Resonable Doubt

by Catherine Anderson

  She tightened her hold on the knob. "Get lost, Chuck."

  "Forget that. It's time we got down to business. Dane tells me you've been snoopin', reading all the old news stories about the fire. That true?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "The way I see it, you know all you need to know. I put my neck on the chopping block for you, lied for you. I don't like it too good, you coming back and rehashing everything now. The way I see it, if you screw around and get yourself arrested again for that arson, I'll be sent up as an accom­plice. That would make me mad. And you don't want to make me mad."

  Breanna looked him straight in the eye. She knew he was trying to frighten her, bully her, the way he had before. That was Chuck's style. He tried to control people, using their fears as leverage. It had worked ten years ago. He was hop­ing she'd react the same way now, either by leaving or ac­quiescing to his demands. But she wasn't a kid anymore. She was a woman who could see Chuck Morrow for the lowlife he really was.

  "To be quite frank, I don't care one way or another if you're mad, Chuck."

  "You better care, missy. You owe me. Maybe I'm here to collect."

  Anger tightened her throat. "I beg your pardon?"

  "If I was to go to the police, even now, and tell them you weren't with me that night, that only Dane was, why you'd be in jail so fast your head'd spin. Way I see it, you wouldn't like that, being locked up. I'm doin' you a big favor. Seems like you'd treat me nice and make it worth my while. Some excitement a couple of times a week, maybe, a little TLC. Keep me happy, make me feel appreciated for puttin' my­self out for you."

  Breanna tipped her head toward him. "So it's excite­ment you want, huh? Why, Chuck, you've come to the right lady for that. I'll give you more than you ever dreamed."

  She leaned a little closer, winked coyly, and opened the door for Coaly. The dog cannoned out of the door like a bean from a slingshot, snarling viciously. Breanna nabbed him by the collar just in the nick of time, halting his for­ward thrust. Chuck sprang backward, his attention riveted on the dog. "Is that exciting enough for you, Chuck, or would you like more?"

  It gave her no end of satisfaction to see the man scramble to get away from her. "You're crazy. You're a crazy woman!"

  "More woman than you can handle, that's for sure. Now you get your slimy little carcass off my place! Is that clear? And don't come back. You do, and I'll let Coaly loose next time."

  "That damned dog's a hazard, that's what," he mut­tered, staring at Coaly. "I thought he was dead. He will be. That's a promise you can bank on, sister." He staggered down the steps, jabbing a finger at her. "Sic him on me and I'll shoot the little monster."

  Chuck leaped into his truck, gunned the motor and re­versed up the drive. A cloud of red dust rose in his wake. Breanna sank onto the porch. Her legs felt like half-set Jell-O.

  She stroked Coaly's head, looking into his eyes. A sweet­er, gentler dog there never was, yet in the last week she had seen him launch three vicious attacks. He had always been protective. He had always been a growler. But, contrary to what she had told Tyler at first, he had never bitten anyone before coming here. Now, all of a sudden, he had turned mean. There had to be a reason. Could he sense danger here that she couldn't?

  Adding up all the facts, she had very little to go on, but it was enough. She had seen Chuck on her property late at night. He had by his own admission been speaking to Dane. And, as he left just now, he had muttered that he thought Coaly was dead. Like it or not, she had to face it; Chuck Morrow was at the root of her troubles.

  And she knew from experience that any trouble Chuck Morrow stirred up was bound to be ugly.

  Chapter Nine

  At five-thirty, Breanna headed for the creek to wash her hair before her date with Tyler. After her last bath, she felt too nervous for anything more than a quick shampoo. This time if anyone crept up on her, she would be fully dressed and able to run.

  As she worked her way through the brush, she heard Coaly yelping back at the cabin. She would have liked to bring him along, but it was too risky. Finding the poisoned meat this morning, and hearing Chuck's threats since then, she didn't want him wandering while she wasn't watching.

  Kneeling on the diving rock, she unfastened her braid. Her reflection shimmered on the surface of the water, and she turned her face to see it at a different angle. Her blue silk dress would do nicely for dinner, she decided. Her strand of pearls and white heels would—

  Her heart leaped into her throat. A face shimmered be­side hers on the water. Not a human face, though. The other reflection was straight out of a child's nightmare, black, featureless, with great, gaping holes where the eyes should have been.

