No Place Like Home
Robin Nicholas
Mariah knew why she wasn't sleeping at night, why her work was lackluster, why she noticed children everywhere. She wanted a child, and a dependable man to love her.She strode to Rafe, who was nothing like her dear old dad or her brother. "Take me home. And don't worry–I want nothing to do with writing your story."She gave him no chance to reply, stomping to his truck before turning.Her breath caught. Rafe stood on the highway, the incessant breeze tugging his hair, his clothes. He stared after the departing storm, clearly craving to give chase again.He was crazy.And she was crazy for wanting him.
“Are you going to come back?”
Rafe seemed to await her answer as intently as his daughter, their dual gazes penetrating clear to her soul. Almost as if he wanted her to come back as much as Sunny wanted her to…
And for a moment Mariah’s desire to return had nothing to do with saving her job.
A whirl of emotion swept her, as unexpected as yesterday’s tornado. How had this happened so fast? How had she not seen this coming?
Sunny had her grandma, but that didn’t mean the child wouldn’t start to love her, only to be hurt when the time came for her to leave. As for Rafe—even if he did have feelings for her beyond the basic, which she doubted, he was the last kind of man she needed to fall for. There was no future for her here in “Oz.” And yet…
“Of course I’ll be back.”
Dear Reader,
You asked for more ROYALLY WED titles and you’ve got them! For the next four months we’ve brought back the Stanbury family—first introduced in a short story by Carla Cassidy on our www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Web site. Be sure to check the archives to find Nicholas’s story! But don’t forget to pick up Stella Bagwell’s The Expectant Princess and discover the involving story of the disappearance of King Michael.
Other treats this month include Marie Ferrarella’s one hundredth title for Silhouette Books! This wonderful, charming and emotional writer shows her trademark warmth and humor in Rough Around the Edges. Luckily for all her devoted readers, Marie has at least another hundred plots bubbling in her imagination, and we’ll be seeing more from her in many of our Silhouette lines.
Then we’ve got Karen Rose Smith’s Tall, Dark & True about a strong, silent sheriff who can’t bear to keep quiet about his feelings any longer. And Donna Clayton’s heroine asks Who Will Father My Baby?—and gets a surprising answer. No Place Like Home by Robin Nicholas is a delightful read that reminds us of an all-time favorite movie—I’ll let you guess which one! And don’t forget first-time author Roxann Delaney’s debut title, Rachel’s Rescuer.
Next month be sure to return for The Blacksheep Prince’s Bride by Martha Shields, the next of the ROYALLY WED series. Also returning are popular authors Judy Christenberry and Elizabeth August.
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
No Place Like Home
Robin Nicholas
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Robin Nicholas
Silhouette Romance
The Cowboy and His Lady #1017
Wrangler’s Wedding #1049
Man, Wife and Little Wonder #1301
Cowboy Dad #1327
No Place Like Home #1508
ROBIN NICHOLAS
lives in Illinois with her husband, Dan, and their son, Nick. Her debut book, The Cowboy and His Lady, was part of the successful Silhouette Romance CELEBRATION 1000! promotion. And her third book, Man, Wife and Little Wonder, was Silhouette Romance’s featured BUNDLES OF JOY title.
Contents
Chapter One (#ue1c18c50-cb88-538c-8029-779d665d8ff8)
Chapter Two (#uce493042-e9a8-512c-9553-87c3d0e6b24f)
Chapter Three (#u75c0f1cd-c039-5dce-84ce-ee51adb78d78)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
There was nothing like knowing she had to do something to trigger the stubborn side of Mariah Morgan’s normally outgoing nature.
Such was the case, as, south of the Kansas/Oklahoma border and several miles west of Highway 35, she opened the door to the dubious ambience of rundown Trixie’s Cafå. The vanity plates, STRMY F5, on the mud-splattered 4?4 sport utility truck parked outside told her she’d finally tracked down the elusive, reclusive “Stormy” Taylor. But instead of feeling relieved, she struggled with resentment.
A feature on the storm photographer could save her job at Plain View Magazine—so her editor said of her “lackluster work” of late. But she found it hard to get excited over a story on a thirty-five-year-old who chased tornadoes for a living. Only an ingrained aversion to poverty had brought her here.
A hot, dusty breeze trailed her through the door, tugging wisps of her curly, dark hair from its tidy bun. Slinging her purse strap over the shoulder of her royal blue short suit, she shut the door resolutely, sealing in an onslaught of onions and coffee. Conversation came in bursts laced with adjectives like snaky and hellish, and terms like vortex and dryline, all from an unkempt group who looked more than capable of chasing down tornadoes.
All eyes turned her way and talk ceased abruptly, save for the husky voice of a tawny-haired man seated at the far end of the counter. His wrinkled field shirt hung loose of his jeans, his back turned to her as he continued to drawl sexily into the cell phone he held to his ear.
“You know how to reach me, sweetheart. Just be waiting.”
There came a pause during which he seemed to notice the quiet. Half turning on the creaky stool he slouched on, he zeroed sharp hazel eyes on her as the cause of the sudden silence. His gaze turned cautious yet aware as he spoke succinctly into the phone. “Later, sweetheart.”
Mariah flushed hotly as he pocketed the phone. The responsive flutter in the pit of her stomach annoyed her. Only one kind of man eyed a woman that way when he was talking to his sweetheart.
