Forgotten Boxes (17 page)

Tarn ushered Charity from his parents’ house, down the long corridor
toward his own quarters.

“You’ll stay the night.” His words were as much a command as
an invitation.

“I can find a hotel.”

“No point. You’ll be back in the morning. Go on in, I’ll bring
your luggage.”

Still a bit dazed, Charity did not protest. While he took the
side door outside, she let herself into the remodeled barn and automatically moved
toward the kitchen. She found the Keurig coffee maker and selected them both a rich,
bold Italian brew; their coffee was left untouched at his mother’s table.

Her mind was awhirl. This, the third of the forgotten boxes,
had produced the most dramatic response yet. And it had not even been opened.

Tarn found her sitting on the couch when he returned. She stared
into the fireplace, unconcerned that no flame danced within.

“Cold?” he asked. “I can light the fire.”

“What? No, no I’m fine. I made coffee.” She offered him his cup
and immediately launched into, “Tarn, what is going on? I don’t understand what
just happened.”

He sat beside her on the couch. Instead of answering, he blew
on his coffee before taking a cautious sip. Charity recognized it as a stalling
technique; she already knew he preferred his coffee scalding hot.

Finally he spoke, his voice low. “Why did you really come here,
Charity?”

She cut her eyes toward him, her back stiffening. His distrust
hurt more than she thought it would. She pulled a sharp breath into her wounded
soul and used it for fortification against the pain. “I’ve already told you why.”

When she sat there like stone, Tarn filled the uncomfortable
silence. “You have to admit, it’s quite a coincidence,” he grumbled.

“I agree.” Stiffly.

His low voice was like distant thunder. “But you’re still going
with that?”

She kept her face averted, her words small. “The only other explanation
was fate.” She turned to him then, a fat tear escaping over her lashes and sliding
down her cheek. Her heartache crawled its way up her throat and scraped out on a
raw note. “But you pretty much did away with that theory.”

The pain in her voice sliced through Tarn’s heart. Now they were
both hurting.

Long moments ticked away. Neither spoke. The easy silence from
earlier in the day was now a force all its own, swelling between them, pushing them
apart. Charity shifted her legs away from him, making room for the heavy intrusion.

Tarn finally broke. “Your aunt, huh?”

Not trusting her voice, Charity answered with a nod.

He tried again. The rough hitch in his voice spoiled the effect
of casual conversation, but Charity recognized his effort. “Found them in her barn?”

“Yes.” Catching another wayward tear on her fingertips, she cleared
the stifling emotions gathered in her throat. Her knees made a subtle turn inward.
If Tarn could try, so could she. “Her husband was the president and driver for Kingdom
Parcel.”

“Harold Tillman was your uncle?”

The sharpness of his words drew her gaze. “You knew him?”

“I knew
of
him.”

Judging from his harsh tone, he did not have a favorable impression
of the man.
Join the crowd
, Charity thought.

“They say he killed himself. My aunt kept the clothes he wore
the day he died, bullet hole, blood stains, and all. They’ve been hanging in her
bedroom all these years.” A shiver of abhorrence ran through her shoulders before
she continued. “Don’t you think that’s rather odd?”

“Borderline sick,” he muttered under his breath.

“I know.” Her sigh was heavy. “I came to Vermont to clean out
my aunt’s house and settle her estate. I wasn’t looking for treasure; I was looking
for some connection to her, some link to my family’s past. Instead, I find forgotten
boxes and bullet holes.” She squeezed her blue eyes shut, raking her fingers through
her hair. “Both of them haunt me at night. I can’t explain it, but I feel compelled
to deliver the boxes. They belong to somebody out there, not Aunt Nell, not me.”
She peeked a glance at him. “Does that make sense to anyone but me?”

“I can understand that.”

The burden on her shoulders shifted a bit.
He gets me
,
her heart smiled.

After a moment, she made an admission. “I couldn’t bring myself
to throw away the clothes, either. Creepy as it sounds, they’re outside in my car
as we speak. I can’t explain this either, but I think my aunt kept the clothes all
these years because she wanted justice. Justice for Harold’s supposed suicide.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t think Harold Tillman killed himself.”

“Based on…?”

“Based on a lot of things, including his calendar. Why would
he schedule a dental appointment if he were going to kill himself?”

His thick brows knitted into a single shaggy line, prompting
her to elaborate.

