gotten about as much sleep as she had, Julia thought distractedly the next morning—a couple of hours, maybe less—but at least she’d done her tossing and turning in her own bed. The obviously weary man in front of her had wrapped himself up in an old quilt, pulled one of the ancient overstuffed armchairs from the living room into the hall and had catnapped outside of Davey’s room.
Despite the sun it was early in the season, and although by mid-June the earth itself would have absorbed enough warmth to dispel the last cold dampness of spring, right now the breeze blowing off the lake still held more than a hint of its northern origins, and the distinct green scent of the nearby pines sharpened the atmosphere like tiny slivers of ice. The trees on the property—the hickories, maples and the massive old oak that shaded the house in the summer—had leafed out, but their foliage hadn’t thickened to the dense canopy that it would create in a few more weeks. Through the tangle of branches above, the sky looked like well-bleached denim. Julia stopped by a grove of tamaracks that had once provided an almost Oriental background to a long-vanished rock garden.
“What are we going to do about Lizbet?”
She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder at the house. The child was still sleeping, and King had been left on guard in her room in case she awoke. Earlier Cord had told her that he’d informed Sheila’s mother last night that he had her granddaughter, and Betty Wilson, devastated by the news she’d just received, had been all too grateful that the child was with them. Betty had been battling cancer, Julia knew, and even if she hadn’t been stricken with grief she was no longer able to care for her beloved Lizbet.
“I’ve thought about that. Since Dad moved some friends of mine have been living in our old place down the road. Dad said the place held too many memories of Mom for him to want to sell it.” Cord’s voice held affection. “Anyway, Mary and Frank Whitefield will take Lizbet in for as long as we need to keep her out of sight. I don’t want her around while we’re trying to track down her parents’ killer.”
He bent down and pulled a tuft of dried choke grass out of the garden, revealing a pale green spear pushing stubbornly through the dead weeds. “My father planted these for your mother one year,” he said softly, clearing the earth around the shoot.
With a gentle thumb he touched the young plant, and then he straightened up and sighed, still not looking at her directly. “I didn’t like it out in California. It wasn’t home.”
Julia knew what he meant without him spelling it out. He hadn’t just grown up in New York state, he had his roots here, and they went back a lot farther than the Mayflower. Part of him had always seemed inexorably bound to a more elemental way of life, and in the past, coming back to this place where his family had lived for generations had seemed to be a necessary ritual of renewal for him. He would blend in anywhere, she thought, and if he had to he would find a way to survive in a desert. But his soul would always thirst for a sunrise over a still lake, the dark red blur of cardinals against a snowy bough in the dusk, the crumbly feel of lichen on granite underfoot.
“La-La Land too rich for your blood?” she asked negligently, not wanting him to know how closely attuned she still was to his thoughts. “All those California babes—didn’t you have even the slightest urge to kick loose a little and enjoy yourself?”
As soon as the words left her lips she wished she could take them back. Indulging her almost desperate need to know what had happened to him over the last two years—whether he’d met anyone, if he’d fallen in love—was an area that had to be out of bounds if she had any hope of hanging onto her self-control while he was around. She couldn’t let things get personal between them. She was no good at personal anymore.
“It’s none of my business anyway,” she added swiftly, but she was too late. Cord rubbed the dirt from his hand carelessly against the seam of his jeans.
“You’ve got to be crazy,” he said. His tone was conversational and uninflected. “I only ever loved one woman, and that was you. Did you think that would change just because there was a continent between us? Did you really think I wouldn’t be hearing your voice, seeing your face—for God’s sake—smelling the scent of your skin every waking hour that I was away from you?”
He spoke as quietly as he always did and he made no move to touch her. He stood there, solid and big and about as flighty as the damned oak tree arching protectively over the house behind him, and she stared at him, unable to think of a single thing to say in reply.
“I met a man one night in a bar.” His low voice overrode her thoughts. “He said his people could shape shift and that he himself had flown like an eagle across mountain peaks. He’d had too much to drink, and maybe I had, too. But while he was talking I believed him, and all I could think was that I wanted to shape shift, too, to take on the wings of some bird strong enough to fly day and night until I was back with you again. I thought I would land on your window ledge and look into your room and make sure you were sleeping and safe, and then I would rise into the moonlight again and fly away before you awoke.”
One corner of his mouth lifted unexpectedly in a smile. Reaching out, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and then let his palm linger gently on the shape of her skull. “Like I said, I was a little drunk. I remember waking up stiff and cold on a hill hours later and feeling sure that I really had become that eagle and had seen you, but I never could make it happen again. So I dreamed about you instead. I had you in my arms every night.”
She didn’t want to hear any more. “I don’t believe in magic, Cord. And if you held anyone in your arms at night, she was a fantasy woman.” Her eyes met his steadily. “Whatever there once was between us is over. I tried to tell you that two years ago. If you won’t accept it I don’t see how we can work together on finding out who killed Paul and Sheila.”
“I could accept it if it was the truth. But you’re lying to me. I still can’t look at you without needing you so bad I’d crawl over ten miles of rough road on my hands and knees to get to you, and whether you admit it or not, you want me, too, Julia.” His fingers slid under her hair to the nape of her neck. “But go ahead and prove me wrong if you think you can. Kiss me.”
Her breath caught in her throat with a noise that sounded more like a startled gasp than the laugh she’d attempted. “Kiss you? What’s that supposed to—”
“Kiss me like it means nothing.” He drew her slightly closer to him, his fingertips warm against the fine bones at the back of her neck.
With heightened awareness, she could feel the coarser texture of the last few grains of soil still remaining on his hand. He was leaving his fingerprints on her, she thought foolishly, and as soon as the ridiculous notion entered her mind it was followed by a rush of desire so raw and unexpected that it felt as if the air around her had turned to warm water, immediately drenching the cotton sweater and the jeans she was wearing and soaking through to her skin. Cord’s mouth was only inches from hers.
“All we’ve got is history, Cord,” she said tightly. “Let’s leave it at that.” Her body was tense against his touch.
He exhaled softly, still holding her gaze. Shifting position slightly so that he was blocking the sun from her eyes, he shook his head and let the ghost of a smile cross his defeated features.
“My God, you’re one mule-headed woman. Why couldn’t you have held on to what we had just as stubbornly?”
He let his hand slide from the back of her neck and shrugged, that ironic smile still lifting one corner of his mouth. A crazy mixture of relief and disappointment swept through her, but she forced herself to concentrate on the former instead of the latter. He started
