He ignored her, tried to ignore the fact the towel was slipping dangerously, and carried her back up the steps. He coaxed the screen door open with his toe, and went through to the kitchen. He set her in a chair, instantly feeling the cold where her warmth had puddled against his chest.
She tried to stand up. He noticed, even with all the excitement, she was managing to keep her wet chest protected from his gaze.
“Sit,” he ordered, sternly and then did some quick adjustments to the towel.
She gave him a defiant look, took one wobbly step toward the door, and then sank reluctantly back down in the chair. Her eyes darted around his kitchen, which was not in the running for a Better Homes and Gardens feature.
The room was plainly furnished—Formica table, steel-framed chairs with burgundy vinyl padding. His dishes—three or four days worth—were piled in the sink. Her gaze came to rest, with faint disapproval, on the engine he had taken apart on his countertop.
J.D. thought that was just like a woman to be noticing the decorating—or lack thereof—at the very same time she was entertaining the idea she was in mortal danger.
His dog, Beauford, a nice mix between a coonhound and a basset, had been sleeping under the table. He chose that moment to rise on stubby legs, stretch his solid black, white and brown body, and then plop his huge head on her lap. He sniffed impolitely, blinked appealingly with his sad brown eyes, and began to drool.
She squealed, dropping her arms from their defense position across her chest, and pushed the dog’s head out of her lap.
“Filthy beast,” she said, staring at the new wet spot on her pants.
Okay. J.D. could tolerate a lot, and he knew Beauford had a tendency to have bad breath, and he drooled, but that did not a filthy beast make. This was about as much of the home invasion as he could tolerate.
He held up his fingers. He would pronounce her medically sound, and then it was out of here for Miss Priss. Filthy beast, indeed. “How many?”
“Three,” she said, once again folding her arms over the wet spot on her blouse and glaring at him.
“What day is it?”
“June 28.”
“What day were you born?”
“How would you know if I had that right?”
Good point. And the fact that she could make it probably meant her brain wasn’t too badly addled. Time to send her on her way.
But she looked like just the type who would sue if she ended up with a concussion or something so he reluctantly turned from her and got a pack of frozen peas out of the freezer compartment of his fridge. He placed it on the bump on her head, and held it. She closed her eyes, briefly, and then struggled to get up again.
“Just relax,” he said, holding her down with one finger on her shoulder. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then why did you do that?” she asked. Her bosom was heaving sweetly under the thin, wet blouse.
For a moment he thought she was accusing him of knocking her down the stairs. “What exactly did I do?” he snapped.
“You kissed me!”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged, as if it meant nothing, when in actual fact the taste of her lips was lingering sweetly on his mouth. “I thought you were someone else.”
She pondered that, and understanding dawned in the violet depths of her eyes. It was clear she now understood the passionate nature of his relationship with her look-alike.
“You are Jed Turner, aren’t you?”
He tried not to flinch when she said that. Only Elana had ever called him Jed. Everyone else called him J.D.
“John,” he corrected her. “Or J.D. J. D. Turner.”
“I’m Tally Smith. I believe you knew my older sister, Elana,” she said, finding her voice, sticking her chin out at him as if to prove she wasn’t afraid, when she was trembling like a leaf on a silver aspen.
He waited, holding the bag on her forehead, not having any intention of making anything any easier for her.
“I knew her briefly.” He kept his voice curt, devoid of emotion, not a hint in that cold tone of a man who had once sung a love song.
She took a deep breath, contemplated, and then plunged. “She died.”
Two words. He registered them slowly. And realized that for him, Elana had died a long time ago.
He didn’t know what to say. That he was sorry? He was not sure that he was. He was glad when the phone rang, giving him a chance to think. He took Tally Smith’s hand—which was small, and soft and warm—and put it over the frozen bag of peas, then turned to the phone.
“Mrs. Saddlechild? Yeah. It’s ready. Ten bucks. I’ll bring it over tomorrow. My pleasure.” He hung up the phone, wishing it had been a longer call, maybe Clyde phoning to consult about the Mustang, something, anything, that required more of him.
And then he turned back to her. Tally Smith, Elana’s kid sister. Tally looked to be in her mid-twenties. Elana had been his own age, which was thirty now.
She was out of the chair, easing her way, shakily, toward the door. The peas were still pressed obediently against her forehead.
“When did she die?” he asked, reluctantly.
Her eyes were cloudy with pain, and he didn’t think it had all that much to do with the bump on her head.
“Nearly a year ago.”
“And why are you telling me? And why now?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
He could hear something in her voice. It had been in Elana’s voice, too. Mysterious, faintly seductive. But in her voice he could hear smokey mountains, dark green hills, deep, clear water.
Or maybe that was a John Denver song. Elana had come from a prairie town, not very different from this one, across the Canadian border.
“Are you from Saskatchewan?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“You came a long way to tell me.” He could explain to her that he hadn’t seen her sister for years. And that he had known her only briefly. But it seemed to him this stranger in his kitchen was not entitled to know any of the details surrounding his heartbreak.
She looked at him, hard, and he knew, sinkingly, she did know why she had come. She just wasn’t saying.
“Yes, I did come a long way” she said stiffly, and despite the stiffness, he saw the weariness in her. The dog padded after her as if she was his best friend. She gave Beauford a look of distaste, and the teaspoon of sympathy he’d been feeling for her evaporated. What kind of cold-hearted person could dislike Beauford with his beautiful, soulful eyes and slowly wagging
