The Last Honest Woman (4 page)

Ben dipped his hand in a cookie jar shaped like a duck. "Whose car's out front? It's neat."

"The writer, remember?" Going to the closet, Abby took out a mop and began to scrub quickly at the water on the floor. "Mr. Crosby."

"The guy who's going to write the book about our dad?"

"That's right."

"Don't see why anybody'd want to read about somebody who's dead."

There it was again, Abby thought. Ben's frank and careless dismissal of his father. Was Chuck to blame for it, or was she at fault for refusing to carry her child papoose-style around the circuit? Blame didn't matter, she decided. Only the result.

"Your father was very well-known, Ben. People still admire him."

"Like George Washington?" Chris asked, stuffing the last of his cookie in his mouth.

"Not exactly. You two should go up and change before dinner. And don't disturb Mr. Crosby," she added. "He's in the spare room nearest the stairs. He had a long drive, and he's probably resting."

"'Kay." Ben sent Chris a significant look behind their mother's back. "We'll be real quiet."

"I appreciate it." Abby waited until they were gone, then leaned on the mop handle. She was doing the right thing, she told herself again. She had to be.

"Don't make the stairs creak," Ben warned and started up in a pattern he'd discovered a few months before. "He'll know we're coming."

"We're not supposed to bother him." But Chris meticulously followed his brother's path.

"We're not gonna. We're just going to look at him."

"But Mom said—"

"Listen." Ben paused dramatically three steps from the top, keeping his voice to a whisper. "Suppose he isn't a writer really. Suppose he's a robber."

Chris's eyes widened. "A robber?"

"Yeah." Warming to the theme, Ben bent close to his brother's ear. "He's a robber and he's going to wait until we're all sleeping tonight. Then he's going to clean us out."

"Is he going to take my trucks?"

"Probably." Then Ben played his ace. "I bet he has a gun, too. So we've gotta be real quiet and just watch him."

Sold, Chris nodded. The two boys, hearts thumping, crept up the last steps.

With his hands tucked in his back pockets, Dylan stood looking out the window. The hills weren't so different from the hills he'd seen out of his bedroom window as a boy. The rain pelted down, the fog rolled. There wasn't another house in sight.

Unexpected. But then, he preferred the unexpected. He'd thought Abigail O'Hurley Rockwell's home would have been a showplace of the ornate and the elegant. He'd been certain he'd find a houseful of servants. Unless they were out on errands, she didn't appear to have any at all, and her house was simply comfortable.

He'd known, of course, that she had children, but he'd expected nannies or boarding school. The woman whose picture he had in his file, dressed in white mink and glittering with diamonds, wouldn't have the time or inclination to actually raise children.

If she wasn't that woman, who the hell was she? It was his job to research the life of Chuck Rockwell, but Dylan found himself more interested in the widow.

Hardly looked like a widow, he mused as he moved to drop one of his suitcases on the bed. Looked more like a graduate student on winter break. But then she had been an actress of sorts. Perhaps she still was.

He flipped back the top of his suitcase. A small sound, hardly more than a murmur, caught his attention. As an investigative reporter, Dylan had found himself in enough back alleys and seedy bars to develop eyes in the back of his head. Casually he pulled out a stack of shirts and sweaters while he shifted his gaze to the mirror at the foot of the bed.

The bedroom door opened slowly, just a crack, then a tiny bit wider. He tensed and waited, though it appeared as though he simply continued to unpack. He saw two eyes in the mirror one above the other. Moving to the dresser, he beard the sound of nervous breathing. When the door opened a bit wider, he saw small fingers wrap around the edge.

"He looks like a robber." Ben said in a piercing whisper, hardly able to contain the excitement. "He's got shifty eyes."

"Do you think he's got a gun?"

"Probably a whole arsenal." Wildly pleased, Ben followed Dylan's movements around the room. "He's going to the closet," he whispered frantically. "Be quiet."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the door was yanked open. The two boys tumbled into the room.

Sprawled on the carpet, Chris looked up at the man's face, which seemed miles above his. His bottom Up poked out, but his eyes were dry. "You can't have my trucks." He was ready to yell frantically for his mother at a moment's notice.

"Okay." Amused, Dylan crouched down until they were almost eye-to-eye. "Maybe I could see them sometime."

