The Man from Nowhere. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
fast,” she said, thrusting a mug at him. “It’ll be cold in a minute or two, anyway.”
He couldn’t refuse the mug without being rude. Which was exactly why she’d done it. She took the other end of the bench and sipped her own coffee. Yeah, it was already cooling down.
Then she looked straight at him. “Why do you sit out here every night?”
“Because there’s a bench.” Yet the reply hinted at a question, almost as if he was wondering if she was looking for a particular response. If she was, she didn’t know herself what it was.
“You limp pretty badly,” she said bluntly.
“Accident.”
“Will it heal?”
“Eventually.” He made eventually sound like a very long time, not something that might happen in the next couple of months.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head slightly. “Things happen. I was the lucky one.”
He spoke that like a mantra, as if it was something he told himself again and again, yet didn’t quite believe. Some part of whatever had happened, she guessed, was never going to feel lucky, but she didn’t feel she could press it.
She offered her hand. “Trish Devlin.”
He hesitated, and finally shook it. “Grant,” he said. Not a full name.
Trish let it pass, thinking that Gage probably had all the rest of it now, anyway, and maybe a lot more. She watched him take a gulp of coffee and realized he was about to make a quick getaway.
Despite running to the sheriff with her paranoia, Trish had never been a wimp. She wasn’t going to let the stranger off that easily.
“You’ve been making me nervous,” she said. “Sitting out here every night staring at my house.”
He seemed to grow still, as much inwardly as outwardly. Then he said, “I guess that’s why the sheriff stopped.”
“Could be.”
She thought she saw the faint flash of a small smile. “Could be,” he agreed. “I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
“Well, you did. You keep staring at my house.”
He shrugged. “It’s right in front of me.” He gulped more coffee.
“So it is,” she agreed, then waited, trying to let silence do what her questions couldn’t: make him talk.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just resting, for obvious reasons.”
He was a lousy liar, she decided, because she didn’t believe that, even if it did fit. But if he was a lousy liar, that was a good thing. It meant he wasn’t practiced at deceit.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Don’t let me keep you.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, he said something she wondered if she’d heard right. “Everything’s wrong tonight.”
“What?”
Again that little shake of his head. Then, “Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t sleep well at night, never have. So I’m walking. Waiting, I guess.”
She seized on one word. “Waiting?”
He drank more coffee, this time sipping, as if to put off his moment of departure, quite different from when she’d first approached. “Do you know anybody who doesn’t have a rucksack full of emotional baggage?”
“That’s some question!”
“But an honest one.”
So she gave him an honest answer. “I guess not. More for some than others.”
“Well, mine’s pretty full. So I guess you could say I’m waiting for some resolution.”
“Don’t you usually have to work at that, not just wait?”
“I am. Believe me, I am.”
In spite of herself, Trish was growing more intrigued. But then he sighed and passed her back the empty mug. “Go inside before you get chilled,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to walk back to the motel. Maybe pop into the truck stop for a wee-hours breakfast.”
The truck stop was indeed the only twenty-four-hour business for miles.
He rose, and even in the darkness she could see him grimace. “Nice talking to you, Ms. Devlin.” He started to limp away. But after three steps, he paused and looked back. “If you want to join me at the truck stop, I should be there in about thirty minutes.”
She hesitated. “I could give you a ride.” The instant the words escaped she wanted to snatch them back. Was she nuts? Completely nuts? She knew nothing about this man.
“Sometimes,” he said, “walking is the only way.” Then he resumed his painful departure.
Trish watched him until he vanished into the shadows. Only then did she realize she was growing cold.
Damn! Meet him at the truck stop? Give him a ride? Had some evil spirit taken over her brain?
Shaking her head at her own behavior, she went back inside.
Forget about it and go to bed. Wise advice to herself. Except she couldn’t forget about it and didn’t seem to want to get ready for bed despite the late hour. She grabbed the new novel she’d started earlier and tried to read it. But all she could think about was meeting the stranger at the truck stop and maybe learning more about him. Actually seeing his face in the light. Getting his measure.
It would be safe at the truck stop, a busy place at any hour. Safer than what she had just done by accosting him on the darkened street.
A minute later she was grabbing her keys and heading out the door.
The truck stop restaurant was indeed brightly lit, and in addition to the staff held about a dozen drivers, all eating some version of early breakfast or late dinner, every occupied table boasting a generous carafe of coffee. Some of the drivers seemed to know each other. Others greeted each other, table to table, strangers in a common place and time.
Grant sat alone at a table backed up to the wall. He already had coffee, and she noted that an extra mug was at the seat facing him. Whether for her or for someone else she didn’t know.
She ignored the interested looks she received from the truckers as she eased her way between tables to Grant’s.
“Hi,” she said. In the light he proved to be goodlooking, if a bit wan. Silvery threads of gray sparkled in his dark hair. His eyes were dark, that brown so deep it would sometimes appear black. He returned her greeting with a faint smile and motioned her into the seat facing his.
“I got you a cup,” he said.
“You knew I’d come?”
“Anyone who’d come out onto a dark street to beard a stranger who frightened her must have more curiosity than a dozen cats.”
In spite of herself, she smiled back and took the chair. “It gets me into trouble sometimes.”
“I imagine so. On the other hand, you probably don’t run through life with a load of nagging questions.”
“Not often.”
He reached for the carafe and filled her beige mug. The table already held a saucer full of little half-and-half containers. She reached for one, opened it and poured the contents into her coffee. At this hour of the night, even her beloved beverage could give her heartburn. The half-and-half would help.
“I haven’t ordered yet,” he said. “Take a look at the menu. I’m buying.”