A MAN TO TRUST

by Justine Davis

  "I did." He shuddered. "Fool that I am, I even meant it."

  "Good."

  He winced. "Thanks."

  Her eyes widened. "I didn't mean… I just…" She floundered, looking miserable. Then she tried again. "What Kit said… I think she was right. You have some things to deal with, about Ellen, and her leaving, before you … get involved with anyone else."

  She saw his jaw tighten as he looked down at her. She could almost feel him decide to ignore the part of what she'd said that he didn't want to deal with. "Is that what I'm doing, Kelsey? Getting involved?"

  It took all her nerve to do it, but she held his gaze.

  "You're … dodging the issue."

  He went very still. Slowly the passionate heat faded from his eyes. With sharp, jerky motions utterly unlike his usual grace, he rolled off of her. He scrambled to his feet and walked away without a word.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  "Tell me something, Cruz."

  Her voice stopped him in his tracks, although he didn't turn around to look at her. He didn't dare; he was still achingly hard, and just looking at her, there in the moonlight, her lips swollen from his kisses, her breast still wet from his mouth, would be more than he could walk away from.

  "How can a man brave enough to risk his life to disarm a bomb to save total strangers be so afraid of his own feelings?"

  He went rigid.

  "How long are you going to hide from it? How long are you going to let it fester?"

  He whirled on her then. She'd pulled her T-shirt down and risen to her feet. He glared at her. He'd heard all this before. The department shrink had said it. Kit had said it. Even Chief de los Reyes had told him, in the most tactful of ways.

  But somehow, it had never stung like this. It had never felt so much like a goad, like a jab so pointed he couldn't ignore it any longer.

  It had never come from Kelsey before.

  "You don't know the first damn thing about it." He ground out the words.

  "No," she admitted, walking toward him; he had to make a conscious effort not to back away, a fact that only added to his agitation. She came to a halt before him. "But I know about loss and pain, and about being hurt by the people you should be able to trust most. And I know about being helpless, Cruz. And that that's how you must have felt, with no one to really blame for the destruction of your life."

  "It wasn't anyone's fault," he said, wondering how many times he'd said it and thought it in the past six years.

  "That doesn't take away the need to blame somebody or something, even if it's only fate. Because if you can't do that, then the only thing left is to blame yourself."

  "It wasn't anyone's fault." He was starting to sound like an idiot, chanting those stupid words over and over.

  She looked up at him, her gaze level and unwavering. "Are you saying you never wanted to blame someone, you never shouted at God for letting it happen, you never screamed at the fate that took your own life out of your hands and shattered it?"

  He'd wanted to do all those things. Every last one of them. And it had nearly killed him not to.

  "Sam," he whispered. "I couldn't… I didn't want Sam to hate her own mother."

  "Of course not. But what about you, Cruz? When you were alone, did you ever let it out? Did you ever give yourself permission to be angry?"

  "At who?" It exploded from him in a shout. "At Ellie? Because she nearly died and got scared into feeling like she had missed out on life, being a wife and mother so young? How the hell do you blame someone for that?"

  "Hating the decision someone makes doesn't mean you hate the person."

  She said it so quietly, so reasonably, that it prodded him over the edge.

  "What are you, some kind of armchair psychologist? Do you get a kick out of probing old scars to see if you can make them bleed?"

  "Scars mean the wound has healed," Kelsey said, standing up to his anger unflinchingly, the only sign that she was even aware he was yelling a slight tightness around her mouth and eyes. "Yours never have, Cruz. Because you never allowed yourself what you had every right to. Anger. Your life was snatched away, through no fault of your own, and you couldn't do a thing to stop it. Why on earth shouldn't you be angry?"

  You amaze me, Cruz. I'd be furious, but you're so … accepting. Lacey Buckhart's words, spoken long ago.

  It's just not natural, Gregerson. I know you loved her. You can't be that blasé about it. Kit Walker, with her too-perceptive observations.

  Until you face the loss, it will always be with you. Chief de los Reyes, speaking from painful personal knowledge; the whole department knew how devastated he'd been when his beloved wife died several years ago.

  Kelsey's words weren't so different, were they? Did you ever give yourself permission to be angry? Your life was snatched away, through no fault of your own, and you couldn't do a thing to stop it. Why on earth shouldn't you be angry?

  But her words were different, somehow. In all their attempts to console him, or counsel him, no one had ever made the simple statement that he had a right, a need, to be angry. His friends had wondered why he wasn't, although they'd all said they understood how he felt, agreed that it was really no one's fault. Some had even praised him for his generous, level outlook. A few who weren't really friends but felt compelled to stick their noses in anyway marveled—some in an almost accusatory manner—that he hadn't, as was typical with too many cops, plunged into a binge of drinking and carousing.

  But no one had ever simply suggested that he should be angry, that it was a permission he should have granted himself. Just the idea was causing an odd turmoil within him. He'd felt something like it before, often, but he'd always written it off as just nagging, unpleasant memories. But now, in the wake of Kelsey's quiet words, he began to realize it was more in the nature of unfinished business.

