BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  It was reckless, he knew, foolish and weak and unlike him. But the full knowledge of his failings didn't make him want her any less.

  * * *

  Frannie slithered carefully from the bed in the early morning hours, finding Bridger's shirt on the floor and slipping it on as she made her way to the doorway. Before she entered the hall she glanced back once and smiled at the sight of Bridger's peaceful face.

  He did care for her. Maybe he didn't know it yet, maybe he was trying to convince himself that he didn't feel so much, but he did. He couldn't have loved her so completely last night if he didn't.

  Her smile faded as she made her way down the hallway to the kitchen. Was she thinking like her mother? The idea scared her, as much as losing the home she'd fought so hard to make for herself scared her. Had Lois convinced herself that she loved each and every one of those men she lived with or married, and that they would come to love her, too? Had she convinced herself that she could love enough for both of them?

  It was a thought that made Frannie shiver as she searched the cabinets for coffee. There was a coffeemaker on the counter, so there had to be coffee.

  "Cabinet beside the sink."

  She snapped her head around and, in spite of her sobering thoughts, managed to grin at the sight before her. Bridger was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing green silk boxers and a day's growth of beard and looking absolutely, positively adorable. Adorably masculine, hard and relentless and rugged.

  "Has anyone ever told you that you look adorable in the morning?"

  "Not since I was five," he muttered.

  "I tried to be quiet," she said as she opened the cabinet and reached up for the can of coffee. "I didn't want to wake you."

  When she glanced over her shoulder she saw that he hadn't moved. Tense and silent, he leaned against the door frame. He stared at her hard, without a hint of a smile on his lips or in his eyes.

  "So," she said casually, giving her attention to the task of making coffee. "What do we do today?"

  "I go to work."

  "I'll call Darlene and see if I can hang out at her place today." She tried to make her voice cheerful. "Maybe Newton will have my car ready, and I can go to the bank and take some money out of savings." Her hand trembled as she measured out the ground coffee beans. "I'll need new clothes, a purse, makeup…" Her hand shook harder. Everything. She needed everything.

  His steady hand snaked past her shoulder and covered hers. Dammit, she hadn't even heard him coming, sneaking up behind her like a cat. But, oh, she was glad to have him close.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't…"

  "You have every right to shake a little." His voice was soothing, deep and smooth and Southern. He took the coffee and finished the chore she'd started, and as the coffee-maker gurgled he pinned her against the counter and placed his hand beneath her chin, lifting it to force her to look into his eyes.

  "You're not going anywhere today." It was a soft, sure command. "I've got a steel door and the best deadlock money can buy, and I haven't told anyone you're here. You're going to stay right here until I get home, and then I'll take you anywhere you need to go."

  "I can't just…"

  "Yes, you can."

  She wished he would kiss her, but he didn't look as if that were his intention. He was solid as a rock, motionless, emotionless.

  "Frannie," he whispered. "The explosion wasn't an accident. You know that, don't you?"

  She trembled again. "It might have been a gas leak."

  "There was no gas leak." The words were cruel, and she didn't want to hear them, but the voice was soothing. Loving. It made the truth easier to take.

  "Someone tried to kill me."

  He nodded once.

  "Someone tried to kill us." He was in danger because he was protecting her. Why had she never seen that before? "Oh, Bridger. You could've been killed, and it would've been all my fault. Your mother would never forgive me."

  She was perfectly serious, but he smiled as if he found her worries amusing.

  "I don't know why you're smiling now," she said, frustrated. "I swear, you are the most perverse man I've ever met."

  "Am I?" He actually began to move forward, slightly, his mouth headed toward hers, but at the last minute he broke away and turned his back on her.

  "Yes!" she said to his back, which she noticed was quite finely shaped and muscled. She'd touched it, but she hadn't really studied it until this moment. Was there anything about the man that was less than perfect? "You are incredibly perverse."

  He was entering the hallway when he answered. "Frannie?"

  "Yes?"

  "You look damn good in that shirt." He sounded as if the admission pained him, and Frannie's smile crept back.

  * * *

  The explosion had been just the beginning. By the time Mal arrived at the police station, the place was in a state of controlled chaos. Harry pulled him aside as he came through the door and gave him the news.

  Violet Doyle, the old lady who was half of the management team of the Riverwatch Hotel, the one who had said Miranda Fossett had been seen weeks earlier with a man who looked like Tyrone Power from a certain angle, was dead. She'd been hit by a car in the early morning hours. Hit-and-run.

  Overnight there'd been a grisly murder at a tattoo parlor in Huntsville. They didn't have the proof yet, but Harry and Mal were both sure the victim was the man who'd given Miranda and her gentleman friend tattoos.

  Everyone who'd seen the suspect was dead. All their possible witnesses were dead. All but Frannie.

  He'd left her this morning with strict instructions to bolt the door and not open it or answer to anyone but him. She'd been ordered to look at the caller ID if the phone rang, and to answer only if the number that came up was his cell phone number or this office.

