The Devil You Know (16 page)

Willa employed long strides to reach him, and when she did, she held out her arms for John Henry. One of the hound's long, black-tipped, brown ears was draped over Israel's arm, and his belly was still exposed. He would probably howl if Israel passed him over now. Willa dropped her hands to her sides and was immediately beset by a shiver. She folded her arms in front of her and tucked her hands under her armpits. In another moment, her teeth would begin to chatter.

“I'm here. What is it?”

He looked her over. “We can't really talk here, can we? You'll freeze.”

“Exactly my thought. Hand over John Henry so I can go back inside.”

“I'll put John Henry in the house, but you and I are going to talk in the barn.”

“I'm not going into the barn with you.”

“Why not? We were there this afternoon.”

“That's right. It was afternoon, not the middle of the night.”

“It's not the middle.” He stopped scratching John Henry's belly to put up a hand to halt her protest. “All right. I'll concede that it's night. My point is that it is a difference without distinction. We'll have privacy and warmth in the barn just as we had earlier.”

“Yes, but—” She hesitated, glanced warily in the direction of the barn, which loomed like a great black hulk against the night sky, and then shook her head. “It's not a good idea. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“Not if I am going to be able to sleep tonight.”

If he had reported this to her as a complaint, Willa would have summarily dismissed it, but it was not issued as a grievance, only as a matter of fact, and since she had some experience with sleepless nights of late, she had a measure of sympathy for this state. Some of that must have shown in her expression because he angled his head toward the barn and lifted his brows once more in question.

“All right,” she said at last. “But let me put John Henry in the house first.”

“I don't think that's a good idea. John Henry should come with us. You can take him back when we're finished. Besides, if someone wakes and wonders where you are, you can say you were looking for him.”

It seemed reasonable, but that only made Willa question the soundness of her thinking. “I don't think anyone is going to miss me,” she said, falling into step beside Israel. “Happy was tippling last night, so he won't wake until coffee's on, maybe not even then. And Annalea slept through you scratching at the window.”

“That was John Henry.” Israel took one of the hound's short forepaws in his hand and waved it at Willa.

A bubble of laughter swelled in her throat and she snorted softly to cover it. “I don't understand you,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “Is there anything you take seriously?”

“Is there anything you don't?”

“That is not an answer to my question.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Willa set her teeth together hard, but she freely admitted to herself that it had as much to do with the cold as with Israel's failure to respond in a straightforward manner.

When they reached the barn, Willa pulled the door open because Israel was still cradling John Henry. It moved soundlessly on the track. She looked up and then back at Israel as she slipped through the narrow space she'd made for them.

“Yes, ma'am. I fixed it.”

She stepped to the side when he came through and closed the door. “Don't do that,” she said. “Please.”

“Do what?”

“Call me ‘ma'am.'”

“Cutter does.”

“I didn't ask Cutter to marry me.”

“Well, there you have me.”

“And you don't say it the way Cutter does. He's respectful. You're . . .”

“Not?”

“That's right,” she said quietly. “You're not, not really.”

“Hmm.” Israel set John Henry down. “Stay where you are. I'm going to get a lantern. I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“That's kind of you, but I know this barn”—Willa paused when she heard his soft “oof” punctuated by “damn”—“better than you.” She bent to scratch behind John Henry's ears as he rubbed his head against her leg. She whispered to the dog, “I do know it better, don't I? Hmm, don't I?”

“I can hear you.”

She chuckled and stood, and her eyes gradually did as much adjusting to the dark as they were able. Narrow beams of moonlight slipped through cracks in the sides of the barn and she could make out the darker shapes of the loft ladder, the wheelbarrow, and the wagon. A bench was situated cockeyed near the first stall, and she imagined that's what Israel had bumped into. She did not take everything seriously, and she could have told him that just then because his bump in the dark had made her smile.

Willa blinked furiously and shielded her eyes when the lantern light suddenly appeared in the same direction she was looking. Israel turned back the wick until the light was reduced to a soft glow that only bathed the area immediately around him. For Willa, it was like a beacon, and she started toward it, John Henry at her side.

“Watch out for the bench,” Israel said as she neared it. “It jumped in front of me.”

“I heard,” she said dryly. She took an exaggerated step sideways to show him she was skirting the bench. John Henry went under it. Several of the horses nickered as she passed their stalls, many more slept undisturbed. Felicity put her nose over the stall door and Willa rubbed it. “No treats, girl.”

Israel lowered the lantern when she reached him.

Willa looked right and left and wondered what it was about this particular place that had made Israel choose it. They were standing in the aisle with stalls and benches on either side. One of the benches was covered with grooming brushes, files, a horseshoe, and a couple of nails. The other held a double stack of horse blankets. Before she could ask if he meant for them to talk here, he pointed to the bench with the blankets.

“You take some, I'll take some.”

Since she was shaking with cold, his suggestion had a lot to recommend it. What he intended to do with them, though, had her raising her brows.

“That's an empty stall behind you. There's also the hayloft and the wagon bed. You choose.”

“I choose to go back to the house.” And in the event he misunderstood or pretended to, she added, “Without you.”

“All right, then we'll just stay where we are.” He hung the lantern on a nail and picked up one of the blankets. He snapped it open and whipped it around Willa's shoulders like a cape. She clasped the tails in one fist to keep it secure. He shifted the rest of the blankets to the floor except for one that he spread across the bench. “You can sit there,” he told her. “Do you want another for your lap?”

“Yes, please.” As soon as she sat down, he tucked another blanket around her. She huddled under them, breathing in the scents of horse and leather and not minding in the least.

Israel cleared a space for himself on the other bench and chose one blanket to put under him. He sat and stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles. John Henry nosed around Israel's boots for a few moments and then settled himself beside them. “And here we are.”

