The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (17 page)

Chapter Ten

T
he sun had been below the horizon an hour by the time they’d finished rounding up the picnic supplies and finally pulled onto I-91. Clint hoped Cayden was bouncing in her seat next to him because she was as eager as he for the night to begin. It was hard to tell, since she was also staring out the window while responding with one-word answers to his awkward attempts at conversation. Whatever was on her mind, it wasn’t the episode at the cop shop. That hadn’t fazed her a bit.

He wished he could say the same. He wasn’t freaked out by the way his lawyer had stared in shock at Cayden in her little black jacket with nothing under it, the
very
little black skirt, and her full goth makeup. The man’s suggestion—made while Cayden was in the ladies’ room—to get out more often and hit different bars, hadn’t done it, either. It had only reminded him of that dream about bringing her to a party at Dean Cumberland’s. It certainly wasn’t the way the detective had tried to threaten her with the illegal weapons charge to get her to admit the entire episode was a drug deal gone bad, despite the drug tests coming out negative. It wasn’t even Cayden’s bizarre theory that those scumbags had been hired to kill her.

None of it was good, yet none of it cooled the growing warmth he felt for her. What did give him a chill, in spite of how his lawyer had laughed it off, and no matter how hard he tried to do so, was that each of Cayden’s “victims” had babbled about being attacked by a flock of crows. The photos didn’t offer any evidence as to what had shredded them to pieces, only that something sure as hell had.

And while several black feathers found in the park were hardly irrefutable evidence, Clint couldn’t help recalling the conversation he’d had with Nevermore. Or how that’s exactly what it had felt like. Cayden had alluded to Nevermore’s “friends.” A flock would account for the condition he’d found his truck in last Saturday morning, too. Dillon had yammered about a flock of crows attacking the asshole who’d tried to assault Cayden. The accumulating evidence was stretching the concept of coincidence more thinly than he was comfortable with.

But if the crows
had
protected Cayden, wasn’t it also possible, if highly unlikely, that Nevermore did understand what he was saying? A chimpanzee had been taught to speak with sign language, hadn’t it? Wasn’t there a dog in Austria who had a vocabulary of a couple hundred words?

Even if that were true, it didn’t mean Cayden was what she said she was. There was against-all-odds, and then there was pure fantasy. Cayden had a great imagination and the skills to implement it. She’d likely developed her mystique to compensate for being different. What kind of tricks might she have up her sleeve tonight?

“We’re getting close, Clint. You might want to pull over before your truck dies again.”

Here we go
. What the hell though, it wasn’t like carrying a picnic basket a few extra yards was going to kill him. Only a moron would open his mouth and risk losing precious points this close to another piece of heaven.

He pulled the truck off the road onto a turnaround. The warm night air brushed his bare arms. He’d dumped the dress shirt after leaving the police station. He stretched and inhaled the country air. His muscles were sore from passing out on the cramped daybed. As a matter of pride, not giving as good as he got bothered him more. The week had been a long one, though, short on sleep. And having Cayden in his arms had set his world right.

Before that thought could disturb him, she said, “There it is.” She pointed to a dark hill a half a mile up the road, covered with magnificent old trees. “Buchanan’s Crossing.”

Clint had driven up and down this road the night he’d dropped Cayden off out here. He hadn’t spotted any sign that said Buchanan’s Crossing. He still didn’t. Not so much as a driveway crossed this road as far as he could see in either direction.

“If it’s on a hill with no roads, why’s it called a crossing?”

“It’s not that kind of crossing.”

At the last second, he decided against asking what kind of crossing it was. It shouldn’t have been a dangerous question, though for some reason it reeked of one. He was not going to be a moron tonight.

Cayden held her backpack in her right hand, only because she wouldn’t let him carry it. She had to have emptied it to make room for the large blanket, so it couldn’t be too heavy, anyway. He shifted the picnic basket to his left hand and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Feels nice.” She’d changed into a dark green dress scooped real low in the front. If it wasn’t silk, it was close.

Her hand slid into his back pocket and gave his ass a squeeze. “So does this.”

