Danger, Sweetheart Part 20

"Blake, you're great and you've certainly proved yourself the bigger person, but give me a break. We've known each other a month. You don't know me. At best, I'm just the thing you wanted to do while you were stuck on Heartbreak."

"My G.o.d, Natalie!" The rubbing had stopped and he sounded as appalled as he looked, so pretty appalled. "First, you are emphatically not a thing. Second, I won't deny my attraction to you, but it was to all of you, not just your delightful pet.i.te-"

"Stubby."

"-body and striking-"

"Fat."

"-features and stop that! Every day here I couldn't wait to see you. Why do you think I bought the toaster and the bread? There were days I'd skip breakfast in the kitchen in order to get out to Main One faster, and it's not because I wanted to 'jump' you and it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't because I was eager to let that demon pony have another crack at me. Though I did think about it," he admitted. "About you. And me. Um. Quite a lot. But s.e.xual fantasies about someone you just met are quite normal for a s.e.xually active male-which might be a misnomer, as I haven't achieved intercourse for several weeks, so really it could have been anyone in my fantasies, it's a physiological reaction that doesn't necessarily translate to emotion-"

"Stop now."

"Yes. Excellent idea."

She paused, flattered and irked. It took her brain a second to untangle. Cla.s.sic Blake, saying something wonderful and then wrecking it with science. "But if you didn't do that, you wouldn't be you, would you, Blake?"

"Do what?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

"There is nothing wrong with sharing knowledge," he huffed, piqued.

"I agree. I wasn't making fun of you; I guess I was-how can I describe this-enjoying that aspect of you."

"Oh." Mollified, he went on. "I've spent more time with you than anyone else since I turned eighteen. Rake turned eighteen the same day-"

"Because Rake is terrible?" she guessed.

"Yes! See, you know me, too."

"No, you just say that a lot. Half the town knows Rake is terrible."

"The entire town should know." She couldn't tell if Blake was serious or not. "They need to be warned that Venice Douche is at loose in the world."

"Trust me, it's common knowledge all over Sweetheart that Rake is terrible."

Blake clutched her hands in his and she giggled to see her paws swallowed up in his big hammy mitts. "That is the s.e.xiest thing anyone has ever said in the history of spoken language. And I do know you, Natalie Lane. I know you love chocolate but hate fudge. I know you left all of Gary's shoes outside in the rain when you found out he'd hidden all the bread from me. I know you're fiercely and equally proud of your Native American and Irish heritage, and that you tell people the reason you're not an alcoholic is because they cancel each other out."

"It's simple math."

"I also know you don't actually think that, not really. I know you admire your mother's ancestors and your father's forebears."

"Don't those mean the same-"

"I know you have a reservoir of deep kindness and you don't like it when people notice. I know you're endlessly patient, and loyal, and fierce, and proud. I know your hair smells like cherry blossoms and I have pondered that mystery for a month."

"It's my cherry blossom shampoo."

"Mystery solved. Most of all, Natalie, I know I will miss you when I've gone. I'll think of you every day for a long, long time. Perhaps until the end of my life."

When I've gone. Of course. And that made sense. She'd always known he was leaving. And certainly nothing had happened in the last forty-eight hours that would have caused Blake to consider changing those plans, for which she did not blame him at all. Still, the news-not that she should have been thinking of it as news-hit her like a jab to the gut.

"Yes. Okay. I- Yes." She began to extricate herself from his warm, comforting grip. "Thank you. For those nice things you said. I'm glad- I'm glad you don't hate me."

"Impossible," he murmured, releasing her.

Yeah? Give me another month, pal.

"I'll just take that-"

"No!" He had reached for the poster and she whipped it behind her back. "No, you can't. It's mine; you said you bought it for me. You said it was my present."

"As you wish." He seemed taken aback by her ferocious defense-if she'd been a crow she would have been flying at him and cawing in his face until he ran away. "I only meant-"

"It's mine," she said again, calming herself. "Whatever the reason, it was a thoughtful gift, and I want to keep it. I didn't know he did horses. I only saw the ballet dancers." She could hear herself and was amazed; she hadn't felt-or sounded-so shy in ten years. "Thank you again." Enough mush. Back to business-it's what he wants; he wouldn't have touched you at all if you hadn't sobbed like a teething toddler. "I still say you need to take a break."

