The Last Honest Woman, Page 8

  As soon as they'd gone, Dylan picked up the thermometer.

  "Dylan, I really appreciate all this. I don't know what to say."

  "Good." He stuck the thermometer in her mouth. "Then you can be quiet."

  Unwilling to start another battle she'd lose, Abby sat back and waited until he drew the thermometer out again. "It's down, right?"

  "Up two-tenths," he corrected, entirely too cheerfully for her taste, and handed her the aspirin.

  "The boys were counting on that movie tomorrow."

  "They'll survive." After replacing the thermometer, he started to leave her. Abby grabbed his hand impulsively.

  "Dylan, I'm not trying to be a bad patient, but I swear I'll go crazy if I spend another minute alone in this bed."

  He cocked his head. "Is that an invitation?"

  "What? Oh, no." She snatched her hand back. "I didn't mean that. I only meant-"

  "I get the picture." Bending over, he wrapped the spread around her and lifted her into his arms.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you out of bed. I'll take you down, plop you in front of the TV. Odds are you'll be dead to the world inside of an hour."

  "I've already slept all day." This time she could allow herself to enjoy, to appreciate, the sensation of being held in strong arms, of being carried as though she were fragile. For tonight, just for tonight, she could pretend there was someone to stand by her, to stand with her. Fairy tales, Abby warned herself, and stopped before she could lay her head on his shoulder.

  "I appreciate you watching the children like this. I don't want to impose, though. I can call a neighbor."

  "Forget it." He said it lightly, not wanting to admit he'd enjoyed the afternoon. "I can handle them. I worked my way through college as a bouncer."

  "That kind of experience certainly helps," she murmured. "Dylan, did Chris get hurt when Ben pushed him down?"

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

  "You certainly do."

  "Did Chris look hurt to you?"

  "No, but-"

  "Then you wouldn't want me to be a stool pigeon, would you?"

  She sent him a mild look as he settled her down on the living room couch. "Men always stick together, don't they?"

  Without answering, he switched on the set. He'd needed to set her down quickly, to break contact. She'd seemed so sweet, so small, so frail in his arms. A man made his biggest mistakes when he was sucked in by fragility.

  "If you need anything, we'll be in the kitchen. Men stuff, you know?"

  "Dylan-"

  "Look, if you thank me again I'm going to belt you." Instead he bent down, took her face in his hands and kissed her, hard. "Don't thank me and don't apologize."

  "I wouldn't dream of it." Before she could think, before she could reason, Abby reached out and brought his mouth back to hers again.

  It wasn't sweet. It wasn't magic. It was solid and strong. She tasted, for the first time in too many years, the flavor of man. She wanted, for the first time in too many years. And wasn't it wonderful just to want again-not to think, not to reason, just to let go and want.

  The touch, the taste, brought back no memories of her marriage, of the only other man she'd known. It was fresh and new, as beginnings should be.

  Her skin was hot. He felt the yielding he knew came as much from weakness as from passion. Yet he thought, or rather wanted to think, that there was something more, something unique in the way her mouth fit his. So he wanted more. From the kiss alone, desire sprinted out until he wanted everything-to feel her skin, feverishly hot under the thin nightgown, to feel her body melt against his.

  There was no artifice in her kiss, no expertise. The gesture seemed to be as pure and as generous as Chris lifting his arms to him. He drew away, reluctant and more than a little puzzled. He was finding that the more he knew her, the less he knew.

  She lay back, her eyes half-closed, knowing he was studying her and helpless to slip on any mask. Whatever he wanted to see was there. She had no way of knowing that his own doubts were blinding him.

  "That's something else we're going to deal with when you're on your feet, Abby."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You'd better rest." He put his hands in his pockets because it would be too easy to touch her again and forget

  "I will." She closed her eyes because it would be too easy to reach out again and forget. There were children in the next room. Her children, her responsibility. Her life.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

  CHAPTER Six

  She didn't remember going back upstairs, but in the morning she woke in her own bed. And she woke late. There was something warm and fuzzy against her cheek. Her initial alarm turned to puzzlement, then to love, as she cuddled the ragged stuffed dog Chris prized. He must have brought it to her as she'd slept. Shifting, she saw the big pink sheet of contact paper taped sloppily to the bedpost that read Get Well Mom.

  She recognized Ben's slanted, uneven printing, and tears blurred her vision. Maybe they were monsters, but they were her monsters, and they came through when it counted.

