The Last Honest Woman Read online

  "I'll manage."

  "If I'm not in the house, I'm probably in the barn or one of the other outbuildings, but I should be ready for you by ten."

  And what in hell did a woman with hands like a harpist do in a barn for an hour and a half in the morning? He decided to find out for himself rather than ask. "We'll figure on ten. The time element might vary from day to day."

  "Yes, I understand that." The tension was draining as they focused in on business. Abby relaxed against the counter and savored what would be her last cup of coffee for the night. There were hours yet to fill between this and the cup of herbal tea she'd pamper herself with at bedtime. "I'll do the best I can. The evenings, of course, are taken up with the children. They go to bed at 8:30, so if there's something important we can go over it after that. But generally I do my paperwork at night."

  "So do I." She had a lovely face, soft, warm, open, with just a touch of reserve around the mouth. It was the kind of face that could make a man forget about feminine guile if he wasn't careful. Dylan was a careful man. "Abby, one question."

  "Off-the-record?"

  "This time. Why'd you give up show business?"

  This time she really laughed. It was low and smooth, a distinctly sensuous sound. "Did you ever happen to catch our act? The O'Hurley Triplets, I mean."

  "No."

  "I didn't think so. If you had, you wouldn't ask."

  It was difficult to resist people who could laugh at themselves. "That bad?"

  "Oh, worse. Much worse." Taking her cup to the sink, she rinsed it out. "I have to go up and check on the boys. When they're this quiet for this long, I get antsy. Help yourself to more coffee. The TVs in the living room."

  "Abby." He wasn't satisfied with her, with the house, with the situation. Nothing was precisely what it seemed, that much he was sure of. Still, when she turned toward him, her eyes were calm. "I intend to get to the bottom of you," he murmured.

  She felt a little jolt inside, but quickly smoothed it over. "I'm not as complex as you seem to want to believe. In any case, you're here to write about Chuck."

  "I'm going to do that, too."

  That was what she was counting on. That was what she was afraid of. With a nod, she walked out to go to her children.

  CHAPTER Three

  For the second time, Dylan heard his door creak open. In bed, abruptly awake, it took him only a moment to remember he wasn't in some hotel room on assignment. Those days were over, and the gun he'd kept under his pillow for three years running wasn't there. Out of habit, he kept his eyes closed and his breathing even.

  "Still sleeping." The quiet, slightly disdainful whisper was Ben's.

  Chris jockeyed for position and a better view. "How come he gets to sleep late?"

  "'Cause he's grown-up, stupid. They get to do whatever they want."

  "Mom's up. She's a grown-up."

  "That's different. She's a mom."

  "Ben, Chris." Dylan judged the low call to be coming from the bottom of the stairs. "Let's move it. The bus'll be here in ten minutes."

  "Come on." Ben narrowed his eyes for one last look. "We can spy on him later."

  When the door closed, Dylan opened his eyes. He couldn't claim to be an expert on kids, but he was beginning to think that the Rockwell boys were a different kettle of fish altogether. So was their mother. Pushing himself up, he glanced at his watch. 7:20. It seemed things ran on time around here. And it was time he began.

  Twenty minutes later, Dylan walked downstairs. The house was quiet. And empty, he decided before he came to the bottom landing. The scent of coffee drew him to the kitchen. It looked as though a hurricane had struck and moved on.

  There were two cereal boxes on the breakfast bar, both open, with a trail of puffed wheat and little oat circles leading to the edge. A half-open bag of bread lay on the counter between the sink and stove. Next to it was a good-sized dollop of what Dylan assumed to be grape jelly. There was a jar of peanut butter with the top sitting crookedly and an assortment of knives, spoons and bowls. Muddy paw prints ran just inside the back door, then stopped abruptly.

  Didn't get far, did you? Dylan thought as he searched out a cup for coffee. With the first swallow of caffeine rushing through his system, he walked to the window. However confused things looked inside, outside seemed peaceful enough. The rain had frozen and covered what was left of the snow with a shiny, brittle layer. It glistened as the sun shone brightly. By the end of the day, he decided, it would be a mess. Without the fog, he could see past the barn to the rolling hills beyond. If she had neighbors, he thought, they were few and far between. What made a woman bury herself like this? he wondered. Especially a woman who was used to lights and action.

  There was something else that bothered him, something that had been bothering him all along. Where were the men in her life? He took another sip, letting his gaze sweep over paddock and outbuildings. Surely a woman who looked like Abby had them. She'd been a widow for four years. A young, wealthy widow. Though he was willing to concede that she took motherhood seriously, that hardly answered the question. Two boys under ten didn't make up for male companionship.

