“I said Crystal Hodge listed you as the father on her daughter’s birth certificate.”
Everything in Caz froze.
“¿Perdóname? Daughter?”
“Yes, Crystal had a daughter. Regan Ramirez.”
“That isn’t possible. I never—I always use protection.”
As a health professional, he’d heard that protest before and said exactly what Mrs. Townsend now stated, “Mr. Ramirez, we all know that no birth control method is one hundred percent effective.”
“This Crystal Hodge thinks it’s a good time to tell me this now?” How old would this so-called daughter be? Panic welled up inside him. A child? Caz rose to his feet. “I want to talk with her.”
“She’s dead, Mr. Ramirez. Apparently, she believed you’d been killed in combat, which was why you weren’t told.” Mrs. Townsend sighed. “From what I can piece together, when she became persistent in trying to find you, someone in the Special Forces offices gave her the impression you’d been killed in action. A military friend of mine says you might have been in a covert operation where your bosses might have discouraged a woman from raising a stink.”
Dios. Caz rubbed his neck, trying to think.
After Carmen died, he’d buried himself in a bottle first, then pulled himself together enough to seek vengeance instead. Black ops. Assassinations. “No, she wouldn’t have been allowed to contact me. Not back then,” he admitted. It’d taken a while to realize that more deaths wouldn’t bring Carmen back, wouldn’t heal the hole in his heart. More blood wasn’t an answer to anything.
He met his brother’s gaze. With Gabe’s dislike of secrets, he’d wormed the story out of Caz a few years ago. “A daughter?”
Caz ignored him and said into the phone, “Crystal thought I was the father?” During that drunken time, he’d been with…honestly, he had no idea how many women. They’d been tag chasers—women targeting military guys for sex.
“Yes. Enough to put you down on the birth certificate.” Mrs. Townsend sighed. “I’d suggest a paternity test.”
“Sí, that would be the first step.” Caz stared at the table. As the trap closed around him, anger flared. “Even so, I…I cannot…will not…have a daughter. It is impossible.”
He rose and strode out of the roadhouse.
After Caz left, JJ talked for a while with Gabe and Audrey about the problems in Rescue. Then they’d taken her around the bar to introduce her to more of the town residents. She ended up in a great discussion of cozy mysteries. Denise, a schoolteacher, and Regina, the municipal building’s receptionist preferred the classics like Miss Marple. JJ and the postmaster, Irene, a dour woman in her 60s, liked animal-centered mysteries. Who wouldn’t like Yum Yum and Koko?
Alcohol and books. She stayed longer than she should’ve. Way longer.
Finally, she headed out and…dammit. Hours ago, she’d needed to clear her head and had walked to the roadhouse from the station. And now, she had to hike back downtown to get her car.
Way to think ahead, JJ. Not.
At least it wasn’t raining. When she reached the intersection of Grebe and Main, she paused. A red GMC pickup was parked in front of the municipal building. Problems?
As she headed over, Bull was getting out of the vehicle. One of the most easy-going people she’d ever met, he had a frown on his face.
“What’s wrong, Bull?”
He nodded toward the municipal building. “Gabe called to tell me about the news—and that Caz isn’t at the Hermitage. Then Dante called to say the clinic lights are on.”
JJ looked at the building. The lights in the right side. The clinic was closed. “Cazador didn’t take the news well.”
“Seems not. I figured I’d better check on him.”
“Don’t you have to close down the roadhouse?”
“Brothers come first.” His resolute tone said this was a life principle that was buried deep.
Before she could respond, his cell rang. “Yo.”
Felix’s voice came over the cell: “Bull, those two big hunters—they won’t leave. They say Alaska bars stay open all night.”
“Fuck.” Bull eyed the municipal building.
The roadhouse owner was a good guy. “Tell you what—I’ll check on your brother. You go take care of your roadhouse. Felix shouldn’t have to be a bouncer.”
He eyed her. “True enough. You sure you’re up to Caz in a bad mood—possibly drunk?”
