She got her elbow under her and levered her weight onto her shoulder. Her stomach lurched into her throat. She could do this. She could. For Mitchell. For Maddox. For herself.
Trembling, she lifted her head. She raised her arm. She drew one shaky breath and drove the pointy metal toy as hard as she could into Rob's hairy, muscled calf.
He howled, and the living room exploded. His heel crashed back. Ann's head flew against the padded base of the couch. She heard a boom—the gun—oh, God, Mitchell … and then something heavy smashed into her legs and rolled away. She tasted blood. Dimly, she saw the two men struggling on the floor. Her ears ringing with the gunshot, she heard Maddox grunt and Mitchell sob and Rob swear. The acrid stink of powder burned her nostrils. The carpet vibrated under her cheek as arms and legs thudded against the floor.
And then warm, hard hands grasped her shoulders, supported her head.
"Annie." Maddox's voice, rough and urgent, called her from the edge of oblivion. Maddox's face, tense and pale, swam in her vision. Sirens wailed at the border of consciousness.
She licked her lips, wincing at the tiny sting. "Mitchell?" His grip tightened reassuringly. "He's fine. Rob's in cuffs."
Her chest eased. Safe. Her son and her love, both safe. The room smelled like the Fourth of July.
She smiled into his deep-set eyes. "I got him," she confided. "I stabbed him with the Avenger Droid."
Maddox laughed shakily. "Is that what you did?" She nodded, well pleased with herself, and let the darkness take her.
* * *
Wallace Palmer hung up the phone. "The D.A.'s going for attempted murder, first degree," he announced with grim delight.
Maddox kept typing. God, he hated reports. "So now I should be thankful the gun went off when Annie stuck him in the ankle with a boy toy?"
The chief narrowed his eyes. "Don't get cute, MD. It was clearly stated intent with sufficient time for deliberation."
That was one way of looking at it. "How long?"
"With his priors, maybe twenty-five years. If the judge orders consecutive sentences, which Brailsford will, Rob Cross will go away for the rest of his natural life."
Maddox allowed himself a moment's bleak satisfaction. He'd failed to stop Rob from hurting Annie, but at least he could protect her with his testimony.
"What about Mitchell?" he asked.
"Your statement satisfied the D.A. that the boy was acting in defense of home."
"In defense of his mother," Maddox said.
"He only found the gun because he was looking for clean pajamas. He didn't want to shoot."
"Well, you persuaded the D.A. No charges against the child or his mother."
Maddox grunted. He didn't want to talk about it. Muddied by emotion, distracted by Annie, focused on Mitchell, he'd screwed up. Again. He didn't wait for backup. He didn't secure the weapon. Rob should never have gotten his hands on the gun in the first place.
But the chief, unfortunately, was in a chatty mood. Propping his broad butt on the corner of Maddox's desk, he asked, "How is she?"
Pointless to pretend he didn't know who his father was talking about. Maddox rolled another piece of paper into the typewriter. "Better. I called the hospital. They released her Wednesday."
"You haven't been to see her?"
Maddox gritted his teeth. "I saw her when she was admitted."
"Four days ago? Not since then?"
He fought the knife twist in his gut. "No."
"Why the hell not?"
"I'm giving her time." The word was a bad taste in his mouth.
"Time for what, for God's sake?"
Time to heal. Time to—what had she said?—finally find herself. Time to figure out if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with a man who'd failed to protect her.
I won't be rushed into making another mistake.
Maddox reached for the cigarettes on his desk. "Time to recover. She's just been through a major trauma, Dad."
His father regarded him with exasperation. "All the more reason for you to be with her. Anyway, how much time do you think you have? You're going back to Atlanta in another week."
"I'm not going back to Atlanta. I've resigned from the department."
The chief was visibly shaken. "Look, MD, if this is about that shooting incident—"
Sudden affection for the old man swamped him. "No, I'm okay with that." And he was, he realized with gratitude. Annie and Mitchell had helped him to face and defeat that particular demon. "I just want to stay in Cutler."
"And do what?"
