The Last Honest Woman

  "You told me you weren't very physical. I guess you didn't want to brag."

  She turned her face into his shoulder. Her scent was there, she realized. It was an odd and wonderful sensation to find her own scent clinging to his skin. "I never have been very good at the- at the technical parts."

  "Technical parts?" He didn't know whether to laugh or shout at her. "What does that mean?"

  "Well, the-" Embarrassed, she let her words trail off. "Sex," she said firmly, reminding herself she was a grown woman.

  "We didn't have sex," he said simply, rolling on top of her. "We made love."

  "It's just a matter of semantics."

  "Like hell it is. No, don't close up on me." He grasped her shoulders bard before she could. "I'm not Chuck. Look at me, really look."

  She calmed herself and did what he asked. "I am. I know."

  "What do you want, Abby, an evaluation?"

  "No." Color flooded cheeks already flushed with passion. "No, of course not. I just-"

  "Wonder how it was for me. If you did the right things at the right times." He sat up, pulling her with him, and kept his hands firmly on her shoulders even when she fumbled for the sheet. "Did it ever occur to you that Chuck Rockwell wasn't the devastating macho lover the gossip sheets touted him to be? Did you ever consider that what happened or didn't happen between the two of you in this bed was his fault?"

  It hadn't. Of course it hadn't. "All those other women-" she began, then fell silent.

  "Let me tell you something. It's easy to wrestle under the sheets with a different woman every night." He felt a little twinge, remembering all those times. "You don't have to think, you don't have to feel. You don't have to worry about making the other person see stars. All you do is satisfy yourself. It's very different when you've got a partner, someone you've made promises to, someone you're supposed to want to make happy. It takes care and time and waiting until it's right."

  She stared at him, lips parted, eyes wide. With an oath be lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. "Listen, right now I don't much want to hear about Chuck Rockwell. I don't want you to think about him or anyone else. Just concentrate on me."

  "I am." A little uncertain, she touched a hand to his cheek. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time." She saw his expression change, felt his hand tighten in her hair, and went on quickly. "You've made me face a lot of things I thought I should keep under lock and key. I'm grateful."

  "I'm getting tired of telling you not to thank me." But his hand gentled in her hair and slipped down to the curve of her shoulder.

  "This is absolutely the last time." Lifting her arms, she twined them around him and held tight. She felt safe there, as she'd known she would once before, when the sun had shone down on them. "Don't laugh."

  He skimmed his lips over her collarbone. "I don't fed much like laughing."

  "I feel as though I've just mastered a very complex and important skill."

  He chuckled earning himself a whack on the back. "Like the backstroke?"

  "I said not to laugh."

  "Sorry." Then he tumbled her over until she lay beneath him. "You don't master anything unless you practice. A lot."

  "I guess you're right." This playfulness was something she'd never tasted before. Abby clung to it. Her lips met his, already warm, open and accepting. "Dylan?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I did see stars."

  He smiled. She felt it. When he drew back to look at her, she saw it. "Me, too."

  He started to lower his head again, but then he heard the sobbing. "What the-"

  "Chris." Abby was out of bed in an instant. She whipped a robe out of her closet, pulled it out and was out of the room before he'd picked up his jeans.

  "Oh, baby." Abby hurried into Chris's room, where he was bundled under the covers, sobbing his heart out. "What's the matter?"

  "They were green and ugly." He burrowed into the safety of his mother's breasts, smelling her familiar smell. "They looked like snakes and went Ssss, and they were chasing me. I fell down in a hole."

  "What a nasty dream." She held and rocked and soothed him. "It's all over now, okay? I'm right here."

  He sniffled but relaxed. "They were going to cut me up in little pieces."

  "Bad dream?" Dylan hesitated in the doorway, not certain whether it was his place to come in.

  "Ugly green snakes," Abby told him as she rocked Chris in her lap.

  "Wow. Pretty scary, huh, tiger?"

  Chris sniffled again, nodded and rubbed his eyes. Whether it was his place or not, Dylan couldn't resist. He came in and hunkered down in front of the boy. "Next time you should dream yourself a mongoose. Snakes don't have a chance against a mongoose."

  "Mongoose." Chris tried out the word, giggling over it. "Did you make it up?"

  "Nope. We'll find a picture of one tomorrow. They have them in India."

  "Trace went to India," Chris remembered. "We got a postcard." Then he yawned and settled back against Abby. "Don't go yet."

