Light of Day (32 page)

Either way, Ellie Connor did not fit the profile. Small and too thin, with angles instead of softness, khaki shorts instead of floaty skirts, and curly black hair that fell in her face instead of that swing of blonde he found so appealing. From her posts, he'd known she was strong and smart and knew her mind, an impression reinforced now by the set of her chin and the sharp, no-nonsense way she met their eyes back there. It wouldn't surprise him at all if she had a revolver in the glove box—she struck him as a woman who wouldn't leave much up to fate.

But even she had to struggle, trying to lift a big suitcase out of the trunk.

Blue stepped forward. "Let me get that for you."

"Thank you."

He grabbed it while she picked up some other things and followed him to the porch, waiting behind him silently as he unlocked the door. Inside, he flipped on the lamp by the desk. "This is it. Small, but comfortable."

She put a soft-sided case on the table. "It's beautiful," she said, and it sounded sincere.

"Thought you'd like it," Blue said, shoving hair out of his eyes. "I took the liberty of dragging out some of the material we talked about"—he pointed to a neat stack of books and files on the desk—"and had Lanie—she's my aunt, who lives with me—order some groceries to be delivered. She got most of the staples, coffee and milk and things, but if there's something you don't see, just holler. Nearest store is about five miles down the road, back the way you came."

For a moment, she just looked around her. In a lazy way, he zeroed in on that mouth again. She might not be his type in a lot of ways, but that was one hell of a mouth. Bee-stung, his mama would have said.

The light was better in here, and he could see the exotic cast to her features, a faint tilt to her eyes, high cheekbones; together with all that glossy black hair it made him think maybe Russian or East European.

"Ah!" she said suddenly, and moved across the room to the counter, putting her hands on a CD player. "Excellent. I carry a portable with me, but this is much better." She turned, and looked straight at him. "It's really very nice of you to offer your hospitality this way," she said, and a knowing glitter by her eyes. "Although I suspect you were drinking when you extended the invitation."

Blue winced. "Guilty." Not unusual of a late evening, which was when he generally signed on to the Internet, looking for a good argument. "How'd you know?"

"Your notes have a different tone. And you transpose letters."

He crossed his arms, smiling to cover his discomfort. "Here I thought I was being so sly, and all the time, I might as well have been hootin' in some club."

"Not exactly. It was really just a guess."

"Well, bourbon or not, I was sincere. The place is yours as long as you need it. I'm glad you're doing the biography. It's long overdue."

"And whatever the circumstances, I'm grateful. I really hate looking for a place to keep April, and I won't leave her in a kennel."

At the sound of her name, the dog swept her tail over the hardwood floor. "That speaks well of you, Miz Connor."

She looked at him, all calm sober eyes, and Blue looked back, and all the months of notes back and forth rose up between them. He'd liked her sharpness, a certain diffidence edged with wry humor. They'd stuck mainly to discussing the blues, but every so often, they'd go off on a sidetrack and he'd catch an intriguing glimpse of something more: a hint of anger, or maybe just passion, mixed in with the steadiness.

"It's really a shock to see how different you are from how I imagined you," he said impulsively.

Something flickered in her eyes, there and gone so fast he couldn't really place it, before she tucked her hands in her back pockets and turned her face away. A sliver of gold light from the lamp edged her jaw, and Blue found himself thinking he liked that clean line. She had very fine skin. It made him think of the petals of an orchid in one of the greenhouses. "Ditto," she said, and again raised her head and looked at him with that directness.

He wasn't used to women who looked so straight at him.

As if she thought better of it, she moved to the table and unzipped the soft-sided case, revealing dozens of CDs in their plastic cases, and scooped up a handful. It was a restless gesture, the kind of thing a person did to fill up an awkward moment, and Blue realized he ought to take the hint and leave her to settle in.

But a person's taste in music said more about them than they ever realized, and he couldn't resist peeking into the case. "What do you have here?" He pointed. "Mind if I look?"

"No. Of course not."

The CDs were piled in a jumble. "They have cases now that'll stack 'em up for you."

