The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (163 page)

“If so, the cops’ll find out, if they haven’t already. Sex is never off the radar.”

“Maybe they’ll have this thing wrapped up when we get back.” She broke off a piece of pound cake. “Nobody talks about it much, but it’s on everybody’s mind. L.B.’s especially because he’s got to think about everybody, evaluate everybody, worry about everybody.”

“Yeah, he’s handling a lot. He has a smooth way of juggling.”

“My rookie season, we had Bootstrap. He was okay, ran things pretty smooth, but you could tell, even a rook could tell, his head was already halfway into retirement. He had this cabin up in Washington State, and that’s where he wanted to be. Everybody knew it was his last season. He kept a distance, if you know what I mean, with the rookies especially.”

Gull nodded, sampled pound cake. Ambrosia. “He didn’t want to get close. Didn’t want to make any more personal bonds.”

“I think that was a good part of it. Then L.B. took over. You know how he is. He’s the boss, but he’s one of us. Everybody knows if you need to bitch or whine or let off steam, you can go to him.”

“Here’s to L.B.”

“Bet your ass.” She tipped her head as they clinked beer cans. “I like having sex with you.”

Those cat eyes gleamed in the firelight. “That’s a nonsequitur I can get behind.”

“Seriously. It occurs to me that the season’s half over, and I’ve never had another one like it. Murder, arson, mayhem, and I’m having sex regularly.”

“Let’s hope the last element is the only one that spills over into the second half.”

“Absolutely. The thing is, Gulliver, while I really like sex with you, I also realize that if we stopped having sex—”

“Bite your tongue.”

“If we did,” she said with a laugh, “I’d still like sitting around the fire with you, and talking about whatever.”

“Same here. Only I want the sex.”

“Handy for both of us. What makes it better, over and above the regular, is you don’t secretly wish I’d be something else. Less tied up with the job, more inclined to fancy underwear.”

He pulled out a cigar, lit it. Blew out a long stream. “I like fancy underwear. Just for the record.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I had a hand in training you, and I might be the one giving you orders on a fire.”

She took the cigar when he offered it, enjoyed the tang. “Because you know who you are, and that matters. I can’t push you around, and that matters, too. And there’s this thing I didn’t think mattered because it never did. But it does when it’s mixed in with the rest. When it’s blended, like we said before. You bring me flowers in a bottle.”

“I think of you,” he said simply.

She pulled on the cigar again, giving her emotions time to settle, then passed it back to him. “I know, and that’s another new element for the season. And here’s one more. I guess the thing is, Gull, I’m in care with you, too.”

He reached out for her hand. “I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”

“Know-it-all.” Still holding his hand, she tipped her head back, looked at the star-swept sky. “It’d be nice to just stay here a couple of days. No worries, no wondering.”

“We’ll come back, after the season’s over.”

She couldn’t see that far. Next month, she thought, next year? As distant as the stars. As murky as smoke. Always better, to her way of thinking, to concentrate on the right now.

 

 

TOWARD DAWN,
Gull slipped through a dream of swimming under a waterfall. He dove deep into the blue crystal of the pool where sunbeams washed the gilded bottom in shimmering streaks. Overhead water struck water in a steady, muted drumbeat while Rowan, skin as gold and sparkling as the sand, eyes as clear and cool as the pool, swam toward him.

Their arms entwined, their mouths met, and his pulse beat like the drumming water.

As he lay against her, his hand lazily stroking along her hip, he thought himself dreaming still. He drifted toward the surface, in the dream and out of the dream, and the water drummed on.

It echoed in the confines of the tent when he opened his eyes. Smiling in the dark, he gave Rowan a little shake.

“Hey, do you hear that?”

“What?” Her tone, sleepy and annoyed, matched the nudge back she gave him. “What?” she repeated, more lucidly. “Is it the bear? Is it back?”

“No. Listen.”

“I don’t want . . . It’s rain.” She shoved him with more force as she pushed to sit up. “It’s raining!”

She crawled to the front of the tent, opened the flap. “Oh, yeah, baby! Rain, rain, don’t go away. Do you
hear
that?”

