BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  He never should have brought her here.

  Mal sat on the porch, near to the place Frannie had been sitting earlier, and watched her through the kitchen window. She smiled, and danced with Robin and Lisa to an old Mellencamp cassette Robin had fetched from her car.

  He couldn't remember ever seeing a woman as openly happy as Frannie was right now. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and she was so obviously delighted by this simple, silly moment. She laughed as she twirled around Lisa, drying a plate as she went, dancing past Robin, who was standing at the sink doing her own stationary shuffle.

  Mal knew without a doubt that Frannie belonged here more than he did.

  When his father had died he'd instantly become, at the age of twelve, man of the house. The heart attack had been unexpected, taking the life of a seemingly healthy man in an instant. His mother had fallen apart, his sisters had been too young and confused to be of any help, and Mal had—in every way he knew how—taken care of them all.

  The girls had cried on his shoulder, one at a time and together. His mother had sleepwalked through the next year or so, and it had been Mal who made sure his sisters were eating, that they did their homework and got to bed on time. By the time his mother recovered it was too late. His childhood was gone, and his sense of responsibility was so deeply ingrained he was unable to let it go.

  Even now, he felt more father than brother to the girls. His heart had broken for Mindy when she'd had her miscarriage four years ago. She didn't talk about it anymore, but he knew she still felt the pain. Hell, he felt it for her. When Robin had considered marrying that lowlife longhair right out of college, it had been Mal who'd gently but firmly dissuaded her. Of course, even with his rap sheet in hand and every logical reason in the world to dump the guy, she'd ignored his advice. She'd had to find out for herself that he was an unworthy bum, and that had hurt, too.

  Illnesses, injuries, children who wouldn't behave, Mal had seen it all. Frannie saw only the good side of this family life, the fun and the laughter. She didn't know that there was sometimes heartache behind a laugh.

  Then again, maybe she did. From what she'd said after talking to her mother on the phone, it was clear that her own life growing up hadn't been any bed of roses. Her mother had dragged her from place to place, from one hell to another, and still she had this unrealistic craving for love and family, for the ideal that didn't exist. She was so naive.

  "I like her."

  He'd been staring at Frannie, and hadn't even heard his mother approaching. She plopped down beside him, her descent just a little bit slowed by age.

  "Frannie?" Who else?

  "Yes, Frannie."

  Mal could still hear the music and the occasional laughter, but he couldn't very well stare at Frannie while his mother watched. "Yeah, she's a nice girl." What every mother wanted for her son—a nice girl.

  "How long have you known her?"

  Ah, the questioning had begun. "Since Tuesday."

  His mother's smile faded and she stared at him hard, bringing her eyebrows together in a knot. "Tuesday? Goodness, Malcolm, you barely know her."

  He knew her better than anyone else. The way her mind worked, the way she laughed, the way she gave everything she had when he touched her. "I know her well enough."

  She glanced beyond him to the kitchen window, and without looking, Mal knew what she saw. An honest, smiling face, bright eyes full of hope and wonder, beauty and light. "Well, she does seem like a nice girl."

  "Trust me, she is."

  "So," she said, turning her eyes back to him. "Where did you meet her?"

  Mal hesitated. I picked her up in a bar wasn't going to do. "I met her in a little restaurant on Bank Street." It was true enough. Frannie had said herself that Benny made a mean salad.

  "Someone introduced you? A mutual friend?"

  He couldn't very well tell her to butt out. After all, he'd never brought a woman to one of these functions with him. Not even Daphne. She was entitled to be a little curious. "Yeah. Benny."

  "Do I know him? I don't remember ever hearing you mention his name before." She squinted slightly in his direction, interrogating him as surely as he interrogated his own suspects. "Is he a detective?"

  "No, Mom, you don't know him."

  She nodded her head and let the inadequate explanation go. For now. "I'm glad you have someone with you this week. I know it's been … hard."

