Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [153]
When she returned to the living room, Steve was making up the couch with pillows and a comforter.
Clare took her paper sack to the bathroom. A bathtub on claw feet, small black and white floor tiles, and an almost new pedestal sink spoke of generations of renovation and park people who came and went. A man’s razor and a purple handled toothbrush lay on a glass shelf in a house that did not know a woman’s touch. All Steve had brought of Susan was a piano, photos . . . and memory.
In the mirror, Clare saw that her color was high. The events of the last two days had dulled her recall of the night with Steve, but now it surged like a flame to the bellows. Earlier he’d offered his bedroom to her and Devon, but the brief intense look he’d given her said he hoped she’d share his sofa.
If Devon had been listening in the hospital, she knew more about her mother and Steve then Clare would have wished. Her cheeks grew brighter pink as she recalled how freely she’d talked about their night in a motel. Yet, spitting toothpaste into the sink, she decided that in this afternoon’s talk, Devon had approved of Steve.
Clare wiped her face and borrowed a bit of his hand lotion for moisturizer. It smelled woodsy, like the forest when it wasn’t burning, a scent that increased the pull of this land. Her sweet ache intensified, for tomorrow when she and Devon evacuated it would be time to call the airlines.
Dressed in the grizzly T-shirt, she checked on Devon once more and gave her another pain pill. When she paused in the doorway to the living room, Steve indicated that she should close the extra door. “A little advance warning,” he suggested softly.
Clare’s breath caught in her throat. They couldn’t, not with Devon just down the hall.
Yet, as she moved into the room, she imagined wearing something sleek and shining like white silk, or better yet, red and lacy.
Steve waited in the light of a green-shaded reading lamp in gray drawstring sweat pants, barefoot and bare-chested. His knees were still on ice. “Can I get you an Ibuprofen?” the medic in her asked.
He shook his head, bent and shoved the melting packs under the coffee table. His gaze explored her bare legs and upward at leisure. “My very favorite shirt,” he chuckled. His voice, pitched low, set her pulse drumming. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid over to make room and threw back the comforter.
She crossed to him, her bare feet whispering softly on the hardwood. The glow of the single bulb turned his hair to gold. When she settled beside him, her head fit against his shoulder and her legs entwined with his.
Steve spoke softly, “Part of me says it’s too bad your girl is in the other room, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stretched to reach the lamp and turned it off. Faint streetlight shone in the barred window in the front door, striping the floor and silvering the gold in his hair.
Profound peace enveloped her. His arms went around her and he drew the comforter over them both. He was so warm and solid, yet that pulse inside whispered of what they’d shared at the Stagecoach.
God help her, she was falling in love with this man. She might be a fool, but there it was.
She listened to the steady beat of his heart and thought about telling him of Garrett’s offer. Of asking what he’d feel if she moved West.
Steve kissed her forehead gently. His body against hers bore the heavy lassitude of fatigue and she felt the same. After all the anticipation . . .
“I may have to wake you in the middle of the night,” he whispered. “Just so you know I’m holding you.”
A smile curved her lips. Comfort and the smooth lethargy of being in his embrace settled over her.
“I promise I’ll be here,” she murmured.
Without a thought to the nightmares that had been her torture, she settled into the summer’s first deep and dreamless sleep.
Steve awakened in darkness and did not know