Something Wild (15 page)

Of course, Satan had other ideas. He moved toward her, and even though she attempted to shoo him away, he nuzzled her side and pushed her out from in front of the door.

Satan was making a big mistake. If he thought he could force her to do something she didn’t want, he had another think coming.

Charity slammed herself back in front of the door and stomped her foot on the ground. Unfortunately, it wasn’t frozen solid. A thin layer of ice covered the mud puddle and her boot smashed right through, sending splatters of gooey wet dirt flying everywhere.

Satan stilled. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated her rash action.

“You think you can get the upper hand? You think you can push me away because you want something that I don’t want you to have? Well, you’re wrong, buster. I’m in charge here, not you.”

Satan snorted.

“I’m not into ropes, I’m not into fences or corrals, but so help me, you push me out of the way and take that pretty mare inside, and I’m going to hunt you down and make your life an absolute hell.”

Obviously Satan didn’t care because he didn’t budge. Instead, he snorted in defiance once more and nudged her side again.

Charity hauled off and smacked him just as she would any other male who touched her where she didn’t want to be touched.

Satan’s head jerked up, his eyes widened, and he glared at her for the longest time. Then he whipped around and ran off, disappearing into the storm.

That’ll teach you to be a brute!

Putting her hands on her knees, Charity took a few deep breaths and finally found the strength to peek inside the barn. Buck was in the closest stall, one without a gate, and he raised his head just long enough to shake it in his normal disgust—with her, no doubt—then went back to chewing on fresh hay.

The last remaining and high-priced spotted mare appeared to be dozing contentedly. So did half a dozen other horses, and Charity quietly closed the door and slid the bolt, latching it so neither the wind nor a wayward stallion could get inside.

She swept her broken and bent flashlight up from the ground, then tossed the useless thing in a rusted metal trash barrel at the edge of the barn. The thought of walking back to the ranch in the dark was unsettling, but the only other option she had was staying in Mike’s home until he returned. That prospect was even more unnerving.

Striking out across the yard, the snow and sleet slashed across her face and the wind pushed against her, making each step increasingly difficult. Finally she left the reach of the barn’s floodlight and was met with a pitch-black night.

She shivered, not just from the cold but from the fear that raced through her. She was in total darkness, not knowing which way was north, or south, or east, or west. Getting lost would be easy, and if she did get lost, she’d be a six-foot Popsicle when she was found.

Turning a one-eighty, she took a few tentative steps and again saw the light from the barn through the blustering snow. She followed the glow, and trudged through the thick, cold powder, slipping on the layer of ice beneath the snow as she made her way toward the house.

Chilled to the bone and soaked because the snow had slithered under her coat and attacked her sweater and undies, she grabbed the phone just as the clock struck ten, and hoped someone would be back at the ranch.

“I can’t get back,” she told Jack through chattering teeth, after she’d quickly explained that she’d gone to Mike’s place merely to check the barn door, not to seduce the good pastor, to get under his skin, or to hurt him. Jack might have stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, but she had to admire a man who went to bat for a friend.

“I thought I’d get here and get back within an hour,” she babbled on, “but I had a run-in with Satan, he crushed my flashlight, and I never expected a blizzard—”

“It’s a small snowstorm,” Jack said.
Leave it to someone from Wyoming to think that
. “Won’t last all that long.”

“Does that mean you can come get me?”

Jack chuckled. “It means you’d better make yourself comfortable till morning. Mike won’t risk driving home in the storm, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Start a fire and stay warm.”

Jack sounded positive about Mike being gone all night, yet Charity anticipated something ominous happening at the stroke of midnight. “Would you call Mike and tell him I bolted the barn door and the horses are safe. And then would you tell him I’m here—and make sure he doesn’t mind?”

“All right, I’ll call him. But do what I say. Stay warm.”

The snow dripping off her clothes and shoes had formed an amoeba-shaped puddle at her feet. She grabbed a handful of paper towels to mop up the water, then cleaned up the mud she’d tracked across the gleaming hardwood floor.

Less than five minutes had gone by when the cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter rang and she answered it out of instinct. “Hello.”

“Charity?” It was Jack’s voice coming through the receiver.

“Did you reach Mike already?”

“Not exactly. I reached his cell phone.”

Charity’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the small gray instrument in her hand. “You mean I’m talking on
Mike’s
cell phone?”

“It appears that way.”

She gulped. “Maybe he has a second one?”

“Don’t think so. Look, Charity, he’s already left the vet’s and more than likely he’s holed up in a motel or with a friend. Just kick back and relax. I’ll come get you in the morning, provided the snow lets up.”

Easier said than done. Kick back wasn’t in her vocabulary, and even if it was, how could she possibly kick back in someone else’s home, especially when that someone had no clue she was there?

She paced the kitchen, her sodden jeans and coat weighing her down right along with her thoughts. What if the storm didn’t let up? Would she miss her flight? Her audition?

She was going to murder Logan Wolfe when she got back to Vegas. He’d told her she needed a change of pace. He’d told her she needed to relax, to get away from all her troubles. And look at the mess she was in now.

A chill rushed through her. It started in her toes and fingers then spread up her limbs and settled in her clattering teeth. She had to warm up before she shivered to death.

Scooting quickly to the laundry room, she shrugged out of her coat and draped it over a hanger that shuddered under the weight. She tugged off her boots and drippy socks, then struggled to work the damp and clinging jeans and long Johns over her icy-skinned hips and down her legs. Her bra and thong didn’t give her half as much trouble.

Except for her coat and shoes, she tossed every stitch of her clothing into the dryer. Suddenly she found herself standing in Mike’s laundry room stark naked, her body a mass of goosebumps and quivering nerves. Why oh why had she played the good Samaritan?

