Moon Dance (27 page)

sixteen

M
att had been fighting the urge all the rest of that week and over the weekend.

On Tuesday he caved in.

Oh, he
told himself that it was the barn
space that he needed to take a good look at. Hadn't Doc Espey suggested that before Matt abandoned his dream of opening a clinic at Pumpkin Hill, he should try to figure out what it would take to convert the old ba
rn
into a mode
rn
veterinary facility? Didn't he encourage Matt to see if it was doable, and then to approach one of the local banks to obtain a loan to cover the renovations? Sure, he had, and good advice it was. Why, Doc had even offered to co-sign the loan.

That Matt would most likely run into their tenant had nothing to do wi
th the fact that he left Shaws
burg right after his three o'clock appointment, that he'd planned ahead and brought Artie with him that morning rather than run home after work to fetch
him, or that he'd worked through lunch to make sure he'd get out on time.

But heck
_;
if he
did
happen to run into their tenant, he'd try to find a way to explain why he'd left Ally's birthday party so abruptly. Okay, he'd even apologize. And somehow he'd work into the conversation that he'd had a long chat with her mother last week, and that maybe he'd misjudged her. Maybe he'd misjudged all of them.

Not for the first time, Matt wondered if Georgia knew about the arrangements Delia had made on Charity's behalf. He guessed that Delia probably hadn't bothered to mention it to anyone.

It had taken him a few days to sort through it all, but in the end, he realized that Delia had done what she had done from the purest of motives. Certainly, he'd had all intentions of demanding that she back off and permit him and Laura to take over the night-shift problem. Then Delia had pulled up the nurse's last billing statement on her laptop computer and he'd had to struggle to maintain his composure when he realized just how expensive Mrs. Grayson's services were. Taking that over right now would wipe out that college fund—however small it may be— that Laura had managed to start for Ally a few months ago. College tuition would be astronomical by the time Ally was ready to start applying to schools, though the thought crossed Matt's mind that Delia, being Ally's grandmother, might find a way to take care of that, too.

The terms Delia had offered Matt for the repayment of Mrs. Grayson's fees had been very generous,
and consisted of a small monthly payment—an embarrassingly small payment for the time being—but it was all he could afford right now. Delia had seemed pleased with the arrangement, provided, she had said, that Laura didn't know about it. They had both agreed that Laura had enough on her plate right then.

No, this would be Matt's responsibility alone. After all, his sister had her inn and her daughter and their mother's basic expenses to meet. If Matt could get his clinic up and running, he would eventually be in a position to take over the nurse's salary from Delia and Laura would never be the wiser.

It sounded like a good plan to Matt.

And besides, he promised Delia that he'd do his best to get to know her family. What better place to start than with the one who was right there, at Pumpkin Hill?

Now, he thought as he pulled up the drive toward the ba
rn
, he'd just take a look inside the old ba
rn
and try to satisfy some questions that had poked at his own mind all week. Should he keep a section of the downstairs area in stalls for farm animals he might be called upon to treat? After all, there were still some farms in the area, and it would not be implausible that he might have call to use the stalls on occasion. If he converted the entire first floor, he'd lose that option. On the other hand, if he kept those stalls, and kept some room for the tractors, just how much space could he count on for examining rooms?

The last song he'd been listening to on the radio— The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes"—stayed in his head
and he found himself whistling along with it as he opened the cab door and stood back to allow Artie to jump out. He slammed the door and pretended he wasn't looking for the Jeep, but there it was, parked just across the drive from his pickup. He wondered what she was doing, if she had heard the truck and maybe paused to pull a curtain aside to see who was there. Would she come out to say hello, or having been burned by his abrupt behavior, would she let the curtain drop back and just go about her business?

He turned to look for Artie, but the dog had dashed through the open double doors o
f the barn
.

It took Matt's brain a few seconds to register this information.

Why would the big double doors both be open? Hope had only opened them when she was taking out a piece of large equipment.

Frowning, Matt followed the dog and walked through the open doorway. There was an empty space where his aunt's favorite tractor—the 1956 John Deere model 60—should have been parked.

"
Son of a bitch!" He yelled to the rafters above.

Someone had broken into the ba
rn
and stolen one of their tractors!

He stomped toward the farmhouse to call the police and to interrogate their tenant. Wasn't that the reason she was here? To keep an eye on things? What the hell had she been doing when the damned thief was stealing the tractor? It wasn't like it hadn't made some noise, for cryin' out loud. You don't fold up a piece of farm equipment and tuck it unobtrusively into your pocket! Why, the racket that that sucker
made when it started up was enough to raise the
dead. It was loud, it was…

Matt stopped midway across the drive and tilted his head to one side, listening to the sound that drifted on the afternoon bree
ze from somewhere beyond the barn
.

The loud whiney rattle of the old John Deere.

Had Laura rented out the fields to a local farmer to plant?

Puzzled, he followed the sound of the tractor until he stood twenty feet out into the field, where he stared at the tractor and its improbable driver.

Even in the oversized T-shirt and jeans shorts, big round sunglasses and wide brimmed straw hat, there was no mistaking who was at the wheel.

Lord have mercy. Barbie meets John Deere.

"Hey!" she shouted and waved when she turned the tractor to the right and started to make her way down the next row.

"Hey, yourself!" he shouted back.

