Sunrise Crossing (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Peace

T
ORI
WALKED
THE
rocky ground behind Parker's house near Crossroads. The land didn't look good for much as far as farming. One field near the road was plowed, but the rest seemed like it had always grown wild. Whoever built this house had wanted peace, she decided. The front porch faced the morning sun. Trees had been planted in a circle out back years ago and now offered a small meadow of shade.

She already loved it here. Her mind had settled, and she could feel herself growing stronger. When—or if—her stepfather found her, she wouldn't be the same person as she had been two weeks ago when she vanished.

She was twenty-four, and it was time she took control of her own life. She should have done it years ago, but her mother kept saying that her new husband, Tori's stepfather, knew best. He was a businessman, and he would run everything so that all Tori would have to do was paint. When Tori had protested again, at nineteen, her mother had reminded her of how the mixing of business and art had driven Tori's father mad. He'd loved being the carpenter, working with his hands, but when his carvings began to sell for thousands, he lost the simple joy in creating.

Tori had backed off, letting her mother win, again. And again. And again. Letting her mother and stepfather handle the business side of her career so she could paint. Only lately she'd felt like a factory, always pushed to produce.

She twirled in the meadow. “Freedom,” she yelled, then laughed.

Maybe she'd paint today. Maybe she'd sleep in the sun. Maybe she'd go visit the man at the edge of town who called her Rabbit.

But, no matter what, she'd do what she wanted to do. She'd live her own life.

CHAPTER SIX

Dallas in cadet-gray rain

P
ARKER
LOVED
THE
gallery after dark. The lights of a rainy Dallas surrounded her as they glowed through the forty-foot wall of glass that framed the building. Paintings seemed to float between the city and the rich, earthy reds of Saltillo tiles.

Somehow the art seemed to come alive as shadows bordered each creation's elegant grace. Her gallery was a still, unpolluted kind of paradise that always made Parker feel safe and comfortable.

The possibility of dying couldn't reach her here. She could push the prospect from her mind and just breathe.

She took one last walk through her world. She almost had everything ready. Her staff believed she had a scouting trip in the planning stages but she was, for the first time in her life, running away to have an adventure. To paint. To live. To help a friend.

For years, she'd been saying she'd take off when everything slowed down. She'd go to Crossroads, Texas, where she'd bought a farmhouse almost ten years ago. Her someday dream had always been to paint. She'd been driving from Dallas to Albuquerque one summer on the back roads and seen a For Sale sign hooked to a barbed-wire fence in the middle of nowhere.

On a whim she'd turned off a road that was posted as private. The land, if it had ever been tamed, had gone back to nature. One edge dipped down into a canyon with rich earth shades that took her breath away. The other direction spread over rolling prairie spotted with wildflowers and clusters of trees surrounding small ponds. She remembered seeing the little two-story farmhouse peeking out from behind a huge oak planted at the bend in the lane leading up to the place.

The old house was perfect. Small, with an unfinished attic that could serve as a studio. High ceilings with good light streaming in. Tall windows in the back with a canyon view. Heaven at the end of a private road. A painter's hideaway. The rancher next door owned the small chunk of land and had said he needed money to pay taxes. She'd made an offer and he didn't even bother to counter. Within hours she'd bought the place, hired a couple to clean once a month and headed back to the city.

Her someday place would be waiting for her.

A few years later, the rancher offered to lease the small field that bordered his place for a percentage of the profits. She said she would if he'd use the money to keep up her house and the road they shared. “Whatever you pay out, spend it on repairs and paint,” she'd said, knowing she had little time to even think about the farm. She was almost thirty and had had a business to build.

“Will do, lady,” he'd said.

A month later he'd called and asked what color she wanted the outside painted.

“The color of the Texas sky in summer. And, cowboy—” she'd forgotten his name by then “—when you have enough in my balance to paint the inside, don't bother to call me—just paint each room the color of a different flower that grows on my land.”

“Will do,” he'd said again and had hung up without saying goodbye.

But Parker knew the colors didn't really matter. She'd probably go the rest of her life seeing the place only in her mind. It'd be blue, like the sky. One room would be the yellow of sunflowers, another the violet of morning glories or the scarlet in Indian paintbrush.

