The Last Honest Woman (9 page)

"That wouldn't have done any—" She cut herself off. It was late, and she was tired and much too vulnerable. "I'll make you that coffee," she began, and started to stand.

"I don't want you to wait on me." He had his hand on her arm, and though the touch was still light, it was enough to keep her from moving away.

She felt, incredibly, impossibly, an urge to just turn into his arms. She wanted to be held in them, to have him fold her to him and ask no questions. But of course he would. He would always ask, and she couldn't always answer. Abby held her ground and kept her distance.

"And I don't want you to interview me now."

"You've never mentioned Chuck in the area of fatherhood, Abby. Why is that?"

"Maybe because you've never asked me."

"So I'm asking now."

"I told you, I'm not in the mood for an interview. It's late. I'm tired."

"And you lie." His grip tightened just enough to make her heartbeat unsteady.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He was sick of evasions, sick of looking at her face and knowing the truth wouldn't be there. "Every time I touch on certain areas you give me these tidy answers. Very pretty and well rehearsed. I have to ask myself why. Why do you want to whitewash Chuck Rockwell?"

He was hurting her. Not her arm—she could barely feel his fingers on her—he was hurting her deep in places she'd deluded herself into believing were safe. "He was my husband. Isn't that answer enough for you?"

"No." He could hear the emotion trembling in her voice. So he'd push, and he'd push now. "The theory I've come up with is, the better he looked, the better you looked. And if your marriage seemed to be going well, Janice Rockwell was happy. Chuck was her only son, and somebody was bound to inherit all that money."

For the second time he watched her face pale, but this time he recognized rage, not fear. It ripped through her; he could feel it just by the touch of his hand on her arm.

He wanted it He wanted to tear holes in her composure and get to the truth. And to her.

"Let go of me." Her voice vibrated in the quiet kitchen. Behind them, a log broke and tossed sparks against the screen. Neither of them noticed. "I want an answer first."

"You seem to have them already."

"If you want me to believe otherwise, tell me."

"I don't give a damn what you think." And that, Abby realized was the biggest lie of all. She cared, and because she cared, his accusation had crushed her. She'd been crushed before and understood that whining about it brought nothing but humiliation. "I'll give you what you want to hear and be done with it. I chose to exploit my marriage, to cash in on my dead husband's fame and reputation. Since I'm all but certain Janice Rockwell will read the book, I want to be sure she's satisfied with the results. Obviously I want her to see that my marriage to Chuck was solid. Whatever dirt you manage to dig up won't come from me. Satisfied?"

He let her arm go. In the space of seconds, she'd confirmed everything he'd thought of her, and contradicted everything he'd begun to feel. "Yeah, I'm satisfied."

"Fine. If you have more questions, ask them tomorrow, when the tape's running."

He watched her walk away and wondered how long it would take him to separate the lies from the truth.

Abby invariably woke quickly, and after her first half cup of coffee was completely alert and ready to take charge. Today, she found herself reluctant to leave her bed. Her muscles ached, her temples throbbed. Blaming it on a restless night, she went into her morning routine in low gear.

The boys were cheerful enough as they gobbled down their breakfast. The altercation of the evening before was already forgotten, in the way children had of putting things behind them. After she'd seen them off to school she indulged in another cup of coffee, waiting for her system to catch up with her schedule.

Still dragging, she bundled herself in her coat and went outside. The sun was bright, the air already warming with the first promise of spring, but she shivered and wished she'd put on an extra sweater. Catching a cold, she decided as she rubbed at the ache in the back of her neck. Well, she just didn't have time for it. Moving on automatic pilot, she gathered the eggs, then walked to the barn.

The stalls needed cleaning, the horses needed to be fed and groomed. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she resented the hours she spent working. All she ever did was clean up after others, take care of problems and deal with the jobs that had to be done. When was she going to have time for herself? Time to curl up with a book and while away an afternoon.

