Sisters Of The Craft: Heat Of The Moment Part 9

I nodded. Too tired and hungry and happy to say anything.

I'd been at a loss as to what was wrong, panicked that I was going to lose my first cow and calf. It happened, but it hadn't yet happened to me, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Was that why I'd "heard" the little voice say: We're stuck!

When I reached back in, I'd found the same hoof I'd been tugging, but this time I ran my fingers up the leg until I found the chest, a head, and then another head. I'd disentangled them like a reverse jigsaw puzzle and guided them both into the dawn. I hadn't needed any help from Owen or the calf chains after that. d.u.c.h.ess did most of the work.

Quite obviously the hint had been my subconscious adding all the things my hands and eyes and ears and brain had gathered into a solution and projecting that solution into the "voice" of one of the twins. Did it really matter how I'd figured out the problem so long as I had?

My gaze went to d.u.c.h.ess and her girls. They wouldn't think so.

Owen was nowhere to be seen. Emerson opened the back door and allowed the housewives into the barn for morning milking. I lifted my hand in good-bye and hurried out the other door before I "heard" any more from them.

I was half afraid Owen had left me to find my own ride. That would be rude; then again, I hadn't expected him to stay all night. But he sat behind the wheel, engine idling. As I emerged, he whistled.

Reggie bounded out of the tall gra.s.s and onto the seat. He was moving a lot easier than he'd been last night. Animals were like that. Around me, they were like that a lot.

I climbed in too, and we were off. We weren't even to the top of the long driveway when my phone vibrated. I groaned. All I wanted was food, a shower, and a few hours of sleep, in that order. However, if duty called I had no choice but to answer.

I glanced at the text message. "Hallelujah!"

"Win the lottery?"

"Better. My mom made waffles."

Owen reached the road but didn't pull out. I pointed in the direction of the farm. "That way."

"I know which way. Don't you want me to drop you at your apartment so you can get your car?"

"I want waffles ten minutes ago. If you have somewhere to be at..." I glanced at my phone again. "Seven A.M. one of the boys can take me home."

"I don't but I ... uh..."

"You know my mom. She made enough to feed you too." And probably most of the French Foreign Legion, though once my brothers got done, the Foreign Legion would be eating sc.r.a.ps. "The least I can do after all your help is make sure you have breakfast."

"I didn't do anything."

Laughter spurted. "That's exactly how you always said it."

"Said what?"

"That you didn't do anything. Every time someone-" I broke off.

"Every time someone accused me of whatever criminal act had been committed in the city limits," Owen finished.

"Sorry." He still hadn't turned onto the road, and I waved to the right. "Whether you're leaving or staying for breakfast doesn't really affect your direction at this point. I'll expire if I have to wait for you to take me to town so I can get my car and drive back to the farm. We're over halfway there."

"You will not expire," he grumbled, but he turned right.

"Thanks. And thanks for staying with me at Emerson's. It was nice to have more company than the ton in the middle of the night."

"What's the ton?"

"Old-time British word for the aristocracy. It's what I call Emerson's herd since he named them after the peers of the realm."

Owen continued to look confused.

"d.u.c.h.ess, Lady, Countess."

"That's weird."

"Weird is what you make it." I was weird, but I'd done my best to make sure no one knew it but me. "You didn't have to stay."

"I had no place to be."

"You could have slept in a bed."

"Maybe," he said. "But probably not."

Before I could follow up on that statement he blurted, "People are treating me differently."

"Okay."

"Chief Deb didn't accuse me of animal mutilation."

"No, she accused your mother."

"Actually she accused my mother's imaginary friends."

"She accused your mother's coven."

"My mother isn't a witch, so she doesn't have a coven any more than she has friends."

Poor woman. She'd been a miserable mother but not on purpose. I'd always hoped that someone could help her, but apparently crazy like that was beyond help.

"Emerson shook my hand," Owen continued. "The last time I saw him he shot me."

"So?"

"So?" he echoed. "Once someone shoots at me, they don't come back later and shake my hand."

"What do they do?"

He didn't answer, and I didn't press. I probably didn't want to know. The very idea of someone shooting at Owen made me twitchy.

"I doubt it'll be the last time someone shakes your hand around here."

"Why?" He seemed horrified.

"Heroes get their hands shaken."

"Reggie's the hero, not me. I just hold his leash."

