CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 6

  And desserts, he added silently. He grinned as he went back to drying his hair. Casey turned out some mean pies, and he'd learned just how good they could be.

  She was setting the table when he got to the kitchen. He hadn't wanted to put his dirty work boots back on, so he was barefoot and made no noise as he paused in the doorway. She was humming something slow and melancholy, murmuring a phrase or two of the lyrics now and then, something about too many memories for one heart to hold. Her hair was neatly held at her nape with some kind of stretchy cloth band, as she wore it most days. But he could still remember the first morning he'd come here, when it had been loose and sleep-tousled, not tamed as it was now, but wild, as if expressing some emotion she normally didn't allow herself.

  He watched as she laid out silverware with a loving touch; it had been her aunt's, she'd told him, and her great-aunt's before her, and she cherished it for that reason alone, despite the ornate pattern that wasn't really to her taste.

  As she put down the last fork, moved by an urge he didn't understand and probably never would have given in to had he stopped to think, Clay crossed the room swiftly and took her elbow.

  She gave a little start.

  "Oh! I didn't hear you!"

  "Sorry. Come on, I want to show you something."

  Her red-gold brows furrowed. "Now what did you find that needs repairing?"

  "No, this is something that's already fixed. I finished it today."

  She brightened a little as they went outside. "Is that what you were doing back on the roof this afternoon?"

  "Yes." He'd been up there when she'd returned from a job, and she'd been curious, since he'd finished the roof the day before, but he'd managed to keep what he was doing hidden. He wasn't sure why he'd felt the need to do that, but now he was glad he had.

  "The roof looks wonderful, by the way. Nice and weather-tight."

  "It shouldn't leak," he said, leading her out into the yard. He turned her around. He didn't bother to tell her where to look. She was already tilting her head back, and she would see it soon enough. Besides, he wanted to watch her reaction when she saw it. Merely curiosity, he told himself. Nothing wrong with that, even if he hadn't felt so much as a spark of it in years.

  "I'll be grateful for that when the next rain hits. If it had gotten any worse, there could have been—oh!"

  She stopped abruptly. He saw her eyes widen, her lips part, and then a slow, delighted smile crossed her face. And it was worth every burned finger and even the singed hair he'd ended up with on the project to see it.

  She turned to him then, her eyes alight. "You fixed it! You fixed Corky!"

  In the face of her joy, he couldn't help smiling back at her. It was such a simple thing, but it clearly meant to her all he'd suspected and more.

  "Aunt Pay adored that vane, and I was so upset when it broke. It seemed like an omen or something, just another reminder that she was gone. But there it is, good as new!"

  She laughed joyously, and to his shock, he found himself chuckling along with her. It was a foreign, unfamiliar sound and felt even stranger than it sounded.

  "Not quite as good as new," he said, shying away from his own unexpected reaction. "It's a bit shorter, and I had to change the base a little."

  "It doesn't matter, really, it doesn't. It looks wonderful." Suddenly, unexpectedly, she threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. "Thank you, Clay. This means so much to me."

  She might as well have fired a flash-bang grenade at him. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't react. Except for routine, unavoidable touches and the occasional handshake on a job, he'd had little physical contact with another human being for five years. He avoided it, withdrew from it, even the backslapping camaraderie of men seeming painful, where it had once been part of his life.

  And now here he was, with a lovely, delicious woman wrapping her arms around him, embracing him as if he'd just handed her the moon instead of doing a little metal-work. Holding him in a way he hadn't been held in a very long time, even before…

  He shivered inwardly and didn't know if it was from the memory or the feel of a warm, soft female body pressed against his. Not that she meant it that way, of course; she was simply delighted to see what he'd done. But that didn't change the chaos she was causing. And he couldn't even stop her. Couldn't pull away, couldn't push her arms away.

  Couldn't? Or didn't want to?

  Before he could begin to deal with that shocking thought, she had released him. Perhaps she'd sensed his unease, because she was looking at him oddly, as if she thought she'd done something wrong.

