Something To Talk About. Laurie PaigeЧитать онлайн книгу.
sight that greeted her in the full-length mirror on the door caused her to gasp and throw her arms across her chest in shock.
Even as she made the gesture, she realized the futility of it. Jess Fargo, and his son, had already seen her. Slowly she released the hold she had across her chest and sighed in dismay at the near transparency of her shirt and bra. Even her nipples were visible as two distinct dark pebbles under the wet cloth.
She sank down on the bed and pressed her hands over her face. The detective would think…he must think the worst.
But it wasn’t as if she had exposed herself on purpose. She hadn’t known he was coming.
Kate stood and muttered an expletive. She had spent eighteen months in therapy after her husband’s death, trying to get over the sense of shame he had forced onto her. If she so much as glanced at another man or spoke to a male friend, he’d accused her of vile acts—
No! She wouldn’t go back to that time and those feelings of helplessness and despair. She was not at fault here.
After taking a quick shower, she dressed in a broadcloth shirt, leaving the tails untucked, and blue slacks with an elastic waist. She pulled her damp hair through a stretchy band and secured it at the base of her neck. With pink lip gloss and a pair of white sandals she was ready.
Taking a calming breath, she marched down the steps. It wasn’t her fault, she repeated on the way, her mantra during the days, weeks, months, after Kris’s death.
Jess Fargo was where she had left him. That was a relief. She liked people who did as expected. His son had again taken up a position near the door. She felt the underlying tension between the father and son as her eyes met those of the boy.
It was like looking into her own soul. She recognized the resentment, the need to be wanted and, with it, the hope that still lingered in his young and bruised heart. Pain stitched through her in painful jabs even as she looked away and told herself she was imagining things.
Sympathy rose in her. The youngster needed something more from the man, perhaps more visible signs of his father’s love.
No! It wasn’t her business. She wouldn’t get sucked into their problems. She had found contentment. She wanted only to be left in peace. But she hated to see the boy so lost and unsure and resentful.
She sighed. There she went again—Kate, the tenderhearted, caretaker to wounded dogs, cats, humans.
Her throat closed. She had to swallow a couple of times before she could talk. “I spoke to my cousin, the police detective. She says you need a place to stay for a few days.”
“Yeah. Maybe a month.”
She frowned, then shrugged. A month wasn’t so long that their lives would become entangled. “There’s an apartment over the garage. You’ll want to see it first—”
“It’ll be fine.”
His interruption told her he didn’t care what it looked like. He needed a place to rest. Sympathy stirred again.
Jess Fargo’s problems were his own, she reminded herself sternly. Maybe this trip would work for him and his son, maybe not. She would keep her nose out of their troubles.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she said to the boy.
“Jeremy Fargo.”
“You in high school yet?” she asked. Actually, he looked to be about eleven, maybe twelve.
His smile was quick and shy and pleased. “I’ll be in sixth grade this fall.”
“He’s tall for his age,” his father put in. She watched him adjust the ice pack on his knee, then take a sip of iced tea after a glance at the empty bourbon glass.
Kate didn’t offer him more. She figured he’d had a medicinal dose and that was enough.
The words were on the tip of her tongue to invite them to dinner, though. She doubted the tough cop had shopped for groceries, and the ranch was a long way from Wind River and even farther from Medicine Bow, where a larger supermarket was located. She suppressed the invitation, knowing instinctively that this man was dangerous to her peace of mind. Hadn’t she learned anything from her marriage?
The memory of other summers flooded her heart with the bitter sadness of loss. It was a pain that never seemed to diminish but lingered always at the edges of her emotions, ready to catch her at moments of weakness.
Such as when she’d seen the scars on the detective’s knee.
Gunshot wounds. She knew them well. She knew the terror, the pain that tore through the flesh, and with it the knowledge that she had lost something more precious than her own life. She laid a hand over her abdomen where another heart had once beat with the quick expectancy of the very young.
Her child. Her son that would never be.
The emptiness rose like bile to her throat. Her arms, her heart, her home—empty of that sweet life that should have been.
Dear God, she silently pleaded, seeking relief from that terrible, terrible memory. She couldn’t go back to thinking about what might have been. With control learned at a price, she forced her thoughts to the guests in her kitchen.
Like Jess Fargo, there were scars on her flesh, but they didn’t compare to the ones in her soul.
“Come,” she said, standing abruptly, “I’ll take you to the apartment and let you get settled in.”
“I’ll get your cane, Dad,” Jeremy volunteered. He ran out, leaving a wake of silence behind him.
He was back in less than a minute. She headed out the door, leaving father and son to follow at their own pace.
Coolness eddied around her when she opened the door to the apartment. She turned on the refrigerator and hot water heater. After opening the sliding glass doors on to the deck over the garage, she stood there, letting the breeze blow over her as she gazed at the peaceful scene.
The deck commanded a wonderful view of the stock lake to the south of them, where cattle had gathered for an afternoon drink, and of snow-tipped Medicine Bow Peak to the southwest of them. Walnut trees shaded the area from the afternoon sun.
Hearing the hesitant step and the thump of the cane on the stairs, Kate again felt a tug of pity. The handsome, brooding Jess Fargo would once have bounded up those steps two at a time with the ease of a mountain elk.
Turning from the view, she noted the brief clenching of his teeth as he maneuvered up the final step and across the threshold, his grip on the cane evident. She wondered if he would ever move easily and swiftly again.
He paused, taking in everything about the apartment—the roomy kitchen, the living room through an archway, the homey furniture that had been handed down for generations.
There were also two bedrooms down a short hallway. The bathroom was tucked under the eaves at the end of the hall.
“It’s small,” she said, feeling a need to apologize.
“It’ll do.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the pine table that had belonged to her great-grandmother, his legs extended out in front of him.
“There are dishes, but I’ll have to bring you towels and linens—”
“We have sleeping bags and towels,” he cut in.
His lips were crimped at the corners, indicating pain or anger or both. She hadn’t thought about the difficulty of the steps for an injured person until he’d had to climb them.
“There’s a motel closer to town that’s reasonable in price. You wouldn’t have to go up and down steps.”
“I can handle the steps,” he informed her.
She recoiled from the bitter anger that flashed in his eyes, eyes that were the color of shadowed oak leaves, their muted green rimmed with a dark circle of gray.
“Then