“I took a little detour yesterday,” she confided. “I shouldn’t
have, but when I realized how close I was to the home of the old Kingdom Parcel,
I was curious. And since the door was unlocked, I really wasn’t breaking and entering,
no matter what the Barney Fife wanna-be thought.”

“You went to their warehouse?”

She nodded. “And I found Harold’s calendar. He was going on a
fishing trip and had a dental appointment planned. Plus, all the Wednesdays had
stars on them, like there was something he looked forward to on those days. It didn’t
look like the calendar of someone who was depressed enough to kill himself,” she
insisted. This oddity still haunted her.

Tarn had a wry sense of humor. It came out now, with a droll,
“Because we all know how much fun the dentist is.”

His remark diffused the tension still lingering in the air. Charity
bumped her shoulder against his, pretending a scowl. In spite of herself, she grinned.

His gaze tangled in her smile. “Barney Fife?” Tarn queried.

Her shoulder still touching his, Charity told him about the visit
to the warehouse. He listened quietly, his mustache quirking upward a time or two
as she described the debacle inside with the clattering screws and tumbling shelves.
The smile died with mention of a gun. Thunder rolled into his expression.

“He had a gun? Why didn’t you tell me that to begin with!”

“I was certain he had me confused with someone else. Once I got
my nerves under control, I didn’t give it a lot more thought. I was too busy having
an argument with my aunt’s picture.”

Again the knitted brows, but he asked only one question. “You’re
sure he didn’t follow you?”

“Yes.”

Another moment of silence lay between them, this one less stiff.
The evening was settling in, reminding them of their intimate quarters for the night.
Their eyes met, skittered away. Met again.

“My suitcase?” Charity finally asked.

“There by the bathroom door. Towels are in the closet.” Mention
of towels brought to mind a shower. A shower brought to mind bared skin. Bared skin
brought all sorts of wicked thoughts to mind. Color appeared in Tarn’s cheeks, mirrored
by the pink flush of Charity’s face.

“Should-Should we check on your mom?”

“Good idea.” It took a moment for his body to shift into gear.
Charity watched as he walked to the door and pressed the intercom button. Until
now, she had not noticed the small panel nestled into the wall. In low voices, he
and his father exchanged a brief conversation.

“She’s resting,” Tarn reported when he was done. “He’s given
her something to sleep, so she should be out for the night.”

Charity nibbled her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I upset her, Tarn.
You have to believe that.”

“I know.” His eyes were warm, heated by the glowing flecks of
brown within. She felt their heat, even from across the room. His voice was a low
rumble. “Sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “You know what?” she said. “I think
we just had our first fight.”

***

Thirty minutes later, she was dressed for bed and curled up on
the couch, waiting for Tarn to get out of the shower. Good thing she preferred modest
pajamas, she thought, rather than frilly negligees.

Tarn came through the living room, carrying a set of rumpled
sheets. He had on flannel sleep pants and a white t-shirt, his big feet bare as
he padded across the floor. “I put fresh sheets on my bed. The room’s all yours.”

“No, I’m not about to take your bed!”

“Sure you will. Finished the guest bed in the loft, but there’s
no mattress yet.”

Her eyes darted to the area above the steep stairway. “Finished
as in
built
?”

He shrugged as if it were nothing. “Don’t get many overnight
guests, so my bed is the only choice for now.”

“This couch is fine. Very comfy, in fact.” She wiggled against
it to prove her point.

“That’s why I’ll sleep on it, and you’ll take the bed.”

Charity’s laughter bubbled out at the mere thought of his big
frame stretching out on the couch. Over-sized or not, the couch was not nearly big
enough for him to sleep on. “I’m already here and comfortable. And half-asleep as
it is. Let me stay.” She gave an exaggerated yawn and pretended to be settling in
for the night.

“Snuggling up with a box, I see.” He lifted a shaggy brow as
his gaze zeroed in on the Kingdom Parcel package in her hands. Dropping the sheets
into a chair, he sat down beside her, close enough that their arms brushed, close
enough that she could smell the clean, masculine scent of his soap. Both sensations
set off a flurry of butterflies in her belly.

“Just imagining what might be inside.” Her eyes glistened with
sincerity as she lifted her gaze to his and insisted, “Tarn, I meant no harm. I
had no idea she would react so violently to seeing this box.”

“I know that.”

“Why…why did it upset her?”

His gray eyes turned troubled. “I think it reminded her of a
bad time in her life.”

