Perfect Family (43 page)

Then he looked nonplussed. “I made some tea. I forgot about it.”

“You? Tea?”

His lips crooked at the corner in a wry grin. “Only for you,” he said.

“I'm honored. I'll take a cup.”

“And I don't want you to worry. I'm leaving Timber outside your door.”

“Now that really makes me feel safe.”

“And I don't?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said softly, all the affectionate amusement gone. “I just want … you—”

He didn't finish, but she liked it that way. She liked the sound of “I just want you.” And she did feel safe with him. Secure. Happy, even.

Then he leaned down and kissed her again, softly. Protectively. It started to grow into something else. But then he stood, and she saw the struggle in his face. That muscle was jerking again.

“I'll bring the tea to your room.” He offered his hand. Gratefully, she let Ross help her up. He put his arms around her for a fraction of a second, then let go when she winced. Even that gentle touch hurt the bruised ribs.

“Thank you,” she said, realizing how many times she'd said those two words in the past few hours.

“Ah darlin', it was damned little.”

Darlin'
. She loved the sound of that. With the word echoing in her mind, she and Ben padded down the hall. She took off the robe and slipped into the bed with a sigh.

She felt safe. At the moment. But she couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow would bring, and what she had brought onto herself and, worse, onto her friends.

They made their plans the next morning, then told them to Sarah, who'd called and asked both of them to come to breakfast.

When Jessie accompanied Ross to the main house, Sarah was waiting. She came over to them, taking Jessie's hands in hers. “How are you? I wanted to come over last night, but Ross said you were exhausted and needed rest. I am so sorry. You'll never want to come back and …”

Jessie squeezed her hands. “I'm fine, Sarah, and I
will
come back.”

Sarah blinked, then her gaze went to Ross, her eyes filling with tears. “I never wanted this to happen.”

“I know,” Jessie said. “It's not your fault.” She gave Sarah a spontaneous hug. “We Clementses are made of stern stuff.”

Sarah suddenly glowed. “That's the first time I've heard you say that, that you're a Clements.”

“Ross has convinced me it's something worth fighting for,” she said.

Ross coughed. “I remember hearing the word
breakfast
.”

“Of course,” Sarah said, smiling fondly at her. “Rosa is making her famous French toast.” Her eyes went from Ross to Jessie, then back again. “I want to hear everything that happened, but first, coffee.”

She led the way into the dining room. It was already set. A steaming pot of coffee sat on the table. Sarah poured coffee into each of the cups, then sat down with them, her gaze never leaving Jessie. “What are you going to do now?”

Ross exchanged looks with Jessie. She nodded.

“Jessie has one of the primers. Her father gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday and told her to keep it safe.”

Sarah started to rise, then sat back down. Her face had paled.

“But there's nothing in it,” Jessie said. “I've looked through it.”

“Someone must think it does, though,” Ross said. “Her home and business have both been searched.”

Sarah frowned. “She told me, but then …”

“She had the foresight to put it in a safe-deposit box.”

“It's there now?”

“Yes,” Jessie said. “Ross and I are flying to Atlanta today. I've called a friend. He's arranged for an expert to meet with us. At the bank.”

She saw Ross and Sarah exchange glances. Quick. Apprehensive. Then Sarah nodded slightly. “Good,” she said.

But Jessie saw something else in Ross's eyes. He obviously supported doing this, but he was afraid of something.

It was hard to think of him being afraid of anything.

The French toast came then, and fruit. Food to tempt an appetite dulled by fear and apprehension. And yet she felt stronger now than she'd ever felt before. She didn't intend to run and hide as she had in the past. She intended to confront.

A
TLANTA
, G
EORGIA

The plane flew into smog as they approached Atlanta. The dirty air seemed to surround the plane.

Ross knew then and there that he could never be a city person. God, he hated what many called progress. He'd flown into other cities, of course, and Los Angeles was probably the worst among them, but this was bad enough. It always made him aware of how much he had, and how much he enjoyed the clean air and a sky unsullied by smoke and gases. But this was Jessica's city, her home, her life. She enjoyed the Sunset—that much was obvious. She could even possibly come to love it, but could she ever give up everything she had here?

He doubted it.

He leaned back and looked at Jess. She was sleeping in the seat next to his at the back of the cabin. They had gotten the last seats available and traded someone else to sit together. It had been decided to leave Ben with Sarah, since they intended to return. Dan'l would look after Timber.

At least she was getting some sleep. Her eyes had been bloodshot this morning, and he knew she hadn't slept well. He doubted he would have, had he known someone might well have tried to murder him.

They had spent the morning with paperwork on the rental car, then were able to catch an afternoon flight into Atlanta. She had called her friend in Atlanta and discovered that the book expert was back in town. They'd set up an appointment for the next morning. She'd also warned her friend to be careful.

Her eyes, when they'd looked at him last night, had been frightened yet determined. He'd known then that he had to do everything he could to help her. Even if it did put Sarah in jeopardy. And Sarah herself had been adamant. She was an old woman. Nothing mattered now except Jessie. Not her. Not the ranch. Not even the family. The latter was a measure, he knew, of how much Sarah had taken Jessica into her heart. It was far more, he knew, than atonement for past sins.

The pilot came on the intercom, warning passengers to fasten their seat belts and put their seats in the upright position. She woke at that, and her fingers inched over to find his. He found it remarkable how much he liked that feeling, the trust that had been building between them.

He wondered only briefly if it would survive his own secrets.

Then they were landing.

A half hour later, they'd picked up her car from a car valet lot. Despite her lingering soreness she suggested that she drive since she knew the way, and he'd agreed. She knew the city and his manhood did not depend on driving.

