Sleeping Beauty (19 page)

The damned sofa was too narrow for tossing and turning.

He fell asleep somewhere near dawn and woke barely an hour later to the discreet buzz of Anne's alarm going off upstairs. Only half-awake, he rolled and barely caught himself before he fell flat on his face on the floor. The alarm stopped in mid-beep, and he heard the floorboards creak overhead.

Work,
he remembered. Anne was going to work. If he'd given it any thought, he would have guessed that she would go in as if nothing had happened.

He swung his feet to the floor and sat up, groaning as every muscle in his body expressed its displeasure at his choice of bed. Coffee. He all but whimpered at the thought. A cup of coffee or ten and he might actually start to feel human again. Maybe.

Before she came downstairs, Anne looked out her bedroom window and saw the red Corvette still parked in front of the house, so she knew Neill had stayed all night She resisted the urge to creep down the stairs and steal a peek at him, like a child hoping to catch Santa putting presents under the tree.

If she chose to wear a very flattering summer sky blue silk blouse that just happened to do wonderful things for her hair and a trim gray skirt that showed off her legs, there was nothing wrong with that. She'd gone through a difficult time and needed the extra boost of knowing that she looked good. She applied her makeup carefully, lifted her purse from the dresser and took one last look in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked her best, she went downstairs. Neill wasn't on the sofa, but she could smell coffee and hear movement from the kitchen.

There was nothing to be nervous about, she told herself as she set her purse down and smoothed a very nervous hand over her skirt before walking into the kitchen. She was a mature, adult woman and he was—

Male.
The sheer force of it stopped her in her tracks. Nothing had prepared her for the impact of finding all that tousled, unshaven masculinity in her tiny kitchen. He'd put on his shirt, but it hung open, framing a mat of dark curling hair that swirled across his upper chest before tapering downward to arrow across his flat stomach and disappear into the waistband of his jeans. It took a conscious effort to drag her eyes away from that intriguing line.

"Morning,'' he offered. "I made coffee."

"Oh, good." Her voice was a little too high and tight, but she didn't stammer, and Anne counted that as a triumph. It wasn't a good idea to look at his face, either, she decided, because the sight of those sleepy blue eyes and the shadowed darkness of his jaw seemed almost painfully intimate.

Neill sipped his coffee and wondered what she would do if he threw her down on the table and pushed that tantalizing little skirt the rest of the way up her thighs. From the hungry way she'd been looking at him a minute ago, she might not offer much argument. The thought didn't do anything to soothe the semi-permanent ache in his loins.

But there was a time and a place for hot, quick sex, and this wasn't it. The first time he had Anne, he wanted a nice, wide bed and plenty of time. And he wanted to be damned sure that she wasn't thinking that she owed him anything for taking care of her the night before.

It was going to have to be soon, he told himself as he drained his coffee. He hadn't spent so much time in a state of semi-arousal since he was a teenager. It just might do permanent damage to a man his age.

Since Anne's car was still parked next to the bank, Neill drove her to work. He wondered if it would occur to her that anyone seeing tfiem would assume that he'd spent the night with her, which he had, and that they were lovers, which they weren't Yet. If it did, it didn't stop her from kissing him in broad daylight.

The kiss, three cups of coffee and barely an hour's sleep combined to have his nerves jangling as he drove back to the motel. Dorothy was out front on her hands and knees, weeding a flower bed. She rose as he got out of the car and ambled toward her. She was wearing navy blue shorts that revealed a pair of very knobby knees, a white man's shirt with the tails left hanging out and the expected pair of red sneakers, these decorated with white polka dots. A baseball cap was perched on her head—this one emblazoned with the New York Jets logo. She eyed him consideringly, her faded blue eyes taking in his wrinkled shirt and unshaven jaw.

"Just getting in?"

"Yeah." Neill narrowed his eyes against the dazzle of morning sunlight and looked at the bright sweep of flowers. "Snapdragons, aren't they? My mom grew them when we lived in—'' The memory slid through his tired mind and back out again. He shrugged. "She grew them somewhere."

"These are the old-fashioned kind," Dorothy said, giving the flowers a satisfied look. "Not those new ones that are opened like a petunia. If I wanted to grow petunias, I'd grow 'em. Can't see the point of growing a snapdragon that doesn't snap."

"There does seem to be something contradictory about it," Neill agreed.

"Heard you've been seeing a lot of the little Moore girl."

Neill hooked his thumbs in his pockets and smiled ruefully. "I have enough respect for the grapevine in this town to bet that you know exactly how much time we've spent together and probably what we ordered for lunch."

Dorothy laughed, a sharp bark of amusement "I wouldn't be surprised if I could find out without half trying. That's life in a small town."

"So I've discovered." He could have ended the conversation there, gone to his room, taken a much needed shower, maybe caught a couple of hours sleep. But he sensed that she had more to say, and, even in the short time he'd known her, he'd figured out that he might as well let her say it

"Pretty girl."

"I think so."

"Sweet, too."

"That she is,"

"I suppose you think I should mind my own business," she said with a touch of belligerence.

Neill widened his eyes in surprise. "No one else in this town does. I don't see any reason why you should swim against the tide."

She laughed again, and he grinned. He liked Dorothy Gale, with her old movies and her red shoes.

"Well, it isn't any of my business," she admitted generously. "Or anyone else's, for that matter. But I suppose there's quite a few folks in this town who feel like she needs a little extra looking after."

"Why?"

The simple question had her eyes darting to his and then away again. She pulled off her cotton garden gloves. 'They've had more than their share of trouble in that family," she said slowly. "Maybe they didn't handle it as well as some would have, but I'm not one to point a finger at other folks and say they should have made a better choice."

