“Looks like it’ll start just this side of those trees and move off across the edge of that field. We might as well get out and walk it.”
Lee was only too glad to escape the close proximity to Sam Brown, and she jumped from the cab with a shaky, indrawn breath of relief. She sat down on the running board to untie her tennis shoes and replace them with the olive drab waterproof boots, conscious now that Sam was standing with his hands on his hips watching her. She tucked her pantlegs into the boot tops, but left the yellow strings dangling. Still he stood, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, making her skin prickle with awareness. It had been a long time since a man had watched her change her clothes, even any as impersonal as shoes, and this man seemed to be studying the process all too closely. She straightened, got to her feet, and gave her ribbed waistband a businesslike tug to pull it back into place. His face wore a disturbingly appreciative half grin, his gaze centered on the thin band of skin at her waist, which quickly disappeared as she adjusted her shirt.
“What are you staring at, Brown?” she demanded.
He seemed to shake himself back to the present. “Estimators look different than they used to,” he teased.
Keep it light,
her saner self warned as his comment aroused a small thrill. She displayed one foot, lifting it before her. “Same as you, jeans and boots.”
But as his eyes traveled down to her boots, she realized that instead of minimizing her femininity, they accented it. To her relief, at that moment Sam’s hand slapped at his neck, then he made a grab at the air, missing the mosquito that had just bitten him.
“Come here, I’ll give you a spray.” Lee picked up the can from the floor of the truck.
With a grin, he noted, “You come prepared, don’t you?”
“In Missouri, in August, the morning after a healthy rain?” she asked pointedly. He came to stand before her while she shook the can and sprayed the front of him in long sweeps from neck to boots, noting even in that quick journey certain spots where his jeans were more worn.
Damn you, Walker, what’s the matter with you?
“Turn around, I’ll do your back.” But his back presented as enticing a set of muscles as his front. His shoulders were wide and firm as she sprayed them, heading down toward where his shirt scarcely crinkled as it disappeared into the narrow waist of his jeans. His buns were so flat that they scarcely curved beneath the denim. Again she remembered that he was a runner. It seemed a long, long way down to his wide-spread boots.
He craned to look at her over his shoulder. “Hurry up. This stuff stinks.”
As she stood up, she couldn’t resist teasing. “Don’t be such a baby, Brown. I don’t think it smells so bad.” And as if to prove the point, she gave him a shot inside the back of his collar, then pulled the can farther back and emitted a cloud at the back of his head. He doubled forward and let out an immense sneeze.
She burst out laughing as he moved out of range and whirled.
“Damn it all, if it isn’t one thing it’s another.”
She puckered her face and feigned an apology. “Oh, I’m so-o-o sorry.”
A wicked grin lifted his mouth as he returned wryly, “Yes, I can see just how sorry you are.”
He took a menacing step toward her, and she backed away. “Now, Brown, it was an accident!” she warned, holding out a hand to fend him off. But he advanced a step farther.
“So will this be.” He wrenched the can from her hand and shook it, a gleam of menace in his eye.
“Brown, I’m warning you!”
“You started it, now stand and take your medicine.”
There was nothing she could do but turn her back on him, squeeze her eyes shut, and wait. He took his sweet time about it, while she grew increasingly uncomfortable. Finally she felt the spray at the back of her neck. Then it moved downward and stopped at her hips. “Put your arms up,” he ordered. She gritted her teeth, did as ordered, but immediately realized her mistake, for when her arms went up, so did the shirt. A long moment passed in silence, and she felt herself beginning to blush. Then the hiss of the spray finished its trip down her backside, and he nudged her with the can, ordering, “Turn around.” She spun about, chancing a quick peek at the top of his hair as he hunkered down before her, but quickly shutting her eyes as the cloud of spray moved upward. It stopped again, at her hips, and she suffered an agonizing moment, wondering what he was doing before a direct shot hit her in her bare navel.
She yelped and jumped backward. “Damn you, Brown!”
He chuckled devilishly. “I couldn’t resist.”
