Scarlet Butterfly (23 page)

Victoria settled back into her chair and propped her chin on her hand. “All right, yes, I do have an ulterior motive in seeing that you get well. I’m so antsy to get started on our trip, I can’t stand it. We already missed that F-3 storm up in Guyman.”

“And you’ll likely miss a few more before you retire your video camera.” Amos pushed his soup bowl aside. “Missy, I love a tornado as much as you, but if I leave this house anytime in the next week, it’ll be in a pine box. I’m an old man, and I’m sick. I can’t go chasing with you this time.” He shook his head sadly. “Not this time.”

Victoria sighed. “I’m sorry, Amos. Of course you can’t jump up from a sickbed and spend sixteen hours a day in a car for two weeks straight.” She was silent for a
few moments as she thought about her options. “Maybe I could still switch my vacation.…”

“Now, missy, you don’t think I’d leave you high and dry, do you? I’ve taken the liberty of finding you a substitute chase partner.”

“What? Who?” she asked, automatically suspicious. She’d never considered chasing with anyone but Amos, a world-renowned tornado expert. His experience combined with his uncanny weather forecasting abilities, not to mention his impressive array of electronic gear, had always made her feel safe, even on those occasions when they came face-to-face with a killer storm. The idea of speeding around the countryside with anyone else gave her the heebie-jeebies.

“Now, hear me out. He’s not a meteorologist, but he’s had some experience with storms. He covered Hurricane Andrew for a South Carolina TV station, and, um, oh, yes, he was at that earthquake in Guatemala—”

“Oh, no! You aren’t by any chance referring to that crazy nephew of yours, are you? What’s his name—Ro … Ro-Something?”

“It’s Roan, and he’s not crazy, just … adventurous.”

“He’s a loose cannon!” Victoria insisted. “I watched that video he sent, remember? Good grief, the man stood on a beach during an F-6 hurricane. He almost got blown to kingdom come. And those other stories you’ve told me! He nearly cooked himself alive when he broke through two police barricades to get closer to that volcano in Japan. And didn’t you tell me he almost got
speared to death in Kenya when he photographed some elephant poachers?”

Amos actually chuckled. “ ‘Almost’ is the key word.”

“I’m not spending two weeks with him,” she huffed.

“Now, missy, I’ve already invited him. He’s driving in from Mississippi today. He was participating in some rafting race, I believe.”

“Is there anything he hasn’t participated in?”

“Yes. He’s never seen a tornado.” Amos touched Victoria’s hand. “Victoria, let’s be serious for a minute. I understand why you might be leery about chasing with someone like Roan: You’re right, he isn’t the most cautious person in the world. But I had more than one reason for inviting him.”

“Other than to torture me, you mean?”

“Please, just listen for a minute,” Amos continued, undaunted by Victoria’s acid tongue. “My brother, Roan’s father, was in the army and dragged his family all over the globe. Some kids have problems with that kind of upbringing, but Roan seemed to thrive on being constantly on the move. He saw every new environment as a challenge, a new world to be conquered. Nothing scared him. He was always the first to try a strange food or an unfamiliar game or sport. I rarely saw that kid when he wasn’t smiling, excited about whatever he happened to be doing with his life at the time.”

“Sounds like he was too good to be true.”

“Your pessimism wounds me, Victoria. Roan was a pleasure to be around, even if he did keep his parents breathless with worry most of the time.”

“I guess I can’t blame them,” Victoria said. “It’s a miracle he’s stayed in one piece all these years.”

“Not really. He was always bold, but not foolhardy. He took calculated risks.”

“You’re talking in the past tense,” Victoria pointed out.

Amos scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The last couple of years Roan has been taking more unreasonable chances. Before, he was simply unafraid. Now … I’m afraid he really does have a death wish.”

Sensing Amos’s pain, Victoria backed off from uttering the sarcastic remarks on the tip of her tongue. Amos was no stranger to death. His wife had died young, and he’d never remarried. He had no children of his own. A few years before, he’d lost a young niece to drowning—Roan’s sister, she remembered now.

“Is there any reason Roan would have such flagrant disregard for his own life?” she asked.

“Well … he took Kim’s death pretty hard, as we all did, but he’s never seemed exactly depressed about it.”

