by Rachel Lee
Now, even after his self-disappointment last night he was prepared to put it all on the line again to keep her safe.
She had done nothing at all to deserve that from him. To earn it. It spoke eloquently to his character.
And she was going to miss him like hell. It was almost worth waiting here for a murderer to strike again just so she could spend these moments lying beside him.
Or maybe it was worth it. All of it. Everything that had brought her to this moment and this place.
Because her life would have been a whole lot poorer if she had never met Hank Jackson, and it would be immeasurably poorer when she left.
If only he had evinced a desire, a mere wish, for her to stay when this was over. But he hadn’t, not once. Nor could she imagine why he would even suggest it. He hadn’t exactly overwhelmed her with his description of this town, and she often got the feeling that he viewed her as a city girl and himself as a mere cowboy. As if they had nothing in common and never would.
She sighed, quietly she thought, but it was enough to make Hank’s eyes snap open.
“You okay?” he asked. He didn’t sound at all sleepy or groggy. Amazing.
“Sorry, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been sleeping with my ears open.”
She wanted to sink into his embrace, to make love, to pretend that everything was fine, the day glorious, and maybe even imagine the man beside her cared about her in ways beyond keeping her alive.
But that didn’t happen. He lifted his free arm, glanced at his watch.
“Time,” he said.
“Time for what?”
“Time to shower, to eat, to get ready.” He gave her a quick squeeze with one arm, then disentangled himself from her, leaving her feeling bereft.
“What’s the rush?” she asked almost irritably.
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not going to fall on my face this time.”
She snapped up into a sitting position. “Stop it, Hank. Just stop it.”
“Why? It’s true. I have to compensate. I’m not the guy I used to be.”
“Has it occurred to you that maybe you’re a better guy now?” She jumped out of bed, grabbing for her duffel, planning to shower and change.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I’m all busted up. I couldn’t make a single freaking tackle last night, something I used to be able to do without even thinking about it.”
“So?”
“So?”
“Yeah, so?” She faced him, angry and not even sure why, except that reality was screwing up things again, and she couldn’t stand to hear him put himself down. Angry because they should be making love like ordinary people instead of leaping out of bed because some killer wanted another swipe at her.
Hell, she was just angry.
“What did I miss?” he asked, apparently getting a little angry, too. “Some part of your personal mental conversation I’m not privy to? I screwed up last night. I’d be an idiot to ignore my limitations again. What’s your problem with that?”
“I hate to hear you put yourself down. You fell. Anyone could fall.”
“Not because their hip gave out.”
“Big deal. A million people could have had a knee give out. Or could have tripped on something. When did perfection become your personal standard for worth?”
He opened his mouth, but then snapped it closed. “Watch it,” he said quietly.
“Why? I’m beginning to wonder if the only thing you care about is making up for what happened to your friends. Well, if that’s what you need, Hank Jackson, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I can take care of myself!”
She was almost out the door when the cruelty of what she had just said hit her. Instantly, she felt the blood drain from her head, and she swayed, grabbing the door frame. “Hank, I’m sorry.”
“Too late,” he said harshly. “You can take your pop psychology and shove it. If I made any mistake, it was thinking that I could actually help you out.”
Then he shoved through the door beside her and disappeared into the kitchen. He didn’t leave the house, but considering how he’d left her feeling, he might as well have.
She had thought she knew loneliness. But nothing in her life had prepared her for the loneliness Hank left in his wake.
He slammed pans around in the kitchen, only because he wasn’t the type to punch a hole in the wall, much as he felt like it.
Yeah, he felt like a failure after that missed tackle last night. Yeah, it had reminded him of Fran and Allan, although he knew perfectly well that the circumstances had been different. Hell, he’d been through enough therapy after that to have a thoroughly shrunken head. His hang-ups had all been hung out to dry, and, in the process, most had disappeared. He still grieved, he still felt bad, and survivor guilt might dog him forever, but he wasn’t walking around looking for a bandage to put on the wound anymore.
And for her to accuse him of that made him madder than a hornet. All he was doing was recognizing his physical limitations. That was realistic, not neurotic.
When he had banged the pots enough to realize that it wasn’t giving him any more satisfaction, he set about making a hearty meal. If there was one thing he knew from his years as a firefighter, it was that you couldn’t afford to let your energy level ebb. Not ever. And if that meant eating when you were angry, or upset, or just not hungry, sometimes you had to do it, because that call would come and running out without sufficient fuel in your system made you a whole lot less effective.
He made home fries from scratch. He made a mound of scrambled eggs seasoned with green pepper and onions, he pulled a gallon of orange juice from the refrigerator. It cast him back to his days at the firehouse, and gradually his mood improved. He knew he’d made more food than the two of them could possibly eat, but he didn’t care. Cooking for a horde, even one that wasn’t there, had always put him in a better frame of mind.
“That’s a lot of food,” Kelly said quietly.
