Hidden Pearl (35 page)

She sat back a little so that she could see his profile. "Then why are you so afraid of loving me?"

"Were we talking about love?"

"Haven't we been? Without using the word, haven't we both been?"

He sucked in a breath. "You're a tease."

“I am but one who follows through.” She bent forward again, this time kissing his jaw, the faint bristles tickling her lips. "Are you trying to scare me away?"

"I've tried. It didn't work." He knew he had never wanted to succeed.

"Maybe you didn't want to," she said reading his mind as she ran her finger over his full lower lip, across the width of his mouth. "Tell me about what you do want," she whispered.

"Tell or show?" he asked his smile slow and sensual. “Where’s Hank?”

"I think he's developing those photographs he took of you and me."

He groaned. "You two and your cameras." As her finger brushed along his jaw, teasing up to circle his ear, he swallowed. "You're not playing fair, woman."

"Why do you call me woman?"

"Because you are." He bent forward, his lips against hers as he lightly kissed her, then pulled her onto his lap, his arms coming around her like bands of steel. "You're a woman in every sense of the word."

No matter how hard he clasped her to him, it couldn't be enough for Christine. She wanted to say something she knew she might lose the chance to say if she didn’t do it now. When he finally released her, she whispered, "I love you."

He ground his teeth together against the leap of hope. "You think you do."

"Why would you think I don't know my own mind?" She played with a button on his shirt, loosening and rebuttoning it, then fascinated by the muscular chest she'd partially uncovered, she loosened it again, followed quickly by another.

"We're in a difficult situation. It tends to make people cling together."

She grinned. "Most of the time we seem to argue when that happens,” she said putting her arms back around him, her one hand at the back of his neck, her other threading through his hair as she claimed his lips in a kiss mimicking the one he'd given her.

“That too,” he said when he could breathe again.

"Why do you call me woman one minute and treat me like a child who doesn't know her own mind the next?"

"I'm not treating you like a child. You think I'd hold a child on my lap the way I've got you? You think I'd kiss you like I just did if I thought of you as a child?"

"Then?"

"I don’t want to hurt you either."

She smiled, her gaze met his. "I suspect that’s the price of loving someone." She bent to undo another button.

"I want to believe in love," he admitted. "It's just I haven't seen much evidence of it."

"Open your eyes."

"They are open."

"Are they? Life changes, Mr. Taggert."

"Some things don't."

"For instance?"

"The barriers between us."

"Only in your mind."

"They're in my name. What kind of man do you think is named Storm Walker?" He thought of all the Indian slurs, the shame that had been heaped on his head when he was too young to deal with it.

She smiled as she brushed his shirt more widely apart. The muscular expanse was tempting, the urge to kiss him there irresistible. Afterward, she lifted her head. "Want to know what I think of when I hear that name?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“A man is one who walks through storms as though they were spring rains. A man who brings excitement and energy with him wherever he is--a thunder and lightning man--a man who stands above others."

He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe her so badly that his stomach hurt. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the smile on her lips.

"Loving you makes it easy to tell you all I feel," she said. "I've never felt so free in my life. You should try it."

And die later, he thought, because if he bared his soul to her, then found out she didn't mean it, he would not want to live. He thought again of the dirty little Indian boy, the child looking for his father in a dark bar, being pushed back out onto the street to cry in an alley. He remembered that child all too well and all his success hadn’t erased the images.

"I don't mean to upset or pressure you," she said, snuggling back against him, her hand on his shoulder, her body against his more pressure than her words. "I just wanted you to know how I felt in case tomorrow doesn’t go so well."

He sucked in his breath. "Don't go with us," he asked again.

"I have to. I couldn't stay here and wonder."

His arms tightened around her. "Christine--"

"Hey, want to see the photos?" Hank asked, bursting into the room. When he saw them cuddled together, he stopped. "Maybe not."

"No, now is a good time," Christine said, leaving S.T.'s lap. She smiled back down at him. "I just realized, we've got all the time in the world for this."

S.T.  followed her to the table where Hank was laying out the black and white photos. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut when he saw the first one, the beautiful, pale-skinned woman, the dark-haired man.

"They're works of art," Christine said, patting Hank on the arm.

S.T.  stared at one of the photographs. Hank had snapped it just as he had turned toward the camera, his face fierce, a vivid contrast to the dishcloth and plate in his hands, but it was Christine who dominated the photograph. She was looking at that dark-skinned man, a playful loving expression in her eyes, her blond hair flying loosely around her face, her hands deep in the sudsy water. It would be the one he would keep, would ask to have when this was all over. Then at least for that one captured moment, he would be able to believe love did exist.

