Rachel Lee (20 page)

"You wouldn't think so." Joni's tone was almost bitter.

"No, I wouldn't. And Witt's never been one to hang around married women, either. At least, not in my memory. Mainly he hangs around your mom, since his wife and Lewis died."

"Yeah. Probably hoping for another sip of honey."

She must have shocked Hardy a bit, because both his eyebrows lifted.

But he didn't say anything about it, just went on with what he'd been discussing.

"So anyway," he continued, "I can't see Witt doing something like that carelessly. Casually. I can't see your mom doing it, either. She's had guys drooling after her since she moved up here, and she's indifferent. Doesn't even go out. So she's not given to fooling around, either."

"But all this is since Lewis died," Joni pointed out. "Neither of us knew them before I was born."

"But I've heard enough about Witt. He gets a lot of respect in Whisper Creek. A lot. He's one of those guys everybody is sure walks on water. Well, everybody except me. So..."

"Yeah. So? Neither one of them has casual affairs. But they still created me."

Hardy nodded. "Exactly. And I would sure love to know what precipitated it. I think the circumstances must have been extraordinary in some way."

Joni hadn't thought of it that way. She'd been so focused on how sordid it was, how icky it made her feel somehow to learn that her uncle was her father. "The whole idea makes me want to take a bath."

"Really? But ... what would you think if the two of them wanted to get married now?"

"I wouldn't have a problem with it. Frankly, I've been wondering for years why they didn't. Maybe this is why. Maybe they feel too guilty.

Or maybe Mom doesn't want to tell him the truth about me after keeping it secret for so long. I don't know. Either way, it doesn't make me feel any better. It was different back then. They were cheating on somebody they were supposed to love."

He nodded. "Yeah. They were. They were also younger."

"And they've also managed to keep their hands off each other for twenty-six years now. So what was the problem back then?"

"Maybe you should ask."

Joni shook her head immediately. "No way. I don't want to know. I don't want to see either one of them ever again."

If Hardy didn't believe her, he at least had the sense to keep the feeling to himself. Joni scrunched down on her pillows and pretended to stare at the TV screen. Ask her mother? Hell would have to freeze over first. She didn't want to know the sordid details. She didn't want to know anything about it at all.

Because the whole damn thing just hurt too much. It hurt to be Witt's daughter.

"Hardy?"

"Hmm?"

"What did Karen think of Witt?"

He hesitated, and reluctantly she looked at him.

"Well," he said finally, "you were closer to Karen than anyone. What did she say about him to you?"

"Very little. Probably because he was my uncle. What did she say to you?"

"Well ... she said he clung to her too much after her mother died. She said she felt like he was suffocating her sometimes. I think that's part of the reason she ran around with me instead of listening to him."

Joni thought back over the years, trying to remember. "I think he did suffocate her a little. But probably not as badly as she thought. He'd lost his wife and brother. I think he was terrified he'd lose her, too."

"Maybe so. I was too young to think of it in those terms back then."

He scooted farther down on his pillows. The TV show was forgotten. "I thought he was being overbearing and unreasonable. I'm not sure anymore if I wouldn't be the same in his shoes."

She looked at him curiously. "Are you always so generous?"

He shrugged. "I try to be fair."

"Fair? He hasn't been fair to you."

"Doesn't mean 7 can't be."

Which, thought Joni, was actually a profound statement, one she'd been losing sight of lately. One she needed to keep in mind. "You've grown up to be a very nice man, Hardy."

Much to her amazement, he reddened. The sight tickled some deep place inside her, making her smile. And teaching her that he wasn't used to personal compliments, which struck her as a bit sad.

Then he seemed to get interested in the TV again, so she turned her attention in that direction, pretending to watch. Giving him space to get over his embarrassment.

A few moments later, hardly aware of what was happening, she sank into deep slumber for the first time in days.

