Ambushed Page 3

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re not the first person to lose someone you love?”

  The accusation, which had flown off the tip of her tongue in frustration, scored a direct hit. She watched as a cold shadow moved over his crystal blue eyes and a muscle began to twitch in his cheek.

  “Bull’s-eye,” he murmured.

  They stood, a few feet apart, staring at each other. Sunny wished she could take the incautious words back. She sighed, feeling sorry that she’d wounded him, and guilty that she was more concerned that he’d send her away, blowing her chance to remain in the romance ranks.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I had no right to say that.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to apologize for speaking your mind. And you’re right. I’m not the first man to lose the woman he loved. And I won’t be the last.”

  “No. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

  “It’s not going to work,” he growled, the brief truce suddenly broken again.

  “What?”

  Yeah, that nagging little voice in the back of his mind echoed, what the hell are you complaining about? Do you have a problem with the idea that a kind, seemingly generous, beautiful woman might actually give a damn whether or not you live or die? Clint ignored the faint voice of reason. As he had for months.

  “The sweetness-and-light routine,” he said gruffly. “You could be freaking Mary Poppins and I still wouldn’t be in the market for a housekeeper.” He took another long drink, feeling a bit like a rebellious adolescent daring his parents to ground him for bad behavior.

  Sunny understood his defiance and refused to play along. While she was trying to figure out her next move, he dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a roll of money which he held out to her.

  “Is this enough?” He cursed when he received a blank look in response. “For the damn groceries. And your work.”

  She didn’t count it, but since there was a hundred dollar bill on top, she suspected it was more than generous. “Yes, but-”

  “Then that’s it.”

  Clint was not normally rude, although admittedly even before Laura’s murder he wouldn’t have won any contests for Whiskey River’s Mr. Congeniality. But there was something about this woman—an indefinable something that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

  Determined to get her out of his house, he dug down into the pocket again, and pulled out a set of keys. “Here. The truck’s parked in the driveway. It’s all yours.”

  “How do you know I won’t just keep the truck?”

  “What makes you think I give a damn?” He reached out, grabbed her hand, stuck the keys in it, then closed her fingers. “Go away, whatever your name is—”

  “Sunny,” she reminded him in a voice that was almost a whisper.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “Go away, Sunny. There’s nothing for you here.” Before she could argue further, he put his arm around her shoulder and practically pushed her out the kitchen door.

  “I can’t drive a truck.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s an automatic. All you have to do is put it in drive and steer.”

  So much for that ploy. Having no other choice, Sunny blinked and in her mind’s eye watched the far side rear tire go flat.

  “Is there something wrong with that tire?” she asked innocently.

  The mercury-vapor light on the side of the nearby garage cast a wide yellow glow that illuminated the tire she’d flattened. He followed her gaze and cursed ripely.

  “Wait here. I’ll get the spare.”

  That’s what he thought. Another blink caused an entire string of curses.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The spare’s flat, too.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Even through the comforting alcohol fog that was beginning to settle over his brain once again, Clint thought he detected an insincere note in her calm tone.

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt, lit one, and puffed thoughtfully as he submitted her to a longlook. Her expression was one of absolute innocence. But there was something not quite right, something he couldn’t put his finger on that kept him from trusting her.

  “You realize of course, that there’s no way you’re going to get down the mountain tonight.”

  “You don’t have another spare?”

  “No. I’ll have to fix this one in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m being an inconvenience.”

  Clint knew, with every fiber of his being, that she was not sorry. However, he decided there was no point in calling her a liar: he’d simply let her spend the night, then send her the hell on her way in the morning.

  He cursed again. Then he turned and strode back toward the house. Trying to keep the smile of satisfaction off her face, Sunny followed him back into the kitchen.

  “I don’t suppose you happened to bring some clothes with you when you came to apply for that job that doesn’t exist.”

  “Actually, I did.”

  He shook his head. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? The bathroom’s at the top of the stairs. The spare bedroom is the first door on the left.”

  “Thank you—”

  “Just don’t get too comfortable,” he snarled, “because you’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “I’ve always heard about western hospitality,” Sunny said as she felt her temper beginning to simmer again, “but it’s so illuminating to see it in action.”

  “I never invited you here in the first place,” he reminded her. “So technically, you’re not a guest.”

  “Point taken.” She eyed the bottle he’d picked up again. “Why don’t I make some coffee before I do the dishes?” she suggested.

  “I don’t want any damn coffee. As for the dishes, leave them.”

  “But—”

  “Look, lady—”

  “Sunny,” she reminded him helpfully.

  “Look, Sunny, the dinner was great. Better than great. It was world-class. And you seem to be a very nice woman. You’re also kind of cute, and, as a bonus, you smell real good, too. In fact I’m sure, under other circumstances, you’d be real dandy company.

  “But you have to understand that I’ve had about all the conversation I can handle for one night. And right now, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to be left alone.”

