A Dark Love (13 page)

There was a pause, during which time he let the rocker slow and turned his gaze back to the vista that lay before them. “I guess I would have always thought about that book, too, Alice. If I was you.”

She was not at all sure whether he was making fun of her so she looked at him, and to her surprise he was smiling. Not a big sarcastic smile and not a sympathetic smile and not even a knowing, tell-me-more smile like Porter would have done to draw her out. Just sweet, making a little joke. His smile made her aware of how sad she was, and somehow made some of it go away so she smiled back. “Yeah. I know it sounds weird, but I feel like I stepped inside the pages of that book.”

Ken’s smile deepened into laughter. “Well, I guess you did.” He reached one arm lazily across the back of the porch swing so it rested behind her shoulders. His fingers brushed the top of her arm, and this made Caroline giddy. “You want me to yodel?”

Caroline burst into laughter at that, and the feel of it inside her throat was like an old friend. She hadn’t laughed in a long time and it felt good. “You don’t yodel. Um, do you?”

This set Ken off and he laughed some more. “Nope,” he said at last. “Sorry to ruin your childhood dream.”

Something about the way he said this, like he truly wanted to apologize for her ruined childhood even though he knew nothing about it, combined with the look in his eyes that was like warm brown velvet, broke away even more of Caroline’s shell. Tears sprang to her eyes. Mortified, she squeezed them shut.

“It’s okay there, Alice,” Ken said in that voice of his that managed to be deep and low and soft all at the same time. He used his foot to set the swing into gentle motion again. “Come to think of it, I could always learn to yodel.”

Caroline opened one eye and smiled despite the tear that had snuck out. She swiped at it.

“You could, too, you know.” Ken was smiling at her again. Making no mention of her tears, a fact she appreciated.

Porter would have asked a probing question.

“We could learn together, maybe open the Rocky Mountain School of Yodeling.”

Caroline giggled. “We could,” she blurted even though she knew this was a dangerous game. Building a future, even a pretend one, was not something she could
afford. But the look in his eyes and the smile on his face were as dizzying as the air at this altitude. “Alice and Ken’s School of Rocky Mountain Yodeling.” She laughed harder.

“That’d work,” he said happily.

She felt his fingers move so that his hand was cupping the top of her arm, and now his face was inches from hers, near enough that breathing in filled her lungs with Ken’s scent, piney and clean and strong. She swallowed.

Ken’s smile was gone, his jaw working on something else now, but she saw the look in his eyes hadn’t changed or lost any of its warmth. A girl could get lost forever in those eyes, she thought, and never bother to try to find her way out. He angled his face toward hers, and she knew those lips would carry the faint taste of sweet tea.

It was too much. Caroline moved away, sitting up straighter on the swing so it tipped forward and froze in place. “Sorry,” she said, not looking at him. She could not allow this to build into any kind of friendship. “I probably need to get back. Thanks for the tea.”

Ken swung his feet down to the porch boards. “Any time, Alice,” he said easily. “Now you know the way here. The welcome mat’s always out.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Rising, he steadied the swing as she rose. “Yodeling practice daily at four,” he said.

“I’ll remember that.” She smiled but did not have the nerve to meet his eyes.

“Come on, I’ll give you a quick tour before you go. You don’t need those inside,” he teased as Caroline fingered her shades and cap.

She followed him into a large, airy room, bright with diffused light from a skylight set high in the timbered ceiling.

Her attention was drawn at once to a large oil painting that hung above a stone mantel.

Caroline gasped. “That’s an O’Keeffe.”

Ken nodded.

“Shell on Red,”
she said, her eyes widening.

He arched a brow. “Most people know an O’Keeffe when they see one, but you’re the first person who knew which painting it was.”

Caroline was too preoccupied to acknowledge the compliment, or the question behind it. She walked closer to get a better look. “It’s one of her early still lifes.”

High-altitude sunlight played across the canvas, deepening the yellows, pinks, and deep reds, drawing out their sharp contrast to the ivory background. This was the way Georgia O’Keeffe had intended her work to be viewed, Caroline was certain. In natural light inside a home like this, not locked away in a museum.

The painting all but pulsed with sensual energy that radiated throughout the house. Caroline gave Ken a searching look. “How did you get it?”

“I got it at an auction. I fell in love with it and had someone bid on it. And here it is.”

“She dreamed of the Faraway,” Caroline said, studying the canvas.

“Yeah,” Ken said softly. “She found it out this way, in the west Texas plains and northern New Mexico.”

