Where the Heart Leads (13 page)

He ushered his ladies across the street and stopped at the ticket booth set up under the light of a pumpkin-clad streetlight, ran his credit card, and received a couple of treat bags and a thick roll of tickets, then walked into the carnival with Delilah on one side of him and Moira the other. He'd never invited any of his other girlfriends along on an outing with Delilah—it hadn't seemed right—but he hadn't had a second thought about inviting Moira.

She leaned into him. “What are all the tickets for? I thought you said the Pumpkin Party is free.”

Rafe took her arm again, and a shiver of heat coiled through her. Maybe there was a spark of something else too, but she didn't want to identify it. Sex would be the beginning and end of their relationship. They'd both agreed on that.

“The booths are free, but the tickets are for things like the carnival rides and the fortune-teller. We also use them to vote on the costume contest. A Schuler usually wins that one—the family votes as a bloc.”

A bloc? His family was large enough and were enough in agreement with one another that they would vote as a bloc? Her family couldn't even stay married.

She turned her head from side to side as they walked down the crowded aisles. The setup seemed to be like every other community fair she'd been to—a village of tarpaulin tents sheltering tables and upright display panels. Three rows of tents marched down the south sidewalk and onto the lawn of the courthouse. To the east, she could see the top of a small Ferris wheel over the trees.

A voice boomed out in front of them. “Rafe! Long time, no see!”

Moira stood back as a large, balding man holding a little boy by the hand stopped in the middle of the aisle to give Rafe a smacking high five, then motioned to his entourage to join him.

Rafe introduced everyone rapid-fire. “Moira, meet Great-uncle Tiny, Uncle Tom and Aunt Miriam, Cousin Miriam, Cousin Julie, Cousin Helen, Cousin Tom, and Cousin John. The young-un is Cousin Ryan.” Moira nodded and smiled, but for once, her magic memory machine fizzled out on her. There was no way she could process so many names and faces at once, especially since each and every one of them was dressed as a vampire.

Delilah focused on the little boy, raised her magic fairy wand, and yelled “Frog!” but her father caught her arm before it could descend on the boy's bat-eared hood. Swooping his daughter up in his arms, Rafe apologized profusely to his great-uncle's family and moved quickly down the row.

Five minutes later, after dodging a group of screaming teenagers carrying pillowcases full of loot, Rafe was hailed by another group of relatives.

Moira was caught somewhere between wonder and horror. How could anyone have such a big a family? All she had, besides Astrid and her brother, were Gram, Gramp, and Kimiko. Gramp's extended family was still in Norway, and Gram was an only child who had produced an only child, while her mother, Kimiko, was missing in action—and God only knows what had become of her father.

By the time they reached the end of the row, Delilah's first treat bag was almost full and Moira had been greeted by the museum docent, a teacher she'd met at Eisenhower Consolidated, the newspaper delivery boy, the grocery store clerk she'd bought Donna Sue's gift from, several cast members, and a number of people she'd swear she'd never seen before in her life.

So, this was how it felt to be on the A-list, to be recognized by everyone at every turn.

They made the turn into the next row and Rafe plowed on ahead.

“I want to see how the fishin' booth is workin' out. Cousin Sharon's husband and I put the thing together this mornin', and I need to make sure those struts are still holdin'.”

As they approached the stall, the supervising mothers rose from their lawn chairs to greet Rafe. He introduced them to Moira, then disappeared behind the booth.

“We think the world of Rafe,” the lead mother told her. “He's so good about helping us when we need something for the preschool. Are—you two—uh—a couple?”

Rafe reappeared before she could answer, thank goodness, and reported that the booth would last another hundred years, then called out to a man coming down the aisle who was dressed in knee britches, neck ruffles, and a long jacket.

“Hey, Merv! You're wearin' my costume from
1776
!”

The man grinned. “Back up there, Rafe! I rented this outfit fair and square from the theater guild booth!”

Theater guild booth?
Moira gave Rafe a questioning look, but he just took her arm and pulled her forward.

“Moira, this is my cousin Mervin Hruska—well, actually he's a second cousin on the McAllister side. In real life, Mervin is Bosque Bend's police chief, but we'll have to let him off duty long enough tonight to go fly a kite and discover electricity.”

Moira smiled and nodded—she'd been doing that a lot tonight—that was about all she could do with loudspeakers on both sides of her.

Mervin motioned toward Delilah, who had her thumb in her mouth and was clinging to Rafe's leg. “Looks to me like the fairy princess is getting sleepy.”

Rafe picked his daughter up and she leaned into his shoulder. “Yeah, we'd better move along. She's about to get her second wind, and you don't want to be anywhere around when that happens.”

Moira grabbed Rafe's arm as they continued down the aisle. “What was your cousin talking about? What theater guild booth?”