“Seriously?” She laughed. Gabe would be tough to handle in a fight, Bull impossible. But Cazador wasn’t huge. He didn’t exude ready-to-brawl vibes like Gabe. “I think I can handle the doc.”
Bull lifted an eyebrow the way her karate instructor had when she’d flubbed a block. “I better take this. You can help out at the roadhouse.”
“I’m missing something, aren’t I?” She thought back to what she’d heard of the conversation in the roadhouse. The social worker had been speaking loudly enough for them all to hear.
Caz didn’t seem all that dangerous, but…duh, a medical practitioner would probably strive to appear harmless. “He was in Special Forces, I got that.” The US Army Special Forces had once been called Green Berets. “The social worker said something about covert operations?”
Maybe he was more lethal than he seemed.
“Yeah. He spent a year as an assass—” Bull stopped. Eyed her. “I mean, he was sent after high-value targets.”
Sent after as in killed? An assassin? Her jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
Bull’s flat expression said not.
Ooookay. So much for thinking the doc was a nice, sweet guy. Then again, he’d already shaken his “nice” impression with the way he reacted to having a daughter. She’d expected surprise, then joy. Something other than complete dismay.
Whatever he was, she could deal with him. JJ crossed her arms over her chest. “Bull, I’ve got this. Go, deal with your drunks. I’ll handle the grumpy doc.”
Once inside the municipal building, she used her master key on the clinic door and walked in. And stopped.
Thudding sounds came from a room past the front office. She headed toward the noise. What was he doing—kicking a chair?
No. He was throwing knives.
She stood, frozen, in the doorway of the office. Talk about lethal.
He even looked lethal. Dark hair, dark eyes, black clothing. He was spitting a stream of curses in Spanish. After taking a gulp from a bottle of clear liquid, he picked up a black knife from a stack on the desk and threw without aiming. The blade struck a bulletin board on the other side of the long room. The rest of the knives followed, thump, thump, thump, thump, to create a perfectly round circle on the board.
He crossed the room. She’d noticed his walk before, as perfectly balanced as a leopard, but…she hadn’t realized he also moved in complete silence.
After removing the knives from the board, he turned to look at her, his expression cold. The laughter that usually lurked in his eyes was gone—and she missed it.
“Cazador.”
“I am not good company tonight, señorita. Another time, perhaps.” Polite. Dismissive.
She entered the room and tried to ignore the knives he dumped onto the desk. They looked very sharp. “Are you upset about your daughter?”
Duh. But she had to start the conversation somewhere.
His mouth set into a line. “I cannot care for a daughter.”
What was she missing here, dammit? “You make enough money. You can—”
He waved his hand. “Money is nothing. She can have everything I own. If I’d known, I could have helped before.”
“If it’s not money, why are you so upset?”
“I do not want to… This is impossible. No!” And he forcefully shoved the knives off the desk.
JJ jumped at the loud clatter. “Caz.”
“I will not care for her. I will not.”
Care. He didn’t mean physically caring for a child, but rejected loving the girl. “You love your broth
ers. Why not a child? A little girl who needs you.”
“No.” The stream of Spanish was too fast to follow. “Mi hermanos can protect themselves. A child, she cannot. I can’t protect the women, the children.”
His statement was simply not true. From what Bull had said, from what she’d just seen, the doc was as deadly as his brothers were. Maybe more so.
Why was there such pain in his voice, in his eyes?
Taking his hand, she drew him over to the chairs against the wall and down to sit beside her. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need—”
“Who died?” It was a guess, but such anger spoke of trauma.
His expression darkened.
“Caz. Talk to me.” She squeezed his hand.
His slow sigh spoke of surrender. “My mother and sister.” He shook his head. “I should have been faster. Better. But the man shot before I could save them.”
Shot? He’d seen his mom and sister murdered? The thought stabbed her heart. When had they died? Mako had gotten the boys from a foster home, right? “How old were you?”