“She believed the ultimate reality of an object could be expressed in art,” Caroline said. Memories of her studies came flooding back. “She studied Buddhism.” She gestured to the painting. “You can see it here in the
bold colors and strokes. She captured it, the spirit of the shell. O’Keeffe had a wilderness inside.”

Ken nodded, watching Caroline.

Aware that she had revealed more of herself than she had intended, Caroline looked down, twirling her sunglasses in one hand, ignoring his gaze. “I’ve done a bit of reading about her,” she said at last.

“Right,” Ken said.

He wasn’t buying it. But he was not the type to pry.

He walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined both sides of the fireplace, withdrew a large book about Georgia O’Keeffe, and carried it over. He stood, flipping through pages, leaning close so his shoulder and arm almost touched Caroline’s. “Here’s the part about her time out West,” he said. “She grew up on a farm in Wisconsin. When she visited this part of the world, it changed her life.” He closed the book and handed it to Caroline. “I’d like you to have this.”

The act of generosity moved her. Standing close to him, she could well imagine he was a force to be reckoned with on the playing field.

At that moment he shifted his stance by perhaps a centimeter, no more, angling his body closer to hers, and this made it difficult for her to catch her breath. She felt less sure of her stance on the tightly woven Navajo rug at their feet. Summoning all her courage, she risked a glance at Ken’s face and saw the soft expression in his brown eyes, the muscles working in his jaw.

The air between them turned into a vacuum so that she had a sudden urge to close the small space that separated them. “I want to paint like her,” she blurted, because telling him something about herself was the next
best thing to doing what she really wanted, to lose herself in his kiss.

Ken took his time before making any reply. “Well then, I think that’s what you should do, Alice.” His eyebrows lifted a notch as he watched her, and something about this small act opened a space inside her that had been cooped up inside the shell, and suddenly following her dreams seemed like the most logical thing to do with her life.

Caroline could only nod, marveling at the shift that was taking place inside her. She forced herself to take a step back, holding the book to her chest as though it could shield her from revealing any more of her own Faraway. “Thanks,” she said, her voice not as strong as she had intended. “I really need to go.”

Sensing her ambivalence, Ken moved away. “No problem.” He cleared his throat. “We probably need to get you on the road.”

She took a quick look around. The furnishings were of good quality, generously sized to hold Ken’s large frame. There was a leather couch draped with quilts in bright Southwestern colors, several oversized easy chairs, each with its own ottoman, and a sleeping alcove set high above.

The living area opened onto a kitchen outfitted with stainless appliances. A large oak table lined with massive chairs sported bright blue checked place mats. In the center was a glass bowl filled with small river rocks.

Despite the fact that everything was supersized to fit Ken’s frame, the overall effect was cozy. Not in a fussy way. Completely masculine.

“You have a wonderful home,” Caroline said.

He nodded. “Thanks. I knew what I wanted when I came back here to live. I’d always had my eye on this piece of land. So I bought it and bunked with Gus while I had this place built.” He looked around. “It’s mostly everything I wanted.”

Except that he lived here alone. The words popped into Caroline’s mind so clearly she could have sworn he’d said them out loud. The look he gave her left no doubt as to what was missing from his life, she realized with a pang. She bit her lips against making any reply.

“Anyhow, that’s the tour. Most of it anyway.” He led the way through a side door from the kitchen to the garage.

Moments later Caroline found herself behind the wheel of a candy apple red Porsche 988. The engine purred, vibrating up through the leather bucket seats so it caressed her like a living thing.

Ken explained the gears and various gauges but it was hard to concentrate on anything but the fact that they were reclining together, side by side, their hands touching over the gearshift. He grinned ear to ear. “This car’s a holdover from my time with the Chiefs. These days, I prefer the Jeep.”

“I’ve never driven a car like this,” Caroline admitted, worried.

“You’ll be fine. This car practically drives itself.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

He laughed and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.

Her skin tingled inside her blouse where he touched her.

“You’ll do just fine,” he said. “A little road trip will do you good.”

He slid from the passenger seat and smiled through the open window.

Caroline wasn’t at all sure of the truth of this statement but now was no time to argue. She pulled her Cardinals cap low over her face, donned her shades, and shifted into gear. The car shot out of the garage like a cougar sprinting after prey.

“You got it,” Ken called, giving a whoop of triumph.

Caroline had no chance to respond because she was busy shifting into second as the car leaped down the drive with all the grace of a living animal.

