with reporters and they were virtually assured that her face and story would be in the news yet again, he grew restless and told her that they’d leave and head back to Portland as she’d wanted. First thing in the morning.
Her feelings were ambivalent. She’d love to close off the rest of the world, to stay here with Zach and pretend that nothing else mattered, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t about to give up now.
While Zach was outside, cutting firewood, Adria poured herself a glass of wine and strolled into the den. Cedar walls and a river-rock fireplace surrounded a room filled with worn furniture, baskets of old magazines, and Indian blankets used as throws. Watercolors of horses and cattle and peaceful ranching scenes adorned the rough-cut walls. It was a cozy, well-used room that smelled faintly of ashes and burnt wood. She imagined Zachary spending his evenings here, his boots kicked off, the bottoms of his stockinged feet propped on the timeworn ottoman. A cozy vision, a warm thought, something she could envision herself being a part of. But that was crazy. Just because they’d made love, she was already fantasizing that they had a future together.
Stupid.
She ran her fingers along the spines of the books in the bookcase and found, tucked in a corner of one shelf, an old album with pictures of the family.
“I didn’t know I still had that,” Zach said, glaring at the album as he entered the room with an armload of firewood. The wind swept in with him and she smelled the scents of pine and musk mingling with the smoke as he struck a match on the stone hearth and lit the dry kindling. Flames crackled and sparked and she curled in a corner of the couch.
“I poured you a glass,” she said, nodding toward her wine. “In the kitchen.”
He returned with a bottle of beer as well as the glass of wine and set the stemmed glass on the coffee table for her. Then he lowered himself into a chair opposite her, twisted off the cap of his beer, and watched her as she sipped her chardonnay and slowly turned page after page.
“You won’t find much in there.” He drank slowly, and she felt his eyes upon her. Restless eyes.
“Is that right?” She didn’t stop gazing at the flat images. The pictures in the album were old and a little faded, some of the color washed out. Though there were none of Eunice, some spaces pointedly blank, a page yellowed around an empty spot where a snapshot had been removed, there were a few of Zachary, never smiling, always sullen, glaring at the camera as if it were his enemy.
There were shots of Katherine, too, playful poses where she smiled and flirted with the lens, a natural tease in front of the camera. Adria bit her lip as she studied the pictures and her heart twisted at a photograph of Katherine carrying a dark-haired toddler on her hip.
Zach took a long pull on his bottle, then bent over the fire again, tossing in two chunks of mossy maple.
“You never really told me about her,” Adria said, as Zach dusted his hands and stared at the hungry yellow flames licking the new wood. “You just dance around the issue.”
“I thought we already had this discussion.”
“As I said, ‘danced around’ the issue.”
“There wasn’t much to tell. She accused me of helping kidnap London and then later, when I tried to console her, one thing led to another and we ended up in the sack. Witt found out and threw me out. End of story.”
“Except that you fell in love with her.”
He snorted. “Don’t try to put any romantic spin on it, okay? I was a horny kid and she was a desperate woman who was hurting. I should never have…oh, hell, what does it matter? It was years ago. And she’s dead.” A muscle worked in his jaw and he took a long swallow from his beer.
“And you blame yourself?”
“No? Yes? Oh, who knows. She committed suicide because she never got over London’s disappearance, I guess.” He gazed at the fire. “Maybe I played a part in it. Who knows?” He glanced back at her. “But it was odd-the suicide. Katherine…well, she was one of those people who took a big bite out of life, and sure, she was destroyed when her baby disappeared and I guess she was despondent, but she never struck me as the type of person who would actually take her own life.” He shook his head and took a long pull from his bottle. “It always bothered me.”
“Because you loved her.”
“Stop it, Adria. I didn’t love her. Ever. It was just a physical thing that happened.” He turned and glared at her. “If you want to know if it would have continued if Witt hadn’t caught us, who knows? Maybe. Depended on a lot of things. I didn’t want to start something with her, I knew it was trouble, but I was young, randy, and the opportunity presented itself. Every day I wish I’d been a whole lot smarter about it, but, considering what happened today, it looks like I’m still not.”
She gritted her teeth. “Low blow, Danvers.”
“It’s been a day for ’em. And don’t go into this holier-than-thou routine, okay? ’Cuz it just won’t wash. You’re sitting there half condemning me for being with my stepmother and yet you could be my half-sister and it didn’t stop you, did it?”
The album dropped to the floor. “I don’t think we should go there.”
“Not a pretty picture, is it?” He took a swig from his bottle and gnashed his teeth.
Adria felt as if she’d been slapped. She struggled to her feet and backed away from him. “I’m not-”
He moved swiftly, pushing her back onto the couch, placing his hand on either side of her, imprisoning her in the old cushions. His head was so close to hers she could see the pores on his face, smell the beer on his breath. “Isn’t that why you’re here,
“No!” she cried, unwilling to believe what he insisted was the truth. She sprang from the couch and he caught her in arms as strong as steel bands.
“I warned you-”
“You made vague insinuations. But not this. Never this! You could have told me that you…you-”
“That I what?” he said, holding her gaze with his. “That I made love to the woman who could be your mother?”
“That you fell in love with her!” The words cracked through the room like the sharp unleashing of a whip.
“I was not ‘in love’ with her. I already told you. “She was hot, Adria. And I was a horny kid. I don’t have any excuses. It was wrong.”
“So that’s why Witt cut you out of his will.”
His smile was hard. “One of the reasons.”
“Oh, God. How did you ever look him in the eye again?” she asked.
“When she began sleeping with Jason, the old man kind of forgave me. It took a while, but we struck a deal. I got the ranch and he got his old hotel restored like he wanted it.” His fingers cut into her flesh. “You asked why Kat killed herself,” he said. “Because of me. Because of Jason. Because of London and Witt. Because of the curse of being a Danvers-the curse you’re so ready to embrace!”
She shoved away from him, dragging in ragged gulps of air, her eyes as dark as midnight. “Don’t make this any worse than it already is,” she spat and watched as a muscle worked in his jaw. For a minute she thought he might kiss her again and a part of her still wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to make love to him…
“I don’t think it could be,” he said and stormed out of the room and decided to get drunk. No, not just drunk, but stinking, shit-faced, falling-down drunk. He grabbed his coat and strode outside. The temperature had dropped and a few light flakes of snow were beginning to fall. He’d find a woman. A woman without any strings attached. A woman looking for a one-night stand. A woman who wouldn’t even ask him his name.
He slammed the door behind him, rattling the windows.
Manny, despite the cold, was seated in a rocking chair on the porch of a small cabin at one end of the parking lot. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and he was whittling as he listened to the transistor radio in the window. He looked up as Zach passed him on the way to his Jeep. “You leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks like you could spit nails.”
“For starters.”
“When you comin’ back?”
“Don’t know.” He cocked his head toward the main house. “Watch her, will ya?”
“I’m a Paiute, Danvers, not a friggin’ jailer.”
“Just make sure she stays put, and no one shows up here and tries to get to her. I won’t be gone long.”
