Winsor, Linda (19 page)

They
passed the surveyor's trailer, squat and dimly lit, parked next to Ticker's
dark one to share the water supply and septic. When Shep stopped his truck in
front of the porch, Deanna got out and made a dash for the house as if those
stormy waves clawed at her heels with frothy fingers. As usual, the door was
unlocked—something this three-deadbolt New Yorker had yet to get over—so she
let herself in. Shep could get the bags. Right now, she didn't want to face
him. She just wanted to be alone.

But
what about his knee? He
had
to be in pain to lose his easygoing nature.
Deanna looked longingly at the bed she wanted to throw herself upon in a fit of
dramatic misery Heaving a sigh of surrender, she turned to go back outside. She
might not be able to see God's hand, but an angel surely whispered in her ear
like a cartoon cherub, halo a bit crooked, robe wrinkled, but determined to
keep her in line.

"Where
were you when I met C. R.?"

"Say
what?" Shep placed an armload of bags on the table as she reentered the
kitchen.

It
felt as if a swarm of fire ants climbed to her cheeks. "Nothing. Just
mumbling to myself. I'll get the rest of the bags. You sit down and prop your
foot up."

That
he didn't argue made Deanna feel much worse. By the time she brought in the
bags with the curtains, Shep reclined on a stack of pillows with an ice bag on
his knee.

"I'm
much obliged, Deanna."

The
contrition on his face bled some of the coolness from her polite, "You're
welcome."

Shep
made no effort to hide his watchfulness as she put away the groceries and
unpacked the checkered kitchen accessories that had
checkered
what had
begun as a lovely end to a hard but enjoyable day

"If
you don't mind, I'd like to wait until tomorrow or Monday to put these curtains
up," she said, taking them into the hall wash area. "I read in one of
those women's mags in the dentist's office once that you can get wrinkles out
of fabrics or clothes by fluffing them with a wet towel in the dryer."

"No
problem, it can wait. Do you mind letting Smoky in? He's scratching at the
door."

"Sure."
Deanna went to the door and opened it. "And just where were you when we
drove up?"

Once
inside, Smoky responded to her playful tone by shaking all over, depositing
grass and sticks that had clung to his thick coat onto the floor.

"Ah,
I see. Been collecting weeds, have we?" She poured some dog food into a
dish and gave him water in another.

"You're
going to spoil him," Shep warned, a lazy smile tilting his lips.
"When Tick gets back, the dog won't know where home is."

What
a refreshing change it was from the tight-mouthed, clenched-jaw profile he'd
maintained during the hour's ride home. A schoolgirl awkwardness suddenly
assailed her. "I haven't had a pet since I was a—" she bumped the
rounded comer of the red Formica table—"kid."

Boy,
once the romantic in her was awakened, the clumsy idiot just wouldn't learn. It
just kept springing back up with that stupid grin, waiting for another blow
like one of those punching bag clowns.

"Would
you mind pulling my boots off?" At her wary hesitation, Shep pointed
sheepishly to his knee.

"I
guess I owe you at least that much after dragging you all over the department
store with your sore knee." She grabbed one of his boots and worked it
off. "You wouldn't have had to shop for curtains anyway if I hadn't rained
them." Taking extra care with the inflamed knee, she wriggled the other
off. "And your knee wouldn't be in such bad shape if I'd stayed out of the
way I don't know what possessed me to run out like I could help." She
carried the boots over to the stone hearth. "No wonder you want to get rid
of me. I've been a royal pain, huh?"

A
shifting on the sofa and the crinkling rustle of cellophane turned Deanna from
straightening a landslide of horse and hunting magazines into a neat pile. Shep
sat up, his bum leg propped on the coffee table. In his hand was a bouquet of
fresh flowers.

Deanna
blinked, but he was still there, drop-dead gorgeous and carrying flowers no
less.
Shepard Jones and flowers.
Her heart did loop-to-loop at such a
dizzying speed that she didn't know if she was going to faint or take off after
it.