Ken Kincaid watched his Porsche inch down the driveway with Alice Stevens behind the wheel. He couldn’t stop smiling. Once upon a time, that Porsche had been his prized possession. Now it only had value for him because it came in handy as a spare for Alice.

Buying it had been Suzie’s idea, even though Ken did love driving it. Thinking of her now was odd, mostly because of how different this day was from those early days when he’d first begun dating Suzie. Odder still was the fact that Ken felt no pain at the thought of her.

He’d been unsure of himself with Suzie from day one, Ken realized now, despite the fact that he was a rising star at the time they first met.

Alice Stevens couldn’t be more different. She was smart, not just educated but smart, and she had a very sweet way about her. She was beautiful, not in a flashy way, but beautiful from the inside out.

Alice Stevens would age well.

That realization hit Ken Kincaid head-on with the force of an opposing tackle. Even after he had been
dating Suzie for a while, long enough to bring her home to meet Gus (she had sneezed constantly, allergic to cats), he didn’t remember ever wondering what she’d be like at forty, fifty, or seventy.

Alice would keep painting what she saw with those sweet brown eyes, he just knew it in his heart.

Once Caroline maneuvered the Porsche out onto the county road, she relaxed enough to become aware of the breeze in her hair and the warmth of the sun on her skin. After a while, she felt bold enough to loosen her grip on the wheel and flip on the stereo. She was rewarded with Xydeco music from Mardi Gras. This was how it felt to be in Ken’s world. Carefree. Young. Happy.

She didn’t realize she was smiling until her jaw began to ache.

Nan came out and waved when she pulled in at the ranch. “That’s quite a machine.”

Caroline turned off the ignition and stood, her legs still vibrating from the engine. “I’ve never been in that kind of a car.”

“That’s quite a loaner for my old boat. I’ve never seen anyone drive it but Ken in the two years since he’s been back. Not even his father.”

Caroline couldn’t hide a proud smile. Ken had granted a special privilege to her and her alone. Her heart did a small flip-flop as she cradled the art book close to her chest.

That night in bed, she paged through it cover to cover while outside a wind roared down off the mountain. From her window with the curtains pulled back, Caroline could see the treetops pitch and sway in a crazy
dance. She heard a soft rumble from low inside the house as the boiler kicked on, and later, the eerie yip-yipping of coyotes.

Pippin whined.

Caroline hushed the dog and burrowed deep under the covers. Nan was right about October here in the Rockies.

The change had begun.

M
ODESTO
, C
ALIFORNIA

T
om Fielding took a sip of his double latte. Still hot even after the fifteen-minute drive from Starbucks. The office was dead quiet, which was also good. In stark contrast to the morning routine inside the Fielding ranch house, where Lisa would be putting on makeup and giving the twins breakfast before the sitter arrived.

Lisa was pissed when Tom told her he needed to head in early for a conference call with a client on the East Coast.

He fingered the sticky note with Caroline’s cell phone number. He had about twenty minutes before the offices of ActiveWear Modesto came alive for the day.

Tom reached for the phone, ready to call Caroline twice, and both times he changed his mind. He pulled up his deleted mail files and scowled.

There it was, Caroline’s message to him.

It wasn’t right. Tom Fielding drummed his fingers on the desk. He could call her. They had always kept each other’s cell phone numbers, just in case. Calling, they knew, would cross a line. Lately, they had inched closer to that line.

Lisa regularly checked Tom’s cell phone records as part of her job as bookkeeper in the family firm. She also went through his car and desk on a regular basis, searching for a spare cell phone from Costco with pay-as-you-go minutes. She assumed he was not aware of her snooping, and Tom let it go at that.

No, he didn’t dare place a call to Caroline’s cell phone. If Lisa was hip to checking cell phone records, it was a sure bet that Porter Moross was checking Caroline’s call records and then some.

Moross was a freak. They’d all seen it the very first night Caroline brought him to a kegger up on the roof of Mitchell Hall. Tom Fielding had the hots for Caroline Hughes back then. Everyone knew it and just assumed they’d wind up together. But Caroline was really shy, so Tom decided to play it slow out of respect for her. He had regretted it ever since. They all mocked the medical resident she’d brought with her that night looking like a circus sideshow. As Moross stalked his skinny ass out of the party that night, Tom caught a glimpse of something else that was much worse: a flash in Moross’s intense blue eyes of pure rage.

“Just let him go,” Tom said, reaching for Caroline’s hand as she hurried past.

