Part 14 (1/2)
She looked up at him and caught a brief glimpse of his shock at her question. He recovered quickly, but his tone was clearly defensive as he replied.
”What for? The guy was okay.”
”True, but”-she hesitated, her gaze falling-”I didn't know that.”
”I told you he would be.”
”Yes, you did, but-”
”Katie, are we going inside-or do I have to kiss you out here, with Sarah Winfield sitting at her window, taking notes?”
Her gaze flew back to his, and when a corner of his mouth curved in that familiar, half-teasing, half-seductive smile, she grimaced. ”You heard about Sarah?”
Sam nodded slowly. ”I carried a box of groceries over there for Mr. D. on Tuesday, and that nice old lady spent a good half hour filling me in on the men you've dated in the past three years. All one of them. So unless you're out to liven up her evening . . .” His gaze fell to her lips.
Kate groaned, pulling the screen door wide. ”You'll give Sarah vertigo.”
”What?”
”Never mind. Just come inside. Anyway, I baked a cherry pie for you to take home, and I want to give it to you.”
The living room was bathed in a soft amber glow from the Victorian lamp on the table beside the front window, and Kate didn't bother to turn on any others. As she tossed her shawl and purse over the back of an armchair, she was aware that she and Sam had different ideas about what would happen next. If he couldn't be honest with her, though . . . well, then, neither of them was going to be satisfied with the outcome of the evening.
”Can I fix you a cup of coffee?” she asked.
He ambled into the small living room, stopping in front of the mantel to examine a photograph. ”No thanks.”
”A piece of pie?”
”I'm still full from dinner. Who're these people? Your grandparents?”
”Yes. My mom's mother and father. Would you like to sit?”
He gave her a glance over his shoulder, let his gaze drop to the sofa facing the fireplace, then turned back to his examination of her picture gallery. ”In a minute, maybe.”
He moved on to look at a picture of her parents while she stood gripping the back of the sofa. She felt as if she had a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lit match in the other. Only a fool would light the fuse. Or a woman set on loving a man who wasn't sure that he wanted-or knew how-to let her.
”Sam, were you afraid?”
His back stiffened, and he went very still for a moment. Then he moved to look at the anniversary clock in the center of the mantel. ”Afraid of what?”
She took a shallow breath. ”Last Friday. Were you afraid to ride in the police helicopter?”
He laughed, a short, rasping sound. ”What kind of crazy question is that?”
”It doesn't seem crazy to me.”
The seconds ticked by, and when he didn't say a word, didn't look at her, simply stood there, unmoving, she asked again. ”Were you afraid? I'd really like to know.”
”Dammit, Katie, what is this?” The words burst out of him as he whirled from the mantel. ”Haven't you had enough of playing mother hen for one day? You think you've got to turn me into another one of your permanent infants?”
The shot struck home, and her jaw clenched. Sam stopped in front of the window and pivoted to face her, and she prepared herself for an attack. But when their gazes met across the room, she heard his breath catch, hold for an instant or two, then rush out in a groan.
”Katie, I'm sorry.” His gaze slid away from hers. ”That was stupid talk. I say things I don't mean sometimes, because-” He shook his head, turning to face the curtained window. ”h.e.l.l, I don't know why I say them. You shouldn't put up with it.”
Her answer was quiet and clear. ”Why don't you let me decide what I want to put up with?”
”You put up with too much,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, like the muted light from the lamp in front of him. Staring at the lamp, he added, ”You're probably the most generous, unselfish person I've ever met, and I wouldn't want you to be any different. But I'm not used to having somebody worry about me, and it. . . . Well, I'm not comfortable with it.”
She smiled. ”I know.” But I'm going to do it anyway.
Pausing, her gaze fastened on his angular profile, she asked the question one more time. ”Sam, did the crash make you afraid of flying?”
His jaw tightened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. ”You don't give up, do you? I told you I don't want to talk about it.” Then, without a glance in her direction, he headed for the door, muttering, ”And maybe I'd better get out of here before I say something else I'll regret.”
He stopped with the door half open, one hand on the k.n.o.b, the other braced on the frame. For what seemed an eternity, he simply stood there facing the shadowed darkness beyond the screen door, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breathing. She closed her eyes, clamping her mouth shut against the urge to beg him not to go, to give himself-and her-a chance. Just one chance, that's all she wanted, to show him that he didn't have to handle everything alone.
When the door clicked shut, her eyes flew open, and she nearly cried aloud to see that he hadn't left.
”Ah, s.h.i.+t,” he muttered. ”Who the h.e.l.l am I kidding?” Then, with his hands still on the door, he drew a shuddering breath and spoke over his shoulder. ”Katie, you don't want to hear this.”
She spoke very softly. ”Sam, I care about you. I do want to hear it.”
Still he hesitated. ”I don't want you looking at me like you do your brothers and sisters.”
”Believe me, I do not feel even vaguely the same about you as I do about them.”
That made him turn around. She was not surprised to see him struggling to put his armor in place- squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin, planting his feet wide, all the signals she'd come to recognize. He wasn't going to be able to do it this time, though, and she didn't know if the tears that kept lodging in her throat were ones of heartbreak for him or of tentative hope that, after all, she might be more important to him than his pride.
The first words he spoke threw her.
”I got grounded.”
Kate frowned. ”You mean, you lost your pilot's license?”
Sam shook his head. ”The final medical report I got from the hospital said the nerve damage in my spine would screw up my reflexes, and that my body couldn't take the stress of high speeds or alt.i.tudes. The FAA medical examiner wouldn't give me a medical certificate, and without one, you don't fly.”
Her frown went from puzzled to worried. ”But you told me you're all right now.”
”I am.”
”So-”
”I fought for three months to get the certificate back, but I wasn't about to tell them why the hospital report was worth-less-too many people already knew about the healing thing. Then I told Marty Anderson about the trouble I was having. I didn't know he was doing it, but he started talking to the FAA, and somehow, about a week before I left Mojave, he got them to issue me a clean certificate.”
”Then you could-” She broke off, biting her lower lip. He could-but then, he couldn't.
”Yeah, how about that?” he muttered, moving away from the door. He only went a couple of steps, though, back to the lamp table, as if to say he still might decide to leave. With his gaze directed once more at the lamp, he asked, ”How did you figure it out?”
Her voice quavered a little as she replied. ”Your face. After dinner, when Steve asked you to go up with him, you were . . . well, you looked like you did last week, over the fish.”