Night Scents (36 page)

Clate nodded. "Absolutely."

That wasn't the answer Piper was looking for from him. "I'll see to myself, thank you very much. I'm not helpless. Just because—"

"Jesus, Piper." Andrew glared at her. "If Clate hadn't come by, there'd be a big hole in your roof where your butt went through."

"There would not. I was in perfect control of the situation."

"The hell you were."

Liddy rolled her eyes, and the boys giggled. Benjamin seemed ready to jump in on Andrew's side. Piper could feel herself firing up for another round with her brothers, but her father stepped forward. "You need sleep, Piper, and so do your brothers. We all had a scare today." He clamped an arm over her shoulder, his version of a hug. "None of us could stand to lose you, kid. It's not that we don't believe in you or appreciate your abilities."

She knew. It was just easier to argue and snipe than to admit that she'd scared herself today. "I'm glad I can count on you all."

"You can," her father said, "anytime."

They left, and the house was suddenly very quiet and dark, and Clate Jackson was still sitting at the kitchen table.

Chapter 16

Welcoming the sudden quiet of his house, Clate stretched out his legs and watched Piper pace. She wrung her hands together, pushed them through her hair, occasionally balled them into fists and punched them at her sides. Whether or not she was willing to admit it, under all that brusqueness and argumentativeness was a sweetness and generosity that most in Frye's Cove seemed to recognize. No wonder Hannah had conjured up a man for her and her brothers tended to be overprotective.

Finally, she threw up her fists and let them flop down to her sides. "I give up. I can't sleep here."

"So that's why you're pacing. And here I thought it might have something to do with your house almost burning down." He smiled, still settled back in his chair. "Piper, there's more than one bedroom in this house. You don't have to sleep with me."

She scowled at him. "That's not what I meant. I want to sleep with you." She caught herself, a touch of color coming into cheeks that had been pale too long. Clate thought this rather interesting, considering they'd already slept together more than once. She said, carefully, "I mean, that's not why I'm reluctant to sleep here. It's because of Jason Frye."

"He's dead, Piper."

"I know that, but this was his house, and if he killed my great-grandparents and then had the gall to marry Hannah—" She shuddered visibly, the rush of color disappearing fast. "It gives me the creeps."

"We don't know if he meant to kill them. Or even if he did."

"It doesn't matter."

"What's it got to do with where you sleep?"

She stared at him. "This was his house, Clate. He lived here his whole lite."

"I'd think someone as attached to old houses as you are wouldn't worry about what ghosts and spirits might be lurking under the rafters. What's your alternative?"

"My tent," she said with sudden decisiveness, and marched out the back door.

Clate rolled up off his chair and followed her out. It was dark and chilly, a stiff breeze kicking up. He admired the purposeful-ness of her walk as she headed across the terrace and down onto his lawn. A woman with a plan. After a day like hers, he'd have sunk into the nearest bed by now, never mind who else had slept under the same roof in the past two centuries. But she was off to pitch a tent.

"Where are you going to pitch this tent?" he asked, coming up beside her. He didn't relish the idea of spending the night in a tent, but he'd do it. Not that she planned to invite him. But he didn't plan to wait for an invitation, either. She wasn't spending the night out here alone.

"Outside my studio. It's far enough from the house it shouldn't smell there, and the ground's nice and even. I don't think it'll rain." She glanced up at the sky as if to check, then marched on toward the break in the hedge. "And there aren't any rabid animals around."

"Always a positive."

She ducked through the hedges, and he went right after her. He supposed she could accuse him of hovering. He didn't care. He planned to hover until whoever had said she was finished this afternoon on the phone was in the custody of Ernie-the-police-chief.

The stars were just coming out, the moon almost full. Piper stumbled several times on the way up to her studio, but never fell. The tent was musty and old, up on a high shelf in her studio closet. They got it down and laid it out on the ground just outside the little shed she'd fixed up, painted, and converted into her studio. He imagined her doing it, working hard, planning, arguing, dreaming.

"I suppose you're not planning to let me sleep out here alone," she said, hands on hips, breathing hard.

He gave her a steady look. "I don't think that's what you want, Piper."

"Would it matter?"

"Not in this case, no."

"My tent," she said with sudden decisiveness, and marched out the back door.

Clate rolled up off his chair and followed her out. It was dark and chilly, a stiff breeze kicking up. He admired the purposeful-ness of her walk as she headed across the terrace and down onto his lawn. A woman with a plan. After a day like hers, he'd have sunk into the nearest bed by now, never mind who else had slept under the same roof in the past two centuries. But she was off to pitch a tent.

"Where are you going to pitch this tent?" he asked, coming up beside her. He didn't relish the idea of spending the night in a tent, but he'd do it. Not that she planned to invite him. But he didn't plan to wait for an invitation, either. She wasn't spending the night out here alone.

