Sunflower Lane Page 14

  She broke off. Her mind was blank. Utterly blank. She was sure there was something she had to do. . . .

  She groped through the fog of what used to be her quite adequate brain and finally came up with it.

  “I need to finish my planting. And do laundry.”

  “Uh-huh. Planting and laundry. I get it.” Wes shook his head. “Annabelle, you really do know how to hurt a guy.”

  “No . . . it’s not that—I’m just . . . busy. Very busy. With a million things . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she saw his face change. The amusement vanished and he looked . . . accepting. Understanding.

  “No problem. I get it.”

  Her stomach dropped.

  Really? He understands? That meant . . .

  He was backing off, too.

  That was a good thing, right? He realized, too, that they were heading down a path that would only lead to complications.

  Still, more than a twinge of disappointment pinged through her as for a brief moment she wondered what had happened to the brave, confident girl who’d gone off to Philadelphia to study dance.

  The girl who’d worked and supported herself and yes, auditioned for So You Think You Can Dance—and had almost made it. The girl who’d dated and laughed and compared notes with her girlfriends, who’d enjoyed the company of men and felt confident being alone with them.

  She’d had courage back then; she’d believed in herself. In her talent and her judgment and her ability to make good decisions and . . .

  With a start she realized that thanks to some bad choices where men were concerned, she was now living only half a life. And a cautious life at that.

  Even now, this minute, when the hottest, most handsome and easygoing man she’d ever met was standing right in front of her in her kitchen, close enough to kiss . . .

  “Um, changed my mind. Let’s go down to the cabin. I think I really do need to see how things are coming along.”

  “You sure?” His gaze pinned her.

  Nodding, she started toward the door, reminding herself that the cabin would be a great source of income once the renovations were complete. That it was important to supervise what Wes was doing. He was leaving soon and she’d have a tenant—a new source of much-needed income. This had nothing to do with the way she felt when he kissed her, and it didn’t even mean that he would ever kiss her again. . . .

  But I want him to.

  The thought came unbidden and she pushed it away, to deal with later.

  “As your landlord, it’s my solemn responsibility. Don’t you think?” She managed a light tone and smiled in response to his quick grin.

  They started up the rough track together, surrounded on both sides by flowing streams of sunflowers and wild grasses. A mild sun sparkled overhead. But then the barking started.

  Fast, loud barking.

  She stopped short.

  “Is that what I think it is? You still have that dog!”

  “Yep. Temporarily.” For once Wes McPhee, Mr. Smooth and Calm, sounded slightly embarrassed. “He hears our voices, that’s all. He doesn’t usually bark that much.”

  “You didn’t have the heart to bring him to the shelter, did you?”

  “I know what it’s like to be locked in a cage. He’s a good dog. Someone will come along who wants him.”

  She glanced at him. “It sounds to me like you do,” she said quietly.

  There was silence for a moment. Then his voice took on a hard note. “I don’t have room for a dog in my life. I travel alone.”

  Point taken. A warning light switched on again in her head. He was warning her not to get too involved. No matter what happened between them, Wes wasn’t about to be locked up in a cage again.

  A cage-like marriage. Or perhaps even the cage of a relationship. Then another thought struck her.

  Did he mean he’d been locked in a cage literally?

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  She couldn’t imagine his life when he worked for the DEA. He never talked about it. He must have seen and lived through some terrible things, things she couldn’t stand to even think about.

  “Maybe if we can get Megan used to him somehow, we might be able to keep him,” she said cautiously, as the barking grew louder, more excited, the closer they got to the cabin. “But . . . that’s a big IF.”

  “People can and do overcome their fears.” He sounded very sure. “It might take time, though. I spent some time reading up on the fear of dogs—and how to help someone overcome it. I was thinking . . . maybe if we work together, there’s a way to help Megan get past this.”