The cowboy never called again, and the house slowly became more of an imaginary place in Parker's thoughts than a reality.

Until now. Maybe, with Tori visiting, Parker might actually start creating her own work. She smiled. With her luck, the cranky cowboy would be color-blind and she'd have to repaint the whole house before she even set up a canvas.

The buzzer on the gallery's main door pulled her from her thoughts. Parker moved close enough to hear the security guard, but stayed in the shadows.

“I'll need IDs,” she heard the guard yell through the glass. “Then I'll see if Miss Lacey is available.”

Two men in suits stepped forward and slapped what looked like very official badges on the glass.

After talking to someone on the phone for a minute, the guard nodded at the suits, but didn't open the door.

Parker moved farther into the shadows as he hurried toward her.

“Miss Lacey, two FBI agents want to talk to you. I can tell them you've already gone if you like.”

“No. I'll talk to them. Bring them to my office.” Parker smiled; she'd been expecting this. Tori had been gone for over a week, so it was about time they got around to asking questions. And if she wasn't willing to answer them, she might raise their suspicion. Parker worked with easily a hundred artists, and Victoria Vilanie was only one. There was no reason to believe Parker had anything to do with or knew anything about her disappearance. But she had a feeling it was the press that really wanted answers.

The guard nodded and turned to the door.

She watched the two men moving toward her. One was taller, older. The other was beefy, like he'd overdone the workouts. Neither man even glanced at the art on either side of them.

Ten minutes later, she'd answered all their standard questions. Yes, she'd met Victoria Vilanie in person once at a conference in LA, and she believed they might have been on the same plane back to Dallas. She got off then, but seemed to remember Victoria staying on the flight heading to Detroit. Yes, she knew how talented the woman was. No, she didn't know if Tori was unstable. No, they were not friends. No, she didn't know if the artist took drugs. Yes, she did keep Victoria's number on file.

She passed them the form that she asked all her artists to fill out. The younger man looked over it and handed the paper back. Obviously, she had nothing that they didn't already have in their records.

“Why'd you write ‘Tori' on the top corner?” the older one asked.

“She asked me to call her that,” Parker answered.

“Are you aware that she had death threats before the LA showing? Her parents are very worried that some harm may have come to her.”

“Yes. I read about it in the paper. If I remember the story, a man had seen her picture and started writing her through the galleries.”

“Right.” The agent looked bored. “You ever get any of those letters, Miss Lacey?”

“No.” Parker thought of adding that no gallery that she knew of had got a letter. She suspected the story might have been a lie Tori's stepfather told or a publicity stunt.

As she walked them to the door, she asked, “What's the big deal? Doesn't a woman have the right to take a vacation? Maybe she's lost in her work. Artists tend to do that.” She knew it was more than that, but Tori hadn't gone into much detail that night at the airport when they'd huddled together in a corner of the crowded terminal and planned her disappearance. She'd just said she wanted to run away from a life she hated, and that she had no one to turn to but Parker.

At first it had seemed like a game. Planning each step. Even seeing if they could buy untraceable phones. But as they'd boarded their flight, Tori had smiled, as though part of her panic had vanished. Her life was like a rocket speeding out of control, and Parker had offered her an escape hatch.

Now the game felt real, and Parker had never felt so alive.

The taller agent looked at her with cold, black eyes. “The press believes Victoria Vilanie to be one of the finest artists in the world. She may have been kidnapped. In fact, according to the press, the stepfather is sure of it.”

“Or,” Parker tried again, “still, she might just be on vacation. Maybe she doesn't like all the attention. Maybe she's shy.” The minute the words were out, Parker knew she'd said too much.

The older agent suddenly seemed to wake up. He stared at her as if he'd just heard something that would put her on the watch list.

The beefy guy shook his head. He seemed more interested in arguing than picking up clues. “The press says the public has a right to know, and besides, where would she go? She's been a recluse for years.”

“I can't think of anywhere, but after all, I don't really know Tori.”

The agent looked at Parker as if he thought she might be protesting too much. His question came out in a whisper. “What
do
you know, Miss Lacey?”

Parker fought to keep calm. “Nothing. I just know artists, and most don't like to be in public. They are very private people. The creation of a work of art comes from deep inside and has to have a great deal of silence and alone time to bloom.”

