“Sarah! Josh Plunkett’s on the phone!”
She swiveled toward the house. “What’s he want?” she called back to her mother.
“Says one of the lambs got out during the thunderstorm. Dang mule somehow stepped on it, broke its leg. The boy’s next door to hysterical.”
“Tell him I’ll be right out, to keep the lamb still and himself calm.”
Sarah started for the house to get her shoulder bag and car keys when Lance called after her. Eyebrows raised, she looked back over her shoulder.
“What you said about you and Dean being from two different planets? They’re making remarkable strides in space travel these days, you know.”
Sarah allowed a half smile for the young man, not having the heart to point out that Dean’s planet was probably in another galaxy. Billions and billions of light years away. And she drove a Bronco, not the USS Enterprise.
A couple minutes later, as she steered the car out onto the road and headed north toward the Plunkett farm, she saw Katey and Dean come out of the kennel, easily visible thanks to the sensor light over the kennel door. As Sarah acknowledged Katey’s exuberant goodbyes with a wave of her hand, she couldn’t help but see Dean still wore that whipped-dog expression. Frowning, she concentrated on the twin beams of light in front of her.
And ignored the panic threatening to choke her.
Even though Dean had left the Whitehouses’ hours ago, he still couldn’t get the image of a pair of endless legs out of his head.
No. It was more than that, he thought, scrunching his pillow under his head. There were plenty of long legs in Atlanta. None of them, however, belonged to Sarah Whitehouse.
And there were other images, like specters, determined to plague him that night: Sarah’s brilliant smile and quick laugh and gentle, loving teasing; Sarah sitting with one long finger tucked under her chin as she concentrated on some convoluted explanation of Katey’s; Sarah head to head with Jennifer as they shared sisterly secrets; Sarah joking with her mother, their laughs blending in the sweetest harmony heard this side of the Robert Shaw Chorale.
The way that laughter died whenever she caught him looking at her.
Finally, tired of flopping around in bed like water on a hot skillet, he sat up and perched on its edge, raking both hands through his hair. Too many Cokes, he thought.
Too many memories.
He fumbled for his Timex on top of the nightstand, waiting a moment until the tiny phosphorescent green numerals came into focus. Twelve forty-five. He’d been in bed for nearly two hours and hadn’t been to sleep yet. Didn’t look as though the sandman was going to pay him a visit anytime soon, either.
The old floorboards protested when he stood and crossed to the open window. He leaned against the sill, curtains of some diaphanous material—his aunt had redone his old bedroom immediately after he’d left, Lance had told him—brushing against his bare shoulders, making him shiver. The moon was full; stark, deep shadows carved the front yard and road beyond, between patches of silvery light bright enough to read by.
He needed a walk.
Thirty seconds of blind rummaging through his soft-sided suitcase yielded a pair of clean jeans and T-shirt. He stumbled a bit in the dark as he pulled them on, the harsh grating of the zipper magnified in the deep middle-of-the-night country silence. Seconds later, he was out the back door.
The only sounds he heard as he ambled down the road in the general direction of Sarah’s house were the occasional chirping of an insomniac cricket and the murmurings of leaves as the night breeze disturbed their repose. The navy blue sky, punctuated with too many stars to take them all in, showed no signs of the earlier storm, but the air was cool and clean and fresh, the hems of his jeans soon soaked from the dampness leeching from the ground.
He passed the row of cypresses bordering the west edge of the Whitehouse property and stopped, staring at the house, wondering what the general reaction would be if he just walked up and knocked on the door. Took all of two, maybe three seconds to decide there were easier ways to commit suicide.
Then he noticed her car wasn’t in the driveway. Concerned, he checked out the back…nope. She’d left on her call at nine-thirty. Where the hell could she still be at 1:00 a.m.?
He stood, hands on hips, mouth drawn. Okay, so whatever he and Sarah had once had was shot to hell. He knew that. He also knew—for the sake of family harmony, if nothing else—he owed it to both of them, to everyone, to at least try to salvage something of the present.
Otherwise, he might never be able to sleep again.
He settled himself into an Adirondack chair on the front lawn, and waited.
Nothing was ever simple. The lamb’s leg had refused to respond to her normal manipulative techniques, so she had to load the eighty-pound animal into the Bronco and take him into the clinic where she could do a radiograph and see exactly what was going on. Turned out the joint had been sheared in half right at the growing cartilage, with the farthest piece displaced sideways. That meant sedation—at one point, Sarah wondered if the thirteen-year-old Josh would need it more than the lamb—and some careful pulling and twisting until everything was lined up and she heard that reassuring “click” that indicated the joint had slipped back into place. If the animal managed to keep on the splints, with some careful tending he’d be just fine.
She hoped her own prognosis was as good.
As she pulled into the driveway, she muttered a prayer of gratitude that the Bronco wasn’t a real horse that needed stabling. Cut the engine, go to bed…the day was over at last—
“What took you so long?”
With a little scream, she banged into the open car door, scraping her arm.
“Lord Almighty, Dean! You scared the hell out of me—”
“What took you so long?” he repeated.
“The call was more complicated than I expected, what do you think?” she lobbed back, rubbing her whacked arm. “That happens, far more often than I usually admit. And what on earth are you doing here at—what time is it…?” she tilted her watch up to the moonlight, squinted at it “—one-fourteen in the freakin’ morning?”
She could make out broad shoulders lifting and falling, delineated by a thin outline of moonlight. “I couldn’t sleep. So I took a walk, ended up here, saw you weren’t and got worried.”
“Well, here I am, nothing ate me on my way home, and I’m about to drop in my tracks.” She slammed shut her car door. “I’m going to bed, if you don’t mind.” She started up the driveway toward the house, spinning around in shock when Dean grabbed her arm.
“We need to talk.”
Oooh, no, she thought, smelling danger like a wolf. She was exhausted, and vulnerable, and the damp night hair had heightened Dean’s scent far more than she knew she could safely handle.
“Look—if I don’t want to talk to you when I’m awake, it’s a sure bet I don’t now.” She jerked away from him and continued toward the house, awake enough to notice even that brief contact had sent a wave of shivers skittering over her arm. “Good night, Dean,” she tossed over her shoulder.
She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Sarah, I’m sorry—” she heard behind her “—I know it’s way overdue, but I feel terrible about what happened between us.”
Ignoring the little voice that said keep walking, don’t respond, don’t get into it, she whipped around. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me? Please don’t tell me you’re that naive.”
“I’m