She turned her attention to the group occupying the table in the center of the cafå, wondering which one was Stormy—the burly old man in coveralls, the dark-haired devil using a laptop or one of two slender young men who looked like they belonged on safari. Realizing she’d have done better to blend with this group clad in khaki and denim, she envisioned herself in her Levi’s and forced a smile.
“Hello. I’m Mariah Morgan from the Wichita office of Plain View Magazine. I noticed the plates on the white truck outside and wondered if one of you folks might be Stormy Taylor.”
Eyebrows raised. Skeptical glances were exchanged. No one offered a word.
Then a husky voice drawled from behind her, “I’m Rafe Taylor.”
Mariah clenched her jaw. Hanging on to her smile with effort, she faced those assessing eyes once more. “Mr. Taylor.”
The occupants of the table behind her snickered.
“Rafe will do.”
“Rafe, then.” She would remain gracious; she preferred gracious to groveling, which was probably closer to the truth, all things considered. He hadn’t responded to any messages she’d left him at his headquarters in some obscure little map dot in southwest Kansas called Tassel. His secretary had finally deigned to take her call, only to send her on this goose chase to track him down—an obvious ploy to discourage her. The death of his wife during a tornado last spring, leaving him with a daughter to raise, had apparently triggered an animosity for all journalists, not just those who went after his tragic story. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she continued, “Your secretary helped me locate you.”
Another round of snickers ensued, which Rafe silenced with a wry glance.
…eight…nine…ten. Mariah exhaled and continued again. “As I told your friends, I’m from Plain View Magazine. We’d like to do a feature regarding your work as a storm photographer.”
“Why?”
Why? Most people didn’t care why. They just wanted to be written up in a magazine. Heaven only knew what it would take to tempt this man who obviously despised journalists. Striving for professionalism, she quoted, “Editors at Plain View believe your occupation appeals to human interest, thus enabling us to entertain readers while at the same time raising their awareness of the dangers of—”
“What do you believe?”
Feeling suddenly transparent, her jaw aching with tension, she said tightly, “Pardon me?”
“Why do you want to write this feature?”
Because if I don’t, my job will vanish, as surely as if one of your tornadoes swept it away. Mariah swallowed, her throat dry as Kansas dust. “Perhaps you’ll let me buy you lunch while I explain what the ed—what I have in mind.”
She thought he might refuse. She could see it in his eyes, in the stubborn thrust of his unshaven jaw. He was a handsome rogue, with an almost sultry sulky mouth and high cheekbones buffed by wind and sun. His brown hair shone as if in sunlight, some crisply cut strands standing on end—more a reflection of his impatience than the wind, she imagined. But it was her fingers, not his, that she envisioned pushing through the silky looking strands….
A cup clattered atop the counter, making her jump.
“Here’s your coffee, Stormy. Now quit harassing my customer and let her sit down.”
Trixie, Mariah surmised, flashing the small but sturdy woman behind the counter a grateful smile. Rafe shrugged his acquiescence, rising slightly from his stool in a faint show of manners. She’d bet there wasn’t an ounce of fat hidden beneath his rumpled shirt, his body lean and long, his jeans stretched taut over his muscled thighs. Mariah slipped onto the stool beside him, her black pumps tangling with his dusty hiking boots, her gaze locked with his for an electric moment before he sat, too. Hooking her heels on the rungs of the stool, she placed her purse on the counter, battling another irritating round of flutters.
“What’ll you have, miss?” Their hostess waved her hand dismissively at Rafe. “He’s already eaten.”
Taking an immediate liking to the denim-clad woman with her firm drawl, coffee-brown eyes and shoe-polish-black cropped hair, Mariah smiled. “I’d like iced tea and a BLT.”
“White or wheat?”
“Wheat, please.” She turned to ask politely if Rafe cared for anything, only to find his attention turned to the dark-haired devil at the table, who’d slipped on a headphone. Rafe seemed to wait for some sign as the man listened intently, obviously tuning out the conversation that had picked up around him.
Mariah took the moment to study Rafe. He didn’t strike her as crazy, as he was purported to be, following some of his risky chases. Despite the unholy gleam she’d seen in his eyes, he seemed intelligent, a deliberate type, diligent in his quest for…storms. Mariah sighed. There was just no getting around the fact that the man chased storms for a living, an absurdity she had to showcase on paper.
Trixie set a glass of iced tea on the counter and, murmuring a thank you, Mariah turned dismally to it, stirring in extra sugar from small pink packets on the counter. She was tired and hungry and more than a little discouraged. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately. After a restless night, she’d left Wichita, driving a hundred miles in search of “Stormy” Taylor, to write a story she didn’t want to write in order to save a job that her thoughts hadn’t centered around of late.
The scrape of a chair from a corner of the cafå drew her attention. A small boy, clad in an oversize T-shirt and baggy, denim shorts, climbed to a standing position on the chair and fed a quarter into an ancient pinball machine, putting a ball in play. He was cute, maybe six, with a mop of black hair that made her suspect he belonged to Trixie. It seemed she was always noticing kids these days. Probably because her sister and brother-in-law, who lived in Kansas City, had a baby on the way. Her brother and his wife in California already had three sons. The twinge of envy that accompanied her thoughts had become familiar. Turning thirty, with no husband in sight, apparently left a woman susceptible to such feelings.
The game ended abruptly. The boy stood forlornly on the chair, stirring her sympathy. Having grown up the poor kid on the block, she knew all too well what he felt like. When the quarter was gone, it was gone.
