The look on Jones’s face transformed him, and his eyes sparked with an unholy light. He looked more like beast than man, his lips pulled back in a terrifying snarl of rage.
He kicked the gun even farther away as he flung the man violently in the opposite direction. Cheerios boxes exploded everywhere as he followed, pounding the man, hitting him hard again and again until there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the robber wasn’t going to get up. At least not right away.
Outside in the parking lot, the car that had been idling sped away with a squeal of tires.
Even though both men were down and still, Jones moved quickly, going for the gun. Melody nearly collapsed with relief as his hands closed around it. He was safe. She wasn’t going to have to stand there and watch him get pumped full of bullets.
She could hear police sirens in the distance. Isaac, no doubt, had triggered the alarm when the fight had started. He now peered warily over the top of the counter, his eyes wide as he gazed at Jones.
Jones checked the gun, removing the clip and releasing the chambered round. And then he looked at her, his eyes still lit from within with the devil’s own anger.
“The next time I give you an order, dammit, you do it!” He was breathing hard, his chest still heaving as he fought to suck in enough air. His nose was bleeding and the front of his T-shirt was stained bright red with blood, but he didn’t even notice.
“An order? But—”
“No buts.” He slammed the empty gun down on the checkout counter. Melody had never seen him like this. Not even during the hostage rescue. He was furious. With her. “These scumbags had a weapon, Melody. If that dirt-wad over there—” he gestured toward the man who’d put up a fight “—had managed to get his hands on it, he damn well would’ve used it! And these days, honey, you aren’t exactly the tiniest of targets!”
Stung, Melody turned and walked out of the criminal.
“Now you leave,” he said, pulling the door open to follow her. “Perfect.”
She spun back to face him. “I don’t take orders from you. I’m not one of your SEAL buddies—I don’t know how to take orders!”
“You managed just fine in the Middle East.”
“Yeah, well, look around you, Lieutenant. This isn’t the Middle East. This is Appleton, Massachusetts. And I haven’t trained myself to react instantly when I walk into the middle of a convenience-store stickup.” Her voice caught on something that was half laughter, half sob. “God, and I was just starting to think that maybe you were just a normal guy. Yeah, you’re normal—and I stand a shot at winning the Miss America swimsuit competition. What a joke!”
The night was getting downright frosty. Or maybe it wasn’t the chill in the air that was making her start to shake.
“I’d like my car keys,” she said, lifting her chin, determined to keep from crumbling in front of him. “I want to go home now.”
He ran his hands back through his rumpled hair, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against his temples, visibly trying to bring himself out of combat mode. And when he spoke, his voice was more even. “I don’t think I can just leave. They’re going to want a statement—”
“I’m not asking you to leave. I’m sure one of the police officers can give you a lift when you’re done.”
Jones reached for her. “Melody…”
She stiffened, closing her eyes and refusing to feel anything as he put his arms around her. “I don’t want you to touch me,” she told him through clenched teeth.
He backed off, but only a little. He took a deep breath, forcing even more of his anger to dissipate. “Honey, you gotta understand. I saw that revolver and—”
“You did what you had to do,” she finished for him. “What you’ve been trained to do. You attacked. You’re very good at that, I’ll give you that much.” She stepped out of his embrace. “Please tell Chief Beatrice that I’ll stop by the station tomorrow to give my statement. But right now, I have to go home.”
He held the car keys in his hand. “Why don’t you let me drive you?” He glanced up as the first of the police cars pulled into the lot, and he raised his voice to be heard over the wailing siren. “I’ll just tell these guys that I’ll be back in a second.” The siren cut off, leaving him shouting in the stillness, “I don’t want you to have to drive.”
She took the keys from him. “I’m fine. I can drive myself.”
Isaac Forte came out to meet the policemen and all three men approached Jones. Melody used the opportunity to get into her car. But she should have known Jones wasn’t going to let her just drive away. He came to the side of the car and waited until she opened her window.
“I won’t be too long,” he told her. He looked down as if noticing the blood on his shirt for the first time. He had an angry-looking scratch on his arm, as well, and he was gingerly touching the inside of his lips with his tongue as if he’d cut himself on his own teeth. “Can we talk when I get back?”
She looked out the windshield, afraid to meet his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Mel, please? I know I had no right to speak to you that way, but I was scared to death you were gonna get hurt—”
“I’m tired, Jones,” she lied. “I’m going to grab a bowl of soup and go back to sleep.” He was leaning with both hands braced on the top of her car, so she couldn’t just drive away. She did put the car into gear, though. She knew he could see that the reverse lights had come on. But when he still didn’t step back, she finally looked up at him. “I want to go now,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.
All of his earlier anger was gone, and he looked worn-out and beaten—as if he’d lost the fight instead of won.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, straightening up. If she didn’t know better, she might’ve thought those were tears in his eyes. “Mel, I’m deeply sorry.”
“I am, too,” she whispered.