  For some reason, she seemed to want him to take her little farm and her domesticity at face value. His mouth twisted in a grimace and he downed the rest of the coffee. He took nothing at face value. Particularly not women.

  Then he saw her. She came out of a little shed and closed the door carefully behind her. Her hair caught the sunlight as she combed her fingers through it and just stood there. Her coat was bundled up to her chin and stopped just short of her hips, where slim jeans ran down and tucked into scarred boots.

  Was she posing? he thought as a rush of arousal pushed, unwanted, into his system. Did she know he was there, watching as she stood with her face lifted to the sun and a quiet smile on her face? But she never glanced toward the house. She never turned. Swinging the bucket she carried, she walked across the frozen ground to the barn.

  Abby had always liked the feel and scents of a barn, especially in the morning, when the animals were just stirring from sleep. The lights was dim, the air a bit musty. She heard the purring of the barn cats as they woke for breakfast. After setting the bucket beside the door, she switched on the lights and began her morning routine.

  "Hello, baby." Opening the first stall, she stepped inside to check the chestnut mare, which was nearly ready to foal. "I know, you feel fat and ugly." She chuckled as the mare blew into her hand. "I've felt that way a couple times myself." Gently, expertly, she ran her hands along the mare's belly. The mare's muscles quivered, then relaxed as Abby murmured to her. "In a week or two it'll all be over, then you'll have such a pretty baby. You know Mr. Jorgensen's interested in buying your foal." With a sigh, she rested her cheek against the mare's neck. "Why does that make me feel like a slave trader?"

  "First sale?"

  She hadn't heard Dylan come in. She turned slowly, one arm still slung around the mare's neck. He'd shaved, and though his face was smooth now, and still attractive, it seemed no kinder to her than before. "Yeah. Up until now I've just been buying and setting up."

  He stepped inside to get a closer look. The mare was beautiful, strong and full-bodied in the way of Morgans, with alert eyes and a glossy coat. "You pick this mare out?"

  "Eve. I call her Eve because she's the first of my breeders. She was just weaned when I got her at auction. Mr. Petrie said to bid on her, so I bid."

  "Looks like your Petrie knows his horseflesh. I'd say this little lady's going to give you plenty of foals. Plan to breed her back?"

  "That's the idea." Eve nuzzled into her shoulder. "It doesn't seem fair."

  "That's what she's built for." It had been a long time since he'd been around horses. He'd forgotten how good a barn could smell, how soothing it could be to work around and with animals. Maybe people had consumed him for too long. The mare shifted. Abby shifted with her and brushed against him. The contact was anything but soothing. "How many do you have?"


  Her mind, usually so orderly, was blank. "How many?"

  "Horses."

  "Oh." She was being ridiculous, reacting as though she'd never touched a man before. "Eight-the stallion, two mares already bred and two we'll breed in the spring, three geldings for riding." The last was a luxury she'd never regretted. "Not exactly the big leagues," Abby went on, relaxing again.

  "Four mares and a decent stallion, properly managed, sounds like a pretty good start to me."

  "That's what I've got." She scratched the mare between the ears. "A start."

  He watched her reach for a halter. "What are you doing?"

  "They need to go out in the paddock while I clean the stalls."

  "You? Alone?"

  She went to the next stall to repeat the process on a second mare. "Mr. Petrie comes by three times a week to help out, but he's down with the flu like half the county. Come on, girls." Taking the two lead ropes she led the horses out.

  For a moment Dylan just stood there with his hands in his pockets. The woman looked to him as though she'd keel over after one shovelful of manure. What was she trying to prove? The martyr act might work on certain men, but he'd always believed that if you asked for it, you probably deserved it.

  Then he looked down the line of stalls. He swore as he pulled a halter down. Whether she was doing all this for his benefit or not, he couldn't just stand around and let her work alone.

  Outside, Abby closed the paddock gate behind the first two mares, then turned to see Dylan leading out another pair. "Thanks." She met him halfway and automatically reached for the rope. When he just looked at her, she stepped back, feeling foolish. "Look, that wasn't a hint. I don't want you to feel obligated."

  "I don't." He walked past her and released the horses in the paddock.

  "Mr. Crosby-" she corrected herself "-Dylan. I can handle things. I'm sure you have other things you'd rather do with your morning."

  He closed the gate. "Off the top of my head I can only think of about two dozen. Let's get the others."

  She lifted her brow, then fell into step beside him. "Well, since you're being so gracious about it."

  "I'm known for being gracious."

  "I don't doubt it. The geldings go out, the first three stalls on this side. I leave the stallion in until the rest is dealt with. He's apt to bite one of the geldings or mount any mare than isn't fast enough to get away."

  "Sounds like a sweetheart."