  For a moment she was too surprised to speak. Then she said slowly, “Thank you for looking into it. I’m willing to try. It would be nice to have a dog around. If Megan is okay with it, I know Michelle and Ethan would be over the moon.”

  The cabin came into closer view then, and she had a glimpse of some of the changes. The broken windows were no more, and in their place were nice, clean new ones. The roof looked solid and smooth, the little porch was swept clean, and the weeds had been cleared away. It made the entire knoll where the cabin sat look wonderful, cared for, cozy.

  When Wes opened the door and waited for her to precede him inside, the dog leaped toward both of them, his tail wagging furiously. After Annabelle paused to pet him, Wes tossed him a treat from a bowl on the kitchen counter, rubbed his head, then watched Annabelle stroll slowly through the living room.

  All of the old furniture in the big sitting room had been pushed against the far wall of the cabin, and a number of rotting pine floorboards had been removed.

  “Careful, there. Watch your step,” Wes warned, coming up behind her. “Once I replace those boards, I’m going to sand and stain all of it, match it up best I can. If you throw a rug over that section of the floor later, with the sofa behind it, no one would see if there’s any slight color differences. Or, if you want, I can replace the entire floor, then sand and stain it.”

  “No, this looks amazing. Much better than I ever anticipated.” She gazed around, delighted at how swept and clean the place looked. It was equipped with all modern plumbing but hadn’t been lived in or updated for nearly twenty years. The old sofa sagged in several places, and the wood coffee table was full of nicks and chips.

  She needed to buy some new furniture. A new tan or chocolate-colored sofa and maybe a storage ottoman. Some armchairs. Maybe a bronzed lamp on the side table.

  She could drive to Livingston, try to find something not too expensive at a furniture store. Then replace the graying, faded curtains with something new and fresh.

  Ideas spun through her mind.

  She’d expected layers of dust, but of course, Wes had swept out the place and scoured it down. It made a world of difference from the last time she’d set foot in the cabin.

  Wandering down the hall, she entered the large bedroom that had once slept two to four ranch hands in double bunks. When she was a girl, her mother had turned this place into a rental home, and leased it out to a pair of brothers who worked as ranch hands for a time at the Tanner horse ranch.

  Later, when she was in high school, her mom had occasionally rented the cabin out to others passing through, but that was a long time ago.

  Nothing much had been done with the place in all these intervening years, but now Annabelle began to see the possibilities for extra income become real before her eyes. Once the walls were painted and the kitchen updated, once there was a new granite vanity and modern shower added to the bathroom, it was entirely possible that both tourists and seasonal workers would want to stay here.

  With a few nice extra touches, like throw pillows on the sofa, some artwork on the walls, she could make this cabin inviting and cozy in a snap.

  Both beds were neatly made up and she had no idea which one Wes had been sleeping in. There was an old, badly scarred dresse
r that looked like a leftover from the 1800s—that would need to be replaced, too.

  “I’ll probably need new mattresses,” she murmured, turning to Wes. “I’m almost afraid to ask—how bad is the one you’ve been using?”

  “See for yourself.” With a grin, he took her hand and led her to the double bed closest to the window.

  When she sat down on the coverlet, intensely aware of him, he sat beside her.

  “Not a very thick mattress. I’m sorry; I didn’t even realize.”

  “It’s deluxe compared to some places I’ve bedded down. I sleep like a log.”

  “Is that so?” She slanted him a smile.

  Eyes alight, Wes leaned in closer. His gaze was steady on hers as he wrapped his arms around her. When she didn’t protest, he brushed his thumb down her cheek. “You don’t believe me? Maybe you should stay the night and sing me a lullaby.”

  “If I were to stay here, Wes McPhee, something tells me we wouldn’t be doing a whole lot of singing.”

  “Damned straight.” He laughed. His gaze was hot on hers as he tugged her closer. “Not when there’s so many other things we could do. Like . . . this.”

  And he kissed her again, softly. Their mouths clung as if they’d both needed the touch, the brush of each other’s lips and breath and closeness.