“Donna Sue established it a couple of years ago. We rent out our old costumes for Halloween. It generates a few bucks and a lot of publicity. My pirate costume is a combination of
1776
and
The Sound of Music
.” He made the turn into the third row and picked up his pace. “The booth's not far down. We usually keep it open as long as we can in case someone needs a last-minute costume, but at this time of night, Carmen Atherton and Billie Joe Semple will be packin' everything away.”

After fist bumping another contingent of cousins, Rafe stopped at a double booth, pushed aside a metal clothes rack blocking the front of it, and called out into the dimly lit tent.

“Hey there, Carmen. How are things goin'?”

A piano introduction Moira recognized came out of a loudspeaker down the row, and she looked around as a light soprano began singing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from
The Sound of Music
.

“What a sweet voice,” she commented.
Perfect for a production of
Cinderella.

Carmen emerged from the booth. “That's Desdemona Benton. Her brother did a number from
Gift of the Magi
earlier, and after that—sorry, Rafe—Percy Washington absolutely butchered your solo from
1776
. Billie Joe is backstage now, waiting in line to belt out ‘St. Louis Blues.'”

She took a dog costume down from the rack, folded it, and laid it in a large storage box. “I think Phil's performing after her, and then Micaela and I are doing a duet to finish off the show. There's been a good crowd all evening.”

As they turned down the last leg of the carnival, just as Rafe had predicted, Delilah woke up and insisted on being put down. After running down the row ahead of them to collect another bagful of treats, she headed toward the rides and got in line behind Kathleen Loughlin and her two little girls.

Moira moved forward to visit with the accompanist. She liked her and wanted to get to know her better. Besides, Kathleen might be able to tell her what was going on with the Fontaine sisters, who still couldn't seem to decide whether she was for real or not.

“This is really a community celebration—treats, games, rides. But what's in that tent over there with the stars and crescent moon on it?”

Kathleen's face lit up. “That's Madame Drabarni. You've got to visit her. She's sweet to the kids, and tells adults what she thinks they need to know. It's five tickets, but the money goes to the county food pantry.” She moved closer to Moira so her daughters wouldn't hear. “It's Josie Apodaca. She does it every year.”

“I don't know if…”

Rafe laughed and ripped five tickets off his roll. “Take these and go say hello to Josie for me. I'll be over here with the bumper cars for a while. Delilah's a demon behind the wheel.”

Moira walked over to the closed tent and handed the tickets to the turbaned attendant. He lifted a flap and bowed from the waist.

“Enter. Madame Drabarni awaits you.”

I
n the dim light of a brass lamp, Josie looked like a Babylonian empress. Her purple robe was embroidered with astrological signs, her head was wrapped in a gold cloth, and long, barbaric earrings brushed against her shoulders. She sat behind a round table covered by a green damask drape, on which rested a small handbell and a pack of tarot cards.

As far as dramatic settings go, Josie was right on.

Moira sat down across from her and waited for a spark of recognition, but Josie, her expression impassive, stayed in character. With a slow, deliberate movement, she picked up Moira's hand and studied her palm, then dealt the cards, then swept them aside. Her voice was deep and drawn out, as if from a great distance.

“I see a man who burns with the fire of righteousness. I see a woman who endures. He is the flame, an' she is the earth. She will anchor him, an' his fire will cleanse her.”

Wow!
Okay—she got it. Rafe was the flame and she was the earth, but what the heck did the rest of it mean? That they were somehow destined to be together? That they would complete each other? Not that she believed in seers, of course, especially one she'd bought used furniture from.

Besides, she had no idea how to “anchor” Rafe—he seemed to be able to take care of himself—and doubted that anyone could “cleanse” her. She was a lost cause.

Josie rang the bell. “Next customer.”

The first thing Moira saw when she emerged from the tent was Rafe's head flaming under the artificial lights.
How the hell had Madame Drabarni set that up?

He took her hand. “How'd your séance go?”

Moira managed a light laugh. “Josie put on a good show.” No way she would repeat a single word of Josie's pronouncement.

Thinking it over, she decided that “burns with the fire of righteousness” could apply to a minister or a policeman, even to Bosque Bend's newspaper editor. And women were frequently described as being “of the earth.”

Maybe it was Madame Drabarni's standard line.

The crowd had thinned and the wind was kicking up. Rafe opened the flaps on Delilah's cape and pulled it around her for warmth while Moira shifted her shawl up on her shoulders. He glanced toward the dark side of the square.

“The fireworks show is about to start, but Delilah's worn herself out rammin' that little car around so I think we better call it a day.”

Moira fell into step beside him as they walked toward the street.

“You should have seen her go after the other kids' cars. If they hadn't been padded all over, I'd be facin' a couple of lawsuits. I think she's gonna be another TexAnn.”

“What's your sister like?”