  "He's as mean as they come, but his line's just as pure." As she slipped a halter around a roan, the horse lowered his head, then shoved her hard. Instinctively Dylan made a grab to right her, but she was shoving the horse back and laughing. "Bully," she said accusingly, burying her face in his mane. "He'd rather be taken for a ride than go into the paddock. Maybe later, fella, I've got my hands full today."

  When the horses were settled, Abby pulled on a pair of work gloves. "Sure?" she asked as she offered a second pair to Dylan.

  "You take the left side." He grabbed a pitchfork and went to work, figuring he'd have the four stalls cleaned out and spread with fresh hay before she'd finished the first.

  It had been a while since he'd indulged in pure manual labor. Workouts kept his body in tune but didn't, he discovered, give the same kind of gratification. His muscles coiled and tensed. As the wheelbarrow filled, he rolled it to the rear of the barn and added to the pile. Abby had switched on a portable radio and was singing along as she worked. He ignored her. Or tried to.

  She'd never worked alongside a man before. Oh, there was Mr. Petrie, she thought as she wiped a light film of sweat from her brow. But he was different. Chuck had never so much as lifted a hoof pick in the barn. And her father- Abby grinned as she spread fresh hay. Whenever Francis Xavier O'Hurley visited the farm, he always found something vital to do when there was work. One mustn't forget the man was an artist, Abby reminded herself, trying not to think of just how much she missed him and the rest of her family.

  The little farm in Virginia didn't suit their life-styles. It hadn't suited Chuck's. It suited her, and it suited her children. That was something she'd never forget. Whatever compromises she had made, whatever compromises she had yet to make, she wouldn't bend there.

  Dylan sent his pitchfork into the soiled hay, then glanced up when Abby moved to the stall beside him. "Why don't you finish over there?"

  "I already did." She started shoveling.

  Dylan glanced over his shoulder, then turned completely around. The three stalls were clean and fresh. Frowning, he turned back. He'd barely started on his third. "You work fast," he muttered.

  "It's routine." Because she'd never really understood the male ego, she didn't give it a thought as she filled the wheelbarrow behind them.

  "I said I'd do this side."

  "Yeah, I appreciate the help." Abby tossed in a last forkful, then walked over to grasp the handles of the wheelbarrow.

  "Put that down."

  "It's pretty full. I'd just as soon make an extra trip as-"

  "Put the damn thing down." He sliced his pitchfork down in the hay and walked toward her. Anger-male anger. Though she hadn't been around it in a good many years, she still recognized it. Cautiously Abby lowered the cart and released the handles.

  "All right, it's down."

  "I'm not having you haul that thing while I'm around."

  "But!-"

  "You're not hauling twenty pounds of horse manure while I'm around." He grasped the handles himself. "Understand?"

  "Possibly." Calm, patient, Abby picked up her pitchfork again and leaned on it. "I can haul it all I want when you're not around?"

  "That's fine." He began to roll it down the sloping concrete.

  "That's silly," she said. He muttered something she couldn't quite catch. Shaking her head, she walked outside to begin leading the horses back.

  After the one outburst, they worked in silence. As Dylan finished up, Abby returned all the horses to their stalls and fed them. Then only the stallion remained.

  "I'll take him out." Abby held a halter behind her back and opened only the top half of the stall door first. "He's moody and unpredictable. Don't care much for being closed up, do you, Thunder?" she murmured, cautiously opening the bottom half and stepping inside. He danced back, eyeing her, but she continued to talk. "In the spring you can just graze and graze. And have your way with those two pretty mares." She slipped the halter around his neck, taking a firm hold as he swung his head in annoyance.

  "High-strung," Dylan commented.

  "To say the least. Better stand back. He likes to kick, and he isn't particular who."

  Taking her at her word, Dylan moved aside. Thunder started to rear, then subsided when Abby scolded him. Scolded him in much the same way, Dylan thought as she continued out of the barn, as he'd heard her scold her sons. He picked up his pitchfork and put his back into it. When Abby came back in, he was nearly done.

  "You don't seem to be a stranger to this sort of work." Because he'd shed his coat, she could see the muscles rippling along his forearms. He grunted an answer, but she didn't hear. She wondered what it would feel like to touch those arms when they were flexed with strength. It had been so long, so incredibly long since- She caught herself and stepped away to stroke one of the mares which was busily gobbling grain.

  "Did you raise horses?"

  "Cows." Dylan spread hay over the floor of the stall. "We had a dairy farm, but there were always a couple of horses around. I haven't mucked out a stall since I was sixteen."

  "Doesn't look like you've forgotten how."

  No, he hadn't forgotten how. And it wouldn't be wise to forget what he'd come for. Still, at the moment, he wanted to finish what he'd started. "Got a broom?"

