Authors: Renee Simons
"With Ethan already there?
You're really backing me into a corner."
"I don't mean to go on about it, but the Willises are there and surely living in my home is preferable to a hotel, more warm and personal, less...lonely."
During the pause that followed his last words,
Jordan
considered the danger of being under the same roof with Ethan. The man stirred emotions she would rather not feel - a need to be close to another, a warmth that filled her dark, lonely places, a stirring in that feminine core she’d long ago relegated to the deep freeze.
"I'll stay at the hotel.
Fewer complications."
"Whatever you say.
Mind you, there’s a place waiting should anything change."
When he hung up,
Jordan
reached into a stack of folders and pulled out the file on VolTerre. She opened to an article about Terence Conlon. The photo showed an older version of the man who'd been a frequent visitor to her childhood home and a trusted friend and business associate of her father's. The friendship had been strong enough for Jordan to call him "Uncle" and his wife "Aunt."
When the trouble hit Dutch VanDien's family, however, Uncle Terry had been unavailable and Aunt Candi a stranger, forcing a teen-aged
Jordan
to discard the myth of friendship she'd been taught to believe. By the time both her father and mother had died, leaving her orphaned at the age of sixteen, she'd become accustomed to trusting no one, to relying on no one, except herself. Nothing had changed during the thirteen years that followed.
A pain started deep in her gut and traveled upward until it filled her chest and threatened to overcome her. She slammed the file shut and closed her eyes. Thinking about Conlon had resurrected feelings she'd considered long dead.
"I won't think about this. Not now. Not till I'm ready." The words echoed in the silent room while a still, small voice wondered when that would be.
She had the dream again, the same dream that had plagued her since her father's death. In the middle of a deep, dark night, the wolf came, stalking, watching with yellow eyes for a sign of weakness. Most times, he kept his distance. This night, he left the shadows, coming close enough for her to see the saliva dripping from his jaws, to smell his hot breath, fetid from old kill, to hear the low fearsome growl that rumbled up from his belly and grated at the back of his throat. Close enough to imagine his sharp fangs tearing into her flesh.
Afraid he might
attack,
she searched frantically for a weapon and finally picked up a piece of tree branch and held it in front of her like a sword. The tip burst into flame reflected in his eyes. For a long, terror filled
moment,
he paced back and forth, looking for some way past the threat. Finally, as if unwilling to chance the danger, he backed away and melted into the dark forest.
Sweat prickled on
Jordan
’s skin, a cold, numbing moisture that ran down her face and soaked her tee shirt and the sheet covering her. She felt the wetness before hearing the long, haunting wail that roused her from the dream to lie shaking with fear until she recognized the siren of a fire engine passing in the street below.
Neither asleep nor fully awake, she stripped off her wet clothes, took a lukewarm shower and wrapped herself in a terry robe before getting back into bed. Comforted by the faint sandalwood scent of a man's after-shave and freed of her nightmare pursuer, she slept until ten o'clock when the telephone woke her.
"You loafin', love?"
"Sleeping in.
What's wrong?"
"Would you have dinner with me tonight?"
She started to say no,
then
remembered her promise to Drew. "No disagreements?"
"I’ll watch my mouth.
Promise."
"Then how can I refuse?"
"Come over at five, but take a cab. Parking's rough."
The house stood on a street whose buildings formed a U surrounding a small park on three sides. The ride up the hill revealed bow fronts, red brick, cobblestones, and multi-paned story-high windows glowing with the last light of the fading afternoon. Like the others, Drew's house appeared more than a hundred years old, but seemed solid and well kept.
The brass door knocker brought Mrs. Willis, who ushered her through a marble-floored gallery big enough to hold a dance and into the dining room. Formal and elegant, its sage green walls found echoes in the drapery framing ceiling high windows. Matching damask seats covered twelve Queen Anne chairs arranged around the banquet table and bracketing a highboy and buffet. That the mahogany furnishings were authentic antiques was obvious from their lustrous finish and fine workmanship.
"Do you like this room?" Ethan stood in the doorway as if reluctant to join her.
"Very much."
He motioned with a lifted chin. "All this came from the house where we grew up. Our Mum paid storage on it for years hoping we'd get back to it someday. Andy bailed out the lot when he bought this place."
"Family heirlooms make the room special."
"I'm glad you’re here."
His hesitant smile turned her knees to mush and his strong presence drew her like a magnet. Beige slacks and a matching turtleneck sweater emphasized his slim length and broad shoulders and brought out pale lights in his blond hair. Devastating, she thought. Unmistakable pleasure lit his eyes, leading her to wonder what her own eyes gave away.
"Ethan, I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. I overreacted and..."
"Don’t apologize. If my admiration for you is unwelcome, I can keep it to myself. Your friendship is too valuable. I missed you like hell - especially when I came back from the building site."