Which served to remind her why she’d chosen to write the story of her career about “Stormy.” She turned to face Rafe, only to find him studying her, as if he had his camera in hand, contemplating a portrait. Mariah froze, unblinking, acutely conscious of their knees brushing, of her face turned up to his.
“Ever seen a tornado?” he asked, the way one might ask if she’d ever seen a rainbow.
But there was a gleam of challenge in his eyes that put her on the defensive, that reminded her he was a journalist, too. “My mother always made me go into the basement when there was a tornado coming.”
Her sarcasm had Rafe chuckling before he could stop himself, a fact his fellow chasers didn’t miss, judging by the second silence from the table behind him. That she’d categorized him as an “outlaw” who chased only for the thrill was obvious. But it didn’t take a professional chaser to spot the storm brewing in Mariah’s pretty blue eyes. They were downright turbulent. Though when she’d watched Trixie’s boy, they’d gone soft and gentle, in that way a woman’s eyes softened only for a child.
At least, most women. His wife, Ann, had proved to be in a class all her own. He’d known and loved her all of his life, thought his dreams had come true when she’d loved him back. Sunny had come along before he’d realized that Ann had seen him, and the notoriety that came with his profession, as her ticket out of Tassel. She’d craved media attention as much as he’d come to despise it.
He’d made clear that for him, there was no place like home. Now he had to live with the guilty secret that Ann had been leaving him—and Sunny—the night she was killed. Getting past that guilt wasn’t easy with the press continually dredging up the story of her death. He was determined to shield Sunny from those trying to capitalize on his personal life.
Although, he had to admit, Mariah wasn’t sending out the usual greedy vibes. She seemed downright reluctant, maybe even resentful to be here. He cocked his head. “How come I get the impression you didn’t raise your hand for this assignment?”
Color rose in her cheeks. In her sophisticated clothes and hairdo he’d put her close to thirty, but she seemed very young in that moment, silky curls frizzing about her face, a dash of golden freckles showing through the dusting of powder on her pert nose. But the blush quickly gave way to that determination he’d come to expect from those seeking his story.
“I’m sorry if I gave that impression.” She held his gaze firmly. “I can assure you I’ll do my professional best if you’ll grant me two weeks of your time for an in-depth interview.”
Two weeks?
His comrades seated at the table had quieted again. He could feel their gazes trained on his back with the same intensity they applied to the sky. Stormy Taylor didn’t give interviews anymore, but they apparently sensed a change in the atmosphere.
They were wrong. The lady herself might be tempting, but the “in-depth” interview wasn’t. He rose from his seat, careful to keep from brushing against her silk-clad legs. “Sorry. But I’m not interested.”
“But you haven’t even considered—”
“I don’t need to.” He leaned near her to warn, “I won’t have my daughter reliving the pain of her mother’s death again through Mariah Morgan’s point of view.”
He could see the temper flash in her eyes, like a lightning strike. He could see each dark, curling lash. He’d lost track of position, gotten too close, the supreme mistake of curious chasers.
“Plain View is not a tabloid, and I am not a tabloid journalist.”
“That’s what they all say.” He stepped back, intending to join his chase partner, Jeremy, at the table. But Trixie’s boy, Jess, came running from the pinball machine, blocking his escape.
“Hey, Stormy. You goin’ on a chase?” Acutely aware Mariah listened, he said noncommittally, “Could be.”
“Jess, come around here and fill these sugar bowls,” Trixie directed her son. Then she added pointedly, “Stormy doesn’t have time to answer questions today.”
“Aw, Mom.” Jess rolled his eyes and plodded around the counter, climbing onto the stool his mother pulled up for him. Rafe felt like rolling his eyes, too, but Trixie would be burning his steaks for a month if he did. She could usually be counted on to run interference for him, but for some reason, she’d left him at Mariah’s mercy. Probably sworn off men again. Come to think of it, she’d burned Jeremy’s steak today….
Deciding not to meddle with those particular forces of nature, both women glaring at him now, he strode to the table and leaned over to study the data on Jeremy’s laptop.
But it was hard to concentrate with Trixie frowning at him, Jess pouting and Mariah turning her back to sit stiffly facing the counter, making him feel like he’d made it rain on their picnic.
He refused to feel guilty over turning down yet another risk to his daughter’s well-being. As Mariah focused her attention on Jess and his bowls of sugar, Rafe peered closer at the Doppler image that appeared on the screen.
These past three days, they’d chased storms over western Texas and into Oklahoma, making their way to Jeremy’s home base, a rundown farmhouse near the cafå. Now chances looked ripe for late-afternoon storms. They needed to check the data, try to narrow their target area.
But the forecast failed to hold his attention when Jess giggled and Mariah laughed; an unaffected laugh that told him she’d momentarily forgotten her mission—namely him. He watched a packet of sugar being exchanged from Jess’s small hand to Mariah’s pretty crimson-polished fingers.
“The National Weather Service just issued a storm watch extending from central Oklahoma up into south central Nebraska. North central Kansas is ranked a high-risk zone.” Jeremy grinned as he drawled out the report, his dark eyes lit with excitement, as if he was sitting in paradise instead of Tornado Alley’s hot zone.