* * *
Caz felt his muscles tense at the question. JJ’s hand was around his, her warmth seeping into his cold fingers. Sympathy shone in her eyes. “I was seven.”
“Seven.” She huffed like an annoyed brown bear. “Doc, you were too young to do anything. You know that.”
That’s what Mako had said. It didn’t matter. Caz had been the man of the house. And years later, when he saw Carmen’s body… He rubbed his aching head. The pain wasn’t from the alcohol, but from the past.
Where were the words to make her understand why he couldn’t have a daughter? “I didn’t save them, and then, when I was a man, my Carmen died. I didn’t go with her. I was setting up for a mission, but I should have been there to protect her. Should have…”
His heart squeezed.
JJ’s quiet, level voice broke into his misery. “How did she die?”
He slumped, leaning his head back against the hard wall. How many walls had he punched after they’d told him? After he’d gone to the base hospital and seen the horror of the savage wounds. “An RPG struck her vehicle. In Afghanistan.”
“You were in the military together?”
“Sí. She was regular Army. I was Special Forces.” Carmen had teased him about being a Green Beret meat-eater. “We were to marry the next month.”
Tears filled JJ’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how that must have hurt.”
It had. The emotions had been overwhelming—pain, fury, helplessness. Guilt that he hadn’t been with her to keep her safe. He’d tried everything to bury his feelings.
Releasing JJ’s hand, he scrubbed his face with his palms. “Back in the States, I went crazy, tried to find the bottom of a bottle. That was when…”
She took his hand again, as if to keep him safely moored. “When you might have made a baby?”
“I can’t remember her—Crystal. Dios, I could see this child who they say is mine, and I wouldn’t even know her.”
Did he really have a daughter he’d never met? What had she looked like as a baby? A toddler? If he’d been with Crystal a decade ago…and if he added in nine months of gestation, then the girl would be nine or ten.
The social worker had sent him information and pictures of…Regan. His daughter. No, no he couldn’t have a daughter.
“The social worker thought Crystal couldn’t find you because you went into something covert?”
He grunted. “I pulled myself out of the bottle and went looking for vengeance instead.” He moved his chair away from her. She was a good woman; he was a killer. “The insurgents had been targeting the base with RPGs, IEDs, even suicide bombs. But they were just stupid peons following orders. I wanted the leaders to pay for Carmen. An SF officer heard me ranting—and I got recruited.”
“Into going after the insurgent higher-ups and killing them?”
He nodded.
The memories of that year had never left him. The ghastly feel of his knife penetrating skin and cartilage. The stench of loosened bowels. The shudder and spasm and last heaving breath, even after the spirit had fled.
The first few kills had held a gruesome satisfaction. The bastards were paying for Carmen’s death. Then…
“It didn’t take long before I knew I’d made a mistake. Nothing I did would bring Carmen back. With each death, I lost a part of my soul. If I’d continued, there would not be a me any longer.”
“Ah.” She took his hands between hers, and he almost pulled away. His hands were drenched in blood. But, no, that was just another of those images that would impose itself on reality, a ghost photo from the past.
“So, you went from being an assassin to being a medic?”
He shrugged. “It does sound odd, doesn’t it? But a…friend…knew I’d planned to be a medic before. He pushed me into returning to that plan.”
“You’re doing good here. It’s where you belong.”
Simple words. Ones that affirmed how he felt. Pulled him back to being…rational. How long had he been here in the clinic, raging against risking his heart again? Throwing knives at fate?
“What are you going to do about your daughter?”
“That is the question, no?” Caz glanced at the papers he’d printed from the documents Mrs. Townsend had emailed. “If the paternity test is positive, then…” Yet he knew the child was his.
He rose and handed JJ the girl’s photo. Thick dark hair, eyes the same shape and color as his. His chin and cheekbones in a delicate, feminine face.
JJ ran her finger over the surface of the picture. The lips that matched his own. “She’s like a mini-you.”