They walked toward the hill, a slow-burning anticipation building in the silence between them. As they neared it, Cayden stopped in front of a cottage. “This is Gran’s place.”

If he’d been asked to describe the cottage in the moonlight, he would have been forced to use the word “charming.” It held that eccentric appeal that could only be achieved through various additions and countless modifications. The original bones were easily a couple hundred years old.

None of which explained why they were standing in front of it. “Would you like to check on your grandmother?”

“I would, yeah.”

Damn. He reminded himself patience was a virtue.

“Unfortunately, she specifically told me not to visit today because she was having company. Her lights are still on. Whoever it is must not have left yet.”

He worked to keep his expression relief-free when he looked at Cayden. She was frowning.

“That bothers you?”

“Yes. She was acting funny. I can’t imagine who it could be. No one’s car is parked here, either.” Cayden removed her hand from his pocket and wrapped both arms around herself.

“You can ask her about it tomorrow. I’ll drive you out here. I’d love to get a look at the place in the daylight, and uh, meet your grandmother.”

Cayden grinned. “Don’t worry, she’s predisposed to like you. And I know you’ll like her. She’s fascinating.”

He thought it best not to mention the “fascinating” aspect was what concerned him. He was just glad to see Cayden smiling.

“Gran’s been trying to get the house and grove designated an historic site for years. Being a builder and having an appreciation for treasures, you can see for yourself it should be. The crossing is covered by the sole remaining virgin oak grove in the state of Connecticut. But something—or someone,” she added, “always interferes.”

He’d been hung up on the way Cayden had used the word “crossing” again, but her last sentence forced him past it. Getting her off this conspiracy theory was the more immediate problem.

“It’s extremely difficult to obtain historic designation. There are downsides to owning a designated site too, especially a home.”

“I guess you’d know that, working with developers as you do.”

Uh-oh. The exchange had taken a dangerous-smelling turn. His poor nose was working overtime tonight.

“If you didn’t want to visit your grandmother, why are we here?”

Cayden narrowed her eyes at his abrupt change in conversation, but she did answer him. “The only negotiable path into the grove is through the back yard.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

He put his arm back across her shoulders, relaxing when she leaned into him. Another potential setback avoided. Navigating a relationship with Cayden was different than it had been with the other women he’d dated. The challenges were more intense, more exciting, and much more rewarding.

Among her other skills, Cayden evidently possessed excellent night vision. The moon was dimmed by clouds, and the trees became denser as they climbed. He’d fallen behind her on the narrow path. The going should’ve been tough, considering he couldn’t see diddly. Yet he didn’t stumble once. It was as though he were being guided. He laughed at himself for falling prey to Cayden’s spooky talk. The only thing guiding him was his hand on her luscious ass.

The ground leveled off. After maybe a dozen yards in, the woods became lighter. They’d entered a clearing. She set her backpack against a massive oak.

“This is it.”

“Wow. That tree’s got to be even older than your grandmother’s cottage.”

“It is.”

She hadn’t shown a hint of hesitation. How could she be so certain?

“Do you recognize it?”

“How could I recognize it?”

“From my tat.”

Now that she’d mentioned it, the tree did look familiar. He’d been thinking a lot about that tat and the breathtaking regions it bordered. Had tried very hard
not
to think about the artist putting it there in such vivid detail it seemed to be alive. There was no good reason to tell her any of that. He had a better idea.

“I’m not sure. I think I need to do a side-by-side comparison.”

She must have missed the shit-eating grin he couldn’t keep from his face, because she moved away from him and began rummaging in her backpack. Or maybe she had, because she pulled out the blanket, snapped it, and let it fall on the ground in front of the tree. It landed completely flat, without a single fold or turned corner.

Rather than sitting on it, or better yet, lying on it, she drew out a pouch and surrounded the blanket with an elaborate pattern using its powdery white contents. O-kay.

She saved him from making a moronic point-demolishing comment by asking him to build a fire. He wouldn’t have thought such a ready supply of kindling would be found within easy reach, or that his eyes would have adjusted to the dark so quickly. Or that the fire would burn from the first match he’d had the forethought to pack.

