Chapter Five.

Jamie was wrong about Cal's thoughts. He understood easily enough the h.e.l.l she'd been living with. He understood she'd been handled too roughly and that her feelings were on a hair trigger. He understood why she had learned to protect herself by drawing high fortress walls around herself.

But Lord, she looks so picture-pretty in the moonlight. It's hard to be close and not touch that wonderful hair. Just a touch-not more. Just an arm around her to pull her close, hold her safe.

But he had seen how she stiffened when he'd put the shirt around her shoulders. And from the beginning he had seen the angry, inward expression of her eyes. He remembered a lesson he'd learned, back when he was a kid. His dad had made a mistake that time by hiring Jack Lyman to break the new string of young horses. There had been this one pretty palomino filly, and Lyman, who had a harsh way with animals, had done everything wrong with that palomino. Used the wrong bit, the wrong spurs, and finally the fool had taken a club to her. She'd been a strong, high-spirited animal to start with, full of s.p.u.n.k, but not a thing mean about her. When Jack Lyman finished with her, she was tough and unwilling, always looking for a fight. They never were able to gentle her down after that.

And this girl's the same. She's already been handled too rough. Isn't going to take much more to ruin her for good. One thing is certain, she sure as h.e.l.l doesn't need another sonofab.i.t.c.h in her life.

He'd seen how tense she was, her tight little form almost quivering there next to him, her breathing coming shallow and quick as she told her story. He lifted his hand and, meaning to rea.s.sure her, let it rest as lightly as possible on her hair. He felt the silkiness against his fingertips and, unable to resist the pleasure of that touch, he stroked gently down her sleek, flaxen hair, starting a shiver in the palm of his hand that spread through his body.

Instantly, Jamie stood up from the rock, getting away from him. "Don't do that! Please! Don't do that!"

He stood up, too, with his hand lifted away from her, where she could see it, not touching her. "I just thought-I mean"-he fumbled for the right words-"I mean it's been so rough for you, and I just wanted-"

"I don't want to hear about it. I just want to go home. Take me home. Right now."

He heard the panic in her voice. He heard how scared she was.

"Sure thing, Jamie." Cal kept his voice as soothing as he could. "I'll drive you back right now. No problem."

She was already heading for the truck.

Jesus, Cal. Take it easy. Don't move so fast. Let her calm down.

He waited a moment where he was, giving her a chance to put some distance between them, and then followed her to the truck.

You knew she'd spook. Couldn't keep your hand to yourself, could you?

Even as he whipped himself, Cal knew the answer. No, he hadn't kept his hand to himself. Like it had a mind of its own. But if ever a woman needed comfort and support, some plain old tender loving care, he could see that Jamie Sundstrom was that woman.

She had already climbed onto the front seat of the truck and was waiting tensely, her legs drawn tightly together, her hands clutched fiercely in her lap, the white hard hat set on the seat next to her, a barrier between them. He was silent as he drove down the canyon, letting her be alone with her own thoughts and her own feelings. It wasn't until he'd driven into the ragged driveway in front of her house, overgrown with scruffy weeds, and she had opened the door, apparently eager to leave him quickly, that he turned to her.

"Wait a minute, Jamie."

She paused, her right hand on the door handle, her left holding her hard hat. Cal got out on his side and quickly came around the front of the truck. He held the door open and put out his hand to help her as she stepped down.

She hesitated, the confusion of her feelings showing clearly in her eyes, and when she accepted the gesture, it plainly made her nervous. But she let him help her out of the truck and when her feet were on firm ground, her hand remained in his, and she let it stay there. The moon was high above them now, making Jamie's face glow pale and silver in the dark, and her glistening eyes, full of the moon's reflection, at first tried to avoid his, looking once to her right, back up the canyon road, and then left, over his shoulder, to the cedar trees down by the highway. But then she let herself look into Cal's face-and she knew he wanted to kiss her. In her head, warning sirens were screaming at her and she was too tense to let herself ignore its message. She made no move, her eyes remained wide open, fixed on him, and Cal felt the tension of her hand in his. He held it for only a moment more as he spoke to her, as gently as he could. "Jamie. I'm not going to hurt you." He took his hand from hers and stepped back. Instantly, like a freed animal, she went past him. Without a word, she went directly into the house, letting the frayed screen door slam shut behind her.

