A Knight In Rusty Armor. Dixie Browning
Trav watched the parade of emotions pass through those rainwater clear eyes of hers. The rims weren’t red now, they were only slightly pink. Her nose was no longer red, either. Pretty damned elegant, in fact, as noses went. As were the cheekbones. Sharon would have killed for cheekbones like that.
“You all right?” he ventured, after giving her tune to absorb the bad news.
She smiled. Actually smiled. He felt something shift inside him and chalked it up to the sugar toast. He wasn’t much for sweets. Now and then he might buy himself a cake or a pie when the ladies had a bake sale, but only to help out the cause. Basically he was a meat-and-potatoes man.
“It looks as if I’ll have to ask you for one more favor. Could you possibly drive me to wherever Moselle lives? If she’s still not there, I’ll camp out on her doorstep until she shows up. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to rain anymore.”
He wouldn’t bet on it. He wouldn’t bet on her hooking up with her friend anytime soon, either. With tourist season expanding at both ends, February was about the only month the business community had to take a break.
“What’d you say your friend did at the restaurant? She owns it?”
“Not yet, but she hopes to. Right now she’s only the assistant manager.”
Before he could comment on that, the phone rang. He happened to be looking at her at the time. She covered it well, but he’d seen panic before. That was pure panic he saw in her eyes before her lids came down and she took a deep breath.
He reached for the phone, never taking his eyes off the woman sitting tensely on the edge of one of his three chairs. “Holiday,” he said. “Yeah. Sure, I don’t mind. No, it’s no trouble. Who? Kelli, what difference does it make? No, it has nothing to do with Matthew. Look, I’ll take care of it for you, all right?”
He hung up the phone, waiting for the questions to begin. Women. Were they all like this? Curious as cats, wanting to know everything about a man’s private life?
He’d liked to think it was due to jealousy, but any illusions he’d had along those lines had evaporated a long time ago. Before she could be jealous, a woman had to care. The only thing Sharon had ever been jealous of was what other women had that she couldn’t afford.
As for Kelli, she was too pretty to be jealous of anyone. His ego had taken more of a beating than he’d expected when she’d dumped him a week before the wedding date. Not that he’d let on. He’d never been one to show his feelings. It had been a mistake right from the first, thinking a wife might make it easier to stake his claim on his son.
He’d told her right up front about Matthew, but he’d told her that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to marry her. He liked her. Who wouldn’t? She was bright and pretty, popular with everyone who knew her. He couldn’t believe she’d even gone out with him, much less agreed to marry him, but she had. He’d just started on the house, and she’d been excited about moving into a brand-new house, although she’d have preferred something bigger, showier—preferably on the beach.
He could still see her, walking around the foundation, going on and on about rosebushes and stuff like that. She’d said she wanted white walls, so he told her he’d paint the paneling he’d already bought. Hell, she’d even picked out the countertop color in the kitchen. He’d figured gray, now he was stuck with pink. Pink, of all damn things.
It had been shortly after that, that things had started to slide downhill. Little things, at first. She claimed headaches. His calls went unreturned. There were quarrels about stuff that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.
Trav had never kidded himself about his attractiveness to women. When it came to looks, he was your basic, utility model male. He was healthy. He still had all his teeth. He had the standard allotment of features in approximately the right place, but they weren’t anything to get excited about.
On the other hand, kids liked him. Dogs liked him. When a date was required for a service-related function, he’d never had trouble rounding one up. He might have two left feet when it came to dancing—he might not be much of a partying man—but he could have learned if that was what Kelli wanted. She should have told him so.
Instead, she’d trumped up a quarrel and accused him of insensitivity. Of not being romantic. Of not being any fun. He would have tried his hand at being all of the above if she’d leveled with him about what she was looking for in a husband. He thought women wanted security in a marriage. Someone who would be there for them when the going got rough. That he could have done. He might not be much on frills, but he was good for the long haul.
For the next couple of hours, while Trav measured for window trim, his houseguest stayed holed up in the bedroom. He wondered if she was all right. The news about her car had hit her hard.
But then, that wasn’t the only thing bugging her. He’d had time to study her, even more time to think about her odd reactions. Something didn’t quite add up. He had the distinct impression she was afraid of something. Or someone. And while he didn’t profess to be the world’s greatest host, he didn’t think she was actually afraid of him.
He nailed up a board and reached for the next one, his mind busy thinking over his options. Did he pry a few answers out of her and try his hand at fixing whatever was wrong? Or did he pretend not to notice the occasional flare of panic in her eyes?
Who was she running from? What was she afraid of? Why had she come down here in the dead of winter, when she obviously wasn’t expected?
Not your problem, Holiday, he told himself. You saw your duty and you did it—now back off.
By suppertime Trav had made up his mind to stay out of it. While the casserole—beans and hotdogs, his specialty—heated in the oven and Ru spread his bed with clean linens, he placed a few more calls, trying to track down her absent friend.
In the end he almost wished he hadn’t bothered. Then he could have tossed her bags and boxes into the back of the truck, driven her to Hatteras as soon as the road was clear and dropped her off on the woman’s doorstep.
Now, his conscience wouldn’t let him take the easy way out.
“Um...applesauce? Salad greens?” she said hopefully, watching him remove the pan from the oven and set it on a block of wood on the table.
“Sorry, I should have thought of it. I’m not much on vegetables, but there might be some canned fruit in the pantry. I’ll look.”
“No, that’s all right, this is fine. It looks... tasty.”
Yeah, right. He probably shouldn’t have added all that hot sauce. Not everyone was blessed with an asbestos palate. She was more the type for rare roast beef and dainty little salads and things poached in wine, with a side order of sugar toast.
It occurred to him that she might prefer music to the tide data at the Frisco pier that was currently playing on the weather radio.
So he got up and switched off the local weather and turned on his favorite country music station. Judging from the carefully blank look on her face, that didn’t quite suit her, either.
“You want music or no music? I’ve got some tapes out in the truck.”
“No, thanks, I’m just fine. I tried Moselle’s number again, though, and she still doesn’t answer. I’m starting to get worried about her.”
Speaking of music, it was time to face it. He’d put it off too long as it was. “About your friend...I happened to be talking to a neighbor of hers this afternoon, and she said Miss Sawyer is somewhere in the Bahamas. The neighbor says she’ll be back in about three weeks. The restaurant’s closed for the next couple of months.”
Trav couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, knowing what he’d see there. Dammit, he didn’t want to feel sorry for her. He was the one with the problems. When it came to tough luck, a friend in