  "No, I won't. I'll stay until you're asleep again."

  "Dylan, too?"

  Dylan rubbed his knuckles over the boy's cheek. "Sure."

  They sat there, Abby snuggling the boy and singing something that sounded to Dylan like an Irish lullaby. Dylan felt an amazing satisfaction, not like the one he'd found with Abby in the old bed, but one just as strong. It was a firm sense of belonging, as if he had finally reached a place he'd been moving toward all his life. It was foolish, and he told himself it would pass. But it stayed. The hall light slanted into the room and fell on a jumble of trucks next to an old, half-deflated ball.

  She settled the boy smoothly, tucking Mary under the sheets with him. Abby kissed his cheek, then straightened, but Dylan stayed for a moment, idly brushing at the curls over Chris's forehead.

  "Pretty irresistible, isn't he?" she murmured.

  "Yeah." He brought his hand back and stuck it in his pocket. "He's going to be hard to live with when he figures it out."

  "He's a lot like Trace-all charm. According to Pop, Trace figured out how to exploit it before he could crawl." In a natural gesture, she took Dylan's hand and drew him out of the room. "I just want to look in on Ben."

  She pushed the door open and saw the morass that was her son's room. Clothes, books, toys were one tangled heap that stretched from wall to wall. Abby sighed and promised herself she'd make him see to it over the weekend. At the moment, though, her firstborn was sprawled in bed, half in and half out of the covers.

  Going in, she rolled him over, pulled a tennis shoe from under the pillow, tossed aside a squadron of small plastic men and covered him up.

  "He sleeps like a rock," she commented.

  "So I see."

  She took a last look around the room. "He's also a slob."

  "Yeah, no argument there."

  With a quiet laugh, she bent over and kissed her son. "I love you, you little jerk." She made her way expertly over the heaps in the semidarkness. When she came to the doorway again, Dylan ran his hands down her arms.

  "I like your kids, Abby."

  Touched, she smiled, then kissed his cheek. "You're a nice man, Dylan."

  "There aren't a lot of people who'd agree with you.

  She understood that. "Maybe they haven't seen you the way I have."

  That much was true, but he couldn't tell her why. He didn't know. "Come back to bed."

  She nodded and slipped an arm around his waist.

  CHAPTER Nine

  So much could happen in twenty-four hours. Abby faced the morning with a kind of dazed wonder. She'd discovered passion. She'd found affection. And maybe, just maybe, she was taking the first step toward finally severing her ties and obligations to the past. She had Dylan to thank for that, but she didn't think he'd tolerate hearing the phrase again. She couldn't express her gratitude without annoying him. She couldn't tell him that she loved him without risking losing what had just begun. So she would say nothing and hope that simply being
with him was enough.

  Abby sent the boys off to school, zipped through her morning chores and left a note for Dylan on the breakfast bar, then hopped in her car. She had the energy of ten.

  She'd planned to spend the morning mopping, waxing and scrubbing Mrs. Cutterman's house-and earning a good portion of the grocery money. She thought it was a lucky thing she was over the flu and could get back to the part-time job that helped keep the ledgers balanced until she could sell the foals. Tomorrow was also her day to do the twice-monthly cleaning at the Smiths. Mentally she went over her schedule and calculated that she had just enough time to fit everything in, including a shopping expedition for new shoes at the end of the week.

  Abby told herself to concentrate on that and not to think too deeply about what had happened the night before. What it had meant to Dylan and what it had meant to her were two different things. She had to be wise enough to understand that. But he'd given her something she'd never had from a man before: respect, affection, passion. She was still relishing it. Switching the radio on, she turned onto the main road.

  When Dylan came downstairs, he went straight for the coffee. He didn't usually wake up groggy, even after a sleepless night, but working through the night and lying awake in bed seemed to have different effects. He wasn't sure yet why he'd been so restless. Abby had slept beside him as peacefully as her children had slept in the other rooms.

  His body had been relaxed, even serene. He could tell himself that was pure physical relief. But his mind had been tense and active. What had happened between them hadn't been ordinary. Part of him wished it had been, while another-a part he hadn't explored in years-rejoiced that it hadn't. He wasn't a man who enjoyed contrasts within himself. Over and above those contradictions, there was the mystery of the woman who had slept beside him.