Charity absently traced the outline of the package with her fingers.
“You know, when I set out to return the boxes, I had no idea the reactions I would
get. I thought it would be fun. I thought people would get a kick out of getting
a lost package after thirty years. But with the exception of Carl Upjohn, this entire
mission has been a colossal failure.”

“Who’s Carl Upjohn?”

The diamond ring nestled comfortably between her breasts, suspended
from a chain around her neck. She grinned as she fished the ring out and flashed
the huge gem toward him. “The man who gave me this,” she said.

Tarn misunderstood. The devastation was clear upon his beard-covered
face. “You’re engaged?” he croaked.

“What? No! No, of course not.”

“
That
is an engagement ring. A really big engagement ring.”

“With a really sweet, romantic story behind it. But not my story.
Here, settle back down and let me tell you.” She grabbed his arm and tugged, forcing
him to relax beside her. It took both her hands to encircle his huge bicep. Her
fingers lingered, tucking into the crook of his arm as she began her tale of meeting
Carl Upjohn.

That story led to the one of Rita Anderson, which was not nearly
as pleasant to tell. By the time she finished, Tarn’s arm was firmly around her
shoulders and she was sniffing away tears. He murmured words of comfort, whispering
them into her hair. It did not matter what the actual words were; the beautiful
timbre of his voice beguiled her with its deep rumble. The sound was like a balm
to her soul, weaving a cocoon of warmth and security around her tattered emotions.

By now exhausted, she snuggled closer against him, soaking in
the warmth of his nearness. She was all but asleep in his arms. When he grew quiet,
she complained with a whimper. “Keep talking,” she begged on a whisper. “I love
your voice.”

The vibration of his chuckle delighted her even more. “What do
you want me to say?”

“Anything. Just keep talking.”

“Not much of a talker.”

Charity snuggled in deeper. “For me.”

Tucked beneath his chin, she could not see the smile that lifted
his mustache. Knowing all about spells, falling deeper into the magical feel of
holding her in his arms and experiencing the softness and sweet essence of her body
pressed against his, Tarn knew he would do just about anything for her. If she wanted
him to talk, he would tell her the longest story he knew. It might not be romantic,
it might not even be interesting, but it was something he could talk about at length.

As he began with the legend of how the native Indians first discovered
maple syrup and launched into a descriptive narration of the entire sugaring process,
Charity interrupted only one time.

“Mmm,” she murmured in a drowsy voice. “Grade-A Dark and Delicious.”

They spent the whole of the night on
the couch, swaddled in each other’s arms. Delighted with waking up in his arms,
Charity forgot to be self-conscious. She grinned up at him, loving the sleepy look
in his gray eyes when he peeled one lid open and gazed down at her. She knew he
struggled to hide the smile within his beard.

“Coffee,” he grumbled.

Slow to move out of his arms, she peeled herself off him. “Are
you always a bear in the morning?” she teased.

“Are you always cheerful?”

She pretended a pout. “Complaining?”

“I’ll get used to it.”

His answer warmed her even more than his body did, and it had
been like a heater, keeping her toasty the whole night through. The only thing that
felt cold were her toes, exposed to the chill of the mountain air. Hearing him suggest
there would be more mornings to come, the warmth seeped down the length of her,
even to the soles of her feet.

“I’ll fix breakfast,” she blurted out, trying to contain her
happiness. “What would you like?”

“Bacon and eggs will be a good start.”

Charity laughed. “And what’s the finish?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders, working a crick out of his neck
from sleeping at an odd angle all night. “Pancakes?” he asked hopefully. “Biscuits?”

“You have a mix, right?”

“Come on, I’ll help.” He lumbered slowly to his feet. Despite
the stiffness of his body, it was the best night’s sleep he could remember ever
having in his life. He knew it was because of her. As he ushered her toward the
kitchen, his hand settled on the small of her back, low enough to suggest intimacy,
innocent enough to suggest respect. Charity all but floated from the room.

They worked well together, moving about the small area with ease.
Tarn placed thick slices of bacon into a cast iron skillet while Charity whipped
up a batch of pancakes, adding a few personal touches to the mix. When Tarn bit
into the first pancake, sweetened with a touch of honey and a hint of cinnamon,
his eyes shone with appreciation.

“Beautiful, smart,
and
a good cook. Ma’s right, you’re
a keeper.” He said the words casually, but he covertly watched for her response.

