Sweet Talk Read online

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly. When she neither moved or answered, he added, “You didn’t know it was me in the house, did you?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He could see her mouth below her arm, and he watched it while he said, “I’ve never seen anyone so frightened before, Val. How can I undo the damage?”

  Her lips didn’t move for the longest time, but finally Reed saw and heard her whisper, “You didn’t do the damage. Someone else did that.”

  He knew then that the fright he’d caused her today was somehow connected to the incident she’d told him about. He felt terrible for causing her such distress.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, his misery apparent. “Can you ever forgive me?” He was surprised to see her move her arm from her face and look at him. He tried to smile and knew it was a weak effort, but how could he pretend nothing was wrong and give her a big grin at a time like this? Emotions, both his and hers, were running on high, and if she told him she would forgive him for everything he’d ever done to annoy or disturb her, if he ran naked in the snow from one end of Main to the other, he would do it.

  But she made no such silly requests. Instead, she folded back the blankets and invited him into her bed without saying a word.

  He was stunned and could only stare at those turned-down blankets. His mind raced. Was this truth or dare time? What was she thinking? Was he forgiven? Had she decided to like him? Maybe love him?

  “You can’t get in bed with so many clothes on,” she whispered huskily. She couldn’t help herself. She loved him. Yes, regret would torment her to tears later on, but right now she needed his love, his arms around her.

  Reed was astonished. This was incredible, unimaginable. He got off the bed and began undressing, fumbling with ordinary buttons in his haste. His fingers felt thick and awkward. Taking off one’s clothes was as natural as breathing; a man shouldn’t have to think about it. Actually, he wasn’t thinking about it. His thoughts, every one of them, were on Val, warmly sensual and inviting, lying there with her gorgeous aqua-blue eyes never straying from him. This was a miracle, he decided, and maybe it was a permanent miracle. Dare he hope for so much?

  By the time his clothes had been transferred from his body to the floor, he was completely aroused. And when she moved the blankets another few inches so he could get into bed, he saw that she had done something with her robe and was naked. His entire system burst into flames.

  Slipping into bed beside her, he hungrily kissed her face, her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, her lips, and his desire grew so fast and with such force that he could barely maintain control. He tried to keep it slow and easy, but that was a lost cause, and before he knew it he was on top of her.

  She was a willing participant, kissing him back or instigating her own kisses, touching him in all the right places, holding and stroking his manhood, driving him further and further toward the edge of the cliff.

  He couldn’t hold back any longer and he slid into her, groaning with the intensity of the pleasure rippling throughout his body. He’d been suffering, make no mistake, putting in nightmarish nights and nerve-shattering days, remembering the night at her cabin much too often and too clearly, remembering the following morning with more pain than any man deserved just for loving a woman.

  He began moving, his hips rising and falling with hot and almost fierce thrusts. Val whimpered almost at once, but he didn’t ask if he was hurting her because he knew the difference between whimpers of pain and passion. She was as feverishly ready for this as he was, and they rode the wave locked together, in perfect harmony.

  Val was a mirror image of Reed’s passion, and her mind had totally deserted her. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t lonely or frightened or hiding; she was in the open and free and soaring to long-forgotten heights.

  They rushed to the finish line, neither holding anything back. They cried out together, more than once, writhed as one entity and shared a final kiss that started out greedily and ended with unmistakable tenderness. Then it was over. The room was silent; the bed no longer rocked with unleashed passions. They both lay where they had fallen, Val with her eyes closed, Reed on top of her with his face all but buried in the pillow next to her head.

  Minutes passed with neither moving so much as an eyelash. Reality returned slowly for each of them, but Val knew that Reed’s reality was vastly different than hers. Her first sound was a sigh she tried to suppress, but knew the second it happened that Reed had heard her.

