Miss Emmaline And The Archangel Part 5

She gave a small laugh. "I can sure see why. Okay, I'll save your dinner for you."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," she interrupted. "I'd offer to bring it up here, but I don't see how you can eat in that position."

"Me, neither. Well, I'll be surprised if this lasts even another few minutes. Just don't wait on me."

Turning away was somehow difficult, but she did it, descending the stairs with her mind full of the look of him lying sprawled on the bed, her hands wis.h.i.+ng they could have touched him.

Lord, Lord, Emma, what's gotten into you? Yes, he's a virile-looking man, an attractive man for all he's aloof and difficult at times, but he's not the first attractive man you've ever seen. Why are you reacting to him?

And why shouldn't she react? some other part of her wondered. Gage Dalton was no more interested in any kind of involvement than she was. Reacting to him was about as safe as such a thing could be. He would never notice her as a woman, not in a million years. And if he should, just maybe, make a pa.s.s at her, maybe she could succ.u.mb. After all, she would go into it with her eyes open, knowing from the first that that was all it would ever be.

There had been a time in her life when moral strictures would have prevented her from even considering such a thing. Even with Joe, she had never permitted any more than a few kisses, because she hadn't wanted to be a tease and she knew she wouldn't go all the way.

But now she was past thirty, facing middle age as a perennial spinster, and some part of her resented the h.e.l.l out of that. Why shouldn't she taste the forbidden apple a few times? She would have the rest of her life to aspire to sainthood. But now, right now, Emma Conard felt a crying need for human warmth, a human touch, human contact.

She felt, she admitted, a crying need for a man's heat and desire. She wanted to know what it felt like to be swept away by the dizzying feelings she had read about, wanted to know what real pa.s.sion was, what real desire meant, and how it felt to be wanted like that.

And then she wanted to be able to walk away with a whole heart.

She could have laughed at her own foolishness just then, except that it hurt too much. She felt as if she were drying up and blowing away. Someday little children would scurry out of her way and whisper behind her back the way they had with Great-aunt Isabel.

It was enough to make her want to smash something. There were just no answers for why life could be so unfair. No answers at all. She had done nothing to deserve the a.s.sault that had ruined her life. Nothing.

But then, Gage had probably done nothing to deserve what had happened to him, either.

There was just no explaining it. No explaining it at all. m.u.f.fled by distance, she heard Gage swear suddenly. Well, he would probably be coming down for dinner, she thought, as she heard him swear again. His vacation from pain was over.

Chapter 4.

"I need to go out on a case," Gage said.

Emma immediately glanced toward the window and the night beyond. In a few short days she had grown accustomed to Gage's presence in the house, to the comfort it gave her. He had offered to pay more to have his meals included in the rent, and she had accepted, but that hadn't kept him from going out and stocking the pantry on Monday. Since then he had helped with the cooking and washed the dishes every night. Then, as the evening deepened, he would settle into the Kennedy rocker in the living room and read.

Tonight a phone call had come just as they were finis.h.i.+ng dinner, and now he had to leave.

Emma's insides knotted, and her heart sped up. This evening she would be alone. Alone with the strange, disturbing images that flickered around the edges of her mind, unrecognizable glimpses of faces, sounds not quite heard. All she knew was that these flickers, these glimpses of what might be distorted memories, frightened her. For the last several days she had kept herself continuously busy, trying to squelch what seemed to be a growing pressure just beneath the level of her waking thoughts.

And now Gage had to go out. Maybe she could persuade Sara to come over until he got back. Or maybe she could go over to Sara's. Or maybe, she told herself sternly, she could just stay home by herself as she had been doing these many years without any trouble at all. What ever was the matter with her?

"Want to go with me?" Gage asked.

"Hmm?" Emma looked up from the plates she was carrying to the sink. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Would you like to go with me? It's a clear night, and a quarter moon is rising. It'd make a pretty drive out to the Bar C."

The Bar C was her cousin Jeff's ranch, and that was the first part of his speech that penetrated. "Oh, no! Not another mutilation!"

"Afraid so. Would you like to come with me?"

"Come?" And suddenly she understood. Alone in the car with him. With a man. Her hands started to shake violently, and she hurried to the counter to set the plates down. "I ... I can't. Thanks anyway."

"Why not?" He hadn't missed the way her hands had started to tremble, or the way she had paled. "Emma?"

"I ... just can't."