“Yeah, but I’m a little distracted by the view right this minute.”

He caught the glint of her eyes as she glanced over her shoulder, grinned. Then she was out of the tent and letting out a long, wild cheer.

What the hell, he thought, and climbed out after her.

She threw her arms up, lifted her face. “This isn’t a storm, or a quick summer shower. This is what my grandfather likes to call a soaker. And about damn time.”

She pumped her fists, her hips, high stepped. “Give it up, Gulliver! Dance! Dance to honor the god of rain!”

So he danced with her, naked, in the rainy gloom of dawn, then dragged her back in the tent to honor the rain gods his way.

The steady, soaking rain watered the thirsty earth, and made for a wet pack-out. Rowan held on to the cheer with every step of every mile.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” she said as rain slid off their ponchos, dripped off the bills of their caps. “Maybe it’s one of those turning points, and means the worst of the crap’s behind us.”

Gull figured it was a lot to expect from one good rain in a dry summer—but he never argued against hope.

R
owan refused to let the news that Leo Brakeman remained at large discourage her, and instead opted for Gull’s glass half full of no further arson fires or connected murders in almost a month.

Maybe the cops would never find him, never solve those crimes. It didn’t, and wouldn’t, change her life.

While she and Gull packed out, a twelve-man team jumped a fire in Shoshone, putting the two of them back on the jump list as soon as they’d checked in.

That was her life, she thought as she unpacked and reorganized her gear. Training, preparing, doing, then cleaning up to go again.

Besides, when she studied the big picture, she couldn’t complain. As the season edged toward August, she’d had no injuries, had managed to maintain a good, fighting weight by losing only about ten pounds, and had justified L.B.’s faith in her by proving herself a solid fire boss on the line. Most important, she’d had a part in saving countless acres of wildland.

The fact she’d managed to accomplish that
and
build what she had to admit had become an actual relationship was cause to celebrate, not a reason to niggle with the downsides.

She decided to do just that with something sweet and indulgent from the cookhouse.

She found Marg out harvesting herbs in the cool, damp air.

“We brought the rain down with us,” Rowan told her. “It followed us all the way in. Didn’t stop until we flew over Missoula.”

“It’s the first time I haven’t had to water the garden in weeks. Ground soaked it right up, though. We’re going to need more. Brought out the damn gnats, too.” Marg swatted at them as she lifted her basket. She spritzed a little of her homemade bug repellant on her hands, patted her face with it and sweetened the air with eucalyptus and pennyroyal. “I guess you’re looking for some food.”

“Anything with a lot of sugar.”

“I can fix you up.” Marg cocked her head. “You look pretty damn good for a woman who hiked a few hours in the rain.”

“I feel pretty damn good, and I think that’s why.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain good-looking, green-eyed jumper?”

“Well, he was hiking with me. It didn’t hurt.”

“It’s a little bright spot for me.” Inside, Marg set her herb basket on the counter. “Watching the romances. Yours, your father’s.”

“I don’t know if it’s . . . My father’s?”

“I ran into Lucas and his lady friend at the fireworks, and again a couple days ago at the nursery. She was helping him pick out some plants.”

“Plants? You’re talking about my father? Lucas black-thumb Tripp?”

“One and the same.” As she spoke, Marg cut a huge slice of Black Forest cake. “Ella’s helping him put in a flower bed. A little one to start. He was looking at arbors.”

“Arbors? You mean the . . .” Rowan drew an arch with her forefingers. “Come on. Dad’s gardening skills start and stop with mowing the lawn.”

“Things change.” She set the cake and a tall glass of milk in front of Rowan. “As they should or we all just stand in the same place. It’s good to see him lit up about something that doesn’t involve a parachute or an engine. You ought to be happy about that, Rowan, especially since there’s a lot of lights dimming around here right now.”

“I just don’t know, that’s all. What’s wrong with standing in the same place if it’s a good place?”

“Even a good place gets to be a rut, especially if you’re standing in it alone. Honey, alone and lonely share the same root. Eat your cake.”

