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The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but her pride kept her silent. She glared up at him, willing her heart to stop beating like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, praying that he couldn’t see the pulse leaping in her throat or notice that her knuckles had clenched white around the handle of her battered old suitcase. “As I said, Denver, it was more convenient. Think what you want, because I don’t really care.”
She attempted to brush p
ast him then, but as soon as she stepped one foot over the threshold, his arm snaked forward and captured her waist. So swiftly that she gasped, he dragged her against him. Feeling every hard muscle in his chest, watching the fire leap in his eyes, she knew she was trapped—pressed tightly against his hard frame.
Outside thunder cracked. Rain blew through the open window. The curtains billowed into the room. Yet Tessa couldn’t do anything but stare into Denver’s eyes. “What do you want me to say?” she rasped, barely able to speak. “Do you want me to say that your uncle and I were lovers?”
A muscle leaped to life in his jaw, and his lips flattened over his teeth.
“Or do you want me to say that he was just one in a long line—a line you started?”
His arm dropped suddenly, and she nearly fell into the hallway. Disgust contorted his features, but she couldn’t tell if he was revolted at her or himself. “You can stay,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll take the room at the end of the hall.”
“I don’t want to stay.”
He plowed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the old wainscoting in the corridor. But his face remained drawn, his muscles rigid. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s none of my business.”
“You’re right, but it is your place.” Wrestling up her bags again, she said, “I’ll go down to Dad’s house.” She dashed down the stairs before she could change her mind.
“Tessa—”
“I’ll move back when I own the place.” Shoving open the back door, she felt the rain and wind lash at her face. She took two steps toward the garage before she remembered she had no car. Her father had the pickup, the station wagon was in the shop, and her brother, Mitchell, had borrowed the old flatbed.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, soaked to the bone almost before she started walking. If she cut through the fields, the trek was only a quarter of a mile—if she took the road, the distance tripled.
She glanced longingly back at the farmhouse. The windows glowed in the night—warm, yellow squares in the darkness. Setting her jaw, she shoved open the gate and started across the wet fields.
Before she’d gone ten yards, she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder and spin her around. “You little idiot,” Denver shouted.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until you’re back in the house!” He snatched her bags with one hand.
“I’m warning you—oooh!”
Hauling her off her feet, he threw her, fireman style, over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around her ankles in an iron vise.
“Let me down right now! This is ridiculous!” Damn the man. But he didn’t heed her muttered oaths or flailing fists as she pummeled his back.
“Denver, put me down! I mean it.”
Tightening his grip on her suitcase and bag, he strode purposefully back to the house. Mortified, she had to hang on to the back of his shirt for fear of sliding to the sodden ground. Her hair fell over her eyes, rain drizzled from her chin to her forehead, and she silently swore that when she was back on her feet again, she’d kill him. He hauled her up the steps and into the house.
“There you go,” he said, depositing her unceremoniously on the floor, once they were back in the kitchen.
“Of all the mean, despicable, low and dirty tricks—” she sputtered, planting her fists firmly on her hips.
“And what were you planning to do—ford the stream?”
“There hasn’t been a drop of water in the creek for over a month.”
“Why were you walking?”
She didn’t bother with an answer. Still fuming, she raked her fingers through her wet hair and hoped to hold on to the few shreds of her dignity that were still intact.
He glanced to the floor, where the duffel bag and suitcase sat in a pool of water on the cracked linoleum. As if noticing the Army bag for the first time, he bent on one knee and fingered the tags still tied to the duffel’s strap. “Private Mitchell Kramer?” He stared up at her, his brows drawn into a bushy line. “Your brother is back?”
She nodded. The less she said the better.
