WAGERED WOMAN Page 11

  He glanced at her. Something as hot and intense as the fire in the stove arced between them. She thought of the way his big body had looked when he answered the door the night before, of the water drops left from his shower, which she'd wanted to lick off with her tongue.

  They were staring at each other. She saw the hunger on his face and the question in his eyes. She knew her own eyes were answering—

  Swiftly, she looked away. She stared blankly at the scarred surface of the old table, waiting until her heart found its normal rhythm again and her breath came more evenly into her chest.

  When her yearnings were under control and she sensed he'd gone back to cutting the vegetables, she turned to him again.

  "So," she asked, absurdly bright, "What's for dinner?"

  "Steak, carrots and salad." His voice sounded as falsely cheerful as her own. "Want to help?"

  "You bet."

  They cooked. They ate. They cleared the table and washed the dishes. When the meal was done, it was dark outside, though the hour was far from late.

  Sam suggested, "Come out with me. I'll show you the stars from Hidden Paradise Lake."

  Delilah decided that wouldn't be wise. "No, thanks."

  "Lilah—"

  "I said no."

  He looked at her for a moment, and she thought she saw a hint of real frustration in his blue eyes. But then he shrugged. He went to his gear and took out a soft cloth. He unrolled the cloth on the table, and she saw a basic set of woodworking tools tucked into the pouch inside. He then produced some stones of different shapes, a leather strop, and a can of oil and set about the involved process of sharpening the tools.

  Delilah watched the whole procedure until it became clear what he was doing. She was curious about his wood carving, and wanted to ask questions. But questions meant conversation and conversation wasn't a good idea.

  Suddenly feeling at a loss, Delilah cast about for something to occupy herself. She knew she ought to be exhausted. She'd had perhaps four hours' sleep the night before, cleaned a cabin and hiked around Hidden Paradise Lake that day. But she didn't feel tired. Not the least bit. In fact, her whole body seemed to thrum with unspent energy.

  Oh, she just had to do something with herself, instead of standing in the shadows watching Sam Fletcher sharpen his chisels and picks—or whatever the blasted things were called.

  Delilah thought of the books she'd brought. She went to her pack and took them out and lined them up on the dresser by the bed. Then she chose one—the one she'd been trying read last night, as a matter of fact—found her glasses and sat in one of the easy chairs to read.

  Even with the soft hum of the generator outside, and the occasional far away cry of a nocturnal creature, the night was very quiet. She could hear every stroke Sam made of metal on stone.

  She forced herself to look at the page in front of her, but it didn't help. She kept forgetting what she'd just read, so she'd read the same paragraph over and still the book seemed to make no sense at all.

  After an interval that seemed to last forever, Sam put the tools and the stones away, took his jacket off the hook and went outside. Since he said nothing, Delilah assumed he was answering the call of nature.

  But the minutes dragged by, and he didn't return.

  She should have been grateful, she knew, for a few minutes alone. The fire crackled cheerfully in the grate; it was cozy and warm. She had a full stomach and a good book—even if she still hadn't the faintest idea what the thing was about. Now that her nemesis had taken a hike, she should be able to relax and enjoy the moment.

  But where could he have gone? It couldn't have taken this long for him to see to his needs, could it?

  She thought of hungry mountain lions, suddenly. Of big brown bears awakened and grouchy after their long winter's nap. She remembered that she hadn't seen him take the handgun when he left. He was out there unarmed, against the dangers of the night—

  "Oh, this is ridiculous," she muttered aloud. It was so quiet out there, she would have heard any yowling or roaring that went on within a half mile of the cabin. She was letting her imagination get away with her, and that was going to stop now.

  He knew how to handle himself in the woods. There was no reason to worry. And she wouldn't worry, that was all. She would read her book and enjoy her solitude.

  Five minutes later, he was still gone.

  She found she just couldn't sit there another moment. She set her book and glasses aside and went to the big window over the sink. She peered out, pressing her face near the glass so she could see beyond the reflected glare from the bulb hanging overhead.

  Out in the night, the moon, a thickening crescent, hung over the rugged spires of the mountain across the lake. The sky was cloudless, thick with stars. A dark shape, hunched against the cold, was sitting on the fallen log beside the lake.

  It was Sam.

  He didn't look like there was anything wrong, she decided. Maybe, as she had, he'd just wanted a little time alone. The forbidden thought came that she might join him—and was as quickly banished. That was probably just what he hoped for, that she'd grow lonely, and come to find him. She was giving him nothing of what he hoped for.

  Delilah turned from the window. Even though she loathed and despised Sam Fletcher, she felt better knowing where he was and that he was okay.

  She found her vanity pack and cleaned her face and brushed her teeth. Then she went outside herself—staying well away from the lake, of course.

  When she came back in, she pulled the curtains over the big window so that, should Sam turn around from his contemplation of the lake, he wouldn't see her undressed. Quickly, she shimmied out of her clothes and put on her long underwear, which would do well for pajamas. Then she rolled out her sleeping bag and climbed in.

  She'd just snuggled down when the door opened.

  "Lilah?"