  He'd begun to dissect the opinion he'd had of her before they'd met and compare it to the feelings he had about her now. Nothing lined up. What did the woman in mink, laughing at the spin of the wheel, have to do with the woman who'd trembled in his arms? Were they both real-or were they both an act?

  His blood still curdled when he thought of what she'd told him. For the first time in his life, the urge to protect was stronger than any other. He knew better than to let his feelings color the facts, and he tried to be objective. If she had been physically and emotionally abused, why had she stayed? Chuck Rockwell had publicly thumbed his nose at his wedding vows, so a divorce would have been simple. But she'd stayed. He couldn't resolve the contradiction any more than he could resolve what was happening inside him.

  He wanted her, just as much as he had before-no, even more. There was a sweetness about her lovemaking that he'd never tasted before, and he craved it again. But there was more. He could close his eyes and hear the way she laughed at herself, easily and without guile. He could see the way she worked, steadily and without bitterness. There was the way she handled her children, with a firm hand and tremendous love.

  A special woman. He knew only a fool believed there was anything as fanciful as a special woman. Maybe he was becoming a fool.

  He glanced out the window and wondered if she was in the barn feeding the stock. He could wait for her to come in again, have his recorder ready, and they'd get down to work. Dylan pictured her hefting a bag of grain or hefting another bale of hay. With a shake of his head, he turned and reached for his coat. Then he saw the note.

  Dylan

  I'm at Mrs. Cutterman's through the morning. The number is in the book if there's a problem. I need to swing into town and pick up a few things before I come home. See you around one.

  Abby

  He felt ridiculously depressed. She wasn't there, wouldn't be there for hours. He wanted to see her, to look at her in the morning, see her face after their night together. He wanted to talk to her, calmly, logically, until what he knew and what he felt drew closer together. He wanted to make love with her in the daylight in the big, empty house.

  He wanted to be with her.

  Shrugging off the feeling, Dylan poured a second cup of coffee and took it upstairs. There was work to be done.

  When Abby pulled up in front of the house, the sky had darkened again. She muttered halfheartedly at the clouds as she carried the bread and milk to the house. Rain, she thought, disgusted because the radio had promised clear skies. Neither of the boys had their boots with them. Well, they needed new shoes anyway, she reminded herself, and pushed open the door. On her way to the kitchen, she picked up two tracks, two plastic men and a sock.

  After shedding her coat, she switched on the portable radio and began to deal with the ground beef she'd taken out to defrost that morning.

  "Hi."

  She jumped a little, a frying pan in one hand. Dylan was only two feet away. "Lord, you're quiet. I didn't hear you come in."

  "You always play the radio too loud."

  "Oh." Automatically she lowered the volume. She felt awkward, but she'd expected to. "I had to pick up some milk. The way the boys go through it, I'm tempted to bay a cow." She busied herself at the stove and felt a little easier. "You've been working?"

  "Yeah." He felt awkward. He hadn't expected it. Soft and straight, her hair was tied back with a bandanna. He wanted to loosen it, to fed it flow through his hands the way it had during the night. "Did you have a good time?"

  "What?"

  "A good time." The meat began to sizzle. "With your friend."

  "My-oh, Mrs. Cutterman. She's very nice." Abby thought briefly of the acres of furniture she'd polished. Dismissing the thought, she began to rummage for tomato paste. "It's going to rain," she said. "I don't think the boys are going to make it home before it does."

  "You had a call."

  "Oh?"

  "Betty something from the PTA."

  "Bake sale." With a sigh, Abby opened the can of tomato paste. The whirl of the electric can opener sounded like an earthquake. How long, she wondered, could she hide behind routine? "Cupcakes?"

  "Three dozen. She said she knew she could count on you."

  "Good old reliable Abby." She said it without sarcasm, but with a self-mocking tone. "When does she need them?"

  "Next Wednesday."

  "Okay." The silence went on as she diluted the paste and added spices. Spaghetti was Ben's favorite, she thought. He packed it away like a lumberjack. At the moment, she didn't know if she would ever eat again. "I guess you'd like to ask me more questions."

  "A few."

  "I'll be finished here in a minute. If we can do it white I'm seeing to the laundry, then-" Her voice trailed off when he touched her shoulder. No longer knowing what to expect, she turned slowly. He was looking at her again, looking deep, looking hard. She wished she understood what he was searching for.

  Then he kissed her, softly, gently, and her heart melted like butter.