  He raised his head and smiled. She saw his expression as one of happiness and supreme satisfaction. Everything was perfect in his world. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he’d wanted her. No one had forced her into bed with him; quite the contrary, which should have made this easier and didn’t. Unlike Reed, who seemed abnormally blessed with a doting family and an enviable self-confidence, she had struggled through every day of her complicated and difficult life. It wasn’t Reed’s fault. It really wasn’t even her fault. That was just the way it was, and she had long ago stopped trying to turn herself into a member of one of those sappy, happy TV sitcom families that anyone with a lick of sense knew was pure fiction.

  Except maybe the Kingsleys came close to that dream. Certainly Reed fit the mold.

  Val sighed again and Reed’s smile faded. “That sounded ominous,” he said. “Tell me I’m imagining things.”

  She couldn’t hide from the piercing energy of his eyes, so she bolstered her courage and looked directly into them.

  “You’re not imagining anything. Let me be blunt. You unlocked a door that never should have been opened. Please go.”

  He was thunderstruck. “Go? As in get out of this bed and out of your life? You’re not talking about the door to this house, are you?”

  “You know I’m not,” she whispered. “Please. I…I’m asking nicely.”

  Reed stared at her until emotion caused his eyes to burn. She wasn’t going to change her mind, he realized, and though he was full of questions, he was also hurt and angry.

  “Fine,” he said gruffly. He moved away from her and got off the bed. He was dressed in minutes, finally standing at the foot of the bed and willing her to look at him, which she avoided by again covering her face with her arm. “This is great, Val,” he said harshly. “A real kick in the teeth. Well, lady, next time you have an itch that needs scratching, send for some other sap. Frankly, you are driving me over the hill, and that’s something I’ve never said to another human being!”

  He walked out.

  On Wednesday morning the Rumor Family Clinic was buzzing with whispered conversations about the doings in Robert Jackson’s room. It had taken some serious maneuvering; organizing an event such as this one on short notice was usually impossible, but Jackson’s room was filled to capacity with chairs, tables and people. Mr. Jackson’s bed took up the lion’s share of space, so everything else, including furniture, Judge Fred Liggitt, Prosecutor Anthony Morrow, Sheriff Holt Tanner, Max and Jinni Cantrell and Guy’s defense team were crowded in elbow-to-elbow. There was also a reporter from the Rumor Mill in the group surrounding the old man’s bed, and one other person, a surprise witness, a Mrs. Bridget Plum—Birdie to her friends, she explained after being sworn in.

  They had effectively turned the hospital room into a courtroom, although the judge, speaking in somber tones, had made it very clear that this was not a trial. “This is, ladies and gentlemen, an informal hearing to get at the truth. Yesterday, according to Mr. Morrow, Mr. Jackson related certain events pertinent to the serious charges pending against Guy Cantrell. That testimony must be verified and put on record before Mr. Cantrell’s trial can proceed.”

  Mrs. Plum was speaking. “Bobby and I grew up together. Our parents were friends, Bobby and I were friends, as far back as my own memory takes me. No one has yet informed me of what he told you yesterday, but I know this much. If Bobby Jackson said it, then it’s true.”

  “You know Mr. Jackson well enough to vouch for hi
s veracity when he’s lived as a hermit for at least ten years? That’s difficult to believe, Mrs. Plum,” the prosecutor said.

  “Objection,” a defense attorney said. “Badgering the witness.”

  The judge intervened. “Mr. Morrow, personal opinion is not allowed in this hearing. Confine your remarks to questions.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Plum said to Judge Liggitt, while looking disapprovingly at the prosecutor who had dared to doubt her word. “Allow me to say this,” she said pertly. “Just because Bobby preferred a solitary lifestyle after he lost his dear wife, Hannah, didn’t mean that his true friends forgot him. I saw him quite often, actually. You see, my home lies only a few miles on the other side of Logan’s Hill, and he hiked down to see me or I hiked the hill to see him. I lost five hundred acres of forest in the fire, but I’ve thanked the good Lord many times for sparing my house and grounds. Considering that the Plum Ranch consists of five thousand meandering acres, my loss was minimal.”

  Jinni sat very close to Max, with her hand tucked in his arm. She felt him tense up suddenly and she whispered, “What?”