She grabbed some of Mike’s clothes from the laundry basket, then promptly dropped them. Dirt. Straw. The scent of horses and cows. Why couldn’t she have found a clean white shirt, something he preached in?

A heavy
knock, knock, knock
sounded at the kitchen door. She threw her hands and arms over her privates and peered from the laundry room into the kitchen.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Her anxiety-ridden heart thudded. She edged her way along the kitchen wall, hoping no one could see her through the window over the sink, and cracked open the blinds just enough to see outside.

There was nothing there but snow and wind, gusting wind that wanted desperately to come inside. Thank heavens it wasn’t an intruder—or Mike.

Of course, Mike would not be home tonight, she reminded herself.
Quit being so nervous. Just put some clothes on
!

She cranked up the thermostat at the base of the stairwell in the living room, then ran upstairs to Mike’s bedroom.

The big four-poster with the vividly colored handmade quilt and plump pillows covered in navy blue cotton looked inviting, but she would
not
crawl under Mike’s covers and go to sleep. She had to stay awake and alert and listen for anything that might sound like Mike returning early.

Pulling open one drawer after another in the highboy, she guiltily shuffled through Mike’s private things and grabbed a pair of plaid boxers. She wiggled into them, trying to keep the stretchy band at her waist but it slipped again and again to her hips. She gave up at last and hustled to the closet and slipped into a heavy charcoal flannel shirt that nearly swallowed her in its breadth. A bit warmer now, she headed back downstairs to wait for her own things to dry.

She ignored Jessie’s paintings, but still they glared at her as if she were an intruder. She stared at the cold, empty hearth, thinking how warm and wonderful she’d feel if fire leaped from a stack of blazing logs. She could bring in firewood and kindling from outside and light it, but the way her luck had been running she was bound to turn Mike’s house into a raging inferno.

Instead she curled up on the couch and pulled an afghan over her. Her fingers tingled with the chill. So did her toes. She tried to close her eyes, but with rest came awareness of her body and the fact that every joint ached. She’d never make it through the audition on Tuesday if her muscles were stiff and sore.

The clock struck eleven.

What she needed was a good, long soak in hot water. It would warm her insides and help her relax. Mike wouldn’t come home, Jack had told her so; and even if he did come home, Mike had said it would be at least one or two in the morning before he could get back.

She thought about the big and inviting claw-foot tub she’d seen in Mike’s bathroom. She could soak for nearly an hour and no one would ever be the wiser. She could fill it with bubbles—

What was she thinking? Mike wouldn’t have anything resembling bubble bath! She’d merely have to soak her weary bones in pure, unscented, unbubbly water.

Outside the storm raged. Trees bent nearly to the ground as the wind blasted across the earth, carrying with it a heavy, wet snow. It beat against the house, rattling the windows and doors. Mike’s truck wouldn’t be any match for the raging blizzard. Surely he’d spend the night in a motel or with friends, tucked in a nice, warm bed. Even if he did drive home ...

No, he wouldn’t. Not in this ghastly weather. Oh, just go take the blasted bath!

He’s not going to come home, she told herself, and raced up the stairs, into Mike’s bathroom. She plugged the tub and turned on the hot water, sticking her hand beneath the antique brass spigot until the water was too hot to touch, then added a little cold and started to strip down to nothing while the tub filled.

The mirror above the sink had fogged over and there was a hint of condensation on the brass hook behind the door, where she hung the clothes she’d been wearing. It was far from a sauna, but the damp heat radiated through her skin just enough to partially soothe her muscles.

Wrapping her hair in a knot on top her head, she eased her bruised and aching body into the depths. She rested her neck against the back of the tub and let her hands and feet float to the top of the water.

Closing her eyes, she hummed a little ditty from the show she’d last been fired from and thought about dancing in the spotlight, singing to a packed house.

Her eyes popped open when the pleasant silence was broken by an eerie
clang, clang, clang
reverberating slowly through the room. She froze. She didn’t even bother to breathe as she listened for other noises, for steps on the stairs. And then she recognized the clanging sound—the grandfather clock was striking midnight.

The witching hour. Time for some wretched disaster to occur.

But that was only in storybooks.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She soaped her body with Mike’s big green bar of Irish Spring—the manly soap. His bathroom was rather masculine and spare compared to the rest of the house. One navy blue towel hung on a rack at the far side of the room. A razor, a can of shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a comb sat on the back of the free-standing sink. The toilet was one of those old-fashioned kinds, with an oak tank suspended high on the wall.

The navy shower curtain hung above her on a circular chrome bar, and the shower head extended from tall brass pipes that rose from the floor at the head of the tub. She liked this place. It was quaint. A man’s home for sure, but a place a woman could fit into quite comfortably.

She slid a little deeper into the water and laughed at her thoughts. She was headed back to Vegas tomorrow and Mike wasn’t interested in her beyond a purely physical lust—in spite of what Jack mistakenly thought.
Marriage. Hah
!

Some other woman might be able to fit into his life and home quite comfortably ... but not her. She had plans. Dreams.

She reached for a bottle of shampoo, twisted the lid and sniffed. She used a luxurious, far-too-expensive shampoo that was an intoxicating combination of coconut, ginger, and papaya. This smelled like ... well, like something a cowboy would use, but at least the concoction was a mix of shampoo and conditioner.

She loosened the knot she’d made in her waist-length hair and let it tumble into the water. Her instincts told her she was stretching relaxation to the max, but she threw caution to the wind, put a few dollops of Mike’s shampoo in her hands and massaged it through her hair and scalp, getting rid of the specks of mud that had splattered her earlier.