A Knight In Rusty Armor. Dixie Browning
didn’t know how to be anything else. He was no better at relationships than his own father had been, as Sharon had pointed out more than a few times. But sixteen years ago, head over heels in lust, if not in love, he’d been willing to learn.
Evidently he hadn’t learned fast enough or well enough. Now, at the advanced age of thirty-nine, he might not know much about families and forming close ties, but he was determined to give it his best shot. Matthew was his own flesh and blood.
Trav’s first impulse on learning that he had a twelve-year-old son was to fly out to the West Coast where Sharon now lived with her second husband, their two daughters and Matthew. But she’d told him to wait. To give her time to prepare the boy for the fact that Andrew Rollins was not his real father.
So he’d waited, and then waited some more. While he was waiting, he’d bought a few acres and started building a house. Next he’d looked around for someone to help him create some semblance of a stable family, to tip the scales in his favor in case it was needed. Meanwhile, he’d sent money and arranged for child support to be taken from his paycheck, and he’d started writing to the boy. He’d sent pictures. He’d sent a baseball glove, soccer gear, a football and a spinning rod, complete with a fully equipped tackle box.
He’d written a bunch of stuff he probably shouldn’t have, all about how his own father had been career Coast Guard, and how one of Trav’s mother’s ancestors had owned thousands of acres in northeast North Carolina, but by the time her descendents had found out about it, it had dwindled to a few hundred acres of swamp that was now part of a wildlife refuge. He’d promised that one day they’d explore it together, canoeing, backpacking—whatever it took.
Oh boy, he’d gone way out on a limb. Trying to establish some kind of a relationship, he’d barged in without waiting to be invited. Being able to size up a situation quickly and act on it was an advantage in his line of work. It could mean the difference between success and failure. But in personal matters it could lead to a situation he didn’t know how to handle.
Matthew had never written back, but Sharon had assured him that it was only because he was ashamed of his poor handwriting and was working hard on improving it. She’d said something about one of those learning disabilities that had been discovered recently. A lot of bright kids had it. Some of them even took pills for it.
Things had changed since he was a kid. Trav was just beginning to realize how much he didn’t know about being a parent.
After giving up on another fruitless attempt to reach his son, he dialed the number of Ru’s friend, Moselle Sawyer, and got the same irritating message. He yawned, then sneezed and then turned as his houseguest shuffled into the living room.
“Someone named Kelli called while you were out. She said she’d call back. I left a note in the kitchen.”
“You sound better.”
“I’ve decided to live ”
“Glad to hear it.” She looked better. In fact, she looked a hell of a lot better, even with her hair in a shaggy braid down her back and a limp black sweater that did nothing at all for her looks.
“Who’s Kelli?” She handed him a note she’d written on the back of an envelope.
Trav glanced at the note, then looked over at the woman who’d spent the past forty-eight hours in his bed The thought that ran through his mind was not only inappropriate, it was impractical. She was a lot better looking than he’d first thought, if a man happened to like his women long, lean and chilly.
Personally, he liked them warm, with a little more meat on the bone. Plus a lot more animation. But then, he’d traveled down that road before and had no intention of repeating the mistake. “She’s my fiancée. My ex-fiancée, that is. We’re, uh—still on friendly terms.”
Kelli was nothing if not friendly. It was one of the things he’d liked best about her—she was always up. Bright, chipper, talkative. If, after a while it had begun to get on his nerves, he figured that was his problem, not hers. “Did she say why she was calling?”
“No. She sounded sort of surprised when I answered. She asked if I was Sharon. Who’s Sharon?”
Somewhere between boot camp and being commissioned, Trav had picked up a few manners. Hell, he’d even graduated from knife-and-fork class, like every other mustang trying to become an officer and a gentleman.
So he politely refrained from telling her that it was none of her business. “Sharon is my ex-wife, Ms. Roberts, currently happily remarried and living on the West Coast. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know?”
So much for gentlemanly manners. If he’d tossed a lit firecracker in her lap, she couldn’t have looked more startled.
Startled?
Make that frightened.
Two
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Ms. Roberts.”
“How did you know my name?”
He frowned. “Your name?”
“You called me Ms. Roberts. I didn’t tell you that.”
If there’d been any color at all in her face before, it was gone now, except for the shadows under her eyes. “It’s on your registration. Ruanna Roberts? That is you, isn’t it?”
The lady was a walking minefield. “Look, I’m sorry. If you’re a spook on assignment, or in the witness protection program, I don’t want to know about it. It’s none of my business. I just thought it might be a good idea to clean out the trunk of your car before it—Anyway, I grabbed the papers from the glove compartment while I was at it, and I happened to see the name.”
Her shoulders lifted and fell, making him aware for the first time that she wasn’t quite as skinny as he’d first thought. At least, not all over.
“I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not—not either of those things you mentioned. It’s just that—well, I have this thing about privacy,” she finished weakly.
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being silly about this, I know—it’s just that I don’t really know anything about you, yet you’ve taken me in and fed me, given me your bed—given me the shirt off your back. Literally.” Her voice was still husky, but it no longer sounded quite so painful.
“No big deal. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” As the bag he’d brought along the first night had held mostly shoes, he’d lent her a pair of his old sweats to sleep in, and because her sweater was still damp, he’d lent her a flannel shirt.
“Maybe not to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She rolled her eyes. “I talk too much. I always do when I’m uncomfortable. Why don’t I just go change your bed and pop the linens and sweats into the washer before I leave? I appreciate all you’ve done, I really do.” She stood up, all five feet six or seven inches of her. All hundred fifteen or so pounds, nicely—if somewhat too sparsely—distributed.
“Don’t bother,” he said, his gaze following her as she walked away. Her hips swayed, they didn’t twitch. It was a subtle distinction, one he didn’t normally notice and didn’t even know why he was noticing now. “I’ll wash ’em next time I get up a load.”
Pausing in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do before I leave.”
He shrugged. If she wanted to do his laundry, who was he to stop her? She wouldn’t be going anywhere today, though Too many bad stretches of road that weren’t going to get much better until the scrapers could get down here and uncover any highway that was left under all that sand.
Besides which, her car was a total loss. One of the linesmen had taken a look at it while he was out checking poles. They might be able to use it to help fill up any washout, but that was about all it was good for.