  He spoke hastily, wanting the awkward moment to pass. "My dad used to have an ironworker he hired for some projects. I hung out with him, because I liked watching him work on wrought-iron pieces. I remembered just enough to get this done. If it had been any newer, I probably wouldn't have had a clue."

  "Bless your father, then," she said, accepting his rush of words as if there were nothing unusual about them. "And thank you again. I never expected you to do that."

  He shrugged, feeling a bit easier. "I thought it might be important to you."

  "It is," she said, her tone heartfelt. "Very."

  She gave it one more loving look before they went back inside to eat. And he was very satisfied with his decision and the results.

  "So tell me," he said, after he'd taken the edge off his hunger from the day's work, "why did somebody who can cook like this not start a catering business until three years ago?"

  Casey lifted a brow at him, and only then did he realize he had initiated a personal conversation for the first time. But after a moment she answered easily enough.

  "I thought I wanted to live in the big city."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged, picking at the last slice of potato on her plate. "Why does any twenty-five-year-old want to leave a small town? I was bored, I wanted excitement and I thought a place like Chicago would have everything I wanted." Her tone answered the question he hadn't yet asked; whatever she'd found in the city, it hadn't been what she wanted. And, having more than a few of his own, he recognized a "hands off" sign when he saw one. He finished the delicious scalloped potatoes before speaking in a neutral tone.

  "So you came back home."

  She nodded, apparently willing to go on, since he hadn't pressed for answers she wouldn't give. "Three years ago."

  There was something, some faint undertone in her voice, much more subtle than the warning had been, but also much tenser. As if the memory of her homecoming were less than pleasant.

  He said nothing, just watched her as he took a sip of the milk he'd grown to look forward to, as long as it was ice-cold, which she made certain it was, to finish off the meal. She seemed to realize he'd heard something she hadn't meant him to and hastened to go on as if it were nothing.

  "Aunt Fay left me a small inheritance in addition to the farm, and I put that together with what I got for leasing out the fields that first year and remodeled the kitchen for my purposes."

  Not touching the trust fund, he noted. Wise woman.

  He glanced around; he'd seen the first time he was in here that this was a serious kitchen. A huge silver commercial range with two ovens, and two more ovens on the next wall—with doors that opened conveniently on side hinges, he'd noticed, wondering why everybody didn't make them that way. Two dishwashers and a huge island topped half with a cutting board and half with a slab of granite, which she'd told him was for pastry and breads.

  "And then you were in business?"

  "Then I took out ads in the paper and the phone book, and posted some flyers. I got sympathy and curiosity jobs at first, but I'm good, and pretty soon I was getting taken seriously."

  "And rightfully so," he said with heartfelt sincerity. Then, even though his gut warned him not to let this get too personal, not to let this easy companionship continue, he asked, "You and your aunt were very close, weren't you?"

  Her mouth curved into a soft smile that was sad and l
oving at the same time. "Yes. She was wonderful. She took me in without hesitation when my parents were killed in a car accident."

  He drew back slightly. Somehow he'd gotten the idea that she was only here because her aunt had left her the place, not because she'd actually grown up here.

  "I'm sorry," he said tentatively. "I didn't know."

  "It's all right. It's not … fresh anymore. And Aunt Fay made up for a lot. I was only ten, so it was pretty traumatic for me."

  "So you really did grow up here."

  She nodded. "And it was wonderful. I'd lived in St. Louis with my folks, but I spent every summer here. I adored it, the space, the animals … of course, what little girl wouldn't adore having her very own pony to ride?"

  He went very still. As clearly as if it were real, he heard the small voice begging, Please, I really, really want a pony! Oh, please?

  He clenched his jaw, managing to suppress the shudder. "Of course," he said tightly. "What little girl wouldn't?"

  He was amazed he'd been able to speak at all, but thought he'd done all right. Until she looked at him with such concern.

  "Clay? Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Excuse me."

  He got up and carried his plate and glass to the sink, rinsed them carefully, then put them in the dishwasher, moving with methodic precision.

