“That smells divine,” she said, inclining her head at the stew. “I didn’t realize I was hungry until now.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Where was the Orville Redenbacher Kettle Korn when she needed it?
A horse chuffed and whinnied. Pushing easily to his feet, Clint went to check on the animals. In the darkness his deep voice carried to her on the crisp night air, his affectionate rumblings making her smile. His horses weren’t mere possessions to him, but friends that he cherished.
She admired his gentle way with them, and also his limitless patience. In only a day Loni had come to realize that each horse had a different personality and its own little quirks. She suspected that many horsemen would view any headstrong behavior in an animal as unacceptable, but Clint humored his horses as much as possible, allowing each of them to be individuals. Bathsheba, for instance, had to have her treats, her favorite being tender baby carrots. If Clint forgot to reward her periodically throughout the day, she started whinnying, much like a spoiled child that grew whiny. Then there was Malachi, Clint’s mount, a gorgeous thirteen-year-old flaxen chestnut gelding who insisted on always being in the lead. If Clint fell back in line for too long, Malachi would take the bit in his teeth and trot back up to the front. When the horse reached what he clearly believed to be his rightful place in line, he made sounds that Clint laughingly called “Malachi’s happy grunts.”
Oddly, Clint’s leniency with his horses never resulted in obstinate behavior. He respected the equines, and in turn they seemed to respect him. It was heartwarming to watch man and animals interact. Clint was firm and demanding when necessary, but after watching him all day, Loni had determined that he preferred using a reward system to encourage obedience rather than force a horse into compliance.
After checking each of the animals, he headed back toward Loni, stopping off en route to rummage through a pack. When he returned to the fire, he held a plastic bottle of whiskey in one hand. With a quick turn of his wrist, he uncapped the container, tipped it to his lips, and then wiped the mouth clean with the tail of his shirt before passing it down to her.
“Not much by way of a before-dinner cocktail, but it’ll have to do.”
“Oh, I—”
“Have some. It’s part of the Harrigan saddle-sore cure, not to mention that it’ll help you sleep.”
She smiled and took the bottle. “Cheers.” She took a swig, shuddering at the burn. “Oh, nasty.”
He reclaimed the whiskey, took another swallow, and then replaced the cap. “It always tastes better the second time around.”
A few moments later Loni could attest to the truth of that. The next swallow did taste better. She was feeling relaxed and languorous by the time supper was ready. Clint sat beside her on the sleeping bag as they partook of the stew and a sleeve of saltine crackers. Both of them were so hungry that they barely came up for breath between bites. The taste of the stew, the scrape of their spoons against the cans, the smoky scent—ah, it was wonderful, as close to an orgasm as Loni had ever come. As her appetite for food waned, she thought about the injustice of that. Other women had sex and babies, thinking nothing of it, while she satisfied her cravings with kettle corn produced by Orville Redenbacher, a man who’d been dead for at least ten years.
Loni couldn’t finish her portion, so Clint happily consumed what was left. When the meal was over he tossed the cans on the fire and went to wash their spoons in the river. She watched with some interest when he returned, toed the cans from the flames, and stomped them flat before putting them in one of the packs.
“There’s hope for you, after all,” she teased when he came to sit beside her again. “I’m impressed, Mr. Harrigan.”
“Clint,” he corrected. “And why are you impressed?”
“You burned the cans clean and now you’re going to pack them out.”
“Of course. I may not use silk shopping bags or unplug my television when I’m gone, but I do respect the environment. I want this beautiful wilderness area to be here for the next generation.”
“When I get home I’m going to plant a tree. It’s a thing I started doing a few years ago, planting a tree after every vacation. I figure it helps to make up for my consumption of fuel. Trees are wonderful environment healers.”
“You need a piece of land, honey. Didn’t look to me like you have that much yard.”
That was true. “I’ll find room. At my last house I planted a tree in memory of Cheryl. It made me feel better somehow.”
They sat in silence for a while. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. The sound made Loni shiver. “I wonder how Trevor’s doing.”
Clint gazed off into the night. “Hopefully he’s doing fine. He’s got Nana riding shotgun. No more visions of him today, I take it?”
“None.” She waited a beat. “That worries me. Yesterday I had a half dozen. Now, nothing.”
“Maybe that’s because we’re both out here now, determined to find him, and God doesn’t feel you need any more clues as to his whereabouts until we’ve moved in closer.”
Loni stiffened and glanced surreptitiously at his face. He was staring into the fire now, making it difficult for her to read the expression in his eyes. “God?” she echoed softly.
His gaze shifted to meet hers. “Of course, God. Where else would visions like yours come from?”
A lump lodged at the base of Loni’s throat, and a burning sensation washed over her eyes. “A lot of strangers don’t share that sentiment. In fact, in the not-so-distant past, neither did you, as I recall.”
“I’m not exactly a stranger anymore.”
Loni recalled the embarrassing thigh massage he’d given her earlier and smiled. “No, I guess you aren’t. But you’ve come around rather quickly. Most people remain wary of me for much longer.”
“Sounds to me like there’s a story in there somewhere.”