She drove the tractor steadily if not expertly, and pulled within a few feet of him before cutting the throttle and bringing the tractor to idle.

"What do you think?" She grinned, pointing to the plowed sections of the field. "Pretty good for a novice, no?"

He pretended to inspect her efforts, then nodded, "Not bad."

"Not bad?!" Georgia hooted. "I'm doing a damned fine job."

Matt laughed. "You are doing a damned fine job. Who taught you how to handle this thing?"

"I taught myself."

"You taught yourself?" He repeated almost dumbly. "Damn. I was twelve before my aunt let me drive a tractor, and that was after several hours of instruction and years of watching her drive."

"Well, I admit if Laura hadn't started it up one day, I might have had a problem figuring out how to get it running, but other than that, it just took some practice. It's really not much more difficult than driving a stick shift, though someone should consider selling these babies with power steering. A little clumsier than a sports car, maybe, and I'd sure hate to see this thing doing eighty on a freeway, but it really wasn't such a big deal, once I got the hang of it." She slid off her sunglasses and cleaned them with the long end of her shirt. "It sure beat trying to dig up this section of field."

"I told you I'd help."

"Well, Matt, quite frankly, after the way you tore out of Ally's birthday party, I thought I'd be wise not to wait for your assistance." She stood on the tractor with one hand on her hip, the other on the steering wheel.

"I can't say that I blame you." He rubbed the back of his neck, as if perhaps that motion could somehow prevent the flush of red from spreading upward toward his face. "Georgia, I'm sorry. I overreacted to
…
well, it's a long story. But it never should have happened."

"I think the person who deserves the apology is Ally. It was her party." Georgia had folded both arms across her chest.

Matt knew enough about body language to know what
that
meant. The last thing he wanted now was for her to close him out.

"You're right, of course. I've already spoken with Ally and I think she understands. I was hoping that maybe, if you and I could talk over dinner, maybe you'd understand, too." He knew he was holding his breath, waiting for her answer, and was trying his damnedest to act as if he wasn't.

"I'm in the mood for pizza today. That's what I was planning on having tonight."

"No problem." he told her, relieved.
The Italian restaurant in O'Hearn
was an upbeat sort of place, with an old fashioned juke box and a steady stream of locals. It might be easier to say some of the things he knew he'd have to say in an atmosphere like that.

"Actually, I make my own," she was saying. "I already made the dough. You're welcome to join me."

So much for the old safety in numbers defense.

"Thanks. I'd like that. What's a good time?"

"Six should be about right, I want to get the rest of this side plowed up, then I'll need a little time to get cleaned up."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go out to eat?"

"Positive."

"Well, then, could I give you a hand with the rest of the plowing?"

"Nope," she grinned and slid the dark glasses back onto her face as she turned and pulled herself back up onto the tractor. "I'm doing just fine."

"Well, then I guess I'll see…"

Matt's words were drowned out by the roar of the tractor.

"…
you around s
ix
." He tried to shout over the engine.

She touched the brim of her straw hat in a sort of salute, then went on about her business.

"Six it is," he said aloud, knowing that she had not heard, since she had already turned the tractor around and headed off down the next row.

Matt tried to whistle for his dog who had taken off in pursuit of a few crows, but found his mouth was dry. He tried to look away, but it was near impossible not to notice just how fine Georgia looked astride that wide black leather seat, her back ramrod straight, her hair stretching down her back in a straight line under the hat.

Very fine indeed.

It should, he conceded as he set off to find Artie, make for a very interesting evening.

T
he first thing that Matt noticed when he came into the kitchen at six on the nose was the intriguing combination of aromas that met him at the back door—garlic and basil and honeysuckle.

The second thing he noticed was that Georgia had changed into a soft, sage-green clingy little number that looked like what he supposed a leotard might look like if it ended in a long skirt. He did later recall that when she turned around to greet him, he'd thought how her eyes were almost the same color as the dress.

The third and last thing he remembered—for a
while, anyway—was the sound of his heart hitting the floor when she smiled up at him.

"
You look
…"
he was aware that he was stammering, but couldn't figure out how not to.

"…
less dusty?" She finished the sentence for him. "Cleaner?"

"I don't think that was what I had in mind, but we'll let it pass." He cleared his throat, and tried to appear nonchalant. "That's a great dress."

"Thanks," she smiled again. "Are you hungry?"

"Sure."

"Dinner's just about ready." She started to open the oven. "I'll be drinking iced tea, if you wouldn't mind getting the pitcher out of the refrigerator. And I think Ben left a six-pack of beer on the bottom shelf, if you'd rather have that."

"Iced tea is fine."

"The glasses are in that cupboard. I moved them." She pointed to the cupboard next to the sink.
Georgia opened the door and pulled the rack out slightly. "Looks like dinner is ready."

With a spatula she slid the three small pizzas onto a serving tray, and placed it on the kitchen table. Her every movement, it seemed to Matt, was both graceful and efficient.

"Must be all those years of dancing." He was appalled when he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"What's that?" She pulled out a seat for him and motioned for him to sit.

"Ah
…
" he found himself clearing his throat again. "You, ah, move like a dancer."

"I am a dancer," she whispered, as if confiding a
big secret, then grinned and pointed to the pizzas. "I probably should have asked you if you like artichokes."