WAGERED WOMAN Read online

  She whirled from the phone kiosk to confront him. "I thought you said you'd go on into the store."

  "Well, on second thought, I decided to make sure you went through with it."

  "What did you do with yourself before you had my life to control?"

  "Ah, Delilah. Relax. Take things easy. We have a whole week to go."

  "Don't I know it."

  "Come on." He gestured out at the parking lot, beyond the overhang which protected them. "Cheer up. Before you know it, it'll be a gorgeous day."

  She looked where he pointed and saw he was right. The rain had eased up quite a bit. The clouds were thinning. It was just possible that in an hour or two, they'd be enjoying a sunny spring day. Yet Delilah felt far from sunny. She gestured toward the glass doors. "Let's just get the food."

  He gave a mock bow. "After you."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Within an hour, they were back on the road. A half hour after that, as Sam had predicted, the storm had passed. The sky was a flawless blue overhead, the road was a winding ribbon lined with tall conifers, and they were climbing ever higher into a sea of cedar and pine.

  Eventually they left the highway, switching back onto a road that was paved at first, and then became a bed of moist pine needles splotched with patches of melting snow. They crossed a wooden bridge over a creek swift with spring runoff, and then the road became so rutted and rough that they had to proceed much more slowly. After a while, Sam switched to four-wheel drive.

  They came to more than one crossroads, and Sam always seemed to know which raw, half-frozen route to take. Once or twice, Delilah spied small lakes or ponds through the tall trees, like huge puddles of sapphire, reflecting the smooth perfection of the sky. She also saw the occasional cabin nestled among the tall cedars.

  Then the land opened up. The far mountains became rolling carpets of fir, spiked now and then with rugged rock faces, still heavily bearded with snow. Nearer, moraine from an aeons-ago glacier dotted the low hills.

  For some time they drove up and down the moraine-dotted hills, where melting snow lay in the cracks and crevasses between the giant stones. Then once more they left the open country behind and entered the tall, silent trees where the snow lay on the banks of the rutted road, growing thicker with each mile that passed.

  They went on, into the dark tunnel of the trees, through which, now and then, the sun would find its way in bright, stunning shafts, cutting the shadows like a heaven-sent spotlight and picking up jewel-like gleams in the white drifts of the snow.

  At last, up ahead Delilah saw a patch of blue. It glimmered through the trees, then disappeared, then winked at her again. Finally they trundled around a curve, and the trees opened up to a clearing where most of the snow had melted away. The clearing ended at her teasing patch of blue: a small lake.

  The lake glittered in the sun and reflected back the blue bowl of the pristine sky, as well as the mountain that rose on the other side, high and craggy, a moonscape of granite rock and glistening, wind-crested snow.

  Sam pulled the Bronco to a stop and turned off the engine. Delilah, seduced by the beauty of the scene, only sat and stared. Heaven help her, faced with splendor like this, she could almost forget that the man beside her had held her brother's livelihood hostage to get her here.

  Delilah glanced at Sam. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Right at that moment, it was simply impossible for her to do otherwise.

  He gestured at a spot out her passenger window, and she saw a log cabin, at the edge of the trees. "That's where we'll be staying."

  She found she couldn't hide her excitement. "How did you find this? Whose is it?"

  "Ten acres, back into the trees, including the cabin and up to the lakefront, are mine. The rest is national forest."

  "Ten acres?" She was awestruck. Land like this was rare now in overpopulated California. "But how did you ever convince anyone to sell a place like this?"

  "I didn't," he said flatly. "It was my father's."

  Delilah blinked. His father's…

  The idea that Sam Fletcher had once had a father struck her as terribly strange. But then, everyone did have a father, after all. So she supposed Sam would be likely to have had one as well.

  She'd just never thought of his having parents or a family. He'd shown up in town alone twenty years ago, and no evidence of a family had surfaced since. Until now.

