WHEN I SEE YOUR FACE Page 8

  "Not … you," he said in a raw tone. "Life. Old mistakes. Can't … undo."

  She stroked the back of his hand and suppressed her own tears. "I know. A person can't go back. We can't reset the clock and make things happen the way they should have. I remember when Uncle Sean died, how awful it was."

  "My last."

  "Yes, all your children gone before you," she said, choking on the thought of his loneliness and grief. "My mother once said the Windom inheritance was misery and misfortune."

  "Human. To err."

  "To err is human – to forgive, divine?"

  He made a sound which she took for assent.

  She wondered about him and his first love. Had someone come between them, made them distrust each other? Was that why his fiancée had gone to another man and married him a month before the wedding date with Grandfather?

  Tears filled her eyes. It was all so sad. "Humans. We make ourselves miserable."

  The patio door opened at the same time as she heard a truck on the road. "Dr. Daniels is here," Mrs. Roddey said, approaching the table.

  Her husband and son leased the ranch pastures and raised beef cattle during the summer. In the fall they sold off the calves and fed only the breeding herd during the winter. The wife helped out at the ranch whenever they needed someone.

  "So I hear." Shannon recognized his truck easily now.

  "I'm leaving in a minute. I've fixed a bite of lunch. Is Dr. Daniels going to eat with you?" Mrs. Roddey asked.

  "I suppose." Shannon wasn't sure she wanted to see him just now. Her spirits were low today. She didn't feel up to his teasing, sensual play.

  "I'll go get a plate for him then."

  Shannon nodded, intensely aware of many things all at once. Inhaling deeply, she detected cinnamon rolls over the aroma of beef stew. She heard Mrs. Roddey bustle out after setting a tray on the table. A slammed truck door, then booted footsteps on the patio steps told her when Rory arrived.

  "Hello," she said, turning in that direction.

  "Hello yourself."

  His voice was husky, as seductive as warm cocoa going down and warming your insides on a cold night. A tremor raced through her. Feeling as if every nerve was exposed, she gestured toward the tray, intending to invite him to join them, and hit a cup. "Oh," she murmured, hearing the clatter of glass and the splash of liquid.

  A hand caught hers and pulled it back when she would have explored to find out what she'd done.

  "Careful. That's hot," he advised.

  "What did I do?" she asked ruefully, angry with herself for letting nerves overcome sense.

  "Spilled a little tea. No harm done. It went on the saucer, a bit on the tray." He sniffed. "That smells good. Got enough for one more?"

  "Yes. Mrs. Roddey's bringing you a plate."

  "Good. Hello, Mr. Windom. Nice weather we're having today for a change. Shall I move this bench so you can get to the table?"

  Her grandfather must have indicated agreement. She heard the bench on the opposite side being shifted. The next thing she was aware of, Rory was sliding onto her bench, his hip touching hers as he swung his long legs over the edge. He spoke to Mrs. Roddey when she returned, then served Shannon and presumably her grandfather and himself, to judge by the sounds and his comments.

  "Eat," he encouraged. "This stew is delicious."

  She picked up her spoon after laying a napkin in her lap. Self-conscious, she began to eat, knowing if she moved a quarter inch their hips might brush. She held herself perfectly still until he began to speak.

  He told of his morning and the patients he'd seen. He spoke of his worries concerning the horse Megan was training for the rich dude. "If he goes vicious and hurts someone, he'll have to be put down. Megan thinks there is a real possibility of that."

  "Too much…"

  Rory waited patiently for her grandfather to find the word.

  "Inbreeding," the older man finished.

  "Yes, I'm afraid you're right about this one. All the worst qualities of the breed are coming out in him, but he's a beauty as far as conformation and coloring go."

  Shannon felt him turn to her. He described the horse in detail, down to the white stockings on all four feet, the star on its forehead and the length of its tail.

  "A lot of folks don't realize how important a tail is to a horse," he concluded.

  Shannon burst out laughing, surprising herself. She finished the meal and carefully wiped her mouth.

  Beside her, Rory chuckled dryly. "Sorry, didn't mean to get carried away and lecture you."

  "That's okay."

  "Are you ready to go home?"

  Terror grabbed hold of her. "Yes."

  "Don't be afraid. I'll be right next door."

  Lifting her chin, she informed him she wasn't at all afraid and would be fine.

  "Good girl. Mr. Windom, are you ready to go in? I think I need to get home and have a nap. I was up until two this morning over at the Herriot place. Their prize mare took sick."

  Shannon wasn't sure if she was irritated or not as Rory took over, ushering her grandfather into the house and her out to his truck, carrying her large bag, the toiletry case tucked under an arm, while he guided her with the other hand. She gripped her purse while he fastened the seat belt across her lap, his hands almost but not quite intimate as he worked. At last they were on their way.

  "Home," he said a few minutes later, stopping the truck after a short drive that was over way too soon.

  She again felt the clutch of fear and had to battle it. She could do this. She could make it on her own. Other people adjusted and learned. She would, too.

  "I'll have to get a dog," she said brightly, hopping out of the truck and heading for the door.

  A hand gripped her arm. "Whoa. That's the wrong way."

