He shouldn't have left her at all.
What happened between them in Kaycee had been too important to ignore. He'd said that stupid stuff about the Twilight Zone—about pretending that night had never happened—and it had eased her fears about sleeping with him.
Why hadn't he been man enough to put the same ef fort into soothing her fears afterward?
They belonged together. That was a fact, sure as horses ate hay. Why hadn't he found a way to help her deal with it?
Instead he'd taken the easy way out. Hightailed it home. And almost gotten his arm caught in the baler be cause he wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. All he could think about was Libby. Libby, naked in his arms. Libby, her back arched, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Libby, looking up at him, open, trusting. Libby wav ing as he drove away, looking solitary and forlorn as she turned and walked toward her tiny house, alone and vulnerable in the wide, vacant landscape.
How could he have driven away from that scene? Why hadn't he turned around and gone back, taken her in his arms, and sworn to stay with her forever?
He took the porch steps two at a time as Ivan vaulted out of the truck bed. A deputy opened the front door and nodded to him as the dog trotted past, intent on his mistress.
"Rawlins is here, boss," the deputy called. "Okay if we go join the search?"
"Sure. I'll be right with you."
"And hey, there's some kind of weird animal out here," the deputy said. "Looks like a buzzard or some thing. Keeps rushing the cruisers, pecking at the tires. You want me to shoot it?"
"No!" Luke turned in time to see Wild Thing dart under one of the police cars. "That's her pet. Well, sort of."
"Pretty weird pet," the deputy muttered. "Thing looks like some kind of mutant."
Cash was kneeling beside Libby, his hand on the back of the chair where she crouched with a blanket clenched in both hands. Luke resisted the impulse to push the sheriff away and take his place. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded to Libby.
Nodded.
What an idiot.
Last night he'd been making her writhe and moan, and now all he could do was nod like a casual acquaintance.
Meanwhile, Ivan trotted up and laid his head in her lap, looking up at her with an expression of absolute ado ration. She buried her fingers in the fur at the ruff of the dog's neck and bent down to rest her cheek on his head.
The dog knew more about women than he did.
Pathetic.
Cash hiked up his gun belt and scooped his hat off the table. "You might need to take her to the hospital," he said to Luke. "He roughed her up pretty bad, and she's in shock."
"No," Libby said. "I'm all right."
"She probably won't go," Cash said. "Maybe some tea…"
"I'm all over it." Luke sat down beside her and waved Cash away. "You guys go ahead."
They'd go ahead, all right. They'd go ahead and solve the problem, find Mike and make Libby feel safe. Meanwhile, he'd make her a cup of tea.
He might as well put on a frilly apron and give him self a perm.
***
The rattle of a teacup teetering on a saucer preceded Luke up the stairs the next morning. Setting the cup on Libby's nightstand, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Rotgut was curled up on her pillow, his damp nose pressed against her neck. The rest of the puppies lay scattered across the comforter.
"No," Libby mumbled. "No dogs in the bed." Sitting up, she ran her fingers through her hair and squinted at Luke while she rubbed her shoulder. A dark purple bruise marked the fair skin of her upper arm. "Dang," she said, and fell back onto the pillow. "So much for my peaceful life in the country."
"You okay?" Luke asked.
"Yeah." She didn't sound sure. She ran a hand through her hair again. Her curls seemed to have mul tiplied overnight and taken on a life of their own. Luke reached out to adjust a particularly rebellious ringlet, then jerked his hand back. He'd seen something pass between her and the sheriff the night before—something that seemed almost intimate. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it was starting to look to him like a rela tionship under construction.
He couldn't blame her. He'd seduced her in that motel room, convinced her it was safe to let him in, and she'd opened herself up, just like he'd hoped—and then he'd walked away and left the door unguarded.
"Did they get him?" she asked.
It took him a minute to figure out who she was talk ing about. He'd been up all night, standing guard in the kitchen, but all he'd thought about, all night long, was the mistakes he'd made. He'd started to see himself as the villain, and forgotten there was another bad guy here—one who had actually attacked her physically. He'd only attacked her trust, her confidence, and her self-esteem.
The tussle with Mike on the doormat was nothing compared to that.
"I don't think they got Mike," he said. "Cash would have let us know."
"What am I going to do if they don't catch him?"
"Maybe you could get David to stay in your spare room," he said. "Just for a while, until you feel safe again. Or maybe the sheriff can provide a car to watch the house." He sighed. "I'd offer to stay, but I don't think I'm welcome."
Libby stared at him. "Of course you're welcome. Don't say that."
He sighed. "Oh, I know you wouldn't throw me out. But judging from the look I saw between you and Cash last night, your new boyfriend wouldn't be comfortable with me here."