  "Oh, Dylan." The breath she hadn't been aware of holding escaped unevenly as she put her arms around him. "I was afraid you had regrets."

  "About what?" God, it felt good to hold her. He'd told himself it made no difference, but it did. It made all the difference.

  "About last night."

  "No, I have no regrets." She smelted of soap-just as fresh as that. "I'm dazed."

  "Really?" Only half believing him, she drew back.

  "Yeah, really." He smiled, incredibly relieved, and kissed her again. "I missed you."

  "Oh, that's nice." She ran her hands up his back as she drew him closer. "That's very nice."

  "Want to play hooky?"

  With a laugh, she tossed back her head. "Hooky?"

  "That's right. You look like someone who never played enough hooky."

  "I was never in one school long enough to work up to it. Besides, it's going to rain. What kind of fun is it to play hooky in the rain?"

  "Come upstairs, I'll show you."

  She laughed again, but her eyes widened when she saw he was serious. "Dylan, the kids'll be home in a couple of hours."

  "You can pack a whole day into
a couple of hours." On impulse, he scooped her up. It felt good, be realized, to hear that quick, breathless laugh, to see those wide, wondering eyes.

  Her heart pounded as he carried her from the room. It was thrilling, illicit. Abby buried her face against his throat and murmured. "No one's going to have any clean socks."

  "And only you and I will know why."

  They made love quickly, desperately, with a wild kind of abandon she'd never experienced before. Clothes were tossed helter-skelter around the room. The curtains were thrown wide so that the soft, gloomy light crept into the room. He took her places she'd never been, places she knew she'd be afraid to go with anyone else. Like a child treated to her first roller coaster, she lost her breath on the ride, then fretted to go again.

  He felt free, so incredibly free, as they rolled over on the old bed. Her body was furnace-hot and open to him, open to anything he could teach her. She was pliant, she was strong. And she was his. Amazingly agile, she arched back, lost in mindless pleasure. Unable to get enough, he rose with her. Their bodies met, torso to torso, hip to hip, as they knelt on the bed. Tight as bowstrings, then limp, they tumbled together.

  It began to rain, slow and steady against the windows.

  Their loving slowed and steadied as passion turned to yearning. Quiet sighs, gentle movements took the place of frenzy. There was no need to rush. The bed was wide and soft, the rain quiet and soothing. They drew from each other all the sweet, simple things lovers bring to one another and no one else.

  He tasted her skin, warm with pleasure, damp with excitement. He'd never known a flavor more intoxicating. Her fingers trailed over his back, finding the muscles that contracted and gave. She'd never known strength in itself could be so arousing.

  They went deep into each other where the rain could no longer be heard. She found what she'd needed to find-the kindness, the compassion.

  There were so many layers to her-serenity, wisdom, passion. He wondered if he would ever discover them all. He could look at her one way and see the headstrong woman who'd thrown caution to the winds and left family and familiar things to grab at something as elusive as love. He could look at her another way and see the vulnerability and the control. He felt compelled to know her, to fit the pieces together. Abby was becoming his obsession. But when they were like this, desire peaking, senses swimming, it only mattered that she was there with him.

  The hands that had once been hesitant moved over him as though they'd always known him. The mouth that had once been unsure fused to his as though there were no other tastes in the world she would ever need. Her long, Umber body came to his without inhibitions. Her arms and legs wrapped around him like warm silk. Passion poured through them, swirled around them, until there was nothing else.

  Abby was walking downstairs, delighted with herself, when the front door burst open. "Wipe your feet," she said automatically, then laughed and hurried down the rest of the stairs to hug her two dripping children.

  "It's raining," Chris informed her.

  "Really?"

  "My papers got wet." Ben took off his soaking hat and let it fall on the floor.

  "They wouldn't if you used your book bag."

  "They're for girls." He picked up his hat because his mother was looking at it, then handed her a wet, wrinkled paper.

  "An A " Abby put a hand to her heart as if the shock were too much for her. "Why, Benjamin, someone put your name on their paper."

  He chuckled, a bit embarrassed. "No, they didn't. It's mine."

  "This spelling test-unit 31-with none, absolutely none, marked wrong, belongs to Benjamin Francis Rockwell? My Benjamin Francis Rockwell?"

  He wrinkled his nose as he always did when reminded of his middle name. "Yeah."

  She put a hand on his shoulder. "You know what this means?" she asked solemnly.

  "What?"