Without turning, she nodded her head.
“Need some help?”
She heard the sound of his approaching footsteps and quickly shook her head. “You should rest,” she blurted.
“Nah. I’ve slept enough already. Besides, I checked out the garden yesterday. The raspberries are definitely ripe.” She whirled around to find him grinning at her nonchalantly, his shirt still unbuttoned. “Nice hat,” he added.
“Have you been eating my berries?” she accused, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Her garden was her territory. Everyone knew that.
He held up two hands as if to ward her off, then tried another grin. When it had no impact whatsoever, he switched to the somber approach. “Sampled would be a far kinder word. Just one or two.” Or three or four. “I swear.”
“I’m going to make jam with those berries.”
Her face was so intense, he found himself grinning again. His mother had been the same about her garden all those years ago. Not that she managed to salvage much from five wild children. Of course, Jake was the one who came up with all the best infiltration ideas—though dressing up like a scarecrow might have been a bit much.
“Honest,” he said now. “I’ll help. We’ll consider it a raspberry tax.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted him in her garden. She wasn’t sure she could handle more time in his broad-shouldered presence. But he looked sincere, and perhaps it was rude to turn down a genuine offer of help. Finally, she relented with a nod. “But we’re picking berries,” she reiterated. “Picking, as in putting the berries in a bucket, a plastic bucket.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he affirmed, smiling as she muttered something less than complimentary under her breath. Whistling tunelessly to himself, he followed her out the door.
If Suzanne was possessive about her garden, she had a right to be. The broad expanse took up most of her backyard and was a delightful mix of beautiful roses and fruits and vegetables. A brick wall ran along the back, covered now by the pink American Pillar climbing rose. The left border was a carefully cultivated mix of cream-colored Alba Maxima roses and the deep crimson Tuscany Superb. Last year, the Tuscany had won grand prize at the Maddensfield Fair. Lower-growing roses such as the Gallica rose, Complicata, surrounded the base of her blueberry bushes, and the far right border unveiled loose, fragrant clusters of red, pink and white Autumn Damasks.
In the middle of the floral explosion, she’d laid out neat, orderly rows of strawberries, asparagus, carrots and squash. Next to the blueberry trees, wire frames supported the raspberry bushes’ climb toward freedom. She’d splurged heavily on the garden, importing rich soil to support her efforts, and rewarding the soil with carefully considered blends of chemicals and natural fertilizers such as ash and compost.
When her mother had been dying in the hospital, her stomach swollen, her skin loose and yellowish green, Suzanne had also fertilized the roses with her tears.
“You have a beautiful garden,” Garret said behind her.
“I like fresh fruit.”
She led him over to the raspberries and tried not to think about his eyes on her back. For a while she left him at the raspberries with a pail and wandered alone among her roses. She clipped off dead blossoms with a practiced hand, testing the soil for moisture. She liked the way roses smelled, fresh and sweet and delicate. Sometimes she would come out here and close her eyes and dream she was in some faraway garden like the Empress Josephine or the Princess of Wales. In the early morning hours, she would watch the blossoms open, shimmering and moist with dew, and allow herself to marvel in their simple beauty.
There were parts of her life she didn’t like to dwell on. But in her roses, as with her dolls, she’d at least found some measure of contentment.
“Hey, I didn’t know I was a one-man crew.”
She turned toward Garret’s plaintive words, finding him watching her with speculative eyes. She summoned a smile to her face and crossed back over to the raspberries.
“The roses must take up a lot of time,” he said, his eyes still steady upon her face.
She nodded. “They’re coming along well this year.”
“When did you start the garden?”
She just shrugged. “Oh, years back, I suppose. Dotti actually gave me the idea.”
Garret nodded at the reference to his mother and pulled a ripe raspberry off the vine. “I think your garden has surpassed her efforts, though.”
Again, Suzanne shrugged. “I have more time, I think.” Her efficient fingers rippled through the vine, plucking the soft berries with practiced precision. From time to time, she’d squeeze a little too tightly, and the sweet, warm juice would stain her fingers. She moved on, not noticing.
