One True Heart (25 page)

She grabbed her brace in one hand and circled his neck with her arm. He straightened, lifting her off the chair as he stood. Then he was moving, not running, but taking swift long strides toward the porch.

Martha Q stepped out as rain began to pelt the house. She held the door with one hand while her other hand formed a tiny umbrella above her hair.

Drew didn't stop once inside, but rushed down the hallway and into Millanie's room. Martha Q followed a few steps behind, cussing mad that her hair had gotten wet.

Millanie held tight, fearing that he'd bump her leg against something. She didn't know if she fought panic because she was wet and cold or frustrated that she couldn't take care of herself. At that moment she hated her life, her leg, her crippled body, and Drew. She buried her head against his shoulder and tried to find the courage she'd always had. The order she'd lived with for years was slipping away.

Gently, he lowered her onto the bed and pulled the wet sheet off her shivering body. He grabbed a quilt and covered her up to her chin, then yelled that he needed coffee.

Mrs. Biggs must have followed them down the hallway with a cup in her hand.

Drew tossed his jacket onto a chair and knelt on one knee by Millanie's shoulder.

She was shaking so hard she couldn't talk. It wasn't the cold or the rain. Millanie, for the first time in her life, felt truly frightened.

He circled her shoulders and raised her up enough so she could swallow. “Are you all right, Millanie? Do we need to call a doctor?”

Downing one hot gulp, she answered, “No. I'm just cold.”

He held her for a few more moments, and then Mrs. Biggs appeared with a stack of towels. “She's all right,” he said to the old cook. “I'll take care of her.”

Mrs. Biggs nodded. “I'll warm some soup after I check on Martha Q. She hates getting her hair wet worse than a cat.” The cook closed the door as she left.

“I'm fine,” Millanie said, hoping he'd leave. Drew didn't look so polished standing there with his new clothes dripping and his hair wet.

“Sure you are,” he snapped, obviously not believing her.

Without asking, he tugged the blanket away and began patting down her hair, her face, her shoulders. “I'll get you as dry as I can first, then I'll pile the blankets on until you stop shivering.”

Millanie closed her eyes, thinking the night could not possibly get worse. The man she thought might be a criminal had just saved her. It would have taken five minutes to get her brace on and slowly walk to the house. She didn't care about being wet, but she wasn't sure she could have made it on the damp grass and up the old wooden steps. If she'd fallen, even with the brace, she might have done some serious damage. One more break, one more injury to a leg finally starting to heal might leave her crippled for life.

She felt the towel slide down her leg. Her right leg.

“No,” she cried.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, worry thick in his voice.

“No. Don't look at my leg.” Millanie closed her eyes so tight tears dripped from the corners.

“It looks bad, Millie, real bad.” His tone softened. “You must have gone through hell.” His warm fingers replaced the towel as he lightly brushed the scar across her knee. “It needs to heal, so tell me if I'm hurting you. I don't want to do anything that might cause you more pain.”

He tugged her baggy trousers down and dried first her right leg, then her left before moving the blanket to her waist. Then, just as gently, he tugged off her top and patted her skin. The thin bra she wore hid nothing from view, but he didn't comment.

She was shaking hard even after he finally pulled the blanket to her chin.

She waited for him to finish and leave, but he didn't.
When she finally began to calm, she felt him push away the covers from her right leg. He lifted her swollen ankle and gently slid one of the socks the hospital gave her over her toes and all the way to her knee. Then he picked up the brace and turned it a few ways until he figured out how the contraption fit and began strapping it to her leg. Each touch was warm and gentle, and practiced, she thought. He'd done this before.

When he finished, he covered her with a second blanket and stepped a few feet away to the bench tucked into the bay window.

Millanie watched, too embarrassed to speak as he removed his boots with no skill, then pulled off his dripping shirt. When he turned around to hang the shirt on the bedpost, she was shocked at what she saw. A deep scar ran along his shoulder and another on his side. They were not the kind of scars people get from surgery. They were wounds, battle scars.