"It's my prerogative to disagree," he replied gently. "And your concern is appreciated, but I am fine. And I need to get back to work. Margaret of Anjou will not feed herself. Though I imagine she wishes she could." That last in a dark mutter.

"You're not fine," Natalie replied sharply, and was that still more guilt? Yep. She'd thrown everything at him and he wasn't leaving. He knew the truth about everything-Vegas Douche, the reasons behind Gary's treachery, her job at the bank, Margaret of Anjou's sociopathy, that the nuclear option hadn't worked-and he still wasn't leaving. Natalie knew he would-he'd told her he would, and unlike her, Blake didn't lie-but it would be on his terms.

And he'd been that kind of man long before setting foot in Sweetheart. Shoveling s.h.i.+t didn't change a man in a month. She'd been so stupid, so smug and certain she knew better than a city guy, that she hadn't let herself see his strength. She'd pay for that, because she, too, would think of him every day after he went back to his life.

"Dammit, Blake, don't argue! Your hands are shaking, for G.o.d's sake. Come on with me now." She stood and tried to pull him up with her, and after a few seconds he let her. Good thing, too, because it had been like trying to yank a redwood out of the ground.

Blake sighed, so long and loud it sounded like it came from the very bottom of his lungs, and emptied them. Their moment of whatever-it-was was over. "There's nothing to be concerned about."

Biggest lie ever. It was too dusty in here; it was making her eyes water. Oh. No. Wasn't the dust. Do not start crying again, idiot!

"And you're laboring under a misapprehension," he continued. "My hands aren't shaking because I'm tired. They always do that when you touch me. I- I've been hoping you wouldn't notice. Too late now. Isn't that right?"

He looked around, saw the White Rose of York had settled down in clean straw to finish her nap, and stood. Natalie had the sense he wouldn't be talking like this-that they would never have spoken about any of this-if he was in his right mind, or at least well rested. He'd said some nice things when he was drunk, and then out of pity when she blubbered all over him, but she wasn't dumb enough to a.s.sume he meant them. Her concern was sharpening into major unease. Cripes, Heartbreak broke Blake! Which she had wanted to happen until it did! "Listen-"

Slowly, so slowly it was almost like watching the minute hand on a clock, his hand came up and, eventually, he had a finger under her chin and was coaxing her head up so she could look at him. Slowly, giving her every chance to punch or kick or spit or just step back, he leaned in and his mouth brushed over her lips once, twice. And once again. He'd been filching toast again. She should be grossed out, being able to taste his breakfast.

(I am not grossed out.) She blinked at him, realized she'd grabbed two fistfuls of his s.h.i.+rt and things at once seemed quite bright and loud. She could hear everything-Margaret of Anjou's soft snorts from her stall, the White Rose of York's contented grunting, the chorus from the meadowlarks outside and the barn swallows inside. The wind humming through the gra.s.s and tree line. Her breathing. His. And she could smell everything, too, which could have been horrifying but wasn't. Clean hay. Dust. Manure. Newly cut gra.s.s. Even the suns.h.i.+ne slanting through the barn seemed to have a smell, yellow and bright and lemony.

Then she was clutching air because he'd stepped back out of her grip, and his face was red for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat. "I apologize. It won't happen again." He paused like he was going to say something more, then seemed to change his mind. "Forgive me."

She reached out, not slowly, and grabbed his s.h.i.+rt, not gently, and hauled him back again, not carefully, and then she was discovering that in addition to toast, he'd had orange juice. She was discovering that if she did that with her tongue right there she could get his breathing to hitch. The power in that moment was heady, almost as staggering as the relief.

(oh G.o.d he's letting me he's letting me do this and you said your hands shake when I'm near and you taste like suns.h.i.+ne and toast and your breathing goes funny when we do this, which is good because maybe you won't notice my breathing goes funny, too) Margaret of Anjou's hiss (before that pony came to Heartbreak, Natalie hadn't known ponies could hiss like p.i.s.sed-off rattlers) broke the spell. She relaxed her grip, then tried (in vain) to straighten the dust-smeared wrinkles in his s.h.i.+rt. He looked down and watched for a second, then took her hands in his.

