Only By Your Touch (16 page)

“You’re right. She has been gone for a bit.”

Ben dried his hands and stepped over to the door that opened from the family room onto the back deck. Sure enough, his assistant in training appeared to be having an in-depth conversation with Pokey, the convalescent skunk, who was housed in a cage just outside the master bedroom’s French doors.

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame to watch her. With a double layer of glass separating them, he strained to hear what she was saying.

“I really am a nice lady. If you’ll just lower your tail, I’ll prove it by cleaning your cage and giving you food and fresh water.”

Tail poked proudly out behind him, Pokey hobbled in a tight circle inside the wire enclosure.

“Okay.” Chloe settled her hands at her hips. “Let me put it another way. Either lower your tail or starve. Your choice.” She wrinkled her nose. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you smell to high heaven? No offense intended, of course. I’m sure lady skunks find your cologne very sexy.”

Ben was grinning when he opened the door. At the sound, Chloe jumped so violently that he was surprised she didn’t part company with her sneakers. Hand at her throat, she shot him an accusing glare. “Don’t
do
that.”

He stepped onto the deck. “What seems to be the major malfunction out here?”

She touched a finger to her lips. “Not so
loud
. I’m in his line of fire.”

Ben chuckled and approached the cage, shuffling his moccasins and making more noise than he usually would to prove a point. “He isn’t going to spray you, Chloe.”

“He’s agitated,” she insisted. “See how he’s circling? And his tail is up.”

“He normally carries his tail trailing out behind him like that. When skunks spray, they whip their tails high over their backs and throw their butts in the air.”

“No need to get graphic.”

Ben could see she was seriously worried. He bent to open the animal’s cage. “He’s just anxious to be fed,” he assured her, “and you’re torturing him.”

“Yes, well, I worry about silly things, like how I’ll buy groceries if I can’t go to work.”

Reaching inside the pen, he stroked the skunk’s striped back. “Pokey, meet Chloe. She’s a little paranoid, but she’ll get over it.” As he said that, Ben realized that he honestly believed she might. The skunk
arched its spine for petting, much like a cat. “There, you see? He just wants breakfast.”

Tensed to bolt, she inched closer. Judging by the wary looks she kept shooting his way, Ben wasn’t sure which of them made her more nervous, him or the skunk.
Time,
he assured himself. They’d had a nice few minutes on the deck this morning, and though it had taken some doing on his part, she’d finally relaxed. With twice-daily exposure to him, she’d soon stop being so skittish. He burned to know why there were shadows in her eyes in the first place. Her husband, probably. Only somehow the pieces to the puzzle didn’t quite fit. She didn’t strike him as the type to stay in an abusive marriage. . . .

He turned his attention to replacing the newspaper lining the bottom of the cage. When he glanced back up at her, he forgot what he was about for a moment. She’d left her hair down today, and it cascaded to her slender shoulders in a wild array of curls. With the morning sun behind her, the tendrils caught the light and blazed like sun-struck copper, creating a brilliant nimbus around her head. He understood now why Shoshone warriors of old had been so fascinated by redheads. She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made a man yearn to touch—and lay claim. His grandfather definitely would have approved.

“What?” she said.

Caught staring, Ben tried to think of an excuse, but his mind had gone as blank as a sheet of copy paper. “I, um—nothing. I’m sorry.”

She plucked at her pink knit top, which should have clashed with her hair but didn’t. It also clung to her breasts, revealing delightful details. Wise move, plucking it away from her chest that way. He didn’t know if it was the breeze or an instinctive female reaction to a man’s heated regard, but something had hardened her nipples.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Hell, no, he wasn’t okay. He wanted her. And five years of denial was making it damned hard to convince his body that he could wait.

“I’m sorry. I just went spacey for a second.”

She moved closer to the cage. She was wearing that soft, musky scent again today. “I can’t believe you call him Pokey.”

“He isn’t navigating very fast with that foot.”

