by Nora Roberts
She tilted her head. “Considering I used to look like a scarecrow with an overbite, that’s not saying much.”
“I can probably do better once that painkiller kicks in.”
“Okay. For now, why don’t I run over to the pharmacy and get you some first aid cream?”
“I’ll settle for the brownie.”
He closed his eyes for a moment as he listened to her moving around the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, the sound of liquid hitting glass, the muted music from the radio in the garage. He’d never gone in for classical, but it sounded pretty good just then. When she set the dishes and glasses on the table and took the seat across from him, he opened his eyes again. He could see patience, understanding, and the offer of a shoulder to lean on. It was so easy to open the wound.
“Christ, Slim, I wanted to kill him,” Cam said quietly. There was a look in his eyes, a dark and dangerous look that contrasted with the calm control of his voice. “He was drunk and mean and looking at me the same way he looked at me when I was ten and couldn’t fight back. And I wanted to kill him more than I ever wanted anything. What kind of cop does that make me?”
“A human one.” She hesitated, pressing her lips together. “Cam, I used to hear my parents talking about—well, about your situation at home. Why didn’t anyone ever do anything?”
“People don’t like to interfere—especially in domestic problems. And my mother always backed him up. She still does. She’ll post his bail as soon as it’s set and take him home. Nothing he does will ever convince her that he’s a worthless drunk. I used to wish he’d empty a bottle and kill himself.” He cursed under his breath, thinking of Clare’s father, knowing from the expression on her face that she was thinking of him as well. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. I guess we both have firsthand experience of how destructive alcoholism can be. But Dad—he never hurt anyone when he was drinking. Except himself.” She made the effort to shake off the mood. “You must be feeling pretty raw today. I can take a rain check on the ride.”
“I am feeling raw.” He flexed his stiff hands. “And I could use some company—if you can stand it.”
She smiled and stood. “Let me get a jacket.”
When she returned, Cam reminded her to turn off the radio—then reminded her to close the garage door. With her thumbs hooked in her pockets, she studied the motorcycle parked beside her car. It was big and brawny, a spartan black and silver without any fancy work. A machine, she thought with approval as she circled it. Not a toy.
“This is the real thing.” She ran a respectful hand over the engine. With her tongue in her cheek, she picked up the helmet he’d set on the back as he unstrapped the spare. “Rafferty, you’ve mellowed.”
As she laughed, he dropped the spare helmet over her head and fastened the strap. She slipped on the bike behind him, hooking her arms comfortably around his waist when he gunned the engine. Neither of them noticed the glint of the telescopic lens from the high window across the street when they swung out of the drive and cruised away.
She kept her hands loose and her head back. Years before, she had spent a spring and summer in Paris harmlessly in love with another art student. He’d been sweet and dreamy and broke. Together they had rented a motorbike and spent a weekend puttering through the streets.
Then she laughed at her own memory. This was nothing like that gentle interlude. Her young lover’s body had been frail—nothing like the hard solid length she pressed against now.
Cam leaned into a turn, and she felt her heart race. A good burst of feeling, like the steady vibration of the bike beneath her. She could smell fumes rising from the muffler, grass newly mown, the leather of Cam’s jacket, and the deeper, more secretive scent of his skin.
He liked the feel of her behind him, the unabashedly sexual sensation of her thighs spread and molded to his with the steady rhythm of the engine beneath them. Her hands rested lightly on his hips or crept more securely around his waist when he eased into a turn. On impulse he turned off the highway down a narrow, winding road. They swayed like dancers beneath an arch of trees. Shadow and light threw dizzy patterns on the asphalt. The air held the cool, fragrant breath of spring.
They stopped at a roadside store and bought icy soft drinks and huge cold-cut subs. With the picnic secured in the saddlebags, they drove farther into the woods to where a stream curved and widened.
“This is great.” Clare took off the helmet and pulled a hand through her hair. Then she laughed and turned to Cam. “I don’t even know where I am.”
“We’re only about ten miles north of town.”
“But we’ve been riding for hours.”
“I circled around.” He took the bags of food and passed her one. “You were too busy singing to notice.”
“The only trouble with a motorcycle is there’s no radio to blast.” She walked to the edge of the mossy bank where the stream was gurgling and tumbling over rocks. Overhead the leaves were still young and tender. Mountain laurel and wild dogwoods were bursts of white.
“I used to bring girls up here all the time,” Cam said from behind her. “To fool around.”
“Really?” She turned, smiling, and there was speculation in her eyes. He looked like a boxer who had gone the distance. Though she wasn’t fond of blood sports, the analogy was appealing just then, and just there. “Is that still your standard operating procedure?” Tempted and curious, she leaned toward him. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, look at that!” Clare shoved the bag of sandwiches at him and took off running.
By the time he caught her, she was standing in front of a huge old tree, her hands steepled at her lips, her eyes worshipful. “Do you believe it?” she whispered.
“I believe you took ten years off my life.” He scowled at the old, misshapen tree. “What the hell got into you?”
“It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I’ve got to have it.”
“Have what?”
