. Blossom didn’t bother fishing out her compact. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she looked awful, but in this bizarre situation, comfort was more important than her appearance.

Back inside the cabin, she found Larkin scraping the contents of a large can into a black iron skillet. She watched as he placed it on a narrow cookstove with four gas burners, then touched a lighted match to the burner beneath the skillet.

“What is that?” she asked, inclining her head toward the heating food. “It looks like someone has already eaten it.”

“Hash. It might not be gourmet food, but it will keep you from going hungry.”

He stirred the blob with a wooden spoon, and as Blossom continued to watch him, she got the impression that he knew his way around a kitchen, even one as rustic as this.

The idea quickly spawned more questions in her mind, and she realized for the first time since the two of them had spun away from the clinic that she’d been so busy worrying about him having harmful intentions toward her that she hadn’t stopped to consider his personal identity.

“You seem pretty good at handling that spoon. Do you know how to cook things from scratch instead of emptying a can?”

“When it’s necessary.”

“Is that often?”

He turned away from the stove and began to fill a graniteware coffeepot with water. “Whenever I want to eat something other than fast or frozen food.”

“So—you don’t have a wife who cooks for you.”

“No wife. And even if I did have one, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’d want to cook for me.” He glanced at her as he spooned coffee grounds straight into the water. “Are you good in the kitchen?”

She had the naughty urge to tell him she was good anywhere. But she quickly bit back the words, shocked at her own brazen thoughts. Those bullets whizzing past her head must have done something to her. She wasn’t behaving like herself tonight. Especially when she looked at Larkin.

“Not really. I manage to do canned soup or sandwiches.”

His lips twisted into a mocking line. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you’re not the domestic sort.”

His barb shouldn’t bother her. After all, she’d never cared about winning a Martha Stewart contest. She had other things on her mind, like getting the scoop on an adulterous city official before some other television station or newspaper caught wind of it. But for some ridiculous reason, Larkin’s remark had left her feeling properly insulted.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t the domestic sort,” she corrected him. “I just don’t know much about cooking. There was never anyone around to teach me.”

She was twenty-one, he knew that much. He’d also managed to garner other information about her. Such as the fact that she had no siblings. He’d learned she did have parents, but neither lived in Austin. Yet those were only outward facts about the woman. He knew nothing of who she was on the inside. Or why she’d been searching for a man called Luke Maitland.

“What about your mother?” He plopped the lid down on the coffeepot, then turned and placed it on the burner alongside the heating hash. “Or did your family have a hired cook?”

In spite of herself, Blossom let out a caustic laugh. “Hardly. We weren’t poor, but hired help of that sort was beyond our means. Although Mother would have loved it. She hated everything about domesticity.”

He turned and, for the first time since she’d entered the cabin, allowed himself a leisurely look at her. She’d swept her long hair up into a ponytail on the crown of her head. The exposure of her dainty ears and long, lovely neck made her look absurdly young. Even vulnerable. An adjective he’d never expected to associate with Blossom Woodward.

“In other words, you didn’t drag up a chair to the kitchen counter to stand in and watch while she baked cookies.”

To his surprise she didn’t come back at him with a flip retort. In fact, he was sure he saw a dark flash of regret in her eyes just before she glanced away from him.

“Not all little girls are lucky enough to have a mother like that,” she said, then after a moment she slanted a pointed glance back at him. “What about you?”

Nothing registered on his face as he shifted back to the hash. Picking up the wooden spoon, he pushed it slowly through the warming food. “My mother is dead now. But…while she was around, she tried.”

It hadn’t been Veronica’s fault that she’d had little more than roach traps to live in or barely enough money to put food on the table for four hungry kids, he thought. In her own way, she’d tried to make as much of a home as she could for them. Her untimely death and the brutal circumstances surrounding it had left a hole in him that he figured would never heal.

A few steps away, Blossom studied the distant, preoccupied expression on his face. At this moment he was far away from her, and she could only surmise that thoughts of his mother had tugged him to some other place in his past.

Larkin was a young man. Even if the woman had given birth to him in the latter part of her childbearing years and she’d died only recently, she couldn’t have been old. The notion filled Blossom with curiosity. Yet she didn’t ask him to elaborate about his mother. From his earlier comments, she’d gathered that he thought of her as a prying reporter. He wouldn’t believe that her questions could ever be strictly from a human interest.

“My mother is in Florida now,” she said as she made a quick survey of the cabin’s interior. “With her fourth husband. She’s been married to him for a year now. Much longer than I ever expected.”

The small room contained a living, dining and cooking area. Along the front wall was a plaid couch, the green and orange colors faded and worn from years of use. To the right of the couch, in the far corner, was a small square table constructed of mismatched pine boards. Huge trunks of hardwood trees about a foot in diameter and twice that much in height passed for chairs. The area where she and Larkin stood was the cooking area, complete with a single iron sink covered with chipped and stained porcelain, a relic of a cookstove. Wooden crates covered with dusty white curtains served as cabinets.

Next to the table, across the back wall of the room, was a small doorway. Another dingy curtain partially covered the open space. From where she was standing, it was impossible to see what was beyond the curtain. She could only surmise that it was a bedroom.