Loni went back to studying the flames. “We all have a story or two, I suppose. That doesn’t mean we feel comfortable sharing them.”
He chuckled. “True. I’ve got a couple of stories I don’t feel comfortable sharing, myself. I’d sure like to hear yours, though.” He angled her a questioning look. “I can’t begin to imagine what your life has been like.”
“In many ways it’s been incredibly boring.”
“Boring?” This time his chuckle became a deep, rich laugh that warmed her insides much like the whiskey had earlier. “You have a satellite dish in your head with no control over the programming. How can that possibly be boring?”
It was Loni’s turn to laugh. “A satellite dish?” Then, “Now that I come to think of it, you’re right. It is sort of like that, especially the lack-of-control part. I ended up having to be homeschooled because of it.”
“Homeschooled? Why was that?”
Loni tipped her head back to regard the sky as memories of her childhood came to the forefront of her mind. “For one thing it was extremely difficult for me to concentrate in a contaminated environment.”
“Contaminated?”
She tried to think of a way to explain. “Touching used books. Sitting in an old desk that had been occupied by other kids day in and day out, year after year. Physically connecting with the teaching staff and other children. My brain came under constant fire with visions, and that distracted me from learning. At six I also tended to be a bit too forthcoming with the information that came to me in visions, which proved to be rather unsettling for some individuals.”
“I definitely hear a story in that statement,” he said with a smile. “Stirred the shit a little, did you?”
“That’s a unique way of putting it, but I suppose it’s apt. My first-grade teacher, Mrs. Stone, was not amused when I warned her to stop drinking in the evening before she went to the grocery store, and the principal wasn’t exactly thrilled when I told him it wasn’t very nice to hit his wife, that my daddy said we should only pick on people our own size.”
Clint barked with laughter. “No wonder you had to be homeschooled. You w
ere exposing everyone’s dirty little secrets.”
Loni couldn’t share in his amusement. “Yes, well, a six-year-old isn’t well versed in the art of prudence, and I hadn’t yet come to understand just how different I was. I thought lots of people had visions, and I saw nothing wrong with trying to warn people that something bad might happen.” She leaned forward to toss a pinecone onto the fire. “Unfortunately, no one listened any better then than they do now, and it was easy for them to hush me up. Mrs. Stone continued to drink and drive until she ran over a small boy one evening en route to the market. He died instantly. She served a jail sentence, lost her job, and her life was pretty much destroyed—a fitting punishment. The little boy’s parents were devastated and never got over losing him.”
“Oh, God. What a tragedy.” His amusement effaced, he grew quiet for a while. Then he said, “I’m almost afraid to ask what happened with the principal, but my curiosity is killing me.”
“He continued to hit his wife and one night he went too far. She fell, hit her head on the hearth, and broke her neck. I can’t remember now how long he spent in prison, only that his own kids testified against him in court. He had a very long history of abusive behavior.”
“Now I understand why you couldn’t concentrate at school. Did you know ahead of time that those people would die?”
“Oh, yes. I just wasn’t given a chance to tell my teacher or the principal the rest of the story. It was…difficult for me. I couldn’t comprehend why people refused to listen.”
“A child that age should know nothing about things like that.”
“Knowing about such things was hard, but the worst part was being helpless to stop it. That’s still a problem for me.”
“It’s too bad you can’t learn how to filter the signals,” he mused. “Or get to a point where you can receive signals only when you know you can help.”
“Then I might miss something important. Trevor, for instance.”
“You would have heard about it on the news in plenty of time.”
Loni supposed that was true.
“So how was homeschooling? Did your parents teach you, or did they hire a tutor?”
“My mom had a garden nursery. I went with her to work in the mornings, and she took afternoons off to tutor me. I mostly enjoyed not having to go to school, the only drawback being that I had few friends. My sister, Deirdre, was a godsend. At least I had a playmate when she got home in the afternoon.”
“So when you got older were you able to attend high school?”
Loni shook her head. “I couldn’t cut it in college, either. I don’t do well in public situations. Way too much stimulation. I tried the university thing for a while. I’d learned a lot about how to shield myself by then, and I think I might have managed if I hadn’t needed a job to help pay my way. With no experience under my belt and needing to work odd hours so I could attend class, waiting tables was my only employment option. Dealing with a constant flow of customers didn’t work for me. My bosses weren’t thrilled to find me zoned out in the register area, sometimes with the cash drawer open. I kept one waitress job for almost a week. My all-time worst work experience lasted for only forty-three minutes.”
“You got canned in less than an hour?”
“I’m talented. What can I say?”
He regarded her with somber contemplation. “So you never went to college.”
“Oh, yes. I did telemarketing for a few years, and then I was able to get my degree online. A lot of universities offer correspondence courses nowadays, and it’s less costly than attending classes on campus. I’m so grateful that option became available to me. If I’d been born a decade sooner it wouldn’t have been. Now I decorate model homes and make a fairly good living. At least, I did. I’m only just now getting my business started in Crystal Falls. I’ll hopefully do well here, but that remains to be seen.”
“You aren’t able to see your own future and know how your business will do?”