She glared at him as he knelt on one knee, his eyes nearly on a level with the ribbed waistband that she now hugged protectively in place. She was fighting a losing battle of trying to forget that Sam Brown was a man—and he wasn’t helping one bit! The only resource she could draw upon was feigned indignation. She yanked the can from his hand, then stalked to the truck and flung it through the open window.
“We’ve got work to do, Brown. Enough of this fooling around!” And, thankfully, he followed her lead and got back down to business.
They set off through knee-high grass laden with dew and embroidered with spider webs to which droplets of moisture clung. They moved slowly, the only sounds those of their footsteps swishing through the grass, which occasionally squeaked as it brushed wetly against Lee’s rubber boots. They stopped and stood shoulder to shoulder, each holding one side of the wide blueprints as they studied them.
There were a hundred considerations to be made when deciding whether or not to bid a job such as this one. The first and most obvious was the amount of dirt to be moved, where to, and with what. As they walked, they scanned the ups and downs, considering, discussing, doing mental calculations. They left the fairly level edge of the cornfield and came to a section of uneven roughland—pasture for the most part—with gullies and swales, many filled with muddy potholes after last night’s rains. The dampness of the soil was a second important consideration, so Sam and Lee often knelt, side by side, lifting handfuls of soil, noting where they wanted to do test borings.
Lee was conscious of the smell of mosquito spray and wet earth, and of Sam Brown’s inviting masculine scent, as they squatted with their shoulders almost touching. They moved on again, following the route the pipe would take, crossing a thick stand of prairie thistle in full purple bloom, until they came to a marsh where red-winged blackbirds perched atop bobbing cattails. The birds’ voices raised a cacophony while Sam and Lee stood unmoving for several minutes—just listening and enjoying. It was peaceful and private. Lee became aware that Sam’s eyes were seeking her out as he stood behind her, his thumbs hooked on his hipbones. It took great effort to keep from looking back, but she resolutely refrained. Assuming a businesslike air, she noted, “Lots of birds out here.”
Sam gave a cursory glance at the swamp and grunted in agreement, but immediately his eyes swung back to her.
“The Department of Natural Resources will require a permit before we mess around with their nesting area. I’ll make a note of it.” But when she jotted down the note, she braved a glance at him and caught him studying her in a disturbing way. Immediately she looked at the set of plans, but his next question made her forget the figures before her eyes.
“How long have you been divorced?”
The air was utterly still, everything washed clean by the night rains which still lingered on leaf and stem, turning into diamond beads when the sun occasionally broke through the patchy clouds overhead. Lee met Sam’s eyes, realizing that if she answered it would be harder than ever to get back to business.
“Three years,” she replied.
He seemed to consider before finally asking, “Does he live here?”
“No.”
“In St. Louis?”
Though posed in a casual tone, his question brought her to her senses. “We’re supposed to be looking for a corner lathe with a red flag on it,” she reminded him.
“Oh.” He shrugged, as if her deliberate evasion were of little importance. “Oh yeah . . . well, forget I asked.”
She tried to do just that, but for the remainder of their walk the unanswered question hung between them.
Chapter SIX
B
Y the time they finished their survey the sun was high and hot. They had made nearly a complete circle, which brought them at last to the foot of a hill below what had once been a thriving orchard and busy farmhouse. Lee could see the peak of the roof above the apple trees, and a large, rustic barn loomed up at her right. As they walked beneath the laden trees toward the crest of the hill, the shade felt soothing after the heat of the sun. The orchard had a scent of its own, a fecund mixture of loam and ripening fruit. Lee felt the lingering loneliness of old places whose thriving days have passed.
The house came into view. Like the barn, it had a fieldstone foundation. To Lee it seemed at once beautiful and sad, for the dreams that might have nurtured the building of this place were long dead with their dreamers. The voices of its past were long gone. Its windows, vacant now, had once reflected a yard filled with seasonal activity—cattle coming home at the end of deep afternoon, children at play . . .
At the thought, a sharp pain of regret knifed through Lee, and she clutched her stomach.