They exchanged a look during her spontaneous lecture.

“If you hear...”

“I'll call,” she interrupted, suddenly in a great hurry to be rid of them. She'd read once in a mystery that the guilty always talk too much, and what had she just done but rattle on.

As they walked to the door she dropped farther behind, guessing there would be no goodbyes at the door. Neither man looked at the walls that were filled with beautiful works. Their lives seemed to have no room for color, and that frightened her far more than the badge or gun they carried.

The moment the agents left, Parker rushed back to her office and closed her door. She used the phone she'd bought a week ago when she'd been with Tori at the airport.

Tori picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Parker,” she said. “When you getting here? You wouldn't believe the light in this open land.”

“I'm not coming for a while. I have to make sure I'm not followed. Stay safe, Tori. Lies seem to be circling and I fear your stepfather is encouraging them. Somehow he's even got the FBI involved.”

Tori was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “You understand why I had to leave.”

“I do. After having just been visited by the FBI, I have no doubt. No wonder you were so upset. You must have had very little privacy since your paintings became so popular. I'm going to do all I can to help. I'll call again when I'm on my way.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Crossroads

Y
ANCY
HUNG
HIS
new coat on the workshop latch and moved into his barn workshop. He didn't even look up at the loft. The woman he'd called Rabbit wouldn't be up there. She hadn't been for three days.

He knew because he came to check every night. He'd even walked over a few days on his lunch break, hoping she might have dropped by. No sign of her or of his coat.

He was beginning to believe she was only a figment of his imagination. Maybe wishing for someone his age to talk to had conjured her up. A man gets used to the loneliness after a while, but that doesn't mean hope vanishes.

What were the chances that a woman he'd never seen around town was hanging out in his workshop? She'd been pretty, real pretty, and he would have noticed a girl with beautiful blue eyes and dark, waist-length hair. He volunteered at half the things in town. He went to all the town-hall meetings and was always running to the grocery or the hardware store. He would have seen her somewhere.

Smiling, he remembered how her thick midnight braid had brushed her hips when she'd climbed down the ladder. If he was just making her up, at least he'd done a good job. Even her smile made him grin now, three days later.

“You up there, Rabbit?” he muttered to the silent barn.

A board above him creaked, making him jump.

“I've been waiting,” she answered with a laugh. “I had to make sure you were alone.”

Startled, he looked up and saw her lean over the edge of the loft. She was dressed, as before, in jeans and a flannel shirt, with his coat folded over her arm. Little Rabbit was so petite folks might mistake her for a teenage boy if they didn't see her long hair braided down her back and the gentle rounding of her chest that showed even in the baggy shirt.

Yancy tried to clear his thoughts. She was back.

“Well, come on down, Rabbit. We've got work to do.” The rule came back to him. No questions. “I thought I might have dreamed you up, but dreams don't usually steal coats.”

She swung a leg onto the ladder. “I'm sorry about that. I brought it back. But I'll have to borrow it again to wear home.”

He watched her as her left foot hit the rung of the ladder and slipped.

An instant later she was flying down toward him, tumbling out of control like a bird with a broken wing.

Taking one step, he caught her in midflight. This dream he'd been thinking about felt very solid in his arms.

Without holding her too tight, he lowered her feet to the ground. She was real. Her heart pounded against his chest for a moment before he let her go.

“Thanks,” she managed as she backed away. “I've always been clumsy.”

“You didn't look clumsy,” he managed to say as he fought the urge to reach for her. “You looked like you were flying.”

She shoved a hand in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a bag. “I brought you cookies, but it appears they're only crumbs now.”

He accepted her gift. “I love cookie crumbs. I'll share them when we take our coffee break, if you can stay awhile?”

“I can stay. The other night, when I worked here, I walked home and slept like a baby. So, what have we got to do tonight? I feel like a cobbler's elf.”

“I'm putting together the hearth for the fireplace. I could really use your help.” He pulled a tarp away from a long piece of wood he'd carved months ago. “It's a two-man job.”

Her face lit up when she grinned. “One man, one rabbit, you mean.”

