by Diana Palmer
“He needs to work on his self-control,” her father said tersely, sipping coffee while she dished up pound cake for dessert.
For just an instant she thought of Carson out of control at the river, hungry for her, and she flushed. Then she realized that he was talking about another sort of self-control.
The reverend wasn’t slow. He had a good idea why she was blushing.
“Carlie,” he said gently, “he goes through women like hungry people go through food.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“He isn’t a person of faith. He works in a profession that thrives on the lack of it, in fact, and he’s in almost constant danger.” He hesitated. “What I’m trying to say is that he isn’t going to settle down in a small town and become a family man.”
“I know that, too,” she replied. She put his cake down in front of him on the table and refilled his coffee cup.
“Knowing and walking away are two different things,” he said curtly. “Your mother was like you, sweet and innocent, out of touch with the real world. I hurt her very badly because we married for the wrong reasons. I wasn’t ready. Before I knew it, I was a father.” He looked down at the uneaten cake. “I felt trapped, hog-tied, and I resented it. I made her pay for it.” His lips made a grim line. “I stayed away, out of that resentment. She didn’t deserve the life I gave her.”
She was shocked to hear him say such things. She knew that they’d had to get married. She’d heard him say it. But even so, she’d thought her parents married for love, that her father was away because he was making a living for them.
He didn’t seem to notice Carlie’s surprise. He wasn’t looking at her. “I didn’t know she was sick. One of my friends had a cousin here, who told him, and he told me that she was in the hospital. I got back just after her mother and her drug-crazed boyfriend did a number on you.” His teeth ground together. “That was when I realized what a mess I’d made of all our lives. I walked away from the old life that same day and never looked back. I only wish I’d been where I was supposed to be so that you’d have been spared what happened to you.”
“You’re the one who’s always saying that things happen to test us,” she reminded him.
“I guess I am. But for someone who’d never hurt anybody in her life, you paid a high price,” he added.
“Mama said that if she’d been a different sort of person, you would have been happy with her,” she recalled. “She said her way of thinking ruined your life.” She frowned. “I didn’t understand what that meant at the time. But I think I’m beginning to.” She did, because Carson was the same sort of person her father must have been.
“No. I ruined hers,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t settle down. I let my heart rule my head.” He smiled sadly. “You see, pumpkin, despite how it must sound, I really loved your mother. Loved her desperately. But I loved my way of life, too, loved being on my own, working in a profession that gave me so much freedom. I was greedy and tried to have it all. In the process, I lost your mother. I will never get over what happened to her because of me. If I’d been here, taking care of her...”
“She would still have died,” Carlie finished for him. “It was an aggressive cancer. They tried chemo and radiation, but it only made her sicker. Nothing you could have done would have stopped that, or changed a thing.”
He studied her soft eyes. “You always make excuses for me.” He shook his head. “Now you’re making them for the wild man from South Dakota.”
“He’s wild for a reason,” she said quietly.
“And you’re not sharing it, right?”
“I’m not,” she agreed. “It’s his business.”
“Nice to know you can keep a secret.”
“For all the good it does me. You won’t share any of yours,” she pointed out.
“Why give you nightmares over a past I can’t change?” he asked philosophically. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “I’m late for a prayer meeting. You’ll be okay here, right? Got the inhaler Lou prescribed?”
She pulled it out of her pocket and showed it to him.
“Okay.” He shook his head. “I should have recognized the symptoms. My father had it.”
“Your father? I never met him.”
“He was dead by the time I married your mother,” he said. He smiled. “You’d have liked him. He was a career officer in the navy, a chief petty officer.”
“Wow.”
“I’ve got photographs of him somewhere. I’ll have to look them up.”
“What was your mother like?”
“Fire,” he chuckled. “She left trails of fire behind her when she lost her temper. She had red hair and an attitude. Tippy Grier reminds me of her, except that my mother wasn’t really beautiful. She was a clerk in a hotel until she retired. She died of a stroke.” He shook his head. “Dad was never the same after. He only outlived her by about two years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“Mama said my grandfather was a kind man. He died when she was very small. He worked for the sheriff’s department. His wife was my crazy grandmother who couldn’t control herself.”
“I remember Mary speaking of him.” He cocked his head. “Your family goes back generations in this community. I envy you that continuity. My folks moved a lot, since Dad was in the service. I’ve lived everywhere.”
“And I’ve never been anywhere,” she mused. “Except to San Antonio.”
“Next time you go there, I’m driving,” he said flatly.
She made a face at him.
“I’ll be home soon.”
“Please be careful. Check your car before you start it.”
“Cash and Carson told me about the phone call,” he replied. “Apparently I’m the target.”
“I don’t know why,” she said. “I was the one who could identify the man who was killed in Wyoming. You never saw him.”
“Pumpkin, you’re not the only one with enemies,” he said softly.
“Would this be connected with that past you won’t tell me about?”
“Dead right.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Keep the door locked.”
“I will. Drive safely.”
