The Wall (8 page)

the floor. Bare toes peeped from underneath.

He took an involuntary step forward. 'You've been sick? Are you all

right?' His voice sounded sharp from anxiety.

Sara took a hasty step backwards, shaking her head until her hair

tumbled about. 'No, I'm fine,' she murmured uneasily. 'Really I am.'

Her eyes watched him with that same puzzlement, as if she expected

him to sprout four legs and a tail right there on the spot. He looked

very good to her. His faded and tight jeans were streaked here and

there, and his plaid flannel shirt strained across broad shoulders and

was rolled up at the sleeves to past his elbows. She could just

imagine him wielding a heavy axe with ease. He would be good at it,

she thought. His hard face held a strange expression, almost

forbidding, with that dark searching gaze, the hard mouth held firm,

the jaw strong.

'Don't look at me like that!' he said abruptly, taking another

experimental step forward. She didn't back away this time.

'Like what?' Why was she acting so stupidly this afternoon? She

couldn't tear her eyes away from his face; it seemed too important.

'Like you expect me to hit you in the face!' he uttered forcefully. 'I

was worried when you didn't answer the door.'

'Why?' she asked him baldly. She wanted to take his words at face

value so badly, and she didn't know if she dared.

'Because you're so isolated here and so vulnerable, I -' He took a deep

breath. 'You'd been ill, and I was worried that you'd had a relapse.'

'I didn't want to see you!' she burst out, and suddenly felt as if she

had gone mute. She couldn't for the life of her think of something

else to say.

'I know.' His own reply was low. He had winced when she had

blurted out her confession, and she felt absolutely terrible. The day

was grey and dreary and a nippy wind blew about her feet, making

her shiver. Greg took a quick comprehensive glance at her bare feet,

her damp hair and her shivers, and told her quickly, 'Go on inside and

I'll finish stacking the wood against the house. I'll knock and let you

know when I'm done, and bring in some wood to stack by the

fireplace, if you like.'

'Why,' she asked impulsively, shaking as a wind hit her exposed

head, 'are you being so nice to me? Why are you doing this?'

He merely shook his head with a faint smile, and told her, 'Shut that

door before you catch your death. Hurry now, we'll talk later.'

Feeling more and more chilled by the second, Sara hastened to do as

he said. Funny, she thought, shutting the door behind her and rushing

through the kitchen with the sudden desire to get dressed and dry her

hair, how the day had suddenly turned into a nice one after all. She

pulled on a black pair of jeans and drew on a pretty blouse with a

high collar and an edge of lace around the neck and wrists, and pulled

on a pale peach sweater over it. Brushing her hair briskly, she held a

hand dryer to her head for a few minutes, then threw it down in

disgust. She didn't have the patience for that. She picked up her

blusher and stroked a little colour over her cheekbones, then touched

her eyelids with a dark blue shadow that made her eyes appear as a

vivid blue. After looking at herself closely in the mirror, she rubbed

off a little of the eye-shadow. She wanted to look good, but she didn't

want him to think that she had put on make-up for his sake, even

though she had. She touched her lashes with a brown mascara so that

they looked longer but still natural, then hurried outside.

Greg was nearing the end of the huge stack of wood in the back of

the truck, and he turned when he heard the back door open to smile

down at her. He was standing in the bed of the truck, and his feet

were spread wide apart for balance. His brown hair fell across his

forehead and his big hands were dusty. Sara blinked up at him; when

he smiled it changed his entire aspect and made that stern, almost

menacing image fade completely away. It eased the hardness from an

already harsh visage.

'How old are you?' she asked irrelevantly.

His firm lips quirked into a wider smile. 'Thirty- three.'

'You seem older,' she told him, cocking her head to one side in an

attitude of perusal, appraisal. 'It's not exactly your features, but that

look you wear when you aren't aware of being watched. You—look

more mature, as if you've lived a lot.' Suddenly aware of how

personal she had become, she flushed quickly and said, 'But it's none

of my business, I shouldn't have made such a comment.'

She was looking down, afraid of a rebuff and worrying that perhaps

she had earned it, when a large hand came to her small chin and tilted

her face up. There was a gentle look in his eyes as he told her, 'You

don't look as if you could be twenty-one, let alone twenty-eight. Are

you pulling my leg?'

Again she flushed, but this time it was with pleasure, and she gave a

little laugh. 'No, unfortunately not, I am twenty-eight. I used to wear

a lot of make-up so that I looked older, because I've always looked

more immature than everyone else my age, and it made me self

conscious. Now I don't care any more.'

Greg let his eyes travel over Sara's face, and a look of puzzlement

crossed his. 'I can't figure out why you look so familiar to me,' he

said almost to himself. 'It keeps coming to mind. Why are you, Sara

Carmichael?'

She dropped her eyes, at once happy and yet unhappy. If he was

being truthful right now, then her suspicions of last night were

invalid. She so hoped that he was being truthful. 'Who are you, Greg

Pierson?' she countered lightly.

The hand at her chin moved in a caressing gesture. It felt so good that

she swallowed, afraid to move and break the contact. 'Why did you

run away last night?' he asked gently.

A frown creased the smooth wide expanse of her forehead, and her

eyes fluttered up to touch on his quizzical gaze, then fell away. Then,

with an honesty that sounded so totally real and unfaked, she

shrugged and said, 'You scared me. I don't know, I might have scared

myself a little. You seemed so—big and menacing all of a sudden,

and I just ran away.' Then, with a hint of desperation colouring her

voice, she whispered, 'I only met you yesterday!'