Hardy dozed off, too. It wasn't that he was short on sleep, but it was the kind of day where a nap seemed inevitable, and there really wasn't anything to hold his attention. Soap operas slid into talk shows, and he slipped into sleep.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the howl of the wind outside. It sounded cold. Then he realized there was a weight on him.

Turning his head, he found Joni curled up against him, her head tucked comfortably on his shoulder. Even in the dim light, he could see the dreams racing behind her eyelids, and he hoped they were happy.

Oprah was talking to a middle-aged woman with a strong southern accent about her childhood in Mississippi. Another Oprah book, he thought.

At the moment, he wasn't interested.

He was more interested in trying to figure out how to disengage himself from Joni without waking her. She needed the sleep desperately, and he needed the bathroom desperately. He also needed to move before his arm became paralyzed.

Then, of course, there was the fact that Joni was sleeping against him, which was awakening other kinds of needs, needs he couldn't afford to satisfy.

He was old enough to control those urges, but that didn't keep him from feeling a deep ache that tried to convince him otherwise.

It was, he thought, a bittersweet agony to lie beside a woman he had wanted for years and know that he could never touch her. Witt's daughter. Man, if there hadn't been enough shit between them before, that was the crowning piece. There'd been no way to get close to her before, but now it felt as if the cage bars had just turned into a wall of solid steel. As if even glancing her way was apt to get him into trouble.

Part of him figured that was damn unfair. The rest of him knew that life wasn't fair, and there was no point in whining. Joni Matlock might as well live on another planet.

Deciding there were limits to the torture he had to endure, he eased out from beneath Joni's head and was relieved when all she did was sigh and turn onto her back. Dreams still chased behind her eyelids.

Rising, taking care not to bounce the bed much, he went to peek out the window. The early winter night was settling In, but in the motel's outdoor lighting, the whiteout was visible. The motel office, catty corner to their room, was invisible beyond the swirling snow, and all he could see of his car, parked right out front, was a hazy view of the grill.

Visibility zero. A silent chuckle rose in him as he realized those words could also describe his life.

"Why'd you come back to Whisper Creek?"

The sleepy question, in a voice so sexy it felt as if he had been physically stroked, came from behind him. He turned and saw that Joni's eyes were open. She still looked sleepy, and amazingly hug gable

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. Are you going to answer my question?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's home."

She shook her head and pushed herself higher on the pillows. "I'm serious, Hardy. The way Witt has treated you ... why didn't you take a job with some architectural firm in Denver or Chicago? Why'd you come back? You could have made more money, probably built more of your designs...." "Is that what you think I should be doing? Making more money?"

The question seemed to startle her. "No. God, no! It's just that I wondered why. You had a way out."

"So did you."

"True." She sighed and closed her eyes. "I came back because..." She hesitated. "You know, I don't really know why. I told myself it was because of Mom."

"Yeah, me too. I didn't want Barbara to be all alone, and I didn't want to uproot her. At least, that's what I told myself."

"Yeah. Exactly." She opened her eyes again, and pushed her hair back from her face. "It's all about Karen, you know. It's all about this feeling of unfinished business. At least for me. But I guess Witt finished it, didn't he?"

She bounded up from the bed then. "I'm going to wash up. Then I guess we ought to make some kind of dinner."

Before he could say another word, she'd disappeared into her room. He turned back to the window, this time using the cord to pull the curtains wide open. Staring out into the teeth of the blizzard, he thought about what she'd said.

Yes, it was unfinished business that had brought him back. But not Karen. Not Witt. His mother.

And Joni.

Hannah felt a draft snake around her ankles and wished she could put more wood on the fire. But she knew Witt, knew how he hated to be hot, and right now he wasn't feeling too spunky.

In fact, she thought, standing in the doorway of his living room, he was downright depressed. Since she'd brought him home from the hospital the other day, he hadn't done much except sit and brood. And when he wasn't sitting, he was moving gingerly, as if he feared every step he took might bring on another heart attack.

Right now he was sitting in his easy chair, looking out the window at the storm.

"Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?" she said, trying to keep her tone normal. She had always hated fake sickroom cheer, and as a nurse had refused to let herself slip into the pattern.

He moved one shoulder, a halfhearted shrug, but didn't even turn his head to look at her.

"They say it's the worst storm in at least fifty years."

He didn't answer that, either, and she felt a chill in her heart. Witt could always find something to say in response to a remark like that.

Could always remember a worse storm or a worse time. Sometimes that habit irritated her, but the lack of it frightened her. "Nothing's moving in the mountains," she continued as if she was sure he must be interested. "It's supposed to keep on through tomorrow."

No response again. Part of her wanted to shake him. Hannah was a calm woman, accustomed to facing things with a steady eye and without a whole lot of emotional hoopla. But right now she was so frightened for Witt, and so angry with him, that she had the worst urge to just shout at him until he finally said something, anything other than an indifferent grunt.

Fat chance. God. She raised her gaze over his head and looked out into the storm. Joni. Concern for her daughter filled her, overwhelming her fear for Witt. Where was she? What was she doing?

Was she safe? Would she ever forgive her mother?

And Witt . Witt. Hannah found herself wondering if she would ever be able to forgive him for disowning Joni that way. Witt could be a hard man, but that was unforgivable. Or damn near it, anyway.

All these things were roiling around in her heart, and it felt terrible that she couldn't talk them over with Witt. For twelve years now they'd been as close as any two people could be, sharing everything.

Talking over everything. They'd been family in the best sense of the word.

Now, she supposed, they were family in the worst sense. With a huge rift and no ready way to fix it, at least not as long as Witt was ill and refusing to talk.

But years of love weren't that easy to relinquish. Her heart filled with sorrow and concern over Witt and Joni, she went to stand at his side. She put her hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort and commiseration, and wished with all her heart that Joni would call.

But of course Joni wouldn't. She knew her daughter's temperament all too well, and Joni could be every bit as hardheaded as Witt.

Lewis hadn't been that way. Lewis had had other faults. Serious ones.

But he'd never been hardheaded. Lewis's inclination to philander had, in the long run, been a lot harder to deal with than Witt's stubbornness, and it was good to remind herself of that fact.

The phone rang, and she went to answer it. To her surprise, it was Barbara Wingate.

"I figured you might be there," Barbara said. "I've been trying to reach you all afternoon at home."

Fear grabbed Hannah's heart. "Joni?"

"Joni's fine. But that's why I called. She and Hardy got stranded down in Wetrock by the storm. They're holed up in a motel. Hardy wanted me to let you know."

"Thank you." Relief flowed through her, a warm, spring like breeze.

The fact that Hardy had asked Barbara to call, though, was as plain as a nasty-gram.

Barbara spoke hesitantly. "Joni told me what happened."

Hannah closed her eyes against a flood of humiliation. "Yes?"

"I just want you to know ... I'll do what I can to get her to talk to you."

"That's very generous of you." Very generous from a woman whose son had been the recipient of unending anger from Joni's uncle. No, her father.

"Not generous," Barbara said warmly. "I'm a mother, too. Anyway, Joni's staying with us for the meantime, so you don't have to worry.

I'll look after her. I just hope Witt doesn't find out."

Me too, thought Hannah as she hung up after thanking Barbara. Me too.

And she resented the hell out of that.

Witt hadn't moved a muscle. If he was interested in who had called, he didn't express it. Until the storm had started to get really bad, they'd had a stream of well-wishers stopping by, and even then Witt hadn't said much, had barely managed a polite smile.

Hanna wondered how long this was going to go on. And what she might do to ease his depression. It was a normal enough feeling after a heart attack, that and fear, but rarely had she seen as profound a depression as Witt seemed to be going through.

Maybe she should call his doctor.

Not that that would do any good today. As bad as it was, she didn't want to attempt to get to the pharmacy. She would probably wreck the car or break her neck just trying to get down the hill.