Danger, Sweetheart (26 page)

“It's my prerogative to disagree,” he replied gently. “And your concern is appreciated, but I am fine. And I need to get back to work. Margaret of Anjou will not feed herself. Though I imagine she wishes she could.” That last in a dark mutter.

“You're not fine,” Natalie replied sharply, and was that still more guilt? Yep. She'd thrown everything at him and he wasn't leaving. He knew the truth about everything—Vegas Douche, the reasons behind Gary's treachery, her job at the bank, Margaret of Anjou's sociopathy, that the nuclear option hadn't worked—and he still wasn't leaving. Natalie knew he would—he'd told her he would, and unlike her, Blake didn't lie—but it would be on his terms.

And he'd been that kind of man long before setting foot in Sweetheart. Shoveling shit didn't change a man in a month. She'd been so stupid, so smug and certain she knew better than a city guy, that she hadn't let herself see his strength. She'd pay for that, because she, too, would think of him every day after he went back to his life.

“Dammit, Blake, don't argue! Your hands are shaking, for God's sake. Come on with me now.” She stood and tried to pull him up with her, and after a few seconds he let her. Good thing, too, because it had been like trying to yank a redwood out of the ground.

Blake sighed, so long and loud it sounded like it came from the very bottom of his lungs, and emptied them. Their moment of whatever-it-was was over. “There's nothing to be concerned about.”

Biggest lie ever.
It was too dusty in here; it was making her eyes water.
Oh. No.
Wasn't the dust.
Do not start crying again, idiot!

“And you're laboring under a misapprehension,” he continued. “My hands aren't shaking because I'm tired. They always do that when you touch me. I— I've been hoping you wouldn't notice. Too late now. Isn't that right?”

He looked around, saw the White Rose of York had settled down in clean straw to finish her nap, and stood. Natalie had the sense he wouldn't be talking like this—that they would never have spoken about
any
of this—if he was in his right mind, or at least well rested. He'd said some nice things when he was drunk, and then out of pity when she blubbered all over him, but she wasn't dumb enough to assume he meant them. Her concern was sharpening into major unease. Cripes, Heartbreak broke Blake! Which she had wanted to happen until it did! “Listen—”

Slowly, so slowly it was almost like watching the minute hand on a clock, his hand came up and, eventually, he had a finger under her chin and was coaxing her head up so she could look at him. Slowly, giving her every chance to punch or kick or spit or just step back, he leaned in and his mouth brushed over her lips once, twice. And once again. He'd been filching toast again. She should be grossed out, being able to taste his breakfast.

(I am not grossed out.)

She blinked at him, realized she'd grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and things at once seemed quite bright and loud. She could hear everything—Margaret of Anjou's soft snorts from her stall, the White Rose of York's contented grunting, the chorus from the meadowlarks outside and the barn swallows inside. The wind humming through the grass and tree line. Her breathing. His. And she could smell everything, too, which could have been horrifying but wasn't. Clean hay. Dust. Manure. Newly cut grass. Even the sunshine slanting through the barn seemed to have a smell, yellow and bright and lemony.

Then she was clutching air because he'd stepped back out of her grip, and his face was red for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat. “I apologize. It won't happen again.” He paused like he was going to say something more, then seemed to change his mind. “Forgive me.”

She reached out, not slowly, and grabbed his shirt, not gently, and hauled him back again, not carefully, and then she was discovering that in addition to toast, he'd had orange juice. She was discovering that if she did
that
with her tongue right
there
she could get his breathing to hitch. The power in that moment was heady, almost as staggering as the relief.

(oh God he's letting me he's letting me do this and you said your hands shake when I'm near and you taste like sunshine and toast and your breathing goes funny when we do this, which is good because maybe you won't notice my breathing goes funny, too)

Margaret of Anjou's hiss (before that pony came to Heartbreak, Natalie hadn't known ponies could hiss like pissed-off rattlers) broke the spell. She relaxed her grip, then tried (in vain) to straighten the dust-smeared wrinkles in his shirt. He looked down and watched for a second, then took her hands in his.

