She halted, frightened and hurt by the way her thoughts slipped backward. Daddy wasn’t here to mumble at her in his benign, lovable way. She’d never hear his voice again, just as she’d never hear Mama’s. Her vision blurred. Scrubbing her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, she cursed loudly, then went back to the open door. Two dozen bales of hay remained on the ground below. She dropped a thick rope attached to the pulley set on a thick wooden arm above the loft’s hatch, then climbed down the ladder along the barn’s outer wall. Working furiously and trying not to think, she picked up the large iron hook attached to the rope’s end and snagged the tip under the parallel bands of twine around another bale.
She climbed back up, pulled the bale up to the door, and wrestled it inside. Constant, backbreaking work was all that kept her from brooding about the future. She hadn’t slept much in the past two weeks. She’d spent the time packing household belongings into boxes and hauling them to Aunt Maude’s attic. Joe would get the house’s furniture, but not its heart—the knickknacks, the books, the heavy iron pots and skillets Mama and Daddy had used in the kitchen, the quilts she’d made, Daddy’s hand tools, his guns, his collection of agricultural magazines dating back to Grandpa’s youth—she’d keep all of it, and someday, someday—
She shoved a dusty, sagging cardboard box aside on the loft’s bed of old hay, put the bale down, then stood over the box, breathing hard with fatigue, her hands on her hips. The box was something she didn’t want to open, and she’d been pushing it aside for hours.
She ought to just throw it out—take it to the burn pile in the field beyond the creek. In the past few days she’d watched the fire consume so much that agonized her. She’d given most of her parents’ clothes and shoes to the church, because Mama and Daddy would want it that way—nothing wasted when it could help others.
But there were things no one needed or wanted, and she’d burned them. She’d sorted through Mama’s old nightgowns, keeping a couple for herself because she needed to feel them on her skin. She’d kept a few of Daddy’s old work shirts, soft, comforting pieces she would wear. But there was so much else—socks, underwear, torn old sweaters, the yellowed suit Mama had worn when she married Daddy, then used over and over for special occasions, until it was so shabby and out of style that she’d put it away.
Lily sank to her knees and ripped the box open, then tugged her gloves off and undid the twist-tie on the black plastic garbage bag inside. Pushing the top open, she looked at the jumble of stuffed bears and the neatly folded cadet jacket Artemas had given her. She’d stored everything up here years ago, after the terrible night when he’d come to visit. She’d felt so ashamed and blamed herself for causing that hypocritical son of a bitch Andy Holcomb to think he could paw her.
Boys weren’t worth the trouble, even if she admitted to an urgent curiosity about their bodies. They either made crude remarks about her height or treated her like something they could own if they just made the right noises. She hadn’t wasted much time on them since then. And she didn’t owe Artemas any childish loyalty. The humiliating scene in New York two months ago had made that obvious.
Still, seeing the musty bears and gray jacket opened a hollow spot in her chest. She gathered them to her, sat down limply on the loft’s floor, and rocked a little. Bone-aching weariness overcame her, and she lay down. Her eyes grew heavy with a kind of numb relief. Her mind floated, and she dozed. This was the crazy way she operated—hustling around like a maniac for hours on end, then collapsing and falling asleep.
The sound of a car door slamming jerked her awake.
Lily lurched to her feet and brushed at herself groggily. If Joe Estes had come to wander around his new home again, she’d get the big .45 revolver from her bedroom and offer to give him a scar like the one he’d given her. Joe was a hulking redneck in designer jeans and expensive cowboy boots, with a pasty face from his jail time. He always looked at the farm with a little shit-eating smile, as if he was slightly disgusted at the idea of his father’s conservative little plans for him.
She hurried to the loft door. And froze, her hands knotted by her sides, her mouth open in shock.
Artemas.
He stood in the yard beside one of those plain late-model sedans the rental-car agencies loved. There was nothing plain about him.
He hadn’t noticed her looking down at him yet. He was taking in the place, his large, handsome head tilted back, the dark hair feathered by the breeze, his eyes narrowed in concentration. A clinging white pullover covered his thick chest and was tucked into rumpled tan trousers cinched with a brown belt. His feet, encased in heavy-soled hiking boots, were braced apart. He radiated compressed energy, scanning the surroundings with an expression of intense concentration on a face so roughly constructed that only the large eyes saved it from being too harsh. His face was even more mesmerizing than she remembered.
Lily felt helpless—hypnotized against her will. He looked so confident. His height and the physical power enclosed in the broad shoulders and pantherlike cleanness of his body weren’t daunted by her high vantage point; she could stand on a mountaintop and look down on this man, but he’d still seem bigger than life.
He owned her thoughts. He owned her emotions. He even owned her body, the core of heat spreading through her breasts and between her legs, a heedless feminine reaction to something very primitive and beyond reason. The loss of control terrified and angered her. She couldn’t move. She waited for him to come to her—as she’d waited all her life—but hated him for it.
