Necessary Secrets Page 14

  Jon let out a whistle. “Insurance?”

  “Well, the medicare doesn’t cover that cost, nor do most of the major insurance companies, but there is one that will cover a percentage. The rancher’s wife got it for her workers at the first sign of trouble, thankfully, but the share he’ll have to pay is still substantial and he’ll have to take the drugs for the rest of his life. That’s why they’re having this fund-raiser.”

  “A dinner?”

  “Dinner, dance, auction and silent auction.” She licked her lips, hating how they seemed to dry up so suddenly. Jon’s gaze flickered down at her tongue and a hot tendril of nervous tension twisted around her spine.

  “I want to go,” she went on. “I know we probably won’t find any bargains there, but it’s for a good cause and I know the man quite well. Plus, a silent auction is always fun. Trying to outbid your neighbor, sneaking over to Marg’s brownies to write your name down and outbid the others without anyone catching you. You’ve tasted her brownies.” They’d had them yesterday, and Michael had stolen the last two on his way out after supper.

  He nodded. “I can well imagine that the bidding would be fast and furious for a tray of them. But as for the dance—”

  “I promise I won’t dance. If you come, you’ll be able to make sure of that,” she hedged. “Anyway, I’d like to take you to thank you for all your help this summer.” There. She’d said it. Now for his answer….

  “You don’t need to thank me.”

  She bit her lower lip, resisting the urge to lick it again and reveal how nervous she felt. Jon, however, didn’t miss it. Only when his stare drifted down again did she realize that there was more to it than his simple observation.

  He looked like a child with no money in a candy store.

  She strengthened her voice. “Marg says that the big items donated are going to be auctioned off during the dance. She says there are a few baby items, too. Maybe we can stay for them.” Please say yes.

  She hated the thought of begging, even the silent kind. But the candy-store look had hardened, causing her heart to sink like a stone in a pond.

  With fear crawling up her spine, she waited for Jon to stop studying the damn steering wheel and look at her.

  Fear. She shut her eyes, willing back the most fearful memory she had.

  …scrambling under her truck, dodging the screams of deadly bullets while she yelled at Rick, asking him if he’d been shot…believing him when he said he hadn’t been….

  Stop it! Asking Jon on a date wasn’t as fearful. But what if he said no? She was carrying his brother’s baby. Would he think it was wrong to date her? To see her as a sexual being?

  Hadn’t he already considered her so? With his kisses out by the line shack? And yet she knew he regretted every single burning kiss he’d pressed on her.

  She braced herself when his lips thinned and pursed.

  Jon tilted his head. He needed a moment to pull his mind out of the gutter and focus on her words. He shouldn’t be thinking of her tongue wasting its worth by licking her lips, when it could be in his mouth, driving him to distraction. “When did you hear about this auction?”

  “Everyone’s known about Fred’s need for years.” She sounded nervous. “But one of the women who runs the community center called this morning with the news and asked us if we could donate something for the dinner or the auction.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Benefit auction donations could range from something as benign as a rusting baler suitable only as a lawn ornament, all the way up to the terrifying eligible-bachelor-for-the-evening donation. He’d nearly got roped into one of them before. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A ham and my mother’s scalloped potato recipe.” She shot him a suspicious look. “What did you think?”

  Relief rushed through him. He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  She bit her lip, and her hand dropped to her belly. When his gaze followed, she hastily found the fresh vent levers to adjust instead. “What I’ve been trying to ask is, would you take me to the benefit dinner? And sit with me at the auction? I haven’t been to one in years, and, call me unsophisticated, but I find them very exciting.”

  He should have seen this suggestion coming a mile away, but somehow it escaped him. Dinner? And an auction? Waiting this morning for her, he’d sternly told himself to cool things between them. He’d be going home soon. Sure he wanted to be part of the baby’s life, and he’d meant it when he’d said he would be, but hell, the relationship between him and Sylvie had to cool.

  When he didn’t answer, Sylvie threw open the truck door and climbed out, muttering something about there’d better be a washroom in the rental store.

  He stared at her. What the hell was he doing? Turning down a charity auction and dinner? He grimaced. Timidity wasn’t part of his makeup. He could balance the growing attraction that seemed based only on shared grief with a simple charity dinner. He was a police officer, for crying out loud. Each day in Toronto, he weighed the risks of his job against public safety all the time. Above all that, he was an adult. He could temper his own inappropriate responses.

  “Sylvie!”

  She stopped by the front door and waited for him to trot up to her before she spoke. “All right, so Trail’s hardly a mecca for social functions, and short of asking you to see the latest preteen movie now playing, there isn’t much we can do here.”

  Her swallow didn’t go unnoticed. She was nervous and he was just adding to it with his ambivalence. But he had something more important to say first.

  “Lawrence said something to me yesterday about Veterans Affairs.”

  Her eyes stayed cool, the emeralds returning with chilliness. “Yes, Lawrence should be drawing his pension, now, but he says as long as he—”

  He interrupted her. “What I mean to say is that Veterans Affairs can help you. You’ve received an injury, per se, as a direct result of a tour of duty. I remember reading in the papers how because all the World War II vets are dying, they have the monies and manpower to help the soldiers of today.”

