Wednesday's Child. Gayle Wilson
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is no one else.”
“Perhaps your father…” He was right, she realized. She did have a proclivity for not finishing sentences, maybe because she always seemed to be stating the obvious.
“My father died two years ago. He and my mother were divorced several years before that. Believe me, she wouldn’t have anything to do with this place. Or with the Bedfords.”
This time she avoided the obvious reply. Whether or not he chose to sell the house or to let it go to rack and ruin when his great-aunt died was none of her business. She wasn’t even sure why she had bothered to pursue what he’d said. Maybe to postpone the moment she would have to follow his limping progress up the stairs.
“I…I really don’t need to see the room,” she stammered. “I’m sure it’s fine. After all, from what the sheriff told me, there isn’t any other accommodation near town.”
The blue eyes told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking. They held on her face long enough that she felt color rise along her throat.
“You have a bag?” he asked, finally breaking the standoff.
Ridiculously, for a second or two she didn’t know what he was talking about. “It’s in the car.”
“Then if you’re going to take the room, I might as well get it before I show you up. Keys?”
Whatever she had seen in his eyes when she’d attempted to keep him from having to climb those stairs was back. In force. Challenging her to make another excuse.
That wasn’t a mistake she would make again. Whatever was wrong with his leg, he obviously didn’t want her concern.
And in all honesty, despite the limp, he looked like someone who was well able to take care of himself. Someone who was accustomed to doing that.
“They’re in the ignition. My suitcase is in the trunk.”
For an instant there was a gleam of something that looked like approval in his eyes. Whatever the emotion, it was quickly masked by a downward sweep of coal-black lashes. They weren’t long, but both their thickness and their proximity to the blue irises made them noticeable.
Without another word, he started down the hall toward the front door. As he passed her, Susan pretended to look up the stairs as if the bit of the second story she could see from this vantage point was so interesting she couldn’t pull her eyes away. Then, drawn by a compulsion she didn’t pretend to understand, she turned, watching him limp toward the door.
She’d been right about the breadth of his shoulders. The damp material of the olive-drab T-shirt he wore stretched tautly across them, revealing the contoured muscles of his upper back. The shirt was tucked into a pair of faded black sweatpants.
Despite whatever was wrong with his leg, he looked like an athlete. She wondered if he might even have been working out when she’d disturbed him. That would explain the V of moisture at the neck of his shirt as well as the slight color along his cheekbone and dew of perspiration she’d put down to the heat.
“Only one?”
Startled, she looked up from her contemplation of the play of muscle in his back to find him looking at her over his shoulder, waiting for an answer before he opened the screen door. It must have been obvious that she’d been watching him.
He seemed amused by her scrutiny rather than annoyed. For the first time the hard line of his mouth was relaxed.
“Just the one.”
“First room on the right,” he said. “I’ll bring the suitcase up, but you don’t have to wait.”
She wasn’t sure why, but the instructions felt like a reprieve. At least a concession. As if she had just passed some kind of test and earned a grudging acceptance.
“Thank you.”
“You want me to move your car around back?”
She hesitated, wondering if she’d missed a sign indicating that’s where guests were supposed to park.
“Don’t worry,” he said when she didn’t answer immediately. “As long as it’s an automatic, I shouldn’t be able to do too much damage.”
“I’d be very grateful,” she said, ignoring the attempt to intimidate her with the blatant reminder of his disability. “And it is an automatic. I never learned to drive a stick.”
There was a slight upward movement at one corner of his mouth. “Somehow I was sure you hadn’t.”
She didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t matter. Without giving her a chance at a parting shot, he allowed the screen door to slam behind him, leaving her alone in the wide hall. She drew an unsteady breath, wondering if she had made a mistake in coming out here.
She had sworn she would never trust officialdom again, and yet, because of what the sheriff had told her, she was in an isolated house with a rude stranger who carried an outsized chip on his shoulder. And she had just agreed to rent, sight unseen, a room in that house, never having met her hostess.
If the accommodations were truly awful, she could always leave in the morning. She’d been vague enough about her intentions to allow for that.
At least then she wouldn’t have to pretend she wasn’t aware of the absolute masculinity of the man who had gone out to retrieve her luggage. Sexual awareness this potent was a feeling she’d almost forgotten. And one she wasn’t sure she was ready to experience again. Especially not now.
She turned, looking up the narrow stairs once more. Whatever the room at the top of them was like, it was hers for the night. Everything would probably look different in the morning. As for right now…
Right now she needed a hot shower and a bed with clean sheets, even if it had a feather mattress. If Lorena Bedford’s house could provide either of those, she’d deal with everything else. Including Miz Lorena’s arrogant nephew.
CHAPTER THREE
“MY GOODNESS,” Lorena said. “I’d been thinking about that poor man’s family. Wondering how they must feel to finally know what happened to him. I knew some of them would come to Linton, but I never dreamed they might end up staying here. I’ll have to thank Wayne the next time I’m in town. What’s she like?”
Jeb wasn’t sure his impression would be the kind of information his aunt was looking for. Since he’d been wounded, his reaction to people was too frequently measured by their response to his physical condition. It was a fault he was aware of, but unable to entirely suppress.
When he had turned around tonight and found Susan Chandler watching him, resentment that his limp now seemed to be the most interesting thing about him had resurfaced. In the past, before Iraq, his relationships with women had been based on any number of things: mutual sexual attraction, shared interests, even simple proximity. Now he seemed to be defined by only one thing.
He wasn’t sure at what point during the course of his rehabilitation he’d become aware of that. Certainly not in the beginning. He’d been too focused on his own adjustment to his new physical limitations to notice how others reacted to them.
Maybe it had been coming back to Linton, where he’d spent a large part of his adolescence, that had made him aware of how differently the people he’d known then treated him now. Some were openly curious, which he’d been surprised to discover didn’t bother him. Others pretended not to notice, as Mrs. Chandler had done tonight when he’d opened the door for her.
Some—and those were the ones he detested—were determined to be “helpful.” There was nothing more certain to set his teeth on edge than solicitude. Especially from a woman to whom he was physically attracted.
In that respect, he would have to give his great-aunt’s guest credit. In a matter of minutes, she had been able to conceal, if not destroy, any tendency to try