  "Clay…"

  "Thank you for dinner."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I'm going to go for a walk."

  "There's apple pie for dessert," she said, still not sounding convinced.

  "Later." Then, trying a little harder, he added, "Thank you."

  He nearly ran down the steps. And kept running, toward the woods where he'd parked his truck what seemed like aeons ago. Where he'd first met Casey, thanks to Mud's hunting expedition. He slowed a little as the trees got thicker. This was not a neatly planted grove, like the walnuts on the other side of the yard; this was a thick stand of mixed trees, most of which he didn't recognize. He only knew California trees, the Joshuas of the desert and the evergreens of the mountains, the scrub oak, the willow and the ubiquitous eucalyptus, the Australian import some wished had never arrived.

  He slowed his pace to a walk. Felt the uneven ground beneath his feet and realized that doing this in his bare feet wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made.

  He was back under control, he assured himself. She'd just caught him off guard. He hadn't been prepared, hadn't been ready, and the unintentional blow had hit him harder than it should have.

  It was his own fault, he told himself. He'd let himself slip into something far too comfortable, too tempting. Long, easy, revealing chats over a good meal, savoring a smile, delighting in her joy … and her laughter. Something he'd never, ever expected to be part of his life again.

  And beneath it all, flowing like a bright, dangerous river, the growing awareness that Casey was a beautiful, charming and very alluring woman.

  * * *

  Had she really thought, not very long ago, that her life was not running at the frantic pace she'd grown used to in the city?

  Casey wiped a strand of unruly hair out of her face with her arm, careful not to burn her nose with the cake pan she'd just removed from the oven. This was the last of the baking; now all she had to do was finish with the hors d'oeuvres, and by that time the cake would be cool enough to put together into that chocolate-and-fruit conglomeration called Black Forest. Not what she would have chosen with the rest of the menu, but she only suggested; the customer chose.

  She glanced at the clock on the oven. She had plenty of time; the Newmans' party wasn't until seven. The mushrooms were ready to be stuffed, the pate nicely molded, and the caviar she'd had to order from New York was ready to be put on ice. Mrs. Newman, who was here under duress, the city born and bred wife of a factory farm executive assigned to the area for a year, was quite a different customer from most of the local women. And Casey wasn't sure she didn't prefer the less pretentious tastes she had once thought, in youthful arrogance, provincial.

  With a smile at the marvel of growing up, Casey ran through her schedule in her head. She would deliver the hors d'oeuvres twenty minutes before the first guest was expected, giving the mushrooms the final broiling in Mrs. Newman's huge, but rarely used, oven—she'd rented the house because it was the only place that looked civilized out here amid the rustics, as she put it. Then it would be back home to check on the pork tenderloin she was roasting and to finish the cake. Then she would pack it all up, heading over again an hour before Mrs. Newman required that dinner be served. While the meat was cooling for slicing, she would fix the green beans with sour cream sauce, then put the roast under the broiler for a few minutes to give it a nice, browned crust. If she was lucky, it would all come out just right. And if she wasn't, well, she would adapt. She'd gotten quite good at that.

  She started on the mushrooms, filling each nicely matched cap with the crab-and-cheese mixture she'd prepared earlier. It was a steady, repetitive chore, and her mind began to wander to the other things that had joined with her work schedule to turn her life into something quite opposite the quiet, peaceful life she'd envisioned when she'd first conceived the idea of opening her own small business here.

  First and foremost was the enigma, the puzzle, the annoyance and fascination by turns of Clay Yeager. Some level of interest and curiosity was only to be expected, she guessed. He was the first person, and certainly the first man, she'd been around this much in a long time. But it wasn't simply that. There was something about him that she suspected would have drawn her attention no matter what the circumstances. Something dark and mysterious, yet not frightening. Something that kept her from taking offense when he snapped at her, because somehow she was sure it wasn't her he was angry at, any more than a wounded animal who bit was angry at the person trying to help.