  “I’ve fallen asleep thinking about you the past few nights.” He traced a finger along the delicate line of her jaw, then touched it to her lips. Both of them were breathing faster, holding on tighter. “Thinking about what it would be like if you were here with me.”

  She felt almost too breathless to speak from the sweet heat of his kisses, but managed to murmur teasingly, “You’re making that up.”

  “Wish I was. You’re a skeptical woman, Annabelle Harper. Either that or you don’t really understand how you affect a man. This man.”

  “What if I told you that you affect me, too?” she whispered. She pressed a kiss to his throat. Her lips lingered there, almost against her will, her heart racing, pinned up against the rock-hard wall of his chest.

  It felt so good to be close to him.

  “I’d think that was nice news. Real nice news.”

  Then pleasure flooded her as his hand slid beneath her T-shirt to cup her breast. Her heart tumbled in somersaults and her skin tingled where he touched. Gasping, she drew his head slowly down toward her, and kissed him.

  The kiss was long, deep, and nearly stunned her breathless. It grew hotter, deeper, and more desperate the longer their lips clung together. As his hand slid beneath her bra and brushed her nipple, she couldn’t hold back a moan of pleasure and soul-piercing hunger—and then they heard the dog barking fast and deep, and sounds of a car rumbling down the rough road.

  “What the hell. Who’s that?” Wes released her and looked up, suddenly alert. “You expecting anyone? I’m not.” With a grimace, he pressed a quick kiss to the hollow of her throat that left her tingling. “I vote we ignore whoever that is.”

  Before she could respond, there was the sound of a car door slamming, the dog barked even more frantically, and a man’s voice rang out.

  “Wes!” There was pounding on the door. “Wes McPhee!”

  Annabelle went completely still. She knew that voice. That smug, demanding, overly self-confident voice.

  It belonged to Clay Johnson.

  “Damn it.” Wes pushed off the bed, frowning. “Don’t move. I’ll get rid of him.”

  But Annabelle was already scrambling up, straightening her bra and her tee.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Beats me. Haven’t seen him since I got back to town. And I don’t want to see him now. Why don’t you wait here—”

  “McPhee!” Clay shouted again, and Wes’s eyes hardened. He started toward the door, but after a minute, Annabelle tore after him.

  “Damned if I’ll hide from Clay Johnson at this stage of my life.”

  She was only a dozen feet behind him as Wes opened the front door of the cabin wide and the black and white mutt dodged out ahead of him.

  “You have to help me, Wes.” Clay stared at him, his expression taut, sweat beaded on his face as the dog barked frantically. “You were with the DEA—you know how to find people quicker than that useless, by-the-book sheriff. My kid—he ran away, the little bastard. My ex-wife is screaming bloody murder and this is gonna cause a shitload of trouble for me—”

  He broke off as Annabelle stepped onto the porch.

  “Holy crap—you?” He glared at her as if she were a fly in his ice cream sundae.

  “Watch how you talk to the lady,” Wes warned sharply.

  “Hey man, it’s your funeral, but this female here is no damned lady—”

  Grabbing Clay by the front of his button-down shirt, Wes yanked him forward hard, then shoved the other man back, pinning him against one of the posts on the porch.

  “Think you’d better apologize to Annabelle, Clay. Right now, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Purple color suffused the other man’s face, but there was also sweat dripping from his blond buzz-cut hairline, and though he was big—a former football star—Wes was bigger and Clay couldn’t shake free of Wes’s grip.

  The dog growled low in his throat.

  “Back off! Damn it, Wes, let go. Sorry!”

  Wes held him pinned a moment longer, then released him with a scowl. “How’d you find me?”

  “This is Lonesome Way, man.” Clay practically sneered the words. “Everyone knows you’re back in town—and where you’re staying. This is important, damn it! I’ve got to find my son and you need to help me. Sheriff Hodge is writing up a damned report, but he goes by the book and there’s only him and his deputy looking for the boy. Don’t you know how to track people fast? I’ll pay you whatever it takes, anything you want, but you need to help me find Bear.”