“Is something wrong?”
“No . . . no!” She turned back to Sam with assumed brightness and made a pretense of rubbing her stomach. “I . . . I’m just hungry, that’s all.”
He glanced in the direction of the truck. “I can probably make it up that old driveway yet. Why don’t you wait here while I get the truck?”
He strode off, and she watched until he disappeared, swallowed up by the trees. The abandoned house drew her irresistibly, and her feet moved almost against her will. She wandered around the foundation, peeking in windows at old linoleum, remnants of wallpaper, a sagging pantry door, a rusted iron pump, a hole in the wall where a chimney had once been. She kicked at a fruit jar that had been left lying in the deep weeds and fought an intense ache brought on by the old place, whose memorabilia brought back memories of her own past.
A gay profusion of tiger lilies nodded on long stems beside the back stoop, and Lee sat down in the sun, dropping her forehead on her crossed arms and raised knees. The truck started, way off in the distance, but she scarcely heard it. Memories came flooding back, memories she wanted to blot out but couldn’t—wallpaper on other walls . . . another kitchen sink with a child’s dirty feet being washed at bedtime . . . a table with two people, then two plus a baby in a high chair . . . the view from another kitchen window . . . a swing set where a child fell and called for Mommy . . . another back door with a mother swooping through on her way to soothe the child’s cries . . . another backyard with day lilies blossoming in lemon brightness . . .
The truck came gunning up the steep, rutted incline, sending rocks rolling behind it, then coming to a stop under the apple trees.
“Lee?” Sam called as he stepped out of the cab. She raised her head slowly, pulling herself back to the present. “Come on down here. It’s cooler in the shade.” When she didn’t move, his hand slipped from the door and his shoulders tensed. “Hey, are you okay?”
He started toward her, and immediately she pulled herself together and jumped off the step, brushing off her backside with a jauntiness she didn’t feel.
“Yeah . . . yeah, sure.” She would have strode right past him, but he reached out a hand, and before she could prevent it, he swung her around and tipped up her unsteady chin. He studied her closely and, after a long, uncomfortable scrutiny, stated, “You’ve been crying.”
She squelched the sudden, overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms.
“I have not,” she declared stubbornly.
He dropped his eyes to her nostrils, and she made an effort to keep them from quivering. His gaze continued down to her lips, which felt puffy, then back up to her glistening eyes and damp lashes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he invited very quietly.
No . . . yes . . . oh, please, let me go before I do
. . . His eyes invited her confidence, and the corners of his lips turned down as she hovered on the brink of telling him everything, which would prove utterly disastrous, she was sure.
“No,” she finally answered.
He seemed to consider for a moment, then his hand fell, and his voice came gay and bright. “All right. Then we’ll just eat our lunch.” He swung blithely toward the cab, reached inside, and came up with the sack lunch, then left the truck door open and the radio tuned to a country station as he turned to assess the area under the apple trees. “The ground’s probably wet. Why don’t we sit on the tailgate?”
“Fine,” Lee answered, still thrown off guard by Sam’s sudden levity when she had expected him to press her for answers. He lowered the tailgate, set the bag down, and turned to her with the same carefree air.
“Need a boost?” Before she could answer, Lee found herself deposited on the cool, brown metal. The truck bounced a little as Sam joined her then twisted to retrieve the cooler and pull out two icy cans of cola before popping their tops and handing her one. He tipped up his own and swilled nearly half its contents before licking his lips, running a hand across his mouth, and sighing with satisfaction.
He looked down pointedly at the sandwich bag between their hips, and Lee realized she’d been watching him with undivided interest, trying to figure him out.
“Oh! Help yourself,” she offered.
“Thanks.”
He took a sandwich, sank his teeth into it, and swung his feet in rhythm to the soft country songs coming from the cab behind them.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
Lee was brought back from her wool-gathering and, dutifully taking a bite of the sandwich, discovered she was hungrier than she’d thought. Soon they were sitting in companionable silence, munching and sipping, listening to the birds and the radio.