by Alicia Scott
He carried it into the house awkwardly, slowly easing it through the narrow doorways.
“In the kitchen?” he asked from the hall.
She shrugged. “Sure, the kitchen.”
He looked at the old, rickety wooden table sitting in the corner now. “What should I do with that?”
“The third floor, if it’s not a problem. There should be room for it somewhere there.”
“It’s not a problem.” Already beginning to sweat with the morning heat, he carried the old table upstairs. He found a half-empty bedroom on the third floor and deposited the table there. By the time he came back downstairs, Suzanne already had the new table set up with the old chairs and was putting down place mats.
“I would’ve moved it for you,” he said after a minute, frowning. The old chairs, scratched and gray, definitely didn’t go with the rich cherry wood of the new table.
“I know,” Suzanne said softly, glancing up for a moment. Her gaze was immediately drawn to his chest exposed by the half-buttoned shirt. She looked away. “There’s plenty of French toast,” she said.
He sat down, not knowing what else to do, and felt the tension stretch even tighter. Moving in the quick, efficient steps he knew so well, she set the table and placed a heaping plate in front of him. It was followed by warmed maple syrup, a shaker of cinnamon, confectioners’ sugar and fresh butter. Then she brought the sliced melon and orange juice.
She stood there expectantly until he dished up the first piece. Finally, she took a seat.
“It’s very good,” he said after taking a bite. “Fresh bread?”
“Challah bread,” she told him. “It works the best. And I add a hint of cinnamon to the eggs.”
He nodded, chewing another mouthful. “I’ll have to remember that,” he said presently. She gave a little smile and dished up some fruit.
“Do…do you know where you’re going to start looking?” she stammered out after a few minutes.
His fork stilled, then he finished stabbing another piece. “The airports,” he said. “I need to figure out how he got here and if he’s still around.”
“Do you really think he wants you dead?”
“Yes.”
She paused, then gave up on eating altogether. “Maybe you should take Cagney with you,” she suggested softly, but he shook his head.
“It’s personal, Suzanne. Between Zlatko and me. I don’t want anyone else involved, and I don’t think he’ll tolerate it.”
“But why?” she persisted, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. Beneath the table, her hands nervously twisted the belt of her robe.
Garret looked at her for a long time. “Zenaisa was his anchor,” he said at last. “His home. His heart. When she died, he lost everything. War does that, and men, well, I guess we just have our own way of dealing with things. Vengeance. The vengeance sustained him. Me, too, for a while. I really did want to fight. I really…” He looked down at his plate. “Zlatko needs someone to hate, When I announced who I really was, that someone became me. The hatred is all he has now.”
“What will you do?”
“Find him, talk to him. What else can I do?”
She looked at him intensely. “What if he’s determined to kill you, Garret? What then?”
For endless seconds, he just looked at the shiny new tabletop. Then slowly, his eyes came up to meet hers. “I can’t hurt him, if that’s what you mean. I saw those bodies, Suzanne. Women and children…” His voice faded away into a whisper. “What was done there never should have been done. And if I could have, I would have stayed and fought that war myself. Even now, I want to.”
She pushed her chair back, and unable to look at him anymore, she carried her plate to the sink. She didn’t doubt his dark eyes at all. He was a man trained for war, a warrior. What could she give a man like that? Roses? Dolls? French toast? She twisted her lips and began rinsing the plate mindlessly. She could feel his gaze on her back.
The phone rang, and both of them started. With a weak smile, Suzanne picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said tremulously.
“Suzanne? It’s Mitch. Is Garret there?”
She glanced over at Garret, a sudsy hand still clutching the phone. “Sure he is, Mitch. Don’t any of you Guiness boys ever say hi?”
She heard Mitch sigh at the other end. “Sorry. Just got a lot on my mind, I guess.”
“No problem. Here he is.” She held out the phone, and with a questioning eye, Garret rose and took it.
“Yeah?”
“Garret, I got that twitchy feeling again. Tell me you got your memory back.”
Garret half smiled at the sound of Mitch’s voice, then sobered. “It’s okay, Mitch. The situation’s under control. I was just a little late.”
“What happened?”
“Mom and Dad’s house burned down last night.”
There was a long silence, then Mitch swore. “Everyone okay?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. Cagney’s taking care of things.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, Mitch. Give it a rest.”
“Then why are my shoulder blades still suffering from the heebie-jeebies?”
“Mitch, it’s only four a.m. your time. Anyone’s bound to feel strange at four a.m.”
“I suppose. Can Jessica and I return from exile yet? For God’s sake, she’s due to give birth in just two weeks and she’s not very happy with me.”
Garret considered his request for a minute, a frown rippling his brow. “Give me one or two days, okay? Just to be sure. I have to find Zlatko yet, and he always was smart.”
There was a moment of silence. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes, big brother.”
Mitch ignored the sarcasm in the tone. “Maybe you ought to talk to Cagney. Hell, maybe I should come help out.”