"You're lovely." He said it with utter seriousness, the way people said, "It's snowing," or, "Splinters are painful." "And your mouth is glorious."

"I don't-" Ten minutes ago he'd been swaying with fatigue and she'd felt guilt and sorrow in equal measure. Yesterday she was sick over what could only be called her betrayal. Now she knew how his mouth felt against hers, knew she made his hands shake, knew he fantasized about her, and her brain couldn't reconcile the new information with the old. "Thank you. I don't do this stuff normally. Make a habit of it, I mean." G.o.d, when had she last gone on a date? Between trying to save the bank and, thus, the town (or vice versa), her social life had gone right down the s.h.i.+tter.

"How fortunate for me." This in a low voice, almost a rumble, and she had to actively resist the urge to haul him back in and mack on him some more.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It doesn't matter now," he replied, and kissed her again.

Twenty-nine.

Blake Tarbell (Secret Service code name: Vegas Douche) sulked in his mighty Supertruck. He had promised Natalie he would rest, had let her bully him into two gla.s.ses of lemonade to a.s.suage her guilt, but the attic was too hot and the lemonade sloshed in his belly, leaving him feeling vaguely ill.

After an hour of rising heat and ever-louder stomach slos.h.i.+ng he couldn't bear it any longer, found his keys, checked on Margaret of Anjou and the White Rose of York, and drove toward town. It was, as always, a peaceful drive. He drove past field after abandoned field, picturing them lush with golden summer wheat, the drone of insects getting drowsy in the sun, the snap of plastic streamers in the field scaring off the birds (easier and more effective, Natalie-the-banker had explained, than scarecrows).

The fields weren't entirely abandoned; it wasn't all desolate, empty landscape. The Darrel twins (each widowed twelve years ago, he had learned, and just two days apart) had their stand up and running, and they waved as he got closer. He returned the wave and pulled over, spotting carton after carton of fresh-picked spring strawberries. He considered purchasing some for Natalie, who would consume strawberry shortcake three times a day if it were socially acceptable. Then he remembered he was sick with hurt at her betrayal(s) (as she was by yours, you self-righteous a.s.s, and have you forgotten all those sad abandoned fields were partially your doing?) and decided to punish her by only getting half a pound. When I could have easily purchased two pounds! That will teach her! He answered Alice Darrel's questions about Margaret of Anjou ("Are you any closer to killing her? Or her you? There's a pool! So any hints you could give me ... it's up to four hundred bucks. Seventy/thirty, whaddya think?"), politely returned Andy Darrel's mild flirtation ("A man like you stuck in Heartbreak with just Harry, Gary, and Larry for company, a d.a.m.ned shame, and a crime against nature"), and was pleased to accept the small jar of clover honey they saved for him. His second week he discovered Natalie had mentioned his stash of bread and his toaster to the twins, so when they could they pulled a jar and held it for him. Fresh clover honey, he had discovered with deep delight, tasted like springtime. He may have fantasized about using Natalie as a canvas on which he would paint and devour said honey.

He got his bag of berries, wished the twins a pleasant afternoon, and climbed back in the Supertruck. The Darrel twins are so nice, he thought, I wonder if they want Sweetheart to die so they can leave? Or are they like Natalie, they don't ever want to leave? And did Andy's wife really dance herself to death, or is that just a local urban legend? Maybe dance herself to death is a euphemism. But for what? And why do I want to know? This question will consume me.

He pa.s.sed a school bus, obediently stopping when it flipped out its stop sign. The Opitz kids piled out, saw him, and one of them mimed yanking a pull cord. Children loved the Supertruck's droning horn, which was not unlike the sound of a runaway train bearing down on you. Blake obligingly honked. A grin, waves, and off they went.

Once in Sweetheart proper, he had no idea where he wanted to go, just that he was restless and thirsty and his head ached. He parked and considered. The library? Closed on Sundays. The diner? Not hungry-he hadn't been hungry for over a day. Perhaps his body was finally adjusting to the Heartbreak schedule? Incorrect, as he had not been so tired since his first week on the farm.

