by Dawn Brown
Her mouth had gone dry. “You don’t have to tell me all of this.”
“I do, actually. Unless, I’m making you uncomfortable.”
He was. This conversation was too intimate, too honest, but she shook her head “Only if you’re uncomfortable telling me.”
A bemused smile touched his lips. “I’m no’. No’ at all. That’s strange, isnae it?”
The fluttering was back, this time much closer to her heart. She would have answered, but her voice had suddenly vanished. Not that it mattered, the question was apparently rhetorical.
“I’d been sacked again, two days before the accident, and I’d been drunk, real drunk, out of my head, blackout drunk ever since. I had a moment of clarity when I woke at friend’s place just outside Kelso. I remember thinking quite clearly that I had to get home and start looking for a new job. Didnae matter that it was the middle of the night, or pouring rain, or that I didnae even know what day it was. So I got in the car and started home.”
He hesitated, as if waiting for her to say something, but whatever he’d been expecting, she stayed silent. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Memory gets a wee bit foggy here. I remember driving, and the rain, then coming ‘round briefly in the emergency room, but I was still quite groggy. A few days later, when I was coherent enough to understand, the doctor explained what had happened. Investigators believed I lost control on a round-about and slid down an embankment, hitting a tree.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“When I woke up, my leg broken in three places and sober for the first time in years, I would have argued that. Alex came to see me because, after pushing the limit for so long, I had finally wound up in real trouble. Driving under the influence charges, considerable property damage. Alex promised to take care of everything if I promised to let him check me into a clinic. If didnae cooperate, he wouldnae help me and I could have very likely gone to prison.”
“Obviously, you didn’t go the prison route.”
“No, I chose the clinic, but to be frank, at the time that was as much a jail sentence as the other. I chose the one where I stood the least chance of being anally penetrated.”
She snorted, despite herself. “Good thinking.”
“So, while I lay in excruciating pain, begging doctors and nurses or anyone else to bring me something, anything--no one did, Alex had warned them about me--my brother hired a lawyer. He took care of the charges, paid all my fines--which were considerable--and paid for the clinic. I was mid-way through the program before I even thought of the money he’d paid out. Around the same time, I realized how lucky I’d been to hit the tree.”
“Because it saved your life.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Alex saved my life. But what if I’d hit another car? How could I have lived with myself if I’d killed someone?”
Hillary’s stomach turned cold and heavy. Little did he know, she could have told him exactly how it was done. She lived it everyday. Had for nearly two years. Not that anyone would have called what she’d done these past years as living. She swallowed hard.
“You’re paying your brother back.”
“I’m paying the bank back. I already paid Alex, I didnae want him to be out of pocket because of me. He did so much for me, and I wasnae terribly grateful at first.”
Emotion made his voice thick and his eyes bright. He cared for his brother, admired him. She could read it in his face, hear it in his words.
“I’m sure he forgave you. Maybe he expected it a little.”
He smiled. “Maybe. Point is, the reason I havenae traveled before now is, well, I couldnae afford to. The writing’s only starting to pay, and not enough to pay off my loan. I suppose I could have just said that.”
“When did you start writing?”
“Do I get to ask you two questions, then?” He grinned, as if immensely pleased with himself.
“Why? Is the answer so very personal?”
“No’ really. I began writing in the clinic as a distraction. Far more interesting to write about an investment broker framed for murder than dwell on how badly I wanted a drink.”
“Did you sell it when you got out?”
“Eventually.”
She started to ask something else, but he interrupted. “I dinnae think so. It’s my turn. Why did you get divorced?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. He’d been so honest with her, how could she be anything else but? Yet the idea of telling him about Randall, of seeing the same doubt in Caid’s eyes that she’d seen in Michael’s, left her cold. She couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. “We grew apart.”
“Bull shit. Next you’ll be telling me it was a mutual decision.”
“Not quite. I instigated, but I don’t think he was devastated by the suggestion. Boring, I know, but sometimes people just wake up and realize the person they married isn’t who they thought they were.” And when things get hard, they see just how weak the other person can be.
How alone Michael had left her. He’d thrown her to the wolves, abandoned her along with most of her friends, peers, and co-workers. If it hadn’t been for her parents, she would never have made it through.
Exhaustion combined with the unpleasant memories brought tears to the corners of her eyes. She looked away before Caid saw.
“I’m tired,” she said, setting the remains of her tea on the table. “I’ve got to get to bed.”
As she stood, so did Caid. He took her hand as she tried to go by him and stopped her. “I get one more question, remember?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He released her hand, then gently traced his knuckle over her cheek. “What happened to you?”
“I’m so tired, Caid.” She turned away and started for the stairs, wondering the same thing.
What had happened to her?
Chapter Fifteen
Hillary squinted against the pale sunlight, seeping through the infernal gap in her drapes. With a groan she rolled over, yanking the blankets over her head.
She must have looked pathetic last night. What had possessed her to let the conversation turn so personal? But she already knew the answer. She wanted to know more about Caid.
