Page 15 of Wind Called

True, but he was a McAllister elder’s grandson. It wasn’t as if she’d picked up a total rando on the side of the road or something.

Thus having reassured herself that she wasn’t bringing a serial killer back to a house that wasn’t even hers, she maintained a steady pace on the highway, checking in the rearview constantly to make sure he was keeping up. Not that she guessed that would be much of a problem; his big Nissan truck obviously had a far more powerful motor than her little Fiat.

And it wasn’t as if they had to drive through the heart of Sedona or anything, either. Dry Creek Road was only a little inside the town’s western limits, and although they would have to wander a bit to get to the house she was caretaking, the roads weren’t anywhere close to crowded out in the semi-rural neighborhood.

A pause to press the remote for the gate that opened onto the property, and then they were driving down the long gravel road that led to the house. Dust plumed out behind them; although this should have been the height of monsoon season, there hadn’t been any storms for nearly a week.

Bellamy thought the dry streak might be over soon, though, because as they’d driven into Sedona, she’d noted enormous thunderheads beginning to build over the Mogollon Plateau to the east. The real question was whether they’d spill westward enough to get any rain in the Verde Valley.

Well, she supposed they’d find out as the afternoon wore on.

She touched the second remote clipped to the visor, and one of the four garage doors opened so she could pull inside. Marc seemed to realize he was on his own for parking, because he stopped in the open space off to one side and got out of his truck, then headed over to the place where she was waiting just inside the garage.

“We can go in through here,” she told him as he approached, inclining her head toward the interior door that led into the kitchen.

He nodded, and soon enough they were inside, with cool air from the home’s climate-control system surrounding them.

“Well, this is impressive,” he said as they entered the kitchen, which had what felt like miles of soapstone counters and a set of commercial-grade stainless-steel appliances.

“It’s not mine,” she said quickly, thinking she needed to disabuse him of the notion that she was in any kind of financial position to afford a place like this. “I’m just playing caretaker while it’s on the market.”

Marc didn’t appear too dismayed by this revelation. “That’s a pretty good gig.”

“It is,” she said. “I’ll admit that I’m kind of hoping the house is going to be on the market for a long while.” She stopped there, thinking of the half-drunk bottle of pinot grigio she had in the refrigerator. Should she offer him a drink, or would it be better to keep this strictly business and only ask if he wanted a glass of water?

Oh, the hell with it. Today was her day off, after all.

“Some wine?” she asked next. “I’ve got an open bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge.”

Maybe he hesitated for a fraction of a second. But then he said, “Sure. That would be great.”

Bellamy went over to the cupboard and got out a couple of stemless wine glasses — Ike had told her she could use the glassware and dishes and anything else she needed, just as long as everything was cleaned and returned to the cupboards once the house was sold — then poured some white wine for her and Marc. After handing one of the glasses to him, she said, “We can go sit in the living room. It’s probably too hot to be outside, even in the shade.”

“Sure.”

He followed her into the space in question, where his keen dark eyes seemed to take in the huge bifold glass doors that overlooked the courtyard. She had to admit that it looked inviting enough out there, with the wind sculptures turning in the breeze and the fountain in the center of the space splashing in the bright sunlight.

Well, until you actually went outside and realized temperatures today were just kissing the century mark.

They both sat on the big leather couch, Marc a respectful distance away. Still, Bellamy found herself far too conscious of his presence, of the way the sofa creaked when he shifted his weight, or the strong muscles of his tanned throat as he swallowed some pinot grigio.

Then he said without preamble, “I dreamed about this house last night.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“This place,” he said, and waved a hand toward the sunny courtyard just beyond the bifold doors. “I’m glad you invited me here, because now I can see it was a true dream. Everything looks just the way I dreamed it.”

Well, this wasn’t awkward at all. Bellamy swallowed some of her wine and said, “What was in your dream?”

“You were,” he said steadily. “I dreamed that you were standing out in the courtyard with the moon overhead and those wind sculptures moving in the night wind.”

How in the world was she supposed to respond to that? Because what he’d just described was exactly what she’d done the night before after she got home from work, too restless to go straight to bed even though it had been well past midnight.

“That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked. “To see if your dream was a true one?”

“Partly,” he replied. “In the dream, I was standing out there, too, but when I tried to follow you into the house, there was a safe blocking my way.”

“‘A safe’?” she repeated blankly, her brain conjuring an image of a big, blocky object like something you’d see in an old Road Runner cartoon just before it got dropped on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

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