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Scott turned redder than the fire engine Dusty could see through the door. Behind them, the men snickered.
“We sure could use some of that money you’re making in Toledo in the ante,” Martinez said from the table, tapping the edge of his cards against the top. “That is, if you can handle the pressure.”
Dusty grinned. There was no more than seventy-five cents on the table if there was a dollar. “Sorry, guys, but you’re just going to have to squeak by without me. Bets are too rich for me.”
He started for the door, giving up on restraint and intent on tracking Jolie down. He reached the doorway at the same time she popped into it from the other side. Her appearance should have eased the tension from Dusty’s shoulders. Instead, seeing her pulled his muscles tighter.
It was the same reaction he’d always had when faced with Jolie. That stomach-tightening, breath-robbing, mouth-watering sensation that if he didn’t kiss her within ten seconds he’d die. And six months away from her had only made the reaction more acute. Which definitely didn’t bode well for his mission.
“Hey, hey, hey, there she is,” Jones called out. “Now, here’s somebody not afraid of losing a few dollars.”
Dusty noted the way Jolie avoided eye contact with him. For all the attention she’d paid him since she’d returned from her run, he was beginning to feel as if he were invisible. A nonentity unworthy of her attention. Which was no less than he deserved, he supposed. If only her unexplained emotional distance hadn’t been part of his reason for leaving in the first place.
He hadn’t meant to make their…meeting again so public. He’d thought about showing up at the house without letting anyone else know he was in town, then realized that was wishful thinking. The moment his truck rolled over the county line half the population probably already knew he was back, and by the time he parked it, his return was probably old news.
Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He’d come to the station on purpose. Had needed to be surrounded by others in order to make what he had to say go down easier…both for him and her.
Jolie skirted the table. “Sorry, guys, I’m going to pass tonight.”
Exaggerated groans followed her to the refrigerator, where she pulled out salad fixings, then dropped them to the counter next to the stove.
From next to Dusty came an audible swallow. He didn’t kid himself into thinking Jolie had made the giveaway sound. No, Scooter looked like he’d rather be in the skillet with the steaks, rather than watching over them. “Um, Mr. Conrad. I mean Dusty…”
Now that Jolie was where he wanted her, at least for the moment, Dusty accepted the fork from Scott and turned the steaks out onto the plate. “Your instincts were straight on, Scooter. Trust them.”
“Okay.”
The teenager too happily turned cooking duty back over to him, all but scuttling to the chair he’d abandoned at the table. The rest of the men gladly dealt him into their next hand of poker.
But now that Dusty had the opening he’d been looking for, all his rehearsed words drained from his brain like water through a sieve. Taking his cue from Scott, he cleared his throat and slanted a glance toward Jolie. With neat, violent strokes of a knife, she made quick work of the salad. He was afraid if he didn’t say something now, she’d finish and likely up and disappear on him again.
“Um, Jolie?” He winced at the hesitant sound of his voice. Especially when she pretended not to hear him.
A windblown strand of sun-kissed brown hair curved against her cheek. Dusty stopped himself from brushing it back around her ear or tucking it into the French braid neatly fastened at the back of her head.
“Spit it out, Dusty.”
He blinked a couple of times, as if to verify that she’d actually spoken to him. She laid the knife on the counter, then wiped her hands on a towel. She turned cloudy blue eyes on him. “I’ve already accepted that I’m not going to like what you have to say, so just be out with it.”
“Uh…” Grand sakes alive, he felt like a speechless teenager all over again. There was something about the thin black that encircled her irises. The direct way she looked at him and only him. The enticing way she discreetly caught the inner flesh of her bottom lip that shot his best intentions all to hell.
The widening of her pupils told him that the effect was fully mutual. All at once the stiffness around her jaw eased, and he was afraid she was a heartbeat away from bestowing on him one of those all-Jolie smiles that would undoubtedly knock him down for the count.