He chuckled as he went out the door.
Carlie cleaned up the kitchen, played her video game with Robin for an hour and went to bed. Her dreams were vivid and vaguely embarrassing. And of Carson.
8
ROURKE WAS SITTING with a worried politician in one of the best restaurants in San Antonio. Unknown to the man, Rourke was working with the feds. Rourke had managed to wiggle himself into the man’s employ.
This particular politician, Matthew Helm, had been named the acting U.S. senator, and was hoping to be elected to a full term at the special election in a few months. Rourke was equally determined to find a way to connect him with the murder of a local assistant district attorney. All the evidence had been destroyed. But there were other ways to prove collusion.
Rourke had been in touch with Lieutenant Rick Marquez of the San Antonio Police Department and was keeping him informed through Cash Grier. This politician had also been responsible for the attempt on Dalton Kirk’s life, and the one on Carlie Blair’s father—or Carlie herself—the intended victim had never been determined—in Jacobsville.
His murdering henchman, Richard Martin, had been killed in Wyoming, but the man’s evil deeds persisted. Word was that before he’d died, he’d hired someone to kill Carlie. Nobody knew who had the contract.
Rourke was hoping against hope that this man might provide answers to many questions. But Helm was secretive. So far he hadn’t said one incriminating word. Rourke would have known. He was wearing a wire, courtesy of Rick Marquez.
“There are too many loose ends,” Matthew Helm said after a minute. He glan
ced at his other enforcer, Fred Baldwin, and glared at him. “You take care of that problem up in Wyoming?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the big, brawny man assured him. “You can stop worrying.”
“I always worry.” Helm then glared at Rourke. “What have you found out about my competition for the job?”
“Both men are clean as a whistle,” Rourke replied easily. “No past issues we can use against them.”
Helm smiled secretly. “So far,” he murmured.
“You thinking of planting some?” Rourke asked conversationally.
Helm just stared at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Just a comment.”
“Well, keep your comments to yourself,” Helm said angrily. “I don’t fix elections, in case you wondered.”
“Sorry. I’m new here,” Rourke apologized.
“Too new,” Helm said suspiciously. “I can’t dig out any information on you. Any at all.”
“I’m from South Africa, what do you expect?” he added.
“Well, that last name you gave, Stanton,” Helm began, “is a dead end.”
“I like to keep my past in the past,” Rourke returned. “I’m a wanted man in some places.”
“Is that it?” Helm studied him for a long moment. “Then maybe you’re not as suspicious as you seem, huh?” He snickered. “Just don’t expect instant trust. I don’t trust anybody.”
“That’s a good way to be,” Rourke agreed.
Helm drew in a long breath. “Well, we need to get back to the office and work up some more ads and a few handouts for the campaign office. Not much time to bring this all together.”
“Okay, boss,” Rourke said. “I’ll see you there.” He got up, nodded to both men, paid for his coffee and pie, and left.
Helm studied his other enforcer. “I don’t trust him,” he told the man. “You keep a close eye on him, hire extra men if you have to. See where he goes, who he associates with. I don’t want any complications.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And start checking out our sources. We’ll need some more drugs planted. I can’t afford competition for the job,” he added. His face firmed. “You don’t share that information with Rourke, got it? You don’t tell him anything unless you clear it with me.”
“I got it, Boss.”
“You destroyed the watch, right?”
The other man nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah, Boss, I smashed it into bits and tossed it into a trash bin.”
“Good. Good.”
The other man was hoping his uneasiness didn’t show. He couldn’t destroy the watch, he just couldn’t. It was the most beautiful timepiece he’d ever seen, and it played that song he liked.
Fred Baldwin had envied Richard Martin, wearing that watch that cost as much as a sports car. He’d tried to borrow it once, but Martin had looked at him like he was a worm.
Well, Martin was dead now, and Baldwin had the watch. It was warm against his fingers, warm in his pocket where he kept it. He’d set the alarm so it wouldn’t go off accidentally. Nobody was crazy enough to throw away a watch that cost so much money! Who knew, one day he might be desperate enough to pawn it. A man had to live, after all, and what Mr. Helm paid him was barely enough to afford his keep. His criminal record made him vulnerable. He couldn’t get another job and Mr. Helm warned him that if he even tried to leave, he’d make sure Fred never worked again. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Fred knew better than to try to quit, although he hated the job.
Of course, that watch had a history, and Fred knew it. He might be desperate enough one day to talk to somebody in law enforcement about it. The watch could tie Mr. Helm to a murder. So, no, Fred wasn’t about to throw it away. That didn’t mean he didn’t have to keep it hidden, of course. And he did.
* * *
ROURKE STOPPED BY Carlie’s house that evening to talk to Reverend Blair. He was amused that Helm’s men had tried to follow him. He’d had Carson take his car to San Antonio and park it at a bar. The trackers were sitting out in the parking lot in the freezing cold, waiting for Rourke to come out. He laughed. It was going to be a long night for them.