Melody released the clutch and backed out of the parking lot. She only stalled once as she pulled onto the road that took her home.
“WHAT’S UP?”
Cowboy glanced up from his book to smile at Andy. “Hey, kid. I’m getting Mel’s garden ready for winter.”
“No, you’re not,” Andy scoffed. “You’re sitting there reading a book.”
Andy had a swollen lip and a nasty-looking scrape on his jawline. He’d been in another fight, probably with that older kid—Alex Parks—who took such pleasure in tormenting him. Andy’s brown eyes dared him to comment on his injuries.
“Well, yeah, I’m reading a book,” Cowboy said, purposely saying nothing. “That’s the first step. See, first I have to learn how to do it—you know, figure out what kind of tools and supplies I need.”
“That book tells you all that?”
“It does. Believe it or not, all the information I need to do damn near anything is two miles down that road in the town library. Need your refrigerator fixed? Piece a cake. Just get me a book. I can learn another language, build a house from the foundation up, shoe a horse—you name it, the knowledge I need to get the job done is in the library, guaranteed. Especially now that they’re plugged into the Internet.”
Andy looked at the garden bed, at the plants that had shriveled and turned brown in the cool night air, then at the last of the beans that were still clinging stubbornly to life. He looked back at Cowboy, clearly unimpressed. “So what’s there to do? Everything’s dead. You can’t plant anything new until spring anyway.”
“Ever hear of mulching?” Cowboy asked.
“No.”
“Me, neither. At least not more than really vaguely before I picked up this book. But apparently, it’s good to do. I haven’t quite reached the part that tells me why, but I’m getting there.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “You know, there’s a much easier way to do all this.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Just ask Melody what she wants done.”
Ask Melody. That was a damned fine idea. But u
nfortunately, Cowboy couldn’t ask Melody anything until she stopped hiding from him again.
It had been nearly three days since the incident at the Honey Farms convenience store. The criminal, she’d called the place. And the name fit. They’d certainly run into some criminal activity, that was for sure.
God, he’d never known fear like that hot-and-cold streak of terror that had shot through him when he’d seen that revolver. He’d had about one-tenth of a second to decide what to do, and in that fraction of a moment, for the first time in his life, he’d actually considered backing down. He’d actually thought about surrendering.
But he couldn’t tell in that heartbeat of time if the men were using or not. He didn’t know for sure from that one quick glance if they were out of their minds, high on some chemical substance, or strung out, desperate and ready to eliminate anyone who so much as looked at them crooked.
All he knew was that in his experience, when he carried a weapon, he was always prepared to use it. He had to assume the same was true for these clowns. So he’d attacked in that one split second when the revolver was pointing away from the clerk, catching the assailants off guard.
The entire fight had lasted all of eighty-five seconds.
But it had been eighty-five seconds of sheer hell.
Melody had just stood there, staring at him. She hadn’t even ducked for cover. She just stood there, a target, ready to be knocked over or shot full of lead if that bastard had gotten hold of his revolver.
It had taken Cowboy twice as long as it should have to subdue the enemy and gain control of the weapon. His fear that Melody would be hurt or killed had gotten in the way. And he’d lashed out at her afterward because of it. He’d shouted at her when all he really wanted to do was drag her into his arms and hold her until the end of time.
But she’d been less than thrilled with his performance—in more ways than one. And she’d run away again.
Before they’d gone into that store, Melody had been ready to invite him up to her bedroom to spend the night—he’d been almost certain of that. He’d been so close to relief from this hellish frustration.
Of course, now the frustration was ten times as bad. He hadn’t even seen her in three days. The hell with the lack of sex. Just not seeing her was driving him damn near crazy.
“You want me to ask Melody for you?” Andy asked. “I’m going inside—Britt said it was okay if I used her computer to do an Internet search.”
“What are you searching for?”
Andy shrugged. “Just some stuff about the Army.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of stuff?”
Another shrug. “I dunno.”
Cowboy gazed at the boy. “You thinking about enlisting?”
“Maybe.”
“Only way to become a SEAL is to join the U.S. Navy, not the Army.”
“Yeah,” Andy said, “I know. You running again tonight?”
Cowboy had taken to working out both in the evening as well as the early morning in an attempt to run some of his frustration into the ground. “Why? You want to try again?” Andy had run along with him yesterday evening. The kid had only made it about two miles before he’d dropped out.
“Yeah, I do.”
“You know, if you start getting in shape now, you’ll be a monster by the time you graduate high school.”
Andy kicked at a clump of grass. “I wish I could be a monster now.”
Cowboy acknowledged the boy’s scraped face. “Alex Parks again, huh?”
“He’s such a jerk.”
“If you want, I can help you out with your PT,” Cowboy volunteered. “You know, physical training. And, if you want, I can also help you learn to fight.”
Andy nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he said. “What’s the catch?”
Cowboy grinned. This boy was a fast learner. “You’re right. There is a condition.”
The kid groaned. “I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?”