Rafe knew that for Jeremy, chase fever, which struck before the primary chase season of mid-April to mid-June, was a permanent condition. He was as close to being an outlaw chaser as Rafe was far from it since the birth of his child. Having a daughter had changed Rafe’s approach to his work for the better. Until lately…
Rafe knew his photos had made a difference in the study of storms that spawned killer tornadoes. That had been the purpose of his career. But the chase had taken on a different meaning since Ann’s death. He was taking risks he didn’t normally take, aware that each storm he “captured” on film gave Sunny a better understanding of the tornado that had claimed her mother’s life, helping Sunny to cope with her loss and her resulting fear of storms.
Mariah shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, no doubt sensing a story in the air. He kept his voice low. “We’re within striking distance if we leave now.”
Their fellow chasers, two impatient young college men aiming for careers in meteorology, and Gus, an old farmer who’d served as a weather spotter for years, had already scooted back their chairs. The college boys left in a whirlwind of khaki, not about to miss any action. Gus planned to go home and warn his wife of fifty years; she liked to tag along when he chased.
Jeremy moved into action, deftly disassembling his equipment. At the counter, Mariah dug bills out of her purse, tucking a twenty under a corner of the untouched plate Trixie had brought her. She slipped a dollar to Jess, and Rafe smiled reluctantly. But when Mariah’s gaze met his, he pursed his lips, straightening from the table. “The dryline looks to merge right on top of Highway 281.”
Jeremy’s eyes gleamed as he rose. “We should drive right into the son of a gun.”
“Let’s go.” Rafe was grimly aware of Mariah hitching her purse over her shoulder, scooting her small butt off the stool, ready to chase him down as surely as he’d chase a tornado.
Jeremy called out to Trixie, “We’ve got weather coming this afternoon. You and Jess be ready to take shelter.”
“I know what to do,” Trixie shot back at him.
With no doubt that Trixie would look after Mariah if need be, Rafe nudged Jeremy out of a stare-down with the stubborn cafå owner. Jeremy would have better luck facing down a tornado. As for himself, he wasn’t going to get caught face-to-face with pretty Mariah again.
He reached the door first, pulling it open. Jeremy pushed through with his equipment, the competitive edge still there, no matter that they were partners, gathering photos for a stock photography agency. Rafe followed him out, digging keys from his pocket, exchanging a round of “keep in touch” and “watch your backside.” They’d each find their own route, seeking storms based on their own forecasting quirks, converging later in the vicinity of the largest storm.
Jeremy climbed in a battered black pickup that often served as a second home. Rafe curled his hand around the chrome handle of his truck’s door, adrenaline kicking in. A strong jet stream moved this storm. He wasn’t going home tonight without “capturing” a tornado on film for his daughter.
“Wait!”
Impatient, he glanced back all the same when Mariah called out from the cafå door. She jogged toward him, gravel scarring her leather heels, her purse dangling by its strap from her hand. He grimaced. Anything for the story.
In a sense, he understood; he’d reached the point where he would do almost anything for a picture. Since she’d failed to win his cooperation, he suspected Mariah would resort to the ultimate threat, the way they all did, warning him that she would write her own version of his personal past if he didn’t reveal the facts.
The sun-heated chrome burned hot against his palm, the need to protect his daughter churning through him. Jeremy gunned his pickup, fishtailing by with a grin and raising a cloud of gravel dust. Rafe muttered a curse and yanked open the truck door. He wasn’t waiting around—
He drew up short, Mariah suddenly wedged between his hip and the truck seat, blocking his slide in. She squinted up at him, the sky still a deceptive baby blue—kind of like her innocent eyes.
He braced himself for the threat, or maybe even a bribe.
But her gaze turned dark and desperate, her voice low and gritty as she told him, “If I don’t get this story, I’ll be fired.”
Chapter Two
Time hung suspended on the hot, dusty air between them, Rafe weighing the consequences of physically moving Mariah from his path so he could climb into his truck to chase a storm he instinctively knew would be less threatening.
A light, sweet scent lifted from her skin, wafting through the heat and the grit. With his next breath, he knew the consequences would be high. He kept his hands to himself, determined to turn down her request for his time—and his story.
But the refusal wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her inside the cafå, giving Jess a dollar, tipping Trixie a twenty for her trouble, all the while aware she’d just lost the interview that would save her job. Even knowing the threat posed by the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.
“All right, get in. But I’m not promising anything.”
She turned in the small space between them, tossing her purse on the truck seat. Rafe sucked in a breath, leaning back in a halfhearted effort to give her more room. Then she was pressing her hand to his chest, her bright crimson nails seeming to burn through his drab field shirt.
“I’ll be right back—I have to get my things.”
She edged by with a brush of curls and silk and curves. Rafe exhaled, bracing his free hand atop the truck.
A chase required precision forecasting and an eye to the elements. Only the merging of specific atmospheric elements and events at the same time could form the kind of storms that produced tornadoes. And only perfect timing on his part would put him in the right location for a photograph.
Mariah promised to thoroughly distract him.
Even now, she leaned inside her rental coupe, her flirty shorts hiked up her silk covered thighs. Rafe grimaced. Who would have thought a journalist would be the one to stir his hormones back to life?
She straightened, her arms filled with electronic gear—a laptop, a tape recorder, a cell phone. The lady meant business, he realized grimly. He hauled himself into the truck, her little black purse occupying the passenger seat. He ought to toss it out and drive off. As she started over, Mariah’s wary gaze met his, as if she suspected he might do just that.
Then it was too late. She deposited her gear atop her purse, scrambling in with a flash of leg. Rafe thrust her things in back with his equipment. Buckling her seat belt, she said breathlessly, “Ready.”
Gravel sprayed from beneath the truck’s wheels as he shot out of the parking lot.