  For a moment fear paralyzed her. She couldn't move, couldn't scream. By the time she'd collected her wits, it was too late. A hand slammed into her back, launching her headfirst into the water. The blackness of the bathing hole surrounded her. Water seared her throat; burned into her lungs. She flailed her arms, clawing for the glow of sun­light above her.

  Breaking the surface, she thrashed about, aiming for the rock, but her attacker still stood upon it, one arm extended toward her, a scythe clutched in his hand. She stared at the long, curved blade, at the gleam of its sharp edge. The man's intention was clear; if she left the water, he meant to kill her.

  It was a man. Even as she struggled for air, she realized the face she had seen had been human, after all, disguised in a black ski mask. He wore a black overcoat to conceal his body build. She stared up at him. Who was he? And why was he doing this?

  The weight of her clothes and shoes was dragging her down. Breanna kicked frantically, making figure eights with her arms to stay afloat. She knew she couldn't stay in the deep pool long. If the cold didn't overcome her, exhaustion would. The man strode along the diving rock back to shore, then stepped into the copse. He had no sooner disappeared into the trees than Breanna swam toward the opposite bank- She could find a handhold in the tree roots and escape into the woods.

  She had only moved a few feet toward the bank when a rock splashed beside her. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the man had emerged again. He stood at the wa­ter's edge, his arm drawn back, the scythe a gleaming arc over his head. He didn't speak, but the threat was clear. If she went anywhere near the far bank, he would come after her.

  She was trapped.

  The man stepped back into the brush, but she could still see his silhouette. He stood there, watching, waiting. Her blood thrummed in her temples. Even in the freezing wa­ter, she could feel sweat break out on her brow. The current tugged at her legs. She fought to keep her chin up, paddling backward, praying her toes would touch bottom. The man leaped from the brush, moving to aim the scythe at her. He wanted her in deep water? She took a mouthful, choking, fighting to get her chin high. Oh, God, he wanted her to drown!

  Could he hit her? The stream wasn't that wide. He wouldn't have to throw the scythe far. She imagined the blade sinking into her skull, imagined dying there in the bathing pool where she had played as a child. As long as she stayed in the center of the stream, he didn't threaten her. As terrifying as drowning was, Breanna preferred that to being gaffed like a fish. Again the man stepped back into the copse, barely visible.

  He waited like a sentinel standing guard. She realized he was going to wait until she sank

  Stay calm, she thought. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  No answer. She trod water, her chin bobbing against the ripples. Her shoes felt like lead weights on her feet, heavier and heavier with each kick. Exhaustion was setting in quickly and still the man stood there. She began to feel cold. Oh, God, so cold. It seemed to her that hours passed. She knew she had to find something to hold on to soon to keep from sinking. But she couldn't. The man's profile was clearly visible against the patches of light behind him, a black hulk, staring, not moving.

  Shudders began to rack her. Spasms followed. Then af­ter a while, even that passed. Numbness settled in. Her arms and legs felt like stiff
rubber.

  As dusk settled over the mountains, she panicked. "Go away!" she pleaded. "Go away, whoever you are! Go away, do you hear?"

  She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard low laughter. Why? Who could hate her so much that he would enjoy seeing her die?

  Later, when the sky had lost nearly all its light, Breanna heard footsteps approaching in the brush. A low creaking noise drifted toward her.

  "Bree? Yo? You down here?" Tyler's familiar voice boomed, ricocheting back and forth along the creek. Noth­ing had ever sounded quite so good to her. "Bree? You down here?"

  "Tyler?" Her voice came out in a wail. "I'm in the creek."

  He emerged from the tangle of undergrowth, becoming recognizable as he drew nearer. Neatly pleated gray slacks, a white shirt, a tweed jacket. Breanna sobbed and wind- milled her numb arms, swimming clumsily forward against the current.

  "Breanna, what the hell?"

  "Watch out! Behind you! He's behind you!" Her feet scraped bottom, and she staggered toward him. "He's got a scythe, Tyler."