"Outside my studio. It's far enough from the house it shouldn't smell there, and the ground's nice and even. I don't think it'll rain." She glanced up at the sky as if to check, then marched on toward the break in the hedge. "And there aren't any rabid animals around."

"Always a positive."

She ducked through the hedges, and he went right after her. He supposed she could accuse him of hovering. He didn't care. He planned to hover until whoever had said she was finished this afternoon on the phone was in the custody of Ernie-the-police-chief.

The stars were just coming out, the moon almost full. Piper stumbled several times on the way up to her studio, but never fell. The tent was musty and old, up on a high shelf in her studio closet. They got it down and laid it out on the ground just outside the little shed she'd fixed up, painted, and converted into her studio. He imagined her doing it, working hard, planning, arguing, dreaming.

"I suppose you're not planning to let me sleep out here alone," she said, hands on hips, breathing hard.

He gave her a steady look. "I don't think that's what you want, Piper."

"Would it matter?"

"Not in this case, no."

A small smile. "If I had a dog, it might be different."

He grinned back at her. "It'd have to be a big dog."

She stood back to calculate which spike and pole went where, and Clate could feel the peace settle between them. It was decided. He would stay—which she knew already had been decided—but she wouldn't argue. She'd had a bad scare today, and her first impulse, Clate knew, was to assert her independence. The lingering effect, he expected, of losing a mother at two and having a father and two older brothers raise her.

Familiar with the tent's design, Clate started in to work. "I used to sleep in a tent a lot like this when I first came to Nashville. I'd pitch it way out in Percy Warner Park. I'd get kicked out periodically, go out on the river, get kicked out there. Finally, I saved up enough for a little apartment on West End." He reached for a spike, glinting in the silvery light. He hadn't talked about those early days in Nashville in a long, long time. "Irma Bryar gave that tent to me. I think I still have it somewhere."

Piper was quiet next to him. "Irma Bryar. She's the woman who died."

"That's right. She took me under her wing when I was eleven and on the road to hell." He stopped, glanced up at her. Could she ever imagine, ever understand? "My parents married young. My mother was self-destructive, and my father was a mean drunk. They couldn't take responsibility for themselves much less a kid. Irma Bryar helped me take responsibility for myself. When my mother died in a fall when she was drunk one night, I left home."

Piper's face had gone deathly pale against the night sky. "I'm so sorry."

When he saw her expression, he regretted having said anything. She had enough of her own problems.

"What about your father?" she asked quietly. "Is he still alive?"

His shoulders ached, and the wind suddenly seemed colder. "He's tried to see me a couple of times. Supposedly he's been sober twelve years and has a new wife, two kids. A boy and a girl. Seven and nine years old. God, I hope he can do better by them than he did me. For their sake. I've accepted my own past. It was what it was."

But Piper wasn't interested in his past. "You mean you have a brother and sister you've never seen?" He could hear the shock in her voice, the absolute certainty of what she would do. She shook her head. "I couldn't stand it. I'd have to see them."

He stopped working and looked up at her. She could never really understand what his childhood had been like, and he was glad for it. "I expect you would."

Piper's eyes popped open, her heartbeat surging as she stared into the pitch dark. Something had jarred her out of her sleep. She remained very still, listening, uncertain of what had awakened her. An owl. The wash of the tide. She could smell the mustiness of the tent and feel Clate next to her and the hard ground beneath. Had she simply had a bad dream? She couldn't remember dreaming at all, remembered only Clate making love to her. That was the only way to describe what had happened between them. He understood that she was wrung out, empty, and he'd given himself to her, slowly, tenderly, asking for nothing in return but her shimmering release. She'd been so tired, so utterly relaxed, that she'd fallen off into a dead, restful sleep.

There it was. A different sound, one not of nighttime along a sea marsh. But she couldn't identify it.

She sat up on her elbows, alert to every sound.

Clate reached out gently and touched her upper arm. "It's okay," he whispered.

"What—"

"Shhh."

He'd heard something, too. As she listened carefully, she could distinguish the sounds of movement out in her yard. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. A scrape of what sounded like metal against dirt. They weren't steady sounds. They came intermittently, as if whoever was out there was trying desperately not to make any noise.

Clate eased up into a sitting position and leaned toward her, whispering, "He must have parked down the road and walked in. I heard him on the road."

"Who is it?"

"Someone who doesn't know you and I are up here in a tent."

She tried to control her racing pulse. "I wish I'd brought my baseball bat."

"Not to worry." He spoke in a whisper as he fumbled in the darkness, quietly, and produced something that he held up. Piper couldn't quite make it out. "I supplied myself with some nasty-looking tool out of your studio."

She reached over, found his hand, and felt the smooth, cool metal outline of his intended weapon. "It's an antique whalebone knitting needle."