Twilight Man

Two

Faith watched Jones, intensely fascinated with him. He might not be a native, but he was comfortable in his world.

He ignored the seat intended for the driver and stood before the steering wheel, keeping a keen eye ahead of the boat while navigating the narrow, snaking channel. Although not as torturous as the one through which Faith had reached Jones’s island, this one was still tricky. Several times the boat shuddered when the motor kissed something underwater, causing Faith to hold her breath.

Jones hardly blinked.

As they passed a triangle formed by three huge cypress trees, a fish jumped out of the water, flashing silver in the dappled sunlight.

Jones shoved the throttle into neutral. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, I did. I hear there are some huge bass in this lake since they stocked it several years ago.”

Jones stared at the spot where the fish had disappeared. Faith could see him battling with temptation. Finally he cut the engine and dropped anchor. “You don’t mind if we stop for five or ten minutes, do you? I just want to cast a couple of times.”

She nodded. “Okay with me.” Faith liked the peaceful atmosphere of this sheltered spot. There was a certain primeval feel to this part of the bayou, as if no human had ever touched it.

“I brought an extra pole,” he said. “You’re welcome to throw out a line.”

“Okay, thanks.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to fish until he’d invited her.

With a minimum of fuss Jones opened the tackle box, chose a purple worm lure, and started to cast. Faith found a yellow spinner for herself, attached it to the end of her line and moved to the opposite end of the boat.

Her father had taught her that fishing was a quiet sport. And since Jones didn’t appear eager to chat, she kept her mouth closed, although there were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask him. She was particularly anxious to know why he was letting her fish with him at all. It seemed odd, given his initial animosity toward her.

As the minutes passed in silence, Faith’s awareness of the man increased. She tried to concentrate on her casting, but how could she not notice that body of his when he ran around half-naked? He had a helluva tan for this early in the year, she thought, watching the bronzed muscles of his back bunch and stretch as he made a long, lazy cast.

He caught her staring at him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” Self-consciously she started reeling in her forgotten lure, which was probably dragging the bottom by now.

“My casting. The way you were looking, I thought maybe my form was bad or something.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your form,” she said, far more sincere than he would ever know.

They didn’t speak again for a long time. The only sounds were the chatter of birds in the trees, the insects buzzing and the occasional whir, plop and click as she and Jones cast their lines. But Faith had the odd sensation that a bond was forming. Sharing a boat and a patch of sunlit water with a man was a curiously intimate experience.

The sun rose higher and the temperature climbed with it. Jones paused to take the green bandanna out of his pocket and mop his forehead. He then twisted the cloth into a rope and tied it around his head.

With that dark, shaggy hair and the tan, he could have been a savage, Faith mused. Mentally she replaced his threadbare cut-offs with a loincloth, then turned away so he wouldn’t sense the heat in her face.

“You are the same man who rescued me,” she said quietly, without looking at him again. “There couldn’t be two of you.”

He sighed. “If I admit that it was me, will you stop pestering me about it?”

She couldn’t help but smile. She’d never met such a reluctant hero before. “If you’ll let me say thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

“You could have been killed yourself,” she said. “It’s not every man who will—”

He threw her a warning look.

“Right. ‘Nough said. Have you caught a lot of fish in this spot before?” she asked. Despite the jumping fish they’d seen earlier, neither of them had gotten a strike all morning.

“No, not really. I’m still shopping for a really good spot.”

“I don’t think this is it,” she said. “Not today, anyway. What do you say we pull anchor and try another place?”

He shrugged. “Fine by me. You pick out the next one.”

It took her a long time to find a suitable spot. Finally, after exploring several inlets, she selected a shady area along the edge of one of the river roads.

“Why here?” Jones asked, although he didn’t hesitate to drop the anchor.

“I don’t know. My dad taught me to pick out a spot that feels right, and this one does.”

With a shrug Jones switched to a frog lure, but Faith kept her yellow spinner. Within five minutes she had a fish on the end of her line. It was a big one, judging from the fight it gave her. A rush of adrenaline energized her as Jones stepped up behind her, silently urging her on. She played the fish just right, tiring it out until she could pull it out of the water without it jumping off the hook.

Jones stood waiting with the net. “That’s a nice one,” he said. “Must be at least two pounds.”

“Oh, pound and a half, maybe,” she said modestly as she removed the hook from its mouth. “A meal’s worth, anyway. Where’s the stringer?”

His face fell. “You aren’t thinking of killing and eating him, are you?”

“Well, it’s hardly trophy size.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t usually keep them. I let them go.”