S.T. parked the Silverado to the side of a dirt road about a mile east of the compound, a hill between them and the main buildings. Getting out, he checked his wristwatch, making sure it matched Hank's for time. "You sure you don't want the gun?" he asked, loading the cylinder of his .357.

Hank shook his head. "Don't like guns.”

S.T.  shook his head as he shoved the gun into his belt. "I think I've asked you this before, but what the hell are you doing out here then?"

"Same thing I did in 'Nam, taking care of people." Hank grinned.

"There are easier ways to satisfy your need for civic duty," S.T. quipped as he locked the truck, putting the key on top of the back tire, hidden but accessible to any of them who made it back.

"Yeah, but they aren't as exciting."

"You want exciting, try a video game," S.T. shot back. He glanced at his watch again. "Okay Soul's service starts in fifteen minutes. That gives us enough time to get there, then we'll have an hour before we have to clear out."

Christine bent to retie a lace on her hiking boot. The scrubby oaks and pines with limited brush cover wouldn't lend much shelter to anyone. She hoped Soul wouldn't be expecting them. She wished she also believed it.

S.T. met Hank's clear gaze then pointed to the south. "You two head for that ridge and cover the ground between there and here.  I'll take the area nearer the hill."

"I don't like us splitting up," Christine complained as he'd expected.

"It's the smart thing," Hank agreed. "We cover more ground and are less noticeable if we don't all go together." S.T. nodded, until Hank added, "But Christine should go with you."

"The area you're heading for is rougher. It'll take two of you," S.T. said, not adding his real reason that it was also farther from the buildings, thereby hopefully safer. It also was not where he actually expected to find graves.  "Remember what you're looking for--flat stretches of fairly open ground, then freshly dug soil, anything that looks like it’s been disturbed." He hoped if he made the assumption they were going to take his orders, they would. "We'll meet here at twelve." They had agreed if any of them found what they thought were graves, they would come back after dark to explore them. There was time now only to reconnoiter the ground.

They walked part way down an animal trail together, then S.T. gave Christine a quick kiss. He looked at Hank. "Take care of her."

Hank nodded, then they separated, S.T. carrying the memory of Christine's eyes filled with worry as she finally turned from him. He didn't know if it was upsetting to him to remember her like that or made him believe that maybe, just maybe she did love him.

#

"We might as well head back to the truck," Hank muttered. "There aren't any more level places out here; and if we've seen a grave, I don't recognize it."

Christine nodded, feeling felt tired, sweaty, dirty and frustrated at finding nothing that could end this debacle once and for all. She hoped S.T. had been more successful.

They were almost to the Silverado when the slight noise at their back warned them they weren't alone. Before they could do more than turn, hoping it was S.T., Christine heard George's voice, "What a delightful surprise." She and Hank swung around to face George, who stepped out from behind a tree to lean back against it, a rifle cradled in his arms and beside him another tall man.

"We trespassing or something?" Hank asked, holding out his hands innocently.

"Or something," George agreed with a grin. He lifted the rifle and ordered the other man to search them.

“So where’s the breed?” George asked when he was told they were clean.

"Who?" Christine asked.

George walked up to her and reaching out, slapped her face before she could so much as step back. The blow snapped her head back but angered her more than hurt her. George smiled at her. “You may wrap my brother around your pretty little finger, but not me. When I ask a question, I want an answer.”

Christine put her hand up to her stinging cheek. “I don’t understand what your problem is. I brought my friend up here to see this area. He’s a photographer. I never dreamed Peter would object to our coming and taking a few photos.”

“Where’s your camera?” George asked with a chuckle.

“In the car,” Hank said. “We were just looking it over trying to decide where we wanted to photograph.”

"It was worth a try, but no soap. Now you either tell me where he is, or this gets nasty." He stepped back a pace, pulled the trigger on his rifle, letting off a shot into the ground before he swung the gun back to point at Christine's chest.

"No guns," Hank muttered. "Don't like guns."

"What's wrong?" Christine turned to face him, saw the glazed look in his eyes. "Are you sick?"

George interrupted. "It doesn't matter what's wrong, so long as neither of you move." He shifted the barrel of the gun. "Since you like guns so little, maybe you'd like to tell me where Taggert is." He pulled the trigger again, the bullet whistling between Hank and Christine.

Hank's eyes widened at the gun now pointing at him. "I can't do it, Sarge. Don't make me."

George frowned and looked back at Christine. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," she snapped back. "He was in Vietnam, maybe it's a flashback."

George laughed. "Flashback, huh? You folks seem real prone to them. Wasn't that what made old Taggert go off the deep end out here? Maybe there's some kind of virus in the air."