"What happened?"
They walked to the head of the table where Mrs. Willis had set their places with crystal, silver and fine china.
He shrugged. "I tried talking to the contractors and was shown the door."
"The direct approach doesn't seem to work very well with those people."
He pulled out a chair for
Jordan
before seating himself. "Probably a clue to how much they have to hide."
Chapter 4
Jordan
looked at Ethan over her coffee cup. "What was it like, being a stockman?"
Dinner had been filled with good food and easy conversation. Replete and relaxed, neither wanted to end the interlude.
"About like you’d expect - hot, dusty, long days, longer nights, floods during the wet, willy-willies during the dry.”
“Willy-willies?”
He thought for a moment. “Dust devils.”
She nodded. “Tell me more.”
“I started out as a jackaroo...”
She placed a hand on his to stop him. Her palm tingled at the contact. She tried to focus.
“Which is...?”
“A ringer...”
“C’mon,
Caldwell
,” she said with a grin. “Play fair.”
He laughed at her mischievous tone and nodded. “A rookie cowhand.” He paused, waiting for her reaction.
“Go on,” she said. “Slowly.”
“In my third year I became a drover - that’s the foreman or ramrod of a plant consisting of four hands, a cook and a horsetailer.”
She nodded. “I get it. You bossed an outfit with four cowboys, a cook - that’s easy - and a horsetailer? What’s that?”
One eyebrow quirked upward and her sly smile stirred his pulse. Having revived her sense of humor, he was tempted to find out what else he could bring to life, starting with her luscious mouth. He forced himself to concentrate on her question.
“That is a wrangler, a guy who tended the horses we rode during the muster...”
“Muster...you said that before...” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to decipher the reference. “It’s a roundup,” she said finally with a smile of triumph. “Right?”
“Spot on.”
“Spot on,” she repeated, with a touch of awe in her tone. “God, I love the way you talk. Okay. Continue.”
“That’s all. Three years running, we led mobs overland to market. These days, they mostly use road trains, so maybe it's a good thing I switched to architecture."
She raised one eyebrow. "A mob’s a herd of cows, right? What’s a road train?"
“A semi with multiple carriers for hauling livestock to market."
"Much better," she said with a nod of satisfaction. "Trucks are trucks and cowboys I understand. How did Kevin get here?"
"After the second muster, he came over and settled down with Lacey."
"Did they meet here?"
"No. After driving a mob - a herd - to market, we laid over in Birdsville. I don't suppose you've heard of the place."
"I've seen photos."
"Then you know it's dehydrated and nearly deserted most of the time. We came off a muster one time and walked into the hotel. This vision of loveliness stepped behind the counter to take our names. Kevin was a goner."
She felt a familiar stirring that she refused to acknowledge as jealousy. "You sound a little bit in love, yourself."
He fixed her with a potent stare that sent a shiver through her. "I've never been in love."
She looked for a safer topic. "How did you make the leap from mustering cows to designing buildings?"
"Just got tired of the cattle business. I'd mucked around some with art as a kid. Architecture seemed to have a future if I could create a following. I came here to go to school and never left."
As she poured the last of the coffee from the silver pot she asked, "May I see your blueprints for the project?"
"Why?"
"To help me understand what's going on with you and VolTerre."
While he went for the plans,
Jordan
carried the centerpiece of yellow tulips to the sideboard. She wanted to understand, to help, even though helping had brought back a past filled with loss and broken dreams.
He spread out the plans, using candlesticks and silverware to hold down the corners. With elbows on the table, they knelt on their chairs and leaned over the charts, close enough to feel each other's warmth.
Time drifted by unheeded as he explained floor plans and elevations, deciphered schematics for newly-developed fastening devices he'd ordered. His fingers traced drawings of the buildings as they would have looked when completed.
"The people living there would’ve had light and fresh air and a feeling of open spaces. The kids could run and play without their mothers worrying. The older folks would have had their place in the sun as well."
He looked at her. "You can see it, can't you?"
"What?"
"The dream. It's there.” He pointed. “In your eyes."
"Your belief makes it real."
He leaned into her. Something warm pulsed through her, as though a second heart had begun beating beneath her ribs. The sensation was so powerful she thought he must feel it, too. Once again instinct warned her to pull away, but she remembered his arms carrying her to bed as soft words soothed her fears, remembered the comfort his strength had brought, and stayed where she was. Another smile lit his eyes as he turned back to the drawing.
He continued to talk, softly, almost tenderly, as though describing the woman he loved. His voice held an intensity, a tightly leashed passion that glittered in his eyes. His long, slender, artist's fingers moved lightly over the sheets of Bristol board and parchment as he pointed out features that were a source of pride. Her annoying inner voice wondered how those fingers would feel tracing a path across her skin.