Mariah clutched at the dash, disturbing neatly rolled maps, earning a frown from Rafe. She straightened them, sinking into the bucket seat.
At least he drove reasonably near the speed limit. Panning the endless blue sky for clouds, her focus suddenly narrowed. On the passenger side, tape had been placed in a “X” over a star cracked into the bug-splattered windshield. Dents riddled the hood. Hail? she wondered. What kind of storm produced hail large enough to cause that much damage? An image of the truck’s mud-crusted wheel wells registered in her mind. Considering Rafe’s reputation for risk taking, joining him on a chase seemed foolish in retrospect.
But she had a job at stake.
Putting herself at ease the best way she knew how, she perused the truck’s interior. Video camera mounted on the dash, radios, scanners, even a TV monitor. She peered between the seats. He’d apparently gutted the back for storage.
Awareness tingled through her, triggered by an earthy scent she recognized as Rafe’s. His shirtsleeve grazed her cheek; his body heat warmed her. A glance revealed the clench of his stubbled jaw. Unfamiliar as she was with meteorology, Mariah recognized the charged atmosphere between them. She eased back into her seat.
And she proceeded to grill him on his interesting array of equipment, right down to the cell phone she knew he carried in his pocket.
“So, you’re saying your cell phone system interfaces with your laptop for on-road reports?”
“That’s right.”
A man of few words. “What about that odd-looking instrument mounted outside? Not the antennas, but the staff with the three little cups attached?”
“The anemometer. Measures wind speed.”
She attempted a closer look out the window, pushing at the creeping hem of her shorts. “How does it work? Do the cups rotate—”
“Yes. They do. Just…sit back. I need to…listen to the radio for NWS reports.”
More curious than apprehensive now, Mariah caught her lip. Then she asked, “What’s NWS?”
“The National Weather Service. Look, this isn’t Tornado Tours.”
“They give tours to see tornadoes?”
“That’s it! No more questions. Just…study the map.”
He thrust “Kansas” into her lap. Mariah slumped in the seat, chastened by his tone. She’d bet Stormy “Charisma” Taylor didn’t pad his income giving tours.
He’d apparently meant it when he said no promises. Well, he’d underestimated her determination. She was part of this chase, no matter how he tried to shut her out. Before the day was over, he’d be so convinced of her sincerity regarding his absurd career, he’d be begging her to write the feature.
But concentrating on the map she spread over her lap quickly proved unnecessary; how much expertise did it require to drive straight up 281? And watching the sky seemed pointless when there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Chasing storms apparently involved a lot of driving in perfectly lovely weather. Mariah stifled a yawn, wondering if his reputation, like that of so many famed personalities, was more fiction than fact.
When he finally spotted a storm, she supposed he would stop and wait for a tornado to form in the distance, then take a picture. After all, this wasn’t the movies. She’d seen news footage of what happened to fools with video cameras who got too close to storms. You didn’t drive right up to a tornado and take photographs in real life. That was what zoom lenses were created for.
Mariah absently folded the edge of the map with her fingers, only to smooth it when she caught Rafe’s frown. Sighing, she slid farther down in the seat, heedless of her tidy bun. As she gazed through the windshield, past the taped-over crack, the clear line of the horizon blurred. Even in the company of a handsome man, chasing storms was actually quite boring….
Mariah stirred in the warm cocoon of her blanket, breathing deeply of a fragrance she’d come to savor, an earthy scent that triggered a basic need deep within her—
She stilled, hiding behind lowered lashes. She wasn’t in bed. This wasn’t her blanket she’d just curled her fingers into, a button poking into her palm. The heat encompassing her came from the body invading her space. And the earthy scent she breathed wasn’t fragrance, it was Rafe.
Mariah blinked and gazed into Rafe’s startled eyes.
He leaned over her, perilously near, his weight braced on his hand atop the seat, the tail of his field shirt grazing her silk-covered knees. The heat of him seemed to press upon her, intensified by the glow that came into his eyes. The glow deepened to a burn and expectation shivered through her. He was going to kiss her….
Mariah closed her eyes as he settled his mouth over hers, a soft touch that reached deep. With the rasp of his whiskery jaw and the warmth of his breath on her skin, longing rose within her, had her pressing her lips against his. A kaleidoscope of color whirled behind her closed lids, his kiss stealing her breath, that same mix of awe and apprehension she’d experienced facing the storm spinning through her. Helpless, she felt her heart race as he blew her away with his kiss.
His mouth left hers, his shirt tugging against her clenched fingers. Mariah opened her eyes, her pulse pounding as he hovered over her. Yearning speared through her. She realized now the extent to which she’d neglected her sexual side in her quest for a career.
Rafe’s breath rushed out. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Her face burned. She let go of his shirt. “Neither did I. Let’s just forget it happened.”
“Deal.”
Deal? Mariah curled her hand in a fist. Maybe he’d like her to sign a contract, too?
“I need my camera.” He pressed close again, reaching past her to open a cupboard in the back of the truck. She suffered the near choke hold of his muscled arm, his dusty shirt falling across her face. Settling into his seat, he adjusted the settings on a still camera. “I have to scout out a place to shoot from.”
He climbed out of the truck, shut the door and left her frowning after him, still feeling the effects of a kiss he’d already put behind him.
Well, she was as willing as he to ignore the kiss he’d stolen. She was especially willing to overlook the fact that she’d kissed him back.
