A Knight In Rusty Armor

He’d told her right up front about Matthew, but he’d told her that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to marry her. He liked her. Who wouldn’t? She was bright and pretty, popular with everyone who knew her. He couldn’t believe she’d even gone out with him, much less agreed to marry him, but she had. He’d just started on the house, and she’d been excited about moving into a brand-new house, although she’d have preferred something bigger, showier—preferably on the beach.

He could still see her, walking around the foundation, going on and on about rosebushes and stuff like that. She’d said she wanted white walls, so he told her he’d paint the paneling he’d already bought. Hell, she’d even picked out the countertop color in the kitchen. He’d figured gray, now he was stuck with pink. Pink, of all damn things.

It had been shortly after that, that things had started to slide downhill. Little things, at first. She claimed headaches. His calls went unreturned. There were quarrels about stuff that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

Trav had never kidded himself about his attractiveness to women. When it came to looks, he was your basic, utility model male. He was healthy. He still had all his teeth. He had the standard allotment of features in approximately the right place, but they weren’t anything to get excited about.

On the other hand, kids liked him. Dogs liked him. When a date was required for a service-related function, he’d never had trouble rounding one up. He might have two left feet when it came to dancing—he might not be much of a partying man—but he could have learned if that was what Kelli wanted. She should have told him so.

Instead, she’d trumped up a quarrel and accused him of insensitivity. Of not being romantic. Of not being any fun. He would have tried his hand at being all of the above if she’d leveled with him about what she was looking for in a husband. He thought women wanted security in a marriage. Someone who would be there for them when the going got rough. That he could have done. He might not be much on frills, but he was good for the long haul.

For the next couple of hours, while Trav measured for window trim, his houseguest stayed holed up in the bedroom. He wondered if she was all right. The news about her car had hit her hard.

But then, that wasn’t the only thing bugging her. He’d had time to study her, even more time to think about her odd reactions. Something didn’t quite add up. He had the distinct impression she was afraid of something. Or someone. And while he didn’t profess to be the world’s greatest host, he didn’t think she was actually afraid of him.

He nailed up a board and reached for the next one, his mind busy thinking over his options. Did he pry a few answers out of her and try his hand at fixing whatever was wrong? Or did he pretend not to notice the occasional flare of panic in her eyes?

Who was she running from? What was she afraid of? Why had she come down here in the dead of winter, when she obviously wasn’t expected?

Not your problem, Holiday, he told himself. You saw your duty and you did it—now back off.

By suppertime Trav had made up his mind to stay out of it. While the casserole—beans and hotdogs, his specialty—heated in the oven and Ru spread his bed with clean linens, he placed a few more calls, trying to track down her absent friend.

In the end he almost wished he hadn’t bothered. Then he could have tossed her bags and boxes into the back of the truck, driven her to Hatteras as soon as the road was clear and dropped her off on the woman’s doorstep.

Now, his conscience wouldn’t let him take the easy way out.

“Um...applesauce? Salad greens?” she said hopefully, watching him remove the pan from the oven and set it on a block of wood on the table.

“Sorry, I should have thought of it. I’m not much on vegetables, but there might be some canned fruit in the pantry. I’ll look.”

“No, that’s all right, this is fine. It looks... tasty.”

Yeah, right. He probably shouldn’t have added all that hot sauce. Not everyone was blessed with an asbestos palate. She was more the type for rare roast beef and dainty little salads and things poached in wine, with a side order of sugar toast.

It occurred to him that she might prefer music to the tide data at the Frisco pier that was currently playing on the weather radio.

So he got up and switched off the local weather and turned on his favorite country music station. Judging from the carefully blank look on her face, that didn’t quite suit her, either.

“You want music or no music? I’ve got some tapes out in the truck.”

“No, thanks, I’m just fine. I tried Moselle’s number again, though, and she still doesn’t answer. I’m starting to get worried about her.”

Speaking of music, it was time to face it. He’d put it off too long as it was. “About your friend...I happened to be talking to a neighbor of hers this afternoon, and she said Miss Sawyer is somewhere in the Bahamas. The neighbor says she’ll be back in about three weeks. The restaurant’s closed for the next couple of months.”

Trav couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, knowing what he’d see there. Dammit, he didn’t want to feel sorry for her. He was the one with the problems. When it came to tough luck, a friend in the Bahamas couldn’t compare with a son he’d never even met. Her friend would be back in a few weeks, but as for him, Matt might be grown before they ever managed to get together.

So he kept his eyes on her hands. She had nice hands. Long and slender, with smooth white skin and pretty nails. No polish, no rings. White knuckles, though. That was a bad sign.

“Ru, level with me. Did your friend know you were coming? If she did, she probably left a key with a neighbor, or maybe she left a note telling you how to reach her.”

“I—it was going to be a surprise. I sort of...left home in a hurry. I tried to call along the way, but...”