She made a rueful noise. "Yes, but they don't carry enough." She smiled at him, a quick bright flash. "I need my dog and my CDs to feel secure."

He lowered his head, oddly unsettled. He looked at the titles, wondering if he really wanted to know that much more about her, but he didn't stop sorting through them. Blues, of course. He
tsk
ed and took out a Lightnin' Hopkins recording, shaking his head.

She plucked it out of his hands. "You've made your feelings plain about the Delta style, Dr. Reynard. Unhand my classics."

He grinned. They'd had quite an argument about various styles. Blue didn't like the tinny sound of Delta, and she didn't care for jazz, which he considered just short of sacrilege. "Gonna have to turn you on to some good jazz, darlin'," he murmured, and bent back to the case.

Besides the blues, there was a huge variety. A little alternative rock and roll, some country he thought of as "story" songs, some classical. "Baroque, huh?" he said, pulling out a couple of cases from that period and flipping them over to look at the lists.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "You like it?"

"You sound surprised, sugar." He tossed the CDs back, the unsettled feeling growing along the back of his neck. "A man might say the same about you. Never saw you in the other music newsgroups."

"Do you visit others?"

"Some." That made him think about her comments on his drinking when he posted. Embarrassing. "Well," he said, straightening. "I guess I'll leave you alone. In the morning, I'll be glad to take you around town—show you where the library is, and introduce you to some of the folks who might have some stories to tell."

"You don't have to put yourself out, Dr. Reynard."

"Blue."

"Blue," she repeated. "I'm sure I can find my way around."

"I'm sure you can. But things'll go better if you let me take you." He lifted a shoulder. "It's a small town."

Still, she hesitated. Then, "All right. I'll see you in the morning."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," he said. On the way out, he paused to scratch April's ear.

Out in the night, with lightning bugs winking all through the grass, Blue stopped, feeling a little off-balance. He put a hand to his ribs and took in some air, then blew it out and shook his shoulders a little. In his mind's eye, he saw the bulging, soft-sided case and the big, well-trained dog. Security, she'd said. Music and a dog. Security for Miss Ellie Connor with the tough set of her shoulders and her head-on way of looking at him.

He shook his head. Probably just a case of the girls looking prettier at closing time. He needed some food, some sleep. But when he stepped back up on the porch, he said, "She's not just into the blues. She's got classical in there. And REM. Even some Reba McEntire."

Marcus nodded and wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of bourbon, an offering of solace.

Blue drank it down, taking refuge in the burn, then poured another and put the bottle down on the wooden floor of the porch. After a long space of time, filled only with the lowering depths of the night and the faint squeak of the porch swing, he rubbed his ribs again.

"Not one of your bimbos there, that's for sure," Marcus said.

"No, I don't think so."

"Hell of a mouth."

"Yep." Blue drank.

A dark, rolling laugh boomed into the quiet. "Oh, how the mighty do fall!"

"Not my type."

"Mmmm. I saw that." Marcus stood and put his glass on a wicker table. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. "I think I'll go curl up with my woman."

"Hell with you, Marcus."

Laughter was the only reply.

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(Excerpt)

by
Barbara Samuel

PROLOGUE

S
he drove all night. Fast and hard through the emptiness of the Kansas plains, dotted with silos and water towers silhouetted against the clear, starry sky. In Emporia, she clutched her coat around herself and bought a cup of coffee and filled the gas tank.

By morning, she reached Pueblo. Leaving the technically stolen car in the parking lot of a huge discount store where it would eventually attract notice, she fastened her coat around her again and went inside the store. She bought a pair of soft desert boots, jeans and a handful of T-shirts, trying to ignore the collection of stares she received over her wild and incongruous appearance.

From the discount store, she crossed the street on foot to a convenience store that sold gas and food. In the bathroom there, she ripped the tags off the new things and threw her tattered dress in the waste bin. For a moment, she stared at the royal blue taffeta, bloodstained on the side and at the hem. A wave of dizzy nausea washed through her.

