Free A Bullet for Cinderella by John D. MacDonald Page B

I drove away. I returned at twelve. I went up to the house with her, and the three of us ate in the big kitchen. Dr. Buck Stamm was a skilled storyteller. Apparently every misfortune that could happen to a veterinary had happened to him. He reviled his profession, and his own stupidity in getting into it in the first place. After a cigar he went off to make farm calls. I helped Ruth with a few dishes.
    “How about a plain old tour of the surrounding country,” she suggested. “There are parts that are very nice.”
    “Then dinner tonight and a movie or something?”
    “Sold. It’s Saturday night.”
    She changed to slacks and a tweed jacket over a yellow sweater and we took my car. She gave me the directions. We took small back roads. It was pretty country, with rolling hills and spines of rock that stuck out of the hills. In the city the day had been gloomy. Out in the country it was no better, but the breeze seemed moist with spring. The new leaves were a pale green. She sat slouched in theseat with one knee up against the glove compartment and pointed out the farms, told me about the people, told me about the history of the area.
    At her suggestion I took a back road that led to a place called Highland Lake. She told me when to slow down. When we came to a dirt road we turned right. A mile down the slippery, muddy road was a sign that said
B. Stamm
. I went cautiously down an overgrown drive through the woods until we came to a small cabin with a big porch overlooking a small lake less than a mile long and half as wide. I could see other cabins in the trees along the lake shore.
    We went onto the cabin porch and sat on the railing and smoked and talked and watched the quick winds furrow the lake surface.
    “We don’t get up here as much as we used to when Mother was alive. Dad talks about selling it, but I don’t think he will. He hunts up here in the fall. It’s only eighteen miles from town, the shortest way. It’s pretty primitive, but you know, Tal, this would be a good place to write.”
    I felt again a quick, sharp pang of guilt.
    Her enthusiasm grew. “Nobody is using it. There’s no electricity, but there are oil lamps and a Coleman lantern. There’s plenty of wood in the shed, and one of those little gasoline stoves. The bunks are comfortable and there’s lots of blankets. It would save paying rent. I know Dad wouldn’t mind a bit.”
    “Thanks, Ruth, but really I couldn’t—”
    “Why not? It’s only a half hour to town.”
    “I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to make it worth while moving in.”
    “Well, then,” she said, “okay.” And I thought I detected some disappointment in her tone. “I’d like you to see it, anyhow.” The key was hidden on one of the roof supports near the door. We went inside. It was bare, but it looked clean and comfortable. There were fish rods on a wall rack, and a big stone fireplace.
    “It’s nice,” I said.
    “I’ve always loved it. I’d make a wild row if Dad evertried to sell it. The first time I came up here they had to bring play pen and high chair. I learned to swim here. I broke my collarbone falling out of one of those top bunks in there.”
    She smiled at me. We were standing quite close together. There was something both warm and wistful about her smile. There was a long silence in the room. I could hear birds and a far-off drone of an outboard motor. Our eyes locked once more and her smile faded as her mouth softened. There was a heaviness about her eyes, a look almost of drowsiness. We took a half step toward each other and she came neatly, graciously into my arms as though it were an act we had performed many times. The kiss was gentle at first and then fierce and hungry; as she strained upward against me my hands felt the long smoothness of her back, and her arm was crooked hard around my neck.
    We wavered in dizzy balance and I side-stepped quickly to catch our balance and we parted awkwardly, shy as children.
    “Tal,” she