Cal watched her until she disappeared into the house.

He resettled his hat forward on his head, If ever there was a woman needed some tender, loving care . . .

He got back into the truck, and headed south across the valley, back to Harvey's ranch.

The door slammed behind her and, out of an old habit, she made her usual quick check of the front room, first thing always as she entered the old house. To her left, in the front room, the television was on, the sound turned low. Her father was on the sofa, his shoes off, his bare feet up on one arm of the couch. His head was turned toward the TV but he was sound asleep and snoring loosely.

At least he hasn't burned the place down . . .

But this time she only half paid attention; her thoughts were elsewhere.

She went into the front room but didn't even consider waking him. He preferred sleeping downstairs; he needed the companionship of the background sound and the flickering light. A half dozen or so empty beer cans were scattered on the wooden floor and she gathered them up, not bothering to wipe the spilled drops. Long ago, there'd been a flowered rug there, but it had become so stained and frayed she'd finally got rid of it and he had never noticed. Another can lay wedged between his hip and the back of the couch and there were wet splotches on his pants and on the dirty cushion. She reached over him, pulled out the can, and tucked it into the crook of her arm, along with the others. She carried them outside, at the back of the kitchen, put them down on the dirt, stamped hard on each one to flatten it, and then tossed them all onto the pile that was already there. At the end of the month, she would throw them all onto the bed of the old pickup and cart them away.

Back in the kitchen, she poured a gla.s.s of milk and slowly drank it all, standing in front of the open refrigerator, illuminated only by its interior light. Then she washed out the gla.s.s, dried it and put it back into the gla.s.s-fronted cabinet, and went upstairs to take that shower.

The hot water was a blessing. It stripped away the acc.u.mulated grime of the day and worked its magic, letting her tensions ease, her anxieties settle down. As she relaxed, her mind went back over this strange evening, so full of surprises. Beginning with O.D. Fletcher appearing out of nowhere, like a recurring nightmare. And the cowboy who had come to her rescue, also out of nowhere.

Cal Cameron.

With her eyes closed, she remembered the look of him there in the canyon, while she'd waited for him to join her in the truck. He'd stood quietly in the cool light, silhouetted against the great boulders and the jagged firs. Like some mountain animal himself, like the sleek elk that foraged in the hills. Or like the lion that preyed on the gentle deer. His lean body had that same primitive, natural strength and patience, a kind of supple, easy, elemental grace. She opened her eyes, embarra.s.sed, frightened by the confused direction of her feelings.

Cal's touch, as gentle as it was when he held her hand, had frightened her. But now, away from him, she dared to know that her response was more complicated than fear alone, and she was stunned to realize she'd also, at the same time, felt safe with him.

A lifetime of shielding herself against the aching need to be loved had made her unwilling-perhaps unable-to accept this new sensation. His hand on her hair, she could still feel it, warm, comforting. No, more than comforting.

She scrubbed impatiently at her neck and around the back of her shoulders.

Nothing but trouble. It always turns out to be nothing but trouble.

She lathered up the cloth again and rubbed it over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and down her stomach, the smooth skin of her torso a pale contrast against the deep tan of her shoulders. As the rough cloth pa.s.sed over her exposed body, the image of Cal, standing on the rock, his sleek form lit by the moonlight, was there again in her imagination.

No!

She closed her eyes.

Why would this one be any different?

She tried so hard to force her thoughts away from him, but she remembered how he'd looked, earlier tonight, when he'd walked away from her across the dance floor, those long legs in the tight jeans and the plain boots . . .

Plain old s.h.i.tkicker boots, nothing special about that, just what everyone else wears.

She turned off the water and stood motionless for a long time, aware of the hunger that cried through all her body. She tried to tell herself it was only the hot water, the strong soap, the rough cloth. Or maybe fatigue.

And I'd been afraid of the cougar! As though that big cat would have hurt me. It's not mountain lions you have to worry about.

She stepped out onto the mat and wrapped a towel around herself. In the dry desert air, cool in the evenings, it was hardly necessary to rub herself dry, the moisture on her skin would evaporate quickly. She walked down the hall to her bedroom, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints behind her on the rough wood floor.