Chris's eyes darted back to his brother. "Maybe. Are you a robber?"

"Chris!" Mortified, Ben struggled to untangle himself from his brother and stand. "He's just a kid."

"Am not. I'm six."

"Six." Dylan struggled to look suitably impressed. "And you?"

"I'm eight." Ben's conscience tugged at him. "Well I will be pretty soon. Mom thinks you're a writer."

"Sometimes I think so, too." A good-looking boy, Dylan decided, and with such an eager gleam of curiosity in his eyes he was hard to resist. "I'm Dylan." He held out his hand and waited while Ben pondered.

"I'm Ben." He took Dylan's hand, appreciating the man-to-man offer. "This is Chris."

"Nice to meet you." Dylan offered his hand to Chris. With a sheepishly pleased smile, he took it.

"We thought your car was neat."

"It has its moments."

"Ben said it probably goes two hundred miles an hour."

"It might." Unable to resist, he ruffled the boy's hair. "I don't."

Chris grinned. He liked the way the man smelled, so different from his mom. "My mom said we weren't supposed to disturb you."

"Did she?" Dylan set the boy on his feet, then rose himself. "I'll let you know when you do."

Accepting the words at face value, Chris climbed onto the bed and chattered while Dylan unpacked. Ben held back, saying little and watching everything.

Doesn't trust easily, Dylan thought. Though he agreed with the sentiment, he thought it was a pity to find it in such a small boy. The little one was a crackerjack, and one who'd believe whatever tumbled out of your mouth. It would pay to watch what you said.

Chris watched as Dylan pulled out a carton of cigarettes. "Mom says those are a duty habit."

Dylan tossed them into a dresser drawer. "Moms are pretty smart."

"Do you like dirty habits?"

"I…" Dylan decided to let that one ride. "Why don't you hand me that camera?"

Willing to please, Chris drew the compact 35-millimeter out of the case. He held it for just a moment, eyeing the knobs. "It's pretty neat."

"Thanks."

"You going to take our picture?"

"I just might." As he set in on the dresser, Dylan glanced in the mirror and saw Ben poking gingerly at his tape recorder. "Interested?"

Caught, Ben snatched his hands back. "Spies use these."

"So I've heard. Got any around here?"

Ben sent him a quietly measuring look he wouldn't have expected from a boy twice his age. "Maybe."

"We thought Mr. Petrie who helps with the horses was a spy for awhile." Chris looked in the suitcase to see if there was anything else interesting. "But he wasn't."

"You have horses?"

"We got a bunch of them."

"What kind?"

Chris shrugged. "Mostly big ones."

"You're such a dope," Ben said. "They're Morgans. One day I'm going to ride Thunder, that's the stallion." As he spoke, the caution in his eyes vanished, to be replaced by enthusiasm. "He's the best there is."

So this was the key to the boy, Dylan mused, that someone could turn if he cared to. "I had a Tennessee walker when I was a kid. Sixteen hands."

"Sixteen?" Ben's eyes widened before he remembered he shouldn't be too enthusiastic. "He probably wasn't as fast as Thunder." When Dylan made no comment, Ben struggled, then gave up. "What'd you call him?"

"Sly. He had a way of knowing which pocket you had the carrot in."

"Ben. Chris."

Ben flushed with guilt as he spotted his mother in the doorway. She had that look in her eye. Oblivious, Chris bounced happily on the bed. "Hi, Mom. I don't think Dylan's a robber after all."

"I'm sure we're all relieved to hear that. Benjamin, didn't I tell you not to disturb Mr. Crosby?"

"Yes, ma'am." You had to use "ma'am" when she used "Benjamin."

"They weren't." Dylan took a pair of slacks and hung them in the closet. "We were getting acquainted."

"That's kind of you." She sent him an even look, then ignored him. "Maybe you boys have forgotten about your chores?"

"But, Mom—"

She cut Ben off with a look. "I don't think we have to discuss responsibilities again."

Dylan stuck a shirt in his drawer and tried not to chuckle. He'd heard the same line in the same tone from his own mother countless times.

"You have animals depending on you for their dinner," Abby reminded her sons. "And—" she rustled a paper "—this seems to have fallen on the floor. I'm sure you were going to show it to me."

Ben shuffled his feet as she held up his C in spelling. "I sort of studied."