That was about what he’d figured. She must have taken off with no real plan, which pretty much guaranteed disaster. “Let’s think this through before we jump to any conclusions.”

“Frankly, I don’t much feel like thinking.”

Frankly, he didn’t, either. Besides, he had a feeling no amount of thinking was going to change the basic facts. At the moment she had no place to go and no means of getting there, short of hiring a beach buggy from one of the sports centers. Somehow he couldn’t quite see her hitting the road with all her bags and boxes in a four-by-four bristling with rod holders.

Another thing had occurred to him, something he didn’t know quite how to approach. Her finances might not be quite as healthy as her classy tweeds and cashmere coat and sweaters indicated. Even in the off season, rooms down here cost more than a few bucks.

Bottom line: he was stuck with her. Or rather, they were stuck with each other until one of them came up with a solution.

Morosely she forked up three beans and a chunk of wiener. He watched her lips part, showing a set of even white teeth that had probably sent some orthodontist’s kid to college.

And then he watched her eyes widen as steam all but came from her ears.

She lunged for the sink at the same time he reached out to open the refrigerator. “Milk’s better—fat coats the tastebuds. Water just spreads the fire.”

She drank from the carton before he could grab her a glass. And then she lowered the carton, fanned her face, and gulped down some more. “Oh, my heavenly days, that’s incendiary!” she gasped.

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what, the fire extinguisher?” She was breathing heavily though her mouth, her breasts heaving as if she’d been running hard.

“I’ve been cooking for years, but I guess my repertoire’s pretty limited. Are you going to be all right?”

“If I had any lingering germs, they’re dead now. Nothing could possibly live in that environment. Don’t you even care about your stomach lining?”

“Never gave it much thought. I guess it’s pretty well cauterized by now.”

“Yes, well...I think I’ll have cold cereal, if it’s all right.”

“Be my guest. There’s the pink stuff and some of that kind with brown sugar and nuts. You might as well finish the milk—I’ll get more in the morning.”

All thought of the missing Moselle and the interred car was forgotten for the moment. She wasn’t going anywhere right away, and they both knew it.

“This time I’ll take the sofa,” she offered, rising to help him rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. That, too, had been Kelli’s idea. He never used it. It would take him a week to get up a load.

“Keep the bed,” he offered generously. His chest was beginning to feel as if it had been buried under a few tons of wet sand, along with her car. “I don’t mind bunking in the living room. Another couple of days and I’ll have the spare room finished ”

“Don’t hurry on my account. I have no intention of abusing your hospitality any longer than I have to.”

“You’re not abusing anything, there’s plenty of room.”

He watched her take in the cramped quarters, and it struck him that she was no more impressed with the house he was building than Kelli had been. He’d designed it himself, and been damned proud of it It was compact and efficient, with no wasted space or exposed pipes. So what if you had to go through the kitchen to get to the bathroom? At least the plumbing was all in one wall.

“Once I finish furnishing the place, it’ll look better. The room on the end’s going to be an office. The one I’m paneling now is for my boy. I thought maybe twin bunks. Kids like bunks.”

“Your boy?”

He hadn’t meant to mention Matthew. Didn’t particularly want to have to explain the situation to anyone else. Kelli had sounded sympathetic at first. At twenty-five, he’d figured she’d be the perfect age to bridge the gap between a twelve-year-old boy and a thirty-nine-year-old man who’d never spent much time around kids.

“I didn’t realize you had children,” Ru ventured.

Trav- was searching around for a change of subject when Lady Luck beat him to it.

The power went off.

Three

In the sudden darkness, the silence was pronounced. Gradually, small sounds began to emerge. The all-but-inaudible whisper of the gas furnace. A branch brushing against a corner of the house. An acorn striking the roof sounded unnaturally loud. Ru held her breath. Neither of them spoke, waiting to see if the lights would come back on. If they were still off after several minutes, Trav knew that, odds were, it would take a while.

“These things happen,” he observed, his quiet baritone sounding husky, almost hoarse. “I’ll light a lamp and go switch on the generator. I haven’t wired it in yet.”

“Oh,” Ru replied, just as if she knew what he was talking about.

A little while later they were sipping hot cocoa made from a mix. Ru would have preferred tea. She had an idea Trav would rather have had coffee, but the occasion seemed to call for something out of the ordinary.

With the noise of the generator in the background, they discussed the vagaries of living on the Outer Banks, subject to nature’s whims and the limitations inherent on a barrier island. “Why did you settle here? It’s a long way from Oklahoma City.” Ru had two ways of dealing with stress. She either talked too much or not at all. This was going to be one of those too-much nights.