Once changed, she assessed herself in the fly-specked mirror. This was the hard part. With trembling hands, she braided her hip-length hair, secured it at the top and bottom, then lifted the shears she’d bought with the jeans.

“Do it, Mattie,” she said to the white-faced woman in the mirror. She did, but resolve and necessity didn’t keep her from weeping as she did so. Her pride and joy. Her hair.

When it was done, she held the three-foot braid in her hand, then looked at herself. The cut was ragged, but not bad, considering. With surprise, she touched her neck and shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, she coiled the braid and nestled it into her bag. No one would recognize her now. No one.

She left the car with its Kansas plates in the sprawling parking lot and hopped on a city bus that took her downtown. At the Greyhound station, she scanned the lists of destinations and impulsively bought a ticket for a little town she’d never heard of because she liked the name.

Kismet, Arizona.

They would never find her there.

Chapter 1

I
n the middle of the morning bustle, with country music playing in the kitchen of the café, and coffee perking and the noise of a dozen men buzzing around the room, Mattie realized that somehow or other, the job she’d taken out of desperation three weeks before was one she had learned to like. No, love.

“Order up!” called the cook. Mattie grabbed the thick porcelain plates filled with greasy eggs and strips of bacon and good white toast. Piling them on her arms, she hurried toward the table of road workers who would gulp the food down and tip her a dollar, no matter how well or poorly she did her job, as long as she kept their coffee cups filled. Bustling back toward the counter, she grabbed the coffeepot and swung through in a circle, touching up every cup along the route, except Joe Harriday’s, who liked to get all the way to the bottom before he started again.

There was a buzz in her muscles and heat in her chest. Her hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it back, feeling the pleasant grime of hard work on her skin.

Loved it.

As the breakfast crowd thinned, leaving behind only a single pair of tourists who’d wandered in off the highway, Mattie made a fresh pot of coffee, mainly for the crew to drink as they cleaned up breakfast and got ready for lunch.

“A woman after my own heart,” said Roxanne, the other waitress, breathing deeply of the scented steam rising from the pot. “You want to take a break first?”

“Go ahead, Roxanne. I can wait awhile.”

“Thanks.” She touched her stomach. “I’m starving.”

The low, precise grumbling of a motorcycle cut through the post-rush quiet. Mattie turned to watch a bike roar up in front of the café. Through the plate-glass windows, the waitresses watched as a man parked a sleek, midnight blue machine. Chrome shone all over it. The man driving settled it easily and limberly dismounted.

Mattie stared, a prickling in her nerves.

For a minute, he stood beside the bike, looking out toward the canyon. She’d learned the hard way to be careful about men, careful about even looking too hard at one for fear she might start to want again what she couldn’t have.

But it was impossible not to stare. Standing there against the backdrop of rough red sandstone cliffs and thick ponderosa pine, he looked like one of the outlaws that had hidden in the canyon long ago. Or maybe, Mattie thought, he was more like the eagles she sometimes saw on her dawn trips to the canyon – there was in his stance the same wary alertness; in his size she felt the same sense of leashed power.

He wore a plain white cotton shirt, the long sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked at the narrow waist into a pair of jeans. His hair, the color of coffee and tangled from his ride in the wind, was long. Very long. Casually, he finger-combed it away from his face and headed for the restaurant.

Roxanne made a low, approving sound in her throat.

The bell rang over the door and the man came in, his walk graceful and controlled. He glanced around the room, making a clean sweep, and Mattie was sure those eyes missed nothing. After the initial scope, the pale gaze swiveled back and settled on Mattie.

Mattie told herself she ought to do something with the bar towel in her hand, and managed to swipe it nervously over the counter, but she found it nearly impossible not to look up again – as if he carried with him some secret magnetic force. Even the old lady in the corner had paused with her hand on the sugar bowl, to stare.

The face was hard, made of planes carved into high, sharp arches of cheekbone, a powerful nose and harsh, clean jaw. The eyes – maybe it was his eyes – were a pale green, like water in the forest, and the color was all the more startling in contrast to the deeply suntanned skin.