The Pretender (18 page)

Well, he hadn’t told her not to, had he?

Men’s bodies held no mystery for her; she’d seen dozens, if not hundreds of dancers in costumes that left
little or nothing to the imagination. But this was different. This was Sage. Even fully clothed he’d captivated and fascinated her. She’d seen him shirtless before, that day in the meadow, but that, too, was different. A man working bare-chested in the sun was one thing; a man undressing by firelight in the intimacy of a one-room cabin was…another.

Even silhouetted by the firelight, she
could see the lower half of his body was several shades lighter in color than the top half. And though he kept his back modestly turned to her, the shape of his body was clearly defined—hips narrow, buttocks small, the muscles taut and concave on the sides.

She realized suddenly that it had been a long time since she’d drawn a breath. She lay back on the pillows with a barely audible groan
and put an arm across her eyes. Her mouth was dry, and the sizzling beneath her skin was like an intense all-over itch that was impossible to scratch. She knew it was only desire. Except she’d never felt anything quite like it before.

“That bad, huh?”

Abby removed the arm from her eyes and focused them on Sage. He was standing beside the bed, looking down at her, and though his face
was in shadow, his voice was soft and she could hear a smile in it. He was dressed, now, almost exactly as she was, in thermal long johns, warm socks and a flannel shirt, which he was in the process of buttoning.

“What?” she demanded, hiding her awareness of him behind false belligerence.

“The sight of my naked body. So bad you had to cover your eyes?” There was laughter in his voice,
now, and the kind of confidence she could only wish for.

“Hah,” she retorted, “what makes you think I watched?”

“I just know you.” The way he said it was more tender than arrogant.

Her chest tightened. “You
don’t.
You might think you do, but you don’t know me at all.”

There was a pause, and then, “I don’t know you as well as I’d like to, that’s true.”

While she tried
to think of a reply, he crossed to the other side of the bed. She felt a rush of air as he lifted the comforter, and the mattress sagged with his weight.

“Come ’ere, Sunshine.” He put his arm across the pillows and got her lifted and nestled into its curve, snuggled against him. Inexplicably, now that she had his body heat to warm her, she’d begun to shiver again. She felt his lips touch
her hair and his words formed against it, warmed with his breath. “We’re both fully clothed. I’m going to hold you, if that’s okay. Okay?”

She managed to nod. After a moment she sighed, and her fist, clenched on his chest, slowly unfurled.

Beneath her head, she felt his body relax with a deep exhalation. “That’s all I’m going to do…tonight. Even though I want you so bad it hurts. Do
you understand?”

Brokenly, she whispered, “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Two reasons. For one, you’re exhausted and wounded. And I want you strong and whole when we make love.” She couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried; she simply had no breath to spare.

He drew another deep breath, and slowly let it out. “For another, Sam Malone raised me. He’s the only father I’ve ever known. And
you’re his granddaughter. I don’t feel right, letting this go any further, without—”

“You need his
permission?
” Her voice was thin; she still felt desperately short of air.

“No…” Sage answered slowly, “not his permission. His blessing, maybe.”

She tried to laugh. “You want my grandfather’s blessing in order to
sleep
with me?”

He laughed softly. “Well…that’s the problem.”
His voice was gruff. She could feel his muscles tense and his head lift as he looked down at her. “You see, Sunshine, the problem is I don’t just want to sleep with you.”

Chapter 11

H
e wasn’t prepared to feel her body jerk, as if he’d struck her. Or for the small cry she uttered, like a hurt animal, as she turned her face against his chest. His shirt grew warm with her breath, and he wondered if maybe there were some tears, too.

Something quivered inside his chest. He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for.”

He waited in stealthy silence, barely breathing, feeling as though she were a wild animal he was trying to get close to.
Patience,
he reminded himself.
She’s wary…she’s shy…you don’t know what she’s had to deal with.

Moments…minutes ticked by. He felt her hand move secretively…wiping away tears? There was no trace of them in her voice when she finally spoke.

“How can you know
that? You’ve known me…what? A couple of days?”

“True.”

She lifted herself on one elbow and looked down at him. Her hair tumbled forward across one shoulder and onto his chest.

He touched a lock of her hair…twisted it around his finger. It felt like cool damp silk. “I know all I need—”

“You don’t,” she interrupted, shaking her head earnestly. “What do you know? Okay, say
you know my name—and it’s a pretty weird one, right? I mean, who has a name like Sunny Blue? And say I’m Sam Malone’s granddaughter, and I live in New York, but that’s not
who I am.
Don’t you get it? That’s not
me.
You don’t know
me.
”

Even in the dim light he could see her face looked bunched and tense, like a little girl trying not to cry. Watching her struggle made him feel as though his
heart was too big for his chest. He tugged gently on the lock of her hair.