A book. Nearly laughing at herself, she gathered halters. Now wasn't the time to think of books—especially not one book in particular. She'd forgotten she could be hurt. It had been so long since she'd been involved with anyone who could—

Pressing her fingers against her eyes, Abby cut herself off. She couldn't call her relationship with Dylan an involvement. Business and business only, the kind that was meant to benefit both of them—that was all there was. It didn't matter, couldn't matter to her that he thought she was an opportunist. Abby supposed that was the kindest word for what he thought of her. If she followed her wounded feelings and tossed him out, she'd have accomplished nothing. In any case, she'd signed the papers and was committed to keeping him around.

And when did her obligations end? Abby let the first two horses loose in the paddock, then made the return trip to the barn. She'd been obligated to Chuck, then to her children. Now, because of them she was again duty-bound, however obliquely, to Chuck. So let Dylan Crosby think what he wanted of her as long as he wrote the book.

Tired, she rested her head against the gelding's flank. His flesh felt cool and friendly. God, she needed a friend. How could she think straight when her head was pounding? Yet she had to. The flare of temper last night might have cost her. If Dylan thought the worst of her, wouldn't it color his writing? Damn, what did he care about her reasons for authorizing the book? Whatever they were, he was being paid to write it. Her motivations had nothing to do with the story of Chuck's life. Yet they had everything to do with it.

She made a second trip outside and returned for the rest of the horses. After she'd finished in the barn, maybe her head would be clear. Then she'd know the right way to handle Dylan.

She remembered the morning when the sun had been bright and hard on her face and he'd held her. Wanted her. She could still remember the way his eyes had looked, the way his mouth had felt when it had brushed against hers. For a moment, for one indulgent moment, she'd wished he could be someone she could depend on, someone she could confide in. That was foolish. She'd known before they'd met that he had a job to do. So did she.

By the time she'd finished with the first stall, her skin was filmed with sweat. The pitchfork seemed heavier than usual as she lifted it to start on the next.

"Seems to me you ought to hire yourself a couple of hands."

Dylan stood just inside the door, the sun at his back, his face in shadow. Abby stopped long enough to squint at him. "Does it? I'll take it under advisement."

He picked up a pitchfork but just leaned on it. "Abby, why don't you drop this masquerade—you know, the struggling little homemaker who works from dawn to dusk to keep her family going."

She leaned into her work. "I'm trying to impress you."

"Don't bother. The book's about Chuck Rockwell, not you."

"Fine. I'll drop the act as soon as I get rid of this manure."

So she had claws. His fingers tightened on the worn wood handle until he deliberately relaxed them. He wanted to get to her, but he had to keep control to do it. "Listen, as long as things don't jibe, the book goes nowhere. Since we both want it to move, let's stop playing games."

"Okay." Because she needed to rest a moment, she stopped and leaned on her pitchfork. "What do you want, Dylan?"

"The truth, or as close as you can get to it. You were married to Rockwell for four years. That means there are parts of his life you know better than anyone. Those are the parts I want from you. Those are the parts you were paid to give me."

"I said I'd talk to you when the tape was running, and I will." She turned back to the stall. "Right now I've got work to do.''

"Just drop it." Dylan grabbed her by the lapels and spun her around. Her pitchfork went clattering to the concrete. "Call back whoever usually takes care of this business and let's get to work. I'm tired of wasting time."

"My staff?" She'd have pulled away, but she didn't think she had the strength. "Sorry, I gave them the month off. If you want to work, bring your little pad and tapes out here. My horses need tending."

"Just who the hell are you?" he demanded, giving her a quick shake. He was no less surprised than she when her knees buckled. Keeping his grip firm, he braced her against the stall. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." She tried to brush his hands away but failed. "I'm not used to being knocked around."

"You get jostled more on the subway," he muttered. She made him feel like a rough-handed clod, and he hated it. He let her go.

"You'd know more about that than I." Infuriated with herself, she bent down to scoop up the pitchfork. When her head spun, she grabbed the side of the stall for support.