He turned around, his hair now wild. The styling that had made him look so polished was completely gone. Except for the scars his body was slim, but well-shaped like a runner's body. The scar at his side barely showed from the front, but the mark of a wound was clear on his shoulder. A bullet wound, she thought.

“I'm crawling under the covers with you, Millie.” His voice was finally calm. “Nothing is going to happen except that I'm going to warm you up, so don't waste time complaining. When you're warm and rational, you can go back to ignoring me.”

Without another word he slid in beside her and pulled her against him. The warmth of his flesh felt so good against hers.

The lights flickered a few times and went out, but neither of them said a word. One arm held her against him while the other moved atop the covers as if pushing the warmth gently closer.

Someone tapped on the door and asked if they needed any candles.

Drew said simply, “We're fine.” In the total darkness, he brushed his fingers through her wet hair. “Relax, Millie. This old house has withstood a hundred storms worse than tonight; it'll make it through this one. I'm guessing your great-great-grandfather built Winter's Inn and he built it to stand.”

He kissed her forehead as his warmth seeped into her.

Millanie closed her eyes and let the world with all its questions and problems slip away.

When the lights came on an hour later, Drew silently stood and flipped them off, then came back to bed.

Millanie was awake enough to be aware of him pulling her against him as he covered her shoulder with the blanket.

Beau managed to get through the meal with both Lark's parents staring at him. He was polite, feeling more like an alien visiting another planet than a boyfriend. One fact came through loud and clear, almost like a drumbeat in the background. Lark was loved.

They weren't what he expected. In truth, he didn't know what he expected. Servants maybe. A huge house where he'd need a map to find the bathroom. But the Powers family lived a fairly normal life. Their ranch-style home was big and looked nice, but it didn't seem to be designed by some fancy decorator. There were pictures of Lark and her two sisters everywhere. The other two daughters were married, and both had families. Mrs. Powers's favorite topic was her grandchildren.

Mr. Powers asked questions about the music business, intelligent questions. Beau had the feeling that maybe Mr. Powers had spent his one hour's notice before the dinner researching.

After they finished eating, everyone picked up their plates and took them to the kitchen. To his surprise, they all helped
with the dishes. Lark's mother was in charge of putting up leftovers, even kidding his father that she'd be sure to save the peas for his lunch. Mr. Powers, a man who owned three banks, loaded the dishwasher. Lark cleaned off the table, handing things to both her father and mother.

Beau stood and watched until Lark finally shoved her dad out of the kitchen. “Show Beau the horses. He loves horses.”

“Go on, Garth,” Mrs. Powers ordered. “We'll make coffee and bring dessert out on the patio. It's too nice a night to be inside.”

Garth nodded at his wife as if taking orders from her was no big deal and pointed toward the back door. Beau followed.

Halfway to the barn, Garth slowed. “So, you love horses, do you, Beau?”

“Don't know a thing about them,” Beau answered honestly. “Don't let the hat fool you.”

Garth laughed. “It didn't.”

“Lark loves them, though, so I guess she wanted me to see them,” Beau admitted. “One night in the hospital she told me all about her favorite pony when she was little.”

“She sat with you in the hospital?” Lark's father asked.

“She did.”

“You ill, Beau?”

“No, just dumb. I got mugged.” He didn't want to tell Garth Powers all the details, so he asked as they neared the barn, “Which one is Spider King? She said she loved to ride him.”

“That she does. All my girls grew up riding, but she was addicted to it. Whenever she has a problem or is worried about something, she saddles up and rides. She knows every inch of this place better than I do, and I grew up on this land.”

They walked past the horse barn, with Garth pointing out a few horses, and Beau nodded as if he thought they were all grand. Beau didn't know enough to ask questions. He figured saying nothing was safer than making a fool of himself.

Mr. Powers must have gotten the hint. “How about I show you some horsepower you might be interested in?” He touched a code bar on the side of the next building and a huge garage door opened. Ten cars, all with plenty of space around them, were lined up in a spotless storage unit. Timeless classic cars, expensive cars.

“Nice,” Beau said, seeing each one had been restored to perfection.