  Did she? She rubbed Mary absently against her cheek. It was nearly ten in the morning, and she hadn't even fixed her children breakfast.

  Disgusted, Abby pulled herself out of bed. Pretending her legs didn't wobble, she yanked her robe out of the closet and headed for the shower. There were things to be done, and she couldn't accomplish them in bed.

  After she'd cleared the tub of a convoy of trucks, she just stood under the spray. It beat against aching muscles and feverish skin. She braced her hands against the tile and lifted her face so that the water sluiced over her. Gradually the chill passed and her mind cleared.

  Dylan. Was it wrong that when her mind cleared he was the first thing to form in it? Perhaps it wasn't wrong, but it certainly wasn't safe. She'd started more there than she'd bargained for. Alone, she could admit that she hadn't the vaguest idea what to do next. The attraction she felt for him hadn't been in the plans. The wisest move would be to ignore it. But could she? Would he?

  Once before, she'd felt this kind of quick excitement. And once before, she'd acted without giving herself a chance to reason. It wasn't a mistake she could afford to make twice. She couldn't say how long it had taken her to get over the hurt Chuck had caused, but she knew she couldn't deal with that sort of pain again. No, she didn't think she would survive to rebuild a second time, so the choice was clear. No involvement was worth the risk of losing. No man was worth the price. Now she had children to think of, a home, and the life she'd made for them.

  Overlaying the doubts she had about herself were doubts about the project that had brought Dylan to her. It was going to be more difficult to evade, to lie, to hide, if she let herself feel something for him. So she couldn't.

  Abby wearily turned off the shower. She couldn't risk feeling or giving or even taking when it came to Dylan. She'd stick by her plan because the plan was survival; he was only the biographer of her children's father.

  Dry, she walked back into the hall. A quick peek showed her the boys were already up. She'd go down, fix coffee, make them breakfast and get them away from their cartoons long enough to feed the stock.

  She found them where she'd expected, huddled in front of the TV with the latest action-adventure cartoon whizzing by on the screen. What she hadn't expected was to find Dylan huddled with them.

  "You call this a cartoon?" Chris was snuggled beside him on the sofa and Ben lay sprawled at his feet as though the three of them spent every Saturday morning together.

  "It's a great cartoon," Ben told him. "Asteroid John tracks down the bad guys, but he never gets them all. Especially Dr. Disaster."

  Dylan thought he knew who Ben was rooting for. "Listen, Bugs Bunny's a cartoon. It has style and wit, not just laser beams. Wile E. Coyote trying to catch the Roadrunner. Bugs outmaneuvering Elmer Fudd. That's a cartoon."

  Ben just snorted and gave Asteroid John his attention.<
br />
  Chris tugged on Dylan's shirt. "I like Bugs Bunny." Amused by the boy's earnest face, Dylan swung an arm over his shoulders.

  "Chris looks like Bugs Bunny," Ben stated. He grinned, waiting for retaliation. Before Chris could scramble down, Dylan shifted the boy onto his lap.

  "Nope," he said after a careful study of Chris's face. "Ears are too short. But Ben-" Reaching down, he tugged on an unguarded ear. "These might just make it."

  Giggling, Ben put both hands over his ears and rolled over. "I'm Dr. Disaster and I'm going to blow up the planet Kratox."

  "Yeah? You and who else?" He scooped the boy up and held him in a loose headlock. "You space marauders are all the same."

  "Eva?"

  "No, ticklish." He dug a finger into the boy's ribs and sent him squealing. It only took a moment for the three of them to roll off the sofa. Delighted, Chris climbed onto Dylan's shoulders. It was then he saw his mother standing in the doorway.

  "Hi, Mom."

  "Good morning." She watched her sons, who were flushed from the tussle, then looked at Dylan. He hadn't shaved, and might have been any man on a lazy Saturday morning.

  "We're not supposed to roughhouse on the furniture," Ben whispered in Dylan's ear.

  "Right." Dylan untangled himself, then gave Abby a long, measuring look. "You should be in bed."

  "I'm fine, thanks." Why did he become only more arousing when he was a little rough around the edges? Would she always be attracted to men who had so little tenderness in than? "I'm just going to fix some coffee."

  "It's on the stove."

  "Oh." She hesitated, hating to drag the kids away. "Ben, Chris, as soon as that show's over I need you to come eat and help me feed the stock."