  “Jon—”

  “No, Sylvie, your doctor has already diagnosed you and has told you this is a physiological condition. You can’t take the medication needed, but you can see if you’re entitled to other—” he searched for the proper words to use “—compensation? You’re suffering from PTSD and should be treated, and if it means sick leave, I’m sure that would affect your pension, and the leave you’re on, now.”

  “Terminal leave. Yes, normally if a soldier on such leave needs medical attention, she or he should go to the nearest military base. Because I’m pregnant, I was referred to a civilian doctor. I called them before I left the house the morning I met you.”

  Terminal leave. Jon hadn’t called it by its proper name, but he’d known it existed. And not from Rick, whose interests lay in snowboarding in the winter and scuba diving in the summer. He’d been too young to talk about retirement.

  They shouldn’t be standing out here in the hot sun, but he didn’t want this conversation to continue in the rental store, so he hurried it along. “Wouldn’t certain kinds of treatment affect your terminal leave?”

  “Only if I require hospitalization,” she answered absently, turning back to face the door.

  He leaned closer, his brown, callused hand stopping her from entering. “Regardless, you should call Veterans Affairs. You need care, Sylvie, and they’re obligated to help you.”

  The urge to pull her into his arms grew, swelling until it hurt, and he battled it with the determination he usually reserved for difficult, dangerous shifts.

  She peered up at him with a turbulent mix of suspicion and hunger in her brilliant green eyes. When she blinked, the expression melted into a simmering pool of wariness.

  But he couldn’t back down now, even if he wanted to. “Call Veterans Affairs, Sylvie. Or I’ll call them for you.”

  To ease the bullying manner, he reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers curling inward to allow his r
ough knuckles to follow the line of her jaw. Her eyelids drifted shut, only briefly. Lust exploded in him, but he forced it way down where the burn wouldn’t torment him. He should be enjoying this private victory, instead of holding himself in check. The smugness will have to wait until later.

  Sylvie blinked again, slowly, with precision. Her expression shifted infinitesimally. “I’ll call them on Monday, on one condition. That you take me to the dinner and auction.”

  Chapter 11

  Another surprise. He had to get back to the real world, where every day he laid his life on the line, and the edge of danger kept him sharp in Canada’s biggest city. Here he’d let himself slip if Sylvie could trick him so easily.

  “Deal.” What else could he say? It was only a dinner and auction in return for Sylvie’s—and her unborn child’s—well-being.

  He could manage one short evening out with Sylvie.

  He could do that, couldn’t he?

  On Monday Jon waited until the other men had left the supper table before he asked Sylvie the question that had nagged at him all day. “Did you call?”

  “Yes.” Apart from a grimace when she turned, she said nothing else.

  “Good,” he answered crisply. “What did they say?”

  She stayed focused on the sink. “They want to interview me, and to arrange for one of their doctors to check me out. Because I’m pregnant, they’re going to send one down from Edmonton. He’ll examine me at the clinic.”

  What she said made sense. Edmonton was home to a large military base.

  “They’re sending me some forms to fill out ahead of time and will arrange for an advocate to interview me. They believe there could be some compensation for me, but they didn’t say what it could be.”

  He blew out a sigh of relief, but she interrupted it.

  “I still don’t know what they can do, but I have to say that they sounded helpful on the phone. I don’t want to do this for money or anything. I just want to…feel better.”

  “You will.” It was all working out well. He’d be able to leave with a clear conscience, hopefully returning in midwinter to meet his nephew or niece.

  Those neat plans were all for the best. He honestly believed that.

  Not sharing Jon’s optimism, Sylvie watched him walk toward the campground, probably heading to the rec building to help Lawrence with some minor repairs to the door that they hadn’t managed to complete earlier.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder wasn’t something the military accepted at the drop of a hat, and if they found out that the incident that caused it had also led to her present condition…

  And Jon found out, too…

  She refused to speculate any further. She’d called Veterans Affairs to please Jon. If something came of it, then she’d deal with that matter when it arose.

  Jon did a double take when Sylvie slipped into the living room that Friday night. All he’d ever seen her in was jeans and loose shirts.

  No, that wasn’t true. He’d seen her in that long nightgown of hers, with the dipping collar and wide, flowing length.

  And he’d seen her without it.

  But still, the thing she wrapped herself in that night didn’t compare with this outfit.

  A silvery peasant-style top swept low and nearly rode off her left shoulder. When she turned, he spied the clear plastic strap of her bra. And the press of her cleavage that grew more potent each day. Her skirt waved and danced as she walked toward him, each forward thrust of her legs swirling the dark, shiny material out and around her calves. His gaze settled somewhere between her lush breasts and smooth ankles. Somewhere under her long top and swish of a light shawl, her baby lay hidden.

  Rick’s baby.

  Sweat beaded on Jon’s forehead. This was wrong. So wrong it rang out loud and clear in his head, but hell, he didn’t want to listen to that damn stupid noise.

  Besides, if he turned tail and convinced Sylvie he couldn’t take her to the auction—say a sudden summer flu—what did he have to look forward to?