But her sharp eyes did catch Garret surreptitiously popping a quick berry into his mouth. At the last minute, he caught her look and grinned boyishly.
“They’re best fresh,” he mumbled through a full mouth.
She arched a fine eyebrow. “I have kindergarten pupils who exercise more self-control.”
“Yeah, well, we all have our talents.”
He popped another berry, but this time she was faster. With quick reflexes honed by outwitting exuberant five-year-olds, she snatched the berry from his lips.
“Mine,” she declared triumphantly. But before she could chortle further, his hand snapped around her wrist like a steel vise. Just as her eyes were opening round with the shock, he seized the warm raspberry from her fingertips with his mouth, licking the juice from her fingers at the same time.
“Mine,” he corrected huskily.
Her hazel eyes turned gold, her mouth parting from the tingling impact of his tongue on her fingertips. His dark gaze followed the movement of her lips, then swept up to challenge her openly.
“Are we back to need, Suzanne?”
Mutely, she shook her head, but her golden eyes remained on his lips. He bowed his head and trailed his tongue slowly up her index finger. Her breath came out in a little gasp, and he closed his mouth upon her finger fully, sucking it with sweet, sensuous promise.
“We’re definitely back to need, Suzanne.”
This time, she simply nodded.
“So what is it you need? Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”
Peace, sanity, safety and security. Long, lonely nights with her beautiful dolls and classic black and whites.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He smiled, slow and promising. “With pleasure, sweetheart.”
Even as his lips were descending, her arms tangled around his neck. Suddenly, she didn’t want prim or proper. She wanted his lips, full and masculine, tasting of stolen raspberries and the hot July sun. She wanted his body, hard and demanding, pressed against her own. She wanted his tongue, skillful and sure, plundering her mouth and stirring sensations she hadn’t known existed.
And she needed. She needed his hands, smoothing down her back, cupping the curve of her buttocks. She needed his palm, rubbing against her breast, making her breath come in hot, urgent gasps.
Her hat fell back, revealing her skin to the caressing sun, but she only arched her neck farther back without protest. She opened her mouth wider, welcoming him in, finding and dueling with his tongue as he’d taught her just two nights before. He tried to go slowly, but she gripped him all the tighter and made him go faster.
In the fragrant heat of her garden, he was hard and callused and male. His cheeks rasped with twenty-four hours of beard, his fingers and lips sticky with raspberries and forceful with desire.
She needed his touch and his taste, until the very force of the need burned her eyes, and then she was dragging him down to the soft, rich ground while his tongue plundered her mouth.
He grazed his teeth down her neck, finding her earlobe and nipping sharply while she gasped beneath him. He buried his face between the valley of her breasts, rubbing his cheek against her soft curves while her hands tangled in his hair. Nuzzling aside her shirt, his fingers found the first few buttons and released them with a deft touch. He exposed the white cotton of her bra with its simple pattern of pink-tipped roses and peeled back the thin material to find her ripe breast. He closed his lips over her nipple. She arched back against the rich soil, moaning her compliance as he feasted on her sensitive, swollen flesh, his lips strong and sucking.
“Miss Montgomery. Oh, Miss Montgomery…”
The call penetrated the warm haze, a harsh splash of cold water. One moment, Garret’s mouth was warm and moist on her breast, the next, he was simply gone, bolting up like an arrow while his eyes quickly scoured the backyard.
“Miss Montgomery,” called the voice, now from the side of the house.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Garret said. He reached down and quickly redid the top buttons of her pale yellow shirt while she frantically brushed the dirt from her hair.
The footsteps sounded closer.
“What do we do?” Suzanne demanded to know, her face shell-shocked, her hands still trembling with raw desire and sudden fear.
“The shed,” Garret said immediately. He took a step forward, then realized the person was walking down that side of the house.
“The roses,” Suzanne breathlessly corrected. She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the thickly blooming Alba Maxima and Tuscany Superb. “Duck,” she squeaked, and practically pushed him through the thick bushes. He hissed sharply, then rolled through to the other side.