He ought to leave right now, he thought with a kind of aching desperation. He didn't need any more problems in his life, a life already so burdened with painful problems that he sometimes felt as if he were wearing a lead overcoat. It was a selfish thought, though, and it shamed him even as he had it.

"Emma," he said, "is it me? Or is it the car?"

"Just go take care of your case, Gage. I'll be fine."

"I don't want to leave you here alone."

She faced him then, attempting a smile. "I'll give Sara a call. I think she's off duty tonight. You don't need to worry about me."

"She's on duty. She's the one who called me." Frowning, Gage stepped closer. "Emma, tell me."

And somehow it just came blurting out. n.o.body in Conard County knew what had happened to her, because her father had protected her secret. He hadn't wanted her to suffer the curious looks and the endless speculation, not to mention the callous or careless questions. So no one here knew a thing about the a.s.sault. Emma had been happy to leave it that way, so why was she now telling this man her deepest, darkest secret?

"When ... when I was a senior in college, I was a.s.saulted. I don't remember anything about it but ... I was in a coma for weeks, and after I woke I needed all kinds of rehabilitation."

"My G.o.d." Gage barely breathed the words.

Emma closed her eyes, not wanting to see his pity. She shrugged, as if these were matters of no concern. "I still don't know what happened, and no one was ever charged with it, but I have a few silly fears I can't seem to shake." Again she shrugged. "I can't get into a car with a man. I just ... can't ... do it."

She expected him to say, "Well, all right, then," or something else equally dismissive, then leave. Instead, his ruined voice took on an incredibly gentle tone.

"That's all right, Emma," he said. "That's all right. Perfectly understandable. I'll get someone over here to keep an eye on things while I'm gone."

Her eyes popped open. "Oh, no! Oh, Gage, really ... everyone will hear about it, and they'll start wondering if I've gone off the deep end. Don't bother. I'll be fine, really. It'll only be a couple of hours, right? And nothing else has happened since the rabbit." And why was she trying to talk him out of giving her exactly the comfort she needed? Lord, Emma, you really are losing your mind!

Gage hesitated, but finally he said, "Okay. I'll get back just as soon as I can."

At the door, though, he suddenly turned around and came back. But he didn't stop a polite distance away. No, he came right up to her, to within a foot, and took her gently by the shoulders, moving her away from the counter.

"I don't want you to get claustrophobic because you're caught between me and the counter," he said gruffly in answer to the questioning but incredibly trusting look on her face. He couldn't imagine why this woman should trust him at all. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't been able to get out that door without coming back to touch her. To kiss her. And for the moment he was past wondering about it.

When Gage's stormy gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, Emma caught her breath in agonizing hope. The last time she had felt like this, she had been sixteen, and Lefty Sjodgren, the school's star quarterback, had taken her to a movie. She had felt like this then, too, standing on her porch as they said good-night, hoping against hope that Lefty would give her her first kiss. That kiss had been a huge disappointment. Somehow she didn't think Gage's would be a disappointment at all.

His head bowed a fraction, then hesitated. He wasn't sure he should do this. Not sure at all. Nor was she, but she didn't want to miss it. There might never again be a chance to feel this man's lips on hers, and she was going out of her mind wanting to know. She lifted her mouth, just a fraction. Just enough.

A soft, husky whisper of sound escaped him, causing her insides to clench sharply. Pleasurably. A sensation she hadn't felt in years.

"I shouldn't do this," he muttered, and then his mouth covered hers with hungry heat. Not too much, he warned himself. Not too much. This woman was inexperienced and fearful of men. Just a little kiss, just a sop to the aching need to hold her tightly and bury himself in her slick, silky heat. Living with her was rapidly turning into a new kind of h.e.l.l for him, a h.e.l.l he had no desire to run from. Not yet, anyway.

Her hands fluttered uncertainly and then came to rest on his hips, holding him gently. He nearly groaned with sheer pleasure at the touch. It wasn't a s.e.xy touch, or even a hungry one, but it wasn't rejecting him, either. It had been so long since he had been touched. So d.a.m.n long.

He meant to break away, meant the kiss to be gentle and noninflammatory, but somehow it didn't stop there. His tongue slipped past his guard and ran slowly, tenderly, along Emma's lips, tasting the coffee they had just drunk, coaxing her to give him more. Stop. He had to stop. But, oh, G.o.d, it had been so long, and he needed the gentleness, the softness, the heat. The longing rolled over him, overwhelming him, sweeping him up in aching waves.

