Jeannie Watt (6 page)

Tara brushed under her eyes with the back of the hand holding the knife, telling herself it was the onions making her tear up.

She could never see herself explaining what Ryan had done. She didn’t even know if she could find words to convey how deeply she’d been affected by it. The act had been consensual—in the beginning—and that made the selfish way he’d used her body, with no consideration for her or the fact that it was her first time, hurt even more. She’d trusted him.

Tara put down the knife before she hurt herself. The chicken salad was as done as it was going to get. She put plastic wrap over the bowl and shoved it in the fridge. The guys could make their own sandwiches. She had work to do.

It took most of the afternoon and four walls of rose paper, but Tara finally came to the weary conclusion that it was pointless to obsess over Ryan or Matt or anything else. She had made it clear to Matt that what had occurred between them was never going to happen again, and she didn’t think he was the kind of guy who pushed things—not the way Ryan had pushed them. Anyway, she hoped he wasn’t, because she needed him. A working relationship. He worked, she compensated him monetarily and there were no gray areas.

Tara hated gray areas.

And as far as Ryan was concerned…today had been an eye-opener. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d stopped by for the exact reason he had given—because she’d made a few unflattering public statements concerning his father. She knew better than most that with the Somerses, image was everything.

But for the first time, Tara was beginning to see the depth of anger Ryan carried within him; anger that wasn’t caused solely by losing his job or having his nose broken. No. She suspected that anger was part of his personality, simmering just below the surface, and that it was a part of himself he hid extremely well. He had to. He was a Somers with an image to uphold.

Thinking back, though, she could see that she’d had glimpses of the anger during their relationship, culminating on the night they’d finally slept together, when he’d lost both patience and control. But at the time she’d thought it was the situation. Now she suspected it went beyond that. He seemed more volatile than before, possibly because he blamed her for his being back in a hick town like Night Sky, essentially on his father’s payroll.

She was going to have to be more careful around the man. That didn’t mean she was going to let him push her around.

T
ARA WAS GOING
to work his butt off.

In the three days since he’d kissed her, Matt had cut and hung the doors, finished and painted the side porch and started replacing parts of the gazebo, all in virtual silence. Tara wasn’t talking to him, except when giving orders, but she did feed him well. The woman had a knack for cooking, which worked well, since he had a knack for eating. He was wishing he had a knack for conversation, because, surprisingly, he found himself wanting to coax Tara out of her silence. He wanted to find out more about her, more about what had happened with that guy who had wanted to make her cry.

As if she would tell him.

Tara kept her secrets. If anything, she was as guarded as he was.

And he wondered why.

That night Matt had the dreams, and they were the worst ever. He jerked awake in a cold sweat, his heart hammering. Adrenaline continued to pump through his body as he sat up in bed, making his breath come in rasping gasps.

He was never a hero in his dreams…he never saved anyone’s life. Someone always died, and most of the time it was Matt. His father was usually the one who pulled the trigger. To see his own father raise the gun, to watch the bullet enter his flesh in slow motion, to see the small, deadly hole in his chest, the blood and bits of tissue fly in full Technicolor. To lie on cold pavement, feeling life trickling away, wondering why…

Matt knew he had to move, had to do something until he calmed down.

He swung his legs out of bed, sat on the edge, pushing his hair back from his forehead. The clock read 3:30 a.m. He wouldn’t be going back to sleep before he drove to the Sullivan house at 6:15 a.m.

He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Twenty minutes later he let himself out his back door and crossed the alley to where the twenty-four-hour fun of the Owl Club beckoned. The fat cat followed him as far as the gate, then sat, apparently winded by the long walk from the porch.

It was a Monday morning—a very early Monday morning—and business was pretty slow. Matt sat in one of the booths near the bar, thinking that he might try that notorious breakfast special—available twenty-four hours a day—again.

There were two small groups of people at the bar and he could see a few miners eating breakfast in the restaurant, either before or after their shift. Deputy Sanchez was also eating breakfast. Matt knew he could probably join him, talk shop, but right now he just wanted to concentrate on…nothing.

“Hey, sweetie.” Pink trousers appeared in his line of vision. Matt raised his tired eyes.