“Are you saying your mother and marriage don’t mix?” he asked.

She grimaced. “My mother likes men too much to stay married to one for very long. Her motto is too many men, not enough time.”

He wrapped a dish towel around the skillet handle and picked it up from the burner. “This stuff is ready,” he said. “Get some plates out of the cabinet while I carry it over to the table.”

He hadn’t asked her; he’d told her. But Blossom wasn’t going to point that out to the man. She was hungry, and so far he’d done all the meal preparation. Besides, she was the type of person who could bend. Up to a certain point.

After a quick search of the cabinet shelves, Blossom found a stack of chipped and mismatched plates, cups and bowls. To one side of the dishes, stored in a plastic jug, was a handful of silverware. She dug out two forks and spoons and, after wiping everything off with a damp dishcloth, carried the dining equipment to the table.

Larkin dished the food equally onto their plates, and by the light of a coal oil lamp they began to eat the simple meal. Even if the globe had been washed of dust and soot, the primitive lighting would have still been dim. Across the table, she was barely able to discern the lines of his face.

“I’ve had candlelit dinners brighter than this,” she said in an attempt to make light of their intimate predicament.

“I’m sure.”

With each bite, she could feel herself growing more weary. Her shoulders and eyes were both beginning to droop, making her reach for the camp coffee he’d brewed.

“What does that mean?” she asked, while pouring the dark liquid into one of the cracked cups.

“Nothing. Just that I’m sure you’ve had lots of…dining out.”

He made the word dining sound like a sexual romp, and she couldn’t make up her mind whether to be insulted or flattered. Blossom realized she wasn’t necessarily a raving beauty. Yet she was aware that the combination of her blue eyes, blond hair and lush curves were an attractive package to men. Even so, she’d never been overwhelmed with offers for dates.

It’s that air of independence you have, Blossom. Men like to think they’re needed and they don’t feel that way with you.

Dena Woodward had often spoken those words of warning to Blossom. Even so, it wasn’t in her to pretend to be something she wasn’t. And anyway, she’d be crazy to take her mother’s advice. Dena might know how to attract men, but keeping them around as a family member was another story altogether.

“In spite of what you’re thinking, I’m not much of a socializer,” Blossom told him. “For the most part men keep their distance and I keep mine.”

Larkin shook his head with faint amusement. “You’d try to make a person believe water isn’t wet.”

She shoveled a forkful of hash into her mouth and chewed. After she washed it down with a swallow of coffee, she said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before today. Yet you behave as if you know me better than your own grandmother. Have you been…stalking me?”

It was true that he’d come to Austin because of her, Larkin silently admitted. And it was also true that he’d been wanting to learn some things about her. Mainly why she was searching for Luke Maitland. But he’d certainly not been stalking her. For any reason. In fact, it was still hard for him to believe that fate had virtually dropped the woman into his lap.

“First of all, I never knew my grandmothers. Secondly, as I’ve tried to tell you before, Blossom, I’m not a deranged person. If I’ve been implying that I know you personally, it’s only because I’ve seen you at work on television and made my own deductions about you.”

He could be telling the truth, but she couldn’t be sure. For the past two months she’d had the eerie feeling that she was being followed and watched. The notion could have been all in her mind. But what if Larkin had been stalking her all this time, just waiting for a chance to abduct her. The idea sent a river of goose bumps over her heated flesh.

“Then that puts me at a disadvantage,” she said, “because I haven’t been privy to any information about you.”

He shrugged as though she shouldn’t view that as a problem. “There’s nothing interesting or necessary for you to know about me.”

“Are you from Texas?” she asked. “You don’t sound like it.”

After he’d turned eighteen he’d never lived in one place long enough to acquire a local accent. His job had turned him into a tumbleweed that carried nothing but dirt behind it. For ten years he’d not had a family or home and he could only think of a handful of people he could call true friends.

“No. I’m not a Texan. Just a transplant.”

The hash on her plate was gone so she put down her fork and looked at him through the meager light. Lines of fatigue were beginning to etch his face, but Blossom instinctively felt there was more to his weariness than just the stressful day they’d had. She couldn’t imagine why the idea touched a soft spot inside her. Besides keeping her here against her will, he’d been nothing but a jerk.

“You don’t want to tell me about yourself, do you?”

“No.”

“Why?” she persisted.

Without glancing her way, he poured himself some of the coffee. “Because the less you know about me, the better.”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Normally when she was interviewing someone it was very easy to keep her thoughts focused on the questions she needed to ask. But with Larkin, one look at him made her intentions fall to the wayside. No matter how hard she tried, Blossom couldn’t forget how it had felt to be in his arms, to taste his lips. She’d never experienced such an electric state of euphoria and it frightened her to think how much she wanted to feel it again.

“When are you going to let me go? Take me back to Austin?” she dared to ask.

His brows lifted as he looked across the table at her. “That all depends.”

“On what? Those people who shot at us?”

His smile had nothing to do with being amused. “So you’re finally accepting that we were the targets and not Megan Maitland.”

