Winsor, Linda (18 page)

"I
look forward to it," Reverend Lawrence called after them.

Shep
opened the passenger door for Deanna and then walked around to the driver's
side. Her legs weren't nearly as stiff getting into the Jeep as they'd been
earlier getting out. Maybe the aspirin had helped. Unfortunately, the ache she
suffered from now had no ready pill to relieve it.

Shep
followed Deanna in silence at the Smart Mart. He couldn't put a finger on what
had dampened her humor, but something had. The resilient spirit he admired in
her, that grin-and-bear-it way she rose to any occasion had given way to a
seemingly forlorn silence. She wasn't a coward by nature, but a can-do person.
So why did she run, and from whom? Had her romantic interest in her boss been
the final straw, adding betrayal of the heart to framing her for his crime?
Something wasn't right about this, but what it was, he had no idea—and she
wasn't talking.

At
least he knew the source of the burr in his humor, he thought, waiting while
Deanna read the label on yet another brand of yogurt. He'd been happy with
Hopewell as it was, moving along as he could toward his dream, but obviously
that wouldn't move him ahead fast enough for someone who was running with the
big money dogs. Maybe he
was
chasing his tail rather than a dream.

One
thing was for certain—he would have never thought of turning Hopewell into a
Western vacation spot. Where he saw dilapidation, Deanna saw opportunity. Shep
would enjoy sharing his passion for horses by teaching greenhorns to ride like
he had at nearby stables back East when he was assigned to the D.C. office, but
there was a big hole in her plan—his decided lack of liquid capital. Building
the ranch his way, a little at a time as he could afford, was attainable. His
was safer, both for his heart and his pocketbook—especially if she moved back
East.

"Do
you have to read the ingredients on every label of everything on the
list?" he snapped, disappointment and discomfort contributing to his testy
humor. He shifted his weight unobtrusively from his aching knee to his good
one. "Beans are beans. At this rate, we'll close the store."

"But
some have more fat content than others, and the pricing is misleading. It's a
major marketing tool. You have to compare the price per lot to get the cheapest
with the right content when you have more time than money."

Shep
winced inwardly at Deanna's lash of reality. "Like me?"

His
cryptic question seemed to puzzle her. "Like
both
of us."

Except
he hadn't been driving around in a car that cost more than most people's homes.
Her silk blouse and trousers probably cost more than one of the tailored suits
left over from Shep's more lucrative days in the service. He hadn't traveled in
circles like hers since he'd left D.C—and Ellen.

"Well,
let's save money
and
time," he said, glancing at his watch. "I
want to stop by Charlie's and see how much longer I'll be buying bean sprouts
and all-natural yogurt."

Deanna
flinched as though he'd physically slapped her. The raw hurt on her face made
Shep feel twice as condemned. Her eyes pooled with tears as though pumped there
by her quivering chin. Remorse locked horns with the anger and frustration that
had provoked Shep's barbed response in the first place. He was taking his own
shortcomings out on her.

"Look,
Deanna—"

She
cut his apology short. "If I had somewhere else to go and the means to go
there, I would,
Mr.
Jones."

Burying
her attention in the grocery list as though she couldn't quite make out her own
writing, she walked stiffly down the aisle.

"Deanna,
wait—"

Shep's
effort to apologize was pointless. Each time he caught up with her, she tossed
something in the cart and flitted off again like a bird that'd allowed the cat
too close. Grim-mouthed, Shep followed in her icy wake. Not until they reached
the drapery department was she forced to stop.

"Which
one do you like?" She pointed to the entire row filled on both sides with
curtains of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Her upper lip wasn't exactly stiff,
but the wounded jut of her chin had become so.

This
was going nowhere but downhill... and fast. "You pick something out...
please."

"I
need to read the labels for material content, so that washing doesn't ruin
them," she mumbled self-consciously "And to get the right
sizes."

Shep
leaned on the handle of the cart as if he had all day. "Take your time. I
mean
it," he said as obligingly as he could.

After
a moment's pause, the wary brow she raised at him faded. Clearly humoring him,
Deanna began to dig through the racks of curtains with the thoroughness of a
crime scene investigator. Not a package escaped her critical examination.
Sooner than speak to him, she chatted to herself. One style was perfect, but it
didn't have the right size. The right-sized curtains didn't seem to match the
decor in the room. The ones that matched were a material that required dry
cleaning.

"You
don't want dry clean only curtains in your kitchen," she pointed out,
finally acknowledging he was there. "Especially with all the windows you
have."

"Of
course not," Shep agreed, distracted by the increasing irritation of his
knee and the conflict between guilt and his impatience. Of all the times for
him to have skipped his medicine.

Climbing
in the high country didn't aggravate it half as much as walking on city
concrete, but then, God created the former. The majesty alone was enough to
distract him from his discomfort—something the big department store was sadly
lacking.

"Okay,
I've narrowed it down to two choices."

Shep
sent a prayer dart heavenward.
Thank You, Lord.

"Which
do you like? The white with the checkered green trim isn't quite as kitcheny as
the one with the fruit on the hem, though I think either one would brighten up
the wood paneled walls." She held up the two packages so Shep could see
the pictures on them.

"Either
one is fine and dandy with me." He glanced at his watch. They'd been in
the store over an hour. If he took the spare pill he kept in the Jeep as soon
as they got out, it might be too early to take another one at bedtime.

"You
didn't even look. It's
your
house." Her terse disapproval was
eighty-grit sandpaper to his diminishing patience.

"Then
get the white ones." It never occurred to him that letting her make the
decision was a wrong approach. From the angry sparks flecking her eyes, he was
going to wind up wearing them.

"Which
white
ones?"