He turned from the table to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, her hair still damp, her duffel over her shoulder.
“You’re not leaving,” he said.
“I should. I said something unforgivable.”
“We’re on edge. We may say other things before this is over.”
“I’m still sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
He regarded her, at once sad and weary. “The only question I have is this: Did you believe it? Do you believe it?”
“No.” She shook her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek, making him feel like an ogre. “I was angry. I’m just so angry about this mess. My whole life is crumbling because my ex wants me dead, and I missed the chance to end it last night because the guy he sent after me evidently has a brain. So now I don’t know how long it will be, or how much more of this…” Her voice broke. “And I hate to hear you put yourself down. When I said that…I was just trying to say you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, and that was the most extreme thing that popped into my head so you’d stop.”
He could see that, he supposed. She probably read his honest assessment of his limitations as self-pity, and she’d chose something cutting to say to shake him out of it. And being angry…well, he knew all about that, he supposed. He could still wince when he remembered some of the things he’d said in anger after the building collapse. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s forget it. And you have to eat. Want to or not, it’s important. This wouldn’t be a good time to run out of energy.”
“No.” But she still didn’t move.
“Dammit, Kelly, you’re not leaving. If you do, I’m going to be right on your heels. So just drop that dang bag and get in here and eat before it all turns cold.”
The duffel slid slowly to the floor, and looking almost like a chastised kid, she came to sit at the table. He started heaping food on her plate. “Eat as much as you can. I won’t make you clean your plate.”
&nb
sp; Then he filled his own and sat facing her. He waited until she picked up her fork and speared a potato.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said after a moment. “I had a good year of therapy after the accident. I don’t have a whole lot of hang-ups left. I sure as hell have nothing to prove. I just want to keep you safe. And to do that, I have to recognize my limitations.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize again. You don’t need to do it, and I don’t need to hear it. We all say things we regret later, and half the time we don’t even know why we said them. You didn’t commit a mortal sin, and I’m over it, okay?”
“Okay.” She ate another potato.
“In fact,” he said a little while later, “I’m actually glad you got mad at me.”
Her head jerked up and she stared at him from wide blue eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Because if there’s one thing that’s clear to me now, it’s that Dean didn’t cow you. Not one little bit.”
At that, a tiny smile crept into the corners of her mouth, lifting them.
He felt his own heart lift at the sight. More than it should have. Warning bells tried to sound in his head, telling him he was getting too deeply involved, but he ignored them.
Life would deal the deck as life chose. If there was one thing he’d finally learned, it was that very little was controllable. The good and the bad just happened. And when it came to people, there was no hedge against the pain. It either happened or it didn’t.
“I need to go back to my place,” Kelly said that evening. They’d spent what was left of the afternoon playing cards, holding hands and gazing into one another’s eyes a little more than they probably should have. The smoke of desire had been wafting around them the whole time, but evidently neither of them wanted to give in to it just then. Maybe because they were both too tense, and neither of them could fully relax.
Hank looked at her. “Why?”
“Because he won’t come after me when he thinks someone else is around.”
“Gage thinks he’ll count me out.”
“I don’t count you out. Why should he?”
He could think of plenty of reasons, including his falling flat on his face last night. But he decided not to argue, even though his stomach had just done a flip, and her decision was about to give him an acute anxiety attack.
“I need this to be over,” she said again. “I need it to be done. I can’t keep this up. So I’m going back. I’m giving him his chance. And this time I won’t be waiting in the bedroom.”
“Look,” he said, “he already suspects something because of the wind chimes and the quick police response. There’s no reason to think he’ll go back there now. He’s more likely to come here.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because if I were him I’d assume you heard him break in, that you called 9-1-1, and there was a fast response because this is a small town. And if you stay here tonight, he’s likely to think your guard is completely down because you’re not alone.”
He watched her think about that, glad that she was thinking it through, not arguing from impulse.
“This is getting beyond enough,” she said finally. “I’ll never be rid of him unless we catch him. But you can’t follow me everywhere any more than a cop can. We’ve got to give him an opening and hope he takes it.”
This whole situation began to strike him as impossible, but he didn’t say that out loud. It would serve no purpose.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll walk you home later. Much later. I’ll leave you on the front porch. And then I’ll head out like I’m going to take a walk. I’ll look as lame as I can manage.”
She surprised him with a little laugh. “Like a bird pretending to have a broken wing to protect her nest.”
“It works for birds.” He responded with a smile of his own, even though he was feeling sicker by the minute at the risk she was proposing. But she was right. They had to give the guy his opportunity, or live like this indefinitely.
“Just don’t lock your doors,” he said. “If I have to fumble with a key, last night is going to look like a ballet.”
She laughed genuinely then, and the sound lifted his heart. “I guess you’d better let Gage know or he’ll come to the wrong house when I hit the beeper.”