A glimpse into her bedroom would have uncovered Jamie's best-kept secret. Though her manner had been made hard and tough-rough around the edges and increasingly sharp-tongued, a protective sh.e.l.l to keep her safe-in this room could be seen the truer side of her personality. A peek over her bare, damp shoulder would reveal much more of the real girl.

There was little furniture in the room, but Jamie had done what she could with it. It was as clean as frequent dusting and sweeping could make it. There were two windows, one looking south, toward the town, the other facing the mountains to the east, where each morning the coming day announced itself. Ruffled curtains hung at the windows and spread on the twin bed, a matching bedspread. Jamie had bought the curtains and the bedspread when she was fifteen years old, after saving up what she could out of paychecks from her first job down at the Gas'n' Goodies, down by the Chevron station. It had seemed to her then to be a big deal and very grown-up, picking out the first linens to decorate her room. She had driven up to the Kmart in Spicer's Wells and had spent a couple of hours in maddening, sweet indecision, going through all the stacks of linens in the housewares section. Carefully, she matched this one with that, mixing colors, holding up one colorful package after another, walking away down the aisle and coming back again. Finally she had decided on the set with the soft blue flowers on a peach background, all trimmed with a peach-colored eyelet ruffle.

There was also a small dressing table in the room, set in front of the southern window, and on it she had put a mirror she'd found in the attic, in an old trunk. The mirror had a wooden frame, carved into a wreath of flowers and ribbons, a treasure brought from Sweden long ago by one of her great-great-grandmothers. There were other items on the table, pretty things she'd acquired from time to time. A gla.s.s candlestick held a peach-colored candle and next to it was a round bottle of perfume she'd bought in Janssen's drug store in Butcher's Fork. She liked to touch the perfume behind her ears before she went to bed, and sometimes, after dark, her only light would be from the candle, and she'd sit at that table and try to see beyond the mountains that rimmed the valley all around.

Tonight, too, she preferred the softer light. Still wrapped in the towel, she sat at her little dressing table and lit the candle. She ran a comb a few strokes through her hair-it never needed more-and she touched a drop of perfume into the hollow of each shoulder. Then she leaned forward on her elbows and looked thoughtfully into the mirror.

Why was this night different? Usually, what she saw was her anger, her increasing sharpness. Usually, when she sat before her mirror, she saw the lines beginning, the marks of fatigue and chronic resentment. She would frown at her hair, cut roughly and only when she remembered, always in her eyes, always needing a trim. She would hold her hands out before her and scowl at her ragged fingernails-she couldn't stop biting them! And how much longer would her skin stay good, always working out in the sun and the sand of the desert?

So why was this night different? Why, tonight, did her reflected self please her? Why, tonight, did she lift her head, holding it a little sideways, showing herself that she had inherited the good bones of her Scandinavian ancestors, the fine jaw and high forehead and the graceful hairline? Why, tonight, did she think she was beautiful?

She blew out the candle, leaving only the silvery shadow of herself reflected in the mirror. She saw her shoulders, narrow and delicately formed despite her strength, exposed above the towel, remembered Cal's eyes, holding her immobile, and she wondered why she'd been so afraid, so tense.

-I'm not going to hurt you- She closed her eyes.

Stop this, Jamie!

She stood up and turned away from her reflection. She dropped the towel onto the chair and slipped a fresh nightgown on over her naked body, letting its lacy straps settle into place on her shoulders. She lifted the pale blue blanket and the flowered sheet and as though she were fleeing to a hiding place, she slipped quickly under them, eager to sleep and avoid her thoughts.

But they came anyway.

First, a memory of his body, as though her hands were moving over him, running down his arms, his back, up under his shirt and around to his chest. He was probably not tanned-cowboys never took off their shirts when they worked. Then she thought of his hands; they were the kind of hands she liked, strong fingers, with a good reach to them and fine black hairs along the back, hard-working hands, but clean-she'd noticed that. And his face-a good face, thoughtful-she could still see the black eyes, the steady gaze . . .

But then the other thoughts, the demon thoughts, the spoilers, hurried in quickly to fill her mind.

Why am I in such a hurry to trust him? He didn't tell me a thing about himself, practically. Drifted into town from Nevada. Hired on to the old Winder place. Drifted in, he'll drift out again. They all do.

He could have a wife up in Idaho or in Wyoming. Or both, for all I know. With a bunch of kids somewhere. He could be a divorced man, paying alimony to a couple of wives. And child support for a mob of kids. For all I know.

