the bathroom. I was shaving with an electric razor, didn't hear her. She put her arm around me at the throat. Instinct kicked in. She was in the hospital two weeks; it was pure luck that she didn't die. She started divorce proceedings the day she got out.”
“How terrible,” Cammie said slowly. “I mean for you.”
“It wasn't too great for her.”
“You never tried again?”
He gave her a steady look. “I'm barely housebroken, not fit husband material for any woman.”
For just an instant she saw him as he must appear to other women, the rugged physique, the broad forehead and firmly molded mouth, the straight nose with a slight bump at the bridge as if it had been broken. There was an old-gold-tinted shadow of beard on his lean cheeks and jaws, a scar half hidden in one eyebrow. His hands were big and sun-brown, but were well-made with neat, close-clipped nails. His self-assurance was bone deep, accepted and forgotten. Then there were his eyes. Clear, steady, they held self-derision and half-hidden pain, but they were not the eyes of an animal.
“You underestimate yourself, I think,” she said finally.
“You're wrong.”
The words were flat, with the heavy sound of denied emotion. Was there a warning in them? If so, it had nothing to do with her.
“That isn't all, is it — your marriage, how it ended?” She tilted her head to one side in careful consideration. “There was something else that happened to you.”
He came to his feet so abruptly that his chair skidded on the waxed linoleum. “Finish your coffee. I'll take you home.”
“To my car, you mean,” she said, veiling her eyes as she felt warm color surge into her face. She was not used to being dismissed, though it was possible she had asked for it. She had forgotten, for a moment, who he was.
“I mean home,” he answered. As she raised a questioning gaze, he moved to the cabinet, where he picked up a wallet and keys, her wallet and keys, and tossed them on the table. “I went back to check on Keith, just in case, and to drive your car around here to save time. It was no go. Somebody had slashed your tires.”
The thought of him making that trek through the woods and cold rain again just to save her a little trouble gave her an odd feeling inside. She disregarded it as, in tones of disgust, she said, “Keith.”
Reid nodded as he reached for his coffee cup and drank the last swallow. “His tracks were there. I take it he isn't happy about the divorce.”
“You could say that,” she said, and told him briefly about the way she had been hounded.
“Someone should have a talk with him.” There was an edge of carefully repressed ferocity in Reid's voice.
Cammie gave him a sharp look as she pushed back her chair and stood up. His face was shuttered, with no clue to what he was thinking or what he intended. She said, “I hope that won't be necessary, after tonight.”
A wry smile came and went across his face, but he said no more.
There was a Jeep Cherokee and a Lincoln Town Car in the garage at the Fort. Since there was a stretch of muddy road to be covered, Reid backed the Jeep out.
Cammie, sitting stiffly beside him, pulled at the faded and shrunken robe of navy flannel she still wore, trying to cover her knees. The robe had to be a relic of Reid's high school days, she thought, since it was so short and worn. It gave her an odd feeling to think it might be a favorite piece of clothing, carried with him around the world.
Still, she hated to think what people would say if they saw her in it; the busybodies would have a field day. She had not been worried enough about it, however, to struggle back into her clammy underwear or wet shirt and jeans. If she didn't give people something interesting to talk about, they would make up something worse.
She and Reid spoke very little during the short drive. The pecking of the rain on the Jeep's roof and the swish of the windshield wipers were loud in the silence. Once she saw him
“How terrible,” Cammie said slowly. “I mean for you.”
“It wasn't too great for her.”
“You never tried again?”
He gave her a steady look. “I'm barely housebroken, not fit husband material for any woman.”
For just an instant she saw him as he must appear to other women, the rugged physique, the broad forehead and firmly molded mouth, the straight nose with a slight bump at the bridge as if it had been broken. There was an old-gold-tinted shadow of beard on his lean cheeks and jaws, a scar half hidden in one eyebrow. His hands were big and sun-brown, but were well-made with neat, close-clipped nails. His self-assurance was bone deep, accepted and forgotten. Then there were his eyes. Clear, steady, they held self-derision and half-hidden pain, but they were not the eyes of an animal.
“You underestimate yourself, I think,” she said finally.
“You're wrong.”
The words were flat, with the heavy sound of denied emotion. Was there a warning in them? If so, it had nothing to do with her.
“That isn't all, is it — your marriage, how it ended?” She tilted her head to one side in careful consideration. “There was something else that happened to you.”
He came to his feet so abruptly that his chair skidded on the waxed linoleum. “Finish your coffee. I'll take you home.”
“To my car, you mean,” she said, veiling her eyes as she felt warm color surge into her face. She was not used to being dismissed, though it was possible she had asked for it. She had forgotten, for a moment, who he was.
“I mean home,” he answered. As she raised a questioning gaze, he moved to the cabinet, where he picked up a wallet and keys, her wallet and keys, and tossed them on the table. “I went back to check on Keith, just in case, and to drive your car around here to save time. It was no go. Somebody had slashed your tires.”
The thought of him making that trek through the woods and cold rain again just to save her a little trouble gave her an odd feeling inside. She disregarded it as, in tones of disgust, she said, “Keith.”
Reid nodded as he reached for his coffee cup and drank the last swallow. “His tracks were there. I take it he isn't happy about the divorce.”
“You could say that,” she said, and told him briefly about the way she had been hounded.
“Someone should have a talk with him.” There was an edge of carefully repressed ferocity in Reid's voice.
Cammie gave him a sharp look as she pushed back her chair and stood up. His face was shuttered, with no clue to what he was thinking or what he intended. She said, “I hope that won't be necessary, after tonight.”
A wry smile came and went across his face, but he said no more.
There was a Jeep Cherokee and a Lincoln Town Car in the garage at the Fort. Since there was a stretch of muddy road to be covered, Reid backed the Jeep out.
Cammie, sitting stiffly beside him, pulled at the faded and shrunken robe of navy flannel she still wore, trying to cover her knees. The robe had to be a relic of Reid's high school days, she thought, since it was so short and worn. It gave her an odd feeling to think it might be a favorite piece of clothing, carried with him around the world.
Still, she hated to think what people would say if they saw her in it; the busybodies would have a field day. She had not been worried enough about it, however, to struggle back into her clammy underwear or wet shirt and jeans. If she didn't give people something interesting to talk about, they would make up something worse.
She and Reid spoke very little during the short drive. The pecking of the rain on the Jeep's roof and the swish of the windshield wipers were loud in the silence. Once she saw him