CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 8

  Then he closed his eyes, gave a sharp shake of his head and stood up. He opened his eyes again, but he didn't look at her. He muttered something she couldn't quite hear but that could have been "good night." And then he was gone, out of sight before the door closed neatly behind him.

  And Casey sat there, not at all sure what had just happened.

  And not at all sure she was happy that it had stopped.

  * * *

  She was going to give it a week of not answering. Maybe two. Because hanging up didn't seem to have slowed him down any, whoever her tormentor was. Nor had leaving her answering machine on; he'd simply made so many hang-up calls that he'd filled up her machine's memory, leaving her without any way to record genuine calls. So if anybody truly needed her for anything, they were going to have to call during daylight. And she would have to hope nothing awful happened, like a fire or an accident where she could have helped but didn't answer the call.

  It was either that or go crazy.

  And she was already close enough to that, she thought wryly as she reheated the extra beef Stroganoff she'd made when she'd prepared it for the Wilsons' anniversary last night. Between the calls and the disconcerting presence of Clay Yeager, she felt as if she were constantly on a high wire.

  It wasn't intentional on his part, she knew that. After that moment the other night, when the fireflies had nearly led to another kind of fire, he'd been scrupulously polite, the wall that had crumbled solidly back in place.

  Which was just as she wanted it, of course, she told herself. When she finally decided to risk some kind of relationship with a man, it would be something safe, slow, measured, where nothing happened before she was ready. She knew there was a chance she might never find a man willing to be patient enough, but she also knew she couldn't bear any other kind. She would be better off alone than with a man who would rush her. A man who wouldn't take it at her pace. A man who wouldn't wait—

  "Smells great."

  Her breath caught as his voice yanked her out of her thoughts, but she had herself composed by the time she answered.

  "Thank you. It came out well, I think."

  She didn't look at him as he silently went about setting the table, a task he'd taken over without comment. As usual, he was fresh from the shower; he never came to the table without cleaning up from his work first, a fact she appreciated. He had taken to putting on a pair of battered running shoes after his shower; she wondered if it was so he could get out in a hurry when something hit a nerve, as it had the other night.

  "Finished stripping the back siding today," he said as they began to eat.

  "Already?" she asked. He'd just begun working on the back wall of the house, the wall that got the worst of the heat and weather, yesterday morning.

  "It wasn't in as bad shape as it looked at first. I'll get it primed tomorrow, then it'll be ready for paint." He took a big bite of the Stroganoff. "This really is great."

  "Thanks. It was a bit of an exotic choice for Mrs. Wilson, but it went over well. Except with her son Matthew, who can't get past the concept of voluntarily eating sour cream."

  Clay chuckled. He did that more regularly now, and always seemed to look a bit surprised when it happened. "I remember thinking that myself once. He'll get over it."

  "Maybe. Food's not all that important to Matt. He's a teenager, he wants to save the world."

  Any trace of the chuckle or its accompanying smile faded. "Didn't we all?" he said softly.

  He wasn't looking at her, wasn't even looking at his plate; she could see that his eyes had gone unfocused, as if looking inward. She wondered what he was remembering.

  "Matt hates injustice," she said. "He gets all wound up about it. Passionate. It's good to see."

  "I knew somebody like that once," Clay said, his voice still soft, his gaze still turned inward. "Kit was young, earnest, smart and determined. She had that fire, too, the outrage at injustice."

  "Had?"

  "Maybe she still does. It just might have been strong enough to carry her through."

  He came back to himself with a snap that was almost audible. Casey could have sworn he was playing back what he'd said in his mind, as if searching for anything he had said that might … what? Give away too much? Tell her something about himself?

  Not likely, she muttered mentally. You never give away an inch.

  "Don't worry," she said dryly, "you didn't let out any secrets."

  At least, she added silently as she got to her feet and began to gather dishes and silverware, she herself only kept one part of her life buried so deeply. Well, maybe two. She hadn't said anything about the phone calls to him, but then, there was nothing he could do about them, and she felt a little silly being so jumpy over them. It had been nearly four years, and she'd been back in River Bend, far from the scene of the devastation of her life, for three; there was no reason to think this was anything other than some warped little man with a phone book who'd fixated on her for some reason. Maybe he hadn't liked her ad.

  "Casey," Clay said.

  She stopped, looking at him. Slowly he stood up.

  "I didn't … I don't mean to be…"

  "Secretive?" she suggested. "Uncommunicative? Tight-lipped?" He winced. She sighed. "Sorry. I have no right to criticize. We all have our secrets and should be allowed to keep them."

  He stepped around the corner of the table. "Do your secrets have to do with why you jump when the phone rings?"

  She studied him for a moment as he stood barely two feet away. His expression was unreadable, carefully so, which alone told her something. She just wasn't sure what.

  "I'll tell you, if you tell me where you learned that 'the best defense is a good offense' tactic of always turning questions back on people."

  He let out a breath visibly. "In another life."

  "Hmm. Cryptic, too," Casey said. She wasn't sure why this was stinging so, but it was. "So secrets will remain secrets, then. As they should, between strangers."

