Born Innocent Page 3

  He urged, “Come on, Claire. Just one.”

  “All right. One.” She set the empty casserole dish on the edge of the porch to pick up when she returned.

  “Great.” He turned and led the way along the strip of grass beside her cottage and the middle bungalow, to his bungalow in the southeast corner of the motel lot. He opened the door and gestured her inside. “Welcome to my castle.”

  Smiling weakly, she went in and sat on the beige couch in the small sitting room. Over against one wall there was a pine credenza on which sat a tray with a collection of liquor bottles and a few of the motel’s plain water glasses. “Scotch? Vodka?”

  “Just a club soda will be fine.”

  He grinned. “Sit tight.” He held up the room ice bucket. “Be right back.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t need ice.”

  “Ah, but I do.” And he was gone.

  He was back quickly, as he’d promised, sliding in the door to the accompaniment of a volley of exploding firecrackers from somewhere out on the street.

  Efficiently, he dropped the ice into the glasses and poured himself two fingers of Scotch, then emptied a bottle of club soda for her. He handed Claire her drink. “To...fireworks.”

  Feeling awkward, she clicked her glass with his and took a tiny sip. She set the glass down. “Alan, I...”

  He dropped down next to her and slithered an arm along the back of the couch behind her. “What? Go ahead. I’m here to listen.”

  She slid away a little. “Look. I came here to explain something to you.”

  “Oh, really?” He looked nervous, and she felt a little sorry for him. He drank again, draining the glass. Then he got up, refilled the glass, and returned, plunking down beside her again, closer than before. “Fire away.”

  She slid back, this time to the far arm of the couch. “Listen. I just want you to understand. As far as I’m concerned, you and I are just... friendly acquaintances. And that’s all we’ll ever be.”

  He knocked back another swallow, and then set his drink on the low table in front of the couch. He looked at her, frowning. “Excuse me?”

  She dragged in a breath. “I said, I hope you haven’t gotten the wrong idea about how I feel about you. Because there can never be anything... romantic between us. I’m not looking for anything like that.”

  He craned closer to her and peered at her, a measuring kind of look that she didn’t like at all. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  She wondered what in the world could be going on behind those soft brown eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, come on. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  She felt totally at a loss. He was behaving so strangely, nervous one minute, then looking her over with insolent appraisal the next.

  Joe had been right. She really knew nothing at all about this man. She’d thought him a pleasant lunch companion, and not much else. But tonight, after Joe’s warning, she’d been paying a little more attention—and she didn’t like what she was seeing. It was time to go.

  “Listen. I only came here to tell you that I’m not interested in you.” She winced a little at her own bluntness. But trying to be tactful had achieved nothing. She understood now she must be perfectly clear with this man. She started to rise. “Good night.”

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her back down. “I don’t believe that’s all you came here for, not by a long shot.”

  Claire plopped back on the couch—and stared for a moment with her mouth hanging open. Then she found her voice. “Let me go!” She tried to jerk free, but he held on with a punishing grip. Her heart started to pound in her ears. She was frightened, but she kept her voice firm. “I mean it, Alan.”

  “You’re one of those women who needs a little coaxing, that’s all.” He released her arm, but at the same time, with a quick, surprising move, he pressed his body against hers, craning over her and pinning her against the arm of the couch. He spoke right against her face. “I don’t think you’re willing to admit what you really want. Everyone in this two-bit town says you’re in love with the local loser. But I don’t buy that. I say the loser is just a convenience—an excuse to keep other men away, because you’re a little afraid of men in general. But I’ve been watching you, and you’ve got a nice little setup here. I think we can get something good going between us, once you quit playing like you don’t want what every woman wants...”

  Claire stared at his distorted, too-close face, and wondered how she’d managed to walk right into this nightmare. She gave his shoulders a shove. “Get away from me!”

  “Come on, Claire. Cut the crap.” And then he did what she’d been fearing he’d do.

  He smashed his mouth against hers. His tongue stabbed at her lips. Claire sat stunned and unbelieving beneath the onslaught for a moment—but only for a moment.

  Then she began to struggle, demanding that he let her go. He muttered against her lips, “Relax, baby. Enjoy it...” And his soft, cool hand closed over her breast.

  That did it. Somehow she wriggled around, reaching out, grasping desperately, until she touched his drink. She grabbed it up and popped him with it just above his ear. He swore, graphically, jerking back. She heard her silk camp shirt rip as he shoved her away without letting go of the material. Ice, Scotch, and broken glass rained down on them both.

  Claire leapt to her feet and halfway across the room, while he brushed at the broken glass and loosed a score of invectives that should have turned the walls blue. Claire caught her own breath and waited for him to wind down, backing toward the door at the same time. She had it opened behind her and was ready to step out before he finally calmed enough to look at her.

  “You bitch. What the hell’s the matter with you?” He felt around beneath his hair, as if seeking some serious injury. She knew he’d find none. She’d hit him with the thin edge of the glass and it had broken like an eggshell. She’d surprised the daylights out of him, thank God. But he wasn’t hurt.