"I highly doubt that's all you do. But you can always have them shake Reggie's paw if you want to." Owen cast me an exasperated glance, which I ignored. "Why do you downplay what you've accomplished?"

"You have no idea what I've accomplished."

"You've been in the service for ten years, Owen. I doubt you had your thumb up your a.s.s."

He choked.

"If it bothers you to have your hand shaken, get over it. It's going to happen a lot."

"Not if I hide."

"Good luck with that." Once people knew he was in town, and why, they were going to come searching for him. And a guy of his size, with a dog of Reggie's size, in a town of this size?

He wasn't going to be able to hide for long.

"I didn't join the corps to be a hero," Owen said.

"Why did you?"

He cast her a quick glance. "You know why."

"I know what you told me." Her mouth tightened. "You had to make something of yourself. But to me, Owen, you were everything."

She'd been everything to him too, which was why he'd had to go. This place had made him feel like nothing, like no one, and even her love couldn't change that. But how could he tell her that she wasn't enough?

"I didn't mean to lie." Which was a great, big lie. He hadn't wanted to lie, but he had meant to.

"You lied?"

"I said I'd write."

"You were going to leave and never write?" Her face crumpled, confused, in the soft, early morning light.

He'd also said he'd come back. But one lie at a time.

"I should have told you, but I..."

He had a sudden memory of her eyes-stricken. Her tears-salty. Her kiss-desperate. Her touch ...

Everything.

How could he tell her it was over when all he'd wanted was for it not to be? Then he'd made love to her and ...

He certainly couldn't tell her then.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he finished.

She laughed, one short, harsh burst of sound. "You think it hurt less to wait and wait for that letter, then open it and find out how stupid I was to believe in you, than it would have hurt to know you didn't love me in the first place?"

That wasn't true. He'd left because he loved her. He'd leave again for the same reason. But he couldn't tell her that any more now than he could then. Just because Emerson Watley had shaken his hand didn't mean anyone else would.

In Three Harbors, Owen would always be the delinquent son of a crazy drunk-druggie. Just as Becca would always be the daughter of one of the founding families. People used the word doctor before her name. Just because he carried the rank of sergeant before his wouldn't change anything. If he lost that rank, then what would he be?

No one all over again.

"It was a long time ago." Becca stared out the pa.s.senger window where the tip of one of the silos on the Carstairs farm had just become visible.

"Feels like yesterday." She looked the same, smelled the same; he wanted to kiss her ... just the same.

"Sometimes it does," she agreed. "Then other times it all seems so long ago, so far away, so hazy, like it happened to someone other than me. As if you were a story I told myself."

He didn't care for that at all, but who was he to judge? He'd coped with the loss of her by throwing himself into his training. Becoming so exhausted he could do nothing but move forward with little energy left to look back. Because looking back hurt so badly he could hardly breathe.

Owen turned into the long, gravel lane that matched the one at Watley's and led to a similar farm at the end. House, barn, sheds, machinery, all pretty much the same, though in slightly different locations.

A big, floppy tan mutt came racing out of the barn, braying either a welcome or a warning. From Reggie's grumble, he thought it was the latter.

Owen set his hand on the dog's shoulder. "Easy, boy. His place."

"Moose is harmless," Becca said.

"Reggie isn't." He didn't play well with dogs not of the working variety. Probably because he'd never had much chance to. Or maybe because, to Reggie, work was play and vice versa. He had no time or patience for anything else. He lived to sniff out bombs and terrorists. But, hey, so did Owen. He rubbed his bad leg.

Becca rolled down the window a few inches. "Barn, Moose!"

The dog appeared crushed, but he went where he'd been told, leaving a looming, waiting silence behind.

Owen s.h.i.+fted the truck into park. "Becca, I'm sorry-"

"Me too," she interrupted, then took a deep breath. "I know I asked you to breakfast..."

His lips curved. "I wasn't going to come."

She nodded as if she'd known that. She probably had. She'd always known him better than anyone. And despite other people treating him as if he were a completely different person than the one who'd left, he wasn't. Deep down he would always be the same.

Just like his mother.

"It's probably best if we don't see each other any more than we have to while you're here."

Owen blinked. Hadn't seen that coming.

"Not at all would be my vote." She scrubbed her nails lightly between Reggie's eyes. The dog practically drooled. "However, with the problem at your house, that probably isn't going to happen."