Locating a clock among his myriad gadgets, she realized she’d wasted almost two hours sleeping. Kissing.
At some point, he’d left the highway for a northbound gravel road. Getting out to stand on the grassy shoulder, she noticed “Kansas” was no longer spread over her lap, the map rolled neatly on the dash once more. Rafe must have slipped it from her hands while she was asleep.
Recalling the startled look in his eyes, she realized he hadn’t intended to wake her at all.
She gritted her teeth. He hadn’t intended to wake her, but he’d been willing to kiss her when she did.
Stiffening her travel-weary legs, she trudged to the back of the truck, where Rafe was in the process of unlocking the hatchback. She gave him a lethal glare. “You could have wakened me.”
Then she ducked as he raised the door.
“Sorry. I’m kind of busy right now.” He pulled out a tripod with a video camera mounted on top. Hefting it to his shoulder, he lowered the hatch, brushing by her to hurry up the roadside slope.
Mariah hiked after him. Dry weeds tugged at her sheer stockings. Silk stockings. She wondered if they were an accountable expense.
Rafe stationed the tripod halfway up the knoll, fiddling with the video camera. Curiosity overrode her pique. Brushing back wispy curls the breeze blew across her cheek, she queried, “What, exactly, are you doing?”
He straightened from behind the camera and gave her a pointed look. But she couldn’t help it. Her mother claimed she’d been born asking questions.
“I’m trying to align the viewfinder. Could you step out of the way, please?”
“I don’t see what the rush is.” She tilted her face to the sky, a scattering of fluffy white clouds floating by.
He stepped from behind the camera, looming over her for a moment during which his height was imprinted on her mind. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face the northern sky. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm moving by.”
For a moment she didn’t notice; there was only the heat of his strong hands cupping her shoulders, obliterating even the perpetual Kansas wind in her face. All she could think was that she wanted him to kiss her again. The way his hands lingered told her he wanted it, too.
A strong sense of self-preservation made her focus intently on the distant storm. Though acutely aware when he took his hands from her, she drew a breath of surprise at the panorama building before her.
“Oh my.” A few miles to the north an explosion of pure white cloud billowed in high puffed layers. Beneath the mass, varying shades from greenish-gray to dark blue, from glistening white to black, extended from the northeast reaches to the southwest edges of the storm. “It’s beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting a picture of it,” Rafe said dryly. She faced him with a determination meant to convey she was here to stay. He’d already raised his still camera, shooting away. Seemingly at her.
Mariah moved hastily out of range, conscious of her windblown hair, wrinkled clothes and run stockings. There was obviously no use in talking to him now. He fired off that camera like an automatic weapon, going through a roll of film in less than a minute, trading it for a fresh roll from his pocket, reloading and shooting again.
The storm was indeed a magnificent sight moving across the prairie, more imposing than when viewed from the confines of the city. Yet she felt that same safe feeling she’d felt as a child, watching the rain from the shelter of her parents’ front porch. With Rafe standing between her and the approaching front, broad-shouldered and enlightened to any danger, it was easy to understand where that sense of security came from.
Her untrained eye began to distinguish the storm darkening as it traveled in a northeasterly direction. Questions gathered in her mind as he captured the scene on film. But he seemed to have forgotten she was there.
He already regretted her presence; rather than interrupt him, Mariah took a moment to survey her surroundings. Behind her, the land rose, leveling off at a barbed-wire fence. Cropped pastures lined the roadsides, and she wondered if there were cows grazing up there. Or maybe even a horse. Like most females, she was drawn by the equine mystique.
Lightning crackled in the distance. Mariah flinched, glancing over her shoulder. Rafe’s back was to her, his camera aimed at the flashes that streaked the sky. If she found a horse and rode away, he wouldn’t notice until he ran out of film.
Calmed by his lack of alarm, she climbed to the top of the knoll and curled her hands around the fence.
Disappointment swept through her. Not a horse in sight. Not even a cow, though evidence of them lay in pungent dried chips on the ground.
The breeze seemed stronger at the top of the slope and felt good on her skin after the climb. Goose bumps pricked her arms, tingled her scalp—
Rafe reached around her, closing his hands overtop of hers, prying her fingers from the wire. Before she could protest, he swung her away from the fence. Jagged bolts dropped from the clouds, effectively closing the miles between them and the storm. Thunder reverberated, but failed to drown out his curse—likely over the picture he’d just missed. He ushered her down the weedy slope to where he’d set up the video camera, and her temper flared with each step she took.
He faced her abruptly, grasping her arms as if tempted to shake some sense into her. “Are you crazy? If lightning strikes that wire, even milesaway, you might as well grab hold of a power line! Always keep your distance from a fence in a storm.”
“Well, excuse me. But I don’t chase storms for a living.”
“I know. Your mother sends you to the basement.”
She glared at him and his hands tightened on her arms. Then they gentled. Cold then hot, he was as changing as the weather. Mariah shivered; she felt the heat. But she couldn’t help wondering if the scare she’d given him had turned his thoughts to Ann.
The breeze buffeted their bodies against each other and abruptly, he released her.
“Just…stay by me, okay? I need to get some more pictures.”
He didn’t like that he wanted her. And she liked it too much. But he clearly felt responsible for her well-being, if only because he was stuck with her.
Surprisingly, as he resumed shooting, he offered a grudging explanation from behind the camera. “That dark cloud close to the ground, beneath the center of the updraft base, is a wall cloud.”