  “I know who she is,” Max whispered back. “So will everyone else very soon now. You’ll see.”

  “May we all hear what took a good friend such as yourself so long to come forward in this case?”

  “You may. I’ve been in Scottsdale, Arizona, since October. I have excellent people running the ranch and have been wintering in Arizona for quite a few years now. I believed Bobby died in the fire, as everyone else around here did. I still don’t know why he didn’t come to me instead of living in that cave under the waterfall all summer. Then, the other day, there it was, the whole story, or rather, as much of it as was known at the time, on a national news program. I immediately booked a flight for Montana.”

  The head defense attorney spoke. “Are we doubting Mrs. Plum’s probity? She does not claim to know anything about the homicides, her testimony is strictly limited to Mr. Jackson’s character. I suggest we move on.”

  “Not quite yet,” the prosecutor said. “Yesterday Mr. Jackson related a strange tale indeed. The only person who could identify him, until today, was a Cantrell—Michael Cantrell, a young man of fifteen years. Both Michael and Mr. Jackson claim some sort of bond that I find unusual, or perhaps I should use the word convenient. After all, Guy Cantrell is Michael’s uncle, and with Mr. Jackson having so few allies, it’s not completely out of the question that he might stretch the truth to help his one friend.”

  “That’s utterly ridiculous,” Mrs. Plum said with a derisive snort. “For one thing, Bobby Jackson has more than one friend. In the second place he wouldn’t lie to save his own soul. You, sir, are the one stretching the truth, twisting it around, in fact, to fit a scenario better to your liking.”

  “And you, ma’am, a complete stranger to everyone in this room, expect the members of this panel to accept your opinion of Jackson’s character when the story he wants us to believe sounds more like a fairy tale than reality. How did he live on the hill all summer? The fire must have decimated berry bushes and…and… Well, whatever it was he was eating before the fire.”

  “Bobby grew a large garden every summer. Last year’s crop was destroyed, but he had a root cellar full of vegetables and canned goods that the fire passed over with very little damage,” Bridget Plum replied. “And I usually gave him any supplies he needed beyond that. I was concerned about the inevitable winter months and had asked him to stay with me during bad weather. Bobby’s a sweet man, but he can also be stubborn as an old mule. He’s like most men in that respect.”

  The prosecutor looked disgruntled for a moment, then changed tactics. “I think everyone would agree that since you are vouching for Mr. Jackson’s honesty, we should learn a bit more about yours.”

  “No one has ever doubted my word,” Bridget said icily.

  The prosecutor smiled. “Of course, we only have your word on that, don’t we?”

  “I am not amused, Mr. Morrow,” Bridget snapped. “I was raised in a Christian home, and I do not lie.”

  “Let’s learn a little more about your background, Mrs. Plum. That Christian home you speak of was on the same land you now call the Plum Ranch?”

  “No, it was not. I married Harold Plum over forty years ago.”

  “And prior to your marriage you lived with your parents?”

  “Of course.”

  “Their names, please?”

  “Winslow and Harriet Kingsley,” Mrs. Plum said.

  A hush fell over the entire gathering. Anthony Morrow gaped at the woman. Jinni Cantrell felt as though a bolt of electricity had somehow entered the room and was still bouncing from person to person. She heard Max chuckle quietly, deep in his throat, and she marveled that the Kingsley name could produce such astonishing results.

  Morrow cleared his throat. “You’re a Kingsley.”

  “My daddy and Stratton Kingsley’s daddy were twins. Everyone always said they came out fighting at birth and never stopped until they completely cut ties with each other and went their separate ways. The two sides of the family have never gotten together. It’s entirely possible that the Kingsleys on this side of the hill don’t even know I own the Plum Ranch only a few miles away on the other side of Logan’s Hill.” She smiled. “That information took a bit of starch out of your collar, didn’t it, young man?”