“Oh, I see.” So, her savage was squeamish. She never would have guessed. Then again, maybe she was being unfair. Perhaps he simply had a healthy respect for life—any life, be it a woman injured in a car accident or a dumb fish.

Mourning the loss of a tasty fried fillet, she eased the net out of his grip and dumped the contents back into the water. This was Jones’s expedition, after all, so he got to call the shots. “Bye, fish,” she said. “Luck’s with you today.”

Jones was standing close enough to her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He watched with a satisfied grin as the fish swam away. When he turned that grin on her, something inside her melted. She saw nothing of the meanness Hoady had warned her about.

As if suddenly remembering himself, Jones moved away from her, then busied himself riffling through the tackle box. “What kind of lure are you using, anyway?” he muttered.

“Try a spinner,” she said, hiding a secret smile. She had the fleeting suspicion that Jones Larabee was warming up to her just a little. She wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. Though she wouldn’t be interviewing him for her dissertation, she wanted this puzzling man to like her.

They remained at that spot for an hour more, catching and releasing three more bass between them. But as the day’s heat increased and their shade disappeared, the action petered out.

“I think the fish have gone somewhere cooler,” Faith said.

Jones pulled in his line. “Yeah.” He scanned the horizon, shielding his face from the sun with his hand. “I’ll take you to the Sinclair Marina. You can call from there and make whatever arrangements you want.”

Her heart sank. She could easily have spent all day fishing with Jones, and to hell with work on her dissertation.

She felt a small pang of guilt at her laziness. Before her accident, she had worked night and day on her paper with feverish enthusiasm. At the same time she’d been applying for teaching positions at institutions all over the Southwest, anticipating her Ph.D. in anthropology. She’d been burning the candle at both ends. That might be why she hadn’t been alert enough to avoid the hit-and-run truck.

Since she had come so close to losing her life, however, she’d slowed down considerably. She already had more than enough material to support her theory, and her adviser had extended her dissertation deadline, so there was no hurry. What was wrong with spending a day fishing?

Jones had other plans for her, that’s what was wrong, she thought, watching him neatly stow the lures in his tackle box and the poles in their niches on the side of the boat. He was ready to be rid of her, even if he had decided she wasn’t such a horrible person after all.

“What’s in there?” Jones asked, pointing to the plastic case Faith had stored in back of the boat.

“My videotape recorder,” she replied as she slathered sunscreen on her face. “I was planning to film you—”

“Like hell!” he objected, scowling fiercely.

“Relax. I’ve never filmed anyone against their will.” She rubbed sunscreen onto her legs, putting a little extra on her healing scar. Feeling the heat of his gaze on her, she became self-conscious about the scar and turned her back on him to rummage around in her tote bag. “Besides, since you’re not from Caddo Lake, I’m not interested in making you a star.”

He looked relieved. “Why’s that?” he asked as he pulled up the anchor.

“Because I’m interviewing lifelong residents of the area for my doctoral dissertation, and you don’t qualify.”

“What are you studying?” He made no move to start the motor.

“I don’t think you’d really be interested,” she said, hedging. She’d learned long ago that no one outside her own esoteric field gave a flip about her work.

“Yes, I would. Tell me about it.” He propped his lean hips against the back of the driver’s chair and crossed his arms, waiting. Apparently they weren’t going anywhere until she obliged.

“Well, if you insist, the subject matter is anthropology. Using the same protocol as Dr. Alfred Kermit, who studied the folklore and superstitions of this area thirty years ago, I’m trying to draw a negative correlation between economic growth and the survival of folkways and the specialized traditions peculiar to an isolated geographical location.” That ought to stifle his curiosity.

He surprised her by nodding thoughtfully. “You’re trying to prove that development and tourism are destroying the backwoods feeling that makes this place unique.”

So, he understood. She wondered what kind of education he’d had. “That’s about the size of it. Dr. Kermit’s films are filled with barefoot men and women fishing for their living, smoking hand-carved pipes and strumming banjos, drinking homemade whiskey and telling the most outrageous stories.

“Most of it’s gone, now,” she said wistfully. “I’ve interviewed some of the children and grandchildren of those people. They still fish, but they also listen to rap music, watch movies on their VCRs and buy their clothes at Walmart just like everyone else. They remember some of the stories, but most have lost the art of telling a story.”

Jones watched her, both amused and saddened by her passion for her work and the reality of what her research uncovered. He thought briefly of asking her if she’d met Miss Hildy, then decided not to. Although he imagined Faith would turn cartwheels at the prospect of interviewing an authentic medicine woman—a throwback to another time—he would have to ask Hildy first. He respected her privacy just as she respected his.