“You’re right about one thing…
Sunshine.
A person’s name isn’t who they are. But, when I call
you
that, it’s because to me, it
is
who you are. Understand?” He waited, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. She closed her eyes, and he watched a tear trace a red-gold track on her cheek, reflecting the dying firelight.

“Shall I tell you what I know about you?” he murmured, as his thumb stroked the tendril of her hair coiled around his finger. “I know you’re kind. I know you’re gentle and that you have respect for all living things.” A smile warmed his chest and blossomed over his face as he remembered her look of profound sadness when she’d realized she’d just eaten meat. He took a careful breath. “I know
you’re funny and smart…but sometimes you’re not very sure of yourself.”

She opened her eyes and sniffed, and lifted a hand to her face, obliterating the tear track. “What do you mean? Just because I said I can’t sing—”

“No.” He silenced her with that word and a tug on her hair, but then fell silent himself while he searched for the right words. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, softly,
“I see…fear in your eyes. And I think…it’s because sometimes you’re not sure you’re going to be accepted. As you are, who you are. And I think you desperately want to be that. Maybe more than anything.” He paused, giving her the chance to refute him. But she remained silent. After a moment he tried what was meant to be a smile but felt strangely like a spasm of pain. “Kind of makes me wonder what
kind of childhood you must have had.”

She suddenly squinched her eyes shut and drew a shuddering breath. He whispered an apology as he hooked his arm around her neck and drew her head down onto his shoulder.

“In some ways,” he said in a voice that rumbled deep in his chest, “it wasn’t easy for me, either, growing up half Indian, half white, not knowing who my father was. But one thing
I always knew, was that I was loved. That’s a precious gift, and it’s one every child born on this earth is entitled to. I had that, but…” He looked down at her head, tucked under his jaw, and tenderly touched it with his lips, then laid his head back with a sigh. “Somehow, I don’t think you did.”

Once again, she had no answer, except to turn her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder.
He held her and stroked her hair while her tears soaked the collar of Sam’s soft old flannel shirt.

They woke the next morning to bright sunshine and the sound of water dripping as the last night’s snow melted off the cabin’s tin roof.

The first thing Abby discovered when she tried to get out of bed was that she was so stiff she could hardly move. The second, that the sores on the
insides of her knees had oozed in the night and were now stuck to her borrowed thermal long johns.

Beyond that, she didn’t want to think. Memories of the night just past hovered, scary and formless, just beyond the boundaries of conscious thought.

Sage was already up and fully dressed, and had fires going in both the fireplace and the cookstove. The tiny cabin was warm and filled with
the scents of wood smoke and fresh coffee.

When he heard her stirring around, he called, “Morning, Sunshine,” and came with a smile and a cup of coffee in his hand. The smile disappeared when he saw the dark patches on her thermals.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He set the coffee cup on top of the dresser and ignoring her protests that she didn’t need to be babied, put his arm under her
and half lifted her out of bed.

“I had other things on my mind,” she muttered as he walked her slowly to the chair in front of the fireplace and gently lowered her into it.

He put his hands on the chair arms and leaned on them, looking into her eyes. “I think I know why you didn’t tell me you were hurting. You didn’t want to complain, right? You figured, ‘Okay, I disobeyed orders,
I got what I deserved.’ And besides…” His eyes were dark and soft as mink, and the compassion in them made her throat ache. “I think you learned a long time ago your best chance to be accepted was to lay low, follow the rules, and most of all,
never complain.
Right?”

She couldn’t answer; the ache in her throat had spread to her jaws, her chest, her head. She wanted to scream at him.
You
think you know me, but you don’t. You don’t!
But even if she could have spoken, how could she explain to him that all his understanding and caring only made her feel more wretched. That every kind word was like a knife digging into an open wound.

He made her take off the thermals, then rubbed some evil-smelling salve on the sores and wrapped them with a clean dish towel, all the while seeming
as dispassionate as a nurse. When he’d finished doctoring her, he left her to dress while he heated another can of stew for himself.

For
her
breakfast, she discovered, he’d arranged a plastic container of applesauce, a spoon, a handful of nuts and a stick of string cheese on a tin plate. She smiled and said, “Well, look at you, Martha Stewart!” while the ache inside her grew vast and all
but unbearable.

I have to tell him. I can’t wait for Sam Malone. I have to tell
him.
I have to tell him
now.

But when she thought about telling him…imagined the softness and warmth in his eyes turning black and cold as flint…imagined his lips, curved not in a smile of heart-stopping beauty but with contempt…the words stuck in her throat like shards of glass.

I have to leave.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just quietly run away, forget I ever dreamed up this crazy scheme.

Yes, that’s what she’d do. She still had the credit card the lawyer had sent for Sunny to use. She would use it to take a bus to L.A. Maybe find a place to live…get a job. She’d write to Sam and tell him about Sunny…tell him how sorry she was. She’d send back the credit card and tell him
she would pay back every cent.