"What's
this?" Sheesh, that big-nosed moose over the mantle could have done that
good and it was dead. "I mean, I can see they're flowers," she
admitted in an attempt to shake the dipsy-doodle from her brain. "But what
for?"

"The
sign said
Romantic Bouquets,
but I'd call them Penance Posies."
Shep crooked his finger, beckoning her over. When she simply stared at it in
distrust, he pleaded, "Just humor a man in pain...
please,
ma'am."

A
crooked finger wasn't exactly an extended hand, nor did it belong to Jesus, but
it did belong to a Shepard. Or was she a drowning soul grasping at straws? Deanna
took a step. Besides, it wasn't fair, packaging that "please, ma'am"
with that sexy drawl of his. Once within Shep's reach, she hesitated again. Her
heart couldn't survive another nosedive tonight.

Taking
her hand, Shep coaxed her down to the cushion next to him. "I thought
they'd say 'I'm sorry' better than I could, my not being so flowery with
words." He lifted two flowers with broken necks, shoving them between
their unscathed counterparts. "Although it looks like they aren't going to
do much better after being hidden under my pillow."

Uncertain
which was going to leak first, her eyes or her nose, Deanna lifted the colorful
assortment and pretended to smell them with a loud sniff. Shep handed her a
tissue from the end table. As she wiped her eyes and blew her nose as daintily
as her emotion would allow, she realized she was going to sneeze.

"Is
something wrong?"

Deanna
drowned Shep out with an "Aah-choo!" so loud, it startled the dog
lying nearby.

"Allergies."
She sniffed as Shep handed her a fistful of Kleenex. The hay she'd spread in
the stable that morning hadn't seemed to affect her, but something about fresh
flowers always made her eyes and nose water. "I can't go to a wedding or
funeral without taking an antihistamine."

"Hah,
that figures. So much for making you feel better."

"But
they do. I just can't put my face in them." She put them on the coffee
table, the corners of her mouth twitching. "What a pair of clowns we are.
Our motto should be: 'The harder they try, the harder they fall'."

"We
hit the ground pretty hard this morning."

At
the mention of that fiasco, Deanna turned in sudden earnest. "But I have
been trying to pull my weight, honest. I really want to fit in."

Humor
vanished from Shep's expression. Putting his arm on the sofa back behind her,
he leaned closer. "Why, Deanna?"

Be
still my heart.
As
if her heart ever listened! With Shep within kissing distance, it was beating
itself into a puddle of mush. "Because..."

"Because
what?" Shep brushed her lips with his as though to tempt the answer from
them. Circling her waist with his arm, he blocked her escape.

As
if she
wanted to.

"Because
for some reason, I really like this place... not to mention you." The
meltdown had already started, her brain going first.

His
gaze held Deanna's in a sweet, searching captivity. "Even when I'm a jerk,
like tonight?"

Not
wanting to break the fairytale-like spell by saying something stupid, she
nodded. Something wet tickled her cheek. A tear?

Shep
caught it with his lips.

She
watched, mesmerized as he removed the salty essence of her pain and fear. But
he didn't take them away, he pressed his lips to hers, sharing. Such a simple
gesture to offer such untold comfort, assuring her that she was no longer
alone, that he was there for her. His embrace, his gaze—both pleaded in a voice
that spoke louder than words. Even above the sweet rush of blood to her ears,
she could hear it.
Trust me.

God
knew Deanna wanted to. She needed to trust as a desperate soul in trouble, as
much as the woman he awakened in her longed to yield to his touch. Or was it
her touch as she explored the capable ridges of his back? He eased her back
onto the sofa, but Deanna was swept there by the realization that a man like
Shep could take her to places that made her heart and body sing, and her soul
as well.

Pillows
cushioned the warm, dizzying free fall of awareness— pillows and the ice she'd
discarded. Bolting upright with a shocked gasp from the cold invasion of her
senses, Deanna banged Shep's mouth with her head and shoved him away.

