Roan (24 page)

“Not today.”

The man was closemouthed beyond belief. She'd have to make another attempt. “No excitement of any kind, huh?”

“Well, let's see. Bobby Crofton punched Joe Myers's son in the nose over a backyard ball game and their respective mothers got into a hair pulling because of it. The
husbands of the two ladies then traded insults and a few swings at each other. Bobby's grandmother was so disgusted at the spectacle that she turned the water hose on the whole crew, which changed the fight into a big mud wrestle. Libby Myers not only fell down and got her white jeans dirty but ruined her new perm, so she charged the old lady with assault and…”

“You're making this up,” Tory accused him.

“Happened. Cross my heart.” He turned his head to meet her gaze with laughter in his eyes. They were so close that she could feel his body heat, feel her arm grazing his so the curling hair on his forearm tickled her elbow. The scent of the herbal shampoo he'd used surrounded her, along with those of clean clothes, warm male and engine oil. She could see herself reflected in his pupils.

Her awareness of him became visceral, a thing of instinct and burgeoning emotion that had nothing to do with what was best for either of them. She stared at him while her wayward thoughts went slipping down peculiar paths. What would it be like to make love to him? Was it possible that this nebulous content she felt in his presence would extend to the bedroom? Could she laugh and joke with him, trust him, while their emotions rose to fever heat and an exciting hint of elemental danger still sang in her blood? Somewhere in her mind where logic left off and intuition began, she thought it was possible.

It was an enticing idea, so enticing that she could almost hear the alarm bells going off in her head. Her situation here was getting much too precarious.

Reaching out to brush her fingertips over a section of plum-colored paint that was waxed and polished to a mirror shine, she said, “Maybe people will have something else to do besides squabble when the gambling boat gets here. Any developments on that front?”

“Some of the bigwigs are coming to talk to the town fathers, see if they can speed up the special election.”

At last. “You'll have to be on hand for this powwow, I guess. When is it?”

“Couple of days.”

Not long, not long at all. She needed a fast plan for escape. Growing suddenly aware that the vehicle in front of her might be useful, she trailed her fingers along the fender again. “So,” she said, in careful nonchalance, as if reverting to the previous subject, “where do you keep this baby of yours that she stays in such mint condition?”

“In the barn,” Roan answered with a cool silver glint in the depths of his eyes. “Under lock and key.”

She should have known.

Their attention was caught just then by the sound of a vehicle slowing on the road. They turned in time to see a silver-and-turquoise behemoth of a motor home swing in the drive. It lumbered toward them with smooth power and pulled to a stop behind the Super Bird. The side door opened with a hydraulic hiss. A man stepped down and strolled toward them.

He was tall and lanky, with a head of dark hair liberally streaked with gray and the lean flanks and square shoulders of a man half his age. His eyes were a soft yet keen gray under bushy brows, and a smile split his sun-baked face.

“Don't tell me,” Tory said. “Another Benedict.”

“Give the little lady a prize,” the newcomer said. “And I'll take a cup of java myself, while you're at it. I've been driving ever since I got your call, son, the best part of twenty-four hours.”

“Whatever you want, Pop,” Roan said as he walked forward and enveloped his father in a bear hug. “It's good to have you home again.”

“Yeah, yeah, you have to say that after dragging me
away from the prettiest, sweetest lady I've met in some time, don't you?” The older man cleared his throat and thumped his son on the shoulder a final time before stepping away again.

“I should have known you'd have something going.”

“So you should, since being a monk isn't exactly the Benedict way. Well, for most of us. But never mind that. If this is the lady friend you're calling in the clan to look after, coming home may just be worth it.”

“Calling in the clan?” Tory asked with a lifted brow as she glanced at Roan. Clay had stopped by again, and just yesterday afternoon, Luke had dropped in and talked for a while with Jake while she was taking a nap. Did all these visits have a point?

Roan paid little attention other than to wave quickly in her direction. “Meet Donna, Pop.”

Roan's father was apparently a man who had spent a lifetime sizing up people; the once-over the older man gave her was so fast and slick that it was done almost before Tory realized what was happening. There was nothing salacious in it, however, only a judicious weighing of the evidence of his eyes. If he noticed the electronic monitor on her ankle, he had the kindness not to linger on it.

“Donna,” he repeated, reaching for her hand and carrying it to his lips while rich appreciation rose in his dark-gray eyes that were so like his son's. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benedict,” she said, then flushed at the absurdity of feeling grateful for the salute.