“I don’t see how Dad could be lonely. He’s always got so much going on. He has so many friends.”

“And nobody there when he turns off the lights—until recently. If you can’t see how much happier he is since Ella, then you’re not paying attention.”

Rowan searched around for a response, then noticed Marg’s face when the cook turned away to wash her herbs in the sink. Obviously she hadn’t been paying attention here, Rowan realized, or she’d have seen the sadness.

“What’s wrong, Marg?”

“Oh, just tough times. Tougher for some. I know you’d probably be fine if Leo Brakeman wasn’t seen or heard from again. And I don’t blame you a bit for it. But it’s beating down on Irene.”

“If he comes back, or they find him, he’ll probably go to prison. I don’t know if that’s better for her.”

“Knowing’s always better. In the meanwhile, she had to take on another job as her pay from the school isn’t enough to cover the bills. Especially since she leveraged the house for his bail. And taking on the work, she can’t see to the baby.”

“Can’t her family help her through it?”

“Not enough, I guess. It’s the money, but it’s also the time, the energy, the wherewithal. The last time I saw her, she looked worn to the nub. She’s ready to give up, and I don’t know how much longer she can hold out.”

“I’m sorry, Marg. Really. We could take up a collection. I guess it wouldn’t be more than a finger in the dike for a bit, but the baby’s Jim’s. Everybody’d do what they could.”

“Honestly, Ro, I don’t think she’d accept it. On top of it all, that woman’s shamed down to the root of her soul. What her husband and her daughter did here, that weighs on her. I don’t think she could take money from us. I’ve known Irene since we were girls, and she could hardly look at me. That breaks my heart.”

Rowan rose, cut another, smaller slice of cake, poured another glass of milk. “You sit down. Eat some cake. We’ll fix it,” she added. “There’s always a way to fix something if you keep at it long enough.”

“I like to think so, but I don’t know how much long enough Irene’s got left.”

 

 

WHEN ELLA CAME BACK DOWNSTAIRS,
Irene continued to sit on the couch, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Deliberately Ella fixed an easy smile on her face.

“She’s down. I swear that’s the sweetest baby, Irene. Just so sunny and bright.” She didn’t mention the time she’d spent folding and putting away the laundry in the basket by the crib, or the disarray she’d noticed in Irene’s usually tidy home.

“She makes me want more grandbabies,” Ella went on, determinedly cheerful. “I’m going to go make us some tea.”

“The kitchen’s a mess. I don’t know if I even have any tea. I didn’t make it to the store.”

“I’ll go find out.”

Dishes piled in the sink of the little kitchen Ella always found cozy and charming. The near-empty cupboards, the sparsely filled refrigerator, clearly needed restocking.

That, at least, she could do.

She found a box of tea bags, filled the kettle. As she began filling the dishwasher, Irene shuffled in.

“I’m too tired to even be ashamed of the state of my own kitchen, or to see you doing my dishes.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, and you’d insult our friendship if you were.”

“I used to have pride in my home, but it’s not really my home now. It’s the bank’s. It’s just a place to live now, until it’s not.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to get through this. You’re just worn out. Why don’t you let me take the baby for a day or two, give yourself a chance to catch your breath? You know I’d love it. Then we could sit down, and if you’d let me, we could go over your financial situation, see if there’s anything—”

She broke off when she turned to see tears rolling down Irene’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Abandoning the dishes, she hurried over to wrap Irene in her arms.

“I can’t do it, Ella. I just can’t. I’ve got no fight left. No heart.”

“You’re just so tired.”

“I am. I am tired. The baby’s teething, and when she’s fretful in the night, I lie there wishing she’d just stop. Just be quiet, give me some peace. I’m passing her off to anybody who’ll take her for a few hours while I work, and even with the extra work, I’m not going to make the house payments, unless I let something else go.”

“Let me help you.”

“Help me what? Pay my bills, raise my grandchild, keep my house?” Even the hard words held no life. “For how long, Ella? Until Leo gets back, if he comes back? Until he gets out of prison, if he goes to prison?”

“With whatever you need to get you through this, Irene.”