"What
the—" Caught off guard, he rolled to the floor between the couch and the
coffee table, landing with a startled grunt.

With
an involuntary shudder, Deanna produced the ice bag from behind her, holding it
up for him to see.

Without
the benefit of the chill factor, it took Shep a moment to register what had
happened. When it did, he let out a wry laugh and pulled himself up. "It
figures."

Deanna
scrambled to help him avoid any strain on his knee. "You're
bleeding." She reached for the box of tissues they'd flattened in their
sweet fervor. She hadn't even noticed them. What in the world had come over
her... over
them?

Shep
touched the back of his hand to his lip, coming away with fresh blood.
"Someone must be trying to tell us to go to bed."

Deanna
looked up from dabbing his lip with a startled "What?" Surely he
hadn't said what she
thought
she heard.

"Not
the same one," he clarified. "Me here and you in there."

Frustrated,
he raked one hand through the tousle of his hair and pointed to the bedroom
door with the other in speechless effort to climb out of the hole he'd
inadvertently dug for himself.

Impossible
as it seemed, Deanna was warmed more by his clumsiness to set things right than
his very persuasive seduction. Her by-the-Good-Book Shepard had more depth, not
to mention moral fortitude, than all the men she'd ever dated put together.

"You're
off the hook," she said when she could no longer keep a straight face.

Relief
lightened the crimson flush of his face. "I just wanted to convince you
how sorry I was, and—" he heaved a hapless sigh—"I guess I got
carried away."

That
grin... that toe-curling, belly-quickening grin—who could resist it?
"Yeah, well that makes two of us. I was just trying to say you're forgiven
and
BOOM!
Go figure."

Whatever
had possessed the two of them wasn't through with her yet. Deanna couldn't
bring herself to break away from Shep's contemplative look. Like him, she
grinned in clownlike silence until Cupid, or whatever it was that came over
them showed mercy

"So,"
she said, making the first move away from temptation. She handed him the ice
bag. "Put this on that knee. I'm turning in. Tomorrow's gonna come early,
ready or not."

Walking
on air, she entered the bedroom and closed the door. A stupid grin still fixed
on her face, she looked at the bed in an entirely different light than earlier.
The lonely, desolate place in which she'd expected to spend the night now
looked like cloud nine, where dreams of Shepard Jones would keep her company.

***

Sunday
morning was filled with the giddiness of a honeymoon— or what Deanna imagined
one to be. Shep was cooking breakfast when her alarm roused her from the
comfort of her bed. After putting on a dress that looked like it belonged to
one of the sitcom moms on the oldies television channel, Deanna entered the
kitchen to find the table set and the cook serving a steaming breakfast—a
Western omelet, grilled toast, and French-fried potatoes.

"Wow.
You've been busy." She sat in the chair he held for her. "And my
favorite food no less. Is this still penance?"

"No."

His
mischievous look was enough to make her forget the food. In a crisp white
oxford, tie, and pleated dress trousers, this guy could grace the cover of
GQ
any day. If he were wearing the smart tailored jacket that was hanging on
the back of his chair, he'd be James-Bond-goes-West devastating.

"Ah,
I see." Deanna shook off the image before she tripped over her tongue. She
narrowed her eyes in feigned suspicion. "You're trying to tempt me, aren't
you?" Playfully, Deanna looked behind her and under the table.
"There's an ice bag around here somewhere, isn't there?"

Shep
didn't answer, but the curve of his mouth and the devilment in his eyes spoke
volumes.

And
she thought it was hard to eat with Old Bull watching her. The patty of butter
she cut from the block fell off her knife before she could get it to her toast.

"Butter
fingers," Shep teased, as Deanna's knife clattered on the floor in her
effort to catch the patty before it landed in her lap. "You really aren't
at home in the kitchen are you?"

"That's
butter
thumbs,
wise guy You try buttering your toast with a bug-eyed
bull moose staring down his nostrils at you... not to mention his beady-eyed
buddies."