"He's not my boyfriend," she protested.
"Yes he is," Luke said. "Definitely."
"No." Her brows lowered. "He'd like to be, but he's not."
Luke knew better. Even now, sitting there with him right beside her, she kept glancing out the window, no doubt watching for an approaching cruiser.
***
Boys are stupid. Libby had learned that essential fact of life in first grade, and nothing had happened since to disprove the theory. And now, the living, breathing embodiment of clueless masculinity was sitting right in front of her.
How could Luke think she'd have anything to do with Cash McIntyre? Sure, she'd let him stand a little too close after she was attacked by a raving lunatic—but that didn't mean she was going to let the guy move in.
She swung out from under the covers and perched on the edge of the bed, clasping her arms around her midriff, and tried to see things from his point of view, but all she could see was her own disillusionment.
That night in the motel had been magical. She'd never let herself go like that—never trusted anyone enough to ask for what she wanted and take what she needed.
But maybe Luke didn't know that. Maybe he thought she was Floozy Suzy all the time.
Great. She'd had the best sex of her life with the only man she'd ever… trusted, and all it had done was con vince him she was a slut. Either that, or it just hadn't been good enough for a repeat performance. Either way she was—well, not screwed. Just out of luck.
"I'd better get going," he said.
She reached out impulsively and clutched his hand. "No," she said.
"No?" He looked surprised. "You want me to stay?"
"Would you?" She lowered her eyes and plucked at the fringe on the edge of the blanket. The poor guy had probably stayed up all night, and now she was asking for more—but she couldn't bear the idea of being alone with Crazy Mike on the loose.
"I'll make you breakfast," she said.
They headed down to the kitchen, Libby limping a little where she'd twisted her ankle the night before. She busied herself whipping up omelets, while Luke grated cheese and chopped up a tomato. He was quiet the whole time, and she chafed at the awkwardness that had grown between them overnight like a mys terious and impenetrable hedge. Was it his suspicion about the sheriff? Or was it just the fact that they'd gotten to know each other a little too well in that motel room?
***
Luke was scooping up his first forkful of omelet when his cell phone rang.
"Luke?" It was his dad. "I think you'd better come home
, son."
That couldn't be good news. "Is Mom okay?"
"She's okay. She's just… well, you'd better come see for yourself."
"Dad, I need to be here. I'm worried about Libby. I told you, Mike…"
"I think this was Mike's next stop, son. You need to come home."
Panic clawed at Luke's chest. What the hell had Mike done to his mother? He clicked the phone shut and clenched his jaw. First Libby, now his mom. Mike had better hope Luke didn't run across him on the way home.
"I have to go," he said. "Something with my mom."
"Is she okay?"
Amazing, he thought. Her attacker might return any moment, and she was worried about his mother.
"Dad says she's okay. He didn't really explain, but he sounded upset." He didn't want to tell her Mike had been to his house. He didn't want to bring up Mike at all. If she could push the attack out of her mind, maybe she'd be okay until he got back.
Unless Mike turned up.
"Do you want to come with?"
"No. Cash should be back soon." She smiled. It was a good effort, but it trembled at the edges. "I'll be fine."
Everything looked normal as the ranch came into view. His mother was sitting on the porch, rocking in the swing. It always warmed his heart to see her there after a long, dusty summer day, her tiny, child-like figure swaying in the white wicker swing. Sometimes she'd have lemonade for him, or iced tea. Somehow, the mist that had taken over her memory parted when it came to sipping tall, cool drinks on the front porch together after a hard day's work. He liked to think it was an indication of how important those times were to her—how much she, too, loved the rhythm of ranch life.
"Ma," he said, mounting the porch. "Did you—what did you do?"
His mother smiled, a broad, beaming grin that lit up her face. Well, at least she was happy—though he couldn't say the same for himself. Everyone wants a cool mom, but Luke had his limits, and a mom with a Mohawk was way beyond them.
"You like it?" She nodded her head right, then left, simpering like a fashion model. "Stephanie did it. I said I wanted something edgy, and boy, did she deliver."
"Well, you got that right," he said. "But Mom, Stephanie's in Chicago. Who did this to you?"
She stopped posturing and looked up at him, her eyes filling. He felt like a heel. She had few enough pleasures in life. If she wanted to think she was ready to strut the catwalk in her new 'do, who was he to tell her different?
But he needed to know who'd done this. Someone had come to his house while he was away and turned his mother into Travis Barker.
The question was, who?
"Mom, who cut your hair?" he asked. Sometimes, if you kept asking a question, she eventually hit on a real answer.
"Don't you like it?" Her lower lip trembled. "I'm an old lady, honey. I don't get many opportunities in life. But this shows my true nature."
