The Last Honest Woman (10 page)

She never stirred for the hour he sat in the chair beside the bed, watching her. And wondering.

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Sweaty, aching and disoriented, Abby woke. How long had she been asleep? Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried to gather her reserves of strength. Her skin felt clammy, and she thought for a moment that the lining of her throat had been coated with something hot and bitter. She was forced to admit that whatever had hit her had hit her with both fists. Because she was alone, she moaned a little as she sat up. Then, studying the clock beside her, she moaned again. 2:15. She'd slept nearly four hours. Mr. Jorgensen. Desperate, Abby swung out of bed. The pounding in her head began immediately, along with a throbbing that seemed to reach every inch of her body. She realized she was damp with sweat. Abby snatched up her jeans, then leaned against the bedpost, waiting for the weakness to pass.

They might still be here, she told herself. They could have come late and right now be standing in the barn, looking over the mare. Eve hadn't been groomed, but Jorgensen had already seen her at her best. And the vet—the vet was bound to vouch for the fact that the mare was strong and healthy. All she had to do was get dressed and go outside and apologize.

Dylan strolled in, carrying a tray. "Going somewhere?"

"It's after two." Though weak, it was definitely an accusation.

"You got that right." He set the tray down on the dresser and studied her. The nightgown scooped low at her neck and drooped carelessly over one shoulder—one very slender, very smooth shoulder. The rest of her was just as slender, from the long dancer's legs to the high, subtly rounded breasts.

A man was entitled, Dylan told himself, to feel a little tightening, a little heat, a little longing, when he looked at a half-naked woman and a rumpled bed. He just couldn't let it get personal. "Interesting," he murmured. "This is the first time I've seen you in something that isn't three inches thick."

"I'm sure I look ravishing."

"Actually, you look like hell. Why don't you get back in bed before you keel over?"

"Mr. Jorgensen—"

"An interesting little man," Dylan finished. Walking to her, Dylan took the jeans out of her hand and tossed them on a chair. "He talked about his horses with more passion than he did his wife." He eased her down on the bed as he spoke.

"He's still here? I've got to go out and talk to him."

"He's gone." With little fuss, Dylan arranged the pillows at her back.

"Gone?"

"Yeah. Open up. I managed to find this among the bottles of antiseptic spray and colored Band-Aids."

She waved the thermometer away as she tried to concentrate on her next move. "I can call him and reschedule. Did you explain why I wasn't available? I can't believe I missed him. The vet… did the vet…?"

Dylan stuck the thermometer in her mouth, then captured both her hands before she could pull it out again. "Shut up." When she started to mumble around it, he caught her chin in his other hand. "Listen, if you want to hear about Jorgensen you'll leave that thing in and keep your mouth shut. Got it?"

She slumped back, nearly ready to sulk. He was speaking to her as she might to one of the boys. Seeing no alternative, Abby nodded.

"Good." Releasing her hands, he went back for the tray.

Abby immediately pulled the thermometer out. "Did the vet give Eve an exam? I need to—"

"Put that thing back in or I'll leave you up here alone and wondering." After setting the tray on her lap, he stood waiting. He felt a nice sense of satisfaction when she obeyed. "The vet said Eve was in perfect shape, that he didn't foresee any complications, and you can expect her to deliver the foal within a week."

She reached for the thermometer. He only had to lift a brow to stop her. "About the other mare, Gladys?" When she nodded, he shook his head. "Hell of a name for a horse. Anyway, she's just as fit. Jorgensen said to tell you if all goes well he'll call you to discuss terms after the foal's born. He also said," Dylan continued, grabbing her wrist again as she reached up, "that he has a couple of names for you. People who might be interested in the other foal. I have a feeling he might be interested himself if his wife doesn't skin him. You can call him when you're on your feet. Satisfied?"

She closed her eyes and nodded. It was happening, at last it was really happening. The money from the foals would go a long way toward paying off the rest of the loan she'd been forced to take after Chuck's death. To be nearly out of debt, to know that in a year or two she'd be essentially stable again. Foolishly she wanted to cry. She wanted to burrow under the covers and weep until tears of relief washed everything else away. Keeping her eyes closed, she waited until she could compose herself.

An odd woman, Dylan thought as he watched her. Why should she get so emotional over the sale of a couple of horses? He was certain the price was right, but it could hardly be more than a drop in the bucket compared to the estate she must have inherited from Rockwell. Money must be important, he decided, though he'd be damned if he could see where she spent it.

The furniture perhaps. Her bed was eighteenth-century and not something you'd pick up at a yard sale. And the horses, of course. She hadn't bought that stallion for a song and a smite. He glanced over at her closet. He'd wager that a good chunk of the rest was hanging in there.

When she opened her eyes again, he plucked the thermometer out. "Dylan I don't know what to say."

"Um-hmm. A hundred and three. Looks like you win the prize."

"A hundred and three?" Her gratitude disappeared. "That's ridiculous, let me see it."

He held it out of reach. "Are you always such a lousy patient?"

"I'm never sick. You must have read that wrong."

He handed it over, then watched as her brows drew together. "Well, that should make you feel a whole lot worse." He took the thermometer again, shook it, then slipped it into its plastic case. "Now, can you feed yourself or do you want help?"

"I can manage." She stared without appetite at the soup steaming on the tray. "I don't usually eat lunch."

"Today you do We're pushing fluids. Try the juice first."

She took the glass he handed her, then sighed. No wonder he was treating her like one of the boys, she thought. She was acting like one. "Thanks. I'm sorry for complaining. I don't mean to be cranky, but there are so many things I have to do. Lying here isn't getting them done."

"Indispensable, are you?"

She looked at him again. Something moved in her eyes—emotion, hope, questions, he couldn't tell which. "I am needed."

