Chapter Three

 

Nobody had questioned Dash when he left the ranch early, claiming he needed to make a run into town. He’d gotten used to the small grocery store in Morgan’s Creek, and he was able to chat comfortably with the owner Ted Miller, who’d wasted no time in showing Dash his own bullet scar, high on his shoulder, which had earned him a Purple Heart in Vietnam. Though Dash wouldn’t say the Millers were exactly friends, at least he was able to relax in their company. Baby steps, his mother would call them. He wasn’t over his discomfort of going out in public, but he was making a few small strides in that direction.

He picked up potatoes, a bottle of red wine and a few other items to accompany the steaks he’d liberated from the ranch freezer. He hesitated, though, over the small section of fresh flowers. Mary, Mrs. Miller, caught him deliberating.

“Now I know Leah isn’t back yet,” the silver-haired woman teased. “So there must be someone else who caught your eye. The roses just came in today, so they’re good and fresh.”

Dash felt himself blush, which he hadn’t known he was capable of—since maybe junior high. He looked at the roses then shook his head and pointed at something sort of white and swirly. “What are those?”

“Calla lilies. Very elegant.” Her faded blue eyes twinkled. “Of course, if it’s someone who lives out here, she might be more of a wildflower kind of girl. I’ve got a big patch of bluebonnets in the side yard—I could go cut you a bunch.”

“Are those the ones growing all over the place?” He’d seen the blue-covered roadsides and gardens everywhere, even around his line shack—it was really quite impressive, but weren’t the flowers awfully small for a bouquet? The ones at his place were only a few inches tall.

“State flower of Texas, my boy,” she replied. “Hearty enough to thrive in this environment but about the prettiest damn things on earth. The ones I have are a lot bigger than the local variety, and I grew them from seed, so don’t worry, they’re legal to cut.”

Pretty, wild, resilient—that suited Carmen perfectly. Dash nodded and thanked her then he finished checking out. Mary was waiting for him by the door with a big tissue-wrapped bouquet of the vivid bluebonnets.

“These are on the house. You have a good night now, hon,” she told him, handing him the bundle. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Another middle-aged woman in the check-out line laughed heartily. “That leaves you a lot of room, son,” she teased. “Mary Miller was a wild one back in the day. Just ask Ted.”

“Look who’s talking, Loretta,” Mary shot back with a wink. “You went out with half the football team in high school—all at the same time.” With a snicker and a wink, she elbowed Dash toward the door. “Now get going before those flowers wilt.”

* * * * *

Carmen dithered in front of her closet for far longer than she should have. Stupid, really. Since she had real trouble making out patterns or matching things that weren’t solid blocks of color, most of her wardrobe consisted of jeans or denim shorts and simple shirts—solid color scoop-necked Ts for summer and sweaters for winter, with some long-sleeved man-tailored shirts in denim or white for in between. She also had a couple of simple black dresses she mostly wore when visiting her parents in Houston since she couldn’t bring herself to wear jeans to the opera, which was the one passion she shared with her mom. Wearing a dress seemed way over the top though. She finally settled on jeans and a butter-soft T in a bright green that reminded her of Dash’s eyes. Silver hoops at her ears and her silver charm bracelet weren’t too much, she decided, and she swiped on a coat of her favorite grapefruit-flavored lip gloss. There. That would have to do. Makeup was more than she could manage. Leaving her feet bare, she padded downstairs to finish making the salad.

She popped the bowl back into the fridge to stay cool just seconds before she heard the truck out front. Silver chuffed softly but didn’t bark or move as the doorbell rang, a sure sign that he’d already accepted Dash into his pack. Carmen couldn’t help but grin at the thought as she crossed the room to open the door. Silver was a very discerning judge of character and not usually so accepting of another potential alpha.

When she opened the door, Dash thrust a large bundle into her arms. “For you.”

The scent was a dead giveaway, though judging by the size, these had come from a garden rather than the side of the road. Carmen buried her nose in the bluebonnets and inhaled deeply. “Thank you—they’re my favorites. Come on in and have a seat while I get a vase.”

“How’s the eagle doing?” He stayed in the center of the floor while she got a vase from a cabinet, fortunately with minimal fumbling. Having a near-photographic memory helped her muddle along on her own, but getting things from the back of cupboards was still tricky when she couldn’t see.

“She’s doing well. I’ll probably let her go day after tomorrow. You can come help me release her if you want.” She filled the vase with water then set it on the counter beside the bundle of flowers, which she unwrapped and carefully lowered into the vase. “Would you like to go see her before we start dinner?”

“Why don’t I start the grill then we can go out to the barn while it’s heating up?” She heard a thunk and realized he’d set a sack of groceries on the counter.

“Sounds good.” She led him through her living area to the sliding glass doors opening out onto the tiled patio her grandfather had built her. The gas barbecue was bricked into one end of the space, with a tiled counter beside it.

