A pained expression created deep grooves on either side of his mouth. “I drove. How will you get home?”
She met him at the edge of the dance floor so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. “My dad will give me a ride.”
“You really want to call him at this hour?”
“Yeah. I do.”
He threw up his hands. “Suit yourself,” he said.
The minute he left, Claire went to the pay phone in the alcove where the restrooms were, but she had no intention of waking Tug. She dialed Isaac’s number instead. “Hello?”
She closed her eyes. Just hearing his voice made her want him as much as she ever had.
“Hello?” he said again. But she couldn’t bring herself to respond. Instead, she hung up and started the long walk home.
Jeremy drove past Claire twice. She was on the side of the road, and he was trying to get a good look at her face. Was she crying?
Hard to tell. Maybe. He liked to imagine himself comforting her, holding her in his arms and gently wiping away her tears. He was glad she was okay after what had happened last night, but he wasn’t pleased to see that she was out alone, especially so late. She wasn’t paying attention to what was going on around her. She never did. And that was dangerous. She felt safe, but anything could happen to her out here.
He considered warning her. Only he didn’t think she’d listen. She seemed too sad to care.
Maybe he should ask if she needed a ride home.
Did he dare? What would his father say?
Don Salter would say no. But he wasn’t here. And Jeremy was fairly confident she’d get in the car with him. Why wouldn’t she? He’d always been very careful around her, never said anything that made her look at him the way his father did—as if he was stupid. He never frightened her or tried to touch her. She liked him. When she cut his hair every month she treated him just as nicely as she treated everyone else.
Of course he should stop to help.
As soon as he made that decision, his pulse leaped. The idea of having Claire O’Toole in his car, so close, made him warm and jittery inside. His father wouldn’t like it; he’d been warned, plenty of times, to keep his distance. But…oh, how he’d dreamed of being close to her. And thanks to his boss at the burger stand, he had a car. Hank had given him the old Impala a year ago so he wouldn’t have to walk like Claire was walking now. A lot of people, including his father, thought he shouldn’t drive. Someone who’d been in special ed shouldn’t be allowed to operate a vehicle, they said. But he’d shown them he could do it. He was a good driver.
Easing off the gas, he proved that he was a good driver by making a U-turn only where it was legal to do so. He remembered where he could and where he couldn’t because he didn’t like getting pulled over, answering all those questions. Cops were far too nosy. Even his father agreed with him on that.
After he’d turned the car around, he saw Claire up ahead, but before he could reach her, the big white truck in front of him pulled alongside her.
No! Someone else had gotten to her first. It was Isaac Morgan. Jeremy would know Isaac’s truck anywhere.
She stood on the passenger side, talking through the window when Jeremy passed. He would’ve turned around again, just to see what happened, but he was afraid she’d notice. And if she didn’t, Isaac might. Isaac made him nervous. He didn’t want anything to do with him. Isaac could fight a bear and live to tell about it. How many times had he heard that story?
Isaac would bring her home.
Deciding to go to his favorite spot near her house instead, Jeremy gave the Impala some gas. If he beat them, he’d just get out of the car and wait. After Isaac dropped her off, maybe Claire would watch TV like she usually did, and Jeremy could pretend she’d invited him in so they could watch together.
But once he reached River Dell, he waited and waited and waited—and it was all for nothing because she didn’t come home and watch TV.
She didn’t come home at all.
9
Claire frowned at the steak on the plate in front of her. “I told you. I already had dinner.”
Isaac folded his arms and leaned against the counter. The plastic containers he’d taken from the refrigerator were still strewn across the counter as if he thought she might want seconds. But as good as the food looked—there were sweet potatoes and asparagus to go with the steak—she couldn’t possibly eat more than he’d served her.
“You’re the reason I cooked extra,” he said with a wink.
She arched her eyebrows at him. “Don’t act like I stood you up. I told you I wasn’t coming.”
“You’re here now.”
Because it hadn’t occurred to her that caller ID would identify the pay phone at the Kicking Horse Saloon. Or that he’d get out of bed to look for her in the middle of the night. “I don’t understand why it matters to you whether I eat.”
“You mean I’m such a hard-hearted bastard I don’t mind watching you waste away?”
“I’m not wasting away.”
“You won’t if you eat.” He motioned to her plate. “Dig in.”
“Fine.” Too tired to argue, Claire shoveled a bite of sweet potato into her mouth. She should’ve stayed home tonight. She hadn’t expected her date with Rusty to be exciting, but neither had she expected it to fail quite as badly as it did. “It feels weird to be sitting in the kitchen where I lived as a child,” she said.
He poured a glass of cranberry juice and put it on the table beside her. “Oh, yeah? Do you like what I’ve done with the place?”
Obviously, he was joking. It was well-maintained, but he hadn’t changed a single thing since he moved in three years ago and neither had the people who’d owned it before him. “I wouldn’t plan on hiring out as a decorator if I were you.”
He shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll remodel.”
He’d done a lot with the shack he’d inherited from Tippy. It was small but well-kept and in such a beautiful setting he’d stayed there much longer than anyone had expected. That was where she’d always visited him before, where she’d always pictured him even after he bought this place.
“What made you give up Tippy’s house on the lake?” she asked.
“Mostly the size. I needed more room and this gave me a different view and even more privacy.”
“The pictures you’ve hung make it a nice bachelor’s pad.” Mostly wildlife photos he’d taken himself, they added a masculine touch. “It’s easy to tell you like what you do.” Her gaze lingered on a framed print of a hippopotamus submerged in a swampy river with just his eyes, ears and nostrils showing. “I think it’s great how much you love your work. You’re the perfect kind of guy for it.”