  She said, puzzled, "Your father? But Sam, I didn't even know you had a father…"

  "I don't," he replied in that same flat tone. "He's dead."

  "But—"

  "Let's go inside," he said, suddenly brisk. "We have work to do getting settled in." He leaned on his door and got down from the Bronco before she could demand to hear more about this father she'd never known he had.

  And then, when she thought about it, she decided she would only be asking for trouble to hear too much about Sam Fletcher anyway. Hearing his life history would be getting to know him better. And getting to know Sam Fletcher better was exactly what she'd sworn not to do.

  In fact, she determined, the wisest course over this entire week would probably be to keep conversation to a minimum whenever possible. The less they talked, the smaller the chance she'd be drawn into the intimacy she'd sworn to resist. Also, every time they talked, things seemed to get out of hand. He either stirred her temper or her senses—two equally dangerous occurrences.

  Yes, she thought, pleased with herself. As much as possible, she would keep her mouth shut. She'd be reasonable and helpful in getting things done. She'd be … polite. She'd do her best not to cross him. And just maybe she'd get through this week without killing him—or dropping right into his waiting arms.

  That decided, she got out and joined him at the back of the Bronco, where he handed her a box of groceries. Then he took the other two boxes of food and led the way to the cabin. There, he balanced the stacked boxes in his arms against the door frame as he fitted a key into the padlock on the rough wooden door. The lock fell open.

  He pushed the door inward and led the way into a single room with natural log walls and an unfinished plank floor on which their steps echoed when they walked.

  He crossed the room and set the boxes down on a section of counter next to a stained sink. Delilah followed suit, pausing to glance out a rather large, many-paned window above the sink which granted a stunning view of the butte across the lake.

  "Nice, huh?" Sam said. The window framed the craggy peak like a picture. "I put that window in myself two years ago. It was pretty dark in here without it."

  Delilah, recalling her resolve to keep unnecessary conversation to a minimum, only nodded. Then Sam began inspecting the place. Delilah took the few moments while Sam was poking in cupboards and peering into cabinets to take stock of her surroundings.

  The accommodations were far from deluxe, but the cabin appeared sound and dry. Settling in here would be a great improvement over sleeping outside on the half-frozen ground.

  She noted most of the basic amenities including a simple pine table with two straight chairs and a fireplace of natural stone before which a pair of battered easy chairs huddled. The walls were lined with rough-hewn shelves and cabinets. There was even a scarred dresser into which they could unpack their clothes.

  Also, in one corner, there was an old-fashioned iron bedstead. Its tired-looking mattress was levered up against the wall.

  Delilah sighed. One bed. That was it. She glanced resignedly at the braided rug rolled up by the hearth, and realized where she'd be laying down her sleeping bag that night.

  There was no sign of a bathroom. "Facilities," as she had predicted, would consist of a roll of tissue and one of those big trees out there to duck behind.

  Sam, who'd been looking around himself, announced, "The good news is it looks like the rat bait I put out last time did the trick. The bad news is the dust is pretty thick, and we'll need to do some washing up. But I can't get the water pump going until I
start the generator. So maybe I ought to do that right away."

  Delilah agreed with him.

  "Don't bring anything else in until I get this taken care of. Otherwise you'll only be stirring up dust."

  "Okay."

  He turned and left her standing alone in the cabin, gazing at the wood stove and the ancient refrigerator. The refrigerator actually had one of those old-fashioned coils on top of it.

  In a few minutes she heard a motor start up several hundred yards away. She glanced out the tiny window on the west wall and saw an electric cable leading into the trees. She thought it clever of him to put the generator away from the cabin, where the sound would be less noticeable.

  A bare lightbulb dangled from the middle of the ceiling. Delilah pulled the chain on it. The bulb shone brightly. Too brightly, she decided, and switched it off. The light from the big south-facing window would do until the shadows came.

  The ancient refrigerator, whose door was held open by a towel for airing, began to hum. She removed the towel so the door would close.