“You're lovely.” He said it with utter seriousness, the way people said, “It's snowing,” or, “Splinters are painful.” “And your mouth is glorious.”

“I don't—” Ten minutes ago he'd been swaying with fatigue and she'd felt guilt and sorrow in equal measure. Yesterday she was sick over what could only be called her betrayal. Now she knew how his mouth felt against hers, knew she made his hands shake, knew he fantasized about her, and her brain couldn't reconcile the new information with the old. “Thank you. I don't do this stuff normally. Make a habit of it, I mean.” God, when
had
she last gone on a date? Between trying to save the bank and, thus, the town (or vice versa), her social life had gone right down the shitter.

“How fortunate for me.” This in a low voice, almost a rumble, and she had to actively resist the urge to haul him back in and mack on him some more.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“It doesn't matter now,” he replied, and kissed her again.

 

Twenty-nine

Blake Tarbell (Secret Service code name: Vegas Douche) sulked in his mighty Supertruck. He had promised Natalie he would rest, had let her bully him into two glasses of lemonade to assuage her guilt, but the attic was too hot and the lemonade sloshed in his belly, leaving him feeling vaguely ill.

After an hour of rising heat and ever-louder stomach sloshing he couldn't bear it any longer, found his keys, checked on Margaret of Anjou and the White Rose of York, and drove toward town. It was, as always, a peaceful drive. He drove past field after abandoned field, picturing them lush with golden summer wheat, the drone of insects getting drowsy in the sun, the snap of plastic streamers in the field scaring off the birds (easier and more effective, Natalie-the-banker had explained, than scarecrows).

The fields weren't entirely abandoned; it wasn't all desolate, empty landscape. The Darrel twins (each widowed twelve years ago, he had learned, and just two days apart) had their stand up and running, and they waved as he got closer. He returned the wave and pulled over, spotting carton after carton of fresh-picked spring strawberries. He considered purchasing some for Natalie, who would consume strawberry shortcake three times a day if it were socially acceptable. Then he remembered he was sick with hurt at her betrayal(s)

(as she was by yours, you self-righteous ass, and have you forgotten all those sad abandoned fields were partially your doing?)

and decided to punish her by only getting half a pound.
When I could have easily purchased two pounds! That will teach her!
He answered Alice Darrel's questions about Margaret of Anjou

(“Are you any closer to killing her? Or her you? There's a pool! So any hints you could give me … it's up to four hundred bucks. Seventy/thirty, whaddya think?”),

politely returned Andy Darrel's mild flirtation

(“A man like you stuck in Heartbreak with just Harry, Gary, and Larry for company, a damned shame, and a crime against nature”),

and was pleased to accept the small jar of clover honey they saved for him. His second week he discovered Natalie had mentioned his stash of bread and his toaster to the twins, so when they could they pulled a jar and held it for him. Fresh clover honey, he had discovered with deep delight, tasted like springtime. He may have fantasized about using Natalie as a canvas on which he would paint and devour said honey.

He got his bag of berries, wished the twins a pleasant afternoon, and climbed back in the Supertruck.
The Darrel twins are so nice
, he thought,
I wonder if they want Sweetheart to die so they can leave? Or are they like Natalie, they don't ever want to leave? And did Andy's wife really dance herself to death, or is that just a local urban legend? Maybe
dance herself to death
is a euphemism. But for what? And why do I want to know? This question will consume me.

He passed a school bus, obediently stopping when it flipped out its stop sign. The Opitz kids piled out, saw him, and one of them mimed yanking a pull cord. Children loved the Supertruck's droning horn, which was not unlike the sound of a runaway train bearing down on you. Blake obligingly honked. A grin, waves, and off they went.

Once in Sweetheart proper, he had no idea where he wanted to go, just that he was restless and thirsty and his head ached. He parked and considered.
The library?
Closed on Sundays.
The diner?
Not hungry—he hadn't been hungry for over a day. Perhaps his body was finally adjusting to the Heartbreak schedule?
Incorrect,
as he had not been so tired since his first week on the farm.

The gas station
? The Supertruck had three-quarters of a tank.
The B and B? No thank you. Las Vegas? No thank you.