Maddox gave his father a level look. "There's an opening in the sheriff's department."
The chief bridled. "You called George Wilkerson?"
Maddox allowed himself a thin smile. The chief had always protected his jurisdiction fiercely. "He called me."
"Well, hell, boy, I know what the county pays. You might as well work for me."
Maddox raised his eyebrows. "Is that a job offer?"
"Yes, it is. You're a damn fine officer, MD."
Despite his worries over Annie, Maddox felt something ease inside him. "It's a good department."
"Then what do you say?"
"Yes. I say yes."
He stuck out his hand. His father gripped it tightly. Their hands clasped and tugged, sealing their awkward, strong connection.
The chief cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Good. Glad to have that settled. I'm not getting any younger, you know."
"Bull. You'll probably outlive us all."
"Still, the department can use somebody with your experience. And so can that nice woman."
Jeez. "I don't think so, Dad."
"Why don't you let her decide?"
"Damn it, that's what I'm trying to do."
Crystal stuck her beauty-queen mane through the door. "Somebody here to see you, Mad Dog."
"Tell 'em I went home," he growled.
But then he saw who trailed the dispatcher into the office, and from somewhere he dragged his best Officer Friendly smile and pasted it on.
"Hey, sport," he said.
But Mitchell wasn't won over so easily. Fixing Maddox with accusing green eyes, he said, "I need to talk with you."
Hell. Everybody was chatty today. But this was Mitchell. Annie's boy. Maddox couldn't turn him away.
He stabbed out his cigarette in his overflowing ashtray. "Shoot."
Mitchell's gaze flickered to the chief. "It's kind of private."
Wallace Palmer coughed. "I'll be in my office if you, um—"
"Thanks, Dad," Maddox said dryly.
He waited until the door had closed behind the chief before he pushed out the chair opposite his with the sole of his shoe, silently inviting the boy to sit.
"Okay," he said. "Let's have it."
Mitchell sat, a thin, intense boy with his mother's courage and his mother's eyes. Maddox's chest squeezed with sudden longing for all the things he couldn't lay claim to. Time, he reminded himself. Annie needed time.
"Are you mad at me?" Mitchell asked.
Maddox straightened, making his inadequate desk chair creak under him. "Hell, no."
"Because I know what I did was wrong. If I didn't get, you know, the rifle, then—"
"Hey." Maddox stopped him with one broad hand. "You were trying to protect your mother. That wasn't a bad thing. It's just there are better ways to do it. You don't pick up a gun. You—"
"—call a policeman." Mitchell's head bobbed. "Mom told me."
His chagrined tone suggested Annie had told him more than once in the past few days. Maddox cleared his throat. "That's right."
"I'm just trying to look out for her."
"Sometimes that's not so easy."
The boy scowled. "You said you wouldn't hurt her."
Maddox thought he couldn't feel any worse. He was wrong. "I know," he said painfully. "I'm sorry. I should have been there. I should have reacted faster."
But Mitchell only shook his head, fierce and unforgiving. "You said you
wouldn't hurt her, but you don't come see us anymore. If you're not mad at me, why don't you come see us?"
Hell. Maddox stared at the boy.
"She cried last night," Mitchell confided.
That did it. Maddox's chair shrieked as he pushed back from his desk. "Chief!"
His father appeared in the door. "What is it?"
Maddox peeled a couple of dollars out of his pocket and tossed them on top of the pile of reports. "Mitchell's going to stay with you awhile. Buy him candy, buy him Coke, but don't take him home for at least an hour, okay?"
"Where are you going?"
"I've got something to take care of."
"About time," the chief said with satisfaction.
Maddox couldn't have agreed with him more.
But when he pulled to the curb in front of Annie's house, he turned off the engine and sat for a moment observing the quiet, sunlit street. In the tree above him, a bird with more feathers than brains was chirping its little heart out.
He would have felt more at ease going into a crack house without backup.
He got out of the car.