Garret’s voice became very firm. “Look, Cagney’s got a new fiancée and you’ve got Jessica to look after. And, well, I’ve just got…” He paused, looking at Suzanne, who was scrubbing the dishes with more vigor than was necessary. “I’ve got duty,” he finished at last. “Look after your wife, Mitch, and give her my best. I’ll call you in a day or two.”
Mitch muttered something about “bullheaded” and “hot tempered,” but finally hung up the phone. Garret put down the receiver a little more slowly.
He walked back to the table, then carried the rest of the dishes and food over to the counter. He gazed at Suzanne a minute longer, but she kept her eyes on the glass she was washing. After a moment; he returned to his room and retrieved the rest of his stuff.
He had a wallet full of cash and a fresh ID he could still use. Hopefully, the airlines could provide him with enough information to let him know if Zlatko was still in the area, and then he would proceed accordingly. How hard could it be to find a man who was built like an ox and spoke heavily accented English? The real trick would be what to do once he found him.
Shaking his head, he laced up his shoes. After securing the cash and IDs in a belt wrapped around his waist under his shirt, he was set.
He returned to the kitchen to find Suzanne placing the last glass in the drying rack. This time, she at least looked up when he entered. Her gaze went to his shoes, then journeyed up to meet his face squarely.
“Do you want to take some food with you?” she asked. “In case you don’t find a good place to stop?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”
“A coat?”
“Suzanne, it’s July.”
Her lips thinned for a moment, then she seemed to relax. She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms in front of her as casually as possible. “Well, if you do need something, you can always call.”
“Right.” He shifted restlessly in the doorway, his hands jamming into his jeans pockets as he looked at the glossy table. “Thank you,” he said finally. “Thank you for everything.”
She shrugged. “Neighbors ought to help each other out.”
<
br /> He looked at her, grinning, but the grin had a sardonic twist. “Well, I guess we’re that then.”
“What?”
“Neighbors.”
Her gaze fell, and just for a moment, he could see the strain around her eyes. Then she slowly looked up.
“Be careful, Garret,” she said quietly.
“I will be.” He remained standing in the doorway, one foot tapping restlessly. At last, she pushed away from the counter and approached him.
“You should get going so you can find this guy.”
He nodded, his eyes resting heavily on her face. There were dark smudges under her eyes from the sleepless night, and her hair was still tousled from making love. He didn’t know how many kitchens he’d walked out of in his life, but he’d never found leaving quite so difficult before.
“Suzanne,” he said at last, searching for the right thing to say and, as usual, finding none. He shook his head in frustration. Mitch always had something reassuring or rock solid to say, Jake something witty and clever. But Garret never could find the right words. Why couldn’t he find the words just once? His hands clenched in his pocket, then he forced them to relax. “Suzanne, it was really good of you to let me stay here.”
She nodded, looking down at her cracked linoleum. She should strip it down and rewax it soon. Or if she ever won the lottery, replace it altogether.
His thumb suddenly touched her cheek and she flinched. But slowly, his hand moved to cup her chin and tilt her head up. “You’re something else,” he whispered with dark eyes.
She could only stare at him and hope her gaze didn’t reveal too much.
“You should leave,” she whispered hoarsely.
He pushed away from the door frame, his hand falling down to his side. Then abruptly, he grabbed both of her shoulders and kissed her passionately. His tongue delved into her mouth while her hands gripped him with equal fervor. Just as suddenly, he pulled away and, without stopping to look back, headed down the hall.
She stood there in her kitchen as she heard the front door open and shut. She stood there, her hands still clutching at the air.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to the silence, and finally her hands sank to her sides in the empty house. “I love you.”
Chapter 13
Suzanne had a lot of things to do. Those mailings for the parade committee still needed to go out. She was sure she was due at the Y, never mind how far behind she was in her women’s group. She should wash all the linens now, and the downstairs bathroom needed to be cleaned. She hadn’t dusted in two weeks nor vacuumed in three. Oh, yes, she should strip and wax the linoleum in the kitchen.
So much to be done.
And yet here she was in her garden—properly clad, at least—staring at the roses as if they could tell her the meaning of life. A branch still lay in the grass where she’d accidentally cut it off. She picked it up apologetically, admiring the beautiful pink blooms of the Damask rose. Idly, she held the branch to her face and inhaled the soft scent of roses.
She should dry the petals for a potpourri, or maybe even make them into tea. She’d read somewhere you could make rose jelly. Perhaps she’d try; it was never too late to do something new.
She walked through her garden.
Such beautiful colors, the rich contrast of crimson and cream, the soft highlights of pink and white and red. Green and lush and flowing, tended well enough for a North Carolina postcard or summer retreat. She’d done well with her garden. She’d planned and planted and tended, and the roses had rewarded her accordingly. She hoped that someday, when she’d passed on and left the house to the church, someone would keep up the garden. Of all the things she’d tried, all the things she’d given herself to, the garden at least had repaid her.
A shadow fell across her path, and. for a moment, she froze.
Garret. He’d missed her after all. He’d come back…
But as she turned slowly around, it wasn’t Garret’s face that she found.