"The
fruit. I like fruit."

"Fruit
it is."

Shep
let out his breath in relief as Deanna put the other package back.

"Although
the check would lend itself more to the family room part of the kitchen,"
she countered thoughtfully. "I mean, how will all those animals look
surrounded by dancing apples and pears? Checks are more masculine, like a
master-of-the-hunt motif."

As
if he walked on eggs, Shep ventured guardedly "I totally agree. I hadn't
thought about the compatibility of the trophies and the curtains. The checks
are far more appropriate for wildlife than the fruit."

"Now
you're patronizing me." Deanna snatched up six packages and slammed them
into the cart. The force jammed the knee Shep had favored.

His
agony was not lessened by the fact that she had no idea what she'd done, but
somehow he reined the explosion of pain just short of it reaching his tongue.
It occurred to him to run the cart over his good foot as distraction, but
instead, he threw up his hands in surrender, trying hard to react in the
opposite direction of his primary urge to shake her till her eyeballs rolled.

"No,
I'm not." His controlled calm could have aced an Oscar. "I think the
check is so right that we should get these pillows for the sofa to replace
those ratty old brown ones that put a crick in my neck." He reached down,
despite his discomfort, and added two checked pillows displayed beneath the
curtains. "And what about a rug? One for the door and one in front of the
sink? They'll cover those worn spots in the linoleum." If the woman wanted
to shop, then by golly, he'd shop. He scanned the display a moment and found a
set of dish towels and a dishcloth to match. "And what about these?"

Deanna
shrugged. "It's your money But while you're at it, there are some
potholders that match, too." She pointed to the set with a grating sniff.

Shep
pulled the set off the hanging bar and tossed them into the cart. "There!
I think we have every blessed checked thing in the store. No, wait." He
took off with exaggerated glee toward placemats on display farther down the
aisle, ignoring the aggravation to his aching knee. Picking up two, he added
them to the checkered heap in the cart. "What do you think?"

"They're
easier to maintain than a tablecloth."

"My
thoughts exactly." Good thing they'd chosen checks over fruit. The latter
would have withered from the chill in her response. With a pained smile, Shep
pushed the cart to the checkout. Deanna followed him.

"I'll
be outside," she said, breaking her cross-armed silence as he started to
put the goods on the black conveyor belt.

Trapped
between guilt and grudge, Shep waited as the register blipped its way toward an
escalating total. Good job, Jones. Now they were
both
miserable.
Avoiding the curious glances of the clerk, who had to have been deaf and blind
not to notice the thick tension between him and Deanna, Shep looked at the
magazine rack behind him.

10
Tips for Men: How to Make Her Want You.
The article title leapt off the display
at him. Once certain no one was paying any attention to him, he picked it up
and flipped through the pages in a nonchalant manner until he reached the cover
feature.

"Hey,
do you want that woman's magazine or what?"

"Nah,
just looking." He put the magazine back as if the same wildfire spreading
up his neck and face had set it ablaze, too. As he turned toward the register,
he caught sight of fresh-cut flowers displayed on a metal stand next to the
candy display. Above them was a sign reading
Romantic Bouquets.

"That'll
be one hundred twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents," the young clerk
said, her speech slightly distorted by the braces brightening her smile.
"Do you have any coupons?"

"No."
Shep couldn't recall the last time he'd spent that much in one place since
leaving Washington, but a few more bucks wasn't going to break him now.
"But I'll take a bunch of these flowers, too."

He
handed them to the clerk and fished out his wallet as she rang up the final
tally. Shep had always wondered who bought fresh flowers in a
food-and-everything-else market. Now he had a pretty good idea.

***

What
a fool she'd been, Deanna thought, staring straight ahead as Shep turned onto
the dirt road leading to Hopewell's main street. They had stopped at Charlie
Long's garage, but the older man wasn't home. Limping noticeably, Shep got a
drink from the vending machine in front of the garage and took a pill he'd found
in the Jeep console. If he'd only said something, she'd have insisted on coming
back another time.

As
it was, the groceries rattling in the back of the Jeep made more noise than the
two of them together. Shep concentrated on the road ahead. Deanna leaned into
the wind rushing through the open passenger window like a dog, hair flying away
from her face. Unlike a blissfully content pooch, she hoped the wind would dry
her tears and cool her scalded cheeks or at least disguise her misery.

All
those silly notions that Shepard Jones might somehow be interested in her were
nothing more than wishful thinking. He didn't want her around one second more
than she had to be. And after she'd tried so hard to prove her worth.

Deanna
let out a shaky breath and dug with her finger for a runaway tear that had
whipped from the corner of her eye into her ear. Great. Now she lived an old
country song she used to mimic by holding her nose and wailing something about
tears in her ears from lying on her back while crying over a long gone love.
Her relationship with C. R. had been a sham. Now even the hope of finding
someone to share her life with seemed dashed.

Cod,
I need You now. C. R.
made me feel stupid. Shep makes me feel worthless.

These
things were foreign to her, a successful businesswoman and... and what? What
else was she good for? What had she ever done to help anyone other than herself
since Girl Scouts? The money Deanna made went toward making her life easier so
that she could work harder. She had no family, no friends to speak of, at least
beyond her work associates. With most of them, there was no time to share her
heart's desire.

Deanna
held on to her seat belt as though it might keep her from sinking deeper into
the whirling mire of despair. Her mind wandered back to a childhood Sunday
school lesson on the apostle Peter. He'd successfully walked on water and then
nearly drowned when he was distracted from his focus on Christ by the storm.
She'd colored the picture of him thrashing in the furious sea, reaching for
Christ's hand.

Jesus,
I can't see Your hand, and the waves are breaking over my head.