The gate to the backyard stood open. Through the chain link fence, he could see Annie stooping in front of a bed of pink and yellow flowers. He paused on the walk to admire the graceful set of her shoulders, the delicate line of her neck, her pretty hair pulled back in some sort of clasp thingy…
He frowned. Didn't she know better than to work in this heat without a hat? She had a concussion, for God's sake.
He reached the gate in three quick strides. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and the wary expression in her eyes, the sight of her jaw gone from purple to yellow and the stitches in her bottom lip, made something inside him twist and bleed.
"Hello, Annie," he said quietly.
* * *
Dear Lord, he'd come back.
Ann sat back on her heels, with the grass tickling her knees and the sun in her eyes, and stared up at Maddox. He looked good, tall and broad against the light, with a cellophane-wrapped pot in his hands and a hooded, hungry look that did funny things to her stomach.
She put her hands to her hair. "Of course, you would show up now," she said resignedly.
She thought he winced. He laid a hand on the gate and came in. "Sorry. I know you didn't want to see me yet."
What was he talking about? "No. It's just for the past four days I've showered and dressed and made up my face and waited in my living room like a nice girl for you to come see me. And you never did. So when I've finally given up on you, and I'm covered in dirt and bug spray, here you are."
He was too tall, and she was at too much of a disadvantage. She climbed to her feet. Swayed.
He stepped forward quickly, cupping her elbow with his free hand. His palm was warm and callused. "You shouldn't stand up so fast."
She wasn't about to tell him it wasn't standing that made her flushed and dizzy. Or the heat. It was him. "Thank you, Dr. Palmer. I can take care of myself."
He released her arm. "Sure, you can."
He couldn't even bear to touch her, she thought miserably. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I came to see you."
"Well, that makes a nice change. Pretty bad, aren't I?"
"Annie, don't. You look—" His fingers touched her jaw tenderly. Gently, he turned her face to the light. His look was a caress. "Beautiful," he whispered.
Regret burned at the back of her eyes. She wanted to fall into him, into his strong, hard chest and his warm, rough voice and the promise of his eyes. But of course she couldn't do that. He didn't want that.
He cleared his throat, proffering the little pot. "I brought you these."
Flowers.
She fought a shiver of aversion. Rob used to buy her flowers, at least in the beginning. Red roses when they were dating and on all the morning-afters, showy apologies without scent or meaning. Blood bouquets.
Maddox brought her pentas growing in a pot, pink star-shaped clusters. "I didn't know what else to bring," he said roughly. "I figured your jaw was still sore, so candy was out. Wine … I didn't know if you could take alcohol with painkillers. Flowers seemed safe. Besides, the color made me think of you."
They weren't safe. But they would be. Flowers from Maddox meant something. She just didn't know what. She looked again from the delicate pink flowers to his frustrated face, and tried not to mind so much that he was only doing his duty.
"They're lovely." She accepted the pot. Forced a smile. "Well, now that you've made your delivery, I guess you can go."
His mouth compressed. "In a hurry to get rid of me?"
She felt her chin tremble and stuck it out. "I don't want you coming around just because you feel guilty."
"I do feel guilty. Annie—"
Quickly, she added, "It's all right. I'm responsible for my own feelings." She moved toward the porch, away from the temptation of his hot, solid body. "Things are pretty complicated now with Mitchell. And the trial. Cops can't consort with felons. I understand if under the circumstances you don't feel the same anymore."
He glared at her. "You can't think that."
"What am I supposed to think?" she asked crossly. Her jaw hurt. Her head ached. And her heart was breaking. "I tell you I love you, and you take a hike."
"You told me you needed time, damn it. My staying away has nothing to do with my feelings for you."
She set the pot down on the porch and faced him, crossing her arms. "Then why did you say you feel guilty?"
"Because I let you get hurt," he snapped.
Dear Lord, he meant it. The knot in her chest loosened. Dear, responsible Maddox. His granite cop face was set and unhappy. His back was stiff with stress.
She frowned. And his determination to assume blame was going to ruin everything.
"I don't need you to protect me," she said softly, deliberately. "I need you to love me."