The gas station? The Supertruck had three-quarters of a tank. The B and B? No thank you. Las Vegas? No thank you.

This place, he thought, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he glared through the winds.h.i.+eld. It grows on you like lichen on a tree. The tree doesn't notice and, by the time it does notice, the lichen is part of it, and getting rid of it would be unthinkable.

That is a terrible a.n.a.logy. Get a grip on yourself!

The appeal of Sweetheart, he decided, was more about what it wasn't than what it was. It was not an impersonal city where you locked everything at night-and during the day, too, just to be safe. It was not a luxury hotel; no one was waiting by the phone to rush midnight hot-fudge sundaes to his suite. (They'd done that a few times, he'd come down at midnight for a snack and find Natalie there, and they'd have sundaes or fudge or that potato flatbread she liked, lefsa-which had a fascinating history!-and once they got to speculating about Margaret of Anjou's sinister past until two o'clock in the morning.) There was none of Vegas' "make wild revelry, for who cares about tomorrow" vibe.

Things mattered in Sweetheart; the locals had bigger problems than how to hit three breakfast buffets by 9:00 A.M. with time left to gamble away the mortgage payment. The locals weren't afraid to get dirty (except Garrett, but given Blake's family's business, he could not cast blame). Aside from losing their homes, they didn't appear to be afraid of anything. They looked after the land, they looked after one another (the Darrel twins house-sat for Roger when he was off on his mysterious sinister vacations, and Roger watered their dogs when they left town for something called a Romantic Times convention).

Everyone knew everyone else, and at first Blake had found that claustrophobic. He could feel the gazes on him when he went into town for errands, could feel their silent judgment. Everyone knowing everyone was kind of awful if you were Blake Tarbell and people knew you did your best to gut their town until Mommy grounded you. But it was something splendid when you needed a cup of sugar and any one of a dozen people would not only lend it to you; they'd also leave their front door unlocked so you could swing by and pick up the sugar whenever you like.

It wasn't that the people of Las Vegas were terrible. But they were all strangers to one another. That had suited him well until a month ago. And now when he thought of Rake in Venice, up to G.o.d knew what Rake-related shenanigans, instead of envy Blake felt worry. His twin was surrounded by strangers in a land where he was not known; Blake would fret until Rake returned. Whatever, and wherever, that meant.

A rap on the window; Blake had been so deep in thought he hadn't noticed the older man who bore a striking resemblance to Sir Ben Kingsley, CBE, if Sir Ben had close-cropped red hair and favored jeans and flannel s.h.i.+rts.

He rolled down the window. "h.e.l.lo."

"Hiya. Sandy Cort." They shook, and Blake was so used to the burning pain in his palms he didn't flinch. For a man in his early sixties, Cort had an admirable grip. "You're that outtatowner feller, arencha?"

It took Blake a few seconds to translate the midwestern patois. He considered, then rejected, telling him "fellow" was p.r.o.nounced "fell-oh" and "out-of-towner" was technically three words, despite the hyphens, and "are you not" worked just as well as "arencha." "I am. May I help you, Mr. Cort?"

"Naw, Mr. Cort's my dad and he's long dead, that stubborn b.u.g.g.e.r; I'm Sandy. Just wanted to say h'lo. Me and Roger-you know Rog, he's shacking over at the B and B?"

"Yes, I have stolen his livestock."

Cort didn't even blink. "That's the one, yep; we tickle trout together."

Blake managed, just, to swallow the inappropriate giggle that wanted to leak out of his lungs.

"Said you were a nice feller and I should say h'lo. So: h'lo."

"It's nice to meet you."

"He said you talk like books."

"I suppose I do." He was a bit taken aback, then decided there were worse ways to talk and warmed to the comment. "I read a great deal."

"Yeah, sure, t'be expected. Shannah's boy, arencha?"

"You know my mother?"

"Oh, sure, her an' all them Banaans." Blake was surprised to hear Sandy p.r.o.nounce it "ban-anns" instead of the more typical "buh-nons." "She was always like that, even as a little 'un; the other kids'd be playin' outside and she always wanted to hole up with four or five books. Not comic books, either!" he added, as if Blake were making ready to scorn his mother's reading efforts. "Big books, for grown-ups. My dad got kicked out of the nursing home because of all the candy he kept sneaking to the diabetics, came home to die."