“Miss Montgomery, there you are.” She whirled sharply, pasting a smile on her face while her left hand tried to pick the last few twigs out of her hair.
“Deputy Davey,” she called back, her voice a couple of octaves higher than usual. “What brings you here?”
The young deputy strode strongly toward the garden. Belatedly, she smoothed her shirt and moved to cut him off. “I’m looking for Sheriff Cagney, ma’am. I was told he was on his way here. Have you seen him?”
Suzanne shook her head, retrieving her hat at the last moment and plopping it unceremoniously on her head. Perhaps it would at least partly cover her flaming cheeks. “Why, no, I haven’t. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Sorry to interrupt your gardening and all. It’s just he’s asked us to watch his parents’ house, and last night someone broke in.”
Suzanne faltered, and behind her she was certain she heard a muttered curse.
“Why don’t you come inside?” she said quickly. “I’ll fix you a nice glass of iced tea and I’m sure in another minute or two Cagney will arrive.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am.”
She managed another smile and wondered if Deputy Davey could hear the loud, guilty beats of her thundering heart. He simply followed her into the house, his young face its normal benign self.
She’d no sooner poured two glasses of iced tea than the sound of an approaching car filled the air. Standing at attention, Davey solemnly debriefed Cagney the minute he walked in, then handed him a note that had been left on the dining room table of Dotti and Henry Guiness’s house. The note was addressed to Garret.
“Mom saw this?” Cage quizzed the young man.
“Yes, sir. She gave it to us, sir. Said she reckoned you would know what to do with it.”
Cagney swore softly under his breath. Knowing his parents, he figured they’d cottoned on to the fact that the deputy was watching their house after the first five minutes. At least they were familiar enough with their children’s life-styles by now not to ask too many questions.
“I’ll take care of it from here, Deputy,” Cagney said at last. “Any chance of prints?”
“No prints, sir. The window was forced open in the back. Not very professional, sir.”
That was interesting. “Anything stolen?”
“No, sir. At least nothing has been reported missing yet. Just this note was left on the table.”
Cagney’s scowl deepened, then he abruptly released his pent-up breath with a sigh. “You did well, Davey. I want you to keep an eye out for a few more days, just to make sure nothing else happens. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.” Davey headed for the door, turning at the last minute as if he wanted to ask a question. One look at Cagney’s steely gaze, however, and the young deputy snapped his mouth shut and marched smartly through the door.
Cagney watched him go, shaking his head. “A sheriff shouldn’t have to lie to his own deputies,” he muttered under his breath. Then his sharp eyes took in Suzanne. “So where did you hide him?”
“Behind the roses.”
She turned and led him down the hall, her shoulders finally beginning to relax even as her mind raced through this new turn of events.
“Suzanne, there’s dirt all down your back.”
“Gardening’s dirty work,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Yeah, I bet,” he replied, his tone ironic.
This time, however, she couldn’t quite stop the secretive smile that touched her lips.
Garret emerged the minute she and Cagney appeared on the back porch, his expression intense. “What happened?” he demanded to know instantly.
Without speaking, Cagney held out the folded slip of white paper. For a moment, Garret just stared at it. Then slowly, he reached out and took it from his brother’s grasp.
In the hot sun, he unfolded the paper and read the two simple lines scrawled in pencil.
The waters of Miljaka still flow red. The river remembers,
prijatelj,
and so do I.
And suddenly, he was back in the ruins of his mind.
He was walking, and men were around him. They were all covered with soot, and some still moaned with the fresh pain and old weariness. The ax rested in his hands, the blade fire-seared and bloodstained. They had been gone from the camp for longer than planned, days and nights of fire without end as the Olympic stadium had burned before their eyes. Now, their stomachs rumbled with hunger, and fresh wounds sharpened their rage.
Above him, the birds circled, and even as his exhausted eyes took in the motion, he did not understand.
They came over the hill, and then they all stopped.
Bodies. Everywhere. Bodies and the smoldering tents of a ravaged camp. Not even the smoke could cover the sweet, putrid odor of death.