"That's what I said. I'll think about it."
Cait's face heated. "You'll think about helping your own daughter? What kind of man are you, anyway?"
The feeling that swept over him was different from the rage that always simmered inside him these days. He had learned to control rage.
This feeling, whatever it was, threatened the iron control he'd imposed on himself. The control that had kept him sane when he'd been shackled like a vicious animal. The control that had kept him from shriveling up inside when he'd been stripped and searched and shut into a space no bigger than a closet with two other guys.
"Treat a man like an animal long enough and he becomes one," he said impassively. "He stops caring about anything but himself."
"Not all men."
His mouth twisted. "All men."
"I don't believe that," she whispered. "Not of you. Not … of the man I knew."
Something shifted in his eyes, but his voice didn't change. "Give a man enough time to think and he learns things about himself that he hates. Put a man in hell and he does things to survive that no man should have to do. Things that make him sick inside. The worst part comes when you can't even feel sick anymore."
"Survival is a strong instinct. You shouldn't be ashamed of giving in to it."
"Who said I'm ashamed?"
"Aren't you?"
"What I am is angry the way a man has a right to be when he finds out he's been shafted by his own wife and daughter."
"Anger is healthy. Bitterness isn't."
"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Fielding?"
"Professional and personal."
"There's that word again. Personal. Notice how you keep coming back to it?" His hand came out to smooth the collar of her blouse, then lingered. He had surgeon's hands. Supple, deft and incredibly strong.
"You've become a beautiful woman, Cait." His gaze flickered toward her mouth. Something in his gaze spoke of a terrible self-denial.
For years she hadn't allowed herself to think of Tyler as a sexual being—as a man with a man's needs. Not since he had married her sister. She found she was thinking of him that way now.
"This isn't about me, Tyler. It's about Kelsey. And you."
One side of his mouth slanted upward, saluting her attempt at control. "A man in prison has a lot of time to think. I thought about you often. Too often."
His thumb moved slowly, hypnotically, over the small bones protecting the vulnerable hollow of her throat. She felt heat rising along the curve of her neck.
"Every night, when I tried to sleep, I saw the contempt in your eyes. Every morning I woke up with a knot in my belly. Every day I had to find a reason to stay alive." His fingers tightened gently until she couldn't move. "Do you know what prison is like for a guy carrying a sentence like mine? It's like being thrown into a filthy black pit with no air and no light and no chance of escape."
Cait's eyes went wide with the pain that shafted through her. No man could hurt that much. It wasn't possible.
"Try to understand, Tyler," she pleaded softly. "I had to think of Kelsey. I couldn't take a chance that she was wrong. I'm sorry if you were hurt, but a man who truly loved his daughter would be grateful that I was trying to protect her, not feeling sorry for himself the way you are right now."
The color slowly drained from Tyler's face, only to return an instant later in a wash of dull red. "Get out, Cait. Before I do something that really is criminal."
"You won't hurt me. I know you."
Something flashed in his eyes. "No, Cait, you don't know me. Not the man I am now. Not the man you and your sister made me. I hope to God you never do."
Before she could react, Tyler dropped his hand and brushed past her. By the time she gathered her composure and turned, he was gone.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
It was close to ten when Cait pulled into Hazel's driveway and hurried to the front door. Hazel answered on the third ring. She was wearing a paint-spattered sweatshirt over an old pair of jeans and a painter's hat.
"How did it go?" she asked a split second before she began to frown. "Never mind. I can see."
She stepped back to let Cait enter. "Watch out for the ladder. I'm painting the entryway."
Cait glanced at her friend's shirt. "And yourself. I see."
Hazel laughed as she bolted the door. "Let's say that I don't let neatness slow me down."
She led the way into the kitchen, where she headed directly to the coffeemaker on the counter. She poured Cait a cup and silently handed it to her.
Cait smiled her thanks before taking a few sips. Because she hadn't eaten since noon, the caffeine hit her system undiluted, blasting some of the heaviness from her brain.