“Hi, Ginny.” He knew all the waitresses by name now. There weren’t that many of them. Jack kept a skeleton crew.

“A little early for you, isn’t it?”

“Trouble sleeping,” Matt said truthfully.

“Want anything?”

Matt thought. “Tea,” he finally said.

Ginny’s eyebrows went up. “Tea?” she asked dubiously. “Okay. Want a shot in it or something?”

“No. Just the tea.” He stared down at his blunt-tipped fingers with their woodworking scars after Ginny left. He liked carpentry, but he was committed to police work. Only one of those two occupations gave him nightmares, though. Maybe he needed to think about that.

He blew out a breath. Nothing to think about. He was a cop and he wasn’t going to quit.

A cup clinked onto the table, followed by a glass. Next came the Pyrex teapot. He glanced up to see not Ginny, but Becky. And she obviously intended to join him. Matt gestured to the opposite side of the booth. Becky smiled and sat, pushing her curls over her shoulder.

“You on duty?” he asked. She shook her head. She had a lot of hair. Not hair like Tara’s, but bigger, blond hair. But she did smell good.

He smiled. “Then I guess I don’t have to tip you.”

“Guess not,” she said as she squeezed his knee under the table. She left her hand there as she stirred her drink with the other. “You never really struck me as a tea drinker.”

Matt smiled politely at her comment, then put the bag in the cup and poured the water over it.

“You haven’t been eating here as often.”

“I’m working,” he said. “Meals come with the job.”

“She’s a good cook.”

“Yeah, she is,” Matt agreed, halfway amused at how “she” suddenly came into the conversation without being identified. He figured in a town this size everyone knew everyone’s business.

He let the tea brew for a minute, then pulled the bag out. He usually only had tea when he visited his mom and stepdad down in Las Vegas, and the smell of the orange pekoe brought back comforting memories—or would have if Becky’s hand had not been inching higher as she leaned forward.

He put his hand over hers, stopping her progress up his thigh. But he didn’t move her hand away. He just pushed it down closer to his knee and held it there. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question. He shook his head. She pulled her hand away and brought it up to hold her straw as she sipped, then gave him an “oh well” smile. There were obviously no hard feelings.

“Girlfriend?” she asked.

He decided it would be better for her ego if he said yes. So he did, neglecting to mention that she was now long gone, driven away by the effects of stress. His stress.

“Things happen,” she said. “And if they do…”

Matt smiled broadly. He couldn’t help but appreciate Becky’s honesty. He decided to take advantage of it. “Do you know who drives a white Beemer? Blond guy.”

“Oh, that would be Ryan Somers.” A look of dawning realization crossed her face. “Did he go to see Tara?” Becky leaned forward as she asked the question, giving him one heck of a view of her assets. “Oh, man,” she whispered even though Matt hadn’t answered. “That would be something to see those two together again.”

“They were together?”

Becky wrinkled her nose. “They were, but…”

Matt waited. Becky stirred her drink and her heavily mascaraed eyes narrowed. “They
were
together for a while about a year and a half ago…maybe a little less…and everyone was kind of surprised because the Somerses are rich and influential, you know, and the Sullivans…well, Tara’s dad did die in prison. Not exactly the people the Somerses hang with. And Ryan is the
nicest
guy. Everybody likes him, but Tara—” Becky’s mouth formed a commiserating little smile “—you work for her. You know how she is.”

Matt kept his face carefully expressionless, hoping for more information. He got his wish.

“Anyway,” Becky continued as she fiddled with her straw, “Tara
is
very, very pretty and Ryan always was a sucker for a pretty face. And they were both from Night Sky, living and working in Elko. It was probably natural that they hooked up for a while, but then—” Becky leaned closer again, but thankfully kept her hands off his thighs “—according to Ryan, Tara started getting real possessive. Following him, things like that and he had to end it.” Becky shook her head. “Possessiveness… Not his thing. And then rumor has it he applied for a restraining order against her because she hit him or something during one of their fights.”

Becky let out a sigh, as though wondering how anyone could raise a hand to Ryan Somers.

“He moved back here right after they broke up and opened an accounting business. Some people say it was to get away from her. He’s been back over a year now.”

“How long has Tara been back?”