When he turned from his work, Cayden was sitting on the blanket, hugging her knees and watching him as though he might bite her. She’d gone quiet again. Hell, the whole grove was quiet. Beyond fire-making, he wasn’t much of a boy scout, but shouldn’t there be some kind of animal noises in the woods? Rustling, or peeping, or squeaking? Something?

It didn’t feel eerie so much as strangely expectant. Much like the night a few weeks ago—had it only been three?—when he’d been so powerfully tempted to kiss her. Looking at her now, he couldn’t remember how he’d held off, or why. Tonight, she was the one who looked ready to bolt. Having twice experienced how fantastic it was between them, what could possibly make her nervous?

He joined her on the blanket and put his arm cautiously around her. She was wound tighter than a bale of insulated wire. “What’s wrong? Is it because I passed out last night and left you high and dry?”

Her voice was barely a low whisper, “Not dry, Clint.”

That was all it took to get him hard. Jesus, zero to sixty. Her touch high on his thigh was so light through the denim of his jeans, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it if his skin hadn’t become extremely sensitive. Make that zero to a hundred.

He laid his hand over hers. It trembled. She turned toward him, beautiful eyes open wide, full lips parted. Vulnerable. Whatever the hell he’d done to make her doubt him, he was going to fix it.

Keeping the kiss gentle was a priority. He used only his lips, no tongue, no groping. No matter how badly he ached to touch her everywhere, he kept one arm around her, not too tight. Her mouth was as warm as her hand beneath his was cool, her tongue hot, gingerly tracing his lips. Behind his closed eyes, he could swear he saw sparks shooting up from the fire.

Easing his hand from hers, he cupped her face to deepen the kiss slowly, very slowly, even if it killed him. He felt her hands warming through his T-shirt as they clutched his back.

She definitely wanted him, though a part of her tension remained distinctly non-sexual. Her tongue slipped past his teeth, grazing the roof of his mouth before retreating. His body’s response robbed his brain of the blood he needed to think and sent it coursing lower. His own kiss become more demanding, his tongue making short thrusts into her mouth. He tangled his hand in her hair, holding her to him, while with the other he followed the fluid line of her throat to the low neck of her dress, then lower.

Her bra didn’t cover the top of her breasts. Only the silk of her dress lay between his fingers and the silkier skin beneath it. Through the fabric, he nudged the edge of the bra, rasping her erect nipple, dragging the silk back and forth over it until she whimpered and arched toward him.

She didn’t move to stop him when, his mouth still on hers, he eased the dress off her shoulders. Its low neck provided even less resistance. His fingers smoothed up her throat before catching the sexy lace-edged bra straps and inching them down. He tore his lips from hers to view the revelation of dusky nipples atop the lushest pair of breasts he’d ever had the good fortune to gaze upon. God, they were a sight.

The sigh he heard was his own. He wasn’t sure who had unsnapped the bra with such finesse. The hands holding its contents, lifting them toward his mouth, were his though, as was the unbearable pressure in his jeans. It got worse when his tongue stretched to tease a stiff peak, and Cayden whimpered again.

Using one arm to hold himself up, he hooked her legs and laid her down. She was a hell of a temptation, with her eyes all wide, the flecks of gold in her irises glowing in the firelight, those spectacular breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath.

He went to work on them in earnest, from one irresistible nipple to the other, first licking, then sucking, now letting his teeth graze them, later biting lightly. When they blossomed to a dark ruby red in the firelight, he started over. He kept it up until his back stung from direct contact with Cayden’s short nails, her fingers frenzied beneath his T-shirt. Knowing it, feeling it, drove him wild.

He mustered every ounce of restraint in order not to yank up that silky dress and bury himself inside her right then. He was not going to rush this. For some inexplicable reason, this felt too important. Besides, as hot as she was, she wasn’t begging yet, and he wanted her begging. Just the memory of the sounds she could utter had him throbbing so hard he was fairly certain his zipper would pop with his next heartbeat.