He sighed as if he didn’t want to answer but was too polite to refuse. Which he probably was. Sick or not, she’d learned a lot about Lieutenant Commander Travis, Holiday, USCG, retired, in these past few days. Not that he was talkative, because he wasn’t, but a remark here, a comment there, had been enough to go on. With nothing else to do but lie around and recuperate, she’d focused on the man because she hadn’t wanted to dwell on her own problems.

She did know that he was genuinely kind. And that he was second-generation Coast Guard and had been born in Oklahoma City, which struck her as a strange place for the Coast Guard. But then, she’d never been farther west than Mississippi.

She knew, too, that he had an overdeveloped sense of duty and an underdeveloped ego, which was surprising in anyone, especially a man. Especially a ruggedly attractive man who didn’t pay homage to every mirror he passed, the way Hubert had done. Her ex had taken narcissism to new heights.

Travis Holiday seemed totally unaware of his own rugged appeal. Even she, who had sworn off men—she, who had more problems than Godiva had chocolates—had done a double take at the sight of his lean, denim-clad backside bending over a stack of lumber that morning.

He was appealing, all right. She could have sworn, if she’d even thought about it, that she hadn’t a viable hormone left in her body. Stress had a way of doing that to a woman.

At least it had done it to her. Mentally and emotionally, if not physically, she’d been curled up in the fetal position for so long she’d stopped thinking of herself as a woman. She was a victim.

Correction. She had been a victim. Past tense. Her divorce had been rough enough, coming on top of the thing with her father. But half the women she knew had gone through at least one divorce.

Unfortunately that had been only the beginning. She’d begun to feel like a centipede, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then the other one, and then the other one, ad infinitum. Finally, after filling out enough forms to start her own country in order to officially regain her identity—a process that had taken more than two years—she had begun to build herself a new life.

Except for the phone calls. Evidently, crank calls were a common occurrence. As no actual threats had been made, the overworked, understaffed police force hadn’t taken her complaint too seriously. So she’d handled it the only way she knew how, by walking away. By that time there’d been nothing left to stay for.

Trav sneezed, and she slid the box of tissues across the coffee table. “Sorry. That’s what you get for being a Good Samaritan.

“Allergies,” he muttered.

She smiled knowingly. “I don’t think so,” she said, but before she could add that hoarseness, flushed cheeks and glittery eyes weren’t standard allergy symptoms, the phone rang. As an indication of how far she’d come, both literally and figuratively, she hardly even flinched.

Trav reached for it, stretching his long, lean torso so that his shirt parted company with his jeans on one side. Ru stared at the section of naked, exposed flesh. The man wasn’t even wearing an undershirt. She knew very well that flu was caused by a virus and not by the weather. All the same, there was such a thing as being too macho.

“Miss Cal?” He cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t heard anything yet, I’ll let you know as soon as—He’s really bugging you, huh? Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring a few sticks of wood and some kerosene while I’m at it, okay? Sure, no trouble—I’ll be glad to take him out . for you.”

Trav hung up the phone, stretched again, liberating the rest of his shirttail, and then turned to Ru. “I’ve got to go out for a little while, will you be all right?” She was staring at him with that tight-eyed look again. “What?” he prompted.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said hurriedly.

“Come on, Ru, something’s wrong. Are you afraid of the dark? Afraid to stay here alone? I can cut off the freezer and let you have more lights.”

“No, please, you go right ahead with...”

He watched her knuckles whiten again as she got a good grip on her mug. The sixty-watt bulb he allowed himself, in order to leave enough power for the freezer, refrigerator and water pump, didn’t put out a whole lot of light, but it was enough to see that she’d crawled back into her cocoon. “Dammit, Ruanna, talk to me. I can’t help you if you’re going to clam up.”

She took a deep breath. He knew something about control. Hers didn’t come easy. “I’m not afraid of a power failure. I don’t need any help. You just go on and do whatever it is you’re going to do and don’t worry about me. I might just—um, go out and look around while you’re gone.”

“Right It’s pitch-dark out there, the wind’s blowing a gale, and you want to go sight-seeing. You go right ahead, lady, don’t let a little thing like that stop you. But it’s only about twenty-eight degrees, so you might want to put on your coat. You’re just getting over the flu, remember?”

And then he had to go and spoil his I-know-what’s-good-for-you stance by sneezing three times in a row.

Snatching his leather jacket off the back of a kitchen chair, he slammed out the back door. A few minutes later he was back, a coil of rope over one shoulder and a red metal can in one hand. “Forgot my flashlight,” he muttered.

Ru sat there after he left until the mug in her hand lost its heat. Then she got up and dumped the contents into the sink. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

Dammit, just when she thought she had everything under control, it happened again. Evidently she’d been premature with her self-congratulations. The phone rang, and just like Pavlov’s dog she reacted. Hearing all over again the soft laughter, the filthy whispered words, the implied threats that weren’t actually threats at all. At least, nothing to interest the police when she’d shown them the words she’d copied down verbatim.

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