Victoria shook her head. When she’d lost her father, it had given her a keener appreciation of life. She couldn’t see how the demise of a loved one would give anyone a death wish.

“Anyway,” Amos continued, “we’re all concerned about the boy, and I think you might be able to help.”

“How?” she asked, once again suspicious.

Amos patted her arm affectionately. “You’re no shrinking violet. You experience life fully, yet you have a strong survival instinct. Most people never see even one
tornado. You’ve witnessed dozens, yet you never put yourself in any real danger. I thought that if Roan could spend some time with you, if you could show him a tornado or two, he would see that it’s possible to feel all the excitement life has to offer without continually risking his neck.”

Victoria fiddled with the end of her long, auburn braid. Amos was putting her in an awkward position. If she refused to go storm chasing with Roan Cullen, she would be insensitive to Amos’s worries about his nephew. But if she agreed, she might be endangering herself. She had her own reasons for avoiding people who didn’t hold a healthy respect for the power of a storm.

In the face of her indecision, Amos added the final, irresistible incentive: “I’ll let you take the van.”

Victoria’s mouth dropped open. “You mean you’d actually let me drive the Chasemobile? Take it out of your sight?” In the year since he’d bought the minivan and loaded it up with a mind-boggling array of weather-sensing and communications equipment, he’d hardly let anyone else ride in it, much less drive it. Victoria couldn’t blame him. He had well over thirty thousand dollars invested in the vehicle.

“I have complete faith in you, my girl. You’re a good driver, and you keep your head during tense situations.”

Victoria sipped another spoonful of soup. “I could call you from the road, I suppose, and get your forecasts—”

“Dang it, missy, what’s the point of hauling around
that computer if you’re going to hang on my apron strings? You can do your own forecasts.”

Victoria went silent again. She had a master’s degree in meteorology and a job as a forecaster for the National Weather Service. She was good at her job. But not as good as Amos. Just about anyone could analyze the data and come up with a general area where a storm might brew. But Amos could scan the horizon, sniff the breeze; and then drive with unveering certainty to the exact point at which the tornado would form. He knew the moods of a storm, where it would go, and how fast. That’s why she’d always felt so safe with him.

Would she feel as safe relying on her own abilities?

“You’d better decide pretty quick,” Amos said, “ ’cause unless I miss my guess, that squeal of tires I hear means we’re about to have company from Mississippi.”

There was certainly nothing wrong with Amos’s hearing, Victoria mused as, moments later, the crunch of gravel under tires and the shriek of brakes in need of new pads signaled the arrival of Roan Cullen.

“I’ll get the door,” she said just as the bell chimed.

“Victoria?” Amos stopped her. “Will you do it? As a favor to me, please. I can’t think of anyone who could benefit more from your common sense and your reverence for life than my nephew.”

She was not going to allow Amos to send her on a guilt trip. “I’ll have to meet him first,” she said, trying to sound sensible.

“Fair enough.”

The bell chimed again, followed by a loud rapping
and a muffled voice. “Unc? You in there? Up and at ’em! Those tornadoes aren’t going to wait for us, you know.”

“Oh, Lord,” Victoria murmured as she hurried to open the door.

The man standing on the front porch looked exactly as she’d pictured him—only worse. No, not worse, just … more. More rugged, more powerful, taller, broader, stronger, wilder. His loose khaki shorts were slung low on lean hips. His bright blue T-shirt, bearing the phrase
I SURVIVED THE RIVER RAT RACE
,
COLDWATER
,
MISSISSIPPI
hugged his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. His hair was on the long side, hanging almost to his shoulders in untamed waves of caramel brown streaked gold from the sun, and it hadn’t seen a comb in a while.

Most disturbing were his eyes, a vivid, piercing blue assessing her boldly from his lean, weather-whipped face. He was almost intimidating—until he suddenly smiled, and tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of those alarming eyes and a dimple formed at the corner of his arrogantly upturned mouth.

“So, at long last, I get to meet the infamous Victoria Driscoll.” He extended his hand, and Victoria took it automatically, acutely aware of the power in his casual grasp, the long, tanned fingers wrapping around hers.

“You must be Roan,” she said coolly, not at all sure she liked his assessment. “And I’d say that between the two of us, if anyone’s infamous, it’s you. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of me.”