  Deciding that having won the evening skirmish, she could tackle the war in the morning, Sunny decided to do as he asked.

  “Of course,” she agreed mildly.

  Clint followed her into the living room, where she retrieved the overnight bag he could have sworn hadn’t been there when he’d come through the room on the way to the kitchen earlier.

  Of course it had been there, he told himself later, as he put the remainder of the stew into the refrigerator. Did he think that she’d conjured it up out of thin air?

  Deciding he was definitely losing it, Clint went into the living room, where he sat in the dark, with only his new best friend Jim Beam for company, and proceeded to get quietly and desperately drunk.

  IN THE MORNING it was the smell of coffee that woke him. Dark and rich and alluring, it teased at his senses, offering blessed relief for the headache that was pounding behind his eyes. At first Clint thought he must be dreaming. Then, as he heard the clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, he remembered the woman who’d shown up yesterday in answer to that ad he’d never placed in the Rim Rock Record.

  As he had the night before, he followed the aroma and discovered her standing in front of the open refrigerator door. Today’s outfit was a Christmas red sweater and pair of matching leggings that accentuated her legs, which were, he admitted reluctantly, damn good. Her hair, tumbling down her back nearly to her waist, was a riot of untamed curls that glistened like gold dust in the morning sunlight streaming through the window.

  “That coffee smells good,” he said.

  His voice obviously startled her; she jumped an
d dropped the eggs she’d just taken from the cardboard container. “Oh, no!”

  Sunny watched in dismay as the eggs broke, turning into a sticky goo on the clean floor. She was about to blink and clean up the mess when she realized that Clint was watching.

  She turned on him, her heart still pounding wildly. “You scared me to death, sneaking up on me like that!”

  Her eyes were wide and startled, reminding Clint of a skittish doe caught in his truck headlights. “Sorry. I guess I should ask permission before coming into my own kitchen.”

  His tone, laced with its usual sarcasm, only irritated her further. “I see you aren’t any more pleasant in the morning than you are at night.”

  “Then you should be happy that you’re leaving this morning.”

  “I’ve had easier assignments,” she muttered, glaring down at the mess at her feet. Since he didn’t look as if he were going to leave the room any time soon, she realized she was actually going to have to clean the sticky stuff up the mortal way. By hand.

  Muttering a low curse beneath her breath, she yanked a handful of paper towels from the wooden holder, knelt down and began sponging.

  Clint watched her for a moment, told himself that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to help her out, then decided that if he encouraged her even the slightest bit, she might try to talk him into letting her stay on. Which was, of course, out of the question.

  He stepped over the broken eggs, took a mug down from the rack, poured a cup of the coffee and took a tentative sip. It was black as midnight and strong, just the way he liked it.

  “This isn’t bad,” he said.

  She was about to snap back that she was ever so pleased he approved when she realized that his tone had been almost friendly. She glanced a long, long way up, looking for some sense of what he was thinking. But his expression was as unreadable as ever and if the eyes were indeed windows to the man’s soul, he’d pulled down the shades to keep anyone from getting a glimpse.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She continued to look up at him in the hope he’d say something else. Anything else. Such as since she made the best coffee he’d ever tasted, perhaps she’d like to stay on and make it for him every morning.

  His beard was heavier this morning, creating a dark shadow on his haggard cheeks that echoed the dark, purplish blue shadows beneath his eyes. His hair looked as if it had been combed by thrusting his fingers through it and he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on last night. Obviously, he’d gotten drunk again after she’d left him alone.

  “I thought I’d fix waffles this morning,” she said, bestowing her cheeriest smile on him. Even the obstreperous mountain man, Devil Anse Hatfield, had not been able to resist its charm. “Unless you’d rather have hotcakes.”

  An image flashed through his mind—an image of the last morning he and Laura had spent together. He’d come downstairs after his shower to find her standing at the stove, wearing a frilly apron—and nothing else—flipping hotcakes. The smile she’d flashed over her shoulder had been even more provocative than her outfit and he’d taken her, right on the biscuit-hued kitchen counter with a passion that had left them both breathless.

  Later, when the blare of the smoke alarm and the billowing gray clouds rising from the pan revealed the pancakes had burned to charcoal, they’d both laughed.

  “Oh well,” Laura had said pragmatically, as she’d dumped the charred breakfast into the garbage disposal, “after tonight we’ll have lots more chances to have breakfast together.”

  “A lifetime,” he’d agreed as he’d kissed her sweet, smiling lips.

  The following morning she was gone. Her life cut tragically short.

  The memory caused ragged claws of pain and regret to rip at his insides. “I’d rather you just stop trying to be frigging Donna Reed,” he growled.

  He swallowed the coffee in long gulps, and then, although he desperately needed a drink to dull the ache, he reminded himself that the goal at the moment was to get this sweet smelling interloper out of his house. And his life. That being the case, he’d have to stay sober enough to drive her into town. Then, once she was gone, he could lose himself in the bottle.

