The Last Honest Woman (20 page)

Because he wanted to get an early start, Dylan was downstairs before the boys had finished breakfast. The main topic, as expected, was the foal. The boys were arguing, though without heat, about whether Gladys would mess things up and deliver while they were in school. Veterans now, they were prepared to step in as midwives. To prove their valor, each one had a Polaroid snapshot of the new addition to take to class.

"They're having hamburgers for lunch today," Ben remembered, looking expectantly at his mother.

Abby put the jar of peanut butter back in the cupboard. "Get my purse."

"Me, too?" Chris asked dribbling milk down his chin.

"Okay." She opened her bag when Ben brought it in, and dumped out the contents. Along with her wallet, she pulled a pair of rubber gloves in a plastic bag out of the pile and dropped them on the counter. "Here you go. Don't lose it."

"We won't." Chris scrambled for his coat white he stuffed the money in the pocket of his jeans. "Mom, I know where babies come from."

"Um-hmm." She was pouring her second cup of coffee.

"But how do they get there?"

"Oh." She spilled the coffee on the counter, and caught Dylan's grin as she turned to look at Chris. His round young face was lifted to hers. But he's only six, she thought, wondering just what she was supposed to tell him. She knelt down in front of him and asked herself how to tell a six-year-old about making babies in the two minutes he had left before he had to catch the bus for school.

"Love puts them there," she told him, and kissed both his cheeks. "A very special kind of love."

"Oh." Satisfied, he gave her one of his quick, energetic hugs and dashed for the door. "Come on, Ben." Then, seeing that his brother was still pulling on his coat, Chris grinned. "I'll beat you." He flew off with the challenge and left Ben struggling to zip up and run at the same time.

"Bye, Ben," Abby murmured. Then, with a shake of her head, she went back to mop up the coffee.

Dylan sat at the counter and watched her tidy up the spill with a secret smile of amusement on her face. "I like your style, lady."

"Oh?" Laughing, she tugged at the hem of an over-laundered sweatshirt. "It is rather
today
isn't it?"

"I was talking about your answer to a very important and very ticklish question from a six-year-old boy. Some people would've given him a biology lesson, and others would have brushed him off. You gave him exactly the answer he needed. Still…" He toyed with the last of his coffee. "I wish I'd had that Polaroid when the question popped out of his mouth. Your face was worth the price of a ticket."

"I'm sure it was." She walked over to pull on her boots.

"I like the way you look in the morning.''

She stopped, still bent over, and looked at him. "Frazzled?"

"Fresh." The smile on her face faded. "Soft." His voice lowered. "I'd like to be able to lie in bed with you during the morning, watch you wake up, fall back to sleep and know when you wake up again I could make love with you."

Her pulse thudded, and she wondered he didn't hear it. "I'd like that, too. But the children—"

"I didn't say I didn't understand. But the idea warms me up a little."

It warmed her more than a little, she thought as she finally managed to get into her boots. "As it is, there isn't a lot of time around here for lazing around in bed in the morning. I always figure I'll know the kids are growing up when they sleep past seven." Not quite steady, she walked over to clear the counter.

"I'll do that," he said, and caught her hand.

"It's all right."

"Abby…" He flicked a finger over her wrist. "Haven't you ever heard of women's liberation?"

She lifted a brow. In her way, she'd been liberated since she'd taken her first breath. Her parents had seen to that. "Sure. That's why the boys take turns doing the dishes, put away their own clothes—on a good day—and know how to use the vacuum. Their wives will thank me. In the meantime, someone has to man the oars."

"There are usually two oars."

She tilted her head, smiled, then nodded. "Fine. You clean up the kitchen, I'll feed the stock. It'll save some time."

"Okay. We'll get started when you come back in."

"Can't." She started to clear the contents of her purse from the counter. "I have to run over to the Smiths' this morning. I'll be back around noon."

He started to object, then made himself stop. She had her own life. He watched her fill her purse again. "Do you always carry rubber gloves in there?"

"What? Oh." With a laugh, she dropped them in. "I do when I'm going to the Smiths'. She's a fanatic about ammonia."

"Come again?"

"Ammonia." Abby zipped up her purse and wondered if there was enough spaghetti in the fridge for leftovers. "The straight stuff. The woman has a fetish about having all the floors cleaned with ammonia."

His brow creased as he tried to follow her. "You clean them?"

"Twice a month." Her mind on dozens of other matters, Abby went for her coat.

"What is it, like volunteer work?"

She have a quick, appreciative roll of laughter as she turned back. "Not on your life. I make six dollars an hour. Look, don't run the dishwasher. I think—"

"You work as a maid?"

"Housekeeper." She grinned and pulled a bandanna off a peg to tie her hair back with. "I suppose that's really a glorified term, but I always see a maid in a little black skirt, and…" She let the words die when he rose out of his seat and walked to her. Something in his eyes had her throat clogging up. She'd never dealt well with anger.

"Why in the bell are you getting down on your hands and knees and scrubbing someone else's floor?"

Her chin came up. "It's honest work."

"Why?"

"Because the only other thing I'm good at is singing in three-part harmony. There isn't a lot of call for that, and the pay's lousy."

Ignoring her evasions, he went straight to the point. "Why does Chuck Rockwell's widow have to wash floors for six dollars an hour?"

She went very pale. It was in his voice, the doubt, the derision. "I don't have time or the inclination to discuss my financial business with you, Dylan." She yanked the door open, but he slammed it again.

"I asked you a question."

"And I've given you the only answer I intend to." The fire came into her eyes, briefly but powerfully. "I don't have to tolerate this from you, from anyone, Dylan. I don't have to stand here while you look at me as though I'm less of a person because I mop other people's floors and dust their furniture for pay. If I did it for charity I'd be a hero, but I do it for money."