This place,
he thought, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he glared through the windshield.
It grows on you like lichen on a tree. The tree doesn't notice and, by the time it does notice, the lichen is part of it, and getting rid of it would be unthinkable.

That is a terrible analogy. Get a grip on yourself!

The appeal of Sweetheart, he decided, was more about what it
wasn't
than what it
was.
It was not an impersonal city where you locked everything at night—and during the day, too, just to be safe. It was not a luxury hotel; no one was waiting by the phone to rush midnight hot-fudge sundaes to his suite. (They'd done that a few times, he'd come down at midnight for a snack and find Natalie there, and they'd have sundaes or fudge or that potato flatbread she liked,
lefsa
—which had a fascinating history!—and once they got to speculating about Margaret of Anjou's sinister past until two o'clock in the morning.) There was none of Vegas' “make wild revelry, for who cares about tomorrow” vibe.

Things mattered in Sweetheart; the locals had bigger problems than how to hit three breakfast buffets by 9:00
A.M.
with time left to gamble away the mortgage payment. The locals weren't afraid to get dirty (except Garrett, but given Blake's family's business, he could not cast blame). Aside from losing their homes, they didn't appear to be afraid of anything. They looked after the land, they looked after one another (the Darrel twins house-sat for Roger when he was off on his mysterious sinister vacations, and Roger watered their dogs when they left town for something called a Romantic Times convention).

Everyone knew everyone else, and at first Blake had found that claustrophobic. He could feel the gazes on him when he went into town for errands, could feel their silent judgment. Everyone knowing everyone was kind of awful if you were Blake Tarbell and people knew you did your best to gut their town until Mommy grounded you. But it was something splendid when you needed a cup of sugar and any one of a dozen people would not only lend it to you; they'd also leave their front door unlocked so you could swing by and pick up the sugar whenever you like.

It wasn't that the people of Las Vegas were terrible. But they were all strangers to one another. That had suited him well until a month ago. And now when he thought of Rake in Venice, up to God knew what Rake-related shenanigans, instead of envy Blake felt worry. His twin was surrounded by strangers in a land where he was not known; Blake would fret until Rake returned. Whatever, and wherever, that meant.

A rap on the window; Blake had been so deep in thought he hadn't noticed the older man who bore a striking resemblance to Sir Ben Kingsley, CBE, if Sir Ben had close-cropped red hair and favored jeans and flannel shirts.

He rolled down the window. “Hello.”

“Hiya. Sandy Cort.” They shook, and Blake was so used to the burning pain in his palms he didn't flinch. For a man in his early sixties, Cort had an admirable grip. “You're that outtatowner feller, arencha?”

It took Blake a few seconds to translate the midwestern
patois
. He considered, then rejected, telling him “fellow” was pronounced “fell-oh” and “out-of-towner” was technically three words, despite the hyphens, and “are you not” worked just as well as “arencha.” “I am. May I help you, Mr. Cort?”

“Naw, Mr. Cort's my dad and he's long dead, that stubborn bugger; I'm Sandy. Just wanted to say h'lo. Me and Roger—you know Rog, he's shacking over at the B and B?”

“Yes, I have stolen his livestock.”

Cort didn't even blink. “That's the one, yep; we tickle trout together.”

Blake managed, just, to swallow the inappropriate giggle that wanted to leak out of his lungs.

“Said you were a nice feller and I should say h'lo. So: h'lo.”

“It's nice to meet you.”

“He said you talk like books.”

“I suppose I do.” He was a bit taken aback, then decided there were worse ways to talk and warmed to the comment. “I read a great deal.”

“Yeah, sure, t'be expected. Shannah's boy, arencha?”

“You know my mother?”

“Oh, sure, her an' all them Banaans.” Blake was surprised to hear Sandy pronounce it “ban-anns” instead of the more typical “buh-nons.” “She was always like that, even as a little 'un; the other kids'd be playin' outside and she always wanted to hole up with four or five books. Not comic books, either!” he added, as if Blake were making ready to scorn his mother's reading efforts. “
Big
books, for grown-ups. My dad got kicked out of the nursing home because of all the candy he kept sneaking to the diabetics, came home to die.”