The Last Honest Woman

  "Six." Dylan struggled to look suitably impressed. "And you?"

  "I'm eight." Ben's conscience tugged at him. "Well I will be pretty soon. Mom thinks you're a writer."

  "Sometimes I think so, too." A good-looking boy, Dylan decided, and with such an eager gleam of curiosity in his eyes he was hard to resist. "I'm Dylan." He held out his hand and waited while Ben pondered.

  "I'm Ben." He took Dylan's hand, appreciating the man-to-man offer. "This is Chris."

  "Nice to meet you." Dylan offered his hand to Chris. With a sheepishly pleased smile, he took it.

  "We thought your car was neat."

  "It has its moments."

  "Ben said it probably goes two hundred miles an hour."

  "It might." Unable to resist, he ruffled the boy's hair. "I don't."

  Chris grinned. He liked the way the man smelled, so different from his mom. "My mom said we weren't supposed to disturb you."

  "Did she?" Dylan set the boy on his feet, then rose himself. "I'll let you know when you do."

  Accepting the words at face value, Chris climbed onto the bed and chattered while Dylan unpacked. Ben held back, saying little and watching everything.

  Doesn't trust easily, Dylan thought. Though he agreed with the sentiment, he thought it was a pity to find it in such a small boy. The little one was a crackerjack, and one who'd believe whatever tumbled out of your mouth. It would pay to watch what you said.

  Chris watched as Dylan pulled out a carton of cigarettes. "Mom says those are a duty habit."

  Dylan tossed them into a dresser drawer. "Moms are pretty smart."

  "Do you like dirty habits?"

  "I-" Dylan decided to let that one ride. "Why don't you hand me that camera?"

  Willing to please, Chris drew the compact 35-millimeter out of the case. He held it for just a moment, eyeing the knobs. "It's pretty neat."

  "Thanks."

  "You going to take our picture?"

  "I just might." As he set in on the dresser, Dylan glanced in the mirror and saw Ben poking gingerly at his tape recorder. "Interested?"

  Caught, Ben snatched his hands back. "Spies use these."

  "So I've heard. Got any around here?"

  Ben sent him a quietly measuring look he wouldn't have expected from a boy twice his age. "Maybe."

  "We thought Mr. Petrie who helps with the horses was a spy for awhile." Chris looked in the suitcase to see if there was anything else interesting. "But he wasn't."

  "You have horses?"

  "We got a bunch of them."

  "What kind?"

  Chris shrugged. "Mostly big ones."

  "You're such a dope," Ben said. "They're Morgans. One day I'm going to ride Thunder, that's the stallion." As he spoke, the caution in his eyes vanished, to be replaced by enthusiasm. "He's the best there is."

  So this was the key to the boy, Dylan mused, that someone could turn if he cared to. "I had a Tennessee walker when I was a kid. Sixteen hands."

  "Sixteen?" Ben's eyes widened before he remembered he shouldn't be too enthusiastic. "He probably wasn't as fast as Thunder." When Dylan made no comment, Ben struggled, then gave up. "What'd you call him?"

  "Sly. He had a way of knowing which pocket you had the carrot in."

  "Ben. Chris."

  Ben flushed with guilt as he spotted his mother in the doorway. She had that look in her eye. Oblivious, Chris bounced happily on the bed. "Hi, Mom. I don't think Dylan's a robber after all."

  "I'm sure we're all relieved to hear that. Benjamin, didn't I tell you not to disturb Mr. Crosby?"

  "Yes, ma'am." You had to use "ma'am" when she used "Benjamin."

  "They weren't." Dylan took a pair of slacks and hung them in the closet. "We were getting acquainted."

  "That's kind of you." She sent him an even look, then ignored him. "Maybe you boys have forgotten about your chores?"

  "But, Mom-"

  She cut Ben off with a look. "I don't think we have to discuss responsibilities again."

  Dylan stuck a shirt in his drawer and tried not to chuckle. He'd heard the same line in the same tone from his own mother countless times.

  "You have animals depending on you for their dinner," Abby reminded her sons. "And-" she rustled a paper "-this seems to have fallen on the floor. I'm sure you were going to show it to me."