Her house, a small brick cottage, sat amid a profusion of trees and flowers. The garden was well-tended and boisterous with color. He felt immediately at home as she led the way inside. A number of carousel horses decorated the white mantel of a brick fireplace. Bookcases were everywhere, and the furniture had obviously been purchased with comfort in mind. The kitchen was bright with yellow curtains and copper pans. Hanging baskets of flowers separated the living room from the dining room. There were traces of dog—a few toys scattered on the floor, a water dish. Otherwise, it was spotless.

“Your bedroom is this way,” she said, leading to a room down the hall on the left. She appeared awkward with the words. He would have much rather have shared a bed with her, but they were both tired and she must still hurt from the accident. He'd insisted, however, that he wasn't going to let her out of hearing range, even if he had to sleep on the floor. Fortunately, she did have a guest room, one that had never been used. “It's about time it was initiated,” she'd told him.

Her ease with the idea of his staying pleased him. More than pleased him. He knew, though, that it would be plain hell to be in such close proximity to her. It had been last night, and only her obviously fragile condition had kept him from her. Even now she walked with a stiffness that worried him.

The guest room was as comfortable as the rest of the house. A handmade quilt covered a double bed. A rocking chair sat in a corner and a dresser in another. He hung up his clothes, then went to join her in the living room.

“I have some beer and a bottle of wine,” she offered.

“A beer sounds great,” he said. “Can I take you somewhere for supper?”

She grinned. “I know a perfect place.”

He looked down at his jeans. “Do I need to change?”

“Nope.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and fetched him a beer and herself a small glass of wine. They were both tired from a morning dealing with the authorities and the long plane trip back with a three-hour change of time.

He took off his shoes and put them up on a footstool and took the bottle. “Ah, a woman with good taste. Are you going to tell me anything more about where we're going?”

“No more than you told me about the cantina.”

His brows furrowed together. “We can order a pizza. Are you sure you feel up to going out?”

“Yep, I have my second wind.”

“It's not the second wind, it's those ribs I worry about.”

“It's better. It really is. The one thing that will really make me better is finding out why everyone seems to want that book. Sol and his friend will meet us at the bank tomorrow at ten. It's open on Saturday morning. Then perhaps …”

He hesitated for a moment, then asked quietly. “You may discover things you don't really want to know.”

“Such as evidence that my father killed his brother? And his wife?”

He didn't say anything.

“I think I would rather know.”

He regarded her for a few moments, then nodded. He could tell her what happened, but it had never been his secret to tell. Not yet. And despite her words, he wasn't sure she really did want to know. But then would she ever forgive him for withholding the truth?

He finished the beer. “I'll wash up.”

“Meet you back here in five minutes,” she said.

“Five minutes?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I'm fast. And hungry.”

He was, too. “I'll be here.”

Jessie found herself slowly relaxing at the restaurant. It was a little Italian hole-in-the-wall restaurant with wall murals its only ambience. She loved the place and knew all the people who worked there. They had great shrimp scampi, which she ordered, and wonderful salads that came along with the meal. It was about as different from the Italian restaurant in Sedona as a hamburger joint was to a New York steakhouse.

She'd known he would like it. It was utterly without pretense, just as he was.

When he was finished, he sighed. “I like your choice,” he said. He watched as the last customers left, leaving only them behind.

“I thought you would,” she said. “Wait till tomorrow, and you'll have the best pizza ever made.”

His steady gaze met hers. “You love Atlanta, don't you?”

She knew what he meant. “It's the only home I ever really had. My … father moved around a lot. We never really had a home of our own. A trailer or a tenant's home on a horse farm. Then a college dorm. The cottage … is my first real home. And Sol, well, he gave me something else of my own. You'll see it tomorrow.” She heard the pride in her own voice.

His dark eyes were hard to read now. But his hand reached out and took hers. “And Sedona?”

“I was coming to love it, too,” she said.

Was
.

“I can't say I blame you,” he said.

“It's not that. Remember, things happened here, too. It's just that what I have here I earned. I can't feel that way about the Sunset. I don't think I'll ever really feel that I deserve any part of it.”

“Is that why you voted the way you did?”

“Partly. Another part was Sarah. And then there's the environmentalist in me. I can't bear to see that land transformed into a golf course and cookie-cutter houses.”

None of it was what he wanted to hear, that perhaps one day she would make it her home, that he might have also been a factor in her decision. Then he realized that he shouldn't want that at all. She obviously hated all the deception whirling about her. How would she feel when she heard his part of it?

“And if you find nothing in the book?”

“Then I'll take it to Aunt Sarah when I go back for Ben. She can show everyone that there is nothing in the damn thing.”

He grinned at her profanity and she winced. “I try not to do that,” she said.

“Then I'm surprised, since you were raised around racing stables.”

“I've tried to overcome that,” she said, not wanting to add how badly she'd wanted to be considered a lady then, not just “Jon's brat.”

“I know the feeling,” he said.

“Did
you
try?”

“No. I often wished I were someone else,” he said slowly. “But no, I didn't try to be. Instead, I tried to rub everyone's nose in what I was. I wasn't a very nice kid.”

“I think you were a lot better than you thought.”

“I always got in fights,” he contended.

“And I bet a lot of them weren't your fault.”

“Do you always see the best in everyone?”

“I don't think so,” she said. “I'm usually pretty cautious. But I can't see you as a bully. If you fought, it was because you were forced into it.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I wanted to show the world I wasn't Apache trash, or a bastard. I ended up proving I was both,” he said wryly.

“Was that before or after you came to live with Sarah?”

“Both. Perhaps it was even worse when I came to the Sunset. I hated my father for what he'd done to my mother. I also bitterly resented Sarah. And I hated the Sunset because it and my father were tied together in my mind.”