  "You held it in to protect Sam," Kelsey said softly, "and that's a good thing. She'd already lost a parent, and I know … that's traumatic. You needed to be strong, for her sake. But that doesn't make it go away. Sooner or later, it has to come out."

  "You're sure of a lot of things," Cruz said, his voice tight under the pressure of resurgent memories.

  "I'm sorry," Kelsey said, sounding suddenly very weary. "You're right. It's none of my business. I'm going to bed."

  As she started to walk past him, Cruz had the sudden thought that, considering what they'd almost done here tonight, it was perhaps more her business than anyone's except his own. His hand even moved, as if of its own volition, to reach out and stop her.

  But he didn't. He couldn't, sensing that he was on the edge right now; one more bit of emotional strain and he would lose it. He never had, and he didn't want the first time to be here, in front of her.

  So instead he stood there and watched her walk back to the inn. He watched until she stepped in through a small side door that he knew somewhat vaguely led to a storeroom of some sort, where she kept extra linens and cleaning supplies, and also gardening supplies, hence the outside and inside doors. She'd said something about the latch sticking, and he'd meant to look at it, he thought vaguely, knowing he was looking for a distraction.

  He watched until a light came on in the downstairs corner room that he knew was hers. A few minutes later, it went out. And still he stood staring, until he realized what he was doing. Then he forced himself to turn away from the building, trying not to be touched by the fact that whatever had passed between them, she'd still thought to leave the outside light on for him so that he could get in easily when he came back.

  He needed to talk to her about that, he thought, seizing on anything to keep from dealing with what was uppermost in his mind. She really wasn't as diligent about keeping things locked as she should be. True, she was secluded and somewhat isolated up here on the hill, but that didn't mean it was safe to leave the place open at night. Of course, she was running an inn, so he supposed she was used to leaving things open for her guests to come and
go as they pleased.

  Or maybe it was for the kids she was apparently running some sort of halfway house for? Maybe they were the reason she left doors open too often for his comfort? Once they heard about her via the runaways' rather effective grapevine, did those who were willing to abide by her rules just show up? Did she just wake up in the morning and find one sitting on the doorstep or in the kitchen? And then what did she do? Try to broker some kind of peace between the kids and whatever had driven them from home?

  He stared at the reflection of the moon in the pond, watched as it dimpled when another bit of breeze rippled the surface.

  He knew perfectly well that he was doing exactly what she'd said, hiding from the real issue. He didn't like admitting it, but his grabbing at anything else to think about was too obvious to deny.

  He turned on his heel and started walking, not sure where he was going, but choosing the uphill path because it would require more effort.

  Still looking for distractions, eh, Gregerson? he muttered to himself.

  He walked on anyway, hating the fact that although he was physically weary, his mind just wouldn't shut down. He'd thought he'd perfected the knack of shoving some thoughts aside; it was something cops had to learn or they would go nuts in the first year. But the talent had certainly vanished now; no matter how he tried, he couldn't shove this aside.

  About a hundred feet past the pond, he reached a level spot, where a gravel road that came in from the south led farther up the hill, to a luxurious home that no doubt had been built by some wealthy refugee from the big city; it had that look. Cruz turned his back on it, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he moved, much preferring the view across the pond to the tidy, much smaller and cozier Oak Tree. Whatever else was going on, Kelsey had made a good place here.

  The pond looked like an oval mirror from here, polished and smooth now, reflecting that half-moon. There was enough light for him to make out the boulder … and the grassy patch where, just minutes before, he and Kelsey had lain.

  Heat bubbled up in him, and he groaned; he couldn't take this roller-coaster ride much longer.

  Without really thinking about it, he bent and picked up a piece of gravel from the road. He tossed it in the air and caught it a couple of times, staring at the pond. He gauged the distance, the trajectory and then the weight of the stone. Maybe, he thought. He gave a half shrug and threw the stone.

  It fell short. He picked up another stone and tried again, giving it more power this time. Still short.

  A heavier stone this time, and a little more oomph. And the satisfaction of hitting the edge of the water, hearing the faint plop and seeing the ripples spread.

  Not quite a bull's-eye, which would be the moon's reflection, he thought, but a start. He bent for another stone.

  And then another. And another. And another.

  He didn't know at what point it ceased to be some silly game, at what moment hitting that silver half disk was no longer the point. He only knew that suddenly it had nothing to do with distractions or games or hitting some stupid target and had everything to do with the very thing he'd been avoiding, the very thing that had been building inside him, relentless and painful.

  His motions quickened, the movement of picking up the rocks secondary to putting everything he had into the throw. He was sweating now, breathing hard, yet he didn't slacken, even when his throws became wilder. It didn't matter, he wasn't paying any attention to where the stones were landing or to the again-smooth surface of the pond. All that mattered was the throwing, the fierce exertion, the release of that awful pressure…

  And then he realized he was swearing, low and harsh and angry, with each throw. He tried to stop, but be couldn't. With every fierce motion, every cycle of putting his entire body into the effort of propelling that stone as far as possible, he swore, at the driver of the car that had caused the accident, at Ellie for not finding him and Sam to be enough and then for dying before he could tell her how angry and hurt he was, and then at fate and God for letting it happen, and finally at himself for being so damned helpless to do anything, he who had always, always, been able to do something.