Before he could question the wisdom, he reached out and gently worked a single white chicken feather from her hair. Her intake of breath was so shallow he was certain he was the only one who heard it. He slowly pulled his hand back, displaying the feather. “Um, a little remnant from your run.”
Her cheeks colored, then her gaze dropped suggestively to his mouth. She blinked. “You shaved off your mustache.”
Dusty lifted a hand to his bare upper lip. “Yeah.”
His own gaze lingered on her just-moistened lips. If she didn’t stop looking at him like that, more would be sizzling than just the steaks.
With incredible self-restraint, Dusty hauled his gaze from Jolie’s mouth. He switched off the burner under the nearly melted potatoes, wondering just how he went about switching off the flame in his gut.
Just be out with it, indeed.
“Jolie…I’ve come to pick up the divorce papers.”
For the life of her, Jolie couldn’t figure out why she felt as if she’d just lopped a finger off with the knife. In the time she’d avoided coming into the kitchen she’d pretty much figured out that the reason Dusty had come back was not a good one. She merely hadn’t taken the assumption to the next step and connected his presence with the unsigned papers she’d stuck into a drawer at home the instant she received them a couple of months back.
Which was stupid, really. And that only agitated her further. She’d spent her life proving that she was the exact opposite of stupid. Up to any task set in front of her, she was. A regular anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-just-as-well kind of girl, with her feet firmly steeped in reality. She’d had to be for her own survival. It hadn’t been easy being raised by a paternal grandfather who didn’t have a clue on how to react to a six-year-old girl, much less raise one. As he’d told her often enough, he’d seen to raising his one son and that should be more than any one man should have to endure. So Jolie had learned at a young age how to not only look after herself, but after him. Seemed she was always trying to keep placated the well-meaning but nosy townsfolk who questioned the old man’s ability to look after her. For they were at the ready to take her away from the only family she had left.
Of course, no one was happier than she was when the time finally came for her to start making her own decisions. And nothing had intrigued her like the beast that had stolen her parents from her: fire.
“Jolie?”
She blinked Dusty’s handsome face back into focus, noting the pity there. She hated that he felt sorry for her. That hadn’t always been the case. Of course, when you were six years old and the older next-door neighbor was paying you attention, you didn’t recognize that same attention as pity. You just took attention any way you could get it.
Now she knew better.
“They’re…um, the papers are back at the house.”
“I see.”
She gathered the salad fixings into a bowl and tossed them. “You didn’t think I kept them here in my locker, did you?”
His half grin made her remember that mischievous boy who used to include her in all the goings-on. “Let’s put it this way—it wouldn’t have surprised me.”
She realized then that the room had gotten suspiciously quiet. She turned to find the poker game going on as if in slow motion. Her cheeks flamed. How much of her conversation with Dusty had they overheard? She hadn’t told a soul that she’d heard from Dusty, much less received divorce papers from him. Heck of a way for them to find out.
Who was she kidding? She was probably the last person in town to figure out he wasn’t coming back when he left.
She cleared her throat. “Okay, guys, wrap it up. Dinner’s on.”
A flurry of activity followed, though any attempt at conversation was awkward at best. She began to set the table alongside Martinez when Dusty grasped her wrist.
Her pulse gave a telltale leap and her throat went as dry as charred wood. Which was silly, really. His touch was meant as nothing more than a halting measure.
Yeah, tell that to her body.
“Jolie?”
She looked to where everyone was nearly settled around the table. “Look, Dusty, can we talk about this later?”
The sound of the alarm sliced through the room, eliciting a series of groans and curses. Three bells. That meant they needed both engines, which would nearly empty out the firehouse.
“Figures,” Gary groaned. “First decent meal we’ve had around here in six months and I can’t even eat it.”
He along with a couple of the other men stuffed what they could into their mouths and pockets, then rushed out of the room to grab their gear.
Jolie started after them, feeling almost relieved. Talk about being saved by the bell. Although she was certain that whoever had coined the phrase hadn’t had quite this interruption in mind.
“Jolie,” Dusty said again, more insistently.