Updraft base? Wall cloud? Intrigued, she followed him, edging along the roadside in the direction of the storm. “The wide one with the rather jagged looking edges?”
“That’s right.”
“The one kind of…hovering there?”
“Yeah…”
“The one kind of…churning?”
“Rotating…Damn.” Rafe lowered the camera. “It’s started to rotate.”
“That’s what I said. And just feel that cool fresh air.” Standing beside him, Mariah breathed deeply of the rich country scent, the invigorating breeze combining with Rafe’s more cooperative mood to perk up her spirit. She’d never thought of a storm as beautiful, but she’d like to have a picture of this one. Rafe seemed almost a part of it, the wind combing through his crisp hair, his loose shirt whipping from his lean body. His eyes seemed to reflect the electric atmosphere of the storm.
“Here.” He lifted the strap from around his neck and pushed the camera into her hand. Mariah fumbled to catch hold of it, wondering if he’d read her mind. He gave her a nudge toward the truck. “Go on back. I’ll be right there.”
He moved swiftly toward the video camera, apparently ready to leave. She stared after him, exasperated. He did everything in such a hurry. But at least he was talking to her. On that positive note, she started down the slope, inspecting the camera, her head bent to the wind.
It looked a lot like her own 35mm at home. Mariah glanced up the knoll as Rafe hoisted the tripod to his shoulder. She caught her lip, then faced the storm, raising the camera and focusing through the viewfinder until she’d framed in the impressive wall cloud. Amazing. The storm appeared perilously closer through the eye of the camera….
“I should have made you sign a waiver,” Rafe muttered from close behind, in the same moment she clicked the shutter.
“I only took one picture. I didn’t break anything.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of liability.”
“What do you mean?” Surely they weren’t in any danger. The storm was miles away, moving east.
“Never mind. Come on.”
He caught her hand and pulled her the last few feet down the slope. The ground was rough along the gravelly edge of the road, and Mariah stumbled, grasping his arm for balance. The muscle beneath her hand was like iron. Tense. She glanced up at him. His jaw was set, his mouth pressed grimly, his mind clearly on the business of packing up.
Mariah moved back as he opened the hatch to store the tripod. She stepped slowly from behind the truck, breeze flowing over her, along with a sense of unreality as she surveyed the storm. The beauty of the massive white clouds seemed suddenly eclipsed by the sinister air of the wall cloud, the blackish-blue mass churning faster, holding her mesmerized. The branches of a nearby cottonwood bowed and cold air rushed over her skin. She should have been frightened. But when the snaky gray funnel dropped from the cloud, she instinctively raised the camera.
“Mariah!”
Rafe’s voice came faintly from behind her, the wind whipping her name away. He wouldn’t like it if she used up his film…. She stared through the viewfinder, entranced as the funnel touched down.
“The Wizard of Oz tornado…” she murmured.
Click. The base darkened—with dust and debris, she realized. And it was coming closer….
She lowered the camera, eyes wide.
“Mariah!” Rafe gripped her arm, hauling her toward the truck door despite the fact that her legs didn’t seem to work. “You’re crazier than Jeremy! Get in!”
He hustled her inside. The wind beat at him as he rounded the truck, dust swirling, making him shield his eyes with his hand. He yanked open the door and shot onto the seat. Firing the engine, he swung the truck in a U-turn, skidding out of it to tear down the road, spraying gravel.
Mariah drew a choked breath at the sight of the churning funnel through the rear window, and her sense of unreality effectively vanished. But Rafe had only to keep heading south and they would drive out of the storm.
“We’ve got a right mover, Jeremy,” Rafe shouted into the CB mike. “I’m on a gravel road, west of 281. Are you in the path of the storm?”
Jeremy’s voice crackled over the airwaves, barely distinguishable as he transmitted. “…road ends…get the hell out—”
For Mariah, the last was clear enough.
“Hang on!”
She gripped the dash as Rafe turned the wheel sharply, heading east on a strip of gravel—straight on a course of interception with the storm.
And he’d called her crazy.
Had he actually made her feel safe from the storm? Had she actually wanted to kiss this madman?
This morning, thirty had felt old. Now it seemed much too young to die.
Mariah flinched, a cottonwood branch skidding across the truck’s hood. Her imagination, never lacking, conjured vivid images of what else the tornado had sucked up and sent spinning—plant life, homes, the people in them.
Ann Taylor.
How could Rafe take these risks after the death of his wife? His daughter depended on him. He was nothing like the responsible family men her father, brother and brother-in-law were. Not at all the kind of man she should want to kiss.
The next gust shrouded the road before them with thick dust, dragging against the truck until it seemed to crawl. A dark wall of rain closed in, slashed with lightning and rimmed with streaks of bright white. Relief left her weak. “The tornado is gone! Vanished! There’s only rain now!”
“It isn’t gone,” Rafe said tersely. “We just can’t see it. And that isn’t just rain. It’s a hailstorm.”
A tornado they couldn’t see. Like some invisible stalker. And hail. Somehow she suspected it wouldn’t be the tiny stones she used to collect from the sidewalk after a summer rain.
The first drops fell, a light rain that grew louder as hailstones littered the road and ricocheted off the hood. They came harder and faster, like her heartbeat.
Rafe dragged a blanket up between the seats. “Cover up, in case the windshield takes a hit.”
