“You really think so?”
His head shook. “No, I’m afraid that’s just wishful thinking.”
His head tilted back, and he downed the last of the whiskey.
“Would you like another?” she asked.
“No thanks. I think we’re safe here, but I better not be impaired, just in case.”
The combination of the fire and the furnace had finally brought the room temperature to the point where Caitlin wanted to remove her coat. She held out her glass to John. He took it, and then she shrugged out of the heavy coat.
He returned the glass, and she downed the remainder of the Armagnac and stood up. “Well, I’m going to have another one. I’m too wired to sleep without some kind of aid. One more should mellow me out.”
She turned off the gas to the fire and then went to the liquor cabinet. She fixed her another drink, nuked it for fifteen seconds, and returned to the couch.
John’s head was back, and for a moment, she thought he was staring at something on the ceiling. Then she realized his eyes were closed. Over the soft crackle of the fire, she could hear his deep, even breathing.
Sitting on the hearth, the fire warmed her back while she drank in the aroma of the Armagnac and watched him sleep. He looked peaceful and calm for the first time since they’d come back together. What was his life like that he was so guarded with his feelings, so paranoid in his relationships, so dark and foreboding in his outlook on life?
She wanted to explore his feelings for her, but before she could realistically do that, she’d have to determine her own feelings. She had a strong attraction toward him that much was clear. Was the attraction merely the result of depending on him to protect her, to rescue her again? Or was it something stronger?
A quarter of an hour passed before she finished her drink and set the glass aside. Caitlin closed the doors on the fireplace and gently shook John awake.
He awoke with a start, and his hand jerked toward his shoulder holster.
“That won’t be necessary. We’re all friends here.”
His eyes blinked twice in rapid succession, and his lips drew back in a wide smile. “Did I fall asleep on you?”
“Understandably. Come on, I can give you a better place to sleep.”
John took her outstretched hand. She tugged him up and then led him to the foyer. They paused to pick up their bags and went upstairs. At the upper floor, she pointed out the bathroom and then indicated the bedroom on the left as the guestroom. As she released his hand, she stepped close and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Goodnight, John. Sleep well.”
“Sure, uh, you too.”
Caitlin carried her bags into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 22
John jerked awake when the alarm sent an electric shock into his finger. His right hand reached for the gun he’d left on the nightstand and closed about its checkered grip. As the door opened, he brought the barrel up and applied pressure to the trigger.
Caitlin, wearing faded jeans, a green sweater, and bunny slippers stood in the doorway. Her left hand was still on the doorknob.
“Christ, you’re fast,” her voice was calm, calmer than John felt.
He lowered the gun and set it back on the nightstand.
“Did you forget how to knock?” he asked.
Her response began with a fast exhalation through her nostrils. “For your information, I did knock. I guess I’ll have to pound on the door next time.”
“No, no that’s all right. I’m sorry. I’m just not wide awake yet.”
Her voice softened as fast as her features. “Forgiven. I’ve got coffee made. How do you like your burritos?”
“Burritos? How late did I sleep?”
“There’s not a lot of food in the pantry. I found a few breakfast burritos in the freezer. We’ll have to go shopping before lunch.”
“Okay, did you find any salsa or cheese?”
“Sorry, I was kidding when I asked how you want them. We have a choice of dry goods or frozen food. Anything canned or refrigerated will have to come from the store.”
“It looks like your parents could keep a few things down in the wine vault.”
“They could, but they’re gone for four months usually. Cheese and things like that might spoil even in the refrigerated room. Anyway, come on downstairs when you’re ready unless you want me to bring breakfast up to you?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be right down.”
She smiled and closed the door behind her.
John checked his watch. It was nearly ten, California time. He flipped the covers back and reached for the pants he’d left on the bedpost.
Five minutes later, he walked into a country kitchen that teemed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee and spicy Mexican food. Caitlin was setting two plates on the table.
“Perfect timing,” she said.
“I try.”
“Sit down, I’ll pour coffee. Is orange juice all right?”
He noticed the tall glass pitcher for the first time.
“Sure,” he said and slid out the nearest chair.
Sunlight streamed into the windows that looked out on a small clearing and on thirty-foot ponderosas, everything was laden with thick snow. The light reflected off the snow in a million tiny rays, as if someone had sprinkled diamonds across the Maxwell’s property.
John poured orange juice into the flowered glasses by each of their plates. Caitlin returned carrying two earthen mugs, steam rose in thick clouds from the coffee.
They chatted about inconsequential events and the beauty of the morning landscape as they ate. The burritos were spicy; a mixture of eggs, peppers, tomatoes, cilantro, and sausage. The orange juice, not fresh squeezed,
