The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [91]
Only for fifteen more minutes tonight, though: At 10:30, Madame Romanescu was off the clock. A woman called while she was brushing her teeth. Two women, and then it turned out they were girls, not women; teenagers on Daddy’s credit card. She got rid of them quickly. She wasn’t so hard up yet that she took advantage of children.
Harpo had his own bed, but he would only sleep in it if it was next to hers. Fine with Molly; she liked the company. She got her covers just so, aimed the reading lamp just right. As soon as she opened her class notebook, the phone rang. Of course. It had been that kind of a day. Why wouldn’t the phone ring at 10:28?
“Evenin’, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, no hesitation. She’d know that lazy Western drawl anywhere. Everything relaxed; everything went slack. “I am so glad you called, Shorty.”
“Sure? It’s not too late for you?”
“Not at all. Not at all.” She felt as if she’d strained a lot of muscles today and she was about to get a massage. “How are you?”
“Better now,” he said, which made her smile in sympathy. “It’s been a day.”
“It certainly has. Fortunately, it’s almost over.”
“Amen to that.”
“ Are you out on the range? With the dogies?”
“No, ma’am, we finished that drive. I’m here in the bunkhouse, sippin’ a cuppa Arbuckles’.”
“ A cup of . . .”
“Cowboy talk for coffee.”
She pictured a big room full of bunks and sprawling cowboys, stuffed buffalo heads on the walls, everything made of pine. He’d be at a big round table with his feet up, drinking Arbuckles’ and playing poker. With his boots on.
“Doing some paperwork in my office,” he said, and she amended the picture. He was a modern cowboy; he probably had a computer, knew how to do spreadsheets. But he still had his boots on.
“I didn’t call for any special reason,” he said.
A lot of her callers started out saying that. “I remember, when last we spoke, you were thinking about perhaps changing jobs.”
“Still workin’ that over in my mind.”
“Good. I don’t think there is any hurry, and you want to be sure.”
“I’m with you there.”
“Something else I remember,” she said after a moment. “You were going to tell me all about your love life.”
She liked his laugh, low and sleepy. “Yes, ma’am. I also said that wouldn’t be a very long conversation.”
Shorter than me, was the way he’d put it. She wondered if they called him Shorty because he was short or because he was tall....
“Okay. There’s this woman.”
“I am not surprised.”
“And she’s . . . somethin’ else. Damned if I know what, though. She gets to me, I won’t lie, but here’s the thing—I don’t even like her. Can you feature that?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
“It’s crazy.”
“I know. You feel—ridiculous.”
“I feel like a sheep north o’ the ears, and there’s nothin’ dumber than a sheep. When I’m with her, she takes up . . . she just sorta completely ... Hell, it’s hard to describe.”
“When you’re with her, you can’t think of anyone but her. She blots out your good judgment.”
“Bingo.”
“Much of it is physical.”
“All of it’s physical. No, not all.”
“Not all. There is something . . . something strange, a feeling of helplessness, because you are afraid. . . .”
“Yeah. Afraid . . .”
“Afraid that it is . . .”
“That it’s . . .”
“Meant to be,” Molly said, dejected.
“Oh Christ, that’s it. Meant to be.”
They shared a moment of mutual horror.
“But I don’t like her,” Shorty repeated. “I wanna just—tell you the truth, ma’am—I just wanna shack up one time and be done with her.”
“Ah, but you wouldn’t do that.”
“I mighta, but now—You know what? I think she might be a thief to boot.”
“A thief.”
“Maybe. I’m not a hundred percent sure. She’s some kinda chiseler, though, and I don’t trust her.”
“Trust is everything. But if you’re wrong,” Molly said, thinking out loud, “if you have misjudged, then . . . it is too bad, yes?”
“Yyyeah . . .”
“Yes. It is very painful to be the one who has been found unworthy. Without cause.”
“So you’re sayin’ . . . What are you sayin’?”
She wasn’t sure. “Only that when we are