"Whoa, I needed that."
Hazel paused with the pot poised over her own cup. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse." Cait walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Hazel finished pouring her coffee, replaced the pot on the warmer and joined Cait at the table.
"You saw him?"
"I saw him."
"And?"
Cait wrapped her hands around her mug. "And I don't know."
Hazel turned sideways, but her gaze remained on Cait's face. "Did he agree to write the letter?"
"No."
"He refused?" Hazel's voice held a hint of disbelief.
Cait shook her head. "Actually, I never got around to explaining our strategy."
"Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning," Hazel suggested in a dry tone.
One by one, in the logical, emotional way of a trained therapist, Cait recounted the details of her visit. It took fifteen minutes. When she was finished, she was suddenly exhausted.
Hazel shifted in her chair until her feet were tucked under her and her elbows were resting on the table. Her expression was somber. "Tyler McClane sounds like a man in terrible pain."
Cait nodded. "It's like he's a different person. A stranger I'm half-afraid to get to know. There's an emptiness behind his eyes that scares me."
"I know what you mean. I've seen it, too, when I was doing my internship in a VA Hospital in Kentucky. In guys who had been POWs in Vietnam, mostly. Although the worst case I ever saw was a medic, a navy corpsman who was working with me on one of the wards after he'd returned from the war zone.
"Ryan was a cold bastard. Sarcastic with the patients. Unfeeling to the point of cruelty. I never once saw him smile. The guys on the ward called him a walking iceberg."
Cait had known Hazel for seven years. She'd seen her in all sorts of moods. She'd seen her on good days and on bad. But she had never heard such depth of feeling in her voice before.
"What happened?"
Hazel took a quick swallow, then slowly lowered her mug to the table. A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "You know me and my big mouth. One day I laid into him. Told him that he was a poor excuse for a medic and a man."
She stopped and drew a ragged breath. "That night he swiped a scalpel from the OR and sliced his own throat. It was touch and go, but we finally pulled him through."
"Oh, my God!"
"Turns out he was just the opposite of all the things I accused him of being. He cared too much. He took every casualty personally. He felt responsible for the guys he treated in the field who didn't make it. Each time he lost a patient, he stuffed his feelings a little deeper so he wouldn't hurt so much. Finally he just … lost himself."
"Did you help him?"
Hazel shook her head. "He never forgave me for the things I said. He refused to let me near him. I heard later that he left the navy and just … disappeared." Her chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "I've said a few prayers for him over the years. I hope they've done some good."
Silence settled as both women withdrew into their own thoughts. The clock on the wall ticked off the minutes until five had passed.
Cait gulped a mouthful of now-tepid coffee. It left a bitter aftertaste.
"Oh, Hazel, if y
ou'd seen Tyler's face when I told him that Kelsey had admitted lying. For an instant, no longer than … than the blink of an eye, he looked as though I had just given him the most precious gift in the world. I would swear I saw a wild kind of joy in his eyes. And then it was gone."
Hazel walked to the counter, returning an instant later with the coffeepot. She refilled Cait's cup and then her own before placing the now-empty pot on one of the straw place mats.
"Give him time, Cait. You laid a heavy load on him today. And right out of left field, too. If he's the man you think he is, he'll work it out."
Cait bit her lip. What kind of a man was he, really? For years she had tried to erase Tyler McClane from her mind. He was dead to her and Kelsey, she'd told herself.
In a way, he was, she realized now. The man she had known, the man she had loved, was gone, replaced by a man with flint in his eyes and a terrible bitterness in his heart.
Because she couldn't bear that thought, she changed the subject. "What about Jackson Lamont? Did you ever talk to him?"
Hazel grimaced. "No, and I think he's stonewalling."
"Keep trying. I'll try, too, first thing Monday morning."
Hazel glanced over her shoulder. "How about we mix us up a batch of fudge and eat it all? Chocolate's better than booze any day for chasing the blues."