She nibbled at her lower lip, thinking about how often her thoughts had wandered to him over the past few days. Remembering his mouth on hers, when he’d kissed her in the kitchen and the bolt of need that had surged inside her.
As much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to feel more for him than just physical attraction.
She’d been jealous when she’d found Sarah’s hand in his yesterday. Then, last night, she’d come so close to telling him about Randall. Only the fear that he would see her differently kept her quiet.
Not good. Definitely not practical.
If only she could hide under the covers all day instead of facing him. But she couldn’t. With a sigh, she threw back the quilt, climbed out of bed and crossed the room to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes.
Outside, the sun hovered above the horizon like a great orange ball, trying to burn through the mist. The dew on the grass and trees glistened as if touched with gold.
Maybe she should get out for a bit. A morning walk in the fresh air to clear her head.
She dressed quickly. When she stepped into the hall, Caid’s door was still closed. A reprieve. She’d have a little time before she faced him.
She hurried downstairs to the kitchen, slid the bolt and opened the back door, but froze in mid-step. A gasp locked in her throat. Her stomach lurched.
Some kind of animal, brown and furry, but beyond that unrecognizable, lay in a heap on the step.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from tangled bloody limbs and exposed flesh. A cool trickle of sweat dribbled down her spine. Her heart thundered in her ears.
At last, she squeezed her eyes shut, but behind her closed lids, she saw Randall’s slack features surrounded by a pool of blood. Her eyes popped open and she shifted her gaze so
she wouldn’t see the mangled mess in front of her.
A few feet away to the left, the fireplace poker stood straight and erect, jammed into the damp earth.
Trembling, she closed the door and slid the bolt into place. She backed away from the door slowly, concentrating on keeping her breathing deep and even.
Pull it together, she told herself, it was just… Okay she didn’t know what it was, because all she saw was fur and blood.
She shuddered and left the kitchen, taking the stairs two at time. Without bothering to knock, she opened Caid’s door and stepped into the dark room.
He slept on his back, one arm thrown over his head the other rested on his bare chest. The lines of his face, usually drawn with a sort wry humor, were smooth and relaxed.
She hated to wake him. Hated herself for her weakness. Her face heated with humiliation. She should go back, clean the mess herself.
The image of the poor creature flashed inside her brain. The blood-soaked fur. The tiny, red rivulets, absorbing into the porous stone.
Her stomach rolled again.
She couldn’t do it.
“Caid,” she whispered, placing her hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.
He grumbled and tried to roll away. She shook him harder, said his name louder. His eyes popped open, bright and annoyed. “What?”
“I’m sorry I woke you, but…um…there’s a thing on the back step, and I wouldn’t have but for the blood, and the stupid poker’s back, and I’m not making much sense, am I?”
Maybe it was her rambling, or maybe she looked as shaken as she felt, but he sat up, his eyes darkening with concern. “What’s happened?”
She drew in a deep breath and started again, determined to make sense this time. “There’s some kind of dead animal on the back step and the fireplace poker is with it. I didn’t want to wake you, but it’s the blood. I can’t clean it up myself because of the blood.”
He stood, and without a word, pulled her against him. She shouldn’t have let him, but the warm, smooth skin of his chest pressed against her cheek, and his arms, tight around her, radiated strength.
She knew better. She shouldn’t rely on him. But, God help her, he felt so good.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not sure who she was apologizing to anymore, or for what. Her lips were so close to his skin she could almost taste the salt.
“It’s the blood,” she said again and shuddered.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. His grip around her tightened and he smoothed her hair with his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded, because she knew he would. His lips brushed her temple. She closed her eyes as if to shut out the tenderness.
“I’m going to have a look.” He released her slowly, then bent and pulled on a pair of jeans from the pile of clothes at his feet.
For the first time, she noticed he wore only his underwear. She choked back a bubble of laughter as the ridiculousness of the moment hit her.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Then he left her alone in his room.
With her cheeks hot, she collapsed onto the edge of his unmade bed. His scent, clean and male, drifted up from blankets still warm with the heat of his body. The temptation to curl up in them, to pull them over her head, was almost overwhelming.
What she must look like, coming to pieces over a dead animal. Why couldn’t the floor just open and swallow her whole?
First last night, now this. Caid probably thought she was mentally unbalanced.
Shaking her head, she forced herself to her feet. She would go downstairs. Granted, she didn’t plan on helping clean the mess, but she wouldn’t hide in his bedroom, either.
Caid rolled his eyes as he hung up the phone. Twenty minutes, Bristol had said. For whatever good that would do. The poker lay on the desk before him, marked with what was most definitely blood. The remains of the rabbit still lay on back step, but covered with a bin bag.
He was almost certain whoever had left the mangled rabbit was the same person who had been in the house the other day. The poker was some kind of message that he was simply too thick to figure out.
A warning?
A threat?
He didn’t have a clue.