  She'd called him at work on Tuesday afternoon, after seeing the story about the shooting on the noon news, and he'd assured her that he was fine. As a matter of fact, during that conversation he'd had to assure her at least five times that he was fine.

  He was saved from continuing the discussion when Mindy came running up, the newest addition to her family comfortably perched on her hip. "Here," she said, thrusting the baby into his arms. "Mom, I need you for just one minute."

  They scrambled off the porch, leaving Mal alone and helpless, with a baby that was not yet six months old in his hands. As soon as the women were gone, the baby started to squall.

  "Stop that," Mal ordered softly, to no avail. The kid screwed up his face and screamed louder.

  He didn't like babies, and Mindy knew it. Once a kid got to be two or three they could be fun, as long as they were someone else's.

  He heard Frannie step onto the porch through the kitchen door, knew it was her by the soft fall of her step and the hint of pink he saw out of the corner of his eye. The wind caught the skirt and lifted it gently, so that the material danced seductively around her long legs.

  "Now, this is a sight I never expected to see," she said softly. "Uncle Malcolm doing baby-sitting duty."

  He glared at her. "Do not call me Uncle Malcolm," he whispered.

  Frannie only smiled wider as she sat beside him. "Here, let me try." She took the baby from him and cradled it gently in her own arms, and almost immediately the crying stopped. It was her smile, he imagined. What kid could look at that bright smile and cry?

  He realized with a sinking heart that this picture was perfect. Frannie wanted and needed children. Dammit, that baby looked so natural, so comfortable in her arms, and Frannie's face was impossibly brighter and more attractive as she cuddled it to her chest.

  "Isn't she beautiful?" she whispered.

  "He," Mal corrected, leaning forward to take a peek at the peaceful face pressed against the pink pillow of Frannie's breast.

  "And such a happy baby," she said in a high, soft voice. Baby talk.

  "I'd be happy, too," Mal said softly, "if my nose was buried where his is."

  She glanced sideways at him, and readjusted the baby so his head was a little higher. "That's your Uncle Malcolm," she said sweetly to the child. "He's a bad, bad boy, and you don't want to grow up to be an old curmudgeon like him, no you don't."

  Mal leaned forward to look down on his newest nephew. "Don't listen to her…"

  The baby answered by reaching up and grabbing his nose. Hard. Frannie laughed, and out of the corner of his eye Mal saw an approaching brother-in-law with a damned camera that was quickly raised. He heard the snap and whir of the camera before he could disengage his nose.

  The brother-in-law in question grinned from ear to ear. "Don't worry," he said as he wandered off. "I'll have a few extra copies of this shot made."

  * * *

  It was an almost perfect ending to a perfect day. Parker had decided she was his new friend, and tagged along after her now and again. She liked all of Bridger's sisters, but Lisa and Robin were especially nice. She got to hold Mindy's baby all she wanted. It was heaven.

  If only Bridger wasn't in such a foul mood, all of a sudden. Ever since his picture had been taken, he'd been grumpy. It was as if he didn't like being caught on camera being human.

  She was holding the baby again, walking around the big house and talking the baby talk that seemed to appease him. He felt so heavy and warm and right in her arms.
She wouldn't say the words aloud to anyone, not to anyone, but she wanted one. She wanted a baby of her own one day.

  There had been a time, years ago, when she'd sworn she wouldn't have children. She'd been afraid, uncertain, sure that she'd do no better with a child than her mother had. A few years back she'd changed her mind. Babies were hope for the future, unconditional love and the greatest responsibility in life. Harry had it right—they were pure in a world that too often wasn't.

  "With my luck," she said softly to the baby in her arms, "I'll be one of the women who makes the news for being so old when I finally give birth. Very, very old," she said in a voice that nearly squeaked. "Horribly, incredibly old."

  "Who's incredibly old?"

  Her head snapped up and Bridger was there, standing right before her, looking at her with intense, tired brown eyes. How much had he heard? Not much, hopefully. "You," she answered. "Incredibly old and cranky Uncle Malcolm."