He turned the ignition key. “You hungry? They serve a pretty decent cheeseburger at the marina.”

The shine of excitement returned to her eyes. “Starved. And it’ll be my treat.” When he started to object, she cut him off. “Consider it payment for being my fishing guide. I haven’t enjoyed a morning like this in...well, in quite a few years.” A shadow crossed her face, fleeting but definite.

“When did your father die?”

“Am I that transparent? He died last year. But he was sick for a long time before that.”

“What was wrong with him?” Jones asked. He was exceeding the bounds of polite conversation, but suddenly he had to know.

She answered readily enough. “Lung cancer. Smoked like a chimney, right to the end.”

Who could blame the man? Jones thought. When you’re handed a death sentence, you might as well enjoy whatever pleasures remain in your life, right to the end. “What about your mother?”

“She lives in Florida. They divorced years ago, so she wasn’t around when Dad died.”

“You handled it alone, then?” God, how awful for her.

She nodded, then smiled unexpectedly. “It wasn’t so bad, not all of it. We became a lot closer. I learned more about him during the year he lived with me than I had in the preceding twenty-six.”

It wasn’t so bad? He couldn’t think of anything worse than watching someone you love die by slow, painful degrees.

“What about your folks?” Faith asked. “Are they still living?”

He should have expected it, he realized. For a while he’d let down his barriers and engaged Faith in normal, getting-to-know-you questions and answers. Now she was reciprocating. It was only natural.

So how did he answer her? Earlier, he would simply have told her to mind her own business. But that was before he knew she liked to fish and that she’d loved her father—and had gone through hell for him. That knowledge made it hard for Jones to be nasty to her.

“I don’t have any family,” he said offhandedly. “I’m, uh, an orphan.” Why did he find it so hard to lie? He used to routinely twist the truth in a courtroom without an ounce of remorse. What was happening to him?

“Okay, I get the message,” she said.

Obviously she didn’t believe him. Not only was he a reluctant liar, he was a bad one. He felt as if he was cheating her, refusing to talk about himself after she’d opened up to him. But those were the breaks.

He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat surged ahead. He made sure they went fast enough that the engine noise would make further conversation impossible.

At the marina Jones ordered a cheeseburger and fries for Faith and a chef salad with whole-wheat Texas toast for himself, then paid for it with the ten-dollar bill Faith had obstinately stuffed into his hand. When he brought the tray to their outdoor table, she gave the salad a questioning look.

“I thought you wanted a cheeseburger,” she said.

He shrugged. “When I was placing the order, suddenly a salad sounded better.” It must be Hildy’s influence, he decided. All that scolding about eating his greens was bound to have an effect on him.

Faith still thought his choice was odd. Most men she knew just didn’t like salads. Certainly Jones didn’t need to lose any weight. No, his body was about as lean and fit as any she’d seen. The more she observed him, the more puzzling he became.

His wallet, which he’d casually laid on the table, was a perfect example of his perplexing nature. It was made of eelskin, a finely crafted, expensive piece if she’d ever seen one. And it was monogrammed. A tiny gold plate bore the initials L. J. Not J. L.

Holy— The man was living under an assumed name, she realized with a jolt. What was he hiding from? Was he a fugitive from the law? Avoiding child support payments? A federal witness, relocated through the witness protection program? Or just a burned-out business executive who ran away?

At that point she should have shoved down that cheeseburger, thanked him for the fishing and gotten the hell out of there. He could be an ax murderer, for all she knew. But she sat right there, stretching every minute she was given with him. Her curiosity and fascination grew. So did her attraction.

“Who are you?” She didn’t even realize she’d spoken the words aloud until his head snapped around.

The panicky look had returned to his hazel eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a coldness she didn’t like at all. “We had a nice morning,” he said evenly. “Don’t ruin it.”

They finished the meal in silence. When she was done, Faith murmured some inane pleasantry, grabbed her things and went inside to use the pay phone.

Forcing her mind to the problem at hand, Faith flipped through the pages of the slim local phone book until she found the number she wanted. After digging a quarter from her tote bag, she shoved it into the phone and punched in the number, her back turned resolutely toward the plate glass window that faced outside, where she’d left Jones.

“Black Cypress Campgrounds,” Hoady Fromme answered in a bored voice.

Faith explained her predicament to him. He listened patiently until she mentioned just exactly where the dinghy was stranded.