"I want to know why you do it at all."

"I do exactly what I have to do. Nobody knows it better."

With that she yanked the door open again and strode out. He could have followed her, and he started to. Then, just as determined as she, Dylan shut the door. It was time to get back to business, he told himself. And back to the truth.

Contents
-
Prev
|
Next

Moving with a dull, grinding fury, Dylan drafted out twenty pages. Chuck Rockwell had become more than a name, less than an image to him now. Over the course of time, Dylan had come to know him as a man, a badly flawed one, insecure, self-absorbed, intemperate. The skill and the training couldn't be overlooked, nor could the daring that some would have called heroics. He'd been born not just with a silver spoon in his mouth, but with the whole place setting at his disposal. Yet he hadn't chosen to simply sit back and enjoy his wealth, he'd refused a meaningless title in the family conglomerate. He had, instead, chosen to make his own mark in his own way. There was something to be said for that.

Chuck Rockwell had become a success and had earned respect, even adulation. His associates had considered him one of their best, even if they hadn't liked him personally. The press had gloried in him, on the track and off. His fans had made him a celebrity within a year of his first professional race. He'd attained all that, plus a devoted wife and two sons.

Then he'd set out—systematically, it seemed to Dylan—to destroy it all.

He'd lost his backer and first supporter, he'd alienated most of his associates and had torn irreparable holes in his marriage. Yet Abby had once described him as a knight on a white charger. And she'd stuck by him for four years.

Why?

Chuck had abused their marriage, abused her and left her to raise his children while he ran the next race and pursued the next woman. But she'd made a home for him.

Why?

Until she told him, until he cornered her again and pulled the answers out of her, what he wrote would just be words.

Until she told him, until she trusted him with the truth, what he felt for her couldn't be acknowledged.

How long could he deny it? Dylan crushed his cigarette out with quick and deliberate violence. How long could he live in the same house with her, watch her, want her, deny he'd lost his head over her? Lost his head. With self-mocking laugh, he ran his hands over his face. It was easier to plead insanity than to admit he'd lost his heart. What he'd done was fall in love.

But he'd always thought that falling in love meant you'd stumbled, slipped, that you hadn't looked for the rocks in the road or noticed the edge of the cliff. And he'd been right. He felt as if he'd slipped, stumbled and caught himself on one of those rocks, then taken a nosedive off the cliff. In all likelihood, it was going to screw up his book, his objectivity and his life.

He wished to God she would come home.

That was another problem, he admitted. He'd been on the farm less than three weeks and he already thought of it as home. He'd been with Abby less than three weeks and he already thought of her as his. And the boys… Dylan pushed away from his desk and strode around the room. All right, so he was crazy about them. He wasn't made of stone, was he?

It didn't have to make any difference. He'd worked too hard to get his life exactly the way he wanted it. The only person he was responsible to was himself, the only person he had to satisfy was himself. The only person who had to approve of him was Dylan Crosby.

Maybe he wasn't rolling in money, but he certainly made enough. If he wanted to take off tomorrow for three weeks in the South Seas, there was no one he'd have to clear it with first. Selfish? Dylan turned that over in his mind with a shrug. What if he were? He was entitled. He'd milked cows until the tune he'd gone to college. He'd studied hard, worked hard, and had established himself professionally and personally. His years as an investigative reporter had been fiendish in their way, but he'd gotten through them. His marriage hadn't exactly been made in heaven, but he'd done the best he could with it while it had lasted. Now he was free, with no ties, no strings. He set his own schedules, made his own demands. Just because he liked the farm and was fond of a couple of kids didn't mean he was going to turn his world upside down. He'd been through one marriage, and so had Abby. They'd be smart not to step back into the ring.

When was she coming home?

The minute he heard the engine, he was at the window. But it wasn't Abby's sturdy station wagon that pulled up. It was a huge gunmetal-gray limo.

"Ah, fresh air. Country air." Frank O'Hurley bounced out of the limo as though it were act one, scene one. "Clears the mind. Cleanses the soul. Everybody should breathe it in." He did, then screwed up his face. "God save us. What is that smell?"

"Horse manure'd be my guess." Maddy stepped out beside him, then looked around with quick, avid curiosity. Fifty-second Street or Dogpatch, it made no difference to her. "Mom, did I leave my purse in there?"

"Right here." Molly, slim and pretty, accepted the driver's hand before stepping out. She stood on sturdy legs and shaded her eyes against the sun. Sunlight made wrinkles. She wasn't particularly vain, but her face was part of her act. "Ah." With a look that was half pleased, half baffled, she stared at the house. "Such a place. I can never quite imagine our Abby here."

"Where'd we go wrong?" Frank asked her, and got a quick swipe on the shoulder from his youngest daughter.

"Cut it out, Pop. Abby loves this place."

Dylan came to the door just in time to see Chantel O'Hurley step from the limo onto the sparsely graveled drive. It struck him first that Abby had the same million-dollar legs as Chantel. He watched as her skirt flared beautifully around her and she took the driver's hand, then flashed a smile designed to turn a man to putty.

"Thank you, Donald." Her voice was like smoke and seemed to encircle her listeners sensuously. "If you'd just put our bags on the porch, that will be all for today."

"Very good, Miss O'Hurley."

"You do that so well," Maddy murmured as the driver popped the hood.

"Darling, I was born to do it." Then, as she laughed and linked her arm through her sister's, she spotted Dylan. "Well, well." It might have been a purr, but kittens didn't purr when they showed their teeth. "What have we here?"

"Must be the writer." Maddy gave him a brief and thorough summing-up. "Be nice."