Twice Kissed. Lisa Jackson

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      “Yep.” She called down the hallway, “Becca—breakfast.”

      “Coming.”

      With a curious lift of his eyebrows Thane straightened and sauntered into the kitchen area. “What changed your mind?”

      “Not you. Excuse me.” She moved around him and opened the refrigerator door.

      “Talk to the police again?”

      “What? No.” Retrieving a carton of orange juice she avoided touching him, found a glass in the cupboard, and poured. “You want some?”

      “Nah. Just coffee.”

      “Help yourself.” The phone rang loudly, and she picked up the receiver as she managed to set the glass of juice on the old table. Becca, wearing cutoff overalls and a T-shirt, limped with one crutch into the room, slanted a wary glance at Thane, then slid into her seat. “Hello?” Maggie said into the mouthpiece as Thane poured coffee and she reached around him to find a sticky bottle of syrup on the second shelf of the pantry.

      “Maggie? Charlie here. Emma said you called, asked us to take care of the stock while you’re gone.” Charlie and Emma Sandquist lived on the next ranch over. Maggie had spoken to Emma this morning while her husband was out feeding his cattle.

      “Where’s the butter?” Becca asked, and Maggie pointed to the counter. Thane handed the dish with a half-used cube to Becca, and she regarded him with a suspicious, puzzled expression.

      “That’s right. I shouldn’t be gone more than four or five days,” Maggie said, propping the phone next to her ear with her shoulder as she stretched the phone cord and handed Becca the bottle of maple syrup. “A week at the most.”

      “It don’t make no never mind,” her neighbor replied. “A few days either way won’t make much difference.”

      “I really appreciate it. And if I can ever return the favor, just let me know.” While she gave instructions about the horses and dog, she finished putting a few dishes into the dishwasher and swiped crumbs, syrup, and coffee spills from the counters. Thane had moved out of the way and stood, drinking from a chipped mug she’d gotten as a wedding-shower gift years before. When she finally hung up, Becca was done with her breakfast and had, with the use of one crutch, returned to her bedroom.

      “You packed?” Maggie called down the hallway as she checked her watch.

      “Just about.”

      “I’ll help her carry it out.” Thane left his cup in the sink.

      “Wait a minute.” She grabbed hold of the crook of his elbow, then dropped her hand quickly. “Let’s talk about what’s going on here. Yes, I’m going to Denver to find out about Mary Theresa, but I think I should just buy a plane ticket and fly there.”

      “Rather than go with me?” One cynical eyebrow cocked, and she felt her blood pressure elevate a bit.

      “Right.”

      “Why?”

      She thought about hedging again, but decided at a time like this the truth was the best, if the last resort. “Because I don’t trust you,” she admitted.

      His lips compressed and he rubbed a jaw that was darkened with better than a day’s growth of beard. He didn’t have to say anything; the clouds that crossed his eyes convinced her that he got the message. “As long as we understand each other.”

      “Exactly.”

      “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

      “I’m not sure that’s good enough, Thane,” she admitted.

      “It’s the best I can offer.” His jaw was rock-hard, his blue-gray eyes steady and focused on her so intently she saw his pupils dilate.

      The back of her throat went dry, and a small, very feminine part of her wanted to believe in him, to put the deception of the past behind her, to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You’re…you’re asking a lot.”

      “I know.” He was serious, pain evidenced in the lines fanning from his eyes. “But I have to ask. I could be in trouble, Maggie. The police act like they think I was somehow responsible for Mary Theresa’s disappearance.”

      Maggie thought of the desperate voice she’d heard while feeding the horses. Her sister’s voice.

      “What do you say?” he asked.

      Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say.

      He snorted and shook his head. “You don’t believe me, either.” His voice was flat, without judgment. “Well, hell, I suppose I deserve this, but I’m tellin’ you right here and now, I didn’t do anything to harm her.”

      If only she could believe him, trust in those cold blue eyes, see beyond the cynical man in rawhide and denim and peer into the depths of his inky soul. What would she find, she wondered, then decided she was better off not knowing. “All right,” she heard herself saying, “I’ll ride with you, Thane. You’ve got over a thousand miles to convince me that you’re on a mission of mercy, that you’re just interested in the safety and whereabouts of your ex-wife, that Mary Theresa’s welfare is your primary objective.”

      He didn’t so much as flinch at the barbs of sarcasm in her words. “Let’s get a move on.” His gaze swept the interior of the cabin, to the fireplace, where only dead ash was testament of last night’s fire. “You’ve taken care of everything here?”

      “Yep.” She nodded. “As soon as Becca’s packed, I’m ready. Barkley’s going to camp out in the barn with the other animals until Charlie can pick him up and take him to his place. So”—she looked around her home one last time to see that everything was as it should be—“I guess we’re all set.”

      He nodded and walked down the short hallway to Becca’s room, when the phone rang again. Maggie snatched it up, crossing her fingers in the hope that it was her sister.

      “Ms. McCrae?” A male voice. Her heart nose-dived. “This is Craig Beaumont. I work with your sister, and I was just checking to see if you had any idea where she might be.”

      Maggie sagged against the cupboards. “No,” she said, her throat closing. This was all starting to be too real. She’d never met Beaumont, only knew he was a “pretty boy who would sell his mother to the devil for higher ratings,” according to Mary Theresa. Craig was worried, he claimed, and explained how Marquise hadn’t come in to work last Friday, how everyone at the station was worried, and how they’d been checking around. “…we tried to call earlier, but couldn’t get hold of you.”

      “I’m sorry.” She hung up a few seconds later and felt dead inside, her hopes dashed.

      “Trouble?” Thane asked as he walked into the kitchen, carrying her athletic bag and a smaller case that housed Becca’s portable CD player.

      “That was the man Mary Theresa works with.”

      “Ron Bishop, the station manager.”

      “No, СКАЧАТЬ