“The burl.” She reached up, rose to her toes, but her fingertips were still several inches short of the swollen ring of wood and bark that marred the oak. “I’ve searched for hours and never found one this good. For carving,” she said when she dropped down to her flat feet. “The burl is scar tissue. When a tree is injured, it heals over, just like flesh.”
“I know what a burl is, Slim.”
“But this one is spectacular. I’d sell my soul for it.” A calculating look came into her eyes, one that only appeared when she was preparing to haggle for material. “I’ve got to find out who owns this property.”
“The mayor.”
“Mayor Atherton owns land way out here?”
“He bought up several plots about ten, fifteen years ago when it was cheap. He owns about forty acres along here. If you want the tree, you’d probably only have to promise him your vote. That is, if you’re staying.”
“I’d promise him anything.” She circled the tree, already considering it hers. “It must have been fate, your bringing me here.”
“And I thought it was just so we could fool around.”
She laughed, then eyed the bags he still carried. “Let’s eat.”
They settled on the ground near the stream where she had a good view of the tree, unwrapping the sandwiches and chips. Occasionally a car cruised by on the road, but for the most part there was silence.
“I’ve missed this,” Clare said after she settled back agai!!!!!!!nst a rock. “The quiet.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Partly.” She watched as he reached in the bag for a chip. He had beautiful hands, she realized, despite the raw and bruised knuckles. She would cast them in bronze, fisted on the hilt of a sword, or the butt of a gun. “What about you? If there was anyone I remember who was jumping to get out of Dodge, it was you. I still can’t quite focus on your being back, and as a pillar of the community.”
“Public servant,” he corrected and took a bite of the submarine sandwich. “Maybe I figur
ed out finally that Emmitsboro wasn’t the problem—I was.” It was part of the truth, he thought. The rest had to do with the screams tearing through an old building, the blast of gunfire, blood, death.
“You were okay, Rafferty. You just took teenage defiance one step further than most.” She grinned at him. “Every town needs its bad boy.”
“And you were always the good girl.” He laughed when disgust crossed her face. “That smart Kimball girl, acing it through school, heading up the student council. You probably still hold the record for selling the most Girl Scout cookies.”
“All right, Rafferty, I don’t have to sit here and be insulted.”
“I admired you,” he said, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Really. When you weren’t making me sick. Want some chips?”
She dug into the bag. “Just because I followed the rules—”
“And you did,” he agreed soberly. “You certainly did.” He reached up to toy with the brass hook of her overalls. “I guess I used to wonder if you’d ever break out.”
“You never used to wonder about me at all.”
“I did.” His gaze lifted to hers again. There was still a smile in his eyes, but there was something behind it, a restlessness that put her on alert.
Uh-oh. That one quick thought slammed into her mind.
“It used to surprise me how often my mind wandered in your direction. You were only a kid, and bony with it, from a prominent family on the right side of the tracks. And everyone knew there wasn’t a guy in town who could get past first base with you.” When she brushed his hand away from her buckle, he only smiled. “I figured I was thinking about you because Blair and I had started hanging out.”
“When he was going through his hoodlum stage.”
“Right.” He wasn’t sure how she managed to make her throaty voice prim, but he liked it. “So did you ever break out, Slim?”
“I’ve had my moments.” Irritated, she chomped down on her sandwich. “You know, people don’t think about me as the skinny, well-behaved nerd from Dogpatch.”
He hadn’t realized it would give him such a kick to see her riled. “How do people think about you, Slim?”
“As a successful artist with talent and vision. At my last show, the critics—” She caught herself and scowled at him. “Damn you, Rafferty, you’re making me talk like a nerd.”
“That’s okay. You’re among friends.” He brushed some crumbs from her chin. “Is that how you think of yourself first, as an artist?”
“Don’t you think of yourself as a cop first?”
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess I do.”
“So, is there much action in Emmitsboro these days?”
“Something crops up now and again.” Because the cemetery incident was still on his mind, he told her about it.
“That’s sick.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. “And it doesn’t sound like something that would happen around here. Do you figure kids?”
“We haven’t been able to prove otherwise, but no, I don’t. It was too neat, too purposeful.”
She looked around, taking in the quiet trees, hearing the musical water. “Too grisly.”
He was sorry he’d brought it up and changed the subject to a do-you-remember-when mode.
He didn’t think about his hurts and bruises. It was easy, maybe too easy, for his body to be distracted. He liked looking at her, the way her mussed cap of hair caught the sunlight. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed a decade before that her skin was so smooth, translucent, soft. It was her eyes he remembered most, the golden, almost witchlike glow of them.
Now he enjoyed listening to her voice, the rise and fall of it. Her laugh that rolled like fog. They talked the afternoon away, arguing over points of view, forging a friendship that had been tentative at best during childhood.
Though the stream played music, and sun and shade danced overhead, he sensed the timing was wrong for anything but friendship. When they climbed on the bike again, they were easy with each other.
The only mistake Cam figured he made that day was cutting through town on the way back. That gave Bud Hewitt the opportunity to flag him down as they rode past the sheriff’s office.
“Hey, Sheriff.” Though dressed in civvies, Bud put on his official face as he nodded at Clare. “Nice to have you back.”