  "We already did it," Ben told her, relieved that there would be no lecture on showing the proper respect for the furniture.

  "You fed the stock already this morning?"

  "And we had breakfast. Pancakes," Chris told her. "Dylan makes them real good."

  "Oh." She stuck her hands in her pockets, feeling foolish and, worse, useless. "Then I'll heat up the coffee."

  "Let me know how the planet makes out," Dylan said, then rose and followed Abby into the kitchen. "Problem?" he asked her.

  "No." Just dozens of them, she thought as she turned the flame on under the pot. How was she supposed to keep promises to herself when she saw him playing with her children? How was she supposed to keep her mind busy when all the chores were done before she could even begin? No tenderness in him, no kindness-she needed to go on believing that if she wanted to stay whole.

  She stiffened when he took her by the shoulders, but he ignored it and turned her to face him. With his eyes on hers, he put a hand to her forehead. "You still have a fever."

  "I feel much better."

  "You feel like hell," he said. Taking her by the arm, he led her to a stool. "Sit."

  "Dylan, I'm used to running my own life."

  "Fine. You should be able to get back to it by Monday."

  "And what am I supposed to do until then?" The words came out in a heated rush as she gave in to her weakness and dropped down onto the stool. "I'm tired of lying in bed and eating soup. I'm tired of having a thermometer stuck in my mouth and aspirin poured down my throat."

  "One of the first signs of getting well is crankiness." He set a glass of juice in front of her. "Drink."

  "You're good at giving orders."

  "You're lousy at taking them."

  She scowled at him, then picked up the juice and drained it. "There. Satisfied?"

  Not certain whether he should be amused or annoyed, Dylan skirted the counter. "What's eating you?"

  "I've just told you. I-" Her voice trailed off as he took her face in his hand.

  "You haven't told me half of it. But you will." Unable to resist, he stroked his thumb along her cheekbone.

  "Don't." She lifted a hand to his wrist but couldn't make herself push him aside.

  "People are my specialty," he murmured. "So far, I'm having a hard time getting through to what makes you tick. Do you like challenges, Abby?"

  "No." She said it almost desperately. "No, I don't."

  "I do." He combed his other hand through her hair, which was still damp from the shower. "I find them intriguing, and in some cases very arousing." He'd thought about her during the night. Thought about her and what be wanted. The more he thought, the more he believed the two might be the same thing. He touched his mouth to hers, just enough to awaken her. "You arouse me, Abby. What the hell are we going to do about that?"

  "Stop." She fought to keep a tight hold on her emotions but her grip kept slipping. "The children."

  "If they haven't seen their mother kissing a man before, they should have." The hand in her hair grew firmer. This time his mouth didn't merely touch hers, it absorbed it.

  His lips were softer than they should have been, warmer, more- patient. None of it was expected. Was this how a man kissed a woman he desired, a woman he cared for? Was this what she'd been missing in her Me, what she'd been craving without understanding? If it was, she wouldn't be able to fight it for long. Gentleness shattered her defenses in a way demands never could. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened to him. If her head was spinning it was the fever. She needed the excuse.

  He couldn't explain the sense of innocence he felt from her, but it excited him. He couldn't explain his own sudden need, but it churned through him. He wanted her, alone. He wanted to see that look of panic and passion in her eyes when he touched her. He wanted to fed that slow, gradual melting of her body against his-half reluctant, half eager. He wanted to hear that quickening of breath that meant she'd forgotten everything but him. Whatever game she was playing, whatever lies she told, didn't matter when her mouth yielded to his.

  He'd have his answers. He'd have hers. At the moment, he didn't care which came first.

  "I want to take you to bed." He murmured it against her mouth, then against her skin as his lips skimmed over her face. "Soon, Abby, very soon."

  "Dylan, I-"

  "Are you taking Mom's temperature?"

  Abby jerked back and stared, speechless, at Chris. He looked at her and at Dylan with the open, friendly curiosity that was an innate part of him.

  "Mom kisses my forehead sometimes when I have a fever. Can I have a drink?"

  "Yes." Abby fumbled for words while Chris found a glass. "Dylan was just-"

  "Telling your mother she should get back in bed," Dylan finished for her. "And you and Ben need your coats. We have to run into town."

  "Into town?" When she looked at him, she saw only cool amusement. She knew she should have expected that.