  "Casey." He said her name again, as a sentence, complete. Then he reached out and grasped her shoulders. "Believe me, there's nothing about me you want to know or hear."

  She looked up at him, her body tensing at his touch. But it felt different somehow, and it wasn't just that her reaction wasn't based on fear, as it sometimes was.

  "Is the story so awful, or simply boring?"

  He laughed then, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "I only wish it were boring. I wish I'd never had anything in my life to think about but the weather and the fields."

  "Sounds like an empty life. No people."

  Something flickered in his eyes then, something dark and pained that flashed for an instant and was gone. "Exactly."

  "I've thought that, sometimes," she said quietly, very aware of the feel of his hands on her shoulders. "That life would be less painful if you lived it alone. And there are … people I would have been much better off without ever meeting. But would having been saved from them be worth never meeting the good ones?"

  His grip tightened, as if she'd struck some kind of nerve in him. "Wouldn't it?"

  "Never to have known my parents at all, instead of having had ten loving years with them? Never to have had my aunt and uncle, who loved me almost enough to make up for losing my folks? No. No, I don't think it would."

  He stared at her for a long time, and this time what he was feeling showed clearly in his face. Wonder. Slowly he shook his head. Then, a third time, very softly, he said her name.

  "Casey…"

  She was in his arms before she realized what was happening and could tense up. She went very still, waiting to feel trapped, to feel panic. But then his mouth was on hers, and she forgot to be scared.

  He didn't kiss her fiercely or forcefully. He kissed her like a man who was starving but was still mindful that too much too soon was not a good thing. Gently, like a man tasting something longed-for for the first time. It sent shivers through her, and she was unable to stay rigid. Instead she found herself saggin
g against him.

  And kissing him back. Savoring the feel of warm, firm, but gentle, lips against hers. Wondering what it would be like to taste him more deeply.

  And, in some small part of her mind, delighting in the knowledge that she wasn't afraid. Not of this man, stranger though he might be.

  But she'd learned well that strangers weren't always the dangerous ones.

  And then he pulled away abruptly. She could see him taking rapid breaths through parted lips as he stared down at her.

  "God," he murmured, sounding half-reverent and half-fearful.

  And then he spun on his heel and left her there, reeling, feeling as if whatever had been holding her up had been ripped away.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  This time Clay didn't stop until he'd run halfway to the river. It was dark, and he was on unfamiliar ground, but getting lost was the last thing he was thinking about. In fact, the idea of wandering forever amid the tall stalks of corn seemed almost appealing at the moment.

  He was vaguely aware of movement behind him; the light scrabbling sound told him it was probably Mud. He kept going, running, even knowing he could never outrun this. He'd been trying for five years, and it had always been there, dogging his every step.

  He wished he'd never stopped here. Better to have driven the truck until it had fallen to pieces on the road than to be here, now, with Casey Scott stirring up emotions and needs he didn't want to feel, had no right to feel.

  But the more time he spent with her, the less he was able to resist the lure of being with her even more. And the temptation to touch her. Then, tonight, he'd committed the ultimate folly of kissing her.

  And found it to be more foolish—and more shattering—than he could have imagined.

  He'd hoped the chill that had enveloped him would hold forever. He had no desire to ever care about anyone, had no desire to ever feel anything other than the numbness that had carried him this far, had no desire to ever … desire. Anyone or anything.

  Yet he seemed helpless to escape the soft, warm, gentle net Casey cast without even realizing she was doing it. She'd never tried any of the traditional feminine lures that had been so meaningless to him for years now, had done nothing more than look at him now and then. And if his peripheral vision hadn't been exceptional, he might not even have seen that; she was not giving him sidelong looks just waiting to be noticed. He doubted she wanted him to know at all.

  Yet he'd reacted as if she'd sent him an invitation. Even if she had, he was supposed to be immune to such things. He had been, on the few occasions when such an invitation had been issued so blatantly that even he couldn't miss it.

  But he wasn't immune to Casey. No, it was worse. For the first time in five years, he not only wasn't immune, but was apparently more than susceptible to her quiet allure. And each time he was unable to resist, he swore to himself that it had to stop, that it couldn't happen again. And when that didn't work, he told himself he had to leave, get away from her, had to break whatever this hold she had on him was and sink back into blessed numbness.

  But he'd been as unable to make the break as he'd been to make himself stay away from her. And the strain of it was tearing at him, until he felt caught, trapped, ready to rip himself apart just to get free of it.

  Finally winded by the gradual rise of the gravel road he'd been running along, he slowed, then stopped. From here, in the faint wash of moonlight, he could see the thick growth of trees that marked the riverbank. He sank down to his knees in the tall, now-almost-dry grass by the side of the road, his head lolling forward as he tried to breathe.

  Was this part of it? Was this part of the hell he'd cast himself into by his own tunnel vision? He'd grown used to, even welcomed the numbness, the lack of feeling, but he'd thought it would last forever. And he had never thought about the agony it would be if it didn't.

  Mud nuzzled him, whining. His natural reflex was to pet the worried animal, to reassure him, but he couldn't seem to move. He couldn't even reassure himself, so how could he do it for anyone else? Even a dog?