“You don’t understand, he’s just really shy,” she’d
said, brushing Tom’s hand off so she could catch Porter at the elevators.

And that, as Tom’s roommate Kent used to say, was the situation in microcosm.

Thinking back on it even now made Tom Fielding shake his head. He stared at Caroline’s e-mail. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she didn’t write that e-mail. Porter Moross had written it. Which meant things in the Moross household had gone from bad to worse.

Tom drummed his fingers harder, faster. Considering things. Caroline wasn’t happy and hadn’t been for a long time. Hell, who could be with an asshole like that?

What if she’d finally left him? Where would she go? She had a mother and stepfather, once upon a time. They had shown up at commencement so drunk the old man was thrown out for heckling. Poor Caroline. She wouldn’t have gone there.

Tom scrolled opened his “Sent Mail” folder and reviewed his reply:

Tom Fielding groaned aloud. Because if what he suspected was true, he had just steered Moross in exactly the right direction.

“What’s wrong?” Tom’s wife appeared in the doorway.

Tom nearly jumped out of his seat. How come his wife
didn’t make noise like normal people when she walked down a hall? “I didn’t hear you come in.”

She shrugged, pissed off, the way he knew she would be. “I just got here. What’s up?”

“Ah, it’s nothing, no big deal.” He fingered the mouse, frowning, and studied his computer screen. “I can straighten it out with an e-mail.”

“Hey C,” he wrote. “Are u ok? Call me on my cell. Urgent.” Lisa was still watching from the doorway but Tom didn’t care. He typed in his cell phone number, even though Caroline already had it. He requested notification of when the message was opened by the addressee, and hit send. That should call Moross’s bluff.

Asshole.

Tom checked his watch. He’d give it a day or two, just to be sure, even though Caroline usually wrote back on the same day. And then he’d figure out what to do next.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Everything changed for Porter Moross after the discovery of his wife’s e-mail correspondence with Tom Fielding. His emotions made the transition from panic at being abandoned by his wife, into something else. Something far less stable. Far more dangerous.

Porter tried to be patient, awaiting confirmation of her whereabouts from Beltway Security Investigations and their freelance agent in Colorado.

Deep inside him a tectonic shift was taking place, as he shed the mantle of pleasant civility he had adopted long ago. In its place was something else, emotion that
ran deeper and truer to Porter’s core. Anger, the kind that simmered at a constant steady burn, ready to erupt on a moment’s notice, all the while roiling and building into something that had the heat and predictability of molten lava.

The fact was, Porter Moross had developed the propensity at a young age for rage that could scorch everything in its path, leaving behind a landscape of ruin.

Which was fine with him. He had taught himself early on that anger was preferable to the helpless despair of hurt.

S
TORM
P
ASS
, C
OLORADO

The next day brought cooler air from Canada down across the continental spine that was the Rocky Mountains. Nights turned cold, and the tall grass in the pasture crunched underfoot when Caroline went for her morning swim.

Nan Birmingham observed a change in her young employee. Alice’s face had opened up some and the tight lines around her mouth had relaxed. Once, Nan overheard Alice humming. Nan was grateful the young woman was finding relief from her troubles, which led her to make a request of Alice she wouldn’t have dreamed of making even yesterday. She asked Alice to take her to Storm Pass for the town’s annual Heritage Day Festival.

She was surprised and pleased when Alice agreed.

Caroline had vowed to avoid town at all cost but she was feeling bolder, buoyed by her attraction to Ken, and
she knew Nan would be unable to attend without her. Caroline owed a lot to her new employer.

Despite the chill the day was brilliant and bright. They piled lawn chairs, lemonade, and sandwiches in the tiny backseat of the Porsche and drove down after breakfast.

A white bedsheet was draped high across two telephone poles on Main Street, proclaiming the town’s motto in hand-painted letters: “Storm Pass, A Great Place to Rest Yer…!”

Caroline parked in the grassy lot next to Kincaid’s Garage. The bright red car attracted some looks, and she wondered uneasily if coming here had been wise. She unloaded quickly and they headed for the sidewalk in front of the service station door, open wide to the room inside that served the dual purpose of office and den for the proprietor.

Gus Kincaid ambled out to greet them, his steps slow and labored.

Caroline glimpsed a walker inside, which she noticed he was not using. It was easy to imagine Gus had been a lady-killer in his day.

“Mornin’, ladies,” he said, tipping his baseball cap.

“Mornin’, Gus,” Nan said.

Gus’s big cat leaped up to the counter and hissed.