  Whirling, Tyler crouched to defend himself and the woman behind him. No one was there. He relaxed slightly, then Breanna's sobs reclaimed his attention. He turned to look at her. What he saw scared him. Her face had a blue cast to it. Her lips were purple. But what concerned him most was that she wasn't shivering. Her body temperature must be dangerously low.

  "He's in there. He'll kill us."

  She ended the sentence with a low whimper and fell side­ways in the stream, too weak to stand. He swore under his breath and waded out to her, lifting her to carry her to shore. Water cascaded from her clothes, soaking him from the chest down. Shifting her slightly, he shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her. "It's all right. If some­one was there, he's gone, sweetheart. Damn, you're like ice. How long have you been in here?"

  Breanna tried to hug his neck, but her arms were dead­weights. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, so glad for his warmth that she began to cry.

  "He came—behind me—out of nowhere, pushed me in. Wouldn't let me out. I was getting so tired."

  "My God!" he whispered, pressing a wonderfully hot mouth to her forehead. "I'll kill the bastards for this."

  Breanna shrank as close to him as she could get. She was so exhausted, so cold. Knowing he was there, that she was safe, seemed like a miracle. And she was safe with Tyler. Just the way he held her told her that.

  He carried her to the cabin and shouldered his way through the door, heading directly for the bedroom. Push­ing the doorway curtain aside, he stepped in and lowered her feet to the floor, holding her by her arms for a moment to be sure she could stand. There were towels folded on the open shelving. He grabbed one and began peeling her clothes off of her.

  Breanna felt no trace of embarrassment, only relief. Limp relief. Her awareness centered on him—the deft touch of his hands, the warmth of them against her skin, the solid wall of his chest holding her upright. She was barely conscious of her nakedness as he dropped her shirt to the floor. Next, he tugged her jeans over her hips, set her on the bed and peeled them down her legs, taking her shoes off with them.

  "I thought I was going to die."

  He lifted her to her feet again, rubbing her briskly with the towel, taking care not to touch the manzanita scratches on her back. In the dusky light she could see the worry in his eyes. "The main thing is to get you warm. Did he hurt you?"

  "N-no."

  "How long were you in there?"

  "T-two hours, I th-think."

  "I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on the creep, I'll kill him."

  "T-Ty…I—I'm s-so c-cold."

  "There, you're halfway dry, at least." He lifted the bed covers to deposit her beneath them. "I'll go light a fire."

  While he was gone, Breanna huddled between the sheets and longed for his warm arms. She was shaking convul­sively now. She heard the clatter of kindling and the rustle of paper, then a soft whoosh of flame when Tyler struck a match to it. Amber patterns of light danced on the door­way curtain. He returned to the room, rifling through her stacks of clothing on the shelves until he found one of her flannel nightgowns.

  "My 1-logger socks. Th-there on the bottom shelf, the g- gray ones with r-red tops. My feet are so cold I can't f-feel them."

  "Honey, don't try to talk." He stepped toward her with the gown. "Sit up and I'll get this over your head."

  She held the sheet to her breasts, releasing it with one hand while she shoved an arm down each sleeve. That alone was quite a feat, considering how badly she was shaking. The soft flannel felt dry and warm. Tyler pulled one of her feet at a time from beneath the covers, slipping the socks over her toes.

  "Oh, Tyler, I'm s-so c-cold, so h-horribly c-cold."

  Huddling on her side, she cinched her arms around her­self, clinging to what little heat she had left. Tyler's shoes thunked on the floor, and she heard the change jangling in his slacks as he pulled them off. He untucked the other pil­low and threw back the covers. She felt the mattress sink with his weight.

  "Come here, sweetheart."

  Breanna tried to speak, but the moment she did, her teeth clacked. He drew her head to the hollow of his shoulder. Both his arms encircled her, one around her back so that he could rub her side, the other over her hip to massage the backs of her thighs. She rolled toward him, desperate for his heat.

  "You're chilled clear to the bone. It's lucky I came when I did. I can feel the cold coming clear through your gown."

  Breanna had given up talking.

  "Much longer and..." She felt a tenseness sweep through him. "The shaking's a good sign," he whispered. "Your body's trying to warm itself. Damn, Bree, you're so cold it's scary. Hypothermia is no joke. You don't feel numb any­where besides your feet, do you?"

