His Witness, Her Child

by Ann Voss Peterson

  Like a normal seven-year-old. Jacqueline savored that thought, rolling it around in her mind like fine wine on the palate. Maybe someday everything could be normal again. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of that possibility since the night their nightmare had begun.

  Dillon held the door open and gazed down at her. “After you, ma’am.” A look just short of a smile spread over his lips and crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. A look steeped in wanting. A look just for her.

  A tremor scrambled along her nerves. Grabbing the handrail for support, she mounted the steps to the door. The doorway was narrow, and he didn’t move when she wedged in next to him to enter. So close she could feel the heat of his body. So close she could smell his clean, masculine scent.

  She wanted him to take her in his strong arms right there. Hold her and never let her go. She knew the way his body felt pressed against hers, the way his skin smelled, the way his lips tasted. And she wanted to experience those sensations again. And again. She wanted more than a single kiss. More than a single night.

  And that was the problem. A single night was all Dillon could offer. He’d given his heart to his crusade long ago. And that was one thing even the magic in Mylinski’s cabin couldn’t change. Composing herself, she slid past him into the cabin.

  Once inside, she tried to focus on the cabin’s interior and not on the man next to her.

  The cabin was larger inside than she’d anticipated—two good-sized bedrooms and a fairly big room that included the kitchen and living area.

  In one corner a basketball-sized beehive, the bees long since dead, hung from the ceiling. In another, a bass swam across an oak plaque. She glanced around at the comfortable, rustic furniture. The warm kitchen. The thick rugs dotting the floor. This place felt cozy. A place to rest. A place to heal. A place to fill her soul.

  Soaking in the music of Amanda’s giggle and Dillon’s only-for-her look, she could almost believe this place was magical. That it could change things.

  She could almost believe they were safe.

  THE PHONE RANG.

  Buck Swain swore as he ran the brass brush through the barrel of his weapon one more time. He knew what would be on the other end of the phone line. More orders. More complaints. And he didn’t want to hear it.

  He hadn’t told his “partner” about his failure to take care of the girl and her mother when he’d chased them from Reese’s house. He hadn’t wanted to put up with the flak. His failure made him angry enough. He didn’t need the coward’s whining complaints heaped on top of it.

  He gritted his teeth at the memory of them speeding away on that damned snowmobile. Reese and the woman would pay.

  He set the rifle carefully on the table and threaded a patch of cloth through the eye of his rod. The phone kept ringing.

  Damn. He might as well get this over. He picked up the receiver and cradled it in the crook of his neck. “Yeah?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” the angry voice erupted.

  Swain snarled and ran the patch through the barrel of his weapon. He’d had just about enough of this. If his association with the person on the other end of the line wasn’t so profitable, he might consider adding a name to his list of things that had to be taken care of. “I hope you’re calling to tell me where the girl is. Otherwise I don’t want to hear it.”

  Silence on the other end.

  The coward didn’t know. Just as Swain had expected. “So if you don’t know where she is, what do you want?”

  “I’ll find her. Soon,” the smooth voice promised. “I got a little help from an unexpected source today.”

  “What source?”

  He could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. “Suffice it to say that every cop in the county is looking for her.”

  Swain twisted the cap closed on his bottle of solvent and rolled his eyes. “And how is that supposed to help us?”

  “Can you pull off another shot like the one you took at Val Wallace, the bartender? Or was that just dumb luck?”

  Swain looked at his weapon lying dismantled on the table. A few more minutes and it would be squared away. A thrill worked up his spine. The kind of thrill he always got when thinking about a difficult shot. He smiled and ran his fingers over the smooth, cold barrel of his weapon. The tougher the shot, the better.

  He pushed out of his mind the fact that this shot would be aimed at a kid. A man had to do what he had to do. “There’s no such thing as luck, dumb or otherwise. Not where my shooting is concerned. The girl is as good as dead.”