  Ben shuffled his feet as she held up his C in spelling. "I sort of studied."

  "Mmm." Walking over, she cupped his chin in her hand. "Delinquent."

  He smiled, knowing the crisis had passed. "I'm going to study tonight."

  "You bet you are. Now scram. You too." She held out a hand for Chris as Ben scrambled from the room.

  "Ben said he might steal my trucks."

  Abby lifted him up by the elbows to kiss him soundly. "You're very gullible."

  "Is that okay?"

  "For now. Change your clothes."

  At six, Chris couldn't have defined charm-but he knew he had it. "I'm still awful hungry."

  "I guess we could eat a little early. If you get your chores done."

  Since it seemed cookies were out, he wiggled down and walked to the door. He stopped and aimed a smile at Dylan. "Bye."

  "See you."

  Abby waited a moment, then turned back. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid they're used to having the run of the house and don't think about other people's privacy.

  "They didn't bother me."

  She laughed and tossed her hair back from her shoulder. "That won't last, I promise you. If you don't mind, we'll eat when they've finished their chores and cleaned up."

  "Anytime."

  "Mr. Crosby." The laughter was gone, and her eyes were calm and sober again. But it was her mouth, he realized, that drew his attention. It was fun, sensual, serious. "I'm going to try to give you my cooperation with this project. That doesn't include my children."

  He drew his shaving kit out of the case. "Which means?"

  "I don't want them involved. You aren't to interview or question them about their father."

  After setting the kit on his dresser, he turned back to her. Soft. She was a woman who looked soft as butter and she had a voice to match, but he had a feeling she'd grow talons if her children were threatened. That was fair enough. "I hadn't really given that any thought I'd think both of them a little young to remember much."

  You'd be surprised, she thought, but nodded. "Then we understand each other."

  "Not yet. Not by a long shot- Mrs. Rockwell."

  She didn't care for the look in his eyes. It was too- intrusive. How much of herself would she have left when he finished his assignment? It was a gamble, and she'd already decided to take it. "I'll have one of the boys let you know when dinner's ready."

  After she'd closed the door and started down the hall, she found herself chilled, so chilled that she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She wanted to call her family, to hear her parents' comforting voices. Or Chanters caustic one. She dragged a hand through her hair as she walked down the steps. Maybe she could call Maddy and absorb some of her carelessly upbeat views on life in general. She couldn't call Trace. Big brother was roaming his way through Europe or Africa or God knew where..

  She couldn't call any of them, Abby reminded herself as she stepped into the kitchen again. She was on her own and had been for years, by her own choice. They'd come, any and all of them would come if she so much as hinted at need. So she couldn't call. She wasn't simply the middle triplet now. She was Abby Rockwell, mother of two sons. She had to see to them, provide for them, raise them. And by God, she was going to make certain they had some kind of legacy from their father.

  She pulled vegetables out of the crisper and began to prepare a salad both her sons would mutter over.

  When the stock was fed and hands and faces reluctantly washed, Abby turned off the flame under the pot of chili. "Chris, go up and tell Mr. Crosby dinner's ready."

  "I'll do it." Ben's offer was quick and out of character. When Abby sent him a questioning look, he shr
ugged. "I want to get something upstairs anyway."

  "All right, thanks. But no fooling around. Everything's ready."

  "I don't have to eat mushrooms, do I?" Chris was already pulling himself onto his stool.

  "No, you don't have to eat any mushrooms."

  "You gonna pick them out?"

  "Yes."

  "All of them. If I eat one, I'll throw up."

  "Understood," she said, and glanced up to see Dylan and Ben come in. "Go ahead and sit, I'm just setting things up." Moving automatically, she began to dish salad into bowls.

  "I don't want any," Ben told her as he slid onto his stool.

  "Your body does." She added dressing. "Here, Chris, not one mushroom."

  "If there is I'm gonna-"

  "Yes, I know." She dished up a third bowl and set it in front of Dylan. "Now if you'll-" She caught herself when she glanced over and saw him grinning at her. "Oh, I'm sorry." She looked down at the salad she'd fixed him just as tidily as she had fixed her sons'. "I guess I'm just used to dishing it up."