The man before her was huge, as big as an ox, like a comic-book hero. Except his face wasn’t chiseled and handsome. Instead, his features were battered and worn, the nose crooked, his cheek scarred, his forehead permanently wrinkled. A torn and stained white shirt could barely cover the massive shoulders, the sleeves shredded to reveal dark-haired arms and gnarled, bloody fists. Stained jeans ended in dust-covered feet. Here and there, she could see darker spots of what could only be blood.
Slowly, her eyes came back up, wide and staring with fear. She’d thought Garret could be dark and dangerous. But this man made him look like Peter Pan.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. He only scoured her with a burning, rage-filled gaze.
“You will come here,” he said thickly in his accented English. Almost impatiently, he held out his hand.
She shook her head, her hand going to her throat instinctively as she took a step back. If only she could just get through the wall of rosebushes, she thought vaguely. Her heart beat so rapidly that for one moment, she worried she might be having a heart attack.
The man’s forehead furrowed, his huge hands clenching until the fear tasted like bile on her tongue. “Suzanne Montgomery, come here. Now.”
“Who…who are you?” she stammered out, though she already knew the answer. She took another small step back, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“I am Garret’s death,” the man before her said. “And you will come here or I will kill you, too.”
“Zlatko,” she whispered.
The man stiffened, shaking his head with sudden vehemence. “I am no one,” he corrected harshly. “I am a man with no family, no people. I am no one.”
She tried another step, but this time he spotted her. His massive jaw clenched, his eyes angrily firing sparks. Oh, God, no. He charged forward.
With a small cry, she turned and ran, the terror powering her legs. If she could just get through the roses and run to Cagney. If she could just get—
A meaty fist swiped at her shirt, snagging the small loop in the back. She threw herself forward with all her might, her feet digging into the rich soil as she lurched for her roses. The worn loop gave, ripping away. She dropped to the ground. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, diving desperately for the bottom of the bushes.
Tiny thorns scraped her tender cheeks, snatching her hair. She pushed forward relentlessly, her eyes on the light ahead, her pulse pounding with terror. Her head and shoulders emerged, her hands clawing at the grass for traction as she heard the man bellowing behind her.
Abruptly, a thick hand wrapped around her ankle, yanking her backward. She lost her balance and fell on her stomach hard, her breath leaving her in a whoosh. Zlatko pulled her back through the roses.
She grasped desperately at clumps of grass, searching weakly for one last barrier. He pulled harder, and the thorns tore into her cheeks.
“No, no, no,” she cried, tears trickling down. One last desperate time, she grabbed the base of a rosebush, feeling the sharp little thorns dig deeply into her palms. He kept pulling, and her fragile skin simply tore away. She slid helplessly through the bushes, her hands wet with blood and her cheeks damp with tears.
He finally released her ankle, leaving her lying there like a grounded fish. She could taste dirt and blood in her mouth, but nothing quite blocked out the terror.
She found herself hoping that Garret had reached the airport and was now flying far, far away from this man.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Zlatko said. He leaned down and wrapped his hand around her long, loose hair. Dismissing her tearstained cheeks completely, he pulled her up and dragged her into the house.
Garret checked with the last airline, learning only that no one fitting Zlatko’s description had boarded in the past twenty-four hours. He must still be in the area. But where?
A farmer, Zlatko had lived his life outdoors. Chances were he was camping out in the woods or at the pond near Maddensfield. Someplace not far from his parents’ house.
His missed his team, he thought vaguely. What was Austin up to these days, and what about C.J.? How many bars and brawls had he missed in the past year? How many dives and jumps and how much deep reconnaissance?
He wondered if he would be allowed back. If he could go back. And then he found himself remembering Suzanne and the way her hazel eyes turned gold when he was about to thrust into her. He should have made her chairs to go with the table. And maybe a doll case. He bet she would’ve liked that.
With a start, he shook his head, his forehead crinkling with consternation. He needed to focus, damn it. Zlatko was out there, his old friend turned into beast. And if he didn’t find him soon, there was no telling how dear the price might become.
He requested a cab from the airport service, placing the charge on the new Visa, and returned to Maddensfield.
The clothesline cut into her arms, leaving welts she could feel every time she-tried to move. One corner of her mind found it sublimely ironic to be held prisoner in her own house by her own clothesline. The rest of her watched Zlatko pour gasoline on her curtains and felt nothing but terror.
He was going to burn her house down. The house she’d fought so hard to protect because it was the Montgomery house and had been so for over one hundred years. The house she’d worked three jobs to keep, even though there were no Montgomerys to pass it on to. Her old, rickety, expensive, beautiful home.
Her hands struggled vainly up to reach the ropes once more, but the pain had stiffened her fingers while the blood had made them slick. She strained her shoulders, but the clothesline simply dug a little deeper.
She sagged in the chair, her head falling forward, and fought the instinct to weep.
Zlatko emptied out the last of the red can on her love seat, then turned to look at her with his flat eyes. “Are you Garret’s woman?” he asked tightly.