She said it with such quiet desperation that he reached out to stroke her cheek before he thought about it. "Then you'd better take care of yourself."

"Yeah." She lifted the spoon and tried to work up some enthusiasm for the soup. "I
am
a lousy patient. Sorry."

"It's all right. So am I."

To please him, she began to eat "You don't look like you're ever sick."

"If it makes you feel better, I had the flu a couple of years ago."

She smiled, a self-deprecating humor in her eyes. "It does. Anyway, I'm more used to doing the doctoring. Both boys were down with the chicken pox in September. The house was like a ward. Dylan…" She'd been working up to this for some time. Now, idly stirring her soup, she thought she had the courage. "I'm sorry about last night, and this morning."

"Sorry for what?"

She looked up. He seemed so relaxed, so untouched. Apparently harsh words and arguments didn't leave him churning with guilt But he hadn't lied, and they both knew it. She figured they both knew she'd go on lying. "I said things I didn't mean. I always do when I'm angry."

"Maybe you're more honest when you're angry than you think." He was tense. However it looked on the outside, he was baffled by her, moved by her. "Listen, Abby, I still intend to push you and push you hard. But I've got some scruples. I don't intend to start wrestling with you until you can hold your own." She had to smile. "As long as I'm sick, I'm safe."

"Something like that. You're not eating."

"I'm sorry." She set down the spoon. "I just can't." He picked up the tray to set it beside the bed. "Anyone ever tell you that you apologize too much?"

"Yes." She smiled again. "Sorry."

"You're an interesting woman, Abby."

"Oh?" It felt so good just to snuggle back. Chilled, she drew the blankets higher. Incredibly, she was tired again, so tired it would have taken no effort at all to simply ease back and drift off. "I always thought I was rather humdrum."

"Humdrum." He glanced down at her elegant hands and remembered how competently they had worked. He remembered the woman in mink, diamonds glittering at her ears, and thought of how she had folded laundry. It didn't add up to humdrum. It simply didn't add up at all. "I've got a picture of you in my file that was taken in Monte Carlo. You were wrapped to the eyebrows in white mink."

"The white mink." She smiled drowsily as the energy drained from her degree by degree. "Made me feel like a princess. It was fabulous, wasn't it?"

"Was?"

"Mmm. Just like a princess."

"Where is it?"

"The roof," she said, and slept.

The roof? She had to be delirious if she was picturing fur coats on the roof. She murmured a bit when he settled her more comfortably.

A very interesting woman, Abby, he thought again as he stood back to look at her. All he had to do was fill in all the blank spaces.

When Dylan heard the first crash, he was in the middle of transcribing his notes on Rockwell's first year of professional racing. He swore, though without heat, as he turned off the typewriter. Leaving the half-typed sheet in the machine, he went downstairs to greet the boys at the front door.

"It wasn't my fault." Ben glared at his brother, his arm around the dog.

"It was, too, you—" Chris reached into his vocabulary and brought out his top insult "—Idiot."

"You're the idiot. Just because—"

"Problem?" Dylan asked as he opened the door. Both boys had fire in their eyes, and Chris was covered with mud from head to foot, as well. His bottom lip trembled as he pointed a dirty, self-righteous finger at his brother.

"He pushed me down."

"I did not."

"I'm telling Mom."

"Hold it, hold it." Dylan blocked the door and got a smear of fresh mud on his jeans. "Ben, don't you think you're a little too big to be pushing Chris down?"

"I didn't." His chin poked out. "He's always saying I did things when I didn't.
I'm
telling Mom."

Big tears welled up in Chris's eyes as he stood, a major mess, on the porch. Dylan had a strong and unexpected urge to hunker down and hug him. "Look, it'll clean off," he said, contenting himself with flicking at the boy's nose with a finger. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"He pushed me down." The first tears spilled over. He was still too young to be ashamed of them. "Just 'cause he's bigger."

"I did not." Not far from tears himself, Ben stared at the ground. "I didn't mean to, anyway. We were just fooling around."

"An accident?"

"Yeah." He sniffled, embarrassing himself.

"It never hurts to apologize for an accident." He put a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Especially when you're bigger."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, shooting a look at his brother. "Mom's going to be mad 'cause he's got mud all over. I'm going to get in trouble. And it's Friday."

"Uh-huh." Dylan considered. Chris was over his tears now and running his fingers curiously through the mud on his coat. "Well, maybe we won't have to tell her this time."

"Yeah?" Hope sprang into Ben's eyes, then was quickly displaced by mistrust. "She's gonna see anyhow."

"No, she's not. Come on." Seeing no other way, Dylan hoisted Chris up. "We'll dump you in the washing machine."

He giggled and swung a friendly, filthy arm around Dylan's neck. "You can't put people in there. It's too small. Where's Mom?"

"Upstairs. She's got the flu."

"Like Mr. Petrie?"

"That's right."

Ben stopped as they entered the kitchen. "Mom's never sick."

"She is this time. Right now she's steeping, so let's try to keep it down, okay?"

"I want to see her myself."

Dylan stopped in the act of pushing the door to the laundry room open. He glanced back and saw Ben just inside the kitchen, his mouth set, his eyes defiant. Though it disconcerted him, Dylan found himself admiring Ben's determination to defend his mother.

"Don't wake her up." He swung through to the laundry room. "Okay, tiger, strip."

Ready to oblige, Chris struggled out of his coat. "My teacher had the flu last week, so we had a substitute. She had red hair and couldn't remember our names. Is Mom going to be sick tomorrow?"

"She won't be as sick tomorrow." Dylan found the soap and began figuring out the mechanics of the washing machine.

"She can use my crayons." Chris plopped down on the floor and began yanking at his boots. "And we can read her stories. She reads me storks when I'm sick."