  "It's Ben's job to sweep the barn." She took the pitchfork from him and set it on its hook. "I usually leave Thunder out in the paddock through the morning unless it's filthy out, so we're done for now. The least I can do after you saved me all this time is to fix you some fresh coffee."

 
"All right." Then he'd get his tape recorder and his notebook and start doing what he'd come to do.

  "The kitchen was a mess," she recalled. "Did you have any trouble finding breakfast?"

  "Just coffee."

  She bent over to pick up her bucket. Her back ached, just a bit. "I guess I can give you some bacon and eggs. I can guarantee the eggs're fresh."

  He glanced into the bucket and saw a mound of light brown eggs. "You have chickens?"

  "Over there." She indicated the shed he'd seen her come out of earlier. "They're the boys' responsibility in the summer. I haven't the heart to make them trudge around before school, so-"

  He slipped. The ice was rapidly turning to slush. Next to him, Abby reached out, then slid herself. Instinctively they grabbed for each other, teetered, then righted themselves. Her face was buried in his shoulder, and she began to giggle.

  "You wouldn't laugh if you'd landed on your back and broken your- eggs." His hand was deep in her hair. It shouldn't be, he knew, but it was so soft, and the neck beneath was so slender.

  "I always laugh when I escape catastrophe." Still smiling, she looked up. Her face was flushed, her eyes glowing. Without thinking, without being able to think, he tightened the arm around her waist. The smile faded, but the glow in her eyes deepened. He was so close, his body so hard, and be was looking at her as though they'd known each other all their lives rather than one day.

  She wished they had. She wished desperately that they had and that he was someone she could talk to, share with, lean on, just a little. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck and she shivered, though they were warm.

  "I should have warned you-" she began. Suddenly she found her heart was beating too fast to allow her to think, much less speak.

  "Warned me about what?" It was crazy. It was wrong. He had no business forgetting his purpose here in this sudden wild desire to taste her. But crazy or not, wrong or not, he wanted to feel her mouth meet his and give.

  He lowered his head, watching her. The sun shone on her face, warm and bright, but her eyes were shadowed, and as wary as the mare's had been when he'd slipped the halter over her head.

  "The path." Abby inched her head back in a gesture of confusion that was easily mistaken for teasing. Her eyes never left his. Her lips parted. "It gets slippery."

  "So I found out." The fingers at the nape of her neck pressed lightly, drawing her closer, still closer, until their lips were only a whisper apart.

  Longings, needs she'd thought she'd finished with, sprang out fresh and terribly strong. She wanted, oh, she wanted to give way to them and feel. Just feel. But she'd always been the sensible one. Only once had she forgotten that, and- She couldn't forget again. "Don't."

  His mouth brushed over hers, and he felt the tremulous movement he knew women used as seduction. "I already have."

  "No." She was weakening. The hand that she brought to his chest simply lay there. "Please don't."

  Her breath was unsteady, her eyes half-closed. Dylan had little respect for a woman who pretended reluctance so that a man was left with the responsibility. And the blame. Need crawled through him, but he released her. His eyes were flat and cool as he nodded. "Your choice."

  She was chilled and churning. There was something biting, something hurting, in his tone, but she couldn't think about that now. Careful of the melting ice, she picked her way back to the house.

  After using the boot pull on the back porch, she took the eggs to the sink and began washing up. Dylan came in behind her. "If you'll give me a few minutes, I'll have something hot."

  "Take your time." He walked past her and out of the kitchen.

  She washed each egg meticulously, waiting for her mind to empty and her system to calm. Serenity was what she relied on, what she'd worked for. She couldn't allow an accidental embrace with a man she barely knew to change that. Hadn't he released her without a second's hesitation? Abby began to put the eggs in one of the empty cartons she kept under the sink. He was safe. She only sighed over that once.

  She'd never been terribly sexual in any case, she reminded herself as she pulled a slab of bacon from the refrigerator. Hadn't Chuck pointed that out with complete clarity? She simply wasn't enough to fulfill a man's needs. Abby heated the cast-iron skillet and watched the bacon bubble and shrink. She was a good wife, dependable, responsible, sympathetic, but she wasn't someone a man burned for in the middle of the night.

  She didn't need to be. She put on more water for coffee. She was happy being what she was. She intended to go on being what she was. Taking a deep breath, she unclenched her hands. Dylan was coming back.

  "I didn't ask you how you wanted your eggs," she began then turned to see him set his tape recorder on the counter. Nerves threatened and were conquered. "You want to work in here?"

  "Here's fine. And I'd like the eggs over easy." He found an uncluttered spot at the counter and sat. "Listen, Abby, I don't expect you to cook three meals a day for me."

  "The check you sent for expenses was more than adequate." She broke an egg in