Willa gave him one of her better cynical looks, the corner of her mouth ever so slightly pulled to one side, her eyes fixed on his face with a dead-on stare. “You had these benches in mind when you walked back here. I know you did. So why did you ask me to choose between the stall, the hayloft, and the wagon bed?”

“Optimism?”

She made a dismissive sound at the back of her throat.

“Very well,” he said. “Are you all right? Warm enough?”

She was neither of those things, but she did not want to delay whatever discussion he meant for them to have so she said, “Yes.”

He nodded once. “I want to ask you about something you said this afternoon.”

Confident that he could not see her tense beneath the heavy blankets, she kept her expression carefully neutral. It
was beyond extraordinary that Israel wanted to discuss Eli Barber.

“You mentioned your behavior when we kissed . . . it keeps—”

Willa could not help herself. She interrupted. “When
you
kissed
me
. I recall saying ‘when you kissed me.' I was clear on that when I said it and when it happened.”

“Oh.” Israel removed his hat, set it beside him, and rested the back of his head against the stall. He regarded her from under his lashes, shielding her from the amusement in his eyes. “So that's important to you. That I initiated the kiss, I mean.”

“It's accurate.”

“It is. I kissed you first.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you kissed me back.”

Willa felt her throat closing. She made a strangled sound. She wanted to ask him why he wasn't talking about Eli Barber but knew her voice would not support the question.

“As first kisses go,” he said, casting his mind back, “I thought it went well.” He began to tick off points on his fingers. “We did not bump noses, which can sometimes be funny, but is unfortunate when there is injury. And yes, it's happened to me. Another point in our favor was that it was a whiskey kiss. We'd each had a glass, remember? No mingling of sour mash and milk, say. Third, you have a splendid mouth with an intriguing slant that fits quite nicely against mine. I think you must have noticed that. Neither of us was aggressive with our tongues, and a chaste kiss is a good beginning, I always think. Are you sure you're all right, Willa? You sound as if you might be choking.”

“Mnh.”

“And finally, that kiss lasted for a good long time. I was not counting, but I have an uncanny sense for it, and I would put the duration of that kiss somewhere between the time is takes Cutter to get thrown from the new mare once he's seated in the saddle and the first eight measures of Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring” played at a moderate tempo.”

Willa stared at him, blank and unblinking. She suspected
her eyes were as round and as large as silver dollars, but under threat of death, she would not have been able to close them.

Israel asked, “You're familiar, aren't you? No?” He hummed Bach's masterwork, pitching it low and perfect, but only the first eight measures so that it ended abruptly. “I have always liked that piece.” He held up his hands, wiggled ten fingers. “Piano. Twelve years. You didn't guess that, did you?”

Willa shook her head, but the movement was barely perceptible.

Israel dropped his hands to his sides again and curled his fingers lightly around the edge of the bench. His features settled solemnly into place. “I'd like to hear your version of that kiss,” he said. “I'd like to know what you mean when you talk about the way you behaved.”

Frozen in a manner that had nothing to do with the cold, Willa was silent.

“I've been wondering,” said Israel, “if there is something you think you did wrong. Or perhaps you're thinking you should not have participated. You did, though, and rather sweetly.”

Willa jerked slightly. The blankets shivered around her.

“Ah.” This time it was Israel whose shake of the head was almost imperceptible. “Would you have preferred that I not kiss you at all?”

Willa found her voice, or rather she found
a
voice, one that had a distinctive rasp to it and was unlike anything she had heard coming from her throat before. “Yes,” she said. Then, “No.” And finally, “I don't know.”

“It's that confusing, is it?”

“Yes.” This time the voice was one she recognized. “I'm sorry, but yes.”

“That's all well and good, except there is no reason that I can think of for you to apologize.”

She shrugged. The blanket around her shoulders slipped and she drew it back, but it slipped again. Before she could tell Israel she did not require his help, he was off the bench and resettling the blanket around her so that it covered the front of her like an armor breastplate and opened at the back. When she leaned against the wall, he tucked it in. She was several degrees warmer almost immediately, or at least it felt
that way. Then again, it might have had something to do with Israel's hovering presence. He stayed where he was, looking her over, and she was reminded that this was exactly how he stood close to her in the kitchen moments before he kissed her.

There was no kiss this time. He backed away without looking and John Henry had to scramble to avoid being stepped on.

“Hey, boy,” Israel said, bending to scratch the back of the dog's head. “Aren't you the clever one to be looking at where I'm going?” He straightened and returned to the bench, where he and John Henry both resumed their positions.

“Aren't you cold?” asked Willa once he was comfortably and casually stretched out.

“I can tolerate it. Anyway, sometimes being cold is what's called for.” When Willa frowned, he said, “It's all right. You don't have to understand.” He thrust his hands into the lined pockets of his heavy coat. “Have you changed your mind about your proposal?” he asked. “Maybe you regret making the offer.”

She supposed she should have expected the question, but oddly enough, she hadn't.

“I'm asking,” Israel said, “because you haven't said another word about it. I was following your lead, but I don't figure that excuses me from bringing it up, so that's what's on my mind. For now.”

It was the “for now,” or rather the intentional way he said it, that caused Willa's heartbeat to falter first then knock hard against her chest. She was not accustomed to feeling ridiculous, but when her mind kept wandering back to the kitchen, back to that kiss, it was exactly how she felt.

“I haven't changed my mind,” Willa said.

“Mm. Regrets?”

“No. You?”

“It's not quite the same for me, is it? I didn't give you an answer that night, and I haven't made up my mind about it yet so I can't really change it. I don't have regrets, though. Not about you putting the question to me and certainly not about the kiss.”