She turned to face him, and nearly tripped over Spot for the second time that day. She looked down to make sure the cat was okay, wondering just what exactly was going on in her little feline brain. She received an irritated twitch of a black tail for her effort as the cat scampered off into the station.
Jolie flicked her gaze back to Dusty. His expectant expression tightened the vise around her heart. For a second she’d forgotten where they were, where she was, thinking he’d be on her heels, rushing for the nearest engine right along with her.
But he wasn’t. And probably never would be again.
She dug her fingers into her front jeans pocket. “Here,” she said, tossing him her house keys. “Stay at the house. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 2
Jolie gazed wistfully at the autumn sun hovering on the horizon. She wished the weak rays could chase away the cold that seemed to chill the marrow of her bones. It had been an especially grueling twenty-four-hour shift. Only she wasn’t convinced her work schedule was the cause of her reluctance to walk the six blocks home. No, she knew it wasn’t. The dragging of her feet had more to do with the man who was waiting at the end of her walk. Her husband. The man who had walked out on her and their marriage without a second glance. A man who had returned. For whatever reasons.
Jolie felt…well, strange, was the best way she could describe it. For so long now, she had grown accustomed to being on her own. Living a compartmentalized existence. At work she was still part of a team, a family, really, where there was little time to ponder her marriage, her life, and what, if anything, she could do to change either.
When she attended town events, or went shopping, she was the same person she’d always been. Or so she tried to convince everyone. And, just being around others made her feel that maybe in some ways she was.
It wasn’t until she went home after her regular twenty-four-hour shift, then spent the next two days there waiting for her next shift, or returned from grocery shopping or lunch with her best friend and sister-in-law, Darby, that she became aware all over again of the void that was her life. A void that had gaped open the instant Dusty had told her he couldn’t live with her anymore.
Petition for Divorce.
Shivering, Jolie worked her hand through a too-long denim coat sleeve, then tucked her hair behind her ear.
She didn’t know what hurt her more. The fact that Dusty was seeking a divorce. Or that he had personally come back to compel her to agree to it.
The brisk morning air burned her eyes. At least that’s what she told herself as she blinked back tears and picked up her pace. She decided that Dusty’s seeking a divorce bothered her more than his being back, however temporarily. Their marriage, their life together, had been more real than anything to her. Being with him had filled her with a hope, a hunger for living, a sheer happiness that she couldn’t remember feeling before. Not since her parents were ripped from her life when she was six. He’d made her feel loved. Needed. As if she belonged.
Which left her wondering what she was supposed to be feeling now.
Of course, she and Dusty had been unable to have children….
Jolie bit solidly on her bottom lip, emotionally incapable of probing that raw wound. Not on top of everything else swirling inside her right now.
The one person she had shared part of her ordeal with was Pastor Adams. He had asked if she’d like him to intervene on her behalf. Contact Dusty and try to talk things out with him. She’d not only declined his offer, she’d taken his suggestion as almost an insult. It was bad enough that she hadn’t been woman enough to keep her man. Now she needed a clergyman to intercede on her behalf? Go after her missing husband and beg for him to come back? She let the pastor know in so many words that she’d rather eat a bucket full of earthworms first, a feeling that hadn’t changed even after crying for two days straight after her conversation with him. And not even after his sermon on pride.
Pride. Now there was a word. What was a woman to do when it seemed that pride was all that made her get up in the morning? That saw her through living in a house still chock-full of her husband’s presence? Injected the very fire she fought into her veins whenever she caught one of the townsfolk looking at her in that long, pitying way?
She rounded the corner and the small two-story renovated farmhouse came into view. In the driveway parked behind her Jeep was Dusty’s pickup. Of course she’d known he’d be there. But actually seeing him there was another matter entirely.
Mrs. Noonan across the street opened her screen door with a telling squeak. Jolie fought the urge to roll her eyes. Awfully coincidental that the town’s busiest busybody chose this moment to collect a morning paper delivered two hours ago.
“’Morning, Jolie!” she called out.
