Creighton's Hideaway (7 page)

“Guess that eases my mind somewhat. We'd like to come see you and bring your car so you have something to drive.”

“I don't need to go anywhere. That's the idea. To keep me here so I get this thesis written. It would be silly for you to bring two cars. I'm fine.”

She listened to the hum of silence on the line, and then braved the reason for his earlier message.

“So, Dad, what's this about the bank?”

“I go in all the time, you know. One of the officers was at the window when I went in this morning. Since my name is on your account, both came up. She asked me if you had something exciting going on since there was unusual activity on your account.”

“What do you mean?”

“A couple big checks cleared. You buying new furniture, or something?”

“Very funny. You know I need a house first. So, did you have a statement printed out?”

“Sure did. I've got it right here.”

“What does it show?”

“Right before you left Lincoln, two checks came through. One was for a little over five hundred dollars and another for nineteen hundred.”

“Whaaaaat?” her screech echoed through Creighton's kitchen, higher pitched than a night owl's.

Her father's voice was calm as usual. “Like I said, you need to follow up on this.”

“There has to be some mistake.” Her thoughts began to race. “I suppose they won't do a thing over the phone.”

“You can try. I already asked if you could call. Ask for Nancy.”

“If there's nothing else, I'd better check in with Rita. Give Mom my love.”

Shana pushed numbers for The Pines with trembling fingers, but Rita was with a client.

Creighton could tell Rita whatever he wanted to, regarding how she was doing.

Rita would have to call Shana later.

What in the world could be the problem with her account? She called the bank. “Twenty-four hundred dollars?” Her voice squeaked when Nancy, the bank manager, told her what happened. “But…I'm not even in town. I haven't withdrawn anything.”

“We are investigating the matter and will get back to you. In the meantime, we will freeze your account so no more money can be taken.” Nancy's voice sounded distant as she said good-bye.

Anger festered as Shana tromped back towards her cabin, wondering how in the world she ever let herself be in such a situation. Her choice to be here without a car, four hours away from home seemed less than prudent. And now something was messed up in accounting at the bank.

The sudden flight of a mourning dove swung her attention to her surroundings. Meandering through the rows of pines in the windbreak, she stopped to let her pounding heart calm. When her pulse quieted, she closed her eyes to listen. The soft whisper of the wind eased her spirits somewhat, but her mind began to race again. Shana released a resigned sigh. “Need to change my attitude. Prioritize. Get home. Deal with the bank. Return to work.”

But work at The Pines was a world that didn't exist here, except in her mind. She wanted to stay on the ranch with Creighton. Did that make her a coward?

Had the bank simply made a mistake or was the mix-up serious?

At the cabin, she checked again for a cell phone signal. No bars. Why hadn't she called again from the house?

Apprehension grew like a dust storm in her throat.

 

 

 

 

 

6

 

Creighton set aside a darkly oiled saddle and paused to swipe his brow. The small tack room in a shadowed corner of the barn lacked oxygen. Pungent aromas of leather, oil, and horse lingered. He needed to ask Rog if he knew of an upcoming auction or sale where this room full of stuff could be added. Another part of his life to be chalked up to memory.

Memories.

He missed a rousing gallop over the hills.

He sure didn't miss the mornings he woke up and had no recollection of how he got where he was. The times his mouth had tasted like horse droppings. Drunken blackouts.
Just like your old man.
Creighton shook his head to clear away the aching past.

While he methodically rubbed saddle soap into the leather of two more saddles, his musings bounced between memories and the circumstances that brought him home to live on the ranch. Suddenly, his shoulders ached and his scarred fingers cramped. He called it a day.

The aroma of fragrant stew wafted his way through the closed kitchen door. Creighton considered foregoing his shower, but knew he'd enjoy his solitary supper more if he cleaned up first.

Under the hot spray, he attempted to scrub away dark memories. Interspersed with the sluicing water and the sweat of his labors, echoes of his father's drunken taunts over the inadequacies of his oldest son joined him in the small enclosure.

In minutes he was back in the kitchen, a bowl in hand from the cupboard. The phone caught his eye and he remembered the messages for Shana.

Shana. Would she like some stew? He had treated her pretty rough when he'd passed on the phone messages. He set the bowl on the counter and added a second. The pair looked better than a single.

Then he was out the door.

Shana must have heard him pull up because she waited on the deck.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked over the low rumble.

He noted amusement flit across her features when she gave her negative response.

“Figured not. How about some stew for supper?”

“Mmm, hmm. It smelled wonderful when I borrowed your phone.” She shot him a sassy look. “Wait, I'll grab a sweater.”

On the ride back, Shana sat upright.

Creighton remembered how she had slumped against him during their first ride. He sighed, and wished that she'd lean against him now and keep his back warm. As shadows darkened during their quiet ride, she grabbed his shoulders for balance only a couple of times while going up the slight incline, but released him as soon as the ground smoothed out.

Creighton stopped near the kitchen door to drop off Shana. He extended his arm to give her leverage on the dismount.

She waited for him to park, and they entered the ranch house together.

“Need to wash up? I sure do. That old thing always leaves a smell of gas and oil on my skin.” Creighton indicated for Shana to precede him to the sink.

He studied her graceful back. When she stepped away for the towel, he took his turn at the sink. Creighton made quick use of the water and grabbed the end of the towel Shana used.

When her hands turned motionless, he read a question in her blue eyes. “What?”

“It just seems odd, somehow. I've never shared a towel at the same time with anyone.”

“Serious? Me and Tom fought for the water from the faucet, and the towel. Discovered it was faster to use ‘em at the same time.”

“Tom. Your brother, right? Rita's mentioned him a couple of times.”

“Yeah. He's my brother, all right.” What he didn't say was how Tom had always had a problem not being born first. And how when he left home, he had forgotten about his family back here in Nebraska.