“Still.” She crouched beside him to study the skunk. “He’s too elegant for a name like that.”

Her top gaped away from her chest as she leaned forward to gingerly pet the animal, giving Ben a glimpse of perfectly shaped, creamy breasts. He could now say with absolute certainty that there were freckles below her collarbone. A man could entertain himself for hours, connecting the dots. “What name do you suggest?”

She studied the skunk for a moment. “Sir Galahad.”

“
Sir Galahad?
Aw, come on. You can surely do better than that.”

“It’s better than Pokey.” She thrust a finger through the wire and wiggled the tip, which brought the skunk hobbling toward her. “There, you see? He’s grateful. Pokey? That’s demoralizing.”

Ben took another gander at her breasts, which were edged with the scalloped lace of her white, front-clasp bra. It had been a while since he’d fumbled with hooks and eyes, but he remembered the gratification that came when man triumphed over frustration.

“Yeah, well, when you work with as many animals as I do, you run out of clever names. Not that Galahad is particularly original.”

“How about Winston?”

He was starting to wish she’d stop bending forward that way. “Winston works.”

“Winston it is, then.” Scratching the skunk’s sloped nose, she said, “He’s darling.” She leaned farther forward, God help him. “You are, yes, you are,” she crooned. “Now I feel silly for being afraid of you.” She glanced up. “If you start calling him Winnie, I’ll help him get even.”

Ben chuckled in spite of himself. “Winnie’s a girl’s name. I wouldn’t insult him like that.”

“What happened to his foot?” she asked.

“The bastard with the .22 shot him.”

“In the
foot?
”

Ben nodded. “He’s got good aim, I’ll say that for him.” He was okay now, he thought. She had straightened to look at him. That helped. Tops like that should be outlawed—along with front-clasp bras. “Whoever he is, he’s either had formal training with weapons, or he’s spent a lot of hours practicing.”

Ben tossed out the skunk’s water, added fresh from the jug Chloe had carried out, and set the dish back in the cage.

“Why are you convinced it’s a man?” she asked.

He considered the question for a moment. “Women are vindictive.”

“Watch it, buster.”

He chuckled and shook his head. She made his heart feel light. “Well, it’s true. I mean it as a compliment. Women need a reason. Even if it’s only an imagined reason, they usually don’t do stuff like this unless they have one.” He gestured at the skunk. “What do you suppose he ever did to make some woman shoot him in the foot?”

She watched Winston eat for a moment and then rose to a standing position. “Shooting an animal in the foot is—” She broke off and shook her head. “Only a very sick person would do such a thing.”

“Exactly.”

He bent to retrieve the cat food. Chloe collected the jug.

“Now I understand why you’ve posted such a large reward. Whoever’s doing this has to be stopped. It’s terrible.”

“I just hope somebody calls me.” Ben studied the woods. “And the sooner I get a call, the better. He could be out there right now.” He centered himself on the thought. His blood pressure, which he felt certain had been clear off the chart a moment before, dived to an acceptable level. “Sometimes, I hear the shots. Other times not. When I do, I always go looking for the animal.”

“Oh, Ben.” Her voice rang with sadness. “When you can’t find them, it must make you feel so helpless.”

Her comment jerked his gaze to her face. Her brows were knitted in a frown, and her eyes were filled with shadows. “Yes, it does. I know if I hear a shot that there’s probably a wounded animal out there, needing my help.” He nodded toward the trees. “One night last week, I searched with a flashlight until almost midnight. They can’t call out to me like a person. I have to be fairly close to sense that they’re there. I keep zigzagging, afraid that I’ve missed them. It’s hard to give up. If the injury allows, I know they’ll come to me the next day, but I hate like hell to let them suffer all those hours.”

When he looked back at her, he saw that she was studying him with bewilderment. “What?” he asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing. You just—” She gave her head a harder shake. “Nothing.”

