Truly, Madly, Dangerously. Linda Winstead Jones
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“You’re hopeless.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anyway,” Sadie continued, determined to finish. “Grieving and desolate, Miranda drowned. A year to the day later, Samuel comes home expecting to find his love waiting for him. He hadn’t been killed in battle after all.”
“Obviously.”
Sadie cleared her throat to chastise him for interrupting. “When he discovers what happened to Miranda he walks to the lake, swims out as far as he can, and then goes under, never to be seen again.”
“He killed himself, just like she did. I still say that’s not…”
“Would you hush,” Sadie said, laughing lightly. “You’re ruining the story.”
“Excuse me,” he said insincerely.
“After that night, it was said that sometimes when there was a full moon people would see them in the lake and on the shore, making love at last, together forever.”
Forever. Nice idea. Too bad it was a crock.
“And this ridiculous story actually gets people laid.” Truman shook his head.
“Oh, you know that tale as well as I do.”
“Yeah, I just wanted to hear you tell it.” He smiled softly. “So, who told it to you?”
Sadie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Jason Davenport. Prom night, thirteen years ago.”
“Jason Davenport?”
Jason Davenport. Running back for the high-school football team. First baseman for the baseball team. Black hair, green eyes, and oh, he had a really great voice. She could still hear him telling that story to her, reminding her that there wouldn’t always be a tomorrow, that they’d better take what they wanted tonight. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t even know you dated that guy.”
“Just a couple of times. Then he dumped me.” The fuzzy memories faded. As soon as Jason realized he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, he’d quit calling. Jerk. She should have learned her lesson then.
“He’s still around, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s some kind of artist or something,” Truman said grudgingly. “You actually…” he stopped, choked on the word.
“It’s ancient history,” Sadie said, not wanting to answer him either way. Oh, it was so quiet out here! Quiet and beautiful, peaceful in a way she had forgotten. Gentle wind lapped at the water and ruffled the leaves of trees surrounding the lake. If the breeze hit the trees just right, it sounded as if a woman moaned. Soft. Happy. Miranda. Sadie took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the lake.
Okay, so Garth wasn’t a complete loss. It had Aunt Lillian’s biscuits, Miranda Lake and Truman. Individually they weren’t much, but when you put them all together…maybe it was a nice place to be, for a while.
Chapter 3
She hadn’t slept this deeply in months. Years, maybe! Sadie sighed and fought the awareness that crept upon her. She didn’t want to wake up. She needed more of this dreamless sleep. The quiet. The warmth. The rest for her bone-weary body and agitated mind.
A soft spring wind ruffled the leaves of a tree, water lapped. Truman shifted his body and dropped a hand into her hair. His thigh was her pillow, and there was a little spot of drool, right there on the denim that was stretched over that thigh.
“Oh, crap,” Sadie muttered, immediately awake and shooting up into a semi-sitting position. Her fingers rubbed against the wet spot on Truman’s thigh, trying to erase the evidence. All her efforts managed to do was wake Truman.
For a moment he smiled at her, then he realized where they were and his smile faded. “Damn,” he muttered.
“Exactly.” Sadie straightened the strap of her bra. Everything she wore was twisted and misshapen at the moment. “What time is it?”
Truman checked his watch, hitting a button on the side to light the face. He squinted, blinked twice. “Four-thirty.”
Almost instinctively, she reached out and slapped Truman on the arm. “Why did you let me sleep in your pickup truck until four-thirty? Jennifer will have the whole town out looking for us. I was supposed to be home by ten.”
“Ten?” Truman shook his head. “You’re thirty years old, for God’s sake. Why did you have to be home by ten?”
“Almost thirty,” she corrected. “And I said I’d be home by ten so Jennifer could go out.” It really wasn’t a disaster. Jen would survive. Sadie ran her fingers through her hair. So much for her careful attempts at styling the mop. It was going every which a way, as it usually did in the morning. “Go, go,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Truman started the engine and put the truck in Reverse, yawning and then working a crick out of his neck. A very fine neck, she had to admit. Sadie stared at him. So, this was what Truman McCain looked like in the morning. Rumpled. Sexy as hell. It just wasn’t fair.
“Why did you let me sleep?” she asked, trying for anger but delivering sheer frustration.
“You were exhausted. I figured a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.” Truman steered the truck down the narrow drive that would take them back to the main road, headlights dancing in the morning dark.
“A few minutes?”
He grinned, the rat. “Then I fell asleep. Long day. Sorry.”
Sadie ran her fingers through her hair again, trying to tame the curls. Four-thirty. Almost time for Mary Beth and Aunt Lillian and Bowie to get to work. No one else would be out at this hour of the morning but for a few fishermen whose minds were on bait and boats and elusive bass. She could sneak up to her room and no one would ever be the wiser, except for Jennifer. And Jen could be persuaded to keep her mouth shut. Blackmail between cousins was a wonderful thing.
Truman glanced over and down and grinned sleepily. “Found it.”
“What?”
“You said I wouldn’t.”
Sadie realized he was staring at her mostly bare leg and her thigh holster. She yanked her skirt down to cover the leather and the pistol housed there. “Drop me off at the side door of the lobby.”
“Where no one can see you from the street?” Truman teased.
“Exactly.” She shot him an accusing glance. “And stop smiling! This isn’t funny.”
“Sure it is,” he said half-heartedly.
“I should’ve met you at the restaurant,” Sadie said beneath her breath. “I have my own car. I could have gone straight home when dinner was finished and this never would’ve happened.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” Truman asked, his Southern accent deepening as he teased her.
It wasn’t a long trip from Miranda Lake to the Yellow Rose Motel. Seven minutes, tops. Ten at what passed as rush hour in the small town. There was no traffic this early in the morning, but Truman insisted on driving the speed limit, which was ridiculously slow. Finally, Sadie saw the motel sign. Home, for the time being. The neon sign for Lillian’s Café wasn’t lit up yet. That meant Lillian wasn’t in. Good. Sadie figured she had about two minutes to make it to the safety of her room without being seen.
Truman pulled into the parking lot, and Sadie’s heart sank. There sat a patrol car, lights flashing. A young deputy leaned against the fender, taking notes and nodding his head, while Jennifer spoke and gestured wildly with her hands. Either someone else had gotten themselves killed at the Yellow Rose or Jennifer had actually called the sheriff’s office to report her cousin missing.
Instead