  “Why did he run away?” Annabelle asked quickly. “Did he leave a note?”

  “Yeah, he left a damned note,” Clay spat out. “All it said was he was going home. That means back to his mother—in Helena. He must be walking . . . or hitching a ride, the little idiot. Paige called me, and damn near broke my eardrums—”

  “Why would he run away?” Stepping off the porch, Wes positioned himself between Annabelle and the other man.

  “How do I know? He’s a kid. I yelled at him a couple of times. Wouldn’t let him talk to his mother unless I was there, ’cause kids always complain about stupid stuff, you know? Are you going to help me find him or not? If I wait for Hodge and that deputy of his—the kid could get run over by a truck, or fall over and get hurt, or be dumb enough to get in a car with a stranger—and there’s all kinds of perverts out there. I need help!”

  “You have a photo of the boy? Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “Photo, yeah. Sure, I have a photo.” Quickly, Clay yanked out his phone and thumbed through it, then thrust the phone toward Wes.

  “He’s seven, but puny for his age. Looks more like his mother than me. I don’t remember what he was wearing this morning. I dropped him off at the park for a while—there was town hall business I needed to attend to. I was supposed to pick him up for lunch.”

  Wes studied the photo of a small fair-haired boy with a timid-looking smile, then passed the phone over to Annabelle, whose throat was tight with concern for the child.

  Clay impatiently swiped a hand through his brush-cut hair. Sweat poured down his face.

  “Your ex has full-time custody?” Wes asked.

  “During the school year, yeah. Summers he comes to me. He should be here all the time, though, ’cause she’s made a wuss out of him. I’ve just been trying to wean him from the apron strings and he doesn’t like it much. But what difference does it make, Wes? I want to get my boy back and I want him safe!”

  “So you called his mother and told her
he ran away? Or did Sheriff Hodge?”

  “Hell, I didn’t call her. Neither did Hodge. The kid called her—borrowed some older kid’s cell phone in Benson’s Drugstore, and when Paige didn’t pick up, he left her a voice mail saying he was on his way home—or something like that, according to her. Paige called me as soon as she heard it and nearly took my damned head off with all her yelling.”

  “What did you really do to him, Clay?” Annabelle handed him back his phone. She kept her voice calm, but she was boiling with anger and fear. She was angry with Clay Johnson, and afraid for his child.

  If he was as big of a bully with Connor as he was with anyone else he thought was weaker than him—and based on what she’d seen, she suspected he was—that little boy must have been desperate to get away.

  “Not a damned thing. You stay out of this, you nosy bitch—”

  Wes’s fist shot out with a punishing thwack that sent Clay spinning off the porch, landing facedown in the dirt. The dog growled again, ears up and alert as the man on the ground swore.

  “Get out of here now, Clay.” Wes spoke tautly. “One more word and I’ll beat the crap out of you. I mean it.”

  “What’d she do to you? You’re back a few weeks and you treat me like this? We were friends, Wes. All through school. I thought I could count on you, that you’d care more about a missing kid than this piece of ass—”

  “Don’t!” Annabelle grabbed Wes’s arm as he was about to launch himself at Clay. “He’s not worth it.”

  Wes froze. Going still for a moment, he forced himself to draw a deep breath.

  He wanted to kick Johnson’s ass from here to next Sunday, but Annabelle was talking to him, her tone low and urgent.

  “Wes, we need to think about that little boy. His name isn’t really Bear. It’s Connor. Clay just calls him Bear because . . . Well, you know Clay. But Connor’s a sweet boy—he plays basketball with Ethan at the community center. We need to help find him.”

  “We will. You’re right.”

  She squeezed his hand, then stepped off the porch. As Clay managed to push himself unsteadily to his feet, she plopped her hands on her hips.