  "Y-yes." Her teeth immediately chattered and she clenched them shut again.

  "Where, Breanna? Your legs? Your arms?"

  It took an effort to nod.

  Tyler swore under his breath and sat bolt upright, flip­ping around onto his knees. His hands dived under the cov­ers to strip off her socks, then he clutched the hem of her nightgown. Her eyes flew open when he slid the cloth up her body.

  "No arguments," he muttered. "It's coming off."

  He seized her by the shoulders, sat her up and tugged the gown over her head, tossing it aside. When he lay down again, the shock of his hot skin against her cold breasts made her breath catch. His arms encircled her. It seemed to her his hands were everywhere, rubbing her buttocks, the backs of her thighs, her shoulders, rubbing so hard, so vig­orously that her skin burned.

  "T-T-Ty-ler!" she protested.

  "Hush," he whispered, draping one of his legs over hers to run his foot up and down her calf. "It's okay, it's okay."

  "B-but it h-hurts. It b-burns."

  "I know. It'll stop after a while. Ssh, sweetheart. Just get close so I can get you warm."

  Breanna turned her face into the curve of his neck, breathing in the musky, steamy heat of his skin. Tyler. She drifted, sinking ever deeper into the swirling heat that ra­diated from him. And without realizing it, without know­ing exactly when, she finally stopped shaking and slept.

  Much later, she woke, blinking in confusion, her face pressed so snugly into the hollow of Tyler's shoulder that her lashes fluttered against his skin. Her lips had parted in slumber and when she explored with the tip of her tongue, she tasted saltiness. Tyler's chest. Her mind cleared and she stiffened. God, he's wrapped around me like a sarong.

  "Don't panic. We've been like this for hours." His breath was warm on the top of her head, his lips feathering against her hair. "You've been snoring like a little buzz saw."

  She lifted her chin. "I don't snore."

  He laughed and rolled with her, coming up on one el­bow, his broad chest canopied over hers. "You most cer­tainly do, Miss Morgan. But it's a very appealing snore."

  Breanna swallowed and her larynx plunked in the base of her throat like a pebble hitting a
still pool of water. Every fractional inch of movement, hers or his, stimulated her nipples. The muscle in Tyler's jaw ticked. She could see it going a mile a minute in the silver moonlight, a shadow, then gone. His eyes met hers, shimmering pools of gray.

  "Feeling better?"

  "Yes," she replied in a strained whisper.

  "Is all the numbness gone?" "Yes."

  He smoothed her hair from her cheek, his touch so light, so slow that she was sure her heart stopped beating for a second. And it seemed to her that his face had drawn closer.

  "I was so scared," he whispered. "So scared. I've never felt so..." His face tightened, his gaze delving into hers. A long silence followed, wrapping around them like a warm cocoon. "Bree?”

  "Yes?"

  Gazing up at his dark countenance, at the now-familiar line of his jaw and his squared chin, Breanna knew what he was asking. Her reply was to touch his cheek, trailing her fingers to his mouth. For a long moment they looked into each other's eyes. Then he lowered his head, brushing her lips with his.

  An indescribable sweetness unfurled inside Breanna. It was too late to ask herself questions. Perhaps her narrow escape from death was making her reckless. Maybe it was waking in his arms, feeling his body pressed against hers. All she knew was that she needed him. For now, there was only the moonlight—and Tyler.

  He came to her as if in a dream. A slow, languorous dream that slowly built in intensity. Their bodies melded as if they had been made for each other. No shyness, no awk­wardness, no sense of strangeness. Only an indescribable pleasure that lifted them on its swells to higher and higher peaks. Joined with him, she felt a sense of completeness she had never experienced before.

  Afterward, he held her, stroking her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead. She relaxed against him, feeling blissfully content. The way he touched her made her feel treasured, and that, more than anything he could have said, told her that what had happened between them was as special to him as it was to her.

  He curled around her and slept, his dark face buried in the drapery of her hair upon the pillow. She ran light fingers down the length of his muscular arm. His name whispered like a lullaby in her mind until she fell asleep.