  She decided not to answer, to let him think she was asleep. It was easier that way; it saved another exchange that could only invite one kind of trouble or another.

  She heard nothing for a moment, though she sensed him listening. She tried to make her breathing even. At last, she could almost feel his shrug.

  He began quietly moving about. She heard the water run briefly as he brushed his teeth. And then he rolled out his bag on the rug. Then his boots dropped, and she knew he must be taking off his clothes. After that, he pulled the chain on the light, and the room, lit only by the fire now, grew dim. She heard him crawl into the bag.

  There was a silence. Far away outside in the darkness, a coyote howled at the almost-half-moon. Sam shifted in his hard bed. Delilah curled into a ball with her back to the room and resolutely waited for sleep. She was actually beginning to think it might find her, when Sam spoke.

  "Lilah?"

  She said nothing.

  "I know you're awake."

  She tried to keep breathing evenly. How could he know for sure whether she slept or not, if she simply refused to answer? She waited, trying not to go rigid and give herself away, dreading the moment he'd climb out of his sleeping bag and approach her to see for himself if she slept.

  But he didn't get up. She heard him shift again, and thought that perhaps he was now sitting up, maybe staring into the fire, contemplating … what?

  "This afternoon," he said at last, "you asked about my father…"

  It was a mistake. Pretend I didn't, she thought, but of course didn't say.

  He went on, "And I cut you off." He shifted again, and the fire popped. "I'm sorry about that. Since then, I've given it some thought. And I've decided to tell you whatever you want to know about my father, and about my life before I came to North Magdalene."

  Delilah debated the feasibility of sitting bolt upright and ordering him to keep his life story to himself. But she'd already pretended she was asleep, and even if he knew she wasn't, admitting her deception now would only put her at a disadvantage.

  "Lilah?"

  She almost said What? and let him know she
was awake.

  But then he chuckled—the rat. And that did it. She pressed her eyes closed and determined not to listen.

  "You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known." He actually had the nerve to say it fondly. Then he fell silent.

  Delilah fumed and waited and wondered what he was doing, over there by the fire where she couldn't turn to see without admitting she was awake.

  Just when she thought he was going to show a little mercy and keep his past to himself, he began, "My father. Whew." He paused, thinking. "My father was … a man with a mission. His mission was to save the world from the sin and degradation he was absolutely positive lurked around every corner."

  He fell silent. Delilah waited, forgetting to breathe for a moment.

  Then he went on, "He was a preacher, a nondenominational preacher." Delilah stifled a gasp. Could he actually be telling the truth? Mad, bad Sam Fletcher had been a minister's son? Sam continued. "By the time I was five, we'd settled down in a little farm town just north of Fresno, and my father had his own church—the Valley Bible Church."

  He paused again, a long pause. And suddenly, Delilah understood that he was just trying to get a rise out of her. He expected her to pipe up and stop him before he revealed too much.

  Well, she wouldn't, that was all. He should have thought twice before he started telling things he really didn't want to tell. She would say not a word and move not a muscle and he could just go ahead and lay out all the secrets of his heart—and then wonder if she'd heard him at all.

  The silence stretched out. Then she heard the poker shoving the logs around in the fireplace and realized he must be stirring the fire. After that came the sound of the poker clinking on the hearth as he propped it back in place.

  Sam remained quiet. She pictured him, staring into the flames he'd just stirred. Then he said, "This is your last chance, Lilah. Say something, or hear it all." He sounded tired—and even a little bit sad.

  Delilah realized she couldn't do it—lie here unmoving and listen to the man she'd always loathed tell her all about the little boy he'd been, the hurts he'd known, the setbacks he'd suffered. It wouldn't be wise. She could hear too much, feel too much. And that would put her in worse jeopardy than she was already in.

  "Lilah?"

  "I hate you, Sam Fletcher."

  He laughed.

  "You are lower than low," she muttered through clenched teeth.

  "That's my Lilah."

  Delilah let out a furious groan. Then she sat up, wrapped her arms around her blanketed knees and glared at him as hard as she could.

  "I am not, nor will I ever be, your Lilah. Is that understood?"

  He only grinned. He was sitting up, too, his bare torso gleaming in the light from the fire. His lower body was covered by the sleeping bag. He watched her. His smile was tender, his eyes promised delights she'd never known.

  "I asked you a question," she demanded, when he went on grinning and didn't say a word.

  He still didn't answer her question, but he did point out in a gentle whisper, "So you weren't asleep."

  Something inside her snapped. "You are a—"

  He wiggled a finger at her. "Lilah. You are about to say something you'll regret. Think twice, now."

  She brought herself back from the brink, and then explained tightly, "I don't want you to tell me about your father. I don't want you to tell me anything about where you've been or what you've done. I know all I'll ever need to know about you, so get that through your thick head."

  "That's not true, Lilah. You'll end up needing to know more, much more, before this is through."

  "You are wrong. I don't need or want to know a thing more than I do now—not that my needs and wants have ever mattered in the least to you."

  His eyes changed, lost their teasing look. Now his gaze penetrated, burned. "You want me. That matters. It matters a hell of a lot. I'm only trying to get you to admit what you want."