  "We're out of a few things," he said easily enough. And he needed to get out, away from her, until he had himself back in order.

  "Can I have some gum? Sugarless," Chris added, remembering his mother.

  "Probably."

  Leaving half a glass of juice on the counter, Chris went running for his brother.

  "You don't have to take them," Abby began.

  "I like the company."

  Amusement helped fade the tension. "Oh, you'll have plenty of that. Have you ever taken two boys to the store?"

  "I told you." He wasn't smiling now. "I like challenges."

  "Yes, you did." Struggling to be calm, Abby rose. "They'll try to talk you into buying twice as much as you need."

  "I'm a rock."

  "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Then Ben and Chris came barreling in again, ready for the next adventure.

  Abby compromised with herself. She did indeed have work to do and barely enough energy to stand. In order to accomplish some of the first and give in to the second, she took her paperwork to bed with her. The least she could do was pay the bills and bring her account and checkbooks up-to-date.

  Because the house was quiet, she turned on the radio beside the bed before she began. Though she'd long ago accepted it as an unending cycle, it continued to give Abby a sense of satisfaction t
o pay bills and diminish the amount of her debts.

  The house came first, and always would. It was security for her family and, undeniably, for herself. Fourteen years and two months to go, she mused as she sealed the envelope.

  Fourteen years, she thought again. Her boys would be men. She wanted the home where they'd grown up to matter, to be full of good memories, love, laughter and a balancing sense of responsibility. That wasn't something she could give them merely by writing a check. That was something else she wanted them to grow to understand. What you had wasn't nearly as important as what you were. There were those, she knew, who never found the serenity to understand that

  She wrote her monthly check to Grover Stanholz with a mixture of gratitude and resentment-gratitude to the man for the loan, resentment that the loan itself had been necessary. Resentment didn't help, she reminded herself. Fulfilling the obligation would. Her answer there was the foals. If their price was right, she'd have come a long way toward being free of at least one of her obligations. Settling back, Abby wrote the note she always attached to the check.

  Dear Grover,

  I hope this finds you well and happy. The children are great and looking forward, as I am, to the end of winter. The weather's finally beginning to clear up, though there are a few patches of snow and ice here and there. I want to thank you again for the invitation to join you in Florida. I know the boys would have enjoyed a few days, but it just wasn't possible to leave the farm or take them out of school.

  Two of our mares are nearly ready to foal. Spring promises to be exciting. If you consider a trip north, please come. I'd like you to see what you helped me accomplish.

  As always, Abby

  It never seemed enough. Abby folded the letter and sighed. There was so little she could say. She could have mentioned Dylan. They had discussed their joint contribution to the book and she knew that Dylan had already interviewed him. Somehow, she thought, it would help both of them to avoid the subject until it was all finished. Stanholz had loved Chuck like a father and had grieved like one. It seemed she could do no more than send him pictures of the children a couple times a year and a tidy note attached to a check once a month.

  Shaking off the mood, she continued to sort through bills. Some she could pay, some she knew she had to put off just a little while longer. When she was finished, she had a grand total of $27.40 in her checking account.

  So she'd dip into the emergency fund, she told herself. That was what emergency funds were for. The boys were going to need new shoes within the month, and twenty-seven dollars wasn't going to do it. It only proved she'd made the right decision in agreeing to the book. With that money to fall back on, she could keep everything afloat. When the foals were born-

  She had to stop. Abby closed the books firmly and tidied the papers. She wasn't going to fall into the trap of thinking about money every waking moment. There would be enough. That was all she needed to know.

  Laying back, she frowned at the ceiling. Want to or not, she didn't think she had the strength to tackle the kitchen floor or any of the other heavy household chores on her list for the day. But she wasn't going to vegetate, either. When was the last time she'd had a Saturday free? Thinking of it made her laugh at herself. And how many times had she wished for one so she could do nothing at all? Well, she'd gotten her wish, and she hated it.

  Turning her head, she spotted the thermometer. She refused to touch it. But beside it was the phone. Abby hesitated, then reached for it. She'd just paid most of the bills, hadn't she? What better time for a little extravagance?

  Abby dialed the phone, then waited impatiently until the third ring.

  "Hi."

  Just hearing the syllable made her smile. "Maddy."

  "Abby!" The rest of the words tumbled out quickly, as though Maddy wanted to