  Then she realized that there was only one spigot in the sink fixture, which meant no hot water. She decided to get the fire started. After checking to see that the tap was open, so there would be no pressure backup when the water began to flow, she found kindling, an old newspaper and a couple of logs in the basket by the stove. She started the fire.

  As if on cue, the water in the sink began to run. It was the color of the hair on Sam's chest at first: rusty brown. But in a few minutes, it ran crystal clear. She found a big pot and put some on to heat.

  After that, she looked in the cabinets for the cleaning supplies, and she started to work. In a few minutes, Sam joined her.

  They worked without pausing for an hour, getting things in shape, dusting and wiping down counters and sweeping up the floor. They pulled the mattress flat on the springs and clouds of thick dust flew up, so they coaxed the thing out to the small front step and beat it awhile with the broom.

  All this time, they hardly spoke, except to give verbal clues to facilitate the job at hand. Besides the fact that not speaking fell right in with her plans, Delilah found it very soothing to work so smoothly and purposefully.

  She remembered, as she hadn't in years, the hardrock mine her mother's brother, Uncle Cleve, had owned, way up in the hills above North Magdalene. When Delilah was little, they all used to pack up and go camping up there, where the cabin was cruder than this one, and everyone had to pitch in to make things livable.

  She remembered the starry summer nights, when they'd build a campfire outside, and make S'mores, sweet sandwiches of graham crackers, roasted marshmallows and chocolate bars. She remembered her mother, Bathsheba, tall and graceful in her frayed jeans and plaid shirt, her thick dark hair in a bouncing braid down her back, dancing a polka in her father's arms around the open fire as uncle Cleve beat out a tune on his old guitar.

  Funny, in that memory, all her brothers were smiling, clapping their hands and cheering the reeling couple on…

  "Lilah?"

  She realized, with some chagrin, that she'd been wiping the same clean shelf for several minutes now. She stopped, and looked at Sam. "What?"

  He stared at her strangely for a minute, as if he wondered what she'd been woolgathering about, but he didn't ask. Instead, he said with frank admiration, "You're a hard worker."

  She was pleased at his praise, in spite of herself. "I like to do my share."

  "We work the same."

  Now what in the world was that supposed to mean? "So?"

  "So that's good."

  She peered at him warily for a moment, considering asking him just what was so good about it. But she was afraid she already knew the answer, which would have something to do with how two people who could work so smoothly together would probably do other things smoothly together as well. She didn't need to hear anything like that!

  He chuckled, as if he could read her thoughts on her face. Then he pointed out, "Things are in pretty good shape now. I'll get the rest of the stuff from the truck."

  She tossed her cleaning cloth in the bucket and followed him out. Together, they brought in everything else and put it away.

  Delilah was careful to set her bedroll in the corner by the fireplace. But Sam, without a word, went over and picked it up and carried it to the bed. She opened her mouth to order him to put it back. But then he carried his own bag to the corner where hers had been and pointedly dropped it there. She decided not to argue. She could be foolish when it came to Sam Fletcher, but not foolish enough to complain about getting the only bed in the place.

  By then, it was well past lunchtime. They made sandwiches and poured cups of milk, and took them out by the lake where they sat on a fallen log and watched the shadows grow longer on the north-facing butte across the water. Delilah found it very pleasant, actually, just sitting there by the lake, filling her growling stomach, feeling no urge to say a word.

  It wasn't till the simple meal was through that she began to wonder if she was finding all this a little too pleasant. Once or twice, Sam had glanced her way and smiled and she had smiled back without thinking, as if she were here with him of her own free will, as if she were enjoying herself.

  When they'd taken the empty cups back inside and straightened up the counter, Sam decided to replenish their supply of usable wood. Delilah, who had sense enough not to hang around and watch him flex his muscles, decided on a nice, long walk. She headed off into the woods without saying a word to him.