“Two months?” Becky guessed. “She lived in Elko while she was teaching, but spent her weekends here working on the house. After she lost her job, though, she moved back for real. Nowhere else to go, I guess. I heard that Ryan was unhappy when she moved back, so that’s why I’m surprised he went over there.”

Becky sipped the last of her drink through the straw, then pushed the glass away with a sigh. “You know, the sad thing is that nobody really knows what happened, except for Ryan and Tara, and neither is talking. He’s too much of a gentleman and she keeps to herself. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

Matt shook his head and Becky grinned.

“It means that the rest of us have to speculate, and speculating is something we do very well here in Night Sky.”

“I’ll remember that,” Matt replied dryly.

Becky gave him a sassy smile. “You’d better.” She leaned forward again, suggestively. “So tell me…this girlfriend…is it serious?”

I
CE
. C
OLD AS
.

Matt rammed his ball cap backward on his head in frustration as he watched Tara march away. Orders for the day given, orders received.

Nicky had left for Vegas early that morning, but while that might account for some pensiveness on her part, it did not explain her curt behavior. Matt wondered if Ryan Somers had been in contact with her again, and whether he should do something about it if he had.

About an hour after he started working on the gazebo, Tara’s old Ford truck, which was the same year and color as his own, showing that the woman had remarkable good taste in classic vehicles, pulled out of the drive. She hadn’t told him where she was going, but he’d seen another huge shopping list on the table and figured she was probably going to Elko. That meant he was going to be rooting through the fridge for his lunch. Fine with him. He just didn’t want to cross her in the mood she was in.

Things did not go much better once she got home, almost eight hours later. The truck was stacked with food, building supplies, paint, wallpaper, bags of cat food and grain. It was no wonder she looked as if she were about to drop. Matt stopped hammering and went to help her carry things into the house.

“I can handle this,” she snapped.

Dismissed.

Matt swallowed his anger and went back to work, finishing up the gazebo and hammering in the last nail with a single blow, before going to sit on the bench inside and watch as Tara lugged bags and boxes in. Trip after trip. Finally he’d had it. He strode over to the truck and took the bag of grain she was attempting to heft. She rewarded him with a glare.

“I hear you have a girlfriend.”

Matt stepped back in surprise. So she’d had a chat with Becky, or someone Becky had talked to. He shrugged noncommittally, wondering what his pretend girlfriend had to do with anything.

“Then why in the hell did you kiss me? Do I look like some kind of plaything to you?” She practically spit the words at him. “Someone to amuse you for a while?”

He started putting the pieces together.

“Well?” she demanded, hands on hips. He also noticed then that she was flushed and it wasn’t entirely with anger. She wasn’t looking well and he needed to put an end to this.

“Shut up, Tara.”

Clearly startled, she stared at him. Good, he had her attention. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I told Becky that to make her back off.” He settled the fifty-pound bag on his shoulder. “Where do you want this?”

Silently, Tara pointed to the barn. Matt delivered the grain and came back for more. Tara was just returning from the house. They met at the tailgate.

“Do you really think I would use you?” he asked as he dragged the next bag of grain to the edge of the truck bed.

“I don’t know you.”

He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Take a wild guess.”

“That is what I’m saying,” Tara replied in a tight voice. “
I don’t know.
I’m not good at judging those kinds of things—even with people I thought I
did
know.” She grabbed an armful of wallpaper and stalked to the porch.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, a piece with Ryan Somers’s name written on it.

Matt lifted the grain and took it to the barn. When he came back, Tara was still in the house. He hauled the other two bags of grain, took two twenty-pound bags of cat food to the barn, thinking that his cat could probably eat both of them in one sitting, and then went into the house carrying two buckets of paint.

Tara was stirring the contents of a Crock-Pot. She didn’t bother to look up when he came in the door and put the paint next to the stack of wallpaper. Matt’s stomach rumbled as he inhaled the savory aroma of the stew. But there was a very real possibility he wouldn’t be eating stew anytime soon.

“When did you hear about my ‘girlfriend’?” he asked.

Her eyes drilled into him. “This morning.”

“Before I got here?”

She nodded, sipped the broth she’d spooned up.

“Rafe stopped by. He said you’d been at the Owl late last night—”

“Early this morning,” Matt corrected her, wondering once again about Rafe’s relationship with Tara.