“Missy, you’re nuts if you think I’m going anywheres near Jones Larabee’s place,” he said. “I told you not to go there. I told you there’d be trouble. You broke the pull cord on the motor, now you can figure out how to get the boat back where it belongs. And don’t be thinkin’ you’ll get your deposit back if the boat’s not returned by tonight, either.”

“But it’s not my fault your equipment is faulty,” she argued. “Why should you keep my seventy-five dollars?” That was money she could scarcely afford to spend. Her salary as a teaching assistant at the university was paltry at best, and the accident, though covered by insurance, had cost her quite a bit out of pocket.

“Because that’s the way it works, that’s why,” Hoady said smugly. He hung up more forcefully than was necessary.

Frustrated, Faith considered her options. First, she would ask if this marina could rent her another boat. Next she would navigate back through the swamp, tie up the disabled dinghy behind her, and tow it to the campgrounds. Then she would have to return to the marina with the boat—and she would still be stranded.

Just thinking about all those logistics exhausted her. And when she saw the hourly rates for even the smallest motor boat, she was downright depressed.

* * *

As he waited at the window to pay for the gas he’d pumped, Jones overheard most of Faith’s conversation with Hoady. Then he’d deliberately lingered, listening as she tried to negotiate with the marina for a boat. She wasn’t having much luck.

He wondered why he cared. She’d certainly gotten under his skin in no time flat. Resolutely reminding himself that personal entanglements were not an option for him, he left the marina with only a couple of backward glances, intending to wipe pretty Faith Kimball and her dilemma out of his mind.

He set out toward the Big Lake section of Caddo, far from the swampy muck of the bayou, where he could swim without the fear of sharing his space with some vile swamp creature. He anchored the boat, then dived into the cold water and began to swim.

He’d once considered himself a pretty good swimmer, but it had been years since he’d been in a pool. Now he felt awkward in the water. Gradually, however, his splashy, choppy strokes evened out and he found his rhythm. The exertion felt great.

He swam circles around the boat until he was exhausted, then hoisted himself aboard and rested, letting the sun warm and dry him. And still he couldn’t stop thinking about Faith—how her hair formed a glowing halo around her face, and the way her nose had started to turn pink from the sun, and most especially how she’d smeared that sunscreen lotion on her shapely legs.

But it wasn’t just her looks that drew him. He liked her easy conversation, her passion for her work and the way she’d cheerfully let that big, fat fish swim away in deference to his softheartedness.

He couldn’t stand to kill anything anymore—not even the spiders that constantly got into the cabin. Once, just as he was about to smash one of the creatures out of existence, he’d noticed the huge web it had built in the corner of his living room. After spending a good ten minutes contemplating the complexity and the sheer beauty of the fragile structure, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy its creator. He had caught it in a cup and thrown it outside. He hadn’t killed a spider since.

How could he have so much compassion for fish and spiders, then be so indifferent to Faith Kimball’s plight?

It was a matter of survival, he answered himself. Faith, with her overabundance of curiosity, posed a threat to the path he’d chosen. He headed for home, more determined than ever to put their encounter behind him.

For the rest of the afternoon, as he puttered around the cabin, he kept an eye out the front window, wondering when she would return for her rented dinghy. Storm clouds were moving in. If she didn’t get on with it, she’d be caught in the rain.

He fixed a microwave pizza for dinner, along with another salad made from Hildy’s tasty produce. Still, there was no sign of Faith.

She had probably decided to wait until tomorrow. That meant seventy-five dollars would go into Hoady Fromme’s pocket, money he hardly deserved.

What the hell. Jones could buzz over to the Black Cypress Campgrounds and be back before dark. It looked as if the rain would hold off. He wouldn’t even have to see Faith Kimball if he didn’t want to.

Problem was, he wanted to. Just once more.

Three

Faith allowed herself a huge yawn as she walked back to her campsite from the public showers. Although it wasn’t yet dark, she felt like burrowing into her sleeping bag and hibernating until morning. That was the kind of day she’d had.

Her attempt to rent a boat from the Sinclair Marina had met with failure. Discouraged, she’d ended up hitching a ride back to her campgrounds, then again confronting Hoady. With her patience paper thin, she had threatened to sue him if he tried to keep her deposit. He had finally agreed to give her until tomorrow to return the disabled dinghy—if she would rent another boat from him and retrieve the first one. He was adamant about not going near Jones Larabee’s island himself.

Jones Larabee. Or maybe it was Larabee Jones, depending on whether she believed his word or his monogram. Her encounter with the mysterious loner had been by far the most unsettling event of the whole day.