Charity blushed prettily as she slathered maple cream onto a
pancake. “You’ll have to start over,” she said. “I fell asleep while you were telling
me why a west wind is best, rather than a southerly wind. Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning? That would take a while.”

She grinned from behind her coffee cup. “I know.”

“Maybe tonight.” The implication that she would still be here
added a rich depth to his voice.

“I must say, you tell a sweet bedtime story.” She grinned at
her own brilliance. “Sweet, get it?”

He pretended to scowl. “Are you always like this in the mornings?
Hopping all over the place, making corny jokes, smiling like you just won the lottery?”

“Honestly? No. I’m in a particularly good mood this morning.”

“So am I.”

She could not resist flirting with him a little more. “
This
is a good mood?” she teased.

“This is.” Without warning, he caught her wrist and tugged her
forward. “Kiss me good morning, woman,” he growled.

“So you’re bossy in the morning, too,” she murmured, her eyes
zeroing in on the slash of his mouth.

His lips barely moved, but she felt the rumble of his words.
“Not bossy. Just know what I want.”

His kiss was a blend of flavors still fresh on his tongue. Cinnamon,
maple, coffee, and Tarn — all things she loved.

The thought of loving Tarn no longer seemed illogical. It seemed
completely natural. Love was the only explanation for this burst of warmth inside
her soul, this feeling of rightness in his arms. Charity tightened her arms around
his neck and returned his kiss, knowing he would feel the smile upon her lips as
it came bubbling up from her heart.

“My kisses that funny?” he mumbled against her mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Charity managed to answer, “I’m that
happy.”

He finally set her away from him, a satisfied smile tickling
the corner of his mustache. If not for the twinkle in his gray eyes, she might have
thought he complained when he grumbled, “Breakfast is getting cold.”

Charity settled into her chair, still smiling. He pretended to
be gruff and stern, but she was quickly discovering that her Tarn was nothing but
a big old growling bear, more fur and cuddles than any real roar.

Her Tarn
. She liked the sound of that. A dreamy expression
glazed over her eyes and brought a pleased chuckle from her breakfast companion.

They kept up a light banter as they finished their meal and cleaned
up the kitchen, but the mood gradually shifted, becoming heavier as the morning
aged. By the time both were dressed for the day, Charity nibbled nervously at her
lip.

“I hope your mom is better this morning,” she worried. “What
if I upset her so badly she has a real set-back?”

With one large hand, Tarn gathered her up and hauled her into
his embrace. “You didn’t. Called while you were getting dressed. She’s feeling much
better this morning, and ready to talk.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but…I’m scared. What if there’s something
terrible inside the box? What if that fourth box has something even worse? I know
it sounds crazy, but what if that man with the gun was really after me? What if
–”

Tarn stopped her mid-worry. His huge palm cupped her entire cheek.
“What if you stop worrying and trust that everything will be okay? I would never
let anything happen to you, sweet Charity.”

Her arms tightened around his thick waist as she hugged him hard.
“I know, but –”

“No buts.” Tarn slipped his hand to the back of her neck, pulling
her face in close so that he could give her a very long, thorough kiss. Charity
soaked in his confidence and strength, trusting this man with her whole being.

“Would it sound crazy if I asked you to stay?” he whispered.
His beard tickled as he murmured the words against her lips.

The wild thump of her heart all but drowned her breathy reply.
“No crazier than it would sound when I said yes.”

Tarn heard the words, however, and rewarded her with a tender
kiss.

The kiss heated as his hand trailed downward, pressing her closer
still against him. They were an amazing fit, her curves cocooning into the solid
planes and angles of his large body. His thumb skimmed the side of her breast with
agonizing languor. Her flesh quivered in response, begging for more, but Tarn was
set on a slow path along her silhouette. His work-roughened hand traced her shape,
memorizing the curves and fullness with deliberate concentration. Charity gave a
gurgle of protest, unable to articulate her impatience. When his hand reached the
curve of her hip, slipped to the fullness of her buttocks and squeezed, the kiss
became molten.

With the same infuriating slowness, Tarn tempered the kiss back
down to a moderate heat. By the time he raised his bearded head and set her away
from him, Charity felt as if she had been melted, molded, and re-created into a
new woman.
Maybe being in love does that to you
, she thought in a daze. After
that kiss, she knew she would never be the same.

“Ready?” Tarn asked, his breathing still slightly off kilter.

She could only nod. She scooped up the Kingdom Parcel box on
the way out the door. It was time to deliver the package.