"Your…" Where had he heard those words before? Her true nature…
Shoot. Libby's interview with Mike. Mike had been talking about the muskrat—how it would never have a chance to become a dancer, but that was its true nature.
He smacked his forehead. "Was Mike here?"
"Your friend from school," she said, nodding. "I didn't know he'd become a beautician."
Luke pictured Mike standing over his mother, wield ing the scissors while he interpreted her "true nature."
At least he hadn't stuffed and mounted her.
That wasn't as funny as it would have been a week ago. Mike had attacked Libby, after all. Really attacked her. Luke had seen the bruises himself—and no matter what weird disconnect had taken over Mike's mind at the time of the attack, that was not okay. The man was a menace.
And a fugitive.
He knelt by his mother's side, taking her hand.
"It looks great, Mom," he said. "I think he went a little too far with the gel, but it's really—um—different." He took a deep breath. "Now, is Mike still here?"
"Oh, no." She shook her head, the spikes bobbing like a rooster's comb. "He had to go. Said he needed to find you."
"Me?" Luke took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. That didn't seem to stimulate his brain into any useful activity, so he did it again. "Why was he looking for me?"
"He needs a place to stay. I told him it was just fine for him to stay here, but he seemed nervous. Said he had to talk to you first. But you were always such good friends." She gave him a piercing stare that took him straight back to his childhood, when she monitored his schoolyard relationships and offered advice on every thing from girls to bullies. "Did you two have an ar gument? I don't see why he would even ask, you boys were such good friends."
Luke remembered Mike's guileless delight at seeing him at Libby's interview, his enthusiastic rendition of the secret handshake they'd invented in sixth grade, his simple recounting of his weird artistic vision.
Then he remembered the bruises on Libby's arms, the way she'd trembled, hunched in the chair, after the attack.
"Yeah, Mom," he said. "We had a fight."
It disturbed him that Mike had shown up the one day Mom was home alone—the one day his dad wasn't there to protect her. It disturbed him even more to think of those sharp scissors being wielded by a man who had already attacked one of the women Luke loved.
Loved?
Yeah, loved. Seeing Libby the morning after the at tack, her hair tousled from sleep, so alone and vulner able in her bed, had made him realize his feelings were more than lust, more than friendly affection.
He was in love.
He stood up, waving away the dizziness that had taken over with the realization of just how strong his feelings were for Libby. He had serious business to take care of, here. Family business. Someday, maybe Libby would be a part of that. He hoped so. He felt a surge of happiness at the idea of Libby being here, waiting for him at the end of the day, or, better yet, working beside him.
He'd always been content with his life. Always felt he was right where he belonged, doing what he was born to do. But lately, it felt like something was missing. And now he knew what it was.
It was Libby. Libby Brown—or maybe Libby Rawlins.
The realization slammed into him like a gust of Wyoming wind—the kind that whirled up from nowhere when you least expected it. The kind that slammed into you and nearly knocked you down. He half expected his hat to blow off.
"So what did you fight about, son?"
He gave her a blank stare. "What did who fight about?"
Things were pretty bad when his memory was worse than his mom's.
"You and Mike," she said.
"Mike's got some problems, Mom," he said. "If he comes back, you need to use the cell phone. Do you have it?"
She rummaged in the pocket of her sweatsuit and flourished a small silver phone.
"You need to call me if he comes back, okay? Call me right away. I have to go find Libby. I—I have to talk to her."
"It's about time," She made a shooing motion with both hands. "You go get her, son. Go get her."
Chapter 33
LIBBY DONNED HER OLDEST CUTOFFS, STUFFED HER hair up into a ball cap, and grabbed a pitchfork. She'd lose herself in work—any work, whether it needed doing or not. Hard, physical work would fill her mind, pushing out last night's attack, Crazy Mike, and, most of all, Luke.
Fortunately, chickens grow up fast and make a God awful mess doing it. She'd owned her new charges all of a month, and they'd already transformed their stall in the barn into a revolting mass of guano. It was time for them to graduate to the henhouse.
She trucked across the lawn with long, determined strides, wielding the pitchfork like a weapon, but playing Wonder Woman couldn't erase last night's helplessness from her mind. She couldn't forget how scared she'd been, knowing there was an intruder in the house, or how vulnerable she was out on the plains all by herself. If Mike had wanted to kill her, she'd be dead. End of story.
But did Mike really want to hurt her? What exactly was going
on in that mixed-up mind of his? He hadn't been after her. He'd thought she was Cash.
So what would make him think Cash was sneaking around her house at night? And why would he think he had to protect her from the town sheriff, of all people? Maybe he really was crazy—but there had to be a reason why his twisted mind would settle on an officer of the law as someone to be feared.
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