He could be a hatchet murderer. Or a bank robber. Honestly, Jamie, you told him practically your whole life story and you didn't find out a thing about him.

He hurt himself, somehow. He favored the one leg, remember? And he rubbed his knee like it was really aching. But you never asked him, did you? No, you were too busy pouring out your guts. And he never told you much of anything, did he?

Cal Cameron. Nice name.

Wonder how he hurt himself.

Cal. Calvin. Nice old western name. The Callisters, Gordon and LaRaine, named their third boy Calvin. Always call him C.C.

Cal Cameron. Seems like I heard that name before. Was it something good? Something bad?

But Jamie was asleep before she could remember.

Chapter Six.

Sat.u.r.day morning started with a fast cup of coffee and a telephone call to the service station.

" It's the fuel line, Charlie. Just totally rotted out on me, just like you said it would. It's down at the Canyon Rim, in the parking lot there."

"Jeez, Jamie, my guys are real busy this morning." Charlie Bitts's voice, high-pitched and hara.s.sed as always, crackled through the telephone. Behind him she could hear the flat, mechanical voice of his radio, putting out the morning weather report and the end-of-the-week futures quotes on grains and precious metals. In the background were the usual body shop sounds of banging tools and the spitting noise of the air compressor. She could almost smell the sharp tar of grease and oil and diesel fuels rising up from the blackened concrete floor.

"Charlie, you've got to help me out. I've got to have the car by eleven-thirty this morning, quarter to twelve at the latest."

"But jeez, honey, it's Sat.u.r.day."

"I know, Charlie, and I wouldn't ask, but it's my day to be with my kid."

There was a silence on the other end, and Jamie knew old Charlie was doing his best.

"Well, tell you what I can do," he said at last. Then another longish pause. She could picture him pulling the kerchief out of his back pocket and rubbing it over his balding head and down his long, lean, stubbly face. "I'll pull Jimmy off the job he's doing now and send him down with the tow truck. Meantime, I'll take a look, see if I got me a kit for that old Honda of yours somewheres here on the shelf. We get a little cleared-away s.p.a.ce here this morning, I might could get that line replaced for you in an hour, hour and a half."

Before she could even say thank you, he added, "If we get it together in time, I'll send someone over to pick you up. Are you to home now?"

"I am. And Charlie?"

"Yep?"

"I surely do appreciate this."

"Well, don't thank me yet. Let's see first can we get her working in time. I better get hustling right now."

"You bet, Charlie. And Charlie, say h.e.l.lo to Darlene for me, okay?"

"You betcha. I'll just be sure and do that." And he hung up.

She poured a second cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to contemplate the day that lay ahead of her.

If all else failed, she told herself, she could take the old pickup out back, but it wasn't an idea she liked. First of all, her father would probably insist that he was going to need it today. And second, everyone in town knew that old wreck was Lee Sundstrom's vehicle, and she didn't want Mandy to be seen riding around in it. The more distance she could keep between her father and her daughter, the better for Mandy.

She wondered sometimes if Lee himself understood that. Maybe that was why he never talked about his granddaughter, never asked about her, never seemed even to want to see her.

But you'd think a man would want to know his granddaughter, and would want to see her. Would want to love her.

But there's only one thing that man wants.

Someday, Jamie figured, Lee's drinking was going to be a problem for Mandy-maybe it already was. In fact, the chances were good Edna Nixon was making sure that Mandy knew all about her rotten granddaddy. That sort of "doing-good" damage came as natural to Edna Nixon as spit to a hound dog. All the more reason to get Mandy away from her.

As though in an accompaniment to her thoughts, Lee was waking up noisily. She heard him in the front room, the couch was creaking as he dragged himself upright, head hanging, and coughing, coughing. She heard him rummaging for a cigarette, heard the striking of a match, and then he was stumbling, shuffling, toward the stairs. He stopped when he saw her sitting in the kitchen and took a step or two to lean against the door frame, looking at her dizzily, his sandy hair hanging thin over his eyes, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, smoke drifting upward over his face.

"What time did you get in?"

"Not late."

He made a sound, a bad-tempered grunt, turned, and went heavily up the stairs.

She called up the stairs to his retreating footsteps. "I may need the truck today."

"No way. Got to see a man later-" The door slammed hard behind him.