“That'll have to do.” It crossed his mind that the lady might be a little nuts to show up at night in a stranger's barn, but right about now in his life, a bubble off normal didn't sound like too bad a place to be. He liked watching her work. She had skills he'd probably never develop. Plain, old, ordinary wood became art in her hands.

As the night aged, he began to feel like he was half-drunk. She'd come back. The work seemed to go more than twice as fast with her help. When he made a mistake, alone he would have sworn, but together they laughed.

It was funny, he thought as he watched her; deep inside, he felt like he'd known her all his life. He'd read once about an old Greek myth that claimed humans were once twice as tall. When the gods decided to make males and females different, they cut all the humans in half. From that day on, people walked around searching for their other half.

An easy way of just being together drifted between them. They didn't need to ask questions or carry on small talk. Like they'd always been a part of each other's lives. Or like they were each other's missing half. Impossible, he thought. Men like him were loners, born to have no one care enough to last a lifetime.

She helped him carry the hearth through the darkness between the barn and the house. When he clicked on the construction lights in the old house, she squealed with pure joy.

Turning loose her side of the hearth, she circled the room. “Even in the shadows I can see the beauty of this place.” The construction lamps made spotlights on the floor of the huge open room, and she danced in and out of their beams like a ballerina on stage.

Yancy didn't notice the beauty of the room he'd so carefully created. He was too busy watching her. “Take your time looking around. I'll just stand here holding this hunk of wood myself,” he teased.

Her laughter filled the empty space. She ran back and helped him carry the hearth to where the bones of a fireplace waited to be dressed.

As he spread his arms wide to hold the frame in place, she moved between him and the hearth, measuring, taping everything in place. By the time she was satisfied all was level and balanced, he was no longer thinking, period. When she brushed against him, he seemed to be the only one who noticed they'd touched. She smelled so good. Like peaches and freshly washed linens. He could do nothing but stand perfectly still, holding the hearth in place and breathing in the nearness of her.

When she finally left to run back to the barn for the toolbox, he forced himself to relax and think of what they
were
doing, not what he would have liked to do. If he'd thought she would have welcomed an advance, he might have dropped the hearth and grabbed her. After all, he could rebuild the hearth, but he might never get another chance to hold her.

Only she might not welcome his touch. He wasn't the kind of man who knew how to come on strong with a woman. He guessed his shy Rabbit wasn't much more knowledgeable when it came to men and women than he was. She did love helping, though. A kind heart was rare in the world.

When she returned, she was all business, but the easy nearness, the light touches continued. He told himself she wasn't noticing what she was doing, but he was memorizing every brush her body made against his, every time her hand touched his shoulder, and loving the way she leaned near. If she was launching a gentle attack, maybe he should tell her that he'd gladly surrender.

An hour later, they both stood back and admired their work. The hearth was beautiful. A work of art, thanks to her cuts and finishing.

“Not bad,” Yancy said. “We could roast marshmallows in a fire there.”

She nodded. “If we had the wood for a fire, a few matches, some chairs to sit in and some marshmallows.”

“Just details,” he admitted, looking around. “I'm almost finished with the downstairs and I have no idea about furniture.”

“You could make it.”

He liked that idea. “I wouldn't need much. I got the bar to eat on. All I'd need is a stool and maybe a rocker by the fire.”

She moved to the bar and leaned against it. “What about your guests? Where would rabbits sit?”

Without thinking, he circled her waist and lifted her up. “You could sit on the bar.”

A moment later he realized what he'd done. He might have let her touch him, but this time he'd touched her. No, he'd handled her. Like she was a kid or a close friend. He didn't even know her name. He had no right. He didn't know much but one rule had always been clear. A woman could touch a man, but a man never handled a woman without an indication of the woman's consent.

Yancy stepped back and straightened. His eyes staring down at the floor like he'd done in prison when he was little more than a kid lost in a world of rules and punishment. He'd spent every day since he'd been out trying to act normal, trying to do what was right, but deep down he knew part of him would always be an ex-con.

The silence of the empty room seemed to throb with each heartbeat.

They'd had a great night working together, talking, laughing. But a woman who wouldn't tell him her name wasn't likely to welcome his hands on her. When he'd caught her as she fell from the loft, he'd felt her stiffen even as he lowered her to her feet. She'd been polite. She'd thanked him for saving her, but she'd moved away.