“And just so you know, I’m not going to be that far away. It’s going to look like I’m out for a long walk—maybe to Mahoney’s bar—but I’ll be skulking in backyards as long as I don’t get arrested.” His tone brooked no argument.
Once again he had to hand it to her for guts. He just didn’t know if his own gut could stand it.
It was past eleven when they stood on her porch. The night had quieted down—few folks were stirring. They had planned this conversation, and he hoped it sounded natural.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come to Mahoney’s with me?” he asked, just loudly enough to ensure that his voice carried.
“Sorry, Hank, I’m exhausted from last night. I just need to sleep. But thanks anyway.”
“Sure.”
He bent to kiss her lightly, murmuring for her to be careful, then hobbled down the steps, trying to make it look as if he’d hurt himself more last night.
“Take your truck,” she called after him.
“Nah. I need to work out the kinks. The walk will do me good.” He gave a little wave and headed down the street.
It all looked perfectly natural, including his exaggerated limp. Difficult though it was not to look back, he kept walking, but his neck prickled with the certainty that someone was watching.
He rounded the corner at last, walked halfway down the block, then started his cut back through neighbors’ yards, taking care not to pass anywhere near the Calvins’ yard where their dog would start barking.
But the guy had to have figured out about the dog, too, in his recon. So he’d be coming from the other direction, right?
So Hank hoped. As soon as he hit the shadows, he slowed down and moved with every bit of stealth he could muster. It wouldn’t do to scare the guy off again.
Kelly stood on the porch for a while, watching Hank walk away, then pretending to take in the night’s quiet. Inside, she was a taut bundle of nerves, but she wanted to do everything possible to make it look as if she believed last night had just been a random break-in. There was no reason on earth for the guy to think she knew he had followed her. Not with the Miami PD claiming his first attack had been a mugging. Not when she’d been on the run for weeks.
She was betting her life tonight that he believed she felt reasonably safe.
The thought caused a chill to run through her, but she suppressed the shiver. It was getting cold out here, though. In Miami, the water kept the difference between day and night temperatures minimal. Here, when the sun went down, there was little to hang onto the day’s heat.
Finally, deciding she had looked relaxed enough, or at least she had done so as long as she possibly could, she went inside.
She flipped on a few lights, trying to act as she would any evening. A stop in the kitchen for water, a quick trip to the bathroom. Then, switching off lights behind her, she went to the bedroom, where she bunched up pillows under the covers. The hammer was still there, lying on the floor. She picked it up and put it on the bed. Watching the clock, she forced herself to wait twenty minutes before she turned off the light as if she were going to sleep.
It was the quietest night yet here. She worried that that might put him off.
But almost in answer to her thoughts, she heard a breeze kick up. The house creaked a little, the leaves outside rustled. Good.
And once again she took up her station in the corner near the door. He would expect her to be in bed. The element of surprise would help her.
She told herself every positive thing she could think of, trying to hold off the tension and anxiety as long as possible. He’d wait a while, until he felt reasonably certain that she was asleep. But this time he w
ould know to avoid the wind chimes.
Front door, she decided. It was the only way for him to come in without walking through the kitchen.
The only way that would minimize the sounds the chimes made.
God, time crept by.
Then she heard it. The unmistakable tinkle of the wind chimes. Faint. Barely audible. She nearly held her breath, hoping that this time he wouldn’t be scared off. Man, he must be as tired of this cat-and-mouse game as she was.
Then nothing. Absolute silence except for the sighing of the breeze in the trees. He was waiting, she was sure. Waiting to see if there was any reaction to the chimes.
Maybe they hadn’t been what scared him off last night. Maybe something else had made him take flight. Maybe he’d heard her move in her bedroom. Because she had. She remembered standing up, getting ready. Or maybe he’d heard Hank come barreling out of his house.
Thinking about it now, she was sure that must have been it, and not the chimes at all. They were so quiet. But when she’d heard them last night, she’d pressed the beeper and Hank had come running out…and she suspected he hadn’t been trying to be quiet.
Tonight there would be no sound from Hank’s house. No sound of a door opening, no sound of hurried, limping footsteps on his back stoop. No other warning but the wind chimes.
The quiet minutes dragged. She fingered the beeper but refused to push it yet. She had to be sure because if he escaped again she was almost certain he wouldn’t try once more here. No, he’d wait for a moment when she was out somewhere by herself, and sooner or later she was going to have to walk to the store or something. Because she couldn’t stay locked in forever, and Hank couldn’t possibly be there every moment.
So it had to be tonight.
Twenty minutes passed. She had just about made up her mind that she’d imagined the sounds when she heard a quiet, creeping step outside. He was moving through the house cautiously, carefully, as silently as he could.
At least he probably didn’t have a gun, she told herself. A gunshot would wake the whole neighborhood. A shooting death would open inquiries that would stretch all the way back to Miami once her identity was known because they would check into her past. So what did he plan to do?