Looking at the photo, he knew he was doomed. The girl’s eyes held pain. Grief. Loss. The stubborn jut of the jaw was his when he was fighting back emotion. She was like him in more than appearance.
Even if she wasn’t his, he’d want to help her. To see what he could do. “I fly out early tomorrow and will work on finding her the place that will be best for her.”
“With her father, surely?”
His memory persisted in pulling up the past: Mamá’s sightless eyes. His little sister’s screams. Carmen’s bloody, torn body.
His own death didn’t worry him, but he couldn’t bear to lose someone so vulnerable and innocent. Not again.
Nonetheless, this was his duty. His shoulders straightened as he accepted the responsibility. “Perhaps. Probably.” It appeared that young Regan had no one else. Tomorrow or the next day, he would meet her.
After glancing at the wall clock, he frowned. “What are you doing here, Officer? It is very late.”
“Bull was going to check on you, but he got dragged back to the roadhouse to kick out some obstinate drunks. I came instead.”
“Ah. I do appreciate it.” He studied her. Still in the black jeans and boots she wore for her cop duty. Short hair braided back tightly. But the sweater she wore was the blue-green of her beautiful eyes and looked soft. Touchable.
“Since you are off-duty, would you like a drink?” He motioned to the mescal.
“Sure, why not.” Before he could move, she rose and fetched the bottle.
He tried not to notice how the jeans curved over her ass, how the sweater rounded over her small breasts. She was a friend. A friend.
Bottle in hand, she dropped down beside Caz and took a hefty slug. Blinked. “That’s not scotch.” She examined the bottle, mispronouncing, “El Jolgorio Tepeztate. It’s not bad, whatever it is.”
“Mescal.” She did amuse him. “It’s like tequila, only better.”
To be sociable, he accepted the bottle but only sipped. Although he’d burned off much of the alcohol in his anger and blade tossing, the buzz still hummed in his bloodstream. “I’m sorry I have no glasses or mix.”
“I can handle shots.” After another swallow, she shrugged. “It was one of the things I learned how to do when I was trying to fit in. To be one of the guys i
n Nevada.”
They drank for a while in companionable silence, passing the bottle back and forth. The comforting sounds wrapped around Caz. The hum of the equipment and florescent lights. The occasional car on Main Street.
The knot in his gut started to unwind.
Looking over, he could see a flush rising in JJ’s cheeks and how her muscles were relaxing. He had to appreciate how she’d joined him. Hadn’t made a fuss over drinking from the bottle or drinking undiluted mescal. She was damned amazing. “What other things did you do to be one of the guys?”
A corner of her mouth tipped up. “I took martial arts classes, went to the shooting range, ran, and lifted weights.”
“That is a lot of work.” He tilted his head. People said he was good with women, and occasionally, he thought he understood them. Mostly, he admitted, he didn’t have a clue. “Why?”
Her gaze dropped.
Cupping her cheek, he turned her head toward him. “I do not try to make you embarrassed, chiquita, but to hear why you went into such a rough profession. Why?”
“It’s foolish. I wanted to save lives. Protect people. Be a hero.”
If she were his, he’d memorize lines just to make her turn the pretty color of red that was now flooding her cheeks.
“Not foolish. You are much like Gabe, and to be in law enforcement—to be good at it—that’s a calling, not just a job. ”
She nodded—and smiled at him.
He’d noticed she didn’t smile often, didn’t laugh often, or perhaps it was just when he was around that she was subdued. The thought was annoying, saddening. Because she was something special. Her sense of compassion had brought her in here to talk with him, despite him throwing knives. She’d held his hand. Had grieved with him. She’d been drawn to police work by her need to help. To protect. He had the same sense of duty.
They were much alike, weren’t they?
Unfortunately for him, she was also female. Chemistry and attraction couldn’t be reasoned with…and Dios, he’d tried.
“Well.” She rose. “If you’re all right, I need to get home. You should go home, too.”
Lethal Balance: Sons of the Survivalist: 2 Page 9