  She turned, needing to be alone, to grow used to this uncertainty. Her eyes burned. Moving blindly and too fast, she banged into him and hit his chin with her head in her rush to get into the house before she cried or did something equally stupid. "Sorry," she said stiffly, stepping back and tripping over a stone.

  Capable hands steadied her as she rocked backwards. "Don't," he murmured as if he understood, his voice deep and very close.

  Using anger as a crutch to cover other emotions – such as the fear that overshadowed all else – she waited. "If you'll point me toward the front door, I'm sure I'll be fine."

  "Maybe you will," he muttered, moving back.

  She heard him shuffle the suitcases, then take her arm again. Seething with a tangle of feelings she couldn't name, she allowed him to show her the way to her new home, a place that felt as unfamiliar as a hotel in a strange city, even though she'd done most of the remodeling on her free days.

  One thing at a time, she reminded herself. One thing—

  "Oh!" she said as she tripped again.

  "Sorry, forgot to mention the step."

  He, too, sounded angry. Holding on to her poise with an effort, she found the knob and turned it. Relieved to discover it open – since she couldn't remember where the key was – she led the way inside, envisioning the layout as she went. She felt on firmer ground as she found the kitchen counter and laid her purse on it.

  "Thank you for bringing me home. Just put the luggage anywhere. I'll take it to the bedroom later." She realized she sounded about as grateful as a hoodlum thanking a cop for being arrested.

  "What's your problem?" Rory demanded, needled by her polite and totally insincere thanks.

  Obviously she was irritated with him. It was too much after the night and morning he'd put in. He'd also gone to great trouble to rearrange his schedule so he could pick her up. So much for gratitude. He was irritated, too.

  And he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

  "Not a thing," she replied in a prissy way that drove him to fury. He wanted to kiss the polite smile off her face, then walk out, leaving her breathless and disheveled and restless.

  The way he was restless?

 
Yeah.

  Shaking his head, he tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. Considering the state of his libido, he could easily identify one problem he had.

  "Which bedroom?" he asked, his jaw clenched so tight he could hardly speak.

  "The back one." She touched the wall, oriented herself, then pointed down the hall.

  He headed that way, aware that she was right behind him. He slowed his pace so she could keep up. The bedroom was the last door on the right. He took in the antique brass bed, the white wicker dresser along one wall and a matching settee, covered with colorful cushions, in front of the double windows at the side of the house.

  Putting the two cases on the rose-printed bed-spread, he glanced outside. He could see his house through the small grove of cottonwoods that lined the creek. It was much closer than he'd realized. His bedroom window faced the creek, too. He could look straight across to hers.

  Sweat broke out on his upper lip while heat gathered deep in his body. He suddenly wished he hadn't insisted on being such a thoughtful neighbor.

  Because he now had a hunger for a blind woman and it somehow seemed ungentlemanly to give in to it in her present condition?

  Yeah, you got it, he told his conscience. She was too vulnerable at present… He paused and considered when, in the foreseeable future, she might not be.

  "Well, thanks," Shannon said behind him.

  A dismissal. He swung around and faced her. Standing with her weight on one foot as if she might bolt at any moment, she was particularly beautiful in the soft light.

  "Let's do a tour of the house," he suggested. For reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, he refused to let her heave him out the door. "I'll help you with your cases."

  "I can manage."

  The polite smile was gone. Grinning when she turned a severe frown on him, he realized he felt much better at the honest anger. He didn't want to be treated as politely as a stranger. He was her friend, if she only realized it.

  Was that the only reason?

  He really wished the annoying inner voice would go away. It wasn't as if he meant to take advantage of her or the awareness between them.

  Pausing, he considered. Well, he didn't mean to when he was thinking clearly. She was emotionally at risk until she got her confidence back. He wanted her to come to him as an equal. Not in gratitude. Not in fear. Only in passion.

  Passion. He cursed mentally at the reaction of his body when he thought of sharing that most elemental of human endeavors with this woman.

  "Okay," he said, stopping in front of her, wishing he could see her eyes clearly behind the dark glasses. "I'll keep my distance. For now. You need a chance to learn your own capabilities without the added confusion of this thing between us."

  She huffed indignantly. "There is no thing between us."

  "Don't kid yourself."

  Reaching out, he touched her cheek, then slid his hand into the warm strands of red-gold and dark honey waves. She caught her breath and held it for a fifteen-second count before releasing it abruptly.

  "See?" he said, pleased with her reaction … until he realized his own breath was jerky.

  She pushed his hand away. He struggled with an urge to show her just how strong the attraction was between them. He had a feeling she'd never run into this before.

  Neither had he. Along with the need, he felt a host of other, less easily defined emotions. Pity? Maybe. A need to protect and succor? Sort of. Concern? Yeah.

  However, just because he was the first on the scene didn't make him responsible for her. She wouldn't take pity or charity from anyone. That's why he'd encouraged her to come home. She didn't need to have her relatives waiting on her, making her into an invalid before she had a chance to learn her own strengths.

  A picture of her in her uniform, directing traffic, the world at her command, came to him. He wanted to see that woman again – the beautiful lady cop who could handle any calamity. And he would. No matter what it took to get her there.