“Bud?” With a laugh, Clare hopped off the bike to give him a smacking kiss. “I spent last night eating pizza and getting sloppy drunk with Alice. She tells me you’re the town deputy.”
“One of ’em.” He flushed with the pleasure of knowing his name had been mentioned. “You look real nice, Clare.” In fact, his Adam’s apple was bobbing a bit while he looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her eyes deep and gold. “Guess you two’ve been out riding.”
“That’s right.” Cam wasn’t as amused as he thought he should be by the puppy dog admiration in Bud’s eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, I figured you’d want to know—and since you weren’t home when I called and I saw you passing through, I stopped you.”
Cam flicked a wrist and had the engine gunning impatiently. “I got that much, Bud.”
“It’s about that runaway. The kid from Harrisburg?”
“Has she been located?”
“No, but we got a call this morning from the State boys. Somebody spotted a kid with her description a few miles out of town on Route Fifteen, the same afternoon she took off. Heading towards Emmitsboro. Thought you’d want to know,” he repeated.
“Did you get a name?”
“Got the name and phone number. Wrote them down inside.”
“I’ll take Clare home first.”
“Can I wait?” She was already strapping her helmet to the back. “I haven’t been in the sheriff’s office since Parker used to sit behind the desk and belch.”
“It’s not as colorful as it used to be,” Cam said, ushering her inside.
She recognized the man behind the desk as Mick Morgan. He’d been a fresh-faced deputy under Parker, and the years hadn’t dealt kindly with him. He’d bloated and sagged, and the part in his dingy brown hair had widened as sadly as his waistline. He pushed a chaw in the side of his mouth and rose.
“Cam. Didn’t think you were coming by.” He focused on Clare and managed what passed for a smile. There was tobacco juice on his teeth. “Heard you were back.”
“Hi, Mr. Morgan.” She tried not to remember that he had been the first on the scene after her father’s death. Or to blame him for being the one who had pried her away from the body.
“Guess you’re rich and famous now.” There was a crash and a curse from the back. Morgan cocked a brow, then spit expertly into the brass bucket in the corner. “Old Biff’s been causing a ruckus most of the day. Got one god-awful hangover.”
“I’ll deal with it.” Cam glanced toward the back as a new wave of obscenities erupted. “Bud, why don’t you run Clare home?”
She started to bow out graciously, then noticed the tension in Cam’s face, his neck, his arms. “I’m fine.” With a casual shrug, she began to study the papers stuck to the bulletin board. “I’ll just hang around. Take your time.”
Morgan patted the belly over his belt. “Since you’re here, Cam, I’ll take my dinner break.”
With a curt nod, Cam strode over to the heavy door separating the cells from the office. The cursing went on after he shut the door behind him.
“Tough on him,” Morgan said and spit again. “Come on, Bud, buy you a cup of coffee down to Martha’s.”
“Ah … see you, Clare.”
“Sure, Bud.”
When they left, she wandered to the window to look out at the town. It was quiet as a portrait on a Sunday. A few kids were riding bikes down the Main Street slope. A couple of teenagers were sitting on the hood of an old Buick and flirting. Inside the houses, she imagined, people were sitting down to Sunday suppers of pot roast or baked ham.
From the room behind her, she
could hear the vicious-tempered shouts of Biff, bullying and threatening his stepson. She couldn’t hear Cam at all and wondered if he spoke or merely listened.
He spoke—in a low, controlled voice that held more power than all of Biff’s ragings. Through the bars that separated them, he studied the man who had made his life hell for almost as long as he could remember. Doc Crampton had bandaged Biff up, but one eye was swollen closed, and his nose was a bruised mess against the white adhesive.
And he was old, Cam realized all at once. The man was old, used up, and pathetic.
“You’ll stay in until bail’s set tomorrow,” Cam told him.
“You let me out of here now, or when I get out, I’ll come for you. You understand me, boy?”
Cam looked at the battered face, realizing he’d done that with his own hands. Yet he couldn’t remember it clearly. Every blow had been rammed through a blinding haze of hate. “I understand you. Stay out of my town, old man.”
“Your town?” Biff’s thick fingers wrapped around the bars and shook. “You’re nothing but a pissant punk in this town, and you’ll never be any different. Pin a fucking badge on your shirt and think you’re big time. You’re worthless, just like your old man was worthless.”
Cam’s hand snaked through the bars so quickly, Biff had no chance to evade. There was the sound of material ripping where Cam gripped Biff’s shirt. “Just who do you think would give a shit if I found you dead in this cell?” He pulled, hard, and had Biff’s face rapping into the bars. “Think about that, you bastard, and stay clear of me. And if I find out you went home and took out your little frustrations on my mother, I’ll kill you. You understand me?”
“You ain’t got the guts. You never did.” Biff yanked himself away and swiped a hand under his freshly bleeding nose. “You think you know all there is to know, but you don’t know shit. You don’t run this town. You’re going to pay for putting me in here. I know people who can make you pay.”
Disgusted, Cam moved to the door. “You want to eat, then you watch your mouth. I’m leaving orders for Mick to hold back your dinner until you quiet down.”