“Call me Pop, everyone else does.”

Something about his gallantry and the warmth of his smile made her want to respond in kind. “I'm sorry if you were put to extra trouble because of me.”

“No trouble at all.”

“It was just an excuse to get him here,” Roan said in offhand explanation before he smiled at his dad. “How long is it you've been gone this time?”

“Not that long,” the older man protested.

“Since just after Christmas. Long enough, in fact, that I think a little family get-together tomorrow as a welcome home is in order.”

“Think so, do you?” The look Pop gave him was intrigued. “For a family council, would that be? Or you have something else in mind?”

“Might liven up the place,” Roan said. “You know Donna surprised us the other night by turning out to be a good cook? She makes a great custard thing.”

“Crème brûlée,” she corrected. She might have been more impressed by the compliment if she didn't suspect its primary aim was to change the subject. She thought his father noticed the tactic as well. The way he narrowed his eyes was so much like his son's habit that it was all she could do not to laugh.

“Crème brûlée? Lord, she must be a gourmet chef instead of a mere cook,” Pop said. Releasing her hand that he was still holding, he flung his arm around her shoulders in a casual embrace and swung around in the direction of the tall steps into the house. “Speaking of which, I've just remembered that I'm starved as well as in need of a cup of coffee. Let's get to be friends over a late breakfast, honey bunch. What do you say?”

“Friends?”

“By all means. Tell me you can make a decent omelet, and I may even adopt you into the clan.”

Tory glanced back at Roan as she wondered how he would take the last suggestion. She could have sworn it was satisfaction that she saw in the stern lines of his face. But that was not possible. Was it?

T
he plans for the family gathering got underway at once. Before Tory knew what was happening, she was delegated to make garlic-baked brisket and blackberry cobbler, and cousins of all degrees, or their wives, were calling to see what they should bring in the way of covered dishes.

Pop or Jake answered the phone most of the time, but every now and then she fielded the questions. She could hear the curiosity in the women's voices as they discussed food and drink, but not one of them came right out and asked why she was in the middle of a Benedict clan gathering instead of shut up in jail where she belonged. She'd have thought it was her own distant manner that prevented it, except that she knew better. After hearing Roan and his son and father as they answered the phone, she thought it was respect that held everyone silent, that and the obvious protective cordon they seemed to be drawing around her. Their voices turned stiff and unresponsive when they talked about her. They invited no questions and answered none. Pop and Jake did it, she thought, because they had taken a liking to her, and also because they were following Roan's lead. Why Roan bothered was another question.

That mystery revolved in her brain until she thought
she'd go crazy with it. Was it simply a matter of principle? Could it be because some in town objected to the license he was taking in keeping her at Dog Trot, so he had to prove there was no danger in it? Or was it only the sanctity of his home he was protecting?

One other reason came to mind. He could be using her as bait to catch Zits and Big Ears. That would certainly explain his extra vigilance.

The trouble was that anything was possible with Roan. Anything at all. She found out how true that was late that afternoon while picking blackberries for the cobbler.

The berry patch was not far from the house, but out of the allowable range for the monitor. Roan gave his okay for the outing and arranged temporary override for the surveillance. Shortly afterward, he drove away to town for party supplies, leaving Jake to help her pick the berries and Pop on guard duty.

The blackberries were hybrids planted back in the fifties or sixties, according to Pop, and located in what had been a large kitchen garden and fruit orchard alongside the track beyond the barn. Roan apparently mowed between the rows from time to time to keep down weeds, but that was the extent of cultivation. The vines were huge, a tangled mass of arching canes loaded with thorns, and also with fruit in all stages from green to red to the near-black purple that signaled sun-warm ripeness. The fruit, as big as plums and of ambrosial sweetness, promised a wonderful cobbler.

Tory and Jake picked berries in companionable silence, accompanied by the drone of bees and the occasional squawk of a blue jay startled from its nest among the briers. Now and then, she caught a sweet whiff of summer honeysuckle that tumbled over a rotted stump. The old garden area was shaded from the late-afternoon sun by the encroaching trees, but it was still warm. Tory was hot, her
fingertips were purple, her hands stung from raking against the thorns as she pulled berries from among the thick tangle, but she didn't mind. It was grand to be away from the house. She enjoyed being with Jake, and liked the idea of being useful. It was peculiar, but she was happy.