  She would do as he asked. He'd made her promise, and Frannie wasn't the kind of woman to break a promise. Since no one knew where she was, no one but him … and anyone who had watched them drive away from her burning house last night…

  Mal picked up the phone and dialed home. "Come on," he whispered when Frannie didn't pick up on the first ring. He didn't breathe again until she picked up, after the third ring.

  "Hello?"

  He breathed deep, once.

  "What is this?" she asked, and he could hear the teasing note in her voice. "A heavy breather at the Decatur Police Department?"

  He couldn't tell her what had happened, not over the phone. She didn't need to be frightened any more than she already was. "Just checking in," he said, keeping his voice calm. "You checked the caller ID before you picked up?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And remember, you promised you wouldn't open the door to anyone but me."

  "Scout's honor."

  He wondered if she was still wearing his shirt. With no effort at all he could close his eyes and see her, long legs peeking out from beneath that white shirt, thighs exposed by the vents on the sides, throat framed by a sharp and precise vee. When she'd reached for the coffee this morning it had ridden high, teasing him with the promise of what he might see if she reached a little higher.

  "Bridger? You still there?"

  "Yeah." He pulled himself to the present. "Listen, I'm going to try to take off early, so be looking for me this afternoon."

  "Sure."

  "And Frannie? Don't answer the door to anybody, you got me?"

  "Yes, sir," she said again, with mock severity.

  He didn't realize Harry was standing behind him until he hung up the phone and swiveled around. Harry looked every one of his forty-nine years today.

  "Is she all right?"

  Mal nodded. "I don't want anyone to know where she is. For now, we keep this between the two of us." He didn't really believe she was safe in his apartment, not safe enough. But until he was able to make other arrangements it just might do.

  "Sure." Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. "Have you two figured out what this guy's looking for?"

>   Mal leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "If Miranda Fossett gave Frannie anything before she died, it's a mystery. And ash, now," he added, remembering the flames that had licked at Frannie's small house. "I think maybe Miranda told the killer she'd passed something to Frannie, hoping to buy time. The lie could end up…" Costing Frannie her life. He couldn't say it aloud.

  "Yeah," Harry said, understanding. "What now?"

  "You talk to Loudermilk and Clarence Doyle. Find out what they were up to yesterday and where they were this morning when Mrs. Doyle was hit." He wanted to talk to them himself, but not yet. He was still too angry. "I'm going to check out the fire scene. I imagine the investigators are there already?"

  Harry nodded and turned around, and almost ran Jerry Kruse over.

  "Hey," Jerry said, glancing past Harry to Mal. "I heard about your friend's house. Is she okay?"

  Mal tried not to glare at the man who'd had the gall to ask Frannie out on a date. Just because he'd told the kid there was nothing between them, just because he'd said they were just friends, that didn't give the kid the right to hit on her. "She's fine," he said without emotion.

  "Well, I'm here if she needs anything…" Kruse began.

  This time Mal didn't bother to squelch the glare, and Kruse said nothing more.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Mal stepped under the crime scene tape that encircled Frannie's property. What was left of her house sat in the center of it all. The smoldering, blackened sight sickened him, and he swore then and there that Frannie would not see this. She'd been through enough.

  The arson investigator, veteran Mike Marchand, was furiously taking notes, but he lifted his head as Mal approached.

  "You don't see something like this every day," Mike said with a wide smile that revealed how much he loved his job.

  Mal couldn't make himself smile back. He'd seen this house intact, had slept in it, had slept with Frannie in it, and he could see nothing to smile about. "Something like what?"

  Mike fairly shook with excitement as he pointed at what remained of the house. "Man, I can't believe anybody walked away from this. The way it was set up, the attention to detail, it's quite extraordinary."

  Mal did his best to contain his anger. "Well, when we catch the guy you can write him a fan letter."

  Mike shot a sharp glance at Mal, and his smile died. "Straight to business then. There was a tilt detonator on the doorknob, with a delay of several seconds. That way the person walking into the house doesn't get thrown clear. He's inside with the door closed when the bomb goes off." He pointed to the place where the front door had been. "It was set so that the force of the blow was concentrated inward, and there were secondary charges at the kitchen door and every window. It was definitely a high-order explosion."

  "No one was supposed to get out," Mal said softly.

  "No way. This place was a death trap."

  Mal stared at the charred remains of Frannie's home for a long, silent moment. They could have been in there, and from what Mike told him there wouldn't have been a hell of a lot he could have done. If he and Frannie hadn't argued, if he hadn't gone back for the weapon he'd left in the glove compartment, if she hadn't come storming back out into the night to tell him that he had a black hole where his heart was supposed to be, they'd be as charred and lifeless as this house.

  He wasn't afraid of death. It was inevitable, it came to everyone, and in his business he saw the harsh realities of life and death every day.

  But Frannie didn't deserve this. She was worried about him, about him, apologizing for putting his life in danger and afraid that his mother would never forgive her.

  The truth of the matter was, if he hadn't taken her to the Riverwatch Hotel the night they met she wouldn't be in this mess. She'd be safe and sound in this very house. She probably would have taken her job back, when Reese offered it. She'd be content and safe. He knew her well enough to know that those securities were important to her.

  "Any way to tell who did this?"

