Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 2

  I had to swallow, feeling close to tears, before I could go on. “I thought you might like to come over for supper tonight. Something happened in the shop today. Something really strange. I wanted to tell you about it.”

  “Nothing about Scott and his wedding, I hope,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Sonja and he didn’t have a big fight, did they?”

  “No, thank God.” I waved at a customer who’d come in, but as he began browsing through a rack of rifles I ignored him, concentrating on listening to Caleb instead. “I met a man today,” I said.

  A leaden silence reigned before Caleb said, “Did you?”

  I paused. Had I detected a smidgen of jealousy in the tone of his response? A trace of apprehension? And if I had, was I glad or sorry?

  “Not that kind of man,” I said, deciding to answer the emphasis, rather than the content of his words. “One with an . . . um . . . a real unusual talent. I think.”

  I heard him suck air in between his teeth. “You mean⏤”

  “Yes.”

  “What did Sam think?” Caleb asked. “Or Scott? Did they see him, too?”

  “Neither one is here today. Dad’s off on a weekend jaunt to Ellensburg with a friend, and Scott is gone somewhere with Sonja, arranging.”

  “Arranging, huh? Scott?” Caleb sounded skeptical.

  “That’s what he says.” I didn’t bother to hide my somewhat cynical amusement. All this fussy-fancy wedding stuff makes me laugh. Only a little more than six months ago, Scott had been an inveterate womanizer, playing the field and enjoying the variety. And then he found Sonja, who, though she looks like a Playboy babe, is a practicing librarian and a member of Mensa.

  She’s been good for my brother which is the reason I didn’t resent too much the extra hours and work I’d been putting in at the shop recently, doing his job as well as my own. As soon as the wedding and honeymoon were a fait accompli Scott would be back and things normal again. Afterward, thanks to August von Fassnacht, I would seriously have to consider renewing my passport and taking a trip over to Germany.

  Which was another bone of contention between Caleb and me. I sighed. Well, I’d think about that after everything else. No hurry. Especially now, with yet another potential complication popping into view.

  “So, will you come tonight?” I asked again, after a little silence. I tried not to sound as if I were begging.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, with the barest hint of hesitation—unless I imagined it. “But I’ll be a little late, Boothenay. Jack has called a staff meeting for right after the clinic closes. You’ll be happy to hear they’ve hired a new PA-C.”

  At this, I did smile. “About time they quit making you do the work of three. Maybe⏤” I stopped.

  I’d been about to say that we could finally spend more time together now, but I didn’t want to seem pushy. Didn’t want to set myself up for hard feelings and a broken heart, either.

  “Maybe?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing. I’ll see you later.”

  “Later, sugar,” he agreed, warm and promising.

  THE DOGS WERE beside themselves with joy when they heard Caleb’s pickup pull into the parking lot around 6:30. Almost as joyous as I, although I tried not to follow their ardent example and let it show. I’m afraid Caleb knew anyway.

  Certainly I made no resistance when he took me in his arms. Not likely, inasmuch as this was what I most wanted in all the world! I reveled in the heat of his kiss as his mouth claimed mine; feeling secure, feeling desired in a way only Caleb Deane has ever made me feel. I knew if I were to die today, I’d be happy for all eternity. Well, maybe I didn’t feel quite that strongly, because I’m counting on spending years with him, but the sentiment shows what I mean.

  He wrapped me in his arms, my breasts pressing hard against his chest. One of my legs curled around one of his legs and I leaned into him, letting him take all my weight. After an interval of steadily building excitement, he rolled his mouth off mine with palpable reluctance. A breathless interval ticked by before he opened his emerald green eyes. A trace of a smug grin tilted his lips.

  “Whoo, sugar,” he murmured. “I think you’re glad to see me.”

  I couldn’t talk yet, but I bobbed my head. He was glad to see me, too.

  “You sure your daddy’s not home?” There was expectation in his voice. His hand raised to my breast where our bodies touched, the contact seeming to burn through both our shirts.