She was happy. How long had it been since she'd felt such near-euphoric content? She couldn't remember. A long time. The reason for it was not something she wanted to think about however, not now or any time soon.

Tory's berry bucket was less than half full when she heard the motor home start, then go trundling off down the drive. She looked at Jake with raised brows.

“Pop doesn't get it, I guess,” he said as he frowned in the direction of the departing vehicle.

He meant Roan's dad was having trouble remembering that she was a prisoner. She'd noticed that, as well. It was nice that he was so unconcerned. “He said something earlier about delivering invitations.”

“Yeah. Pop is probably going to shoot the bull over at Kane's house with him and his granddad, Pops Crompton. I heard him saying something about it on the phone a little while ago. But don't worry, Dad won't be gone long. And old Beau will let us know if anybody tries to sneak up on us.”

That last assurance was well-meant, but since Beau was sprawled out asleep on the shady track, looking like a road-kill, it was hard to draw much comfort from it. In any case, her concern didn't run in that direction. She was without a guard, since Allen and Cal weren't around on weekends. Her monitor had been deactivated. Escape conditions couldn't have been better if she'd planned them.

The only thing she lacked was transport, and that was in the barn. All she had to do was figure out a way to get to it.

Enlisting Jake's help was out; she'd already established that he wouldn't go against his dad. The boy would probably feel he had to stop her if she tried to leave, too, and she wasn't sure she had the strength to fight him. He might set Beau on her if push came to shove, and though the dog had developed a fondness for her company, he was trained to obey working commands.

Tory wrestled with the problem as she continued to fill her bucket. Time was flying and it felt as if her brain and her will were paralyzed. She wondered in despair if her reluctance to leave wasn't making a fool of her. She should just break and run for it, letting the details take care of themselves.

What did she really need in order to go? The keys to the barn and to the Super Bird. Roan had put the car back under cover after washing and polishing it. When he decided to go into town, he'd changed out of his old shorts. The keys might still be in the pocket.

The only way she was going to find out was to look. The best time to do that was now. But first, she needed an excuse that would detach her present guard.

“My bucket's getting a bit heavy to hold without straining my shoulder,” she called to Jake who had worked his way around to the back side of the front row, out of sight. “I think I'll go empty it and find us something cool to drink.”

“Sounds good.”

The words were offhand, as if his mind was on other things. Tory hoped it stayed there.

Moving at a casual stroll, she set out for the house. In the kitchen, she dumped the berries into a bowl, then sprinted up the stairs to Roan's bedroom.

The shorts and shirt he'd been wearing were nowhere in sight; he must have dropped them in the bathroom hamper.
It was doubtful the keys had been left in them then. They weren't on the desk, on the chest of drawers or on the dresser, nor were they in any of the dozen drawers she checked. Tory stood in the middle of the room, surveying it, while frustration beat up inside her.

The bedside table. Of course.

Short minutes later, she sat in the driver's seat of the Super Bird with her hand on the ignition key and the barn door open behind her. Her foot was on the brake, her free hand on the wheel. All she had to do was turn the key, put the car in gear, and go.

She couldn't do it.

Roan had taken her into his home when he didn't have to, and at considerable risk. He had nursed her, protected her and treated her almost like one of the family. To leave him now would be a gross betrayal of trust. She would be exposing him to the censure of everyone he knew, if not actually jeopardizing his position as sheriff. He'd be forced to chase after her. If he caught her, and he well might, he'd be forced to prosecute her for the escape attempt.

Where was she going to go, anyway? Back to her stepfather? Harrell would only confront her there, eventually, instead of here. She'd still have to deal with his lies and machinations, only she'd be doing it alone.

Tory released the key and leaned back, slumping down to rest her head on the low seat back. Grim-faced, she stared at her own reflection in the glass of the windshield. What she was running from this time, she saw clearly, was her own stupid pretenses that had evolved into this charade. If she'd told the truth from the beginning, she wouldn't need to go. No Benedict would ever have gotten themselves into such a mess because lies and pretenses were not the Benedict way. How much easier, in the long run, was the strict road of virtue.

What she should do was retrieve her bucket and go back to picking blackberries, then make every minute count of her time remaining at Dog Trot. A couple of days, and that would be it. Her curious idyll as a prisoner would be over. It had to be; there was no other way.

Abruptly, the door beside her was wrenched open. Roan stood with one hand on the handle and the other braced on the frame above her head. His voice harsh, he asked, “Going somewhere?”