  From somewhere in the night, there came a long, sharp volley of detonating firecrackers. Claire said, “I want you out of here by noon tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  He stopped cursing and looked at her. Then he smiled, a weak, smarmy kind of smile. Claire was struck by the chilling notion that she was seeing the true Alan Henson at last. “Sure, why not? Whatever you say.” He actually winked. “And, hey. No hard feelings. Can’t blame a guy for giving it one last shot, can you?”

  Claire gaped at him, feeling suddenly nauseated. He’d virtually attacked her, and he expected her to just brush it off? She whirled on her heel and got out of there, because right then her instincts were murderous.

  She didn’t start shaking until she was halfway back to her cottage, passing the main building of the motel, which formed an L around the pool. Then it was as if the starch that had filled her veins had suddenly drained out of her. Her legs felt wobbly, her hands and arms quivered and she found she could barely stand up.

  So she leaned against the two-story building, pressing her forehead to the wall, trying to take slow, deep breaths, until her composure returned.

  Good Lord, she had almost been raped! There was no other word for it. If she hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab that glass...

  Should she call Sheriff Brawley? She shook her head. No, she had rescued herself, after all, and it hadn’t gone far enough for her to really be certain that Henson had had rape on his mind. In fact, judging by the kind of character Alan Henson had turned out to be, he’d probably end up suing her for clobbering him with that glass. Malicious endangerment, or some such.

  “Oh, Joe,” Claire murmured to the wall. “How very right you were.” For a moment more, she leaned against the building, picturing Joe’s stern, beloved face, knowing the ever-present longing for what they’d never share—and yet feeling gratitude, too. He was her friend, no matter what he wasn’t. And she’d always be thankful for his watchful care.

  Soon enough, Claire found she wa
s able to push herself away from the wall. The shock of what she’d just been through was passing, and her legs were willing to hold her upright once more. She was just lifting her head to aim her tired body toward her own cottage when she heard someone gasp.

  “Oh, my God. Are you all right?” A woman and a man, guests of the motel, were rushing toward her.

  Claire looked down at herself and saw that her blouse was gaping open and splotched with wet stains. Her face flaming, she clutched her torn blouse together and forced a smile. “Yes. I’m fine. Really.”

  “But what happened?’’

  “Nothing. Just a little...misunderstanding. It’s all cleared up now.”

  The woman, who’d put a comforting arm around Claire’s shoulder, looked doubtful. “You’re sure? You’re shaking all over.”

  Claire straightened and stepped back from the woman. “Yes. Positive. I’m fine. And it’s only a few steps to the lobby. I live right behind it.”

  The man said, “We’ll help you.”

  Claire gave a nervous laugh. “Really. There’s no need. I can just go in the back door.”

  But they wouldn’t let her make the short trip alone. They stood to either side of her and walked her around the cottage to the lobby door, insisting they must see that she had someone to look after her until she felt more herself.

  Verna looked up when the woman led the way inside. “Good God, Claire. What happened to you?”

  Claire forced a smile of reassurance. Then she thanked the couple again and sent them on their way.

  Feeling as old as Methuselah, Claire tottered to the couch by the check-in desk and dropped into it with a sigh.

  She rubbed her temples.

  “Headache?” asked Verna.

  “A doozy.”

  Calm, efficient Verna got the aspirin from a drawer behind the counter and the water from the cooler in the corner.

  “Thanks.” Claire chased the pills with the water.

  Verna suggested in a soothing voice, “Tell me what happened. It’s always better if you talk about it.”

  Claire shook her head. “No, I’d rather not talk about it— except to say that Alan Henson will be out of here in the morning. For good.”

  Verna frowned. “He... hurt you?”

  “No, not really. He just scared about five years off my life, that’s all.” Claire looked up at Verna, who was still hovering beside her. Claire patted her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing I won’t get over. Really. I just want him out of here. And he’ll be out. Tomorrow.”

  Verna wasn’t completely convinced. “I think you ought to talk about it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re sure, now?” Poor Verna. She wanted to help, but she didn’t seem to quite know what to do.

  “Positive,” Claire promised, thinking she was getting tired of reassuring people—first that well-meaning couple and now Verna. She wanted to be alone, to collect her shattered nerves. And then to take the damn test that would probably shatter them all over again. “What I need is a good night’s sleep. So you go on, Verna. And I’ll lock up.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious.” Claire dragged herself to her feet and got Verna’s purse for her. “Out of here. Thanks for watching the desk tonight. I really appreciate it.”

  “Well, I—”

  Claire herded the other woman toward the door. “Good night. And enjoy your holiday tomorrow.” Though Verna usually worked Saturdays, Claire had given her a holiday with pay in exchange for Verna’s promise to supervise the final touches on the Snow’s Inn float for the parade tomorrow at noon.

  “Well, okay, then,” Verna allowed. “Good night.”

  When she was finally alone, Claire sagged back against the door for a moment and let out a long sigh. “At last,” she murmured wearily.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, having taken off her ruined blouse and stained slacks and put on her summer pajamas, she stood in her bathroom and stared at the result window of the pregnancy test. She saw what the pamphlet had told her she’d see if she was pregnant: two pink lines.