“Not really.” The cabin was hot and his close proximity was making it even hotter. She could feel sweat trickling down her temples and between her breasts. Her skirt and blouse would be ruined before the night was over. She hoped that was the only thing. “However, since you seem so adamant about us being the bull’s-eye, I’m beginning to think you have enemies. I think that you recognized those men with the assault rifles and that you know why they came gunning for you.”

His jaw like concrete, he rose from his seat and picked up their empty plates and silverware. As he carried the dirty dishes over to the sink, he said, “Like I told you before, Blossom, you’re thinking too much. There’s a bed in the next room. Go lie down and let me do the worrying.”

Blossom didn’t stop to consider her reaction. Like a shot, she was across the floor, clamping both hands around his arm. “Don’t treat me like a child or an idiot! This is my life! And though you might play these sorts of games with other people, I don’t!”

He glanced at her fingers digging into his flesh, before slowly and calmly lifting his gaze to her face. “Believe me, Blossom, this isn’t a game.”

“Then I demand to know what’s going on. And why I’m a part of it!”

A blaze suddenly sparked in his eyes, warning Blossom he was on the edge of an explosion.

“You demand,” he repeated with a snarl. “Look, little lady, if it wasn’t for that big nose and even bigger mouth of yours, you wouldn’t be in this predicament now. You’ve dished out a heap of misery to people and didn’t blink an eye while doing it. Well, sister, if you haven’t learned it by now, what goes around comes around. You’re reaping your rewards!”

Fury hit her like the full force of a hurricane, and before she realized what she was doing, her hand reared back to slap him. But she never managed to fulfill the urge. Instantly, his fingers were gripping her wrist, forcing her hand back to her side.

“You won’t be slapping me, Blossom. Not tonight. Or any other night. And furthermore, if you don’t quit trying to hit me, you’re going to get your backside tanned with the palm of my hand!”

“Why you…insolent beast! You have no right to do—”

Without warning his hands were on her shoulders, propelling her rapidly backward through the doorway with its dusty curtain and farther still until the back of her legs collided with the side of a bed.

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” he growled back at her. “You think no one has a right to their privacy. If your digging and your questions expose someone to danger, you just mark it off as a part of the job. To hell with their life as long as you get your story. Isn’t that the way you work, Ms. Woodward?”

Pain and humiliation burned through Blossom, and to her utter horror, tears began to sting her eyes. Damn it, she never cried. Crying was a sign of weakness. Besides, it didn’t help anything. She wasn’t about to let this man break her down to a sniveling female.

Furious with her own reaction to this man, she said, “I’ll bet you wouldn’t be talking to me like this if I were male.”

He barked out a caustic laugh. “You’re right. I wouldn’t be talking at all. I’d have already knocked your lights out.”

And he wouldn’t have had any trouble doing it, she thought with an inward shiver. The man was tough, strong, and he possessed a keen mind to boot. The combination of those three attributes made him a dangerous man. And yet she sensed he would never hurt her physically, or any woman, for that matter.

“I’ll bet,” she quipped.

His nostrils flared and then slowly his blue eyes began to glide over her face. One by one he inspected each feature, until finally his gaze settled on her lips. Hot lightning instantly arced between them. Blossom felt stunned, mesmerized by the desire to lean into him and feel the scorch of his touch.

Suddenly aware that the atmosphere between them had taken a drastic change, he removed his hands from her shoulders in the way a man might drop a snake, only after realizing he’d been bitten.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a bed behind you,” he said sharply. “Get in it and go to sleep.”

She opened her mouth, planning to tell him to quit ordering her around, but he didn’t give her the chance to utter the words. Turning on his heel, he left her in the little darkened room as though he’d washed his hands of her for tonight. She wondered furiously how many more times the man intended to insult her.

“Aren’t you going to tie me up?” she called out to him. “Or guard the door to make sure I don’t slip off in the night?”

From somewhere in the other room, his low voice came back at her. “We both know you’re not going anywhere.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, each word coated with sweetness.

She heard the springs in the couch creak from his weight, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded as though he was bent over. “Because you have no idea in hell where you are or how to get out of this place. Added to that, you’re too soft to try an escape on foot and I have the keys to the truck.”

Turning slightly, she carefully felt over the top of the mattress. The way her luck was running there’d be a rat’s nest or rattlesnake coiled up beneath the covers. But she couldn’t worry about either. She had two choices: climb onto the bed or sleep on the floor.

“How do you know I can’t hot-wire a vehicle?” she persisted.

She heard a thunk and realized he’d been unlacing and removing his boots. Apparently he planned on getting comfortable.

Unconsciously, her hand went to the buttons on her blouse. It would be heaven to undress, she thought. But to lie in here naked with him only a few steps away in the next room would be indecent and all too risky.

His voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts. “Because if you really did have that talent, you wouldn’t have been stupid enough to mention it. And don’t bother to get up in the night and start poking around for the keys,” he added. “I have them on me. And I think you know better than to risk getting that close to me again.”

Oh, yes, Blossom knew better. But at this very moment, getting close to the man was all she could think about. The physical attraction she felt for him was insane and certainly unexplainable. Yet she wanted to make love to him. Even more than she wanted to go home.