“Obviously not,” she answered, as she turned her head slowly to meet his hard gray gaze, “or I'd be gone by now.”

Stillness invaded his features. For long moments they neither moved nor spoke. Then he said quietly, “But you thought about it.”

“If thinking were a crime, the whole world would have a criminal record. But you're right,” she added as the urge to try the Benedict method of dealing with problems crept in on her. “I did intend to go. I searched your room for the key, though I'm sorry about that, truly sorry.”

“What stopped you?”

She moistened her lips, trying to find the courage to tell him everything, settling, finally, for a half truth. “I discovered that I didn't have any place to run.”

He was quiet a moment. “Now what?”

“Now I go back to my berry picking, I suppose,” she said, her smile uncertain as she swung her legs out of the car and stood up. “Unless you have other ideas.”

He looked so stern, and it was so long before he answered, that she thought he was going to order her into the house. Then he replied with deliberation, “I have one, but I'm not sure you'd like it.”

“What?” She waited, searching his face.

A deep, silent breath lifted his chest, then he shook his
head and stepped back out of her way. “Never mind. You've lost your help, you know.”

“Jake? How is that?”

“That's why I came home, to send him over to Kane's house. Pop scared one of Aunt Vivian's kittens up a tree when he arrived in his motor home. She called, afraid Pop was going to kill himself trying to mount a rescue if Jake didn't come get the poor little thing down.”

Roan sounded irritated by this task added to his day. She knew better than to believe it now. People wouldn't call on him so often if they didn't know he was always willing to help. It was his job, yes, but also his nature. The show of annoyance was to keep people from finding out what a pushover he was.

He was quite a guy, was Roan Benedict. If she could find the right words to explain just how alone and trapped she'd felt, and still did, would he understand? Would he look past his anger and forgive the lie she'd been living these past weeks? Would his precious honor allow him to help or would he abandon her?

The impulse to find out was like an ache. It would be such a relief to have it out in the open, to be herself. It should be such a simple act, to relax and tell him all the things she wanted to say.

It should be. But it wasn't.

He was watching her. She had to find some comment, some quip, before he demanded to know what was going on in her mind. Casting an eye over the pristine uniform he'd changed into for the trip to town, she said, “So who's going to take Jake's place? You?”

He sent a wary eye toward the berry patch along the track. “You don't have enough yet?”

“Takes a lot for cobbler for the whole clan,” she informed him. The prospect of watching him try to remain
cool and neat while helping her with such a messy job had irresistible appeal.

The look he gave her said he knew exactly what she was up to, but he'd let her get away with it for now. Turning toward the berry patch, he said, “The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be done.”

They worked for several minutes during which neither of them spoke. The ease Tory had shared with Jake was gone, however. The sun was just as warm, the bees just as busy, but the atmosphere almost vibrated with tension. Did it come from her, or from Roan, she wondered? Or was it from both?

After a time, he said, “How did Pop get out of this? I thought using blackberries was his idea?”

“Not quite, though cobbler is apparently his favorite.”

“And you're willing to brave snakes and heatstroke for his sake? You and Pop hit it off, didn't you?”

“He's a sweetheart,” she said lightly. “Besides, how could I not love a man who promised to buy underwear, makeup, and other such necessities for me while in town?”

“I meant to take you shopping when you felt up to the trip,” he protested.

She suspected that he'd deliberately kept her wardrobe scant as another deterrent to escape, but had no intention of arguing with him about it. “Anyway,” she went on, “your dad is different, a man so good that he sees only the best in people. Consequently, they probably show him the better side of their natures.”

He stared at her, then gave a low laugh. “You know, you're right.”

“It's a failing, what can I say?” She picked a berry and tossed it in the bucket he held. “I'm looking forward to meeting the rest of the Benedicts, to see what they're like.”

“Some great, some so-so, some a real pain in the—a royal pain, just as in every other family.”

She appreciated the fact that he refrained from using rough language around her. It put her on a different plane, even if she had been known to use a few words in moments of stress that would shock a pirate. “I enjoy listening to you and Jake and your dad. You're so comfortable together.”

“Not something you're used to?”

She avoided his gaze, unwilling to let him see the pain that surfaced at the idea. “So it seems. I think maybe I don't have much family.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They'd be looking for me if I did, wouldn't they?” Paul Vandergraff would surely be curious by now about where she'd gone, and possibly even a little anxious. They'd gone their separate ways too long, however, for any family closeness between them.