The Last Honest Woman (11 page)

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

"If she feels real bad, I can let her have Mary."

"Who's Mary?"

"Mary's my dog, the one Aunt Maddy gave me when I was little. I still steep with her, but don't tell Ben. He teases me."

Dylan smiled and sent water gushing into the machine. It was nice to be trusted. "I won't say anything."

"If she's better tomorrow, do you think we can go to the movies? She said she'd take us to the movies on Saturday."

"I don't know." Turning back, Dylan saw that the boy had taken him at his word. He'd stripped down to the skin. His sturdy little body was covered with goose bumps and dirt. "I don't think we have to go that far." After taking a folded towel off the dryer, Dylan bent down and wrapped the boy in it. "You're going to need a bath."

"I hate baths." Chris tilted his head and gave Dylan a solemn look. "I really hate them."

"Trouble is, you were right." Dylan dumped the rest of the clothes in the machine and closed the lid. "You won't fit in the washing machine."

Laughing, Chris raised his arms in an open, uncomplicated gesture that left Dylan speechless. Helpless to do anything but respond, Dylan lifted him up. Good God, he thought as he nuzzled him, I've managed to keep things in perspective for over thirty years and now I'm falling for a six-year-old kid with mud on his face.

"About that bath."

"Hate them."

"Come on, you're bound to have a boat or something to fool around with in there."

Resigned, Chris let himself be carried toward the inevitable. "I like trucks better."

"So take a truck."

"Can I take three?"

"As long as there's room for you." He set Chris down again by the bathroom door. "Now you've got to be quiet, right?"

"Right," Chris returned in a whisper. "Are you going to help me wash my hair? I can almost do it myself."

"Ah…" He thought about the work waiting on his desk. "Sure. Get yourself started."

Baby-sitting, Dylan thought as he hesitated in the hall, hadn't been part of the deal. Still, he knew Abby wasn't enjoying it any more than he was. He glanced at Ben's room. The door was closed. His first thought was to leave the boy to himself and deal with the less complicated task of washing Chris's hair. Swearing at himself, Dylan walked over and knocked. "You can come in."

Dylan opened the door to see the boy sitting on his bed, an army of miniature men spread out in front of him. "Did you see your mother?"

"Yeah. I didn't wake her up." He sent two of the men crashing together. "I guess she's pretty sick."

"She just needs to rest for a couple of days." Dylan sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the men. "She'll probably want some company later."

"Once I came home from school and she was on the couch because she said she had this headache. But I knew she'd been crying."

At a loss, Dylan lined up men in tandem with Ben's. "Moms need to cry sometimes. Everybody does, really."

"Not guys."

"Yeah. Sometimes."

Ben digested that, but he wasn't ready to believe it. "Was Mom crying again?"

"This time she's just sick. I guess she'll feel better if we don't give her any trouble."

"I don't mean to cause trouble.'' Ben's voice was very young and very small.

"I'm sure you don't." Dylan thought of himself, of how he'd pushed and tugged and pressured. His job. But it didn't go very far toward the guilt.

"I didn't really mean to push Chris down in the mud," he mumbled.

"I didn't think you did." But Dylan
had
meant to push Abby up against a wall.

"Mom would've punished me."

"I see." Dylan found himself admiring Ben's candor, but now he'd have to do something, and what the hell did be know about handling kids? He dragged a hand through his hair and tried to be logical. "I guess we'll have to think of something. Want me to go push you down in the mud?"

Ben glanced up warily. After meeting Dylan's eyes, he laughed. "Then Mom would be mad at you."

"Right. Why don't you do Chris's chores tonight?"

"Okay." That was no big deal. He liked spending time with the horses, and Chris usually got in the way.

It both pleased and surprised Dylan that he could read the boy's mind. "That includes the dishes—it's Chris's turn."

"But—"

"It's a tough old world, kid." Dylan tugged his earlobe and went to see to his other charge.

Abby awoke to the sounds of an argument. An argument in whispers was still an argument. Opening her eyes, she focused on her sons, who were standing at the foot of the bed.

"We should wake her up now," Ben insisted.

"We should wait until Dylan conies up."

"Now."

"What if she still has a temperature?"

"We'll take it and find out."

"Do you know how?" Chris demanded, ready to be impressed.

"You use that little skinny thing. We just put it in her mouth, then wait."

"While she's asleep?"

"No, dummy. We have to wake her up."

"I'm awake." Abby pushed herself up against the pillows while both boys eyed her.

"Hi." Not at all sure how to deal with a sick mother, Ben fooled with the bedspread.

"Hi yourself."

"Are you still sick?"

Her throat was so dry that she was surprised she could talk at all. Every muscle in her body rebelled as she pushed herself up a bit higher. "Maybe a little."

"Do you want my crayons?" Not one to stand on ceremony, Chris crawled onto the bed to get a closer look.

"Maybe later," she told him, running a hand through his hair. "Did you just get home from school?"

"Heck, no. We've been home forever. Right, Ben?"

"We had dinner," Ben confirmed. "And did the chores."

"Dinner?" After she'd cleared her mind of sleep, she saw that the light was dim with evening. A glance at the clock had her moaning. She'd lost another three hours. "What did you have?"

"Tacos. Dylan makes them real good. Do you have a temperature?" Interested, Chris put his hand on her head. "You feel hot. Do you have to take medicine like Ben and me did? I can read you a story after."

"You can't read," Ben said in disgust.

"I can too. Miss Schaeffer said I read real good."

"Kid stuff, not Mom's kind of stories."

"Fighting again?" Dylan walked in with another tray. "It's nice to see everything's normal. Scoot over, Chris. Your mom has to eat."

"We all made it,'' Chris told her as she shifted aside. "Dylan made the eggs and Ben heated the soup. I made the toast."