Cait thought about the cheap wine Angie had served her. It had been harsh and cutting. Like Tyler's memories.
Did he have someone to listen to him the way Hazel listened to her? A friend? Angie?
The cup she was holding clattered to the saucer. Hazel's gaze shot to her face and held there.
"What's wrong?"
"I've got to get home," she muttered as she got to her feet. "About that fudge, I'll take a rain check."
"Too tired?"
"Exhausted. And I want to check on Kels, make sure she's all right. I don't like to be gone too long."
Hazel got to her feet. "Cait, don't beat up on yourself. Okay?"
Cait hugged her friend. "I promise."
They walked together to the entryway. Cait opened the door, then turned to thank Hazel again. "I owe you a big one."
"Hey, what're friends for?" Hazel said in a light tone, but her eyes remained somber.
"I'll call you tomorrow."
Hazel's smile dimmed. "You still care about him, don't you?" she said softly.
Cait stared into the darkness. Clouds covered the stars, and wind rustled the bare branches. It was a lonely sound. A sad sound.
Her thoughts turned back to the night Tyler had admitted fathering her sister's baby. She had come close to walking into the sea that night.
"No," she whispered into the cold blackness. "I can't afford to care about him ever again." She walked alone into the night.
* * *
It was a few hours past closing time at the Lucky Horseshoe. The streets were empty. Shops were locked up tight. The tourists had long since left. The locals slept behind locked doors. Even the town's stray dogs had ceased their nocturnal prowling.
Tyler strode alone through the streets. The air was cold. The wind was from the north and carried a threat of snow. It stung his unshaved face and tossed his hair over his forehead.
He turned his face into the wind. The smells of winter were strong now. Wood smoke from dying fireplace fires. Pungent autumn leaves that had gone unraked. The first tart hint of snow.
From someplace behind him, Tyler heard an owl screech. It was a familiar sound to someone raised on a ranch. And a lonely one.
How many others in town were awake to hear it? he wondered. A sleepy mama nursing her newborn? A daddy calming his daughter's nightmare? Lovers curled together under warm covers?
Tyler quickened his pace. The restlessness was on him again. Walking helped. But no matter how hot his muscles burned or how exhausted he became, he couldn't drive Cait from his mind. Nothing had ever been able to do that.
Ten years ago he had wanted her with a young man's quick, selfish impatience. But even then Cait was a woman who deserved commitment from a man, not a hurried coupling on an empty bed in a sterile hospital room.
Someday, he had promised himself. When he had more to offer her than a shabby studio apartment and a pile of college loans. Someday when his future was assured. And then along had come Crystal.
She had been like a bright, vivacious comet blazing across the sky, eclipsing Cait's steady light. He knew now that she had played him like a pro. Asking his advice. Telling him her troubles. Offering to rub his tired shoulders when he stumbled home drained and exhausted after a long, difficult shift in the OR.
He had wanted her the way a man wants any beautiful sexy woman; he'd also known that an affair with her would kill any chance he had with Cait. His refusal had only made Crystal increase her attempts to seduce him. It had been a game to her, one she'd been determined to win.
One cold, rainy morning he had come home after thirty hours of duty to find her waiting for him. This time, unlike the others, she'd had a welcoming kiss on her lips and nothing beneath her trench coat but warm, bare skin.
Perhaps, if he hadn't been so exhausted…
Perhaps, if he'd had time to think about the consequences of taking what she was so enticingly offering…
Tyler uttered a silent, vicious curse. No use looking for excuses now. He had done what he'd done. He'd also regretted it as soon as he emerged from his foggy state the next morning. That afternoon, he'd told Crystal not to come around again.
The names she'd called him had been crude and accurate. He'd accepted her scorn because he'd deserved it. He'd also promised, although reluctantly and only after much tearful pleading from Crystal, not to say anything to Cait.