  It wasn't the first time the analogy of a wounded animal had come to her. There were many times when he would withdraw, when a sudden shadow in his eyes, a sudden tightness in his body or tension in his face, would make her think of some wild creature, hurt, trapped, helpless. Which was odd, because in all other respects, she couldn't imagine anyone less helpless than Clay Yeager. Everything he did, he did with assurance and an economy of motion that spoke quietly of strength and power. She'd watched him work more than once with a rapt fascination, then blushed when she'd realized she was more fascinated with him than with the work he was doing.

  And more than once he'd caught her watching him, but he'd never commented, had always assumed she was merely checking on his work. Which was, she'd thought, all she should have been doing. It wasn't as if she were interested in him as anything other than her hired helper. She wasn't interested in any man in that way. She wasn't sure she ever would be.

  Which made her think of the other factor that was making her life chaos. But this time, when she thought of her midnight phone caller, it was with a small sense of pride; she'd hung up on him the last two times and managed to go right back to sleep. He'd barely gotten a couple of words out when she'd quietly—she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of doing it angrily—replaced the receiver. Hopefully he would move on to other prey soon.

  Not, she thought wryly, that she would wish him on anyone else,

  She wiped at her forehead again; with all this cooking and baking, she'd heated up the kitchen pretty well, enough that the small air conditioner in the living room wasn't able to keep up. She'd been elbow-deep in cake batter when she'd decided that the first bit of spare cash she had was going for a separate cooling unit for the kitchen.

  She wondered how Clay was doing outside. It was hot there, too, and he'd been chopping up the firewood left over from last year's fairly mild winter and cutting the unusable scrap lumber that had been scattered around in various places for kindling. The rhythmic sound of the ax and the saw—the power saw hadn't worked, but he'd insisted it wasn't necessary when she'd offered to get it fixed or replaced—had been the counterpoint to her work in the kitc
hen, and she'd found it oddly soothing. But it was hot work under any conditions, and especially today.

  Quickly she finished the mushrooms, packed them in a covered plastic dish and set them in the refrigerator. Then she pulled out the pitcher of lemonade she'd made yesterday, filled a large glass with ice and the tangy liquid and headed outside.

  She followed the sound of the ax around the barn to the woodpile. And stopped dead in her tracks.

  He was crouched down, gathering some smaller pieces of wood. He'd pulled off his shirt in the heat, and in the first few seconds all she could do was stare at the play of powerful muscles in his back and shoulders, and the sheen of sweat on his skin. He might be too thin for his build, but what was there was solid. And nicely constructed.

  Her eye tracked to the waistband of his jeans and the gap between the worn fabric and his spine. It was there that he'd lost the most weight, she guessed—and she wondered just how low on his hips those jeans would slip when he stood up. Her face heated fiercely, the kitchen now seeming cool by comparison.

  And then another kind of shock overtook her. Her eyes narrowed, focused, and a chill went through her at the realization that what she was seeing was real, not some trick of the light or Hollywood makeup job. Clay Yeager carried scars. Lots of them.

  Low on his left side was a round, thickly ridged mark that even to her untutored eye looked like a bullet wound. Across his back were a couple of thin white marks, and across his right shoulder was a patch of skin that looked twisted and shiny, like a burn.

  She didn't think she'd made a sound, but his head came up, and he turned toward her. Without thinking, she looked for further signs of damage, finding them before she even realized what she was doing. A series of small circles, some larger than others, some faintly reddish, some white and thick-looking. An oddly tidy X of faint white lines like the ones on his back. And a thicker line, marked with the tiny dots of stitches, marched at a curving angle up his right arm from just above the elbow nearly to his shoulder.

  He moved then, and she became suddenly aware of how intently she'd been staring. Flushing, she lifted her gaze to see him reaching for his shirt. Only as he twisted and reached for the T-shirt he'd tossed over the top of the woodpile did she realize she had the answer to her earlier question; the unbelted jeans hung low on his narrow hips, inviting her eyes to trace the trail of dark hair that arrowed down from his navel and enticing her mind to wonder at what was hidden.