“Nice,” said Dash, with a distinct note of masculine approval in his voice. “Always wanted a setup like this, but it’s hard when you live in a condo. Might just have to add one on to the line shack.”

Carmen laughed. “Or you could build yourself an actual house, like Leah’s been telling you to. But we had that conversation last night.”

“We did. And again, maybe eventually I will. For right now though, I’m comfortable where I am.” There was a whoosh as the gas burner lit and then Dash fiddled with the controls before closing the lid. “Now let’s go see the bird.”

He captured her hand as they walked to the barn, and that small touch sent a tingle all the way to Carmen’s toes. It was going to be a challenge to make it through dinner without dragging him upstairs. She’d never been this turned-on by a guy before, not to the point where her jeans were wet just from walking beside him, holding hands.

“I didn’t tell you last night that your barn is amazing. It looks every bit as professional as Shane’s veterinary office,” Dash told her as they moved into the cool, shady barn.

“Shane helped me set it up,” she admitted. “We actually work together quite a bit. Since wild animals don’t have anyone to pay vet bills, he usually lets me do what I can and handles things such as surgeries and euthanasia as needed.”

He watched intently as she fed the eagle the other half of this morning’s fish, and once again pitched in, filling the water bowl and dumping dirty newspapers in the trash while she relined the bird’s cage.

“So what do you do to pay the bills?” he asked as they walked back to the house. “Your grandfather mentioned you were some kind of artist, but he didn’t give me any details.”

She caught the note of uncertainty in his voice and grinned. “And you’re wondering how someone who can’t see can draw. You and everybody else. The answer to that is, I don’t know. I just can. Especially animals. What I do is write children’s books based on Native American legends and illustrate them with my pen-and-ink drawings. The publisher has someone else who sometimes adds color. When I’m telling the story, the art just seems to flow. I couldn’t tell you exactly what they look like, but I can tell if they’re good or not as I’m doing them. It’s just another gift—one I don’t question too closely, just in case I jinx it.”

“That’s…amazing,” Dash said. They stopped on the patio where he fussed with the grill some more. “Maybe after dinner you could show me some of your drawings.” Seemingly right at home, he let himself back into the house and started pulling things out of his grocery bag.

“If you want. You don’t seem as freaked out by the idea that I can draw as some of my dates have been.”

Dash shrugged. “Cops aren’t supposed to believe in anything they can’t see, touch or enter into evidence. But I don’t know a single one, especially the good ones, who don’t rely on some kind of intuition. I’ve knocked on doors where the wife knew the moment her husband died, and was waiting for us to come tell her. My mom has a friend who reads tea leaves, and let me tell you, I’d have been a lot better off if I’d listened to her more often. Weird shit exists in this world. Why not a visually impaired woman who creates art? Now a more important question. Do you like California shiraz?”

Once again she couldn’t help but laugh. Her nose picked up a hint of garlic and pepper, and figured he was seasoning the steaks. “It’s fine. There’s a corkscrew in the drawer next to the sink. I’ll get some glasses.”

* * * * *

“I think you have everyone fooled, Dash Hyde,” Carmen teased as they finished loading the dishwasher after dinner. “Everyone in Morgan’s Creek is convinced you’re this quiet hermit, but you can really hold up your end of a conversation, can’t you?”

Dash felt his face heat. “I’m not—comfortable around most people. For some reason it’s easy to talk to you.”

Looking around the great room, he saw only a couple of doors—one led to the bathroom where he’d washed up before dinner, and the other, next to it, was open, showing a laundry-utility area. The entire rest of the first floor was one big open space, with soft earth tones on the walls and colorful rugs on the gleaming pine floors. Furnishings and the area rugs divided it into three basic sections—kitchen, living room and office-studio. Her voice softened as she took him by the hand, leading him over to her work area. “Is it because you know I can’t see the scars?”

“At first, maybe,” he confessed. “For a few minutes anyway. After that you were just…you.” He didn’t add that part of it had to be the massive attraction he felt anytime they were together. Of course it had been hard to get through dinner without jumping her bones too. His dick was trying to push its way out through the front of his jeans, but he really wanted to see her artwork.

“Thanks.” She lifted their clasped hands to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I like you too. Now here. These drawings on the wall came from my first book—the story of How Grandmother Spider Stole the Sun.”

She pointed to a series of six framed black-and-white drawings that nearly took his breath away with their simplicity and beauty. The animals were stylized, almost like the fetishes he’d seen in museums, but they were very clearly full of life and personality. The first showed the backs of a group of animals, all staring at a very clever-looking fox. Dash studied the second, which looked like some kind of rodent, but with a big, fluffy tail. “So what’s the story?”

“When the Earth was first made, this side of it had no light, but the Fox had heard that there was sun on the other side. The Opossum had a big bushy tail, so he volunteered to go steal the sun from the other side of the world, and hide it in his tail to carry it home.”