That had been the end of his infatuation with Crystal. Or so he'd thought. Until two months later, when she had presented him with the consequences: a baby on the way and a demand that he marry her—or there would be no baby.
Self-centered fool that he'd been then, he'd made a stupid mistake. But, God help him, he had paid a price that no man should have to pay.
He aimed a savage kick at a clump of dirt on the sidewalk. The noise ran like a hollow echo down the deserted street. He followed the lonely sound into the silent hills.
It was dawn before he returned.
* * *
Two days later Tyler drove to Sacramento to keep his regularly scheduled appointment with his parole officer, a middle-aged, overweight, balding bureaucrat named Harvey Shuffler. From the first interview, Shuffler had made known his intention to make the next two years a living hell. If the past eight months were an example, the man would succeed beyond his wildest hopes. Tyler was still seething from the endless questions and insults when he arrived at Jess Dante's office in Old Sacramento.
The two had met in grammar school when they'd been rivals for a rosy-cheeked little charmer named Melissa Jane Roth. They'd ended up in a wild free-for-all that, to this day, each insisted he had won.
The principal had marched them to his office, where they'd sat for an hour, sporting matching black eyes and sheepish grins. They'd left the office with aching bottoms and vows of eternal friendship, a friendship that lasted all through junior high and high school.
Both had left the mountains after they'd graduated—Tyler to work his way through Stanford, Dante to begin a meteoric rise as a Formula One race driver.
Eight years ago he was well on his way to number one in the world when a fiery accident during the Indianapolis 500 had cost him his right arm.
He'd returned to California and law school. In the close-knit society of the legal profession, he was known as a bulldog, a hard-as-nails tough guy who never gave up if he believed in his client's innocence. He was also known to turn down lucrative fees if there was any suggestion that a prospective client was lying to him.
Prosecutors and judges respected him. Very few liked him. Even few knew the man behind the aggressive words and tough bargaining. Tyler knew.
Dante had been one of the few people
he'd known who had stood by him. During the trial, Dante had made the two-hour drive from Sacramento to San Francisco twice daily. He had put in long, arduous hours on a case that his colleagues warned him might very well damage his own promising career.
After Tyler's conviction, Dante had gone to Vacaville once a month to visit, the only visitor Tyler ever had. Nothing relating to Tyler's conviction was ever said between the two men. Nothing had to be said. They were friends. They usually had dinner when Tyler was in town. With Shuffler's permission, of course.
Dante's office was located in a renovated hotel that had once housed one of the most fashionable brothels of the gold rush days.
The inside walls had been stripped of the garish wallpaper to reveal handmade bricks. The floor, bare now of the thick plush carpeting, was pitted and scored with the marks of countless high-heeled slippers. The gaudy Victorian furniture had been replaced by modern chrome and leather.
Tyler had seen it for the first time on the day he'd been released from prison. Dante had been waiting for him outside the walls. They'd driven the distance to Sacramento in silence. Safe behind the old brick walls, Dante had gotten him quietly and thoroughly drunk, a violation of his parole that neither had ever mentioned again.
Dante was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone when Tyler entered. Like Tyler, Dante was taller than average. Also like Tyler, he carried most of his bulk in his powerful shoulders and torso. He was wearing his usual office attire—rumpled corduroy trousers, plaid shirt and a tie that belonged in a psychedelic nightmare.
As Tyler approached the desk, Dante grinned and nodded toward a chair. Instead, Tyler shed his jacket and walked to the window. Hands in his back pockets, he looked down at the angry snarl of rush-hour traffic.
It was little more than a month to Christmas. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men, he thought with a hard slant to his mouth. Last year and for two years before that, he had spent the holiday with four thousand other caged men. This year he would spend it alone. He wasn't sure which was worse.
Eyes narrowed, his gaze followed the streetlights toward the suburb of Fair Oaks, where Cait lived. He had her address and phone number memorized, but he had never been to her house. It wasn't permitted under the terms of his parole.
PAROLED! Page 5