"Looks great." She wished she could toss it, tray and all, out the window. When Dylan arranged the pillows behind her, she glanced up and saw the grin. Apparently writers read minds. Since he did, he'd also be aware that she had no choice but to eat.

"Dylan said you need your strength," Ben put in.

"Did he?"

"And Dylan said we had to be quiet so you could rest. We were real quiet." Chris waited for his mother to sample the toast he'd smeared overgenerously with butter.

"You were very quiet," Abby told him, washing down the soggy toast with juice.

"Dylan said he'd play a game with us later if we didn't mess up." Chris sent him a sunny smile. "We didn't, did we?"

"You did just fine."

Unwilling to let Chris get all the attention, Ben moved closer. "Dylan said you'd probably be too sick to go to the movies tomorrow."

"It seems Dylan says a lot," she murmured, then reached out to touch Ben's cheek. "We'll have to see. How was school?"

"It was pretty good. A bird got into the classroom during math and Mrs. Lieter chased it around. It kept crashing into the windows."

"Pretty exciting."

"Yeah, but then she opened one of the windows and got a broom."

"Tricia fell on the playground and got a big bump on her head." Chris leaned over to fuss with the thin gold chain his mother wore, which had fascinated him since childhood. "She cried for a long time. I fell down and didn't cry at all. Well, not very much," he corrected meticulously. "Dylan was going to put me in the washing machine."

Abby stopped running a hand over Chris's hair. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, there was all this mud and stuff and—" Dylan interrupted before Chris's storytelling got his brother in deep water. "A little accident, it's still pretty slippery outside."

As Abby looked on, Ben tilted his head and sent Dylan a quick sidelong look. A mixture of guilt and gratitude. "I see." At least she thought she did. She was also wise enough not to pursue it. "This is a great dinner, you guys, but I don't think I can eat any more right now."

Dylan took the remaining juice off the tray and set it on the nightstand. "Why don't you two take the tray down? I'll be along in a minute."

As soon as they'd gone, Dylan picked up the thermometer.

"Dylan, I really appreciate all this. I don't know what to say."

"Good." He stuck the thermometer in her mouth. "Then you can be quiet."

Unwilling to start another battle she'd lose, Abby sat back and waited until he drew the thermometer out again. "It's down, right?"

"Up two-tenths," he corrected, entirely too cheerfully for her taste, and handed her the aspirin.

"The boys were counting on that movie tomorrow."

"They'll survive." After replacing the thermometer, he started to leave her. Abby grabbed his hand impulsively.

"Dylan, I'm not trying to be a bad patient, but I swear I'll go crazy if I spend another minute alone in this bed."

He cocked his head. "Is that an invitation?"

"What? Oh, no." She snatched her hand back. "I didn't mean that. I only meant—"

"I get the picture." Bending over, he wrapped the spread around her and lifted her into his arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of bed. I'll take you down, plop you in front of the TV. Odds are you'll be dead to the world inside of an hour."

"I've already slept all day." This time she could allow herself to enjoy, to appreciate, the sensation of being held in strong arms, of being carried as though she were fragile. For tonight, just for tonight, she could pretend there was someone to stand by her, to stand with her. Fairy tales, Abby warned herself, and stopped before she could lay her head on his shoulder.

"I appreciate you watching the children like this. I don't want to impose, though. I can call a neighbor."

"Forget it." He said it lightly, not wanting to admit he'd enjoyed the afternoon. "I can handle them. I worked my way through college as a bouncer."

"That kind of experience certainly helps," she murmured. "Dylan, did Chris get hurt when Ben pushed him down?"

"I don't know what you're talking about"

"You certainly do."

"Did Chris look hurt to you?"

"No, but—"

"Then you wouldn't want me to be a stool pigeon, would you?"

She sent him a mild look as he settled her down on the living room couch. "Men always stick together, don't they?"

Without answering, he switched on the set. He'd needed to set her down quickly, to break contact. She'd seemed so sweet, so small, so frail in his arms. A man made his biggest mistakes when he was sucked in by fragility.

"If you need anything, we'll be in the kitchen. Men stuff, you know?"

"Dylan—"

"Look, if you thank me again I'm going to belt you." Instead he bent down, took her face in his hands and kissed her, hard. "Don't thank me and don't apologize."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Before she could think, before she could reason, Abby reached out and brought his mouth back to hers again.

It wasn't sweet. It wasn't magic. It was solid and strong. She tasted, for the first time in too many years, the flavor of man. She wanted, for the first time in too many years. And wasn't it wonderful just to want again—not to think, not to reason, just to let go and want.

The touch, the taste, brought back no memories of her marriage, of the only other man she'd known. It was fresh and new, as beginnings should be.

Her skin was hot. He felt the yielding he knew came as much from weakness as from passion. Yet he thought, or rather wanted to think, that there was something more, something unique in the way her mouth fit his. So he wanted more. From the kiss alone, desire sprinted out until he wanted everything—to feel her skin, feverishly hot under the thin nightgown, to feel her body melt against his.

There was no artifice in her kiss, no expertise. The gesture seemed to be as pure and as generous as Chris lifting his arms to him. He drew away, reluctant and more than a little puzzled. He was finding that the more he knew her, the less he knew.

She lay back, her eyes half-closed, knowing he was studying her and helpless to slip on any mask. Whatever he wanted to see was there. She had no way of knowing that his own doubts were blinding him.

"That's something else we're going to deal with when you're on your feet, Abby."

"Yes, I know."

"You'd better rest." He put his hands in his pockets because it would be too easy to touch her again and forget

"I will." She closed her eyes because it would be too easy to reach out again and forget. There were children in the next room. Her children, her responsibility. Her life.

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.