“You have to promise that after I teach you to beat the crap out of Alex Parks, you use what you’ve learned only to defend yourself. And after he figures out that you’re ready and able to kick his butt, you turn and walk away.”
Andy looked incredulous. “What good is that?”
“That’s my deal. Take it or leave it.”
“How do you know I’ll even keep my promise?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll break you in half,” Cowboy said with a smile. “Oh, and there is one other catch. You need to learn a little self-discipline. You need to learn to follow orders. My orders. When I say jump, you jump. When I say chill, you cool it. You give me any attitude, any garbage, any whining, any moaning of any kind, and the deal’s off.”
“Gee, you’re making this sound too good to pass up,” Andy said, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, yeah. One other thing. If I ask you a question, you answer me straight. You say, ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘No, sir.’”
“You want me to call you sir?”
“Yes, I do.” God knows Andy could learn a thing or two about showing respect.
Andy was silent.
“So do we have a deal?” Cowboy asked.
Andy swore. “Yeah, all right.”
“Yes, sir,” Cowboy corrected him.
“Yes, sir. Jeez.” Andy turned toward the house. “I’ll tell Melody you could use her help with the garden.”
“Thanks, kid, but that’s not going to get her out here. She’s been hiding from me for days.”
“I’ll tell her you’re sorry, too. Sir. God.”
“Sir is good enough, Marshall. You don’t have to call me God, too,” Cowboy teased.
“Sheesh.” Andy rolled his eyes again as he headed toward the kitchen door.
In truth, Cowboy was sorry. He was sorry about a lot of things. He was sorry that he hadn’t gone into the house and hammered on Melody’s bedroom door after he’d gotten home that night. He was sorry he still hadn’t found a way to force the issue, to make her sit down and talk to him.
He wasn’t quite sure what he would tell her, though. Cowboy wasn’t sure he was ready to share the fact that after she’d left the Honey Farms, right as he was giving his statement to Tom Beatrice, the Appleton chief of police, he’d had to excuse himself. He’d gone into the men’s room and gotten horribly, violently sick.
At first, he’d thought it might’ve been the flu—people all over town were falling victim to a virulent strain of the bug. But as the night wore on and he didn’t get sick again, he’d been forced to confront the truth.
It was the residual of his fear that had made him bow to the porcelain god. His fear for Melody’s safety had squeezed him tight and hadn’t let go, making his gut churn and his blood pressure rise until he’d forcefully emptied his stomach.
It was weird. His career as a SEAL involved a huge amount of risk taking. And he was fine about that. He knew he would survive damn near anything if surviving entailed fighting. But if his survival depended on something outside his control—like the intrinsic danger they all faced every time they jumped out of a plane, knowing that if their chute failed, if the lines got tangled or the cells didn’t open right, they would end up as a mostly unrecognizable stain on the ground—if his survival depended on a twist of fate like that, Cowboy knew he would either live or die as the gods saw fit. No amount of fear or worry would change that, so he rarely bothered with either.
But he found he couldn’t be quite so blasé when it came to Melody’s safety. Whenever he thought about that revolver aimed in her direction, even now, three days later, he still felt sick to his stomach.
It was similar to the sensation he felt when he thought about her having to give birth to that baby she was carrying.
As was his usual method of operation when forced to deal with something he knew nothing about, he’d taken a pile of books about pregnancy out of the library. He’d read nearly every one from cover to cover, and frankly, the list of possible life-threatening complications resulting from pregnancy or childbi
rth made his blood run cold.
Women went into shock from pregnancy-related diabetes. Or they had strokes caused by the strain on their system. Some women simply bled to death. The mortality rates reported in the books shocked Cowboy. It seemed impossible that even in this day and age of enlightened modern medicine, women died simply as a result of bearing children.
He’d wanted to go into the hospital and donate blood to be set aside and used specifically for Melody in case she needed it. He was a universal donor, but he knew that all of the inoculations he’d had as he’d traveled around the world would make him ineligible.
He’d just approached Brittany to find out if her blood type matched her sister’s—to see if she might be willing to donate blood and help soothe some of his fear. She’d looked at him as if he was crazy, but she’d agreed to do it.
Cowboy looked toward the house, up at the window he knew was Melody’s room. He willed the curtain to shift. He hoped to see a shadowy form backing away or a hint of moving light, but he saw nothing.
Melody was staying far from the window.
And his patience was running out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MELODY HEARD THE doorbell ring from up in her bedroom.
She focused all of her attention on her book, determined to keep reading. It was Jones. It had to be Jones.
It had been five days since she’d driven away from him at the Honey Farms, and she’d been bracing herself, waiting for him to run out of patience and come confront her.
Andy was downstairs, using Britt’s computer. Melody had told him she was going to take a nap. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that he would send Jones away.
But then she heard voices—a deep voice that didn’t sound very much like Jones, and then Andy’s, higher-pitched and loud. She couldn’t hear the words, but he sounded as if he was angry or upset.
Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating Page 93