  Finally, exhausted, he dropped to his knees, fists clenched and pounding on the muscles of his thighs, his head turned up to that half-moon. In that moment he felt a primitive kinship to the animals who howled at night and wished he could howl out his loneliness and pain.

  And it wasn't until the breeze kicked up once more, sending cooling tendrils across his wet cheeks, that he realized he was crying.

  * * *

  She'd expected him to look a bit weary; she'd heard him come back in, long after she left him by the pond. In fact, she hadn't been at all sure he would still be there, except that they'd left her car at his house, and she knew he wouldn't leave her stranded without it. She hadn't been surprised when it was late morning before he came into the kitchen, rubbing at eyes that probably felt as weary as they looked.

  She wondered what she'd started with her impulsive words last night. After she left him, she'd heard some odd plopping sounds that had made her sit up in bed, wondering. She'd gone to her window and seen him up on the hill. It had taken a moment for her to figure out what he was doing, but when she did, she'd smiled. Until the intensity, the fierceness, of his movements got through to her, and her amusement was replaced by concern.

  After a minute or two, she'd thought about going out to make sure he was all right. Then she'd heard the low, harsh string of curses and thought better of it. She'd felt a twinge of guilt for having prodded him into what appeared to be a fury of some sort and crept back to bed, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.

  She didn't know what had possessed her to talk to him like that, anyway. She had treated him like one of the kids, who not only needed help to understand their own feelings, but who needed help in confronting the fact that they even had them. Cruz was many things, but he was not a kid. He was a man, with a man's pride, and a man's emotions … and a man's passions.

  She suppressed a shiver. And now, looking at the dark circles that shadowed his eyes, she wished even more that she'd kept out of it, that she'd kept her ridiculous urge to save him from himself under control.

  She poured him a cup of coffee, and he took it with a brusque "Thank you" that made her cringe inwardly. She really had trespassed, trod upon things she had no right to even touch. She thought about apologizing, but had the sinking feeling it would only make things worse.

  "I thought I'd go see Melissa's parents this afternoon," he said mildly, as if last night hadn't happened at all, "since I'm already an hour closer to them here."

  Kelsey didn't know whether to feel relieved or upset that not only was he apparently not going to bring up her ill-advised attempts at counseling, but he was avoiding what had passed between them before as well. She told herself that she should be grateful, she didn't really want to talk about how close they had come to doing something neither of them was ready for, but she wasn't sure she was convinced.

  Cruz, on the other hand, seemed to have made the decision easily; he was going to ignore it. And he clearly intended to go on with the search as if those passionate moments on the grass by the pond had never happened.

  Or as if they meant nothing.

  Maybe they didn't—to him. But it would be a very long time before she ever forgot the feel of his arms around her, the taste of his kiss, the sensation of his mouth at her breast…

  She set her own coffee cup down with a thud.

  "I gather," she said, doing some hasty collecting of her thoughts as she spoke, "that you got their address from the report your friend got?"

  He nodded, taking a sip of the steaming coffee as calmly as if those wild moments of hurling stones and cursing to the skies had been merely a bad dream. "They live just north of Oxnard. It'll be a long drive, but I might learn something that'll help."

  "All right." She managed to keep her voice even, as if she were no more thinking about last night—any of it—than he was. She
should simply be glad he wasn't giving up on Melissa because of her own imprudent interference in his personal life. "We can leave as soon as I call Dolores—"

  "Not we. Me."

  Kelsey paled. Apparently he was thinking about last night. And she'd been right to think she'd trespassed.

  "Look, I know I … offended you last night, but—"

  "This has nothing to do with that."

  Blast him, how could he sound so calm, when her insides were churning madly? She fought to hang on to an even tone. "Then I'm coming with you."

  His jaw tightened a fraction, and for the first time she wondered if perhaps he wasn't quite as calm as she'd thought.

  "It would be better if I did this alone."

  "Melissa came to me for help. I'm responsible."

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment before saying softly, "You can't save them all, Kelsey."

  She flushed; that was too close to her earlier thoughts for her own comfort.

  "I'm still going with you," she said, resorting to the stubbornness that had sometimes gotten her through when all else failed.

  "Kelsey, I'm trying to keep you out of this, but—"

  The way he cut off his own words bothered her as much as the words themselves. He was trying to keep her out of this? She searched his face, looking for some sign that he knew what was going on at Oak Tree. Some sign that he knew that Melissa was only the latest—

  Her own thought was cut off by a memory.

  Did she tell you she ripped off her folks when she left?

  His biting question echoed in her mind. Was that what he meant, that she'd known Melissa had committed a theft and helped her anyway? That had to be it. Although she'd never really admitted she'd known about the things Melissa had stolen, Cruz was too adept at such things not to have seen the knowledge in her face. Harboring a runaway was one thing, but a thief was something else, she supposed. At least to a cop, who no doubt wouldn't care that Melissa had had reasons for what she did. That, he would say, is not the business of the police.

  But she couldn't quite believe it of him, that he would be so coldhearted about a frightened, pregnant girl. But then his answer to her own question came back to her.