"I'm sorry?" And here he thought he had been following the conversation so well.

"Howwc.u.m?" Sandy fished around in his jeans pocket and extracted a pack of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, which he offered to Blake (who declined, as a stint with braces as a teenager had left him disinclined to anything sticky except honey). Between chomps, Sandy continued. "He wanted to be home; we wanted him home; he was on the porch or in bed most times, wasn't any trouble. Knew he didn't have long-if you don't fight cancer with chemo, it's not s'bad, he was just mostly tired, and the docs helped with the pain at the end. Your mama, she'd come over and read to him."

So difficult to picture the competent, uncompromising Shannah Banaan Tarbell as a little girl; when Blake tried he could only physically shrink his mom, not reduce the woman he knew to the innocent nature of a child.

"Ah, Gawd, she read him all those Little House books; Dad loved those; he had a big crush on Karen Gra.s.sle, the actress who played Caroline Ingalls on the TV show-no? Never mind, doesn't matter now. G.o.d, he wanted to get in her petticoats so bad."

"That's adorable, Cort."

"Anyhoo. Your mama was sweet as sugar, and after my dad pa.s.sed we found out he left her a thousand bucks! And he said she could do whatever she wanted with it, but he hoped she saved it for college or bought books with it." Sandy grinned, leaning on the truck door and blowing a bubble almost as large as his head. "She didn't save it for college, tell you that."

"The nook!" Blake cried, s.h.i.+fting so suddenly he blared the horn. Sandy, in mid-bubble, almost choked. "When we were little we had this tiny apartment in Vegas-this was before our father pa.s.sed away, so she was supporting us on tips, more or less. It was a dreary two-bedroom apartment, one for my brother and me and the book nook, we called it. That room was floor-to-ceiling books, with shelves everywhere, books everywhere, even piled on the floor in stacks as high as her hip. There wasn't room for a bed. Our mother slept on a hide-a-bed in the living room until my father died, because that was preferable to getting rid of the books."

Sandy chuckled, delighted. "Yep. Sounds about right." Sandy leaned closer, as if confiding a great secret. "Y'know, it wasn't her fault, what they did. It was her family, not her. Lotta people, they won't get that. They think once a Banaan, always a Banaan. And maybe if your mama hadn't ever left Sweetheart, that'd be true. But she did leave. So it's not true. I know, because Sweetheart's in trouble and she came on the run. She's here, ain't she?" A pause while he blew another bubble, snapped it, chomped, finished: "So are you."

Blake leaned forward, intrigued and almost dizzy with the influx of information. "What do you mean by what her family did?" No response. "Sandy?" The older man straightened suddenly, smile lines replaced by frown lines. Blake glanced to his left and saw Garrett Hobbes walking toward the truck in the company of a tall, thin elderly man he didn't recognize.

Oh, look. It's Satan's intern.

"Hey, cripes, we were just talking about you!" Garrett jogged over to Blake, the twenty seconds of exertion bringing sweat to his brow, armpits, nose, chin, chest, and scalp, Blake noticed. The elderly man followed in Garrett's wake, not rus.h.i.+ng. He stared at Blake, which was nothing new in this town.

"Sorry I'm all out," Garrett wheezed, stopping before he ran headlong into the Supertruck's cab. "Of breath. Just got done. You know. At the gym."

That explains the dreadful s.h.i.+ny suit and the wet s.h.i.+ny hair. "They were out of towels?"

"Not a lot on hand this time of day. They're not used to people being there this time of day," he said with misplaced emphasis and an odd note of pride Blake found puzzling for four seconds.

"How fascinating. I don't-" And then he did. He saw it at once and shook his head, unsure if he was amused or annoyed. "You think scheduling an exercise regime during business hours will arouse envy in your fellow townspeople. That they will marvel at how you can break away from work for organized sweating on a treadmill. I regret being the bearer of bad tidings, Garrett, but it doesn't arouse their envy. Just their annoyance, often laced with contempt."

"What the f.u.c.k do you know?"