“Where does he live? Does he have a family of his own?”

Before Creighton could form an answer, Shana's stomach grumbled loud enough for both of them to hear. They burst into laughter. How long had it been since he enjoyed a woman's company like this? He grew serious, dropped the towel, and kneaded the back of his neck.
Thanks, Lord, for the reprieve from talking any further about Thomas.

Shana brought the bowls, plates, and flatware to the white oak table. He unplugged the crock pot, positioned it in the center of the table, and then went back for glasses and napkins.

“Is water OK?” he asked Shana, “or are you a milk drinker?”

“Water, please.”

“I aim to please.” He nodded his head towards a bread keeper. “There's oat bran and some dark rye there if you want to grab the butter from the fridge.”

They sat down at the same time. Shana placed her hands in her lap, but Creighton reached his arm on the table towards her, palm up. Their gazes met and held as she lifted her hand and placed it in his.

He liked the way her small hand fit in his larger one and ran his thumb over her knuckles while he bowed his head. “Dear Father. We have so much to be thankful for. Thank You for all the things we take for granted. Please bless Shana, Rita, Ray, their baby, and this food.”

He squeezed her hand.

Her stomach gurgled again in response.

He needed to feed this woman. How else could he care for her?

 

****

 

There must be a conspiracy between Creighton and my stomach.

Shana took a big bite of buttered oat bread and looked up to catch his gaze. But his focus, now on her mouth, made her pause. She swirled her tongue around before attempting to swallow the riot his intent stare created in her dry throat.

“What now?” she choked out as she lowered the bread to the edge of her plate.

“Nothing. Except once in a while you remind me of the good times Rita and I used to have, just the two of us.”

But you never fixated on her mouth.

“Just the two of you?” She was curious about Tom and what caused the dark look that had crossed Creighton's face earlier at the mention of his brother.

“Uh huh. For a couple of years when we were both in college.”

“So, your purpose in life then was feeding her like your purpose now seems to be feeding me,” she challenged.

“Oops. You're onto me.”

Studying his mouth in turn sparked a fire that had nothing to do with food.

“She'd get busy and forget to eat, sometimes. But I have to admit, you're a prettier purpose than my sis.”

Shana felt her cheeks heat up and concentrated on cutting a piece of potato. She didn't look up again until her bowl was more than half empty and Creighton was refilling his. When she glanced back at him, she met his grin.

“Are you daring?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” What could he have in mind?

“I dare you to a game of Scrabble.” He lifted his brows a couple of times in a challenge to rival any silent film villain's.

Now it was her turn to grin. She coyly lifted her eyebrows right back at him. “I've played a game or two.” Shana finished her stew and leaned back in the chair.

While Creighton ate his second helping, she roamed the large common room. She approved of the open area: kitchen, dining, and living all in one. Contrasting types and hues of wood were masculine, yet neat and appealing. A lovely quilted wall hanging invited her into a wooded glade with pine trees, accented by a winding creek. Whoever had done the work knew Creighton's world.

Curious about the book laid face down on the couch, she excused herself and went to see what he was reading. A western. She recognized the name of the author. Her fingertips trailed the back of the couch as she walked to the end table. A thick, well-used study Bible and notebook made her pause.

“Answer.”

She jumped at Creighton's voice just above her ear. She had no idea he was so close.

“I do topical studies. Last night I was searching the Bible for the word ‘answer.' I especially like the verse in the Psalms, where David sought the Lord and God answered him.”

Shana shifted her body so she could look up at him without hurting her neck. Her shoulder brushed Creighton's chest. She didn't have a clue what was in the Bible.

God answers? He solves problems? Where were His answers for all the troubled youth she met professionally?

Creighton seemed to wait for her response, but he said nothing. Could he read the questions she needed answers for, just by looking at her?

“Ready for that Scrabble game?” His voice was so deep it traveled through her.

She rubbed chill bumps in an attempt to wipe away the sudden thrill as it flowed through her torso.

“I agree. The temperature seems to be dropping.” Creighton moved. “I'll start a fire.”

If she was prone to pray, she'd ask for a reprieve and scurry home like a frightened rabbit.

A game. It's only a board game.

A man. He's just my best friend's brother.

Thankful that he thought her shiver was from the cooling air, she all but jumped when he asked her to get the Scrabble game from the drawer on the right side of the TV cabinet.

She followed his instructions while he continued to orient her and work on the fire. “Feel like sitting on the floor? We can use those giant pillows for backrests.”

Shana located the game board, placed the dark brown pillows on the floor in front of the couch, and had the letter tiles all face down in the box lid by the time Creighton finished with the fire.

“Ladies first.” His hand waved in her direction.

She drew the letter A so he didn't even try for his turn at drawing a letter. Then she replaced the tile and selected her seven letters.

She lined her tiles up on the wooden rack, all the while her teeth played with her bottom lip. She concentrated on keeping a straight face and placed her letters—all seven—across the star in the center of the board. The word R-O-B-B-E-R-Y began her favorite game.

“A double word plus fifty points right off the bat?” Creighton's voice was incredulous.

She shot him a grin and jiggled her eyebrows as Creighton had earlier.

He stared at her, mouth agape.

“Give me seventy-two points, big guy.” Fingers snapped. “Right off the bat.”

“I don't believe this,” Creighton grumbled. He tore his gaze from hers and wrote down her score. He lined up his own letters and used the Y on the board to spell A-R-R-O-Y-O.

“What in the world is that?”

“A gulch. Dry, except when it flash floods.”

“And just how do you know that?”

“I read. Westerns.” He jerked his head towards the book she had seen earlier. “And Louis L'Amour.” Creighton frowned at the board. “That pretty much takes care of the Os and Rs.”