  All of his options paled when he caught the shy excitement lighting Sylvie’s eyes. She wanted this evening out, and after all she’d been through, she deserved it.

  He only hoped he could get through the evening without touching her, because he knew exactly, thanks to the Tuesday-night classes, when he’d rubbed her back and touched her in places he shouldn’t, how smooth and sensual she felt. And how his body and soul responded to her.

  He couldn’t let this get out of hand. Sylvie wasn’t in any position to check her feelings, and damn it, after all she’d been through she shouldn’t have to.

  He set his jaw, knowing he had to be tough for both of them. He’d be leaving for Toronto soon enough and didn’t want to return home with an ache in his heart rivaling the one he’d felt when his wife walked out, suitcase in one hand, maternity magazines in the other.

  As she approached, Sylvie’s steps faltered slightly. “Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

  Here was his chance, and yet his throat slammed shut, refusing to help him form a decent word.

  Finally he found his voice. “I’m fine. You look nice.” Was “nice” all he could come up with? “So, any idea of what’s being auctioned off?”

  “Besides a few electronics, some baby things, furniture and such. Good thing. I need everything.” She peered at him, and Jon noticed how the color of her eyes had deepened and that look of pure innocence returned. “It’s like I’ve just realized that I’m having a baby.”

  Her softened expression hit him square in the gut. She needed him. Maybe only for the evening and certainly not in the way he was beginning to need her. But, hell, she needed him.

  Shoving aside all the suspicions he’d carried these past few months, he knew he wanted to be needed.

  Hot blood pumped through him. In vain he tried to warn himself she’d asked him out only because she needed an escort. She knew she shouldn’t move too much and knew he’d want to police her in light of her doctor’s orders to rest. Valid reasons, yes, but still, his body didn’t care. It wanted only to be near her. Even now he could feel the desire in him rising, snubbing with a surge of joy the conscience still caught within him.

  The conscience and the suspicion. When he’d first told her he’d be sticking around for the summer, his suspicions had been clear and valid. Another pregnant woman in his life admitting she had secrets. Damn, how he’d wanted to bulldoze the truth from her. But she hadn’t budged, and now he wasn’t so sure he could strong-arm the truth from her.

  He shrugged and looked away, carefully ensuring she couldn’t see his eyes. “Shall we go?”

  At the community hall, they found a couple of chairs near the dance-floor end of one of the long tables. Sylvie slung her shawl over one and pointed to the other side of the room. Between the tables of smaller items to be auctioned off, the larger ones stood. One was a crib.

  He stared at it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  With a blink, he looked at her. “Nothing. Just, Rick had a crib just like that one. I remember helping my mother pick it out.”

  She peered across the room, her expression indefinable. He saw her jaw set. “Then that’s the one I should get.”

  Jon nodded. The crib stood white against the muted-mushroom color of the far wall. A line of baby-blue stenciling danced along the top arched rail.

  The sign taped to it stated it would be auctioned off at nine-thirty sharp.

  “I sent Purley over with my meal contribution earlier today. Make sure you take some scalloped potato, okay, in case nobody eats any? My father likes it, and the men will eat it, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Realizing he was still standing, Jon sat across from her. “It must. I can’t imagine Lawrence not making some comment if it wasn’t very good. Or even Purley for that matter.”

  “I’m a hothead, remember? They don’t care to cross me.” A hint of bitterness scraped through her voice.

  Jon studied her f
or a moment. “I think your ranch hands know you but aren’t intimidated by you.”

  She smiled slightly. “Is that so, Sigmund Freud? Any more insight into my cooking?”

  He ignored the growing crowd around them, and spoke the thoughts he’d considered since reading the pamphlet, uncensored. “It’s time to stop worrying about what others think and start caring for yourself.”

  She blinked. He leaned across the width of the long table, the words still flowing from him. “You’re also suffering from survivor’s guilt. Like I said, you’re letting emotions get the better of you. Right now you’re only responsible for yourself and the baby. No one else. Not even me.”

  She paled and bit her lip. Had he gone too far with his unchecked words? After a pause that drifted on, she spoke, her voice soft yet full of emotion. “The doctor mentioned that, but—” To anyone else here, her expression showed only cool reserve, a woman fully in control. Yet her eyes, limpid and dark, were filled with remorse. His gaze dropped to her hands, where she’d begun to rub fresh goose bumps on her arms. “You’re right. I don’t want to be sidetracked by anything.”

  He looked to the buffet table. There. He’d cut the tie between them. Subtly, but he’d cut it just the same. “I’m sure there won’t be any scalloped potato left by the time we get there.”

  She smiled. “What do you mean, by the time we get there? Don’t you know pregnant women get hungry?”

  They weren’t the first in line, but Jon noticed no one had yet to sample her scalloped potato, so he took a generous heaping. The smile he caught from Sylvie glowed with gratitude.

  The bidding on the crib started out reasonably. One hundred dollars. Well within her budget, Sylvie noted gratefully. She’d never had to consider the cost of things before. The pay that accompanied her rank, coupled with the lack of any dependents, made it easy for her to afford whatever she’d wanted.