Was she really a victim here? She had been in the truck with Rick when it had been ambushed. Victim was the correct word.
So why was he here, waiting for just the right moment to squeeze out the private secrets of Rick’s last hours, in total violation of the legally binding agreement she’d signed?
What the hell kind of person was he?
A man in need of the truth, that’s what. The truth from a woman keeping more than a secret hidden inside of her.
“Oh, hey, Jon,” Lawrence interrupted his desperate thoughts. The old man scratched a stubby growth of beard. “Um, the library is right beside the shipping company. I’m going to call in and have a few books signed out. Would you mind picking them up while Sylvie’s getting her stuff? Under the name of Lawrence Fawcett. The librarian will know.”
Sylvie shoved open the barn door and escaped outside, inhaling the mountain breeze with hope it would clear her mind. She hadn’t wanted to go into town with Jon, suspecting he’d find it the perfect time to pump her for details she’d rather not give. Rather not? More likely, never give.
But when he lifted one corner of his mouth, with challenge in his eyes, she’d felt a stirring within.
God, he was gorgeous. It hadn’t really struck her until that moment. Suddenly, one night of passion—one of the most inappropriate events ever—had transformed her from…
She swallowed. From cool virgin to full, sensual woman.
Her temples pounded. She hadn’t wanted to get involved with Rick.
Until she faced death as a virgin.
Oh, Lord. She’d been so incredibly selfish. A man was dead just because she hadn’t wanted to die a virgin, and now she was pregnant, alone, and of all things, fatally attracted to her one-time lover’s bitter brother, who was hinting that he wanted to be a father to the child.
Wasn’t that dandy?
Directly in her vision stood the back of the house, or more pointedly, the kitchen. Had Jon actually considered kissing her? No. It was grief, and the way the shadows played on his face. For all she knew, he’d mastered the hungry sexual look years ago, and now wore it as a matter of habit.
“Are the keys in the truck?”
She jumped, knocking her attention from the house to Jon, who’d slipped up beside her, completely unnoticed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She tried to look calm. “It’s all right.”
The truck sat silent in front of her, its dark-green paint faded in spots by the brutal Alberta sun. Beside Jon, in a truck, while he drove?
His dark profile would show his concentration on his driving, like Rick’s had.
A sharp squeal cut through the hot air. She spun around to find the source.
Immediately Jon caught her arm. His warm fingers wrapped around her elbow as he pointed to the part of the front yard they could see. “It’s just the pig entertaining the kids. Relax.”
She sagged, letting out a whoosh of air. Of course. It was just Bruce. It wasn’t that night—
She offered Jon a foolish, wobbly smile. “Bruce is the camp favorite. But I swear if he roots through one more bag of garbage, there’ll be a pig roast on the next long weekend.”
Jon’s eyebrows creased together ever so briefly before he smiled and released her elbow. “Shall I drive?”
“No,” she snapped. Abruptly she cleared her throat and stiffened the smile she’d forced on her face. “Thanks. I’ll drive. I know where to go.”
When they reached the shipping company, Jon threw open the cab door. The bright sun beat down on him as he turned to face her. “I’ll just go get those books Lawrence asked for, then I’ll be straight back. Don’t lift anything, even if they say you have to, okay? I’ll do it.”
He threw her the firmest look he could summon after the relaxing ride back into town. She merely shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Jon climbed out and slammed the door. Sylvie had been quiet on the trip in. Her insistence on driving hadn’t struck him as odd, until they sat inside the old rattletrap and he’d realized that it was possible the last time she’d been riding as a passenger in a big truck was with Rick. And Rick, being the subordinate, would have done the driving.
She hadn’t wanted Jon to drive, and he understood her choice.
Walking across the pavement and through the scattering of various cars, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Thankfully, he had the experience of Toronto in the dog days of August. Now that was hot, especially in a bulletproof vest and dark pants. Here was a dry heat, he told himself. Tolerable.
So why didn’t he feel cooler? It was just barely June, for crying out loud.
A chorus of laughter and noise greeted him as he entered the library. An elderly librarian was reading a story to a circle of youngsters, all of whom yelled out excitedly when a question arose in the book’s dialogue. Preschool morning, he presumed. He walked up to the counter. “I’m here to pick up some books for a Lawrence Fawcett.”
The librarian nodded and pulled three books from under the counter. “They’ve already been signed out, so you don’t need anything. Here’s the slip saying when they have to be back.” She showed him the narrow paper before tucking it into the top book. “Tell Lawrence I’ve bought a whole bunch of new westerns he might be interested in. Especially after reading these books.”
Jon glanced down at the short pile, his eyes widening. Breastfeeding—Nature’s Way. He lifted the book and read the next title. A Father’s Guide to Surviving Pregnancy. Almost too scared to look, he lifted the second book and peered down. Pregnancy and Birth—An In-Depth Look at the Details. Wonderful. Why couldn’t Lawrence have asked Sylvie to fetch them?
He scooped up the books. Jeez, she’d just told him this morning. Was Lawrence already planning to be Sylvie’s labor coach? Dazed, he walked back to the shipping company, stopping only to dump the books on the front seat of the truck. Over the hood he spied Sylvie, lifting a large duffel bag over her shoulder. At her feet were two large barrack boxes and a rucksack.
What the hell was she doing?
He swore, long and loud enough for her to hear him. “Damn it, woman, I said I’d do that!”
He jogged over to the cement docking ramp and leaped up to glare at the young, pimply faced worker beside her. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? She’s pregnant, you know. And you’re making her lift all of this by herself?”
The worker blinked. “No, sir. I was going to put it all on a pallet and forklift onto her truck. I didn’t know she was pregnant. Sorry.”
Jon drew in a tight seethe. Of course he wouldn’t know. And he bet Sylvie wouldn’t ask for help.
Sylvie threw the lightly stuffed bag onto the wooden pallet the worker had hastily retrieved. “Good grief, Jon, quit ragging on the kid. I know my limitations, all right? This duffel bag’s practically empty.”
“The rest of it will be heavy. I know. I’ve got all of Rick’s stuff still sitting on my living room floor.”
She grabbed the shipping order and scrawled out her signature, tearing off her copy with the ease of someone who had worked in shipping all her adult life. Folding it with clipped, jerky movements, she snapped, “You still have his stuff in your living room? I packed his boxes two days after he died. They left by Hercules aircraft the day we had his memorial service. Isn’t it about time you sorted through that stuff? You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Without waiting for his