  Mike shook his head. "I've never seen anything quite like it. It reminds me a little of the bombing at the courthouse last year, but until we do more tests…"

  "The Decatur Legion for Liberty bombing?"

  Mike nodded once, and looked at the burned building with an expression that spoke clearly of awe and respect and revulsion. "Maybe."

  * * *

  Frannie was straightening up Bridger's living room, dusting halfheartedly and straightening the pillows on his couch, when the pounding knock sounded on the door. It didn't stop, but went on and on. She glanced at the clock on the end table. It wasn't yet twelve o'clock, and Bridger had said he wouldn't be back until afternoon.

  "Frannie?" he shouted through the door.

  She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his familiar voice. She practically ran to the door to release the dead bolt.

  He closed the door behind him and locked it. "You okay?" he asked. His voice was calm but there was something in his eyes she didn't like. Not fear, but uncertainty. Oh, this was not good. Bridger was always very certain of himself.

  "I'm fine," she assured him.

  "Any phone calls?"

  She smiled softly. "Just one obscene phone call from the police department. A heavy breather."

  He glanced at her but didn't smile at her joke.

  "What's wrong?" she whispered, walking toward him. She never knew what to expect from Bridger. He might walk away before she reached him. Then again he might meet her halfway and greet her with a kiss that sent her insides whirling.

  He did neither. He stood stock-still as she approached. When she stood in front of him, close but not too close, he reached out and gently touched the collar of her pink dress, slipping his finger beneath the pale fabric. That finger barely brushed her skin.

  "It was a bomb, Frannie," he said, watching the lazy progress of his finger instead of looking her in the eye.

  "You suspected as much."

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, calming himself, perhaps. "This may be much more than a mugging that got ugly or one of Miranda Fossett's ex-boyfriends who got angry and lost control. Whatever the killer thinks she passed to you, he wants it bad or he wants it gone. That's why he destroyed your house and everything in it."

  She reached out and grabbed the striped tie that hung before her face.

  "The old woman at the Riverwatch hotel," he said, as the back of his hand brushed high on her chest. "She's dead. It was a hit-and-run."

  Frannie's heart leaped into her throat. "It might have been an accident." She didn't believe it, even as the words left her mouth.

  Bridger didn't believe it, either. He was shaking his head. "That's not all. A tattoo artist in Huntsville was murdered last night."

  "Could be coincidence," she said softly, not believing it any more than Bridger did.

  He shook his head again. "If we'd been in the house last night when it blew up, there wouldn't be anyone connected with this case left."

  Frannie hung on to Bridger's tie still, but she laid her head against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. "What do we do now?"

  "I don't know," he whispered.

  Now she understood the odd expression on his face as he'd come in the door. "You're worried, aren't you? You're worried about me."

  "Yes."

  "And you don't like it one bit." She tilted her head back so she could see his face as she asked this question, though she expected Bridger would be painfully honest with her. He had been from the day they met, she'd give him that. Even when a lie would have been easier, he stuck with the truth.

  "No, I don't."

  She released his tie and tried to move away, but he continued to hold her tight.

  The last thing he needed or wanted was a woman to worry about. No wonder he preferred one-night stands. Love 'em and leave 'em. One woman was just like another in the dark, to a man who not only didn't believe in love,
but didn't want to believe in love. Bridger didn't want to worry. He didn't want to care.

  "Maybe I should go away," she suggested.

  "Maybe."

  Her heart constricted, and a chill shot through her veins. "I could take my money out of the bank, get my car from Newton and hit the road." She smiled, but it was an effort. "My house is gone, my job is gone, I have nothing to keep me here." Do I?

  He rumbled something that might have been a reluctant agreement.

  "Surely whoever's doing this won't try to follow me, and if he does, well, maybe he won't find me." She tried to sound confident, but she wasn't. If she ran she would be just like her mother, fleeing from every mistake, from every problem as if there were an answer somewhere down the road.

  "Maybe," Bridger muttered. And then his eyes locked to hers. She saw so much there—a longing, an anger, a flash of pain. "Maybe not. It's a chance I can't take."

  Poor Bridger, he'd never wanted to be involved, to be worried, to be her knight in shining armor. If she left Decatur and disappeared, it might be best for both of them. "It's not your chance to take," she whispered. "It's mine."

  * * *

  He hadn't seen this side of Frannie before, and it irritated the hell out of him.

  Mal stuck close to her side as they maneuvered through the aisles of Wal-Mart. The buggy was half full, with casual clothes, cosmetics, toiletries, cheap tennis shoes and a few pairs of socks. And a suitcase. Not a big suitcase, but a soft tote bag sizable enough to carry her purchases.

  Stubborn. He'd had no idea she could be so damned stubborn. Dismissing the obvious threat to her life, she'd threatened to call a cab if he wouldn't take her to her bank and then shopping.

  And she kept talking about leaving as if it were actually a viable option. As if he would let her leave.

  The other shoppers didn't appear to be threatening, but Mal kept his eyes peeled for trouble. Most of the members of the Decatur Legion for Liberty had never been identified. After Jacob Fossett's death they'd faded into the woodwork, becoming quiet once again, but they were still out there. Anyone they passed, any normal-looking person…