Loni chuckled. Before she could answer the question, he cut in with, “I know, I know. That isn’t the way it works.”
“If it were, I’d be a millionaire. Just imagine how well I could do at the races!”
He dug a trench in the dirt with the heel of his boot, and then smoothed it away. “Do you enjoy interior decorating?”
“I love it. The textures, the colors. It’s very much an art, and challenges me creatively. I’ve even won some awards. Mostly, though, I love it because I can work alone in sterile environments, yet still earn a good income and be independent.”
He arched a dark eyebrow at her. “You still haven’t touched on the God element of your story.”
Loni searched for the first glimmers of starlight in the charcoal sky. “Many people take certain passages in the Bible quite literally, so to their way of thinking, all clairvoyants are evil. Over the years I guess you might say I’ve encountered a lot of unpleasantness. Being a clairvoyant has adversely affected my entire life—academically, socially, spiritually, and even romantically.”
He picked up a pine needle and tossed it onto the embers. They watched it ignite and then become a shriveled thread of bright orange before winking out. “Had a few men run scared, have you?”
Loni puffed air into her cheeks. “That’s a good way of putting it.” She angled him an amused glance. “Some men thought I was lying about my gift, others thought I was crazy, and a memorable few were terrified that I might be able to read their minds.”
He laughed again. “Maybe they were thinking things they didn’t want you knowing about.”
“Possibly, only I can’t imagine what.”
His dark eyes, already sparkling with amber from the fire, warmed with a mischievous twinkle. “Being a healthy American male with a normal libido, I have a fair idea what may have been on their minds. You’re a beautiful woman.”
Loni couldn’t think what to say. A hot flush moved up her neck.
“Now I’ve embarrassed you.” He leaned forward to toss another needle into the fire. With the firelight playing over his face and delineating the well-muscled slope of his shoulders, Loni thought he was far more beautiful than she was. “It’s the truth, though. The first time I saw you, I thought, ‘Wow.’”
Loni had always considered herself to be average in the looks department. “You’re very kind.”
“Kind, hell. Standing behind you in line, I definitely enjoyed the view. You were wearing alfalfa green slacks and a silk blouse the color of cream.”
“Ecru.”
“Is that what it’s called? Ecru, then.”
“And the slacks are patina.”
He flashed a dazzling grin, his teeth gleaming in the flickering light. “I have a theory about women and compliments. The conceited ones who think they’re God’s gift to mankind always gush and bat their eyelashes when you tell them they’re pretty. The ones who aren’t self-confident say dumb things like, ‘You’re very kind,’ and then they pretend the compliment was never paid. To me, they’re the most beautiful of all, because they honestly don’t realize how drop-dead gorgeous they are.”
Loni rolled her eyes, trying her best not to blush any more than she already was. “Patina is the green color of copper after it oxidizes.”
“I know what patina is. I also know a beautiful woman when I see one.”
“You’re very—”
She broke off. His dark face had moved closer to hers—perilously closer. His breath, laced richly with whiskey, wafted across her cheek. “Your eyes are the prettiest blue, and they change color all the time,” he whispered. “Right now they remind me of moonlight reflecting on lake water on a hot August night.” He dropped his gaze to her mouth. “I may regret this later, but damned if I can stop myself.”
Loni had no such problem. She planted a hand at the center of his chest. “If you’re thinking about kissing me, forget it.”
“Why?”
“You chew tobacco. I’m sorry, but yuck.”
He chuckled. “Onl
y on Fridays. It’s my beer-and-tobacco day. The rest of the time I drink water or coffee and suck wintergreen breath mints.”
“Oh.”
“Any other concerns?”
“Yes. I, um, don’t think it’s wise for us to—”
“Hold the thought.”
The deep timbre of his voice seemed to enfold her in warmth. He curled a big hand over her shoulder. Through the jacket, the gentle grip of his fingers radiated heat, making Loni wonder how it might feel if no fleece shielded her skin. Madness. Their gazes locked. For just an instant it seemed to her that the world fell away. She glanced at his firm lips, how they shimmered in the firelight, and suddenly, instead of feeling alarmed, she wanted him to kiss her more than she’d ever wanted anything.
As if he sensed that, his burnished face drew closer, his dark eyes holding hers until her vision was eclipsed by a coffee brown blur. As lightly as a butterfly wing his lips touched hers. She expected him to deepen the kiss. That was how it had always happened before, anyway, not that she’d ever particularly enjoyed the wet press of a man’s lips on hers or the scrape of teeth that often followed. But Clint kept the contact almost nonexistent, a tantalizing caress that made her breath hitch with expectancy while her heart began to slog, each beat knocking hard against her ribs. She pressed closer. He murmured something, groaned, and slipped a hard arm around her waist. Loni made tight fists on the front of his shirt.
She wanted. He tasted faintly of the whiskey, too, slightly sweet and completely intoxicating. His lips felt like sun-warmed silk as they grazed hers. She leaned in, needing, yearning. It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt true desire, and it was a heady experience. Her limbs felt weak and tingly. An electrical sensation moved through her torso, everything within her quivering at the zing.