  He scowled at her, and she answered with a smile.

  "Time for us to go," he said softly. No smile, no wry remark.

  Frannie wasn't ready to go, but she had a feeling that she could stay here all night and not be ready to go. "Sure."

  Her purse and raincoat were still in his car, so she didn't have to collect anything. She did have to thank Bridger's mother and say goodbye to everyone. Robin and Lisa hugged her, and she hugged them back. Parker gave her a big hug, too, throwing his arms around her neck when she bent down to tell him goodbye.

  Katherine had to pack up lots of leftovers in plastic containers for Bridger, choosing his favorites from the huge amount of food that remained. Chicken casserole and peach cobbler and corn pudding.

  Taking their leave took a good half hour, but finally they headed for the car. Bridger's mother walked with them down the driveway, and it seemed to Frannie that she was reluctant to see her son go. He was thirty-seven years old—a cop, a tough, no-nonsense man who led a life filled with violence and death and danger—and his mother worried about him, still. The realization made Bridger much more vulnerable in Frannie's eyes.

  Katherine kissed Bridger on the cheek, handed him the brown paper bag filled with containers of leftovers and ordered him to call more often, and then she turned to Frannie.

  "You'll come to see us again?"

  She didn't know what to say. Oh, she wanted more than anything to come here again, to see everyone and hold babies and laugh and dance in the kitchen. "I'd like that."

  Katherine started to give her a hug. Her delicate arms were barely around Frannie's neck when Bridger spoke. "She's a witness, Mom."

  Katherine Gilbert drew slightly away and looked at her son. "What?"

  "Frannie's a witness," he said, throwing open the back seat door on the driver's side and setting the brown paper bag on the floor. "I've been keeping an eye on her, and today…"

  "He just brought me with him so I wouldn't get in any trouble while he was away from Decatur," Frannie finished for him, and she smiled brightly. Oh, she smiled brightly.

  Katherine was clearly confused. Damn Bridger's hide, why couldn't he keep his mouth shut!

  "Well, it was nice to meet you," Katherine finally said, offering her hand this time. "I hope everything works out all right for you." She shot Bridger a questioning glance.

  "I'm sure it will," Frannie said as she opened her own door and slipped into the car. The smile made her face hurt, and she was suddenly chilled, cold to the bone. It would soon be dark, and she supposed the sudden chill came about because the sun was gone. Once she was in her seat and had her seat belt buckled, she hugged herself, searching for warmth.

  Bridger didn't say a word as he started the car and they drove down the gravel driveway to the winding two-lane road that would take them home. It was just as well. She had nothing, nothing at all, to say to him. She stared out the window, away from him, and watched the trees fly by in a blur.

  They were well down the road before he spoke. "I had to say something," he said softly. "She was getting this look in her eyes."

  "What look?" Frannie asked without turning her head to look at him.

  "A serious, when is the wedding kinda look."

  "Oh," she said softly. She kept watching the trees fly by as the light of day faded. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

  "No."

  She was a complete and utter fool. She'd allowed herself to fall in love with a man who not only didn't want her love, he probably didn't even believe it existed. He was surrounded by love, with a family like his, and he could still deny it. Bridger didn't appreciate what he had! He was the fool.

  His headlights lit the road before them, a road they had all to themselves.

  Would he expect to sleep with her tonight? After the kiss in the car and the following necessary conversation about baseball, she had a feeling he would. All he had to do was ask, or look at her, or lay his hands on her, and she would give him anything he wanted, everything she had. Eventually she wouldn't have anything left.

  The more she loved Bridger, the harder it was going to be to let him go when this was over. And she would have to let him go when this was over.

  "I don't want you in my house tonight," she said softly.

  Eyes on the road ahead, he sighed. "I didn't mean to make you mad."

  "You didn't make me mad." She faced him at last, studying his granite features by gray light. "It's just better if we don't spend so much time together. Arrange for another bodyguard, if you still think it's necessary, or put me in a hotel somewhere until this blows over. I don't care."