  "It's all right." He picked up a bottle of dressing and shook it lazily. "I think we can handle it from here."

  She sat down and began to eat as Chris chattered between and during mouthfuls. Ben was picking at his salad and watching Dylan out of the corner of his eye. Odd, she thought, he looked- what? Wary? Resentful? She couldn't be sure. He wasn't the most open child, but-

  Then it occurred to her all at once that Dylan was sitting in what had been Chuck's seat. True, he'd only sat there a handful of times, and those times had been few and far between, but it had been his. Did Ben remember? He'd been barely three the last time his father had stayed at the house. Barely three, she thought, and yet so stiffly adult in too many ways. She felt the elbow nudge her ribs and blinked herself back.

  "What?"

  Ben pushed his salad bowl aside. "I said I ate most of it."

  "Oh." She started to reach for the ladle to spoon out chili.

  "I can get it myself."

  She started to serve him then caught Dylan's eyes over Ben's head. Something in them made her pass Ben the pot and sit back, annoyed with herself. "The rain seems to be letting up," she commented as she offered the chili to Dylan.

  "Seems to." Dylan helped himself. "I guess things'll be a mess for the next few days."

  "Mud up to your ankles." Abby set Chris's chili next to him to cool. "If you like being outdoors, I hope you brought something more substantial than your tennis shoes."

  "I'll get by." He tasted the chili. Ether it was delicious or he was starving. Whatever the reason he dug in. "The boys tell me you have some horses."

  "Yes, we breed Morgans. Use your napkin, Chris."

  "Breed?" Dylan deftly avoided being splattered with sauce as Chris jiggled his bowl. "I didn't know you were in business."

  "Unfortunately, a lot of people don't." Then she smiled and tugged at Ben's ear. "But they will. Do you know anything about horses?"

  "He had a rocker," Chris piped up.

  "A walker." Ben rolled his eyes and would have wiped his mouth on his sleeve if he hadn't caught the warning look from his mother. "He said it was sixteen hands."

  "Did he?"

  "I was raised on a farm in Jersey."

  "Seems stupid to be a writer, then," Ben commented as he scraped the bottom of his bowl. "Must be boring, like being in school all the time."

  "Some people actually enjoy using their minds. More, Mr. Crosby?"

  "A little." He took another scoop. Though he wasn't a talkative man, preferring to listen, he found himself compelled to justify his profession to the boy. "You know, when I write I get to travel a lot and meet a lot of people."

  "That's pretty good." Ben made patterns on the bottom of his bowl with his fork. "I'm going to travel, too. When I grow up I'm going to be a space marauder."

  "Interesting choice," Dylan murmured.

  "Then I can fly from galaxy to galaxy and loot and pil- pil-"

  "Pillage," Abby finished for him. "Ben's fond of crime. I've already started saving up bail money."

  "It's better than Chris. He wants to be a garbage man."

  "Not anymore." The fire was in Chris's eyes as he talked through his last mouthful of chili.

  "Don't talk with your mouth full, love." She scooted Ben's milk in front of him as a reminder. "We visited Maddy in New York last year. Chris was fascinated with the garbage trucks."

  "Dumb." Ben's voice dripped with scorn as he looked at his brother. "Real dumb."

  "Ben, isn't it your turn to wash up?"

  "Aw, Mom."

  "We made an agreement. I cook, you guys take turns with the dishes."

  He sulked a moment, but then a wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. "He's living here now." With a jerk of his head, Ben indicated Dylan. "He should have a turn, too."

  Why was it, Abby wondered, that Ben was only logical when it was to his advantage? "Ben, Mr. Crosby is a guest. Now-"

  "The kid has a point." Dylan spoke casually, but he was rewarded by a grin of approval from Ben. "Since I'm going to be around a while, the least I can do is follow the rules."

  "Mr. Crosby, you don't have to humor the monsters around here. Ben will be glad to do the dishes."

  "No, I won't," he muttered.

  "You know, when someone cooks you a good meal, the least you can do is pitch in and clean up the mess."