Jolie waved a hand and returned the greeting.
“I see you’ve sold the house.”
Sold…the…house…
Jolie’s gaze edged the neat front lawn, then traveled to where only a hole indicated that there was once a Realtor’s sign posted. Her stomach tightened. Dusty must have taken it down when he’d come home last night.
Home. She’d have to stop referring to it as such. The house they’d spent five years in together was no longer home. Not to him. Not to her.
“I’m sure it’s a mistake, Mrs. Noonan. The house hasn’t been sold.” Yet.
Collecting the morning paper, she instinctively reached for her keys, only then remembering that she’d given them to Dusty the night before. Resting her palm against the smooth wood door, she thought she’d rather break a window than have to knock to get into a place that had been hers alone for the past few months. She curved her fingers around the doorknob. It turned easily in her grasp. She gave a faint gasp of relief and pushed it inward.
As she closed the door behind her, she instantly became aware of the proof that someone other than herself was in the house. The aroma of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Hiking boots abandoned in the hall. Papers strewn across the coffee table while the television mutely flickered the morning news.
Jolie caught herself tiptoeing and censured herself. What was she afraid of?
“Dusty?” she called out, dropping the paper and her purse on the hall table and craning her neck to peek through the kitchen doorway. He didn’t answer. She forced herself to walk into the room, feeling as if something were different. The yellow walls seemed…brighter, somehow. Refusing to explore the reasons for that, and especially not daring to think Dusty’s presence the cause, she took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee from the half-full carafe. She eyed the dark sludge. Not exactly fresh. Shrugging out of the coat she had on, she draped it on the back of a slatted wood chair, then lingered over it, running her fingers down the well-worn denim. She absently plucked a couple of Spot’s white hairs from the material. Since the mornings had turned brisk a couple of weeks ago, she’d taken to wearing the wool-lined jacket Dusty had left behind. She supposed he’d be taking it along with the divorce papers and the rest of his stuff when he left again.
Thrusting the thought from her mind, she turned toward the counter and set about making a fresh pot of coffee. She filled the water reservoir then scooped in the grounds. A loud banging noise from upstairs startled her. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared warily at the ceiling. What was he doing?
The coffee couldn’t brew fast enough for her. Halfway through the cycle, she quickly poured two cups, then headed for the stairs. A splash of white on the gleaming oak kitchen table slowed her steps, then drew her to a stop. Dusty had laid out their divorce papers.
She didn’t have to ask how he’d found them. She had a habit of shoving everything into a desk drawer as she received the items, planning to get to them later. Only in this case “later” hadn’t come soon enough for him.
The banging upstairs started up again. Her heart beating an uneven rhythm in her chest, she climbed the stairs and followed the sounds through the second-floor hall. Her palms grew instantly damp as she realized he was working on the master bath. Correction, the half of a master bath. Dusty had begun the addition about a year ago and had left it unfinished, much as he’d left their relationship unfinished.
Her knees as firm as an empty fire hose, she stepped into the bedroom, her bedroom, and stood frozen before the rumpled four-poster bed. A bed she had slept in alone for the past six months. A bed Dusty had obviously slept in last night.
She tightened her fingers on the coffee mugs, afraid she might drop them. There were at least two other places he could have chosen to sleep. One a comfortable guest bedroom, two, the oversize couch downstairs. Why had he chosen her bed?
The sound of hammering resumed and she forced herself to the half-open door that led off to the left. From a discarded leather tool belt, to a greasy rag, then a piece of floor molding, her gaze wandered until it settled on the back of Dusty’s jeans. The faded material hugged his athletic thighs and legs to perfection.
Despite everything, Jolie found herself awkwardly attracted to her husband.
“You read my mind.”
Her gaze flickered to Dusty’s wryly smiling face, then to the tipping cups she still held. She quickly righted them, nearly causing the liquid to spill out the other way.
She shakily handed him his cup.
He took a hefty sip. “Just as I like it. Heavy on the coffee.”