  "A few more days…"

  "No."

  He took a deep breath. "Frannie, just because I told my mother that you were a witness, that doesn't mean we have to change anything."

  "This doesn't have anything to do with you telling your mother why we were together today." Not directly, anyway. "It's for the best if we just call a stop to this now."

  He shot her an angry glance. "I don't think so."

  Bridger was incredibly stubborn, and so used to having his way that he couldn't imagine anyone arguing with him, telling him that he might actually be wrong.

  Ah, but she knew him too well. She knew how to scare him off, didn't she? She knew exactly how to send Malcolm Bridger screaming into the night. All she had to do was tell him the truth.

  "I'm falling in love with you."

  The car swerved slightly, but he managed to keep the car on the road. "Frannie." His voice was tight, low and full of regret.

  "I'm not asking you to love me back," she said. Bridger kept his eyes on the curves ahead. His jaw clenched, his neck was taut with tension. "But if you continue to stay with me, we'll end up in bed again. You know it and I know it. I'll fall a little deeper every time you touch me, and you won't ever love me back."

  He took a deep breath but said nothing.

  "You're a one-night stand kinda guy, Bridger, and I'm a forever woman. Nothing good can come of this."

  * * *

  After a long and mostly quiet ride, they came upon the bright lights and traffic of Decatur.

  Frannie continued to stare out the window, silently brooding. She'd said the words on purpose, to confound him, to get back at him for telling his mother the truth before she started planning a wedding. She told him she was falling for him just to shake him up, to make sure he ran like hell when they got back to Decatur.

  It had almost worked.

  "Tomorrow I'll set something up," he said in a voice that left no room for argument. "For tonight—"

  "No."

  He only glanced at the back of Frannie's head. "Will it make you feel better if I promise not to touch you? I'll spend one more night on that damn couch."

  "No." Her voice was soft, lifeless, and still she didn't turn to face him.

  He clutched the steering wheel tight. "Dammit, Frannie, don't get unreasonable on me all of a sudden."

  Her head rotated slowly until she was staring directly at him. "Unreasonable? Unreasonable?"

&n
bsp; He kept one eye on the road and one on Frannie. Color flooded a pale face, and her eyes flashed. Anger. Good, he could handle anger.

  "I tell you I'm starting to love you and you call me unreasonable?" With one hand she swept back a strand of curling blond hair that touched her cheek.

  His mother's words came back to him. "You barely know me. How can you possibly think you…" The words caught in his throat, and the argument remained unfinished.

  "Love you," she said softly. "You can't even say it, can you?"

  He kept both eyes straight ahead. They were almost to the turnoff for Oak Street

  . Hell, maybe he should arrange for a policewoman to spend the night with Frannie. Let someone else watch over her, someone who wasn't treading in dangerous territory. Someone else, starting tonight.

  He pulled up to the curb. Frannie unbuckled her belt and reached beneath her seat for her small purse. She took out her keys without so much as glancing in his direction, and threw her door open.

  "Good night, Bridger," she said as she stepped out of the car.

  He threw his door open and stepped onto the street, ready to follow her no matter how much she protested. She wasn't safe, not yet. "Frannie, dammit—"

  "Put a patrol car in the driveway, if you want, but I don't want anyone in my house tonight." She slipped her key into the lock. "Especially not you." She turned the key and pushed the door open. He watched as she tossed her purse onto the sofa.

  Dammit, she was not going to run him off, not like this and not because she imagined herself in love with him.

  His weapon. A hand fell instinctively to his belt. "Hell." He wasn't going to watch over Frannie unarmed. Impatiently he turned back to the car to fetch the gun from the glove compartment.

  "And another thing," her angry voice called. He turned to see Frannie step through the open door, watched as she stormed down the steps toward him, her stride powerful and quick. There was anger in every step. "Why did you have to tell your mother as we were leaving that I was a witness? I swear, Bridger, you must have a black hole where your heart is supposed to be."