Emma felt the coaxing, enticing sweep of his tongue across her lips all the way to the soles of her feet. Long-untested instincts took over before she even knew it. Her hands tightened on his hard, narrow hips as she leaned even closer, seeking deeper pressure, and opened her mouth to take him into her. At the first hot thrust of his tongue, her entire body took flame. Hungers long denied, long buried, sprang to immediate life. When his hands slipped from her shoulders to enfold her in a tight embrace, she wanted to sob for sheer joy. Nothing had ever felt so good, so right.

Suddenly Gage tore his mouth from hers and pressed his cheek to hers. For long moments he continued to hold her snugly, and then his embrace gentled. "That got a little out of hand," he said softly. Slowly, gently, soothingly, he stroked her back from shoulder to waist.

Emma could feel him withdrawing, rebuilding his internal barriers brick by brick. She recognized the wisdom of it and knew she should step back now. But for a few seconds she remained within his embrace, paralyzed by an urgent need to burrow into him, to never again know the loneliness that lurked just beyond the magic circle of his arms.

Ridiculous, she told herself and, with a sigh, eased backward. Gage released her instantly. He didn't immediately leave, however. Instead, he reached out and touched her cheek with gentle fingertips. "I'll get back just as soon as I can, Emma."

She smiled. "I'll be fine, Gage, really. There's no reason to think there's any real danger from these pranks. I guess my nerves just ran away with me on Sunday."

He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and left, grabbing his Stetson from the peg as he pa.s.sed out the door.

Once he was out in his Suburban, however, he radioed the department and told them to keep a sharp eye on Emma's house. She might have grown sanguine, but he hadn't. For three days now he'd been trying to connect the decapitated rabbit with the cattle mutilations, then trying not to connect them, telling himself that the rabbit was just inspired by the cattle. Somehow that didn't feel right, though. Nothing felt right, and his gut kept insisting these were no ordinary pranks.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought of Emma alone in that big old house, and even knowing a deputy would keep an eye on the place didn't make him feel a whole lot better. There were plenty of ways to get around such surveillance. He himself was a master of them.

And then there was Emma herself. The outline she had stammered out for him tonight was ghastly even in its barebones form. It twisted something inside him, something that had been dead ever since ... before. And, unfortunately, he'd seen enough of that kind of violence in his life to be able to fill in Emma's outline with gruesome images.

He s.h.i.+fted on the seat, seeking to ease the tension in his lower back before it became uncomfortable. Such adjustments of his posture had grown so automatic that he was hardly aware of them. The movements made him appear restless, though, even when he wasn't. Like a caged wolf.

He was a man accustomed to accepting the way things were, like them or not, but right now he experienced a vain wish that he hadn't kissed Emma Conard. He didn't like the feelings that had goaded him back across the kitchen and driven him to taste her mouth. He didn't like having feelings at all anymore. Feelings were a dangerous roller coaster with as many lows as there were highs. And some of the lows twisted a man inside out and left him smashed for good.

Having a personal and intimate acquaintance with the depths of h.e.l.l, Gage had no desire to experience any new tortures. But Miss Emma's mouth had been sweet and warm, water to a man in a desert. Her inexperienced response had been instant and generous, and her hands on his hips had been a touch of heaven. Just remembering it made his loins clench sharply. Part of him, at least, was coming back to life in a headlong rush.

A wise man would probably bail out right now. When it came to some things, though, Gage had never been a wise man. For the time being, Miss Emmaline Conard needed his protection and the security his presence in her house gave her. Never in his life, not once, had he been able to walk away from that kind of need.

Emma sat in the middle of the living room surrounded by boxes of decorations she had dragged down from an upstairs closet. Traditional Christmas carols played loudly from the stereo, and every light blazed. The curtains were drawn tightly, letting not so much as a wedge of the night into the room.

She'd completely forgotten the tree in all the uproar this week, but tomorrow, she promised herself, she would find a large one. In the meantime she could put up the garlands and wreaths, and replace blue candles with red and green ones in all the bra.s.s sconces.

The rhythm of the familiar tasks soothed her, bringing back memories that alternately brought a smile to her lips or tightened her throat. So many Christmases past, so many memories, etched in the brilliance of the holiday season. Somehow those memories took on a brightness and a golden warmth that her other memories lacked.

Except for the last several years. Oh, she thoroughly enjoyed the festivities before Christmas, looked forward to the annual open house, when Front Street filled with carolers and good cheer. But, since her father's death, that was the extent of it. On Christmas Eve she still went to the candlelight ceremony at the church, but that had become a time when she mourned her father's absence. And Christmas Day always dawned gray for her, even if the sun shone brilliantly.