'I know,' he murmured, his hand still at her throat and almost

encircling it, and yet she felt no uneasiness at her own vulnerability,

for his touch was so gentle and light, the thumb moving in a small

circle on the pulse at the base of her throat. 'I'm sorry for being so

nasty to you last night. I've been off balance for a while and took out

my uncharitable feelings for mankind on you.' The hand was lifted

away abruptly and her eyes flew to his at the sudden movement. 'My

hands are so dirty, I've just made your neck all smudged.'

She suspected that, in that small apology and confession, Greg had

told her a great deal about himself, and she realised that it couldn't

have been easy for him. Not easy at all, if he had to climb over that

great wall he had around himself that excluded the world. He must

have been badly hurt at one time, so badly hurt that he'd had to

defend himself with hostility, lashing out to avoid ever being that

badly hurt again. It was all conjecture on her part, based on a two-

sentence speech and a certain look of pain in his eyes, but it made her

voice soften to him as she replied, 'I'll wash clean, don't worry. Can I

help you?'

'Not in that pretty sweater,' he told her. 'If you could go and open that

door to the living room, I'll carry in some wood for you. Do you have

a wood box?'

'Yes.' She moved away as she spoke. 'And it's probably totally empty

except for a few spiders. I'll go and get the door.'

She ran lightly inside and passed through the cabin to unlock the

front door. Then she cast a quick glance around her as she did so; the

living room looked charming, though small, and there wasn't

anything she needed to tidy up. She called out to Greg, then went to

see if there was anything in the box that was positioned by the

fireplace. She had lifted up the lid and was peering doubtfully into its

depths when heavy footsteps sounded on the porch and Greg came

inside with a load of wood.

'Does it look all right?' he asked her, a little thread of amusement

running through his pleasant voice as he surveyed her stooping figure

and uncertain expression.

She looked up, grinning. How could I have ever imagined that voice

hard and cold? she asked herself. 'There doesn't seem to be a family

nesting inside, so I guess it's safe enough.'

Stepping nimbly back, she watched him dump his load into the box.

As he straightened and headed out of the door for more, she called

after him, 'How would you like something hot to drink after you

finish?'

A brief glance over broad shoulders had dark eyes sparkling at her.

'That would be very nice, thank you. It'll take me about two more

trips to get this box full, so I'll be about five minutes.'

'Fine, then I'll go ahead and put on a pot of coffee. Or would you like

tea instead?' Sara flung her hair off her face as she spoke and noticed

his eyes touching on her shoulders as it settled back.

'Coffee's fine.' Greg was quickly outside again, and she left to go and

plug in her coffeemaker. She was rummaging around in her

refrigerator when Greg spoke from the doorway. 'Where can I wash?'

She put down the packages that she had hauled out and went to the

doorway to stand near him, peering around the corner and pointing

out the door. As she stuck her head around and turned her face away

from him, she felt a hand in her hair at the back of her head, and

looked up enquiringly. 'Is something wrong?' He was very close, she

realised belatedly, and seemed stronger than ever in such proximity,

and larger. His face was bent towards her, and she ran her hand over

the jutting bones under the tanned skin. His lower cheeks and chin

were getting the finest sprinkle of beard, and she wanted to reach up

and scratch her fingers on it.

'Just looking to see if your hair is dry yet,' he replied, running his

hand through the strands slowly. He frowned. Her hair was still

damp, being so long and thick, and the strands felt cold to the touch.

'You really should blow your hair dry. What if you get sick again?

There aren't any neighbours within calling distance, and you'd be

quite alone if anything happened.'

She answered easily, 'I'll just make a list of emergency numbers,

then. Don't worry so much! I've been alone for years and nothing has

happened to me yet.' Her eyes moved to the phone book that sat in a

little cubbyhole just under the cabin's only phone. Walking over

thoughtfully, she pulled out the book and started to leaf slowly

through the pages.

Greg had watched her without going to wash, and he asked her

curiously, 'Who are you going to call?'

'Hmm? No one, just yet,' she murmured, still thinking over whatever

had crossed her mind, and not really paying attention to him as he

came to stand just by her shoulder. 'I just thought I'd make a list of

emergency numbers so I would have at my fingertips someone to call

if I'm in trouble.' She didn't look up, pointing with a forefinger to the

inside flap of the book. 'It looks as though there's already a list made

out in front.'

Greg was still frowning thoughtfully as he perused the numbers. 'It

would take time for these people to get here—look, that hospital

number is a different area, at least half an hour's drive away. Can I

give you my number to call if you need anything? I can be over here

in less than ten minutes if anything is wrong.'

Sara felt vastly touched by this. 'Greg, that's very good of you. If you

really don't mind the bother -'

His lips pulled into a crooked smile. 'No bother, sweetheart. Just jot

this down, and I'll go and clean up . . .' She scribbled the number that

he gave her, and as he disappeared down the hall, she went back to

making sandwiches with a warm feeling inside. He was soon entering

the kitchen with his dark hair neat and his hands scrubbed clean, and

slowed at the doorway when he found her with a secret little quirk of

the mouth that he discovered was deliciously tantalising. 'Good joke,