Shep
laughed. "Trust me, the moose and his buddies are beyond wanting your
breakfast."

"Then
why do you sit with your back to them?"

"Because
I can see down Main Street from this chair."

Deanna
pulled a dubious face. "I hear ya. Next you'll be telling me that you
don't sit with your back to the door so you won't wind up like Wild Bill
Hickok."

"What
do you know about old Wild Bill?"

"Hey,
Pop and I read and watched every Western there ever was at least once." A
nostalgic smile lighted on Deanna's lips. "We were cowboys at heart, even
if Pop rode a taxi instead of a horse and I took the subway for my stagecoach.
I went through a tomboy phase that drove Mama nuts—no dresses, just jeans and
those Western shirts with piped trim on the pockets. I could slap leather with
the best of them, even Tommy Triglia, who grew up to be the hood next
door."

"I
can't picture you as a tomboy. You're so..."

"Svelte
and charming?" Deanna took up a forkful of omelet, part of which promptly
fell in her lap on its way to her mouth.

"Exactly."
Shep watched her mouth as she chewed, as though charmed, making it nearly
impossible for her to swallow.

"Finishing
school—" A renegade crumb constricted Deanna's voice and made her cough.

"That
explains that charming cross between uptown girl and girl next door."

Shep
handed her a glass of water, but his study of her made her first swallow defy
the law of gravity when Deanna took a drink. Only by sheer willpower did she
override the anomaly.

And
she thought the moose staring at her was bad.

Later,
as she watched Shep walk around the Jeep after closing her door for her, Deanna
noticed his limp had improved considerably. The night off his feet and on ice
must have eased the inflammation. Recalling his glib response to her question
as to what had happened to his knee, she wondered what kind of war wound he'd
suffered. Most likely a horse rolled over on him.

He
glanced at her once they were on the road. "You ever think of learning to
ride?"

Deanna
wrinkled her nose. "Maybe." If she was around long enough and had
lost every brain cell she had. Where she'd gotten her citified idea that real
horses were just moving versions of their arcade counterpane—clean, saddled,
and ready to go—was beyond her. And never had she seen a television horse with
a dirty coat and tangled mane. "If you can find one that won't soil its
water—or worse, its bed, and then roll in it."

"You're
something else, Slick."

His
chuckle smacked of wonder more than derision, spawning a warm fuzzy feeling in
her tummy. High on Shep's company, Deanna relaxed against the headrest until
they passed the
Welcome to Buffalo Butte
sign. As if waiting in ambush
behind it, anxiety swept down, blasting away at her giddy contentment with
second thought.

Watching
the families filter into the white, steepled building from the parking lot,
Deanna struggled between longing and panic. She wanted to go to church. As a
child, she'd always felt a little closer to God in His house. Maybe there, He'd
make His intentions clearer. Was He answering her prayers or punishing her by
showing her what she'd forfeited for her neglect of a spiritual life?

While
she was still a little pink from her exposure to the sun the day before, Deanna
was certain there wasn't a drop of blood beneath the color as she fell in with
the friendly stream of parishioners. Her heart was pulling it from all
quarters, just to keep beating. Shep had no idea that the shepherding hand he
put at her back was all that kept her from bolting like the red stallion. Then
it was too late.

Inside,
it seemed as though the entire congregation swarmed around to welcome her. Yes,
she had been stranded at Hopewell when a horse ran her off the road. Yes,
Buffalo Butte was a far cry from her native New York. Her accent? Brooklyn with
Irish-Italian influence. Her profession? Marketing consultant. No, she and Shep
had no plans to make it a permanent arrangement. Why? Job opportunities weren't
exactly brimming in these parts. Besides—

"Well,
if I were you, honey, I'd think hard about pursuing my career over a good man.
Our Shepard is quite a catch," Juanita Everett whispered, her volume
rising with that of the organ, which signaled the start of the service.