  After muttering a disgruntled goodbye, he left the cheerful ranch house with its pale cream walls and sage green woodwork. Crossing the creek via the bridge foundation of four by fours he'd laid down yesterday, he thought of the work needed on the house where he now lived. It could use a woman's delicate touch and eye for color.

  The librarian he'd decided on?

  He couldn't stop the sardonic snort of amusement. Right. As soon as he got Shannon Bannock out of his system, he'd start looking for his dream woman.

  Sobering, he wondered exactly what it would take to eradicate the lady cop from his thoughts. He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. No way was he going to get mixed up with her, however. She was too vulnerable at the present.

  His chest tightened as he thought of her courage, so much greater than she thought. Yeah, above all else he wanted to play fair with her.

  * * *

  Shannon listened to the echoing silence after the back door closed with a moderate slam that indicated control as well as temper. Frowning, she had to admit she didn't understand the pulsating awareness between her and her confusing neighbor.

  Desire.

  He'd been right about that; it was something new to her. She'd never encountered a force that drove out all sense of self-preservation, that made her want to cling and touch and kiss and demand…

  Pressing a hand to her temple, she automatically checked the short hair there and the tenderness of the scar tissue beneath. She thought this mad longing must somehow be the result of the injury, that being hurt had somehow made her more susceptible and less in control of her emotions and the passion that flooded through her when he was near.

  Otherwise, why did she feel it now and not with Brad when he had kissed her?

  Touching her lips and recalling the fierce delight of Rory's mouth, she wondered at his sudden passion. Again, it had to be connected to the incident, to his compassion and sense of responsibility because of her injury.

  She swallowed against the hard knot of misery that grew in her chest. She didn't want pity. She wanted… She didn't know what she wanted.

  Only a couple of weeks ago, she'd been thinking of home and hearth and a husband to share them with her. Now … now she saw only loneliness down the long, dark road of the future. Who would want to share life with her?

  Not Brad, came the answer from some harder, more caustic part of her than she'd known existed. And no other man in his right mind.

  An image of Rory as he'd been the night of the parade came to her. A warm feeling invaded her. He had asked her out for hot chocolate. So maybe the interest had been kindled at that moment, and during this past two weeks he'd realized it had grown to a blazing, uncontrollable passion.

  Right.

  She laughed, not very merrily, but still, a laugh. It helped overcome the daunting silence of her new home and the helplessness she'd felt upon arriving.

  Holding both hands out cautiously, she began to explore the place. At the bed, she removed her clothing from the big suitcase and put it away without too much difficulty. She'd kept the same items in the same drawers since she'd lived on her own. The closet was a walk-in just as her old one had been, and the clothes she'd already moved were in it and in the usual order. She found she could recognize most pieces by their cut and feel. She stored the items from her toiletry case in the bathroom, again going by memory.

  Exploring the rest of the room, she found English ivy growing in a pot on a table. The table was beside the wicker love seat. Feeling warmth on her hand, she touched the window.

  The glass was cold, a contrast to the sunlight streaming through the pane. She pictured the lawn and the mountains, the little creek with its line of trees, the house across the way where Rory lived.

  Shying from the latter scene, she went from room to room of her new home, reviving her memory of furniture and pictures and color in the living room, the old-fashioned butler's pantry that she intended to use for an office, and the guest bedroom with its tapestry print wallp
aper and brass-accented fireplace. She returned to the kitchen.

  After exploring the refrigerator and finding it bare except for condiment bottles and pickles and such, she took a seat at the table. She didn't know what to do next.

  Outside a bird chirped shrilly. Inside there was silence.

  She removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. Slowly she turned her head this way and that, trying to discern a shadow, the bulky outline of the refrigerator or a slight flicker of light that might indicate a window.

  Nothing.

  She inhaled slowly and recalled all the reassurances of the doctor and her cousins. It wasn't hopeless. She might see again. Or she might not.

  With no one there to witness her lapse, she found it was harder to put up a smiling front. Laying her arms on the table and using them as a pillow, she hid her face and finally let the uncertainty overtake her.

  She wept for the fantasies she'd held dear as a child. She wept for the dreams she'd harbored in her heart, the fragile ones that had stubbornly refused to die. And last, she wept for a future that was never meant to be as she finally let the dreams go.

  When the useless tears were gone, she pushed herself upright and slipped the dark glasses back in place. She would find new dreams, better ones, and start her life over, she vowed. She blew her nose and decided it was time to prepare a meal.

  Finding a ham bone in the freezer, she set it to stewing with bay leaves, garlic and pepper. She'd make soup for supper. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but it was a beginning. She smiled ruefully. Today, the soup; tomorrow…

  She'd let tomorrow take care of itself.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

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  The first thing Rory did that evening upon arriving at his house was check the house next door. It was dark.

  A blind person hardly had need for light, he reminded himself. But it still bothered him. A home should be lit up at night, if only to let burglars know the family was in.

  He showered and dressed in a pair of navy sweats and warm socks, then stood at the bedroom window and watched Shannon's place for any signs of movement.