“Oh, everyone in the Cullen family knows about you. Years ago we all thought you were a gold digger,
but I guess if that were true, you would have either married Amos or left for greener pastures. Can I come in?”

Victoria could only stare in openmouthed shock. The man was unforgivably rude. In the first place, Amos wasn’t exactly a prime target for a gold digger. He lived in a two-bedroom frame house in a modest neighborhood of Lubbock, Texas. He was a tenured professor at Texas Tech University, so he had some security, but he was hardly rich. In the second place, Amos was her friend and mentor, nothing more. Anyone who thought otherwise was an ignorant fool.

Well, at least Roan Cullen had admitted that his assumption was mistaken. Figuring the best defense was to ignore his tactless comment, she stood aside to let him in.

“It’s hotter than hell in here,” Roan said. “Is the AC broken?”

“It’s warm in here because Amos has a fever and he was chilled,” she said, closing the door.

“A fever?” Roan’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is he okay?”

“Get in here, boy, and I’ll show you okay,” Amos called irritably from the kitchen. “Can’t stand it when people talk behind my back.”

Victoria shrugged and led the way to the kitchen. She had already made up her mind—she wouldn’t go on the road with Roan Cullen. She needed to think clearly and act sensibly while she was chasing. With Roan around, she was sure she could do neither.

“So, what’s this about a fever?” Roan asked as he strode into the kitchen to find his uncle sitting at the table, hunched over a bowl of soup.

“It’s not just a fever, it’s the cold from hell,” Amos grumbled. “And if you don’t want to catch it, you’ll keep your distance.”

“I never get sick,” Roan argued, leaning down to give the old man a hug. Amos was one of Roan’s favorite relatives. They rarely saw each other these days, and Roan wasn’t about to keep his distance.

“Amos, can I warm that soup up for you?” Victoria offered.

Roan turned his attention to the woman who’d answered the door. He had known she would be coming with them on their trip; Amos apparently never chased without her, not since his former chase partner had retired four years earlier. But Roan hadn’t expected to find her firmly entrenched in Amos’s house, playing hostess.

When she’d answered the door she’d been so cool and regal, looking down her nose at him, judging him, that he hadn’t been able to resist saying something outrageous to shake her composure—which he had. But he’d never really believed her to be after Amos’s money, not even all those years ago, when the rest of the family was all fired up about this coed Amos had become so fond of. Amos had more sense than to be taken in by a pretty face.

But Roan hadn’t been prepared for her to be
so
pretty—tall and slender, with a classic cameo face, large hazel eyes, and thick russet hair pulled into a demure braid that trailed halfway down her back. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d wondered what her hair would look like loose, falling over her shoulders. Bare shoulders.

Not that she was Roan’s type. He liked women with easy smiles, the kind who flirted and teased and ultimately gave in, the kind who played hard and were willing to put up with his rather lackadaisical approach to commitment. Victoria Driscoll, he suspected, was none of those things. And yet she was intriguing, perhaps the type a staid older man would fall for.

Roan wondered. She certainly moved about the kitchen with ease, as if she were accustomed to it.

“Would you like some soup, Roan?” she asked, all politeness.

“You should try it,” Amos said. “Victoria made it herself. She’s a marvelous cook.”

“Well, in that case I’d love some. Haven’t eaten since lunch, four hours ago.” His smile was met with cool complacency. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that gold-digger crack. He’d meant only to tease her, not turn her into a permanent enemy.

“There’s beer in the fridge, and some cold cuts,” Amos said. “If I know you, you’ll want something more substantial than soup.”

“Thanks, I think I will. It was a long, hot drive from Mississippi.”

“How did the raft race go?” Amos asked. “You win?”

Roan laughed easily. “There were almost two hundred entrants. I was in the lead for a while, but then I hit a snag in some white water. The milk jugs got hung up on—”

“Milk jugs?” Victoria asked, pausing in the middle of ladling soup into a bowl.

“The rafts had to be homemade to qualify.” He located salami, bologna, ham, and cheese in the refrigerator, along with some onion rolls. With practiced efficiency he began assembling a sandwich. “I floated old tires on a base of empty milk jugs. It was a damn good design too. I would have won if I hadn’t gotten caught up on those rocks.”