"Mmm." Walking over, she cupped his chin in her hand. "Delinquent."

He smiled, knowing the crisis had passed. "I'm going to study tonight."

"You bet you are. Now scram. You too." She held out a hand for Chris as Ben scrambled from the room.

"Ben said he might steal my trucks."

Abby lifted him up by the elbows to kiss him soundly. "You're very gullible."

"Is that okay?"

"For now. Change your clothes."

At six, Chris couldn't have defined charm—but he knew he had it. "I'm still
awful
hungry."

"I guess we could eat a little early. If you get your chores done."

Since it seemed cookies were out, he wiggled down and walked to the door. He stopped and aimed a smile at Dylan. "Bye."

"See you."

Abby waited a moment, then turned back. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid they're used to having the run of the house and don't think about other people's privacy.

"They didn't bother me."

She laughed and tossed her hair back from her shoulder. "That won't last, I promise you. If you don't mind, we'll eat when they've finished their chores and cleaned up."

"Anytime."

"Mr. Crosby." The laughter was gone, and her eyes were calm and sober again. But it was her mouth, he realized, that drew his attention. It was fun, sensual, serious. "I'm going to try to give you my cooperation with this project. That doesn't include my children."

He drew his shaving kit out of the case. "Which means?"

"I don't want them involved. You aren't to interview or question them about their father."

After setting the kit on his dresser, he turned back to her. Soft. She was a woman who looked soft as butter and she had a voice to match, but he had a feeling she'd grow talons if her children were threatened. That was fair enough. "I hadn't really given that any thought I'd think both of them a little young to remember much."

You'd be surprised, she thought, but nodded. "Then we understand each other."

"Not yet. Not by a long shot… Mrs. Rockwell."

She didn't care for the look in his eyes. It was too… intrusive. How much of herself would she have left when he finished his assignment? It was a gamble, and she'd already decided to take it. "I'll have one of the boys let you know when dinner's ready."

After she'd closed the door and started down the hall, she found herself chilled, so chilled that she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She wanted to call her family, to hear her parents' comforting voices. Or Chanters caustic one. She dragged a hand through her hair as she walked down the steps. Maybe she could call Maddy and absorb some of her carelessly upbeat views on life in general. She couldn't call Trace. Big brother was roaming his way through Europe or Africa or God knew where. .

She couldn't call any of them, Abby reminded herself as she stepped into the kitchen again. She was on her own and had been for years, by her own choice. They'd come, any and all of them would come if she so much as hinted at need. So she couldn't call. She wasn't simply the middle triplet now. She was Abby Rockwell, mother of two sons. She had to see to them, provide for them, raise them. And by God, she was going to make certain they had some kind of legacy from their father.

She pulled vegetables out of the crisper and began to prepare a salad both her sons would mutter over.

When the stock was fed and hands and faces reluctantly washed, Abby turned off the flame under the pot of chili. "Chris, go up and tell Mr. Crosby dinner's ready."

"I'll do it." Ben's offer was quick and out of character. When Abby sent him a questioning look, he shrugged. "I want to get something upstairs anyway."

"All right, thanks. But no fooling around. Everything's ready."

"I don't have to eat mushrooms, do I?" Chris was already pulling himself onto his stool.

"No, you don't have to eat any mushrooms."

"You gonna pick them out?"

"Yes."

"All of them. If I eat one, I'll throw up."

"Understood," she said, and glanced up to see Dylan and Ben come in. "Go ahead and sit, I'm just setting things up." Moving automatically, she began to dish salad into bowls.

"I don't want any," Ben told her as he slid onto his stool.

"Your body does." She added dressing. "Here, Chris, not one mushroom."

"If there is I'm gonna—"

"Yes, I know." She dished up a third bowl and set it in front of Dylan. "Now if you'll—" She caught herself when she glanced over and saw him grinning at her. "Oh, I'm sorry." She looked down at the salad she'd fixed him just as tidily as she had fixed her sons'. "I guess I'm just used to dishing it up."

"It's all right." He picked up a bottle of dressing and shook it lazily. "I think we can handle it from here."

She sat down and began to eat as Chris chattered between and during mouthfuls. Ben was picking at his salad and watching Dylan out of the corner of his eye. Odd, she thought, he looked… what? Wary? Resentful? She couldn't be sure. He wasn't the most open child, but…