Jezebel's Blues (8 page)

“I doubt it, but I’ll look around for you before I go.”

She nodded.

“Meanwhile, I want you to know what’s going on, so come here.”

Celia followed him inside, trying to ignore the mud and mess. The sheer work involved in making the house look normal again was daunting

“I used a garden hose to wash out the bathroom so you can use it. The toilet may not be real reliable for a week or two because the lines get clogged—but they’ll clear.” He wiped a hand over his eyes and gestured toward the far-from-sparkling, but usable room. “At least you can take showers, but it’ll drain real slow, too, so make ’em short.”

Celia sighed. A shower. “Thank you, Eric.”

He moved again, businesslike and to the point. “Come on, there’s more.” He led her down a ball to the backyard. “The porch steps got washed away,” he warned, “so just jump down this way.”

Celia followed. He pointed to a section of the foundation under the kitchen. “I checked everything all the way around, and this here’s the only problem. Water washed away a lot of the mortar in these stones and you’re gonna have to get somebody out here to fix it right, but in the meantime, I braced it with these two-by-fours.”

Impressed that he’d even thought to look for foundation damage or to hose down the bathroom or that he knew that the drains would run slowly for a while, Celia nodded. “I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged and headed around the house. “Judging by what we got, it’ll be a while before anybody can make these little repairs for you, and I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.” His tone was gruff. He pointed to a window in the kitchen that had a flat piece of plywood nailed neatly over it. “I got that one open before she flooded, but I guess a rock or something got it anyway.”

“I can’t believe I slept through you nailing and sawing.”

“You were out like a light this morning.” He raised a devilish eyebrow. “Old Jack’ll do that.”

She flushed slightly, then raised her own eyebrows. “You should know.”

“That I do.” Eric bent his head and his wavy black hair fell over his forehead. He shifted from foot to foot for a moment, but Celia just waited.

“You aren’t gonna be able to use the lower level for a while, not until they get somebody in with a fire hose to clean it out. You’re gonna need a fan or something in that attic or you’ll suffocate.”

“Okay.” Not that she knew if there would even be one available. “I can use my garden hose on the kitchen, right?”

He nodded. “I turned the breakers off at the back of the house, just to let everything dry out. There probably won’t be any power for at least a few days, but it’s a good idea to leave everything off anyway.”

“All right.” She smiled. “I wish I could offer you breakfast for your trouble.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Meantime, I better get on the road and find out how my sister is.”

He wouldn’t take a rain check, Celia knew. Once he walked away from here, she would never see him again. What was that old song about rolling stones?

Whatever. As Eric went back inside to fetch his backpack, she knew it applied. He was a rolling stone, a drifter with restless feet, and he’d no more hang his hat in one spot than her father had. Seemed to be a prevalent trait in the men from Gideon.

Celia looked at the pecan trees, giant and fruitful. She crossed her arms. Let them wander, then. Here, in this peaceful farmhouse, she’d finally found security and a certain contentment. When the ground dried a little, she would go ahead with her plans for her garden. She’d clean and repair her grandmother’s house, repaint and renew and do whatever it took. Let them wander. Celia had found her home.

When Eric returned, she was collecting twigs, branches and assorted trash and putting it all into a pile. She held up a pair of pants, practically new. “She’ll eat anything, won’t she?”

Eric gave Celia a reluctant grin. “You better believe it.” He came down the stairs, loose limbed and sexy as a movie star, even with the grime of the days just past and his morning’s work clinging to him. In the sunshine, his dark blue eyes glowed nearly sapphire, and whatever her resolve, Celia couldn’t help the leap of her belly at the sight.

His pack was firmly hiked over his shoulder. “I looked from one end of the house to the other and didn’t find any more snakes. Put a rope on the steps if it’ll make you feel better.”

“A rope?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Supposedly they won’t cross a rope.”

“It’s worth a try,” she said.

“Well.” He glanced down the road, shifted his weight, looked at Celia. “Guess I’ll be heading out now.”