“TexAnn liked to keep Travis and me in line when we were kids, and now that she's a state representative, she's keeping all of Texas in line.”

Moira heard the
pow-pow-pow
of Roman candles and looked back to see a brilliant series of starbursts lit the dark sky. The Pumpkin Party was coming to an end.

Next, they'd deliver Delilah to his cousin's house for a sleepover, and then the two of them would go out to Omar's for a beer. Then he'd take her home, and she and Astrid could gorge themselves on leftover Milky Ways—a satisfying end to a satisfying evening, but there was a restlessness in her that wanted more.

She rested her eyes as Rafe drove down a couple of streets to an older neighborhood near the square.

He parked in front of a Craftsman-style house with a happy-looking scarecrow and a parade of child-friendly plastic pumpkins decorating the front porch, then lifted Delilah and her little pink suitcase out of the truck and walked her up to the door, which had just been opened by a smiling woman with hair almost as red as his.

Moira's heart lurched as he bent down to hug and kiss his daughter good night.

How wonderful to be a beloved child, to have a warm, caring father like Rafe. She wouldn't recognize her own father if she met him on the street.

Rafe was amused by the way that Cousin Sharon's eyes kept flitting to the dually the whole time she was welcoming Delilah, obviously trying to figure out the identity of his date. With a pair of active twins on her hands, Sharon didn't get out much. She must be the only person in Bosque Bend who didn't know he was seeing Moira Farrar.

He headed back to the truck, pulled himself into the cab, and looked over at Moira. The night shadows emphasized her high cheekbones, the sensuous curve of her lips, the clean line of her throat. And that Mexican costume of hers was sexy as hell. He liked the way the skirt swung and twisted with her every move, and he'd swear that blouse had elastic in the neckline.

His body stirred with interest, and he played with the idea of suggesting she move over into the seat beside him.

No, Rafe. Baby steps. Let her be. Didn't risk setting her off again.

He worked his way back to Austin Avenue, and ten minutes later, they were on the highway. Rafe adjusted his cruise control to an easy fifty miles per hour. Away from the city lights, the night was pitch-black—great for Halloween, but dangerous for whitetails trying to cross the road. And for the drivers who encountered them.

Moira's hoop earrings gleamed with reflected light as she turned her head to look at BUY-1-GET-5-FREE as they drove by. It was all lit up and doing a land-office business.

“Looks like a lot of people are buying fireworks.”

Was she really thinking about fireworks or about when he stopped there when she first came to town and he'd suggested they have an affair? They'd come a long way since then. Maybe he could even get her to move over to the center seat when he took her home.

“Yeah. People around here like to celebrate Halloween big. I saw some of Josie's kinfolks parking their RVs in the back of the lot last week. They always come down a couple of days early to stock the shelves.”

He turned off onto the ranch-to-market road and put on his brights so he wouldn't miss the cutoff to Omar's. Pranksters usually made off with the sign about this time every year.

He wasn't happy about having to park on the road, but Good Times was overflowing. Omar would probably sell enough beer and ribs this evening to carry him through to next Halloween.

He lifted Moira out of the car. She pulled her shawl around herself and moved closer to him. “I didn't realize how dark it was.”

She was shivering, even under that shawl. He'd better get her inside right quick.

The bouncer stationed on the porch nodded recognition as they walked in. Apparently Uncle Omar had his muscle wearing glow-in-the-dark skeleton outfits again this year.

Rafe looked around. Good Times was crowded all the way up to the stage, probably violating every fire regulation on the book. And, as usual, the noise was at jet-takeoff level. He and Moira would have to talk mouth to ear to communicate.

No problem there. Maybe if he whispered in her ear, she'd follow him anywhere.

Now to make his way through the happy horde of superheroes, witches, vampires, and popular TV characters to get to the long tables against the wall. He took Moira's hand, straightening his elbow so her hip would brush against him with every step.

Damn, the place was even more crowded than last year.

Which table had the theater guild ended up with? Omar made a killing renting those tables out on nights like this, what with everyone from the Floravista Socialights the teachers' union to the city council vying for reservations.

Hey, was that Phil Schoenfeldt standing up and waving at him?

He took a firm grip on Moira's hand and maneuvered her toward the table.

Phil, who'd obviously rented the George Washington costume from
1776
, stood up to greet them as they reached the table, while his wife raised her palm and said “How!” in accordance with her Indian costume. Faux fringed buckskin decorated every seam, and the band around her forehead sported what looked like one of Omar's ostrich feathers.

After some seat switching involving Billie Joe and Deborah Washington, Rafe managed to get Moira both across from him and sitting next to Judy Schoenfeldt. He wanted to keep her within reach, but he also wanted her to have the opportunity to get acquainted with the woman who wrote up the playbill.