  “I’m sure,” I whispered, unable to prevent the way my body arched to meet his. I didn’t really want to prevent it, delighting instead in the sensation. We’d only ever been together a few times—too few. Not at all in these last weeks of baffling estrangement.

  With a great up welling of relief, I felt we were finally getting back on track, the attraction between us, like magnetic polarity, drawing us together once more. Tears pooled in my eyes before I could blink them away.

  Caleb kissed my mouth and my eyes until the tears had gone, and threading his fingers through my hair, drew the natural curls to full length before letting them spring back.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “I’ve hurt you, Boothenay, and I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy, what with Irene—”

  I stopped him, my finger against his lips. “Shh. I understand. Really.”

  His hands slid through my hair again, straightening a ringlet he’d just made. “Your hair has grown,” he said, surprised, as if he hadn’t seen me in a long time.

  “Hair does that,” I agreed. Once, he’d checked the length every time we got together, taking great joy in wrapping the curls around his fingers. Once, I’d been sure he was going to ask me to marry him, and I had planned to say yes.

  A physical flashback, a manifestation of power intervened, carrying him into the middle of World War I, where he met a woman he came to care for. I’d gotten him back to his own place in time, but he was changed by the experience, and so was I. I’d found it difficult to compete with a ghost.

  Perhaps, at long last, the ghost was gone, whereas I was very much alive. And available.

  I caught his hand. “Come upstairs,” I said, tilting my head and whispering against his mouth. The invitation was blatant, and I didn’t care. He’d know I wanted him, no artifice, no deceit, no beating around the bush. Now it was up to him.

  He came upstairs.

  WE DIDN’T SPEAK of the Weatherby man until after Caleb had taken the dogs for a run. I grilled steaks and threw a salad together while they were gone. On their return, Caleb got the dogs fed, watered and settled, and we sat down to our dinner outdoors on the patio where we basked in the last rays of a brilliant sunset. Red roses covered an arbor at one end of the paved parking area. Their scent reached all the way to the patio. Water rippled over the waterfall into the garden pond, a peaceful serenade. Laughing, we watched as one of the Briards pawed, splashing exuberantly, at a golden butterfly Koi swimming with its spine barely under water.

  A discussion of magic and power in this ordinary, peaceful world seemed extraordinarily out of place. And yet, for us, it is the way things are.

  “Okay,” Caleb said, when we’d settled with a small Bailey’s Irish Cream over ice for dessert. “Tell me about this man you met.”

  We were holding hands, and at this reminder, I unconsciously squeezed my fingers down hard. Surprised, he said, “Hey. That bad? He must’ve made some impression on you, sugar. What did he do?”

  “When you get right down to brass tacks, he didn’t really do anything.” I paused to sip my liqueur and gather—re-gather—my perceptions from the morning. “He had an attitude, though, like a guy from a 1930’s gangster movie, the hero on the lam.”

  “He’s the hero?” Caleb asked, his green eyes narrowing. I got the impression he thought heroes were dangerous.

  “I don’t know. Could be.”

  “What else?”

  “He had an . . . an aura. A dangerous aura. Black, to match his clothes.” I chuckled, then turned serious again. “
I could see it, Caleb. I truly could.”

  Caleb snorted, although if anyone should be able to understand auras and vague dangers, it was he. And he ought to be able to depend on me, too, when I told him they were there.

  “And?” he asked, knowing that couldn’t be all.

  “Well, when he entered the shop, he gawked around like a kid let loose in Toys R Us, but as if he were a little frightened, too, like maybe he’d never been in such a place in his life. You should’ve seen him, Caleb. I’ll bet you’d know exactly how he was feeling.”

  This description didn’t quite explain the man, though. I told Caleb he’d been like a kid. Thinking back, I knew this wasn’t true. There’d been nothing child-like about him. I think astonished was a better word than frightened.

  Caleb cocked his eyebrow. “At least he didn’t suddenly find himself in the middle of a pitched battle with cannon shot and bullets flying all around.”

  “No,” I said, “but I think he was plenty startled.”