“Early, then.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” The words came out before he thought about them.

“Why?”

He hunched his shoulders. Her eyes narrowed, but she accepted his nonanswer. Neither of them was being straight with the other, and they both knew it. Neither of them was trusting by nature. And neither was going to willingly share the details.

Matt decided he could accept that, as long as it was mutual. But he had to set her straight on one important point.

“I wasn’t using you, Tara.”

“Thank the Lord for small favors,” she muttered before stalking to the cupboard and taking out one…no, two bowls. “Come and get it,” she said in a clipped voice.

Matt dished up, but hesitated before sitting at the table, wondering if she really wanted him there. It was the first time they’d eaten together, the first time she hadn’t given him his food and disappeared with her own.

He got his answer a split second later in the form of an impatient nod. He sat and began eating. Tara swallowed about three spoonfuls of stew, then pushed the bowl away. She was pale except for the flushed red spots on both cheeks and she looked cranky enough to hunt bears with a switch. She pulled an envelope out of her back pocket and put it on the table. Matt glanced at the letter and then at her.

“Official confirmation from Mr. Bidart of Bidart Industries,” she explained. “For the reunion. Three rooms and the party. Plus a deposit.”

“That’s good.”

Tara nodded wearily. “Yeah. It is.”

“But…?”

Tara hesitated and Matt knew it was hard for her to say what was on her mind, that confiding did not come easily to Tara. So he was surprised when she abruptly said, “I’m afraid I won’t have the house done on time.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I need this booking. And I’m working against time here.”

She lapsed into silence, her pensive gaze settling on her stew until Matt said, “Look at me, Tara.”

She did.

“I promise we will get this house done.”

“You sound confident.”

“You need your house done, we’ll get it done.”

She reached for the envelope, studied it briefly, then tapped the edge on the table. Her brows drew together. “How come you’re being so nice, when I haven’t exactly been pleasant?”

Matt shrugged. “I need the work.”

“No, really.”

“Really.” He did need the work, just not for monetary reasons.

“All right. Whatever.” She took her bowl to the sink. “Eat as much as you like,” she said, gesturing to the Crock-Pot before she started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

She gave him a none-of-your-business look that Matt weathered for several seconds before she decided to reply. “Upstairs to work.”

Of course.

M
IND OVER MATTER
.

Tara gritted her teeth as she prepared to paint the trim in one of the bedrooms. If she could get the trim done tonight, then she could roll paint tomorrow. Then it would be her first finished bedroom. She stood up after stirring the paint, causing her head to swim, but she refused to give in.

I will not get sick. I will not get—

Tara raced for the bathroom.

No fair.
First her application for a loan from a small, privately owned bank in Elko had been regretfully denied and now this. Talk about adding insult to—

She clutched the bowl as her stomach heaved. Again. And again. Tara weakly leaned back against the old-fashioned claw-footed tub once her midsection stopped convulsing. Her eyes were damp and she felt as if she were going to cry—partly from frustration and partly because she felt so very, very rotten. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, giving mind over matter once last shot.

It didn’t work. Her head started to throb and she let out an unconscious groan. She turned her face so that the cool painted iron of the tub was against her cheek.

“Tara…”

Matt. She hadn’t heard him come into the bathroom. She wondered if she’d even been conscious when he did. She had no idea how long she’d been on the bathroom floor, propped against the tub.

“Go away,” she said weakly as her stomach started to roil again.

She moved to the toilet, but nothing came. A few seconds later she felt Matt crouch down behind her. His hands stroked her hair away from her face, and then he held her head until the heaves were over. When they stopped, she collapsed back against him, no longer caring about her stupid pride. She just wanted this to end. His arms came around her, holding her against his chest. Her head flopped back onto his shoulder.

“Matt…I…” She tried to wet her dry lips.

“I know.” His hand smoothed soothingly over her hot forehead as he spoke. “You want me to leave.”

Painfully, she shook her head, rolling it against his chest. “No,” she whispered. “I want to go downstairs.”