His hooded eyes blazed. He took a stride toward her, quickly checked, and her brief flare of hope died. "I haven't earned the right yet. I wasn't there when you needed me."
Goodness, he was stubborn. Well, Annie had learned that she could be stubborn, too.
"Close enough," she said.
"You're the one who saved my sorry butt." Wry humor curved his mouth. Touched her heart. "You and that toy robot."
"It was the Avenger Droid." He had a lot to learn. She only prayed she would be the one to teach him.
"Whatever. The point is, I let you and Mitchell down."
"Why? Because you didn't come in with guns blazing? You saved me, Maddox. You saved my son when you talked him into laying down that rifle. Mitchell needs to see that a strong man doesn't have to be violent. And I can't think of a better role model for him than you."
He shook his head, but she could see the desperate longing in his eyes. "Maybe you should think some more. I'm a screw-up, Annie."
"Once upon a time, maybe. Neither of us is the same person we were twelve years ago. I'm not a teenager with a crush on the town bad boy. I don't need to be protected for my own good. I know what I want."
He stuck his fists in his pockets. "And is that what you want?" he asked steadily. "A role model for Mitchell?"
Emotion clogged her throat. Didn't he see? Didn't he know? "If that's all I can have. What do you want?"
His need was naked in his eyes. "You know what I want. I want you, Annie. I've always wanted you."
All her doubts disappeared, and joy rose up to take their place.
"Come and get me, then," she whispered.
He swooped fast enough to make her dizzy. But his big, square hands, cupping her face, were tender enough to break a girl's heart.
"I want marriage, too," he warned her. "But I can wait until you're sure. I love you, Annie."
She smiled with all the love and trust in her heart and quoted back at him. "How long can you wait? Three months? One year? Five?"
His brows drew together. "Well, I—"
"Because I'll need a week to
buy my wedding dress, and Val can't organize a reception in less than three."
His answering smile started deep in his eyes, a lazy, sexy smile that made her blood pound. "I think maybe I can hold out for three weeks," he said, and kissed her.
With concentrated gentleness, he touched his lips to her unbroken upper lip and then the corners of her mouth. His breath flowed warm across her sensitive stitched skin, making her shiver with surprise and need. His big hands framing her face, he feathered comfort kisses along her aching jaw, butterfly kisses on her cheek. He worked around her bruised and battered face with exquisite tenderness.
Ann sighed and arched into him, into his hot, hard, powerful body. She was melting. He was rigid with restraint and desire. Oh, my, she thought dizzily.
He lifted his head, breathing hard. "Three weeks," he growled.
She pressed her lips together to hold the bubbling joy inside, to keep the taste of him on her mouth.
"Two," she suggested. "I'll be better by then."
And Maddox laughed.
* * *
Epilogue
«^
Fourth of July, one year later
The parade was over. The Cutler Cougars marching band had packed up their instruments. From the trumpet-shaped loudspeakers atop the picnic shelter "I'm Proud To Be an American" drifted over the park, a patriotic accompaniment to shouts from the field races and squeals from the dunking booth.
Ann's blouse clung to her in the ninety-degree heat. Her feet were swollen in their neat, flat sandals, but her heart was as light as the blue balloon floating over the tops of the trees. Pressed in a corridor of sweating, whooping parents, she clapped as a sturdy seven-year-old pelted over the finish line under the steady regard of her father's camcorder.
Ann glanced back to the start a hundred yards away, where the older children milled around, waiting for their race. There was Mitchell, his fair hair plastered to his head, his thin face anxious as he scanned the assembled parents. A tiny pang pierced Ann's happiness. Did her son even see her? Or was he looking for somebody else?
His therapist had advised that Mitchell have no more contact with his father than he wanted—and so far, he hadn't wanted any. But with Rob in prison for what would probably be the rest of his life, Ann figured Mitchell had plenty of time to come to terms with his father's guilt. After Rob was convicted of arson and attempted murder, Mitchell had soldiered on. His grades remained steady. At home, he was quiet and obedient. Too quiet, Ann thought.
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