This set off a frenzy of barking from Pippin and Scout, who strained at their leashes.

“Where are your manners, Midnight?” Gus said in a voice that was gruff and soothing at the same time.

The cat sank down on her haunches and glared.

Gus reached inside a jar, pulled out a large biscuit, and broke it in two before bending slowly to give each dog a half. He took a long time to straighten up.

“How are you feeling?” Nan asked.

“Comin’ along,” he replied.

“And where’s your son today?”

It was as much of a direct question as anyone in Storm Pass ever asked. Caroline shifted the lawn chairs against one hip and waited to hear the answer.

“He’s around. Just back from the pass.” Gus motioned north with his chin. “Had a Denver group overnight for some angling.”

“It’s late days for trout fishing,” Nan remarked.

“Just about the end of the season,” Gus agreed. “Good day for a parade, though. Let me give you a hand with those chairs.”

“No need,” Caroline protested, while Nan waved him off with the cane she used in town.

Gus looked none too steady on his feet.

Not wanting to cause him any embarrassment, Caroline hurried to the curb to prop open the lawn chairs, already regretting her decision to come. The narrow main street was packed with locals, and she knew there were bound to be out-of-towners as well. All it would take was one person, one chance overheard remark, for someone to put the pieces together. But it was too late now.

A clash of cymbals and the beating of a drum signaled the start of the parade.

First came the children and pets, mostly dogs, a good number of cats, a monkey, and a crateful of rabbits. Next were historic cars, or just really old cars, or even any car at all. Bikers followed, revving their engines and setting the dogs into a frenzy. Next came the marching band from Storm Pass’s single tiny school. And finally people on foot passing out fliers on a variety
of subjects, everything from La Leche League (pro), to nuclear weapons (anti), to rBGH-enhanced dairy milk (definitely anti).

“There you have it,” Nan said when the last peaceable demonstrator had passed. “Storm Pass on parade.”

Caroline was grateful it was over. She folded the chairs, gathered their belongings, and turned to go.

A Harley-Davidson revved nearby and backfired, startling her so she lost her hold on the lawn chairs and they clattered to the ground, sending the dogs straining at the ends of their leashes.

She tried to rescue the chairs but got tangled up, losing her hat and sunglasses in the process. Leaving her exposed. She bent over, making a mad grab for them.

And sensed the presence of a large man at her side, close enough to gain a whiff of his scent that was woodsy and clean like the pine trees lining the town.

There was no mistaking that scent.

Ken Kincaid’s arm brushed hers as he reached down and scooped everything up in one motion. “I’ve got you covered,” he said, straightening up.

Caroline stood. In the afternoon sun, he looked like the golden boy he was. Colorado’s gift to the NFL. “Hi.”

He reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “How are you today, Alice?”

“Okay.” Lie. If she had said she was doing great, it would have been closer to the truth. But that would only move things further along in a direction she could not afford to go.

Her response did nothing to dim the wattage of the smile Ken was shining her way. “Just okay? What can we do to change that to great?”

He leaned in close, and the nearness of him melted something inside her.

Ken Kincaid was like a big, happy puppy. Disarming and sweet, he would win her heart and make her forget she could never give him a proper home. Caroline looked away.

“How about an ice cream soda? We got a real old-fashioned soda fountain here, just across the street.”

The offer would have been corny coming from anyone but him, anywhere but here. As it was, her insides swelled with happiness and turned as light as a sunbeam. She felt like she was inside a movie set about a happy life in a small town.

Ken was smiling down at her while she tried to figure out how to turn him down without hurting his feelings, which seemed, thankfully, pretty hard to do, and while they were standing this way the sound of nearby laughter made Caroline freeze.

A group of teens had stopped to watch. One of the boys cleared his throat. “Hi, Ken.”

Ken turned and waved. “Hey, guys. You came out to watch the parade?”

There was a round of nodding heads and hellos.

“It was a good one. I’ll see you all at practice.” He turned back to Caroline. “I coach the high school team.”

There were people like this, Caroline thought, people whose lives were peaceful and ordinary and what Porter would call boring.

Ken handed over her sunglasses and hat. “Personally, I think you look better without these.”

“Thanks.” Caroline couldn’t remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of attention from a man.
She mumbled something about taking a rain check, aware the kids were still watching. They were interested in Ken, not her. But that didn’t change the fact that a small crowd had gathered with her at its center. She was standing next to a celebrity, the hometown hero who had made it big playing safety for the Kansas City Chiefs.