Ben went back over what he’d just said—and realized that he’d relaxed his guard and revealed too much. “Here in my woods, I know most of the animals.” Pointing to the deer feeders and salt lick, he
added, “As you can see, they come in for treats. They’ve grown used to me.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “That explains why they approach the house, then. And they probably talk among themselves, don’t you think?”

His attention sharpened. “Talk?”

She turned toward the woods again. “Like in the Caldwell books, they communicate. When you help one animal, it tells all the others. Pretty soon, they know to come here if they’re hurt. I wonder what their word for
vet
is?”

Dangerous ground
. “Beats me.”

“If they come to you, they must understand you’re a vet,” she said. “They know you have magic in your hands and will make them feel better.” She tapped the toe of her sneaker on the wood. “The blue jays have loud, raucous voices. Maybe they go around telling all the animals in the forest about you.”

Ben stared hard at her profile. Was she serious—or pulling his leg? She suddenly turned toward him. Her cheeks went pink with embarrassment. “Now you’re laughing at me.”

“No.”

“Sure you are.” She shoved her slender hands into her jean pockets. “Animals talking. I’m sure it’s a chick thing that only another woman would understand.” She shrugged. “I honestly think they talk.”

Ben didn’t just think; he knew. She bent her head to stare at her toes. Then she rocked back on her heels, angled him a teasing look, and said, “I’m glad I’m not a man.”

“What?”

“You’re all so pragmatic and
boring
. Didn’t you ever watch
Bambi
?”

A few minutes later, Ben was standing at the stove again, fixing his mother a cup of hot chocolate. Sometimes, he felt as if invisible chains bound him to the kitchen. As he stirred the flavored milk over a medium flame, he watched Chloe put fresh bedding in Rowdy’s box. In the family room, Jeremy sat on the love seat with his puppy.

Didn’t you ever watch
Bambi
?
Recalling Chloe’s question, Ben bit back a smile. He was doing a lot of that lately. Strange. How could a man go for five years living a humorless existence, and then suddenly feel like laughing so often?
Chloe. Such a simple answer, wrapped in such a complicated package.

She cared, he thought. She truly did care about the animals, not in a purely scientific way, but about how they felt and suffered. He’d seen it in her eyes. That, too, felt strange. His ex-wife Sherry would have shrugged, yawned, and bent to peer through her microscope again.

Ben heard Chloe say something and glanced up to see her crouched by the raccoon’s cage, one finger thrust through the wire to scratch the animal’s head. Apparently she’d shelved her concerns that the raccoon might bite.

“Hey, Rēvo,” she said softly. “Feeling better now that you’ve eaten?”

Ben tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. “Rēvo?”

“Yeah, he looks like he’s wearing shades. Rēvo works. He’s got a classy look about him.”

It was true, he decided. Rēvo worked, and so did she. The kitchen, filled with lemon-yellow sunlight, seemed brighter with her in it. After building this house, he’d tried to make it homey. One wall of the living room held a collection of Shoshone artifacts,
neatly arranged, around paintings of the area done by local artists. Over the last three years, he’d picked up other pieces of art. His mother’s penchant for crocheting had provided cozy touches, as well: afghans, decorative pillows, doilies, and lap throws.

At a glance, the place looked like a home, but the plaster and wood had always been ominously silent. When he moved from room to room, no memories whispered, and the air felt empty. It sounded crazy, even to him, but that was how he felt, that the house had no life.

Chloe was changing that. She lent the rooms traces of her essence, making them feel friendly. When she laughed, the sound seemed to linger.

“Does Einstein need a towel over his cage?” she asked, jerking Ben from his musings.

He stared blankly at her. “Who?”

“Einstein.” She hooked a dainty thumb at the owl.

Ben found himself about to smile again. “Who named him Einstein?”

“Me.
Owl
seems unfriendly. He looks smart, don’t you think? All he lacks is a mortarboard with a tassel.” She studied the bird. “Isn’t he nocturnal?”