Artemas studied the boxes stacked on the porch of the old whitewashed house, and his pulse surged at the sight of the front door standing open. Through the screen he saw the dim interior, the hall that opened immediately into a central room, with a rough-stone fireplace on one side. The blue-green willows towered a few dozen yards behind the house, at the creek, making the majestic backdrop he remembered so well. The wind stroked the treetops with a low murmur, and frogs chorused along the creek banks. The small sounds made the greater silence and stillness feel lonely, as if nature were taking the place back, its covenant with the MacKenzies broken.
A vague premonition made him hold his breath without knowing why. Where was she? He had to find her and make everything right again. Something in his subconscious overcame rational thought and offered up excitement, along with sorrow. I’ll always come back here. Again and again. To Lily. The idea presented itself effortlessly.
He turned slowly, absorbing the yards and fields, feeling dazed and a little wary of the sentimental effect. But he couldn’t shake the languor. He found himself thinking that he’d stepped into a compelling shadow outside the real world, or come to a turning point. Indefinable longing and anticipation made his throat ache.
His attention moved slowly to the old barn with its peaked tin roof, sitting on a knoll in the pasture behind the house. His gaze rose. His strange torment came into focus vividly.
Lily.
He’d only seen the one photograph of her since childhood, the picture of a startlingly vibrant and compelling adolescent girl that her parents had given him. But he knew the tall young woman standing defiantly, feet apart and one hand braced on the frame of the barn’s open loft door. He walked toward her swiftly, almost running, his eyes never leaving her. From the motionless set of her head he knew she was watching him just as intently.
Astonished details clicked into place in his mind, a new one with each hurried step. Her hair, still the fantastic color of the flower that was her namesake, hung in a thick, loose braid over one shoulder. Her body was full at the breasts and hips, with long, muscular arms and legs. The loose shorts she wore with a plain T-shirt jammed into them only called attention to the vigorous combination of sexual ripeness and unapologetic strength.
She tracked his approach with the poised, searing scrutiny of a hawk—watching, waiting, brilliant blue eyes glittering at him from a strong face with a flamboyant, tightly clamped mouth. Everything about her expression and stance whis
pered danger.
Stunned, he halted underneath the loft door and looked up at her. She was magnificent. Nothing he’d expected had prepared him for this hopeless torture.
Artemas held her condemning gaze. “You were six years old the last time you looked at me that way,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.
When she didn’t answer but only continued to stare down at him bitterly, he struggled against an urge to shout, to vent his frustration at the tragedy that embroiled them. “You were furious at me for leaving, because you couldn’t understand it, and I didn’t know how to explain it to you very well. You were a child—so was I. But we’re not children anymore, and we have to talk rationally. I didn’t deserve your disappointment then, and I don’t now. Come down here and talk to me.”
She calmly reached for the heavy hook dangling in front of her from the loft’s winch, pulled it inside, then wedged a foot into it and jerked the rope taut. Artemas’s breath stalled as she stepped out into space. The winch creaked as she quickly lowered herself to the ground, settling less than an arm’s length from him. The sudden closeness electrified the air between them. She was only a few inches shorter than he, delicate in comparison but not by any other standards. Her face was ashen except for ruddy splashes of color on her cheeks. She slung the rope aside and faced him, motionless, trembling.
They looked at each other without speaking, the emotions and the blatant adult sexuality too dangerous, so jumbled that no words existed to express them. There was one split second of intuition, as he realized the tension was about to explode.
She slapped him across the face with the speed and ferocity of a coiled snake. The heavy leather glove she wore deadened the sting but not the force. He had braced himself the instant her hand flashed out and didn’t flinch, but the blow rocketed through his skull. Her face convulsed with sorrow. She hit him again.
This time shock impelled him to action. Artemas grabbed her by the shoulders. He shook her—just once, but with a restrained power that flung her head back and made her gasp. Then he jerked her to him and trapped her, one arm around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides, the other around her shoulders. He caught her hair where the braid met the back of her skull and held her head still. She tried to wrench herself away from him, making hoarse, broken sounds of fury, kicking him in the ankles.
Artemas lifted her to her toes and tightened his hold. His face was almost touching hers, and her wild eyes stared into his without blinking. “I didn’t know”, he said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t know you needed me. I would never have turned you away.”
“Liar! You goddamned liar! You didn’t care!”
They struggled together, swaying. He was trying not to hurt her, but she seemed intent on the opposite. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Listen to me.” Their furious battle quieted. His shins throbbed where she’d slammed the toes of her heavy boots into them. Her expression was startled, disbelieving, disgusted.
He drew a sharp breath. “The man you spoke with in New York—Tamberlaine—had instructions to sidetrack people who might be a nuisance to me. That’s why he told you I wouldn’t see you. It was a mistake.”
Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “But I wrote to you, and you never answered. I told you my parents died. I needed your friendship even more than I needed money.”
“I stopped reading your letters. I didn’t know your parents had died or that you needed money. I had no idea that you came to New York two months ago to see me. I just found out this morning. Believe me.”
He was still holding her on her toes, as if by brute physical contact he could break through her resistance. She was rigid inside his embrace, but he couldn’t make himself let go of her. Her eyes glittered with warning, but there was pain in them, too, and the combination struck a chord inside him. “You’d have known if you’d wanted to,” she insisted. Her voice rose. “Why didn’t you read my letters?”