“Yancy?” Her voice echoed in the empty room.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered as he forced himself to look up. “I didn't mean to...”

Her gray-blue eyes were smiling. “It's okay, Yancy. You didn't hurt me.” She crossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees. “The bar may be a little high but the view is great up here. I can almost see your handmade furniture. Rockers by the fire. A writing table by the window. Bookshelves climbing along the wall to match the stair steps over there. If you build me a stool, make it a few inches higher than yours so we'll look directly at each other. I get tired of always looking up at people.”

He leaned his head to the side, studying her as if she were an animal he'd never encountered. “You're not mad at me?”

“Why?” She watched him.

“I put my hands on you, Rabbit.”

“You did that when you caught me. If you hadn't I'd have probably broken a few bones.” When he just kept staring, she added, “I've made up my mind that you are a good man, Yancy Grey. I've not always been a good judge of men, but I'm learning. I am not afraid of you. I believe you won't hurt me.”

“I wouldn't,” he managed to say, knowing she had no idea what a gift she was giving him with her trust. “But most folks don't warm up to me very fast after they find out I've been in prison. I've done hard time, Rabbit, and they say that changes a man forever.”

She looked more interested than afraid. “Want to talk about it?”

He'd been asked before and always said no, but somehow this time he thought it might be all right. He jumped up to sit on the bar a foot away from her and began.

He told her of how he'd been caught stealing when he was nineteen and had turned twenty in prison.

She listened as he remembered details he'd spent years trying to forget. He had to be honest with her. She trusted him.

“The smells in the whole place made me half-sick most of the time. I'd go out in the yard, even on the coldest days, just to be able to breathe. Once, it was snowing and I was the only one to step outside. I just stood, looking up at the snow, and listened to the rare sound of silence while I breathed in the smell of nothing but winter.”

She covered his hand with hers without saying a word.

“I used to lie awake in my tiny cell listening to the sounds around me, wishing I were somewhere, anywhere else. Sometimes I'd dream of getting out and just living a normal life, but prison is still there in the back of my mind. No matter how hard I breathe out, there's still a little bit of the smell left in my lungs.”

Her stormy-day blue eyes were full of compassion.

“It's been seven years and I still feel the pressure to do everything right. Like I have to watch myself every minute. If I do one thing wrong I'll somehow wake up back in prison with all the bad smells and the sound of men crying and cussing. If I say the wrong thing. If I don't tell people the truth about where I've been, then I'm hiding. If I do, I'm afraid of how they'll react.”

Lacing his fingers in her small hand, he added, “I wouldn't be surprised if you disappeared, Little Rabbit. If you do, I should tell you that tonight was just about the best of my life. Even if I never see you again, I don't think I'll ever forget working beside you. It was nice, real nice.”

He'd had this routine before with women he'd met. They acted like it didn't matter that he'd served time, but if he called for a second date, they were always busy. He expected it. He hadn't blamed them. He wouldn't blame her. She'd probably just disappear as if she'd never been there and he'd have no idea how to even look for her.

She pulled her hand away and he let her go without protest. “Help me down, Yancy. It's late.”

He nodded and jumped off the bar. Carefully, he circled her waist and lifted her down. She didn't meet his eyes as she looked around the room.

“What are you building next?” she asked, changing the subject.

“The banister.” He answered in a dull voice, knowing this must be her way of saying goodbye. “I thought I'd make the rails out of the same oak that I used on the hearth, then have the top done in wrought iron to make it more modern.”

She moved into the shadows where the stairs climbed the north wall. He heard her feet take the first few steps. “I can see it. It'll add warmth to the room and last forever.”

“I'm thinking my lifetime will be enough. I don't have any relatives to pass this place along to.” He walked to her and glanced up into the darkness, where no lights warmed the second floor.

She came down one step so that they were at eye level. “I have to go,” she whispered—as if there were anyone to hear but him. “Start the rails. I'll be back to help shape and stain them.”

Studying her, he wondered if she were lying. “Fine,” he managed, wishing he had the nerve to ask her just one question before she disappeared.

He waited for her to come down the last step.

She didn't move. The house was pure, snowflake silent.