  “And the mother and Reese, too. I’ve had it with the lot of them.”

  Swain smiled. As if he needed this coward’s permission. He’d planned to kill Reese all along. “Just tell me where and when.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dillon leaned against the doorjamb and watched Jacqueline tuck the blankets securely around Amanda’s little body and go through their bedtime ritual of back rubs and I-love-yous. He drank in the sound of Jacqueline’s voice, studying the drape of her hair, the curve of her neck as she ran her hand over her little girl’s back.

  Taking a deep breath of the cabin’s slightly musty air, he rolled his shoulders. The knot that had twisted when he’d walked into that motel room and found them gone had finally loosened a touch. But relaxation was still far from his reach.

  Seeing Jacqueline in such an intimate setting, hearing her voice, smelling her sweet vanilla scent wound another kind of tension, nearly as painful, deep inside him. She was a beautiful woman, yes, but no beautiful woman had ever affected him this way before. She was more than merely a pretty face and a tempting body. Much more. She was a unique blend of strength and vulnerability, a wounded warrior, a fierce mother. One moment she looked as if she was on the edge of breaking down, the next she was driving a snowmobile into the line of fire to save his life.

  And he’d never wanted any woman more.

  His fingertips itched to touch her satin skin. His lips ached to kiss her long, graceful neck. But he couldn’t have her. Not the way he wanted. Not the way she deserved.

  He’d grown up in a small, close-knit family, and he’d always assumed he’d have a little brood of his own, a woman like Jacqueline wearing his ring and cuddled in his arms on cold winter nights.

  But he’d given up those expectations, those dreams, ten years ago. He couldn’t go back to them. No matter how much he wanted to. He should know that by now. He should accept it. He’d had ten long years to get used to the idea. Instead of a family, he had his work. Instead of love, he had the promise of justice.

  But somehow, in the warmth of her presence, he wanted to forget everything. His loss, his pain, his whole damned “crusade,” as Jacqueline called it. Everything but her.

  He tore his gaze from her and forced his feet to carry him back to the living room to the files spread across the giant wooden spool Mylinski called a coffee table. He needed to focus on finding Swain’s mole in the task force. He needed answers.

  He lowered himself to the couch and stared at the paper spread across the spool. Tonight he’d tried once again to reach Mylinski. He’d called both his home and the precinct from a tavern downriver. Again, he’d had no luck. And in spite of all the reassurances he’d given Jacqueline about the detective’s ability to take care of himself, he was beginning to worry.

  He pushed the worry from his mind and picked up a file from the table. He’d already scoured every line, every word, but he would have to do it again. And again. Until he found something. Because they couldn’t hide in this cabin forever. Sooner or later someone would find them. The police. Swain.

  And he couldn’t bear to think what could happen when their time ran out.

  JACQUELINE LEANED FORWARD and kissed Amanda’s cheek. Her little girl’s eyelids fluttered at the touch, but her breathing stayed steady, low and deep. No stirring, no waking. No signs of a nightmare.

  Jacqueline exhaled a grateful sigh and replayed in her mind the events since Dillon had
whisked them away from the motel. The patter of Amanda’s adventuring footsteps when she explored the cabin, her wide-eyed fascination with the dried beehive, the symphony of her giggle. A smile flitted across Jacqueline’s lips. Her baby was coming back.

  Thanks to Dillon.

  It seemed so long ago that she’d cursed his name, blaming him for putting her little girl in danger. He’d done so much for Amanda, for her, since then. He’d kept his promises. He’d been willing to lay down his life to protect them. He’d shown Amanda kindness, understanding, tenderness and love to bring her back from the trauma of Mark’s death and set her on the road to recovery. A blessing indeed. And more than enough to redeem him.

  She’d felt him watching her tuck Amanda under the covers, his gaze traveling over her like a warm caress, his breath a whisper in the still night.

