Twilight Man. Karen Leabo
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stop pestering me about it?”
She couldn’t help but smile. She’d never met such a reluctant hero before. “If you’ll let me say thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.
“You could have been killed yourself,” she said. “It’s not every man who will—”
He threw her a warning look.
“Right. ‘Nough said. Have you caught a lot of fish in this spot before?” she asked. Despite the jumping fish they’d seen earlier, neither of them had gotten a strike all morning.
“No, not really. I’m still shopping for a really good spot.”
“I don’t think this is it,” she said. “Not today, anyway. What do you say we pull anchor and try another place?”
He shrugged. “Fine by me. You pick out the next one.”
It took her a long time to find a suitable spot. Finally, after exploring several inlets, she selected a shady area along the edge of one of the river roads.
“Why here?” Jones asked, although he didn’t hesitate to drop the anchor.
“I don’t know. My dad taught me to pick out a spot that feels right, and this one does.”
With a shrug Jones switched to a frog lure, but Faith kept her yellow spinner. Within five minutes she had a fish on the end of her line. It was a big one, judging from the fight it gave her. A rush of adrenaline energized her as Jones stepped up behind her, silently urging her on. She played the fish just right, tiring it out until she could pull it out of the water without it jumping off the hook.
Jones stood waiting with the net. “That’s a nice one,” he said. “Must be at least two pounds.”
“Oh, pound and a half, maybe,” she said modestly as she removed the hook from its mouth. “A meal’s worth, anyway. Where’s the stringer?”
His face fell. “You aren’t thinking of killing and eating him, are you?”
“Well, it’s hardly trophy size.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t usually keep them. I let them go.”
“Oh, I see.” So, her savage was squeamish. She never would have guessed. Then again, maybe she was being unfair. Perhaps he simply had a healthy respect for life—any life, be it a woman injured in a car accident or a dumb fish.
Mourning the loss of a tasty fried fillet, she eased the net out of his grip and dumped the contents back into the water. This was Jones’s expedition, after all, so he got to call the shots. “Bye, fish,” she said. “Luck’s with you today.”
Jones was standing close enough to her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He watched with a satisfied grin as the fish swam away. When he turned that grin on her, something inside her melted. She saw nothing of the meanness Hoady had warned her about.
As if suddenly remembering himself, Jones moved away from her, then busied himself riffling through the tackle box. “What kind of lure are you using, anyway?” he muttered.
“Try a spinner,” she said, hiding a secret smile. She had the fleeting suspicion that Jones Larabee was warming up to her just a little. She wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. Though she wouldn’t be interviewing him for her dissertation, she wanted this puzzling man to like her.
They remained at that spot for an hour more, catching and releasing three more bass between them. But as the day’s heat increased and their shade disappeared, the action petered out.
“I think the fish have gone somewhere cooler,” Faith said.
Jones pulled in his line. “Yeah.” He scanned the horizon, shielding his face from the sun with his hand. “I’ll take you to the Sinclair Marina. You can call from there and make whatever arrangements you want.”
Her heart sank. She could easily have spent all day fishing with Jones, and to hell with work on her dissertation.
She felt a small pang of guilt at her laziness. Before her accident, she had worked night and day on her paper with feverish enthusiasm. At the same time she’d been applying for teaching positions at institutions all over the Southwest, anticipating her Ph.D. in anthropology. She’d been burning the candle at both ends. That might be why she hadn’t been alert enough to avoid the hit-and-run truck.
Since she had come so close to losing her life, however, she’d slowed down considerably. She already had more than enough material to support her theory, and her adviser had extended her dissertation deadline, so there was no hurry. What was wrong with spending a day fishing?
Jones had other plans for her, that’s what was wrong, she thought, watching him neatly stow the lures in his tackle box and the poles in their niches on the side of the boat. He was ready to be rid of her, even if he had decided she wasn’t such a horrible person after all.
“What’s in there?” Jones asked, pointing to the plastic case Faith had stored in back of the boat.
“My videotape recorder,” she replied as she slathered sunscreen on her face. “I was planning to film you—”
“Like hell!” he objected, scowling fiercely.
“Relax. I’ve never filmed anyone against their will.” She rubbed sunscreen onto her legs, putting a little extra on her healing scar. Feeling the heat of his gaze on her, she became self-conscious about the scar and turned her back on him to rummage around in her tote bag. “Besides, since you’re not from Caddo Lake, I’m not interested in making you a star.”
He looked relieved. “Why’s that?” he asked as he pulled up the anchor.
“Because I’m interviewing lifelong residents of the area for my doctoral dissertation, and you don’t qualify.”
“What are you studying?” He made no move to start the motor.
“I don’t think you’d really be interested,” she said, hedging. She’d learned long ago that no one outside her own esoteric field gave a flip about her work.
“Yes, I would. Tell me about it.” He propped his lean hips against the back of the driver’s chair and crossed his arms, waiting. Apparently they weren’t going anywhere until she obliged.
“Well, if you insist, the subject matter is anthropology. Using the same protocol as Dr. Alfred Kermit, who studied the folklore and superstitions of this area thirty years ago, I’m trying to draw a negative correlation between economic growth and the survival of folkways and the specialized traditions peculiar to an isolated geographical location.” That ought to stifle his curiosity.
He surprised her by nodding thoughtfully. “You’re trying to prove that development and tourism are destroying the backwoods feeling that makes this place unique.”
So, he understood. She wondered what kind of education he’d had. “That’s about the size of it. Dr. Kermit’s films are filled with barefoot men and women fishing for their living, smoking hand-carved pipes and strumming banjos, drinking homemade whiskey and telling the most outrageous stories.
“Most of it’s gone, now,” she said wistfully. “I’ve interviewed some of the children and grandchildren of those people. They still fish, but they also listen to rap music, watch movies on their VCRs and buy their clothes at Walmart just like everyone else. They remember some of the stories, but most have lost the art of telling a story.”
Jones watched her, both amused and saddened by her passion for her work and the reality of what her research uncovered. He thought briefly of asking her if she’d met Miss Hildy, then decided not to. Although he imagined Faith would turn cartwheels at the prospect of interviewing an authentic medicine woman—a throwback to another time—he would have to ask Hildy first. He respected her privacy just as she respected his.
He