The truth about his coldblooded bargain with Senator DeWitt might damn him forever in her eyes. He could only give her vague explanations, and he knew they’d sound cruel. “Someone is living with me now. I planned to write to you about her, eventually.”
“You couldn’t read my letters because your ladyfriend might be jealous?” She twisted violently, and when his hold didn’t loosen, groaned with defeat. “Do you think I’ve been sitting here all these years waiting for you to come back and marry me because of some bullshit promise you made when we were kids?” The breath was raging out of her, her chest rising and falling convulsively. Her mouth curled in disgust. “You have bad taste in women if you picked one who doesn’t trust you enough to let you keep your friends. Or you must be the most pussy-whipped man in New York.”
“You have a vocabulary like a garbage dump.”
“I picked it up from you, when I was six. It stuck.”
“You haven’t seen me face-to-face in twelve years, and that’s all you remember?”
“I remember everything,” she replied, her voice a low snarl. “How I thought you were wonderful. How your letters always came just when I needed them most, and how you made me feel special when no one else could. That’s why I can’t accept some stupid excuse now.”
He set her down but kept his arms around her. “I’m so goddamned sorry I hurt you,” he told her. “I’m not the white knight you thought I was. I make mistakes. I make compromises. But I came here because I do care, and I want to help you.”
Suspicion curved her mouth into a hard line. Artemas despaired of ever gaining her respect again. He asked grimly, “Does it matter if you don’t understand why I’ve changed or what my life is like now?”
“Yes,” she said, drawling the word with a bitter lilt. “Because I still want to believe you’re the ‘Old Brook Prince.’ ” She flushed at the sound of that. “Because you were worth believing in. Like my parents”—her voice faltered—“after they died, I thought, There’s still Artemas. God, what a fool I was.”
“Lily.” Her name came out like a gruff plea. His hand relaxed on her hair but stayed there, cupping the back of her head. Her fists were trapped against his thighs. She unfurled her hands and flattened them to her own thighs, drawing back from the contact. The violence faded, but the undercurrent of tension was barely dormant. “I came here as soon as I learned what had happened,” he repeated hoarsely. “Why would I want to help you now, if I’d deliberately avoided you before?”
He watched that logic sink in. Her eyes glazed with confusion. Artemas bent his head to hers, lightly resting his cheek against her hair. “I can’t change anything,” he whispered. “I wish I could.”
She gave a low groan of despair. “If wishes were dollars, beggars would be rich. I’d be a millionaire.”
“I’ll do whatever I can. Tell me what happened to your parents.”
She didn’t answer. He felt the resentment and doubt in every rigid muscle of her body. “Tell me,” he ordered softly.
“A drunk clipped them on the expressway.” The agony in her voice made him shiver. He stroked the back of her bowed head. “Mama was driving,” she continued, each word hesitant, welling with pain. “Daddy could never handle a steering wheel very well, with his—with only one good hand. They were going down to Atlanta to celebrate their twentieth anniversary. I gave them a room for the night at a nice hotel.”
“When did it happen?”
“February.”
He felt the tremors in her body. She’d been through hell, and had barely had time yet to deal with the raw grief. “You came to New York only a few weeks later?”
“Yeah. I must have been out of my mind. That explains why I thought it made sense to chain myself to your office door.”
His heart was bursting. “No. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.” Her courage was formidable, and he connected with it. The scrappy little girl had become a woman of steely willpower.
“Daddy had to be cut out of the truck,” she continued, her voice shaking. The horror sank into Artemas. “They said h
e never had a chance. Mama, she—she was thrown out of the cab. She died in the ambulance.” She choked, then added, “When I went to see them, they looked like—like they’d been broken by a pair of big hands.”
“Lily, I’m sorry. I’ve never forgotten them. They were wonderful to me.”
She searched his face, swallowing harshly. “I do believe that,” she said, and a little more of the antagonism melted.
“What happened to the driver who caused the accident?” he asked.
She struggled for control, her face working, then said, “Goddamn him, he only lived a few days. I was really crazy then, I know. Because I kept thinking that if he didn’t die, I’d find a way to kill him.”
Artemas was silent, fighting the ache in his throat. Finally he said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you keep this place. I swear it.”
She stiffened. “You’re too late. I’ve already sold it.”
“When?”
“Not long after I went to New York. The new owner takes over next week.” Her voice faded miserably.
“You had to sell it so quickly?”
“I had bills to pay.”
“Then we’ll buy it back.”
Her eyes widened with amazement. Artemas looked at her in silent torment. He wanted to do everything for her, wanted to win not just her understanding but her. That realization slammed into him and broke on the hard reality of his other commitments. His family. The business’s future. Glenda’s loyalty, and his agreement with her ruthless father.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I can’t stay here more than a couple of days. If you want my help, then let’s get started. There’s no more time to debate my fall from grace.”
For a relentless eternity she looked up at him as if weighing need against pride. “I don’t want to believe you fell,” she answered finally. “I think you were pushed.”
The pensive tone in her voice nearly destroyed him. Her willingness to expect the best about him crystallized the dark force that he’d been trying not to analyze.