Celia tossed the pants she’d found onto the porch, thinking they’d wash up and be good for something. She looked at him. Nodded.

“Want to thank you for taking me in,” he said.

Her heart sped up a little. “My pleasure.” A sense of sorrow and lost chances washed over her. She looked at his face very carefully, trying to imprint it forever upon her memory—his full lips and black hair, the harsh planes and rough dark beard shadowing a hard jaw. Her chest ached when she looked into his jeweled and lonely eyes.

It was again a scene torn from one of her father’s books. She was playing the wistful heroine right down to the ache in her heart.

Jacob Moon’s scenarios be damned. Without knowing she would, she walked up to Eric and put her hand on his cheek. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, Eric Putman,” she said in a soft voice.

Then because she couldn’t stand to let him walk away without kissing him just once, she stood on her toes and when that wasn’t enough, tugged his big head down gently to hers.

Their lips met and Celia felt his surprise in the sudden softness in his mouth, in the off-center way he met her. There was no resistance in him, only that broad and oddly vulnerable surprise.

And if her heart had ached before, it now pounded with a virulent and shattering pain. His hair was thick against her fingers, his body broad and strong, his mouth tender and firm as a nectarine.

After a moment, he let the pack slide from his shoulder and with a small, low growl, he pulled her into him, shifting his head to suckle gently at her lips. This time, his arms were not loose around her. His hands splayed possessively over her back, and his arms curled with power around her shoulders, pulling her so close that her breasts were nearly crushed against his ribs.

And his mouth—his mouth. Celia tilted her head against the crook of his elbow, feeling the hard press of his biceps against her ear as his mouth tenderly explored hers. His tongue teased for entrance and Celia parted her lips to give it, feeling reason spin away as they tangled and danced together. His chest was pressed so closely to hers that she could feel his heartbeat, deep and thrumming, and a small but discernible tremble quivering through his limbs.

For a moment he ceased, pulling back an inch or two, and his broad, scarred hand cupped her cheek. His sapphire eyes glittered with something lost and sad and so hungry that Celia felt her own body shaking with the need to fill it. For a long moment she felt suspended in that painful, jeweled gaze, and then he lowered his head once more to kiss her mouth with such gentleness, it bordered on reverence. He kissed her slowly, then touched her nose and both cheeks, letting her go an inch at time, until somehow they were standing separate again, facing each other in the bright light of a Texas morning. “Goodbye, Celia,” he said, his voice rasping almost below register.

She swallowed. “Bye,” she whispered.

He hitched his pack onto one shoulder and strode off down the muddy road without a backward glance. Celia watched him, her heart pounding. She was glad she had kissed him, that she would carry always the memory of it.

Because she would never see him again. And considering everything, that was probably a very good thing. A man like that…

Setting her jaw, she turned back to the work that awaited her. Her life had been filled with dangerous turns and instability. A man like that would only bring more of the same.

* * *

Eric found Laura’s house deserted.

The front door was unlocked, as if she’d been waiting for him. The living room carpet was freshly vacuumed, the pillows on the couch plumped and artfully arranged. In the spare bedroom, the coverlet had been turned back to show crisp, fresh linens, and in the ice box were hot dogs and cheese and a jug of sweet tea.

He paced around the rooms for a little while, noting these details, wondering if she’d just stepped out for a minute now that the water had receded. But why hadn’t she left him a note, then?

He showered off the grime of the past few days from his body, and drank some of the tea. He was starving—the flood provisions had not been the best to start with and after three days of peanut butter and crackers, his stomach ached for something real. There was no electricity here, either, so he had to content himself with several bowls of cold cereal. They helped.

It was only as his stomach stopped growling that he realized Laura had not been in the house since the flood started. There were candles on the kitchen and bedside tables, each with a book of matches alongside. Several cans of Sterno were piled next to a fondue pot on the counter, and an ice chest beside the refrigerator awaited a power failure.

But the food had not been spoiled. The tea was lukewarm, but he’d found a handful of useable ice cubes left in their trays. Because the doors had not been opened since the power failed, they held in the cold for much, much longer.

