Part 19 (1/2)

If it had been Carlson or Derry, Angel would have stepped off the bow without a second thought. But this was Hawk. She paused before she remembered what he had said about being herself.

aHow did you know that I hate cold water?a Angel asked lightly.

Hawkas face relaxed into something close to a smile. His eyes warmed.

aA lucky guess,a he said, lifting her off the bow.

Angel held on to her jeans with one hand and Hawk with the other. When she felt the heat of his hand on her bare leg, something uncomfortably like fear shot through her. She couldnat help the stiffening of her body.

Nor could Hawk help feeling it. In silence he waded the short distance to the beach. He set Angel on her feet immediately, not prolonging the moment of intimacy.

aThank you,a Angel said.

Hawk wondered whether she was thanking him for being carried above the chilly sea, or for being set down so quickly.

aNo trouble,a he said with a shrug. aAngels donat weigh much.a Smoothly Hawk turned away and began to pull on his jeans. He concentrated on the stubborn fabric clinging to his wet legs, on the cold rivulets of water running down to his ankles, on the coa.r.s.e sand caught between the soles of his feet and the rubber beach sandals he wore.

He concentrated on everything except the tactile memory of Angelas smooth flesh burning into his hand . . . and then her withdrawal, a reflex as involuntary as breathing.

It took a great amount of pain to instill such a reflex after only one lesson.

With every moment Hawk was close to Angel, he was learning how deeply he had wounded her. He hadnat thought it was possible for a woman to feel that much emotion, that much pain. Nor had he thought it possible to share anotheras hurt the way he was coming to share hers.

The complexity of the emotions flowing between himself and Angel was as baffling, difficult, and compelling to him as the truths she gave to him so painfully, not knowing that each truth was a separate talon rending the certainties of Hawkas past.

Hawk took a slow, tight breath and wondered how much more he could bear to learn.

20.

Angel pulled on her own jeans, rolled them to her knees, and helped Hawk carry everything up beyond the high-tide mark. There was a small patch of gra.s.s near the stream. They put everything but the clam buckets and digging tools there. Angel led the way to the beach.

The sky was absolutely clear, as deep and cold as time. The ocean reflected every shade of blue, except along the cliffs. There the water became green, reflecting the color of cedar branches sweeping low over the sea. Small fragments of wind found their way into the bay, barely enough to ruffle the sun-struck surface. It was silent but for the nibbling of the sea at the rocky sh.o.r.e.

Angel gauged the line of beach revealed by the ebbing tide. Narrow, but enough.

aEver dug for clams?a she asked.

aNot too many clams in west Texas.a Angel smiled slightly. aNo, I guess not.a She sat on her heels near a stretch of mixed rock and sand beach that was just above the water.

aClams are easy to find at low tide,a Angel said. aYou only have to go down a few inches. If you find one, youall find more nearby.a Hawk sat on his heels near Angel, watching her rake through the sand and rock with a digging tool. It wasnat a true clamming fork. There were too many rocks for that. What she used was a three-p.r.o.nged, hand-held garden tool that was st.u.r.dy enough to survive stones, salt water, and abuse.

With a triumphant sound, Angel held her sandy hand out to Hawk. Several clams lay in her palm. At least, Hawk a.s.sumed that the lumps were clams. They were so covered with sand that he couldnat tell.

aClam?a he asked doubtfully.

aAs ever were. Watch.a Angel rinsed off the clams, revealing their smoothly curving, plump sh.e.l.ls.

aClams,a Hawk agreed.

Smiling, Angel filled the bucket halfway with salt-water and chucked in the clams. Then she returned to scrounging happily in the sand and occasional patches of sea slime that covered the intertidal zone.

aMost people wait a day or two before they eat the clams,a Angel said. aGives them a chance to get the sand out of their systems. But I havenat had bouillabaisse since last summer and I canat wait. Do you mind?a Hawkas expression softened into something very like a smile.

aNo,a he said, aI donat mind.a Caught by the unexpected gentleness in Hawkas voice, Angel looked up. Hawk was very close, his leg all but brus.h.i.+ng hers as he began to dig in the sand with another tool.

She looked down quickly at the sea, disturbed by having him so near. Not that it was his fault. The beach was very narrow, and he was only following her lead, digging through cold sand in search of succulent bits of flesh.

But she wished his sheer maleness didnat affect her so deeply.

aI never asked,a Angel said after a moment, struck by a sudden thought. aDo you like clams?a aIall find out tonight.a For a time there was only silence and the low sounds of steel grating over rocks and sand. Hawk set aside his digger and probed through the sand he had raked up. His sensitive fingertips quickly learned to distinguish between the random rough surface of rocks and the curved, gently ribbed surface of clam sh.e.l.ls.

aIall be d.a.m.ned,a Hawk murmured as he pulled out a handful of clams. aYouare quite a teacher, Angel.a She looked up into his dark features and smiled almost shyly.

aClamming is easy to teach,a she said.

After that, Hawk and Angel dug clams in a companionable silence that reminded her of the time she and Hawk had spent before the fishhook has gone into her back. She was aware of him, definitely, but not afraid.

Angel was aware of the hook wound, too. It was more tender today than yesterday or the day before. She had meant to have Derry check her back, but every time she had thought of it, he had been immersed in formulas as long as his cast. She had tried cleaning the wounds herself and had given up in disgust. It would take a contortionist to effectively treat that particular place.

In time, Hawk and Angel pursued the ebbing tide to a line of bedrock where no clams lived. She stood and stretched, wincing slightly as the motion pulled against the sore spot near her shoulder blade. Automatically she put the pain out of her mind as she had learned to do when she forced herself to walk again.

As Carlson had taught her with great clarity, what canat be cured must be endured.

aThat should do it,a Angel said, lifting the clam bucket. aTwenty for you and twenty for me.a aWhat if I donat like clams?a asked Hawk, his tone amused rather than worried.

Angel licked her lips with delicate greed.

aIall think of something,a she promised.

One of Hawkas black eyebrows lifted in silent skepticism.

aTheyare not very big,a Angel said reasonably.

Hawkas strong hand wrapped around the bucket handle, lifting it from her grasp. Under her watchful blue-green eyes, Hawk rinsed the clams, scrubbed them with a stiff brush, then rinsed them again. He filled the bucket with clams and salt.w.a.ter and turned to Angel.

aNow what?a he asked.

aPut the bucket in the shade and let nature take its course. We,a she said triumphantly, aare going crabbing.a Angel went over to the gra.s.s, retrieved the crab trap and a chunk of bacon, and returned to Hawk.

aThis is a littler trickier than clamming,a she said.

aCrabs are faster?a suggested Hawk dryly.

She smiled. aMuch.a With that, Angel led Hawk to a shelf of rock that slanted out into the bay. The shelf ended in a deep green shaft of water. Deftly Angel wired the hunk of bacon to the bottom of the trap and lowered the metal mesh into the water. The trap itself consisted of little more than concentric mesh rings of graduated sizes, rather than a blunt funnel.

aNow,a she said, athe crabs get a whiff of bacon and come running.a aThereas no top on that thing,a Hawk pointed out. aWhat keeps the little beasties from getting out the same way they got in?a aThatas the tricky part,a Angel admitted. aYou have to be faster than they are.a The trap hit bottom, invisible beneath the green sea.