“It's my one hobby,” Garth admitted. “I restore them myself. After all day at the bank nothing makes me happier than getting grease on my hands.”

One by one they walked down the center row. These vehicles belonged in museums. Beau was almost afraid to touch a few. Each had been polished to shine like glass.

In the last space sat the red Mustang Beau knew so well. “Write-me-a-ticket red,” he whispered to himself, thinking of the first night Lark smiled and said,
Want to go for a ride?

Garth laughed. “I've heard a few call it that color before. Something about this car makes you want to drive fast. It was the first car I restored and it's still my favorite. My girls were all little and some nights it was nice to come out to the silence of this place for a while.”

They were quiet for a few minutes while Garth ran his hand over the fender of the Mustang in almost a caress.

Beau had no idea what to say. Somehow he didn't think it was the time to mention that most of his sexiest memories were made in this car.

“You know, she likes you, Beau. She's dated some, but you're the first she's brought home to our family dinner,” Garth said, almost more to himself than Beau.

He knew who Mr. Powers was talking about, but he wasn't sure Lark hadn't changed her mind about liking him. Maybe she'd invited him here just to prove how different they were. Family dinners and doing the dishes together had never happened while he was growing up.

Beau squared his shoulders and said as honestly as he could, “She's a part of me, my past, my present, and maybe
my future if we ever get around to talking about it. Right now, I think we're just working on being friends.”

Garth nodded. “She's my youngest, my smartest, but since she was a girl she's run from any feelings. Sometimes on her fast horse, and now and then in my favorite car. It's like she can't clear her mind if she's not racing. If she has feelings growing for you, son, you can bet she'll run.”

Beau couldn't talk about how he felt with Lark's father. “How do you feel about her taking your car?”

Garth faced Beau as he leaned against the Mustang. “I love this car, Beau, but I love her more. If she wrecked it, my one and only question would be ‘Are you all right?'”

Beau wished he could understand. Love, for him, was just a word used in songs. The man before him had power and wealth, but he valued family most. Beau had the feeling if he lost his money he'd still have it all.

They locked up the garage and walked back past the barn. Beau tried to help the conversation along but was out of his range. He'd spent most of his adult life talking to drunks. Lark's folks were nice, polite, and welcoming not because he was famous, but because he was their daughter's friend.

Over dessert they talked about music, obviously wanting to include him in the conversation. Her parents even got into a playful argument over which of the songs from the seventies had been their favorite. He swore “Sunshine on My Shoulders” was it, and she told him she was sure it had to be “Southern Nights.”

Beau had brought the Gibson to play for Lark tonight when they were alone, but there might not be a later. She hadn't said four words to him since they'd arrived. So while they talked he went to collect his guitar from her car.

When he returned, he sat on the edge of the patio wall, opened his case, and said simply, “Let's end this argument.”

He played the old John Denver song first. Slow and low like Denver would have played it on a small stage in a smoky bar. Then he played “Southern Nights.” About halfway through Garth took his wife's hand.

When Beau finished, there was no doubt which song had been their favorite, their song.

He set his guitar back in the case and, for a moment, everyone was quiet. Then Garth stood and touched Beau's shoulder. “That was a real nice gift you gave us, son. You've a rare talent. I'll bet your parents are proud.”

Beau just offered his practiced smile and said, “Yes, sir.”

Then he was saying good-bye and walking back to Lark's little BMW. He reached for her hand but she turned away as if she hadn't seen him. The entire evening they'd always just missed touching.

As she opened her car door, she said, “You didn't have to play, you know. They didn't expect you to. I didn't bring you here to entertain.”

“I know.” He thought of telling her he hadn't minded. After all, it was what he did, but he didn't know how to talk to her anymore. Somehow the few minutes in her office had changed things between them. He thought about saying he was sorry again but doubted she'd believe him this time any more than she had before.

She'd made her point tonight. She wasn't one of his fans hanging around hoping he'd notice them. She wasn't a woman he could just grab and kiss. He'd learned that fact the hard way.