  A deep ache seized her. An ache of loneliness. Of emptiness. Of need. How would it feel to have Dillon’s hands caressing her? To have his lips roaming over her bare skin? To have him close to her, inside her, filling her?

  But could she stand to have those things only for one night? Because that was all she would get. Dillon was with her now, but as soon as he’d resolved the case, he’d be gone. She knew this as surely as she knew anything. He lived for justice, for avenging his sister’s death.

  And she wanted more than that.

  Her fantasy would have to remain just that, a fantasy. One she would keep locked away in a private place in her heart.

  She kissed Amanda’s silken cheek, rose from the bed and padded to the door. With one last glance at her little girl, she closed the door and ventured out into the living room.

  He sat on the battered old brown couch, those intense black eyes focused on the papers spread out on the giant wooden spool in front of him. Worry lined his forehead and mouth. The muscles in his shoulders and arms were visibly taut. He pored over the papers as if through effort alone he could make the answers he was looking for appear.

  Her stocking feet silent on the vinyl floor, she crossed the room and lowered herself onto the corner of the worn cushions next to him. Her skin tingled, coming alive with his closeness. “Find anything more?”

  “Not yet.”

  She sighed. It was the same exchange they’d had countless times. Heaviness settled in the pit of her stomach. “Maybe we should face the obvious. Maybe there’s nothing in those files to find.”

  He raised his eyes from the paper. The bleak expression on his face told her he’d already considered the possibility. He shook his head stubbornly. “Maybe there isn’t. Maybe I’m wasting my time. But I can’t give up trying.”

  “You never give up, do you?” She didn’t know why she asked the question. After all, she knew the answer. Hearing him say the words wouldn’t change anything.

  He turned away from the papers, his attention riveted on her. “I won’t give up until Swain is behind bars and Amanda is safe.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “Amanda will testify at his trial. She’ll have to, Jacqueline. I’m sorry.”

  Her stomach clenched as the words left his lips. It wouldn’t be easy, but Amanda would get through it. She would put Swain in prison for good. Where he couldn’t hurt her. Where he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

  “And then what? What will happen to us?”

  He pivoted toward her on the couch, his knees almost touching hers. The naked bulb of the lamp behind him cast a harsh glare over the planes of his face and cloaked his eyes in shadow. But even through the shadow, she could see a shimmer of regret in his eyes. “You know what will happen. Amanda will go back to school. You’ll go back to brewing beer.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll go on to the next case.”

  She nodded. Of course she’d known what he would say. The very thing that made him shoulder the responsibility of protecting Amanda, that fueled his search for Swain and his accomplice, would propel him on to the next case—love for his sister, guilt over her death. But still, to have him state his intentions out loud made her feel hollow inside. “And you’ll never give up until all the murderers in Wisconsin are behind bars, right?”

  Dillon cocked his head at the resentful tone in her voice. An expression of concern passed over his face. Concern and regret. He studied her eyes, as if trying to read her thoughts. “I can’t give up. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know.” She pushed the image of his sister’s bloody body from her imagination, the image she knew haunted Dillon every hour of every day. She should stand and walk out of the room, leave him to his guilt and pain. Protect her heart and her daughter’s. But somehow she couldn’t. Not yet. She had to give it her best shot. She couldn’t tuck her feelings away without finding out once and for all whether they had even a whisper of a chance. She leaned forward and laid her fingers gently on one balled fist. “Janey’s death wasn’t your fault, Dillon. You couldn’t have prevented her death.”

  His eyes grew dark, unreadable. A muscle worked along his jaw.

  “I know you gave her the tuition money, and you bought her the bus ticket. But you couldn’t have known what would happen. No one could have known.”

  His gaze dropped to her fingers. He stared as though studying every knuckle, every nail, but she knew he couldn’t see anything through the despair clouding his vision. Silence stretched over the room, no sound but the faint ticking of a clock in the kitchen.