The candles hadn’t been lit. Not even once.

A sickening sense of panic built in his belly. He fought it with reason. Laura had chosen this house because it sat on the west side of Jezebel, on a bluff. The river nearly always jumped her banks to the east, and the bluff was fifteen feet, providing protection even if the river climbed her west bank.

Eric peered out the kitchen window. His sister had known the river was on the rise. She had also known Eric was on his way. He had called her the morning of his arrival, that gloomy rainy morning. She had prepared for both the flood and his arrival.

And then she’d left the house?

It made no sense whatsoever. Feeling sick, he headed for the door.

He spent the day trying to find traces of where she might have gone. The going was rough. Hardly anyone, thanks to the flood, was where they might have been ordinarily. The phone lines were down. Electricity had yet to be restored, and the roads were covered with silt, branches and an occasional hapless animal.

It soon became obvious he would not even be able to find out who had last seen her until things had been restored to some kind of order, and to keep himself from worrying, he hiked down the road to see what might have become of his car. He took back roads and shortcuts he’d known since childhood in order to avoid the sight of Celia’s farmhouse.

To his great surprise, he found the car relatively untouched, jammed hard against a tree only a few feet from where he’d left it. The windows weren’t even broken, although enough water had seeped in through little crevices to give the whole interior a smell of river silt.

A dent from a tree branch or rock marred the driver’s door, but other than that, the body looked sound. He lifted the hood and stared at the engine.

Staring was about all he could do. Like mathematics, engine functions had always been just beyond his ken. He could change a spark plug if the need arose, fill the various reservoirs and identify problems by the sounds they made, but that was as far as it went.

At least the car hadn’t been washed down river. He was attached to the Volvo. It was the best car he’d ever owned and had served him well for two years, since his old car…

He shut off that line of thought with clenched teeth.

One thing he did know was that the distributor cap had to be dry. He tugged it off and dried it, then tried to turn the engine over. Nothing. Which meant the carburetor might have gotten wet. He’d have to leave it until someone from a garage could tow the car in and check it out.

The last thing he did was open the back door to get the guitar he’d left on the seat. Throughout the flood, he’d cursed his choice to leave it behind, in spite of the fact that it was essentially useless to him. Wild Willie Hormel had given him the ’57 Stratocaster when Eric was fifteen, and even if he never played it again, he wanted to keep it. He didn’t understand exactly what had made him leave it in the first place, except a certain panic—reminders of rainy nights he had done his best to forget.

The black case was gone. He stared at the vacant place in the seat with a sense of terrible loss for an instant.

Then he straightened, his jaw hard. No more illusions. The guitar, like Retta and his old car, was gone, along with everything else that had existed before that night.

Except Laura.

Stonily, he closed the door and the hood and headed back toward his sister’s place.

As night crept in, he found himself drawn outside to the porch. The long day was catching up with him and he settled on a kitchen chair in the hot night, putting his feet up on the rail. In the dahlia bushes nestled around the small bungalow, crickets whirred and chirped, and the sounds of Jezebel came faintly, rushing through the night. Above the silhouettes of pine trees across the road rose the moon, round and pale, nearly full.

Silver light shone over the road, the color of a woman’s hair, the color of her big eyes. Fey Celia.

Eric plucked the harmonica from his shirt pocket. A shroud of clouds crossed the moon, giving it an ominous aspect, and Eric felt a ripple of foreboding shoot through his chest.

Where was Laura?

He knew with the certainty that stemmed from his own terrifying memories of the last flood that she would not have ventured out with the river on the rise. He’d been six, Laura nine, when Jezebel had swept them into her skirts. What he remembered in bits and pieces, Laura remembered in acute detail.

She wouldn’t have gone out. Not voluntarily.

Restlessly, he walked out to the road and stared down the long, dark ribbon of blacktop as if he could make her materialize. He swore and paced back to the porch, knowing he’d be unable to sleep.