They drove the night watching the lightning dance across the sky. Neither knew how to start a conversation. Both seemed lost in their own thoughts. He longed for those old days in the Mustang when not talking had felt good between them.

The lights of Harmony spread across the horizon, making the little town look big in the night.

“Stop the car,” Beau said as thunder rolled.

She kept driving. “I'm not in the mood to talk tonight, Beau. I don't want to park somewhere and watch the stars.”

“Neither am I, and it's too cloudy to see any stars. Stop the car. I'm getting out.”

She braked and pulled to the side of the road without
turning off her lights. “You're still five miles from town,” she said as he climbed out.

“I don't care.” He'd never been angry in his life, not like this, not mixed up with heartbreak.

“I'm not mad at you, Beau. I just need time. I didn't think you thought of me that way.”

“What way?” he said as he held the door against the wind. “Like you're a woman and I'm a man? We can't be kids forever, Lark.” For a moment, deep down he wanted Trouble back, but she was lost in a proper suit and blond hair tied up.

She lowered her head to the steering wheel and, if possible, he felt even worse than before. They might as well have been raised on different planets. She'd probably had a hundred dates that ended with a sweet kiss. She'd gone to prom and all the dances and held hands at the movies. He'd had none of that and what was the real kicker . . . he didn't want it.

He wanted passion, raw and real, and he wanted it with her.

He had no idea what the hell she wanted, but it obviously wasn't him. Which left them at good-bye. Both hurt. Both broken.

He slammed the car door so hard the BMW rocked.
Walk away
, he almost shouted.
Walk away before you do any more damage.

The sound of a plane rattled over the sky as he headed toward town. Lark still sat in her car, probably watching him in the long beams of her headlights.

The plane flew low. Beau couldn't see the pilot, but he waved anyway just in case it was Derwood. The plane's wing tipped, then banked and headed off into the night.

Finally, Lark turned her car around and retraced her path. Beau just walked toward the lights of town. It was so dark he couldn't see his feet, but the tapping of his boots on the asphalt kept him going on the right path. If he got too far off, the gravel on the shoulder warned him.

The wind was cold from the west as a storm herded low
clouds toward town. Each time the lightning flashed, the night seemed darker when the light faded. As always, his surroundings came alive with the rhythm of the night. Leaves, crisp now with fall, rattled in the trees. There was movement in the fields. The swish of tall buffalo grass and the pop of a plastic bag caught on a fence. The thunder played bass and the wind strings.

Only Beau didn't want to hear the music tonight. He just wanted to walk and be miserable. A few trucks and cars passed by, but he stepped off the shoulder as they neared, making it plain he wasn't looking for a ride.

He needed to be alone. Apparently he didn't belong in polite society. He'd fallen for a nice girl and treated her like a tramp. He belonged out here with the storm and the coyotes and snakes. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he kept walking, not caring where he was going.

Finally, a car coming from town passed him, then circled back.

When the sheriff's cruiser pulled up, Beau thought of running, but where would he go? Whoever sat in the car could just watch him run until he gave out or fell over, then drive across the open field and pick him up.

“Beau Yates?” Phil Gentry called. “That you out here in the middle of nowhere taking a walk?”

“Yeah, it's me. Did Derwood turn me in?”

“Of course he did. Said the storm will hit long before you are near cover so I'd better come out and get you. We all got to watch over Harmony's rising star. How about you climb in and I'll give you a lift back to Martha Q's place?”

“Why?” Beau kept walking and Gentry followed in the car.

“How much money you got in your pocket?” the deputy asked.

“I don't know, a couple hundred. Maybe four or five.”

Gentry swore. “Beau, you're a walking crime scene. Get in the car before I arrest you.”

Beau might have argued, but the bandage on his head reminded him that Gentry was probably right. This time, if
he ended up in the hospital, Lark wouldn't bother to come see him.

As rain began to fall, he gave up on his walk to nowhere and climbed in the deputy's car. “Don't you have anything better to do, Deputy Gentry?”

“Nope. It's Tuesday already. Nothing ever happens on Tuesday.”