  “Janey deserved to go to the college of her choice, Dillon. She wanted to go. And if she was anything like her big brother, she wouldn’t have given up until she got what she wanted.”

  He raised an eyebrow as if considering her statement. Finally he nodded, still staring at her fingers with unseeing eyes. “There was no stopping her when she set her sights on something.”

  “Even if you had known something bad was going to happen, you couldn’t have stopped her.”

  “No.”

  “And would she have wanted you to focus your life on seeking justice? To the exclusion of everything else?”

  “It’s something I have to do.”

  “To ease your guilt?”

  He raised his eyes to hers, their black intensity sending a shiver through her that shook her bones. “To make things right.”

  The conviction in his eyes, in his voice drove into her heart like a cold steel blade. But she couldn’t leave it at that. She still couldn’t force herself to walk away. She had to push, she had to fight. For him. And for her. “Your crusade won’t bring Janey back.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I have to face that every day?”

  “Then what good is it all?”

  “It’s no good. None of it is any good.” He covered her hand with his and let out a tortured breath. “I always thought I would have a family of my own. A wife, kids, a real home. But I can’t do that now. Not with what happened to Janey. Not with her murderer still out there. Not with all the murderers still out there.”

  “Don’t you think she’d want you to have those things? Don’t you think that she would want you to be happy?”

  “I’m sure she would. And maybe I will be someday. Maybe someday I can make a difference. Maybe someday I can set things right. But until then, I can’t pretend that murders don’t happen, that other families aren’t losing the people they love. I can’t just pretend. I have to do something.”

  “For Janey?”

  He nodded. His shoulders seemed to droop with despair. “And for myself.”

  Sadness seeped into her, sadness and loss and regret so deep it penetrated her bones and seeped into her soul. “I wish…” She let her words trail off, not wanting to face the anguish in her heart, not wanting to put it out in the open. She tore her gaze from his and focused on her hands in her lap, joined with his.

  He raised a hand to her face. Running his fingers gently along her jaw, he lifted her chin, compelling her to look at him. “What do you wish?”

  “I wish your crusade wasn’t so personal.”r />
  His brow furrowed.

  Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. Her throat ached with emotion. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed the words from her mouth. “I want you, Dillon. All of you. And while justice is the focus of your life, I can’t have you.”

  Silence buzzed in her ears. Even the ticking of the clock seemed to have stopped. He remained still, frozen except for his eyes. Sadness hung in their depths like shadows. Shadows so thick, daylight could never dispel them.

  Untangling her hands from his, she stood and forced her legs to carry her toward the short hall leading to the bedrooms.

  “Jacqueline.” His smoky drawl wrapped around her name with such intimacy, it stole her breath.

  She stopped but didn’t turn to look at him. Seeing the regret in his eyes would be too wrenching. Too painful.

  “Just so you know, I wish, too.”

  She swallowed. She did know. But it didn’t change anything. Nothing could.

  DILLON STARED at the shadows of trees that reached through the windows and splayed across the bedroom’s darkened ceiling. He’d been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, reviewing Jacqueline’s words in his mind. If only he could have told her that his crusade for justice wouldn’t come between them. If only he could have taken her in his arms right then, kissed her and promised her the world.

  Instead he lay in bed alone, watching the quarter moon rise in the sky, straining to hear sounds of her rustling in the next bedroom, cursing himself, his crusade, his life. He couldn’t give Jacqueline what she wanted. What she needed. What he needed, as well. The loss was too thick in his heart. The pain too acute. He couldn’t change the past. And without changing the past, he couldn’t change his future.

  A noise in the hallway caught his attention. The soft padding of feet. The quiet whisper of breath. Her figure glided into his room, the soft curves of her body silhouetted against the moonlight and shadow stretching through the window. She clasped the front of his wrinkled white dress shirt closed with her hand, the buttons undone, the shirttail brushing the tops of her bare thighs. Her hair fell loose, draping her shoulders like a cloak.