"What kind of trouble?" Neill asked, his tiredness forgotten. 'Something to do with the other daughter? The one who died?"

Dorothy nodded reluctantly. "I wasn't here then. My husband had just found out he had cancer, and we spent most of that year at a fancy clinic in Boston, getting treatments that didn't seem to do a whole lot of good. He died that summer, and I didn't pay much attention to anything for quite a while before or after." She was silent for a moment, remembering, but then she shook herself and glanced up at him. "You might want to ask my grandnephew. He was seeing the girl who died."

"Thanks. I will." He started to turn away, but she wasn't quite done.

"Before you start asking questions and opening doors that are maybe better left closed, you ought to consider whether or not you're going to like what you find."

"How will I know whether or not I'm going to like what I find until I find it?" he asked simply.

A hot shower, a couple hours' sleep, two cups of coffee, toast and three slightly overcooked eggs later, Neill left his motel room feeling, if not refreshed, at least marginally human. Briefly, he considered opening the laptop and spending a couple of hours working on the book he hadn't planned to write, but there was too much on his mind in the here and now for him to be able to focus on nineteenth-century Wyoming.

For a change, David had a fairly late model sedan up on the lift when Neill walked into the garage.

"I didn't think you worked on anything newer than 1970," he commented, watching the other man loosening the lug nuts on one of the wheels.

"Now and again I'm forced to compromise my standards." David said, throwing him a grin. "Actually, I don't have the equipment to work on a lot of the newer cars. The way they're set up, they need a computer programmer more than a mechanic." He shook his head in disgust. "A hundred thousand dollar computer to tell you how to do a tune-up."

"I think it's called progress," Neill said dryly.

"I guess. Makes it expensive to stay in business, though. And pretty well makes it impossible for anyone who wants to do their own maintenance." The whine of the power wrench punctuated the sentence as he removed the remaining lug nuts.

Neill hooked his thumbs in his pockets, leaned back against the work bench and waited for him to finish. His motorcycle leaned in the far comer of the garage. Idly, he wondered if David had heard anything more about getting the parts he needed to repair it, but he didn't feel any urgent need to ask. Even if the Indian was repaired today, he didn't plan on going anywhere. Not until he'd worked out his feelings for Anne. And then—just maybe—he wouldn't be leaving alone.

David slid the tire off, letting it bounce gently against the concrete floor as he rolled it out of his way.

"You said you'd known Anne all her life!" Neill said, as the other man picked up a box wrench and went to work on the wheel.

"That's right." David's agreement was absent, his mind on the job at hand.

"Then you must have known her sister."

The wrench clattered on the concrete floor. There was a moment of dead silence, then David bent to pick the tool up, straightening slowly to look at Neill with shuttered eyes. "I knew her. Matter of fact, we dated quite a bit through high school."

"What happened to her?" Neill asked, deciding that bluntness would serve better than subtlety. "How did she die?"

David bounced the head of the wrench lightly against his palm, considering. "Why do you want to know?"

Neill hesitated for a moment. If he told David about the attempted mugging and about Anne's near panic at the thought that people might find out and "look at her," he was fairly sure he would get the full story. But Anne had said she didn't want anyone to know about the attempted mugging, and, though he didn't understand her reasons, he had to respect her wishes. He shrugged. "lt was something Anne said. It made me wonder."

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I did. She said it was a long time ago and that she didn't want to talk about it."

"But you're not willing to let it end there?" David asked, his tone neutral.

"I don't think it is ended," Neill said flatly. He didn't know why or how, but he knew that, whatever had happened to her sister, it was still very much a part of Anne's life.

David nodded slowly. "Maybe not." His eyes dropped to the wrench. He seemed to be debating with himself about something. After a long moment, he shook his head. "I don't think Anne would appreciate it if I told you."

Neill released his breath in a frustrated hiss, but he didn't offer any persuasion. In David's shoes, he would probably have made the same decision. It was a matter of loyalty. It was ironic that then-mutual concern for Anne had set them at cross-purposes.

"Thanks anyway." He turned away, only to stop when David spoke again.

"It wasn't a secret when it happened." The words came slowly, as if pulled from him. "It was in the papers. Fifteen years ago come this next May."

The Loving Public Library was housed in a squat concrete building set back from the main thoroughfare by a wide sweep of well-tended lawn. A bronze plaque set in the wall beside the entrance announced that, in 1953, the building had been the generous gift of a Mr. and Mrs. Whiteberry, who believed that the joys of reading should be made freely available to all. The building itself had been designed by their son, Mr. Alvin Whiteberry. Neill appreciated their civic mindedness and thought it a pity that young Alvin had apparently taken World War n bunkers as his inspiration for the building's design.

The interior was much lighter and airier than he would have expected, with soft colors and honey-toned wood adding to the sense of spaciousness. Aside from a woman standing behind a low wooden counter and an elderly man dozing in a soft chair in the magazine area, the place appeared to be empty.

Neill stopped just inside the doors, debating the wisdom of this expedition. He'd asked Anne about her sister and she'd said she didn't want to talk about it. Maybe that should be the end of it If and when she wanted him to know more, she would tell him. Did the fact that he was sliding into love with her give him the right to poke around in her past? He wasn't sure, but he couldn't shake the memory of h trembling in his arms the night before, or the conviction that her fear had been caused by more than some punk trying to snatch her purse.

Besides, if whatever had happened to her sister had been in the papers, it was public knowledge, so he wasn't exactly invading her privacy, right? If he'd been around fifteen years ago, he could have read all about it, along with everyone else. And if that wasn't specious reasoning, he didn't know what was, he admitted with a sigh. But he needed to know.