  That just such a thing—battle and bullets, I mean—had happened to Caleb hadn’t been my fault. I’d warned everyone to leave the 1911 .45 Colt automatic that sent him there alone. They’d ignored my advice.

  I went on, saying, “His clothes. If you could’ve seen his clothes, Caleb. They were out of whack somehow. Nothing obvious, but there. And his speech patterns sounded strange.”

  Getting up, I poured another, more generous dose of Irish Cream over the melting ice, at which Caleb raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound very conclusive, sugar,” he said. “At one time my North Carolina accent sounded strange to you, before you got used to it. Sure you’re not imagining things?

  I tossed my head, hard enough for the curls to fly around my face.

  “Oh, no, Caleb. Listen. You haven’t heard the best part yet.” I paused for effect. “He knows what I am.”

  Caleb’s jaw tightened momentarily before he forced a grin. “What you are? Do you mean the sweet little historian gunsmith? Or the witch woman?”

  My lips twisted. “The witch woman. But there’s a better, best part.”

  “Which is?”

  “He disappeared. One minute there, the next minute gone.” I said this levelly, knowing it was the part I had trouble believing myself. Impossible, my mind insisted, although I knew there hadn’t been time for him to get in a car, board a bus, or walk away before I’d followed him.

  Caleb froze, seeming barely to breathe, before he pulled me to him, dragging me onto his lap. His arms wrapped around my waist, as though to keep me from being torn from his grasp, the muscles bulging with suppressed strength. I worried that he was angry.

  “That’s some best part,” he said dryly, before he asked the ultimate question. “What did he want?”

  My arms crept around his neck. “Well, you see, that’s the thing of it. I don’t know. And don’t I wish I did!”

  CHAPTER 2

  In the morning the stranger came back.

  He was an early bird. I hadn’t opened the shop for business as yet, and was still schlepping around in yesterday’s jeans and tee shirt while I dusted rifle racks and brought merchandise out of the vault. I would change into clean clothes before I unlocked the door. Emerging from one such trip to the back, I became aware of an insistent banging on the steel shutter over the plate-glass door.

  Vaguely uneasy, but unable to ignore the racket, I went to see who was there. It wasn’t unknown for a customer to want to drop off a firearm before going on to work, but this noise sounded so frantic I suspected there’d been an accident at the intersection.

  Scott, who should have been opening up and available to handle the emergency, had called at a quarter to six, waking me out of a sound sleep. I’d been sleeping badly of late, until last night changed the sequence, most likely due to Caleb and I finding our way back to each other. I resented being jolted out of a sweet dream when my brother informed me he was going to be late. He did promise to be in by ten, but I’d heard that one before, often enough to believe he’d be there when he actually walked in the door.

  As a result, I was a little cranky when I slid the steel door into the pocket and saw who’d been making all the commotion.

  “Oh!” My mouth gaped open in surprise and consternation. A thrumming sensation vibrated inside of me at the proximity of power. “It’s you,” I said, with an involuntary step back. Abject retreat.

  “Yes. Me.” He bored on toward me, and I kept right on retreating, until I found my back pressed tight against the counter. This was as far as I could go. I barely remembered my feet moving me there.

  His eyes, dark, though not as dark as mine, held me in a kind of thrall, as though I were under a spell. Sweat beaded in my hairline before I managed to look away. He was sweating, too, enough to make me believe I may have won a victory of sorts. I felt his power was stronger than my own, and that he’d had more considerably more practice in its use. Also, he’d taken me by surprise. But I’d surprised him, too. He hadn’t expected resistance—especially successful resistance.

  Watch him, I told myself. Don’t give him another opening.

  “What do you want?” My voice sounded tremulous. A despicable situation.

  He laid an Outa-Site gun carrier on the counter. The case was beat- up, the latches mangled, and in general, looked like it had been around the world a few dozen times, although I saw a recent model number.

  “Open it,” he said.

  “Is this the Weatherby?” The case was plenty large enough to hold a gun the size of a Weatherby. I let it lay. “I told you yesterday, I already have a work-in-progress backlog of more than five days. You might as well wait and buy a new one.” Inspiration struck. “Or you could take this one up the road to Ed’s. He might be able to work you—”

  He cut me off. “No. My ancestors say Irons is the best.

