Robin Nicholas - No Place Like Home

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 café. 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 café 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 café 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.”

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 café, 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.