Grasping her own cup in both hands, she looked at him. Really looked at him for the first time since she’d spotted him at the firehouse yesterday. God, but he looked better than any one man had the right to. His light brown hair was as closely cropped as ever, making her palms itch with the need to run them slowly over the spiky strands. His rich Irish-cream brown eyes were just as watchful, making her feel as though he looked straight through the wall of her chest and into her heart. His body was just as defined, the six-pack ripple of his stomach muscles clearly visible under his chest-hugging white T-shirt, his hips just as trim beneath his close-fitting jeans.
“What…what are you doing?” she asked, surprised by the gravelly sound of her voice.
He put his cup aside, then wiped his mouth with a slow, long sweep of his wrist. He gestured toward the Jacuzzi. “I, um, woke up early and thought I’d have a go at finishing this.”
Jolie swallowed hard. This was all too comfortable…too normal, when everything between them was everything but. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
Before she could stop herself, she asked the question that had been burning on her tongue ever since he’d voluntarily placed himself within shouting distance. Drawing a shaky breath, she asked, “Dusty, where have you been?”
Dusty sat back on his heels as though pushed back. The inside of his eyelids felt peppered with sand, reminding him how very little he’d slept last night. Looking at the smudges under Jolie’s eyes, he guessed she hadn’t fared any better. But while she’d had the firehouse to keep her busy, he’d been stuck at the house with little more to do than think about everything that had come before. Everything that would come after.
He glanced around the half-finished room, the only place in the entire house that hadn’t been there since the beginning of time. He knew every inch of this place. Just which floorboards would creak when you stepped on them. Which windows you could jimmy open with a couple of jostled tries even when locked. The slight incline of the kitchen floor from where the house had settled. Not perceptible to the human eye, but obvious when you spilled something and the liquid pooled near the back door as if seeking a way out.
Somewhere around 4:00 a.m., after he’d found the divorce papers crammed at the very bottom of the desk drawer, then watched TV until he’d overdosed on infomercials, he’d drifted off to sleep on the couch only to awaken with a start a little while later. Without thinking, he’d dragged himself upstairs and dropped into the bed they had once shared. It wasn’t until after he was surrounded by Jolie’s sweet lemony scent, and after he’d had an especially steamy dream that left him drenched in sweat, that he’d given up on catching any quality shut-eye, fixed himself some coffee, then headed back upstairs to check out what she had done with the master bath. It didn’t take long to figure out that she’d done nothing. The door had been tightly closed, his tools were still out exactly where he’d left them. It was almost as if he’d stopped working a day or two ago and had returned to finish the job. Never left.
But he had left. And though some things hadn’t changed, many other things had.
Deciding to avoid her question, he asked one of his own. “When did you put the house up for sale?”
Her gaze flitted away from his to settle on the cup she held. She gave a casual shrug of her shoulders, but the straight way she held herself told him she felt anything but casual. “Last month.”
He cocked a brow. “Don’t you think it would have been a good idea to ask me first?”
“I did ask you. When your attorney called a couple months back I asked him what you wanted me to do with the house. He told me that you wanted me to have it.”
“I meant that you should stay here.”
She gazed at him for a long moment before answering. “Why?” she asked quietly. “This is your family’s house, not mine. I wasn’t raised here, Dusty. If you didn’t care about…what happens with it, why should I?” She leaned against the jamb. “Where’d you put the sign?”
He hooked a thumb toward the window. “Out back. I chopped it for kindling.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did. Though I doubt the Realtor will be very happy with my actions, it sure as hell made me feel a lot better about the whole thing.”
The sound of strangled laughter surprised him. And inspired a grin of his own. He’d thought she’d be upset. Although judging by her own expression, she was just as shocked as he was by her reaction.
“You know, I really shouldn’t be amused by this,” she said. “I should be absolutely livid that you’ve come back and taken over just like you’d never…”
He scanned her features, noticing the way her lips were slightly parted, as if she were ready to breathe the last word but didn’t dare. “Like I never left?”