It made her feel better, having a plan. And somehow, someday, assuming she stayed out of jail, maybe she would find a way to forget a dark-haired, dark-eyed man named Sage....

Over the thoughtfully prepared breakfast and a cup of strong coffee, she asked Sage about the animals he’d left behind. Who would feed them? And what about Freckles?

He assured
her he’d called one of his ranch hands before he’d ridden out of cell phone range the day before, and asked him to send someone up to take care of everything, including Freckles.

He asked her about Pia, and Abby explained the cat was used to being left alone in a tiny apartment, sometimes until the wee hours of morning, when she was working.

“She’ll be fine,” she said, staring down
at her plate, while the food she’d just eaten formed a lump in her stomach. “I’m not worried about
her.
” She lifted her eyes miserably to Sage. “What must they think of me? Your mother…”

“Yeah,” he drawled as he indulged in a massive stretch, “I don’t think I’d want to face Josie, either, if I were you.” Then he grinned and pushed back from the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll come with you…help
deflect the fury. She’s more bark than bite. So…ready to head down the mountain? Think you can sit a horse?”

“I pretty much have to, don’t I?” she said darkly, and quickly added with a wry smile, “I’m not complaining.”

The ride down the mountain seemed a lot shorter than it had going up. And not nearly as scary with Sage up ahead, leading Sam’s horse, Paint. As they come down through
the meadow above the ranch, they could hear the horses in the pasture below the barns whinny a welcome home, and Freckles came bounding out to meet them, yipping and dancing in circles, a black-and-white bundle of pure joy.

“Looks like he’s forgiven you for tying him to a post,” Abby said to Sage, after he’d dismounted to give his dog a roughhousing hug and they were on their way again.

“Yeah, that’s the thing about dogs,” he replied. “If they love you, they’ll forgive you just about anything.”

And Abby thought:
If only people could be like that.

While Sage took care of unsaddling, rubbing down and feeding the horses, Abby checked her cell phone for messages. There were three more calls from Pauly. As she stood with the phone in her hand, staring at the familiar
name and phone number, she felt a strange little chill.

What was with Pauly, anyway? Had he actually suggested that Abby go on pretending to be Sunny? Had he really said—had it meant what it had sounded like—that she should defraud Sunny’s grandfather and claim her share of the old man’s riches?

Standing in the lane in the warm California sunshine, Abby shivered. He
had
said that.
And he’d meant it, too. And what was worse, he’d said he’d told Sunny to take Sam Malone for his money, and Sunny had gone along with it.

Sunny? You were my friend, my roommate, almost like my sister. Would you have done such a heartless thing? Could you? I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. You would have changed your mind, once you—

“Sunshine? Ready to go face the music?”

Abby tucked the phone in her pocket. Voice mail could wait.

In spite of her saddle sores, Sunny wanted to walk to the hacienda, probably, Sage thought, because she wasn’t in any great hurry to face his mother. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

As they emerged from the trees onto the wide flagstone drive, the heavy front door banged open and Josie came running down the flagstone steps
to meet them. Unlike the day of Sunny’s arrival, this time she wasn’t smiling, and he heard Sunny mutter, “Uh-oh,” under her breath.

He put his hand on the back of her neck and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Rachel and J.J. were there, too, right behind his mother. When Josie halted at the bottom of the steps and pressed both fists to her mouth, the others flowed on around her like
a flood around a rock, babbling questions faster than he could answer.

“Where is Sam? Did you find him? Did he come back with you?” That was Rachel, eager as a little girl asking, “Daddy, what did you bring me?”

Sage got his arm around his mother’s shoulders, but she slapped at him furiously, then socked him in the arm—the one with the still-healing bullet wound in it. He said, “Ow!”
and she was instantly contrite, but somehow to him her quiet tears were harder to take than her anger.

“I’ll tell you all about it.” He ushered the two women ahead of him up the steps, then fell back to talk to J.J., who was hitching along on his crutches. Rachel moved up to slip an arm around Sunny’s waist.

“We may have a problem,” Sage said to J.J. in an undertone when he thought
the women were out of earshot. “Sam didn’t come back with us. When we got there his horse was in the corral, but the cabin was empty. Except…” He drew in a breath…let it out. “There was blood. A lot of it. And Sam’s hunting knife. So, I’m thinking he cut himself and called his chopper to come get him.”

He paused, and so did J.J., leaning on his crutches. He had an impassive look—a cop look—on
his face, and listened intently.

“Should be easy to find out,” J.J. said.

Sage nodded. “Yeah, except I don’t have the chopper pilot’s number. His lawyer probably does. Would you mind giving Alex Branson a call? His number’s in the Rolodex on the desk in the den. Meanwhile—” he grinned and rubbed his sore shoulder “—I’ll go try and put out the fire in Josie’s bonnet.”

“Yeah,”
J.J. said, “she’s been pretty worried. Don’t think I’ve seen her that upset since the day we both got shot.”