Moira took a sip of the mug of beer that Rafe had passed to her and squeezed her eyes shut. Definitely not a lite beer.

She pushed the mug away and greeted Phil's wife with an easy smile. “
Hola!
I'm Moira Farrar, and I'm a Mexican senorita. You're an Indian maiden. Right?”

“Spot on. I'm Judy Schoenfeldt, and I rented Pocahontas from the guild booth but have no idea what play it's from.”

“Rafe told me you're putting together the playbill.” Thank God she didn't have to shout. The table being against the wall meant that most of the crowd noise stayed out in front of them.

“It's my thing. I was a journalism major, and I write features for some of the area newspapers.” Judy leaned toward her as if to get a scoop. “How's it going with
Gift of the Magi
?”

“Terrific! The story is perfect for Christmas—so heartwarming—and the cast is great! Everyone's going to love it!” Which was what she would tell anybody who asked, even if she was tearing her hair out after a bad rehearsal—or was gritting her teeth about a tenor who treated his leading lady like she had a communicable disease.

“Phil is really impressed by how you're pulling it all together. He says you're just what we needed—a real pro.”

Moira stifled her intimations of inadequacy in favor of insipid modesty. “I just hope I can do the play justice.” And she did want to make
Gift of the Magi
everything it could be and should be, but she also wanted to keep her job.

Judy glanced toward her husband, who was having a heated conversation with a man sitting at the next table. “Phil loves to sing, but he's not the
best
actor in the world.”

“He has a gorgeous voice. It's a joy to work with him.” She could scarcely tell his wife that Phil was pretty near the
worst
actor in the world.

Phil interrupted to ask Judy about their children's babysitter, and Moira looked around at Omar's Halloween decor. Strings of orange lights were looped across the walls, hollow-eyed gauze ghosts hung from the rafters, and plastic skulls lit up every table. Nothing to write home about, but it got the idea across.

Suddenly Judy raised up in her chair, and Moira realized something was going on up front. She looked at the stage area, then at the stage, then caught Rafe's attention across the table.

“They're setting up a microphone. Is a band playing tonight?”

Rafe turned around to look. “No band, but there's an open mike, and the karaoke machine is fully loaded. Omar's spreadin' his vampire cape like he's gettin' ready to sing, which means it's time for us to hit the dance floor.”

Moira left her shawl draped on the chair. With so many people crowded into the building, she was almost too warm. And Rafe, she knew, would warm her up even more.

The saccharine strains of “Love Me Tender” filled the room as Rafe took her in his arms. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes as they swayed to the music.

She didn't want to leave the dance floor—ever. She and Rafe were as close as they could get with clothes on. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, his leg nudged against a very sensitive part of her, and his erection pressed into her belly.

Someone yelled, something crashed, and the music stopped.

A trio of bouncers in skeleton suits cut through the crowd to get to the fight that had broken out around the karaoke machine, apparently over who was next in line. Beer bottles flew through the air and women started screaming.

Rafe hustled Moira back to their table.

“It's the annual Halloween riot,” he said, putting the shawl around her shoulders. “Time for us to be getting' out of here.”

The cold night wind bit into Moira as they walked out the door. Rafe kept an arm around her shoulders while they walked down the parking lot to the road, but she couldn't stop her teeth from chattering. Dear God, the shawl wasn't enough. She was freezing!

He lifted her into the dually, and she scrambled over to the center seat, as far away from the cold as she could get, then snuggled against him when he climbed into the truck. He turned on the heater and took her into his arms.

Everything that was female in her responded to him. To Rafe the Red, Rafe of the sparkling eyes, Rafe the rancher, the architect, the music man, the father, the brother, the son. She lifted her face to him. To face Rafe, the lover.

His finger drifted across her ripening lips. Then his mouth found hers, and he kissed her, rolling his face from side to side to massage her lips. She didn't know a kiss could be so fulfilling and so devastating at the same time. Her head was spinning.

She sank against his chest, and he moved his hand down from her throat to caress her arm—stroking, lightly stroking—and occasionally leaned down to kiss her cheek. She closed her eyes to maintain the bliss that was overwhelming her like a warm mantle.

It was like the forever moment on the dance floor—herself cuddled against Rafe's warmth, inside the closed cab, with all the world locked out.

His hand touched her breast, and she sucked in a deep breath.

She wanted him so much it hurt, but was
this
where it was going to happen? In the front-seat cab of a truck parked on the road below a honky-tonk?

She didn't care where it happened.
She could trust Big Red. It was as if Colin had never existed.

His hand moved up and down her arm in an ever-changing pattern, then touched the tender underside of her arm.

He was testing her, searching for her scar.
She willed herself not to react.

His finger located the ridge and gently traced a circle around the scar. Then he stopped and looked at her. His eyes sparkled in the darkness. The car was quiet except for the light hum of the car heater.