  I paused. “Your what?

  This boy had an odd accent, to be sure. Foreign sounding. I was beginning to suspect his planet of origin was somewhere in outer space. Well, not really, but I can guarantee he raised my hackles right up to my eyeballs.

  “Father. My father—grandfather—told me,” he amended hastily.

  I didn’t want to be caught in the backwash of power I was certain any gun of his would carry, so I watched cautiously from over his shoulder. A red dot of light at the side of the inner door caught my attention. The light was an indication he’d relocked it after I let him in, although he hadn’t pulled the steel cover over. He probably hadn’t known how to work the release mechanism. I must admit I didn’t find the fact he’d locked us in together reassuring. Worse yet, I didn’t remember seeing him do it.

  In addition, I had a perfectly clear view of the street curb, and same as yesterday, there were no cars parked at the curb; no bikes, pedal or power, not so much as a lowly bus. How had he gotten here? What had he used for transport? True, he might have walked or gone around to the side lot, but if so, why hadn’t the dogs barked a warning?

  Curiouser and curiouser. I licked dry lips, wishing for some kind of bright idea that would tell me how to get away from him. Perhaps, I decided, the best way was to do as he asked. Fix the damn gun, then he’d have to leave me alone.

  Anyway, what was I worried about? Antique guns pose the problem for me, not new ones, and the Weatherby Mark V hardly qualified as an antique. I conveniently ignored the gaps in this reasoning, choosing to refute the logic that said all of history had a beginning, and deliberately denying the familiar dissonance I felt in my bones.

  “Place the gun over on the bench,” I said abruptly, pointing to the other side of the room into the gunsmith, my lair. “I’ll look at it. I’m not making any promises,” I added, as he smiled a grim smile that stated more loudly than words he knew he’d intimidated me.

  Bastard!

  Deliberately turning my back on him, I marched over to my workbench, checking with a surreptitious glance that the LadySmith was still in the inconspicuous leather holster Dixie Wright had made for me.
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  The guy swung the Outa-Site onto the bench, carelessly scattering tools and parts everywhere, and knocking over a can of gun oil, thankfully tightly capped.

  “Watch out,” I snapped, glaring at him. “This isn’t a junk yard.” I can only stand intimidation for so long. Then I get mad.

  At my words, he smiled, quite unpleasantly. “Not yet.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” My hands knotted like a pugilist ready to punch out an opponent. “Are you threatening me? What are you going to do, tear my place apart if I don’t do what you want?”

  As though I’d said a magic word, his thin, rather haggard face went rigid before he dropped the threatening expression.

  “No,” he said, immediately adding the qualification, “as long as you do as I say.”

  “You better not,” I shot back. Taking a calming breath, I reminded myself of my own advice—do the job and get him out of here. I brushed a curl away from my eyes, making a gesture to indicate he should open the case.

  “Well, take it out,” I said, when he’d popped the latches. “I can’t see what’s wrong with it inside the case.”

  He made a motion of denial.

  “Why not?” I couldn’t help taunting him to try and prove to my own satisfaction he was indeed what I believed—a man of power. As much as I’d have liked to come right out and ask, I didn’t dare. Maybe I was afraid he’d tell me.

  “You do it,” he said, in his unfamiliar, almost-but-not-quite Hispanic accent. “I will pay you. That is the deal.”

  “Oh, really. I thought the deal was, I do your dirty work and you don’t trash my business.” Again I caught a flicker of expression behind his closed face. Was I handing him some kind of mortal insult? Or shaming him with the reminder of his threat?

  After every excursion into the past, I find I have managed to learn a new lesson in self-preservation. For instance, at the time of Caleb’s blunderbuss affair, I discovered that properties in a combination of foam and leather provide me with a measure of insulation from the ravages of power. A couple of months ago, August von Fassnacht’s 1911 Colt showed me there is a way to test for power. I try not to expose myself to unnecessary hazard.