“But opossums don’t have bushy tails,” Dare said. “At least the ones we have in Chicago sure don’t.”

“They’re the same animal,” she said with that light, sweet laugh. “But this is a story. Just listen. The opossum tried to steal a piece of the sun, but it burned all the hair off his tail and the people there caught him and took their sun back.” Pointing to the next frame, she showed him the opossum, this time with his familiar naked tail, which had smoke steaming from it.

“Ah, I get it.” Dash looked at the next picture. “Eagle?”

“Nope. Buzzard. When he tried to steal the sun, it burned all the feathers off his head.” Sure enough, the next one showed the same bird with a bare, smoldering pate.

“This is really cool. Comanche legend?”

“Cherokee—my paternal great-grandmother used to love telling me these stories when I was little. Do you want to hear how it ends?”

“Well, I’m guessing the spider is involved.” The sixth and seventh pictures showed a large spider, sitting in a dark tree at first then, in the end, on a web holding a round jar with a brilliant sun shining in the sky. Odd, how all that could be portrayed with just white paper and black ink, but Carmen had managed it beautifully.

“Grandmother Spider made a jar out of clay and spun a web. Then after she captured the sun in her jar, she scurried home along the silken strands. Not only did she bring the sun to the Cherokee people, she also gave them the gift of pottery.”

“Damn,” he said, staring at the collection and shaking his head. “I expected you to be good, but these are…phenomenal. Carmen Whitefeather, you are one multitalented woman.” He dropped her hand to cup her face with both of his and kissed her slowly and deeply—the way he’d been wanting to since he arrived.

“Holy crap,” she gasped after they came up for air. “You’re pretty talented yourself. I think I need another glass of wine. Want one?”

“I’m driving back to my place,” he reminded her. “It’s not far, but I doubt there’s cab service available.”

Shoot, she thought she was being obvious, but clearly she was rustier at this sort of thing than she’d thought. “You could stay awhile.”

The little groan he almost managed to suppress was the best sound she could have heard. “Not a good idea.”

“Isn’t it?” She inched along the back of the sofa then reached out and laid her hand over his. “Last time I checked we were both consenting adults.”

“Yeah, but your grandfather is a friend of mine—and he carries a big-ass shotgun.”

“Grandfather knows I’m not a vestal virgin.” She moved closer so she could feel the heat emanating from this body. “I haven’t had a lot of lovers, but he’s always been okay with the ones I choose. In return, I don’t mention his weekly visits to a certain widow in town. We keep an eye on each other, but we don’t try to control each other’s lives.” She was stretching the truth, but only a little. There’d been exactly two lovers in the past five years, neither of them lasting very long.

“I don’t know,” Dash said. Beneath hers, his hand gripped the edge of the wooden sofa table so hard it had to hurt. She knew his hands had been damaged in the fire he’d survived. “It’s been—awhile for me.” There was a tremor in his voice she could tell had nothing to do with desire, though his taut posture told her he was interested.

“Since before you were hurt?” Ah, performance anxiety. That she could understand, though she was pretty damn sure Dash wouldn’t have any problems in that category. Not based on how hard he’d been when they danced.

She knew he nodded—she’d already tuned into him almost the way she usually only did with animals. There were only a very few people she’d ever become that comfortable with, and almost all of them were family. Never had that intimate connection happened in conjunction with sexual awareness. That unique combination made her crave a deeper exploration of the possibilities.

She reached up and touched his cheek. “What about you? Do you want to stay? No harm, no foul if you don’t. I promise not to even tell Leah or Granddad.”

“I want to stay,” he rumbled. “I’m just not sure I should. You’re a tempting woman, Carmen Whitefeather. The thing is, I like you too, a hell of a lot. I don’t want to mess up what might turn out to be a good friendship.”

“I promise.” She held her hand up over her heart. “We stay friends, regardless of how the with-benefits part goes.”

“And if your grandfather tries to kill me?” He brought his hand up to cover the one she’d rested on his cheek. “Will you promise to protect me?”

Carmen laughed. She didn’t think Dash would have trouble defending himself from anyone, let alone a seventy-five-year-old man. “I promise. But don’t worry, he rarely scalps anyone these days.”

His answering chuckle was deep and rich, if just a little rusty. “Okay, even I’m not enough of an inner-city boy to believe in that stereotype.” He lifted the hand that wasn’t over hers to rub his shaved head. “Besides, I’ve got that covered on my own.”

Carmen lifted her fingers from his cheek and smoothed them across the unmarked side of his head, from his ear, down to the back of his neck. “It suits you,” she said, marveling at the texture, smooth skin roughened by just the slightest stubble. “Have you always shaved it?”

“No, just since the hospital,” he admitted. “It—doesn’t grow in well where the scars are.”

Carmen went up on her toes and kissed the skin just below his left ear where she remembered the scarring started. “Want to see the rest of my house, Dash?”