Lifting his hand to his face, he rubbed his tired eyes with his fingertips. Hillary waited for him upstairs, and he didn’t know what to tell her.
The memory of her wide, frightened stare, the way the words had tumbled from her lips too fast and trembling, the way she’d shuddered against him, left him furious at whoever thought this was an amusing game. Having nothing to say that would comfort her frustrated him all the more.
When he dropped his hands away from his face, Hillary was leaning against the doorframe. “Did you call Bristol?”
He nodded. “No’ that he’ll do much more than the last time he was here. Still, we can give him the poker. Dinnae use the back door, I havenae disposed of the rabbit yet, just covered the poor wee thing. I want Bristol to see it.”
“So that’s what it was? A rabbit?”
“Aye, I think so.” He shrugged. She seemed better, no longer shaking and some of the color had returned to her cheeks.
“I’m sorry about upstairs.” She took a step toward him, her eyes dark and swirling.
“Why?”
A wry smile touched her lips. “I’m feeling kind of stupid now. I may have overreacted.”
He wanted to take her hand and pull her against him again. She’d fit so well upstairs. But with the stiffness in her stance and the distance she kept between them, he doubted she would appreciate it.
“I should get dressed before Bristol arrives.”
He considered asking her if she’d be all right on her own, but decided against it. He knew from experience that the vulnerability came with a prickliness.
“I’ll make some tea and find something to put out for him. Maybe if we feed him, he’ll do more for us.”
The faint sarcasm in her voice relieved him somewhat. She was back to her normal self. “Aye, well, we can always hope.”
As he passed her, she put her hand on his arm and stopped him. Her fingers were like thin sticks of ice on his bare skin. Without thinking, he covered them with his own.
“Before I left Canada, Agnes had complained that someone had been leaving dead animals for her to find.”
“A strange coincidence, isnae it?”
She swallowed and nodded. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and she eased her fingers out from under his.
Caid showered and dressed quickly, his mind turning ideas over in his head the same way he did when he started a new book. This time, though, the scenarios and possibilities he worked through weren’t happening to fictional characters, but to him.
An idea was taking shape in his brain, dark and frightening.
A cold, sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and more than ever he wanted to lock the door on Glendon House and never look back.
How badly did his father want this pile of rubble? Enough to kill?
Caid had no answer.
He’d talk to Bristol, be rid of the fireplace poker, then get back to work. The sooner done, the sooner he could away. Away from his family, away from his past, and away from Hillary.
She was a colossal mistake waiting to happen. Since holding her that morning, his hands practically craved the feel of her. The memory of her lips, a mere whisper against his collarbone, brought his body to semi-state of readiness. He shifted in his suddenly uncomfortable jeans and started downstairs.
Bristol’s voice, loud and cheerful, floated out from the study as Caid approached. The sound grated on his nerves, and he craved a drink like he hadn’t in years.
“Thanks for coming,” Caid said, as he stepped into the room. He shook Bristol’s chubby hand, then sat on the settee opposite him, next to Hillary.
“Hillary’s just told me about yer find,” the cop said around a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “And yer run in with Willie last night.”
>
“Did she?” Caid poured himself a cup of tea. He no longer considered Willie a suspect, unless Willie was the person his father was paying to do his dirty work for him. “Let me guess, in yer professional opinion you think it’s someone’s idea of a prank?”
Bristol scowled. “And what do you suspect? In ye’re professional opinion?”
“I’m no’ entirely sure, but whoever’s responsible is a sadistic bastard.”
Hillary laid a hand on his arm as if to restrain him. “Agnes complained about finding dead animals in her garden. She also had a very public argument with Willie shortly before she died. He didn’t want me reading those journals. Couldn’t there be something more to this?”
Caid jerked his attention to Hillary, but she didn’t look his way, her gaze fixed on Bristol. She hadn’t mentioned Agnes having a row with Willie to him. An odd pang flickered in his chest. He shouldn’t be surprised to find her keeping things from him. He was nothing to her, or she to him, after all.
Besides, this information didn’t ease his suspicions. His father would never dirty his own hands.
“Agnes complained about a lot of things,” Bristol said on a sigh. “I’m sorry to say, but the woman wasnae all there.”
“But we are,” Hillary said. “And the same things are happening to us.”
“Did it occur to you that someone might have been trying to make Agnes appear mad?” Caid demanded.
“Now why in the world would someone wantae do that?”
“Why would someone leave a mutilated rabbit and a fireplace poker for us?” Caid bit back on the anger welling inside him.
“I admit, these pranks are more malicious than I first suspected, but I truly dinnae believe there’s any real danger. I think someone’s just trying to frighten you.”
“Yes, but why?” Hillary sounded as impatient as Caid felt.
“Here’s a scenario,” he interjected. “Maybe someone had been trying to frighten Agnes, make her appear mad. Maybe the fall down the stairs wasnae an accident. What if Agnes died as a result of a scare tactic gone wrong?”