  After the way he’d wolfed down last night’s stew, Sunny had hoped that the way to Clint Garvey’s heart might be through his stomach. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case.

  She sighed as he left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. She had not a single doubt that he’d have the spare tire fixed within minutes. And since he was sober, she couldn’t even refuse to drive to Whiskey River with him.

  Looking down at the gooey mess she’d made, she wondered how mortal women managed to keep a household running without magic. She blinked and was relieved when it disappeared. Then she stood up and went over to the window, and watched as Clint took the flat tire off the truck.

  The sky overhead was a bright blue bowl, forecasting a clear day. Sunny lifted her hand and made a wide, swirling gesture. Dark clouds suddenly appeared on the hori zon, and the red mercury line on the thermometer outside the window dropped dramatically as the swirling clouds swept toward Whiskey River. Moments later, the first blizzard of the season had begun.

  3

  “WHAT THE HELL?” Clint looked up in surprise as he was suddenly hit in the face by wind-driven snow. He might not be as coherent lately as he’d once been, but he knew damn well that the sun had been shining when he’d come out here.

  Now it was snowing so hard he could barely see the house only a few yards away. And it felt like the freaking North Pole. Having lived in Arizona’s high country all his life, Clint was accustomed to unpredictable weather. But he’d never witnessed such a rapid drop in temperature; not even during the summer monsoon season when thunderstorms tended to hit the rim like speeding freight trains.

  He’d barely gotten the third lug nut off when his fingers felt as if they were about to turn to ice. Cursing ripely, he surrendered the battle and marched back toward the house. Any storm that hit this fast would be on its way to Albuquerque within the hour. Then he could come back outside, finish repairing the tire, and get rid of little Miss Sunshine, or whatever her name was.

  She was setting the pine trestle kitchen table when he walked in the door. “I thought I’d serve breakfast in here,” she said, behaving as if he hadn’t already told her he didn’t want anything. “Unless you’d rather eat in the dining room—”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “I don’t want to eat in the kitchen. Or the dining room. I don’t want breakfast, I don’t want a housekeeper, and I definitely don’t want some clumsy scatterbrained blonde hanging around my house. Even if she can make a decent cup of coffee.”

  “And stew,” she reminded him. “With dumplings.”

  Was she deaf? Or screwed up in the head? He remembered a kid in high school, who’d gotten kicked in the head by a horse he’d been trying to ride in the saddle bronc competition of the Junior Rodeo national finals. Although he’d survived, Billy Young had never been the same again. Talking to him had been like talking to a wall, Clint remembered.

  “You ever ride a horse?”

  “No, although I’ve always wanted to. They seem like such wonderful animals. Why?”

  He shrugged. “You just remind me of someone I used to know.”

  “Oh.” Sunny gave him another of those winsome smiles. “The waffles are already made,” she coaxed. “Would it hurt you to eat them? It seems like such a waste to throw them out.”

  Another thing growing up in ranching country had taught him, along with expecting erratic weather, was to be frugal. Since the cow business wasn’t all that lucrative—at least it never had been for the Garveys—Clint had learned at an early age never to throw anything away. Most things could be repaired or remade into something else. Or you just did without. Her words struck a responsive chord.

  “Wouldn’t want to be accused of letting go
od food go to waste,” he muttered as he went over to the sink to wash his hands. After he rinsed off the lather, he turned, in tending to tear a paper towel from the roll and found her standing beside him, holding out a cotton dish towel.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “A second ago you were over by the stove. Now you’re here.”

  “A second ago you were by the door. And now you’re here,” she returned.

  Good point. But he remembered walking across the room. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember seeing her move.

  “It’s hard to concentrate with a headache,” she commiserated. She put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll pour you a refill.”

  Her hand looked as smooth as porcelain; her fingers were long and slender, her nails unpainted. For a fleeting second, Clint imagined how that hand might feel on his body, which had gone so many months without a woman’s touch. Then, feeling guilty for being unfaithful to Laura—albeit only in his thoughts—he firmly closed his mind to the unbidden notion.

  Not wanting to let her insinuate herself further into his life, yet unable to resist her offer of more coffee, Clint moved away from her light touch and sat down at the table. Although her expression remained polite, he thought he caught just the faintest glimpse of triumph in her gaze.

  She placed the stack of waffles in front of him.

  “Aren’t you going to have anything?” he asked when she remained standing beside him.

  “Oh, I don’t really think that’s a very good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’re the employer. And I’m just the housekeeper.”

  “You’re not the housekeeper. You’re not going to be the housekeeper. And I’d rather have you sitting across the table than hovering over me while I’m trying to eat.”

  “I wasn’t hovering over you.”

  “Of course you were. Now get a plate and sit down.”

  It was an order. Softly couched, but carved in stone. Sunny saw no point in arguing.

  She took a plate down from the shelf, a knife and fork from the drawer and sat down at the table across from him.