Swearing, Dylan took her by the shoulders. "Look, if you're sick—"

"I'm not. I'm never sick, I'm just a little tired." And pale, he realized as he let himself really look at her. He yanked off his glove and held a hand to her face. "You're burning up."

"I'm just overheated." Her voice rose a bit with her panic at being touched, even though being touched was exactly what she needed. "Leave me alone until I'm finished in here."

"Can't stand a martyr," he mumbled, taking her by the arm.

It was rare, very rare, for Abby's Irish heritage to break through in sheer blind rage. She'd always left that to the rest of her family and calmly worked her way through difficulties. This wasn't one of those times. She yanked her arm away and shoved him hard against the side of the stall. The strength she'd dredged up surprised them both.

"I don't care what you can stand. I don't give a damn what you think. Those papers I signed don't give you the right to interfere in my life. I'll let you know when I have time for your questions and for your accusations. Whether you believe it's a game or a facade, I have work to do. You can go to hell."

She was panting as she turned and grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow. She jerked it up, took two steps, then dropped it again as her strength drained away.

"You're doing great." He was fed up with her, and with himself, but he'd have to deal with that later. Now, unless he was very much mistaken, the lady needed a bed. This time, when he took her by the arm, she could do no more than try to shake him off.

"Don't put your hands on me."

"Babe, I've been doing my damnedest to keep them off you all week." When she stumbled, he swore, then scooped her up in his arms. "This time we're both going to have to put up with it."

"I don't have to be carried." Then she started to shiver. Too weak to help herself, she let her head fall on his shoulder. "I haven't finished."

"Yeah, you have."

"The eggs."

"I'll get them later—after I dump you in bed."

"Bed?" She roused herself again, noticing dimly they were stepping onto the porch. "I can't go to bed. The horses haven't been dealt with, and the vet's coming at one to look over the mares. Mr. Jorgensen's coming with him. I have to sell that foal."

"I'm sure Jorgensen's going to be thrilled to buy the foal after you've given him the flu."

"Flu? I don't have the flu, just a little cold."

"Flu." Dylan laid her on the bed, then began to pry off her boots. "I'd say you'll be hobbling around again in a couple of days."

"Don't be absurd." She managed with a great deal of effort to prop herself up on her elbows. "I just need a couple of aspirin."

"Can you get undressed by yourself, or do you want help?"

"I'm not getting undressed," she said evenly, though if she could have had one wish at the moment, it would have been to sleep.

"Help then." Sitting down, he began to unbutton her coat.

"I don't need or want your help." She clung to what dignity she had left and struggled to sit up. "Look, I might have a touch of the flu, but I also have two children who'll walk in the door at 3:25. In the meantime I have to groom the horses, Eve in particular. I have a lot riding on the deal with Jorgensen."

Dylan studied her face. Her skin was pale, her eyes glazed with fever. The quickest way to bring her around was to agree with her. "Okay, that's at one. Do yourself a favor and rest for an hour." When she started to object, he shook his head. "Abby, you'll really impress Jorgensen by fainting at his feet."

She was wobbly. There was no use denying it. To be honest, she didn't think she could have lifted a curry comb at the moment. She was a practical woman, and the practical thing to do was to test until she built up a little strength. If it galled a bit to agree with him, she'd just have to swallow the gall. "I'll rest an hour."

"Fine, get into bed. I'll bring you a couple aspirin."

"Thanks." She peeled off her coat as he rose. Then, as it had a habit of doing, her conscience poked at her. "Really. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

When he left, Abby took a grip on the bedpost and pulled herself out of bed. Her body punished her by throbbing all over. Moving slowly, she went to her dresser and pulled out a cotton gown. She tugged off her sweater, then her jeans. Exhausted from the effort, she stood rocking on her feet and shivering. Just an hour, she told herself, and I'll be fine.

Later, she couldn't even remember dragging on the gown and crawling into bed.

Dylan found her there when he came back. Sprawled on her stomach, she was sleeping, so deeply that she never stirred when he tucked the blankets around her. Nor did she stir when he bent closer and brushed the hair away from her face.