  The weather had been typical for Montana—a blizzard one day and bright sunshine and melting snow the next. When Val saw the incredibly beautiful morning, she decided that she had to get away and do something to get her mind off of yesterday and Reed, if only for a few hours. Jim and Estelle were at their home instead of at the Whitehorn Hospital—Jim had phoned—but Estelle had to take it easy for a few days. Val told him to stay home with his wife and not to worry about coming to work, that she was doing just fine.

  It wasn’t true. She wasn’t fine at all. But she didn’t give a whit about her business or anything else. After feeding and caring for the animals in her kennels, she got ready and drove to Billings, where she shopped until she was ready to drop. She drove back to Rumor late in the afternoon with her SUV full of new clothes and a who-gives-a-damn-about-clothes sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  She hadn’t finished unloading her new things when Jinni’s rig pulled into her driveway. Her sister jumped out. “Where in heck have you been all day?”

  “Shopping,” Val said dryly, because with her arms full of packages her day’s activities had to be perfectly obvious.

  “I wanted to go with you!”

  “You’ve been busy, Jin, and I needed something to do today.”

  Jinni peered into the back of Val’s SUV. “I’ll get the rest of these things. Wait until I tell you what happened today.”

  They trudged into Val’s house and deposited their parcels with those Val had already brought in. “Looks like you had fun,” Jinni said. “Can I see?”

  “Later. I’m going to make some tea.”

  “Whoa, girl, today is not a tea day. Today is a champagne day!”

  “Oh, really? Well, sorry, but I’m fresh out of champagne.”

  “Wine will do. I know you have wine.”

  “Help yourself. I’m going to haul this stuff to my bedroom.”

  Ten minutes later they were settled on the sofa, one curled up at each end, sipping some very good red merlot. “You’re bursting at the seams,” Val said. “So, what was so great about today?”

  “Guy has been freed.”

  Val stared a moment. “Jin, that’s wonderful! Max must be doing handsprings.”

  “Just about. Actually, when I said Guy was freed, I meant that he’s going to be free by tonight. Seems that even though everyone now believes he didn’t do it, there are oodles of loose ends of legal mumbo-jumbo to tie up.”

  “I’m not doubting your enthusiasm, but what made everyone—I assume you’re speaking of the law—start believing in Guy’s innocence? Something must have happened.”

  “Indeed it
did, and therein lies my story. Here goes. The Logan’s Hill fire was deliberately set. Not to burn down the whole country, but it was started to promote a romantic little setting for Wanda Cantrell and Morris Templeton, who, dear sister, were having an affair. Mr. Jackson told the whole story. He saw everything, and I do mean everything. He said that he’d seen Wanda and Morris on the hill together several times before that fatal day…doing it.” Jinni couldn’t help smiling. “That was the way he described what he saw. ‘They were up there, doing it.’ He’s a funny old guy, Val, and he saw Guy show up that day and catch his wife and that gas station attendant in the throes of passion. A fight ensued, the campfire got scattered and everything started to burn. Jackson said it spread so fast there was nothing he could do to stop it. Anyhow, Guy was knocked out, but get this, he suddenly disappeared. Right before the old man’s eyes, Guy disappeared.

  “Jackson said that he yelled and shouted for Wanda and Morris to get out of there, but it was too late. The fire had gone wild in seconds and he knew it was going to spread. He ran full tilt to his cabin, grabbed a few blankets and some food and then ran farther up the hill to a cave behind the Logan’s Hill waterfall. He stayed in there until the fire passed, then tried to leave. There were so many hot spots that he had to stay in the cave for another day. When he could finally leave, he found his house burned to the ground, but his root cellar was relatively undamaged and it was full of vegetables, fruit and canned goods. That’s what he’s been living on, along with some bounty from a lady friend by the name of Bridget Kingsley-Plum. Citizens of Rumor thought he was dead, and all this time he was living in that cave. Isn’t that something? He’d still be there if we hadn’t had that fierce blizzard. Anyhow, he saw the whole thing, and he swore that Guy did not kill Wanda and Morris. In fact, Guy wasn’t even there when they died. He had disappeared. Val, Guy’s story at MonMart that day was true. He actually invented something that makes a person disappear. Isn’t that something?”