other mustang trying to become an officer and a gentleman.
So he politely refrained from telling her that it was none of her business. “Sharon is my ex-wife, Ms. Roberts, currently happily remarried and living on the West Coast. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know?”
So much for gentlemanly manners. If he’d tossed a lit firecracker in her lap, she couldn’t have looked more startled.
Startled?
Make that frightened.
Two
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Ms. Roberts.”
“How did you know my name?”
He frowned. “Your name?”
“You called me Ms. Roberts. I didn’t tell you that.”
If there’d been any color at all in her face before, it was gone now, except for the shadows under her eyes. “It’s on your registration. Ruanna Roberts? That is you, isn’t it?”
The lady was a walking minefield. “Look, I’m sorry. If you’re a spook on assignment, or in the witness protection program, I don’t want to know about it. It’s none of my business. I just thought it might be a good idea to clean out the trunk of your car before it—Anyway, I grabbed the papers from the glove compartment while I was at it, and I happened to see the name.”
Her shoulders lifted and fell, making him aware for the first time that she wasn’t quite as skinny as he’d first thought. At least, not all over.
“I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not—not either of those things you mentioned. It’s just that—well, I have this thing about privacy,” she finished weakly.
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being silly about this, I know—it’s just that I don’t really know anything about you, yet you’ve taken me in and fed me, given me your bed—given me the shirt off your back. Literally.” Her voice was still husky, but it no longer sounded quite so painful.
“No big deal. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” As the bag he’d brought along the first night had held mostly shoes, he’d lent her a pair of his old sweats to sleep in, and because her sweater was still damp, he’d lent her a flannel shirt.
“Maybe not to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She rolled her eyes. “I talk too much. I always do when I’m uncomfortable. Why don’t I just go change your bed and pop the linens and sweats into the washer before I leave? I appreciate all you’ve done, I really do.” She stood up, all five feet six or seven inches of her. All hundred fifteen or so pounds, nicely—if somewhat too sparsely—distributed.
“Don’t bother,” he said, his gaze following her as she walked away. Her hips swayed, they didn’t twitch. It was a subtle distinction, one he didn’t normally notice and didn’t even know why he was noticing now. “I’ll wash ’em next time I get up a load.”
Pausing in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do before I leave.”
He shrugged. If she wanted to do his laundry, who was he to stop her? She wouldn’t be going anywhere today, though Too many bad stretches of road that weren’t going to get much better until the scrapers could get down here and uncover any highway that was left under all that sand.
Besides which, her car was a total loss. One of the linesmen had taken a look at it while he was out checking poles. They might be able to use it to help fill up any washout, but that was about all it was good for. He hoped she had insurance on the thing.
She dragged her luggage into the living room, and then she looked at him expectantly. He pretended not to notice. Whether or not she realized it, she was in no condition to go off on her own, even if she had a means of transportation. Whatever bug she’d had had knocked the starch out of her.
This situation was getting pretty dicey. Unfortunately he couldn’t come up with a single regulation that covered it. “I’ve got work to do,” he muttered.
“But—”
“Road might be clear by this afternoon. I’ll check it out in a couple of hours.”
While he laid out another wall of paneling in the room that would be Matt’s, Trav tried to come up with a solution. The woman was sick. She was without transportation and Hatteras Island didn’t run to streetcars and taxis. The friend she was expecting to visit was currently unavailable, and as for the job...
Dicey situation. About all he could say for it was that it took his mind off the frustration he’d felt ever since he’d learned about his son.
Trav had always considered himself a patient man. He worked hard at cultivating the trait. His father hadn’t had the patience to deal with a wife and a son. His cousin Harrison had ended up in the coronary care unit before he’d learned that a man had to accept certain limitations and shape his life around them the best way he could, if he wanted to survive.
He held up another board and reached for his hammer. Working outside on a pair of sawbucks, he’d measured and cut all the paneling to size before the weather closed in. His carpentry skills were on a par with his housekeeping skills. Adequate, with room for improvement.
Most of the work had been contracted, but he’d wanted to do as much as possible with his own hands, not only to save money. There was a lot of satisfaction in building a home for his son with his own hands.
“Do you want coffee?” Ruanna Roberts called out from the kitchen. Evidently she’d given up on waiting for him to offer to drive her wherever she was going.
He should have offered to drive her to the nearest motel or, at least, the nearest one that was open this time of year. Rescuing survivors was second nature to a man with his training. Rescuing, offering shelter. That much he’d done without hesitation, only what now? He had an uneasy feeling the job wasn’t done yet.
“Travis? Coffee?”
“Yeah, sure—thanks.”
Come to think of it, he could use something hot to drink. His chest ached, probably from trying to sleep on his stomach on the sofa with his feet hanging off the edge. His throat felt kind of dry and scratchy, too, from all this talking. He wasn’t used to having company.
She made good coffee. “What’s this stuff?” He eyed the plate she set before him suspiciously.
“Sugar toast. Haven’t you ever had sugar toast?” The look on his face told Ruanna all she needed to know. He’d never heard of sugar toast. “If I could’ve found your cinnamon, it would have been cinnamon toast. You know—butter, sugar and spice?”
“Yeah, sure.”
The way he said it made her think he’d never even heard of cinnamon toast. Not that it was important one way or the other. All the same, she had to wonder what his childhood had been like. Cinnamon toast had been one of her favorite treats as a child. Maybe it was a girl thing.
“It’s beginning to clear up,” she observed. Sooner or later it had