“Well, you look happy,” Carlie remarked when she let him in.
“I’ve discovered that misdirection is one of my greater talents,” he mused, grinning. “Got any more of that wonderful cornbread?”
She shook her head. “But I just took a nice enchilada casserole out of the oven, and I have sour cream and tortilla chips to top it with,” she said.
“Be still my heart,” Rourke enthused. “Listen, are you sure you wouldn’t like to marry me tomorrow?”
“Sorry,” she said, “I’m having my truck waxed.”
“Ah, well,” he sighed in mock sorrow.
“Stop trying to marry my daughter,” Jake Blair muttered, his ice-blue eyes penetrating, as Rourke joined him at the kitchen table. “You are definitely not son-in-law material.”
“Spoilsport,” Rourke told him. “It’s hard to find a nice woman who can also cook and play video games.”
“You don’t play video games,” Jake pointed out.
“A lot you know! The police chief is teaching me.”
“Cash Grier?” Carlie exclaimed. “My boss doesn’t play.”
“Apparently that’s why he thinks it’s a good idea if he does the teaching. His young brother-in-law has forced him into it,” he laughed, “because he can’t get any friends to play with him. Cash is always up for anything new and exciting.”
Jake shook his head. “I just don’t get it. Running around a cartoon world on dragons and fighting people with two-handed swords. It’s...medieval.”
“Teaches combat skills, strategy, social interaction and how to deal with trolls,” Carlie retorted, pouring coffee for all of them.
“Trolls?” Rourke asked. “Those great Norwegian things...?”
“Internet trolls,” she clarified with a glower. “People who start fights and stand back and watch. They’re really a pain sometimes, especially if somebody new to the game makes the mistake of asking for help on trade chat.” She started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” her father asked.
“Well, this guy wanted a mage port—that’s a portal they can make to the major cities. He didn’t know what class could do ports, so he asked if anybody could send him to the capital. This warlock comes on and offers to port him for fifty gold.” She was laughing heartily. “Warlocks can’t port, you see. They can summon, but that’s a whole other thing.” She shook her head. “I’ve spent months wondering how that came out.”
“Probably about like the death knight your boss told me about, who offered to heal for a dungeon group,” Rourke replied, tongue-in-cheek.
Carlie looked shocked. “DKs can’t heal!”
“I’m sure the dungeon group knows that now,” he quipped, and he was rakishly handsome when he smiled.
“I guess I’m missing a lot,” Jake Blair said.
“You should come and play with us,” Carlie said.
He shook his head. “I’m too old to play, pumpkin.”
“You’re kidding, right? One of the best raid leaders on our server is seventy-three years old.”
His eyebrows arched. “Say what?”
“Not only that, there’s a whole guild that plays from a nursing home.”
“I met them,” Rourke said. “Cash and I were in a dungeon with several of them. Along with a ten-year-old Paladin who kicked butt, and a sixty-eight-year-old grandmother who was almost able to kill the big boss single-handed.”
“I suppose my whole concept of gaming is wrong,” Jake laughed. “I had no idea so many age groups played together.”
“That’s what makes it so much fun,” Carlie replied. “You meet people from all over the
world in-game, and you learn that even total strangers can work together with a little patience.”
“Maybe I’ll get online one of these days and try it,” Jake conceded.
“That would be great, Dad!” Carlie exclaimed. “You can be in our guild. Robin and I have one of our own,” she explained. “We’ll gear you and teach you.”
“Maybe in the summer, when things are a little less hectic,” Jake suggested.
“Oh. The building committee again,” Carlie recalled.
“One group wants brick. The other wants wood. We have a carpenter in our congregation who wants the contract and doesn’t understand that it has to be bid. The choir wants a loft, but the organist doesn’t like heights. Some people don’t want carpet, others think padded benches are a total sellout... Why are you laughing?” he asked, because Rourke was almost rolling on the floor.
“Church,” Rourke choked. “It’s where people get along and never argue...?”
“Not in my town,” Reverend Blair said, sighing. He smiled. “We’ll get it together. And we argue nicely.” He frowned. “Except for Old Man Barlow. He uses some pretty colorful language.”
“I only used one colorful word,” Carlie remarked as she served up the casserole, “and he—” she pointed at her father “—grounded me for a month and took away my library card.”
He shrugged. “It was a very bad word.” He glowered at her. “And Robin should never have taught it to you without explaining what it meant!”
“Robin got in trouble, too,” she told Rourke. “But his parents took away his computer for two weeks.” She shook her head. “I thought withdrawal was going to kill him.”
“He uses drugs?” Rourke asked curiously.
“No, withdrawal from the video game we play together,” she chuckled. She glanced at her father. “So I had to do battlegrounds in pugs for those two weeks. It was awful.”
“What’s a pug?” Reverend Blair asked.
“A pickup group,” Rourke replied. “Cash taught me.” He glared. “There was a tank in the last one that had a real attitude problem. Cash had him for lunch.”