  "Oh, are you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well," she fumed, "here's a hot bulletin for you—I don't want to want you. I don't need to want you. And even if I do want you, I won't be doing a thing about it. Ever. So learn to live with it."

  He smiled again. "Give yourself time."

  "Time won't matter."

  "We'll see about that."

  "Sam Fletcher—"

  Before she could go on, he stood up. His big body emerged from the sleeping bag with a power and grace that shut her mouth and took her breath. She stared at him long enough to register the heartstopping fact that he was utterly naked and achingly magnificent.

  Then she gasped and looked away, her face burning, her body flaming with responses she hated herself for feeling. She heard him toss a log on the fire and prod it into place with the poker.

  After a few moments he said in a teasing voice, "You can look now."

  She dared a glance; he was back in the sleeping bag, covered to the waist and looking smug as a cat who'd cornered a plump mouse.

  She said, "I will make one last effort to appeal to any tiny kernel of decency that just might be waiting, undiscovered, somewhere deep down inside you."

  "Please do."

  "Take me home in the morning."

  "No way."

  "This will be a totally wasted week for you. Realize that. I will never ever give you what you're after."

  "Ah, Lilah. Do you really even know what I'm after?"

  "I have a general idea."

  "Say it, then."

  "Why not? Attention. Affection. Companionship. Sex."

  "Not a bad estimation."

  "The point is, you are not getting any of those things from me. Ever."

  "So you keep telling me."

  "I am never going to be your woman. I have learned my lesson the long, hard way, about what a woman gets with a man like you. With a man like you, I'd have just what my mother had, what each of my brothers' long-suffering wives and girlfriends have had—endless nights waiting up to learn what trouble you've got yourself into now."

  "You're not being fair, Lilah."

  "Fair? Fair! What does any of this have to do with being fair? You used totally unfair means to get me here. And I told you from the first that I didn't like it, that I'd never like it. But I have tried to be civil about it, thinking that if you would just leave me alone while I'm here, maybe we can get through this with a minimum of conflict. But you will not leave me alone."

  "Lilah." His voice was like rough velvet. "I didn't bring you here to leave you alone."

  "I have finally come to fully accept that fact. And that is why I am through even attempting to be civil. You do not deserve civility. I despise you and I loathe being here alone with you and I'm through telling myself the best way to get through this week is to avoid confrontation with you. I intend to make you miserable, as miserable as you're making me. Do you understand?"

  He looked at her for a moment, his eyes hooded.

  "Do you understand?" she demanded again.

  "Perfectly," he said at last.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Delilah went about making Sam miserable with a vengeance.

  For the next two days, Monday and Tuesday, she never said a single pleasant word. Most of the time, she didn't talk at all. She did her share of the work, and when there was no work to do, she would read or walk off by herself.

  She was meticulous, also, in never giving him a single reason to engage her by questioning her actions. She always informed him in clipped tones of exactly where she was going. And she'd always take the handgun just in case, so he couldn't even argue with her that she wouldn't be safe out there alone.

  Sam, alert to every possible angle for getting through to her, did the best he could over the issue of the gun. The first time she went off alone on Monday, he challenged her about her ability with it, though he suspected that, growing up with the Jones Gang, she'd probably learned at least the basics of how to shoot.

  Still, he'd
indulged in a brief fantasy of showing her how to use the gun, of explaining how to load it and handle it, and then of stepping behind her, feeling her supple back and soft bottom caressing the length of him as he wrapped his arms around her and steadied her hand.

  She quickly demolished his little fantasy. "Do you doubt my competence with this weapon," she buzzed like an angry hornet, "is that it?"

  "Sweetheart…"

  "Don't call me sweetheart, you manipulative snake."

  "Sweetheart," he said again, slowly and very clearly. She held her tongue, but her eyes spit fire. "I'm just suggesting that a .357 is only as useful as the person who's carrying it. And I wouldn't be responsible if I simply gave it to you without making sure you know what to do with it."

  "Fine." She left him there in the cabin where they'd been arguing and went outside. He heard her at the west wall, fooling with the garbage and recycling bins, which he kept strapped shut with bungee cords to discourage the raccoons. She got the lid off of one. He heard the sound of empty cans rattling against each other, then silence as she apparently found what she was looking for. Her boots crunched on pine needles, headed in the direction of the lake.

  He glanced out the south window. She was bending over the fallen log they'd shared their lunch on the day before, setting out three empty beverage cans in a row. Her round little bottom was a captivating sight to see. He watched, smiling in spite of himself, as she stalked back toward him. She disappeared for a moment around the side of the house, and then poked her head in the door.

  "Bring the gun, and the cartridges."

  He brought the revolver down from its high shelf, grabbed the box of cartridges and did as he was told.

  Outside, she took the gun from him, broke it open, shoved the cartridges in and slapped it closed. In one seamless motion, she whirled on the cans and fired off three shots. All three cans went flying.

  She turned to Sam. "Satisfied?"

  He could do nothing but nod. She was magnificent. Too bad she was also so damn mean. She replaced the cartridges she'd fired, handed him the rest, and demanded the holster he'd left inside.