Page 44 of Blood Moon

Beth awoke to the sound of rain beating against the tin roof.

It seemed impossible that she had slept, but she must have been so drained physically and emotionally that her body had demanded a shutdown.

After John’s anger-fueled account of the Mellin investigation, followed by the whispered dare he’d issued her, which had been fueled by something else entirely, he’d turned his back to her and brusquely motioned toward the bedroom. “Get some sleep.”

She’d tried to think of something to say in response to his tirade, or to that teeming moment that had left her wishing he’d acted on the impulse she couldn’t fail to recognize even though he hadn’t even touched her.

But the atmosphere had seemed electrically charged. She’d feared that saying the wrong thing could have caused a spark that would reignite either his wrath or an agitation even more combustible.

Deciding that the safest course was to say nothing, she’d retreated to the bedroom and closed the door. Only then had she drawn a sufficient breath.

For minutes after, she’d stayed with her back to the door, listening to him moving around the main room. The sliver of light beneath her bedroom door had become progressively dimmer as lights were turned off. Then she’d heard his bedroom door closing, and that strip of light went dark.

She’d used the bathroom. With her finger and toothpaste she found in the medicine cabinet, she’d cleaned her teeth. Realizing that her shoes were in the other room beside the chair, she’d decided to leave them there. She’d also decided not to undress.

The two-bulb fixture in the ceiling was the only source of light, and when she’d clicked it off at the wall switch near the door, the room had gone completely black. She’d felt her way to the bed. Metal springs under the mattress squeaked when she slid under the covers.

Then she’d stared into the unrelieved darkness, wondering why she felt so dejected. But of course she knew why. She’d wanted that withheld kiss. She wanted it now.

She wondered why he appealed to her at all. She’d never been attracted to his type, which Max had termed a “he-man.” That called to mind men in chaps or kilts or armor who rebelled against the rules of society and adhered to their own code of honor. But they were fictional heroes. In real life they didn’t exist. Or so she’d thought until John Bowie had walked into that bar.

He’d looked at her with keen insight, as though he knew the first time they locked eyes that she’d had a chemicalreaction to him, that she’d felt a frisson low and deep. That sizzle had both thrilled and frightened her. It still did.

She acknowledged that a large part of his appeal was his elusiveness. He wore an aura of aloneness like a second skin. He was the kind of man women wanted to tame, save, heal. The kind of man that broke women’s hearts.

She lay thinking of all the reasons he was wrong for her, listening to light raindrops ping against the tin roof until she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep.

It was now daylight, but the bedroom was dim. Through the window she saw leaden gray clouds hovering low above the treetops. Last night’s gentle rainfall had turned heavy and sullen. The room was chilly. She was grateful for the socks.

She flashed back to John’s wry smile as he’d handed them to her and said they’d be too big.

Considering the volatile nature of their evening together, and the tuning-fork sexual note on which it had ended, she didn’t know what to expect from her next face-to-face with him. There was sure to be awkwardness.

But delaying the inevitable only heightened her dread. Better to get it over with. She got up, used the bathroom and cleaned her teeth again, then went to the bedroom door and eased it open.

She almost stepped on Mutt before she saw him. He’d been lying on the threshold and immediately jumped to his feet. “Hey, boy.” Tail wagging and quivering with gladness, he nuzzled her palm when she extended it to him.

She saw that John’s bedroom door stood open, but there was no sign of him, and no lights were on. “Where’s yourmaster?” With Mutt at her side, she ventured into the main room, switching on lamps to alleviate the gloom as well as her mounting apprehension.

On the dining table was a scrawled note anchored down by his pistol.

Gone to get your things. Mutt’s been fed, but he may want to go out again. P.S. All you have to do is point the gun and pull the trigger. Don’t hesitate.

He’d written his departure time at the top of the sheet. He’d been gone for more than an hour. She looked down at the dog. “Did he say how long he planned to be gone?” Mutt gazed up at her with a moonstruck smile, tongue lolling.

A pot of coffee had been left on the hot plate. She filled a mug and added her fixin’s. As she stood sipping it, she looked toward the open door to John’s bedroom. “Promise not to tell,” she said to Mutt as she walked over and peeped in.

The room had its fair share of clutter, but it was better organized than the other rooms. The clothes he’d been wearing yesterday had been folded and placed in the seat of a rocking chair, his dress shoes underneath it. He’d made the bed, and that was disappointing. She wouldn’t have minded seeing the rumpled sheets he’d slept between, although it shamed her to admit it.

A low chest, painted matte black, served as a nightstand on the left side of the bed. On it were a digital clock and a framed photograph. The latter drew her like a magnet. She made her way over and bent down to get a better look.

In the picture was John, dressed only in swim trunks and a baseball cap turned backward. From beneath the cap, his hair curled around his ears and the back of his neck. Hehad the calves of a habitual runner. His pecs were lightly covered with a fan of hair. And he was ripped. Biceps, abs, everything was altogether yummy.

But the most startling thing in the photograph was his broad smile. She’d never seen that smile. She wouldn’t have believed his stern features capable of producing one of such unmitigated happiness. She reasoned that it had a lot to do with the preteen girl beside him.

She was wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit. She was coltishly thin, all arms and legs, knees and elbows. Her smile revealed twin rows of braces. Her dark hair was in pigtails, although a few rebellious, curly sprigs had escaped the braids.

Her slender left arm was around John’s waist. His right was draped over her shoulders. They stood ankle deep in a body of water that extended to the horizon, leaning into each other.

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