Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
knew she’d crash and never find herself again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she considered her options. Maybe Jackson was right. If they could just rest and warm up, then they could decide what to do. Inside the house, there could be a phone; she might be able to call her mother. Her stomach tightened at facing Ellen Tremont, or her friends again. What had happened to Carlie and Laura? What were they doing right now? Were they worried sick about her?
She heard a noise on the roof and her heart nearly stopped. Moving out of the cover of the breezeway, she looked up. Jackson had shimmied up the drainpipe and was working his way across the rain-slickened shakes to a window. She held her breath and crossed her fingers that he didn’t slip, fall and break his stubborn neck. He rattled one lock, swore and moved to the next window. It, too, seemed shut tight.
To Rachelle’s horror, he worked up the slope to the third story, where dormers protruded from the roof. At the second window, he stopped, withdrew something from his pocket, worked on the lock until with a sound of splintering wood, it gave way. A second later, he climbed through.
Great. Not only had they trespassed, but now they were breaking and entering. She waited impatiently, certain that someone from Roy’s party would wander by and discover her. A full five minutes passed and she started to worry again. Had Jackson hurt himself, fallen down the stairs in the dark?
A lock clicked softly. The back door swung inward and Jackson stood with his back propping the door open, obviously pleased with himself.
She didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped inside, where some of the heat of the day had collected. They stood in the kitchen, dripping water onto the oak floor, listening to an old clock tick and the timbers creak. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and if she let herself, she could imagine that this particular house was haunted.
“Now what?” she asked him, suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him.
“We need a flashlight. The electricity’s been turned off and I wouldn’t want to use any lights anyway. Someone might see us and call the cops.”
“No one will see us,” she said, thinking how remote they were.
“Wrong. There’s a marina across the lake and the bait-and-tackle shop. Someone over there could glance this way, see a light that shouldn’t be on and get nervous.” He opened a cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents of the shelves, grunted, then started with the next cupboard. Before too long, he’d covered half the kitchen.
“This isn’t going to work—”
“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “A candle. Primitive. But just the ticket.”
He struck a match. It sizzled in the night, and in the small flame she could see his face, streaked with mud, a hint of beard darkening his chin, and the reflection of the match’s flame as pinpoints of light in his dark eyes.
Carefully he lit the candle, then searched in the closet for more. Soon he had lit three candles and the kitchen seemed almost cheery in the flickering golden light.
“Aren’t you afraid someone might see the candlelight?” she asked, but he shook his head.
“There’s a den near the front of the house. It doesn’t face the lake or the Fitzpatrick place. The blinds are already drawn. I think we’ll be safe. If not—” He looked at her again and this time his gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He shifted. “If not, we’ll just have to face the music.”
“We could call—”
“I tried. The phone’s shut off.”
“Wonderful,” she murmured sarcastically, trembling inside. Things were going from bad to worse. “So what do we do?”
Jackson leaned one hip against the kitchen island. His hair was wet, golden drops ran down his face and neck. “I guess we wait, try to dry out and then figure out a way to get back to town. I imagine that if you don’t show up somewhere at sometime, your folks will send out a search party.”
Rachelle lifted a shoulder. “My mom works nights and I’m supposed to be staying overnight with Laura. My sister is with a friend. So no one’s looking for me yet.”
“What about your dad?”
That old knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. “He, um, he won’t know. He and Mom are separated and he’s living in an apartment in Coleville.” She didn’t add that he was probably with his girlfriend, a woman only a few years older than Rachelle. Glenda. Her father had found Glenda in the middle of his life and had decided that Ellen could raise the girls. He had living to do. “No one will call him,” she said, trying to avoid thinking about her dad.
“But Laura’s mother might call yours.”
“I suppose.”
Again Jackson looked at her and one side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “It’s not so bad having someone who cares for you, you know. Believe me, it’s better than the alternative.”
Rachelle felt suddenly foolish. His mother probably had never cared when he came home and he’d never had a dad to worry over him or scold him or play catch with him or take him fishing.
He left the kitchen and, walking stiffly, holding on to the wall for support, headed for the den. Rachelle followed, carrying two candles and noticing how he favored his right leg. His jeans were soaked and streaked with mud, and the worn fabric clung to his thighs and buttocks as he limped down a short hallway. She forced her eyes away from his legs and found herself staring at the back of his battered old jacket, wide at the shoulders, tapered to the waist.
Over the scent of melting wax were the stronger smells of rain and musk and leather.
He placed his candle on the mantel of a river-rock fireplace and turned to face her.
She was shivering, her feet ice-cold in her wet boots. A crease formed between his brows, and he rubbed his chin. “You’re freezing.”
“A little.”
“A lot. So am I.” He checked the blinds again, closed the door to the room and then leaned over the fireplace. “I guess we’d better find a way to warm up.” He reached into the chimney and pulled, opening a creaking damper and causing soot to billow onto the grate.
There were already logs piled on old andirons and newspaper and kindling neatly stacked in a box near the hearth. He bent on one knee and set to work.
Rachelle tried not to stare at him. “Isn’t starting a fire asking for trouble?”
“Begging for it.”
“Seriously.”
“Maybe.” He grabbed his candle and pressed the flame to the dry kindling and paper. In a few seconds the fire was popping and hissing, shooting out sparks and slowly warming the room. “Come over here,” Jackson suggested, but Rachelle didn’t dare move. She felt trapped in the seductive glow of the blaze, held prisoner by a man she found fascinating yet frightening.
To her horror, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He hung his clothes over the screen and was left standing, half-naked, the golden light playing upon his dark skin and black thatch of hair at his neck. The wound to his shoulder had already stopped bleeding. He winced a little as he moved his arm.
“I—I can’t do that,” she pointed out, and he grinned—not the sardonic smile that twisted his lips cruelly, but a genuine smile of amusement.
“We’ll figure something out. At least take off your boots.”
That, she could do. So she balanced herself on the edge of a couch and tugged on her boots. Her skirt was torn in spots where thorns had caught in the folds and her blouse was in tatters. Her jacket was in better shape, but wet all the way through. She kicked her boots onto the hearth, then self-consciously hung her jacket over the screen.