How would Rafe protect himself? She’d raised the thick quilt to her shoulders when a large stone struck the glass with a resounding crack. Dropping the blanket, she snatched tape from the dash, ripping off strips and slapping them across the new star in the window, stemming the flow of rain-washed air. Wind rammed the truck, a jarring reminder of the lurking tornado. They could die—and in that moment, all she could think was how she’d never had a child.
“Hang on!”
Rafe swung the truck in a southbound turn onto 281 and floored the gas pedal. Within moments, the hail stopped. The rain let up. A mile later, they’d driven from beneath the dark canopy of clouds, the skies lightening, the wind lessening to a breeze. Mariah searched for the tornado, but there was only the dark storm rotating across the prairie, leaving a broken trail behind.
Rafe stopped the truck, killing the engine. Her heart pounded in the silence. Gold-tipped fields of winter wheat waved gently on the roadsides in soft sunlight.
“You okay?” Rafe gripped her shoulders, his gaze delving into her eyes. A life-affirming awareness pulsed between them. Then he released her, pulling the blanket from her grip, tossing it to the rear. “I’d better survey the damage.”
The closing of the truck door jolted her. A delayed trembling shook her, the nearness of their brush with disaster striking her anew. They’d almost been killed.
And it was all his fault.
Mariah pushed out of the truck, tromping around front in her scarred shoes and tattered stockings. The flow of clean, damp air over dusty ground and dry pavement only heightened her awareness of nature’s unpredictable power. Ignoring the curls that frizzed across her face, she vented her emotions in a shaky voice. “This is all your fault.”
Rafe straightened from the smashed headlight he examined. “We’re safe now. And if I remember right, it was your idea to come along.”
His calm after the storm infuriated her. “You almost got us killed!”
Frowning, he twisted off the remains of a broken antenna. “Another way you might look at it is that I saved both our a—”
Mariah knocked the antenna from his hand. “I think you drove us into that storm just to scare me.”
His angry gaze bore into hers. “I drove us out of that storm the only way I could. We had a close call, but believe me, it could have been worse.”
“All in a day’s work?”
“That’s right.”
The sun burned over them, warming already heated tempers, fueling underlying sparks before Rafe turned away, continuing a post-storm inspection she suspected he made on a regular basis. He was probably already planning his next chase.
And she wanted no part of it. Her near brush with death had come with a revelation. She knew why she wasn’t sleeping at night, why her work was lackluster, why she noticed children everywhere. She wanted a child, and a dependable man to love her.
She strode to the back of the truck. Her gaze blazed over Rafe, who was nothing like her dear old dad or her brother. “Take me back to my car. And don’t worry—I want nothing to do with writing your story.”
She gave him no chance to reply, stomping back to grasp the handle on the passenger door.
Her breath caught in her throat. Rafe stood at the edge of the highway, the incessant breeze tugging his hair, his clothes. He stared after the departing storm, clearly craving to give chase again.
He was crazy.
And she was crazy for wanting him.
Chapter Three
All he could think about was Mariah.
Ordinarily, after a day of chasing, he’d be tired and wired, obsessing over the shots he’d taken. Instead, he was obsessing over Mariah. Over kissing Mariah…
Rafe glanced at her warily. Once again, she slept in the truck’s passenger seat as he drove, deceivingly angelic with the soft evening light shining over her through the windshield. Her wind-tangled hair brought to mind the picture she’d made, framed by the backdrop of stormy sky, her dark curls blowing across her cheeks, her eyes vivid blue through the camera’s viewfinder. He hadn’t even noticed a tornado forming, too caught up in the sight of this woman.
He should have left her at Trixie’s. But while he hadn’t wanted her writing about him, he hadn’t wanted to be the reason she lost her job, either. Although she’d decided not to do the feature, the truth was, he didn’t trust her not to change her mind again once she discovered he was taking her home to Tassel.
How had her job come to be at risk, anyway? Despite her obvious reluctance, she’d tackled her assignment with a curiosity as dogged as that of his eight-year-old daughter. Mariah had a way of making him remember when chasing storms had been new to him, too, of making him forget, for a while, what the chase meant to him now.
As a result, he hadn’t captured a tornado on film for his daughter.
The CB crackled with static. Mariah frowned in her sleep. Rafe snatched up the microphone, not about to let it disturb her. She was less trouble when she was asleep. She’d passed out this second time just after he’d radioed Jeremy to tell him they’d made it out of the storm.
An image of Mariah, her hands curled around the wire fence, bolts shooting from the heavy sky, flashed disturbingly to mind. He shook the chilling vision away as a voice came over the airwaves.
“This is Sunshine. Are you out there, Stormy?”
“That you, sweetheart?” As if he didn’t know.
Storms had swept close to Tassel, too, and his daughter would want him home tonight. So he was going home.
Rafe sensed he was being observed. Sure enough, Mariah leveled her disapproving, judgmental gaze upon him—the same look she’d given him at Trixie’s when he’d talked to Sunny….
Sweetheart. She thought he was talking to a woman. Considering the way he couldn’t take his eyes off her at the cafå, and the kiss he’d stolen, he could see where she might get the wrong idea about him. Kind of like she was getting the wrong idea now.
“Of course it’s me. Are you coming home, Daddy?” Sunny’s aggrieved, now distinctive “kid’s” voice had Mariah straightening in her seat, the judgmental look in her eyes changing to one of surprise. Rafe grimaced. Once she knew he was taking her home, she would either see the advantage of the situation and barrage him—and his family—with questions, or demand again that he drive her back to her car. He should have just wakened her and dropped her off at a roadside motel.
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