  As he pushed away from the counter, Dylan saw Ben hang his head. "I'll take the shift tonight."

  Ben's head came up immediately. "No fooling?"

  "Seems fair to me."

  "Great. Come on, Chris, let's go-"

  "Do your homework," Abby finished. She watched Ben's mouth open and close. He knew better than to press his luck. "Then you can watch television." With a clatter of feet, they were down the hall and racing up the stairs. "Such unpretentious children," she murmured. "I suppose I should apologize for their lack of manners again."

  "Don't bother. I was a kid once myself."

  "I suppose you were." With her elbows on the counter, Abby dropped her chin onto her hands and looked at him. "It's difficult to imagine certain people being small and vulnerable. Would you like anything else, Mr. Crosby?"

  "Your kids don't have any problem with my first name. We've had a meal together now, and we're going to be together for a number of weeks. Why don't we try something a little less formal? Abigail?"

  "Abby," she corrected automatically.

  "Abby." He liked the pretty, old-fashioned sound of it. "It suits you better."

  "Dylan's an unusual name."

  "My father wanted something solid, like John. My mother was more romantic, and more stubborn."

  He was staring at her again in that cool unblinking way she'd already determined meant questions were forming. She wasn't ready to start answering them yet. "My parents always preferred the unusual," she began as she slid off the stool to stack dishes.

  "That's my job."

  Abby continued to clear the bar. "I'm sure you've earned Ben's undying gratitude for getting him off the hook. But you don't have to fed obligated." She turned with a stack of bowls in her hands and all but ran into him.

  "A deal's a deal," he said very quietly, and reached out to take the bowls from her. Their fingers brushed, as lightly as fingers brush every day in ordinary situations. Abby jerked back and nearly sent the dishes crashing to the floor.

  "A little jumpy?" He watched her. He had discovered that you learned more from faces than from words.

  "I'm not used to having anyone else in the kitchen." A feeble excuse, and one that didn't ring true even to herself. "I'd better give you a hand, at least tonight, until you team where things go. There's a dishwasher." She grabbed more dishes from the counter, filling her hands and her mind with ordinary chores. "It seems ridiculous that the boys make such a fuss over the dishes when they don't have to do much more than load and unload."

  "We could spread out the pain a little more if I cooked once a week and you cleared up." br />
  She was bent over the dishwasher, and she had to straighten to stare at him. "You cook?"

  He nudged her aside. "Surprised?"

  It was silly to be, she knew. But none of the men in her life had ever known one end of the stove from another. She remembered her father quite clearly hard-boiling eggs on a hot plate in a motel room, but that was as far as it had gone. "I suppose when you live alone, it helps."

  He thought of his marriage. She heard him laugh, but he didn't sound amused. "Even when you don't, it helps." The dishwasher rattled a bit as he added dishes. "This thing's a little shaky."

  She frowned at the back of his head. "It works." She wasn't about to admit that she'd bought it secondhand and, with a lot of sweat and skinned knuckles, installed it herself.

  "You'd know best" With the last of the dishes in, he closed it. "But it sounds to me like a couple of the bolts have shaken loose. You might want to have it looked at."

  There were a lot of things that needed to be looked at. And they would be, once the manuscript was submitted and the rest of the advance was in her bank account. "I imagine you want to work out some sort of schedule."

  "Eager to start?"

  Abby went to the coffeepot and poured two cups without asking. "You're here to get background, I'm here to give it to you. The best times for me are mid-morning or early afternoon, but I'll try to be flexible."

  "I appreciate it." He took the coffee, then leaned on the stove, dose to her, as a kind of test for both of them. He thought he could just smell the rain on her hair. She stood very still for a moment, still enough that he could see his own reflection in her eyes. When he saw it, he forgot to look for anything else. Incredibly, he found he wanted to reach out, to touch the hair that brushed her shoulders. She stepped back. The reflection vanished, and so did the need.

  "Breakfast is early." Concentrate on routine, Abby warned herself. As long as she did, there wouldn't be room for these sudden, sharp desires to sneak up on her. "The kids have to catch the school bus at 7:30, so if you're a late sleeper you're on your own."