  Mud nudged him again and let out a little yip.

  The Border collie was sometimes more human than dog, Clay thought wearily. Hell, sometimes he was more human than most humans.

  His breathing slowing at last, Clay realized he was going to regret this run so soon after eating; he was already feeling a bit queasy. His stomach wasn't entirely used to regular meals, even now.

  Deciding that keeping moving might distract him from the nausea—he had no hopes of being distracted from his thoughts—he stood up. He swayed slightly, then steadied himself. And looked first up the deserted road, then down. It appeared oddly silver in the moonlight, as if it were some magical path leading to someplace not of this earth.

  Quite a choice, he thought wearily. And he wasn't sure he didn't want to just keep on going the way he'd been running; he'd seen the river at the bend that gave the town its name, and he knew it was deep there. Deep, and swift-running enough to make drowning easy.

  If you were going to go out that way, you should have done it in the Pacific five years ago, he thought. But you didn't deserve the easy way out then, so what makes you think you deserve it now?

  Reluctantly, he started to walk back, wondering if in his mad rush he'd made any turns he didn't remember. "You may have to lead me back, Mud. One cornfield looks just like another to me, even in daylight."

  He would finish the painting, he thought as he walked. It was the biggest of the jobs left to do, and the most necessary. Everything else she could either handle herself or have somebody else do. He hadn't promised her that he would finish it all; they hadn't set any time limit on his work. So he was free to leave anytime.

  He listened to the steady crunch of the gravel under his feet and wondered that he hadn't heard it at all when he'd been running. It was amazing what you could miss when your emotions were in an uproar. He'd forgotten.

  When she paid him for this week, he would have better than five hundred dollars. It wasn't anywhere near enough to do all the repairs the truck required, especially if he bought the work boots he desperately needed, but he could buy parts for the most crucial stuff. He would have to find another place to stop, where he could do the work. He might need more tools than he had to replace the alternator, but maybe he could rent or even borrow them somewhere. Casey kept talking about country people and how generous they were. Maybe—

  Mud's sharp bark snapped him out of his ponderings; he wondered half-seriously if the dog had guessed he was planning their escape and didn't care for the idea. The collie had stopped at the edge of the road, where the fields to the south changed from corn to what Casey had told him was the other main crop in the area, soybeans. There was a narrow path between the two fields, and Mud dashed a little way down it, then looked back at him. When he didn't move, the collie barked again.

  "You find a shortcut or something, buddy?"

  Another bark, then the dog ran another few feet and again stopped.

  "Okay, okay, I've watched Lassie, I get it."

  Figuring he had little to lose, he followed. After a few yards the road he'd left vanished from view. It felt surreal to him to be able to see nothing but the expanse of tall corn and shorter soybeans. But he found himself back at the farm much sooner than he'd expected.

  "Good boy," he said, leaning over to scratch Mud's ears. "Where would I be without you?"

  It was a rhetorical question, not simply because it was asked of a dog, but because he knew all too well where he would be. Sometimes he thought the dog, and the need to take care of this tiny remnant of a life that had once been so full, were all that kept him from taking that one-way swim.

  Come home, Clay. All the penance in the world won't change what happened.

  He didn't know why the words came back to him now; he hadn't thought about that last conversation with his father in a long time.

  It wasn't just your fault. You can't punish yourself
forever.

  He could hear it so clearly, the love, the worry. He hadn't called again after that. It was cowardly of him, but he couldn't bear to hear the pain in his father's voice.

  You can't forget all the good you've done, Clay. That has to be worth something.

  Maybe, he thought as he crossed the yard to his truck. But it wasn't enough to balance the scales. He didn't think they could ever be balanced.

  * * *

  Casey stretched expansively, luxuriating in several things: she had no jobs pending for two days; she'd managed to clean up everything from the last job yesterday, so there was nothing hanging over her today; and for the first time since the calls had started, she'd been able to relax and had had a decent, peaceful night's sleep. She should have gone ahead and unplugged the darn thing in the first place.

  She snuggled back into her pillow, smiling at the thought of actually sleeping in. At least painting was quiet, so Clay's industry wasn't awakening her when he started at his usual early hour. The urge to sleep vanished.

  Casey sighed. If she could just have held off thinking about Clay until she'd drifted off again… But once she had, she knew better than to think she could go back to sleep. She'd tried too often—fruitlessly.

  She sat up, yawning. And stretched again, long and hard. She drew her legs up and crossed them in front of her. She rubbed at her eyes. And without realizing what she was doing, she touched her lips.

  She was abruptly not only not sleepy but totally, wide-eyed awake. Her fingertips traced her mouth as she remembered. She could almost feel his kiss all over again, and it made her shiver anew.

  She hugged herself. She'd gone to the counseling, she'd listened, she'd understood, had tried to believe even when she couldn't picture herself ever feeling secure again. They'd told her it would take time. They'd told her it would be a long while before she trusted enough to let herself feel anything for a man again. And it had been true; she'd held herself aloof for a long time now, at first intentionally, later because she hadn't met anyone who made her want to take the risk.

  Clay Yeager made her want to take all the risks at once, and that frightened her as well as thrilled her.