  Claire blinked, but the parallel pink lines were still there when she opened her eyes again. Her missed period and the new, subtle changes she’d felt lately in her body meant exactly what she’d feared they’d meant.

  She was going to have Joe Tally’s baby.

  It was too much. Too much for one woman to take in one day. The confrontation with Joe, the harsh words with her mother, near-rape by a man she’d thought utterly harmless—and now this.

  Claire looked around at her bright, spotless bathroom and truly understood what people meant when they said the walls were closing in on them. Her darting gaze found her own strained face in her bathroom mirror, and she knew I hat she had to get out of the cottage before she screamed those walls down.

  She spared one brief thought for her duties as night clerk. Her business would survive an hour or two of her absence. Her machine would take calls. Anyone ringing the night bell outside the lobby in hopes of finding a room would be disappointed—but that would happen anyway. Every room was occupied. Yes, her motel would be fine.

  But she wouldn’t, unless she got out of there now.

  Yanking off the pajamas as she went, Claire stalked into her bedroom and put on an old sweatshirt and some worn-out jeans. She shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. Finally, after a little frantic fumbling in her purse for her keys, she fled to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight. She slid out the back door, engaging the lock as she went.

  Once out in the night, she circled around to the front of the motel, quickly moving to the far side of the street, where the cedar trees reached out their branches and wild blackberry vines grew in tangled profusion, and anyone wandering around on the motel grounds would be less likely to see her. At the end of the street, she took a path that ran roughly parallel with the river, under a thick cover of tall trees. She stumbled along for nearly an hour in the darkness, with only the thin beam of her flashlight to show the way. At last, by watching the terrain closely, she found the place she sought.

  She started down a ridge to her right. The way was steep and rocky and she had to climb backward, carefully feeling with her toes for stable boulders, until she made it to the river’s edge.

  She paused, then, on the rocky promontory that she’d been seeking. She turned off her flashlight, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the night. As. she waited, she listened.

  Now and then she could hear a car whoosh past on the highway that curled around the mountain high above the opposite bank. And there were night birds calling, and frogs croaking—animal sounds. And the river, which ran deep here, lapped very gently at the rock where she stood. But that was all. No people, no bright lights, no firecrackers. She was alone under the stars.

  She quickly stripped off every stitch she was wearing, and dived cleanly from the rock, tuning out completely her mother’s chiding voice as it played in her head.

  Swimming alone? Foolish, foolish girl. And naked, well, I never...

  The water was cold and slick, liquid silk on her bare skin. She swam around the pool in circles, cleansing herself, clearing herself. Finally she pulled herself, shivering, back onto the rock. She dried herself with her sweatshirt.

  Putting on her clothes once more, she sat on the rock and gathered her knees against her chest. Then, because it consoled as much as it grieved her, she let the memory of her one night with Joe Tally come into her mind....

  Chapter Three

  The moon had been on the wane that night. It provided little more than a sliver of light. The stars had seemed so far away, scattered across the heavens above the tall, dark trees.

  Claire had wanted to hurry, but she’d forced herself to drive slowly on the twisting dirt roads, to watch carefully for each of the turns that would take her to the Tally Ranch. If she missed one, she knew, it could take hours to get back on the track.

  Going slowly paid off. She found the entrance to th
e ranch with ease, though it was nothing more than a break in a barbed-wire fence with a rutted dirt driveway running through it.

  Claire turned into the driveway, which made a loop in front of the weathered house. She drove into a yard of dust and weeds. Parked among the weeds were a tractor that had seen better days and two beat-up pickup trucks.

  Behind the house, where the pasture land flowed away to timbered hills, the wild grass was still green that early in the year. It appeared silver, though, by moonlight. One lone horse grazed there, a swaybacked fellow, even to Claire’s untrained eye.

  It all looked so lonely. Claire knew a creeping apprehension. Under the mantle of darkness, the ranch seemed abandoned, a place where only ghosts might walk. She almost wished she hadn’t come. Still, she didn’t drive away.

  She was worried about Joe. The word around town was that he was hiding out drunk here, only emerging long enough to buy more booze. She had tried to call him, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Finally, she’d admitted to herself that she wouldn’t rest until she found out for sure if he was all right.

  So she’d called Verna and asked her to watch the desk. Verna had come right over, and Claire had set out to see if Joe was all right.

  Claire pulled the van up in front of the house and turned the engine off. Then she opened her door, got down and peered into the shadows of the big front porch.

  It was after she’d already closed the door of the van behind her that she heard the growling. She squinted harder at the shadows on the porch, trying to see who—or what—was snarling at her. Right then, as if in answer to a question she hadn’t asked aloud, two big German shepherds materialized from the shadows by the front door.

  Claire stood absolutely still. Her father, who’d loved big dogs, had once told her that sometimes stillness and lack of perceptible fear could give a person an edge with even the most attack-prone of animals.

  The dogs approached her, sniffing, growling a little, but looking more wary than ready to attack. She let them smell her.

  Then she said, firmly, “Sit.” They both looked at her, measuring her. She snapped her fingers once, sharply, and pointed at the ground. “Sit. Now.”