A lousy commentary, she told herself, and tried to shrug away the morbid thoughts. And still, glittering at the edge of her mind like shards of sharp gla.s.s, were the images and sounds she couldn't quite grasp. Feeling their pressure suddenly, like a volcano trying to erupt into her conscious world, she stood abruptly and went to get herself another cup of coffee.

Moving around would help. Maybe she would bake a pie, get her mind off memories of Christmas past and onto something productive, something pleasant. Like the way Gage had dug into the blueberry pie she had served on Sunday.

Like the way he had kissed her tonight. A s.h.i.+ver ran through her, a pleasant river of remembered sensation. She couldn't imagine why he had done that. It had seemed to come out of nowhere, without warning or provocation.

Absently, she began to cut shortening into flour to make a pie crust, intending to use the canned cherry filling she had in the pantry. It had been a while since she had made a cherry pie.

The entire front of her body had been imprinted with every hard line of Gage's, she thought. The zipper of his jacket had pressed against her left breast when he had hugged her, and she could still remember the way his hips had felt beneath her hands. What if she had tightened her hold? What if she had drawn those hips closer, had pressed herself to them? Would he have answered her questions and initiated her into the mysteries of lovemaking?

Another s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through her, a s.h.i.+ver of longing. Oh, Lord, Emma, this is dangerous! Do you really think you're capable of having an affair without getting involved emotionally? If you give your body, you'll give your soul and your heart, and it'll be worse by far than what Joe Murphy did to you. Because he'll leave, Emma. You know he'll leave. He's not a man who gives much of himself, and even if he were, what would he want with you?

It was ironic, she sometimes thought, that with all the injuries and damage she had suffered from her unknown attacker and Joe Murphy, she hadn't developed a complete distaste for men. That her s.e.xuality hadn't died, but instead had needed to be continually smothered over the years. Given that no man would want her, why couldn't she have learned to want no man?

An unladylike word escaped her beneath her breath. At the same moment, the tape playing in the living room came to an end and the house was plunged into utter silence.

The unexpected ring of the phone was a jarring note. Emma started and then wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. Not for the first time she swore she was going to replace that wall phone with one that chirped rather than rang. Her phone at work had spoiled her with its quiet buzzing, and she had gotten so she hated the way this one jangled.

Tucking the receiver between her ear and shoulder, she said, "h.e.l.lo?"

The line was open, an echoing silence that told her someone was on the other end, listening. Then there was a click, followed by a dial tone.

Emma stood stock-still for a moment, listening to the hum of the empty line, and then slowly she placed the receiver back in the cradle.

A wrong number, she told herself. Someone without the basic manners to apologize, that was all. Just a social cretin.

She started s.h.i.+vering then, with a cold that seemed to come from deep within her. Inescapably, inexplicably, she felt watched.

Snow that had been crusted earlier in the day by the sun's warmth crunched under Gage's boots as he walked away from the brightly lit mutilation scene. Beside him walked Sheriff Nathan Tate, a burly, ruddy-complected man with a deep, gravelly voice.

"The skinning of the skull is a new one," Nate remarked.

"I've heard of it with mutilations in other places," Gage replied. "The bone is still pink, so it's pretty recent. We need to have the lab find out if there are any marks on the bone from whatever tool was used to do the butchering."

Nate nodded. "I wish Micah was here. I swear that Injun reads the vibes in the air around things."

Gage chuckled almost in spite of himself. "You're sounding like a product of the sixties."

"I am a product of the sixties."

"Well, Micah will be back next week," Gage said. "In the meantime, we'll have to rely on modern science."

"I haven't been real pleased with the lab lately. They can't even agree with each other about this."

"They sure as h.e.l.l ought to be able to tell a tooth mark from a knife mark on that skull, though." Gage paused beside his Suburban and looked back toward the floodlit site. "It's beginning to feel like a vendetta against c.u.mberland and the Bar C."

Nate made a grunt of acknowledgement.

"They sure aren't being killed where they're found," Gage said presently. "There'd have to be at least some sign of struggle, and there never is. Where does all the blood go? Why aren't there ever any tracks going in or out from the site? d.a.m.n it, Nate, I'm beginning to believe in little green men."

Nate made another grunt. "Except that there's no sign of tissue cautery. The cases blamed on the little green men almost always include heat damage to the tissue, as if from laser surgery."