“No problem,” he said. He gently helped her to her feet. She felt herself sway and swallowed dryly, fighting another wave of nausea as she waited for her head to stop spinning.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” She took a couple small steps forward. Matt kept hold of her elbow, steadying her. They made it as far as the stairs and then Matt gave up steering and lifted her. “Where’s your room?”

“Off the kitchen.” The trip down the stairs jostled her sore body. She turned her head into the comfort of his chest. She needed him to take her to her bed, to put her down, stop jostling her, but when he did, she suddenly felt cold.

“Can you get undressed?’

“Yeah,” Tara assured him weakly as she collapsed sideways and drew her knees up to protect her sore stomach.
Undressed. In just a minute…
She was surprised to feel him taking her shoes off, untying the laces, prying them off her feet. Socks followed. Then…nothing. She let out another painful sigh, pulled her knees tighter against her chest. And fell into a deep, fitful sleep.

M
ATT STOOD
and stared down at Tara. She wouldn’t know or care if he helped her undress and made her more comfortable—until later. Then she’d care. She’d gone bonkers over one kiss once she had heard he supposedly had a girlfriend, and not because she had any serious feelings for him. It was because she was afraid of being someone’s plaything. It was obvious that she’d dropped her defenses before, let someone get close and then that someone had used her.

And Matt was pretty certain he knew who that someone was. And what he drove.

There were two sides to every story, he reminded himself, before promptly disregarding the notion. Ryan Somers was a bully. Matt knew it instinctively, even if Becky seemed to think Ryan was a great guy. Matt had seen Ryan come to torment Tara when her brother was gone and she was alone. Great guys, even ones with nice smiles and firm handshakes, did not do things like that.

Well, Matt thought as he unfolded a heavy afghan and settled it over Tara’s body, Ryan had him to contend with now, whether Tara liked it or not.

Matt didn’t go home that night. He sat in Tara’s room while she slept, reading a spy novel he’d found in the living room bookcase. He’d helped Tara to the bathroom twice, holding her head while her stomach attacked, and she had leaned heavily on him on the trip back to her bed, something he knew she wouldn’t normally allow herself to do, physically or emotionally. Her stomach had not acted up in over an hour and she slept less fitfully now. But she still had the fever and as soon as she woke up again he was going to get some aspirin into her.

Tara’s room had been a surprise. He had expected a room that fit in with the Victorian theme of the rest of the house, but this room was wild with color—the gypsy colors Tara looked so good wearing. There were bright comforters and afghans, satin pillows, Persian rugs on the hardwood floor. Self-contained Tara had a bit of a wild side. The only sedate touch in the room was the chair in which he sat—a rather beat-up dark leather recliner he could imagine Tara escaping to when she needed to get away.

Tara murmured in her sleep, pulling the afghan up to her chin, huddling into herself, shivering. Matt closed the book, put it on the writing desk. She opened her eyes when he knelt by the bed and he felt the impact of connection as their gazes met. She tried to smirk. Couldn’t do it. Matt smiled. Her eyes drifted shut.

Matt spread a blanket over her, but she still shivered. He looked for yet another blanket, but they were all beneath her, covering the bed. A huge shudder racked her body and then Matt, who’d honestly had every intention of sleeping in the chair, took off his glasses and eased his long body onto the bed, feeling it give with his weight as he pulled Tara, blanket, afghan and all, against him. She sighed and immediately snuggled against him, making his heart lurch at the unexpected action. Her body was still quaking. His arms tightened and he settled his cheek against her silky hair and closed his eyes.

Tara’s shivering finally stopped, but Matt continued to hold her, hesitant to leave. The unsettling thought struck him that maybe he needed her warmth.

It was almost midnight when the phone rang. Matt jerked awake, surprised to find Tara still in his arms, surprised at how natural it felt to have her there. He carefully eased himself away from her. She didn’t even stir. He grabbed his glasses and strode out into the kitchen, answering the phone with a clipped, “Hello.” The phone clicked dead.

Matt shook his head and went back into the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, looked at the woman sleeping in the bed and wondered what on earth he had been thinking when he’d stretched out and pulled her against him. He hadn’t been thinking. He’d simply been reacting. Again.

Matt shoved a hand through his hair, suddenly irritated that he had given in to temptation. He was just settling himself into the leather chair when the phone rang again. This time he picked it up on the second ring. “Hello.”