  She followed a trail around the lake to the foot of the big butte. She walked slowly, enjoying the stillness of the woods, which was broken only by the occasional cry of an unseen bird or the scrabblings of small animals off the trail in the trees. She found herself relaxing a little, and was grateful for the time alone, away from Sam and the forbidden temptations he represented.

  When she returned, it was nearing evening. She found wood stacked high against the side of the cabin, and Sam inside at the sink.

  It was warm in the cabin; he had both the stove and the fireplace going. The bare bulb glared from above, its light necessary now. She hung her heavy jacket on a peg by the door, and looked at Sam's massive back, his narrow waist and tight buttocks. Suddenly, the tension inside her that had eased during her walk began building once again.

  "Nice walk?" he asked over his shoulder. His voice was very casual. Too casual, in fact. "Well?" He set down the carrot he was slicing and turned to face her.

  "Yes," she said carefully. "I had a nice walk."

  "You didn't tell me you were leaving."

  "I … didn't stop to think," she said, though what she longed to tell him was it was none of his business where she went or how she got there.

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. "It's stupid to head off alone into country you don't know without telling anyone where you've gone."

  "I'm aware of that," she said, feeling her temperature rise a notch, and reminding herself grimly that he was right; it was stupid. Delilah knew very well that in unknown territory, going off alone could be foolish. But if she'd told him she was leaving, he might have argued with her. And she'd already decided she must avoid arguing with him at all costs.

  "Then why did you do it?"

  "I just wanted to get away for a while, that's all. I didn't think."

  "Well, you'd better start thinking."

  "All right!" She realized she'd raised her voice. She reminded herself to keep calm. Things would be getting out of hand. She took a deep breath, and said levelly, "It won't happen again."

  "Good." He turned back to the sink, seemingly satisfied with her word that she would not go off alone another time. Then he asked with a backward glance, "Where did you go?"

  "Does it matter?"

  He glanced at her once more, and she realized she'd been too curt. Oh, this was like walking a tightrope—as the handsome cad across the room no doubt knew very well.

  She made another stab at being civil. "Well, if you really want to know,
I walked to the base of that mountain around the lake."

  "That's a pretty trail," he said, his tone as innocuous as the statement.

  "Yes, it was lovely." Much better, she thought. He's innocuous, I'm insipid. We'll get through this week alive yet.

  "But next time, take the handgun." He'd brought along a revolver for routine protection in the woods.

  She looked at his broad back for a moment as he continued scrubbing and slicing the carrots, knowing she should agree. But when she opened her mouth, agreement didn't come out.

  "Why?"

  He shot her a look. "Come on, Delilah. You know why." He went on to explain anyway, in a gratingly patient tone. "If you get in trouble, you can fire a couple of shots. I'll hear them and come for you—as long as I know where to look. Also, if you come face to face with a mountain lion or a bear, believe me, you'll feel a lot better with a gun in your hand."

  He was right, of course. She knew she should simply agree to take the gun and let the subject drop, but somehow her mouth just didn't want to take orders from her brain. She said, "I'll be fine without a gun."

  He said, "You won't go without a gun."

  "Oh, really. And just how do you intend to stop me?"

  "That's an interesting question. I'll have to give it some serious thought." He cast her a grin, and she realized he was winning this silly argument simply by refusing to take it seriously.

  She reminded herself once more that her intention was to avoid strife, not stir it up. She said, exerting great effort not to sound surly, "All right. To be on the safe side, I'll take the gun next time."

  "Good."

  There was a silence. Delilah actually dared to hope that she'd managed to pull herself back from the brink of a full-blown confrontation.

  Cautiously, she crossed the room to stand by the table, not too close to him, but near enough that she could see his ponytail was wet; he must have washed in the sink, after chopping the wood.

  She felt her skin pinkening, thinking of that, of him stripping down and soaping himself standing in front of the big window in the fading light of day. Of him hanging his head over the sink, and ladling water over his thick red-gold hair…