DEFENDING HIS OWN

by Beverly Barton

  "And?"

  "And everything is going to be all right," Deborah lied. "He understands."

  Carol Vaughn smiled. "I knew he would. He'll take good care of you and Allen."

  When her mother fell asleep shortly before five in the afternoon, Deborah kissed her pale cheek and walked out into the hallway.

  Ashe stood, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. "Is she all right?" he asked.

  "She's sleeping." Deborah glanced at Ashe, but when she saw the coldness in his eyes, she looked away. "I'd like to go home now."

  He escorted her downstairs to the parking lot, not touching her, not saying another word. The drive home was an exercise in torture. For Deborah. And for Ashe.

  Suddenly her life seemed void of hope. Where she had felt the joy of being in love, the resurgence of dreams she'd thought long dead, now she felt only loss. Had she lost Ashe again? Or as in the past, had he never truly been hers?

  Deborah glanced out the side window of Ashe's rental car, knowing that nothing she could say or do at this point would change the way he felt. When she heard him dialing his cellular phone, she glanced at him.

  Quickly he returned his gaze to the road ahead. "Roarke?"

  "How's Miss Carol?" Roarke asked. "Ever since Deborah called Allen with the good news, he's been wanting to talk to his mother."

  "Miss Carol is doing real good. We left her sleeping." Ashe paused for a second. "I'm bringing Deborah home, but something's come up and I need to go out. Alone."

  "No problem. Want to tell me what's wrong?"

  "You were right about Allen."

  "How'd you find out?" Roarke asked.

  "Deborah told me. Today. While Miss Carol was in surgery."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know." Ashe clutched the steering wheel. "I can't see Allen right now. Keep him inside until I drop Deborah off. Okay?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  Ashe closed his cellular phone and slipped it back into his coat pocket. "Roarke will take care of you."

  "Where are you going?" Deborah wished he'd look at her, but he didn't.

  "I need to get away by myself for a few hours and do some serious thinking."

  "Ashe, please… You may not believe this now, but … I love you."

  Without replying, he drove up Montgomery Avenue

  , turned into the Vaughn driveway and waited for Deborah to get out. She hesitated for just a moment, hoping he would say something. He didn't. She jumped out of the car, slammed the car door and rushed up on the front porch where Roarke stood waiting. Ashe roared away, leaving Deborah alone, uncertain and miserable.

  Ashe McLaughlin was good at that, she thought. Leaving. Maybe she had made a mistake, eleven years ago and more recently, too. But everything wasn't her fault. Surely when his temper cooled and he had time to think reasonably, he would see that he wasn't the only injured party in this situation.

  She wasn't sure exactly what she had expected when she told him the truth, but somewhere deep inside her, she had hoped he would understand, that he would forgive her.

  "Are you all right?" Roarke asked.

  "I've been better," she said.

  "Allen's helping Mazie set the table for dinner. He's going to want to know why Ashe isn't with you."

  "I gather you suspected that Allen was Ashe's son."

  "I saw the similarities. I knew your and Ashe's background. He told me about you, one night when we'd both had a little too much to drink."

  "Ashe told you about me?"

  "That surprises you?" Roarke opened the front door, placed his hand in the small of Deborah's back and followed her into the entrance hall.

  "Why would Ashe tell you about me, about our… Ashe didn't love me. I don't understand."

  "Maybe he didn't love you," Roarke said. "But he sure as hell never forgot you. He never got over the way he felt about you."

  "I was in love with him then, you know. I'm even more in love with him now."

  "Give him time to sort out his feelings." Roarke laid his big hand on Deborah's shoulder. "He has a son he never knew about and he's found out that a woman he'd just learned to trust again has kept a secret from him for eleven years."

  Allen ran into the entrance hall, Huckleberry loping behind him. "How's Mother? When can I go see her?" Allen glanced around, then stared at the door. "Where's Ashe? Parking the car?"

  Deborah took a deep breath. "Ashe had some business to take care of immediately. Mother is doing beautifully, and you can see her tomorrow after school."

  "Great. May I call her tonight?"

  "Right after dinner," Deborah said.

  "Will Ashe be home in time to help me with my math homework?"

  "I'm not sure how long his business will take." She wanted to wrap Allen in her arms and keep him safe. For the millionth time in ten years, she wished she could tell him she was his mother. Dear God, how Ashe must feel. But he had no idea the price she had paid pretending to be Allen's sister. Both of them had lost so much not having the chance to be Allen's parents. Maybe it really was all her fault. Maybe Ashe had every right to hate her. If she'd had the strength to stand up to her father or the courage to have gone to Ashe with the truth long ago, things would be different now.

  Deborah checked her watch as she followed Allen into the kitchen. Would Ashe return tonight? Tomorrow? Or would he leave town and never return? Oh, he would return, all right. He might leave her again, but he would never leave his son.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Ashe sat in his car, the window down, the crisp night air chilling him. He had to go home, home to Deborah. For the past several hours he had thought of nothing except what she'd told him about Allen. His son. Their son.

  He'd stopped by a local lounge for a couple of drinks, then come down here by the river and parked. He hadn't wanted to be around anybody. He'd needed time alone to lick his wounds, to resolve his feelings for Deborah.

  The fact that he cared deeply for her complicated his life considerably. If she hadn't come to mean so much to him, he could hate her. But he didn't hate her; and he didn't even blame her for what she'd done. How could he? Eleven years ago he'd taken her innocence and broken her heart. He'd tried to reject her gently, telling himself he was doing what was best for her. If he'd been a man instead of a thoughtless boy, he would have made sure he hadn't gotten her pregnant. That had been his fault. He'd been the one with experience, not her. And she'd loved him. He hadn't appreciated how much the love of a girl like Deborah meant. Now he did.

  Why hadn't he, just once, considered the possibility that he'd gotten her pregnant and she'd kept it a secret from him? Hell, he knew the answer only too well. He couldn't have handled the guilt. He didn't blame her for not coming to him, after the way he'd treated her. Back then she hadn't known her father had run him out of town; she'd thought he'd deserted her.

  He couldn't justify her keeping Allen's existence a secret after her father died, but he understood her reasoning. He had hurt her badly. She had been afraid to trust her life and Allen's to him.

  Things were different now. She did trust him. And she still loved him. That was the greatest miracle of all. Somehow, he'd find a way to make up all the lost years to Allen and to Deborah.

  They needed to talk, to come to an agreement on the best way to handle the situation. He wanted Allen in his life, whether or not they ever told the boy he was his father. And he didn't want to lose Deborah, not again. All these years she had stayed alive inside him, her gentle beauty, her unconditional love.

  He didn't know exactly how they'd work things, but they would find a way. He'd make Deborah see that no obstacle was too great for them to overcome—together. He wasn't going to lose his son or his son's mother.

  Ashe started the car, turned around and headed toward Sheffield, all the while thinking about what he wanted to say to Deborah. When he turned into the driveway, he noticed every downstairs light was on. In the distance
he heard sirens. A police siren and an ambulance siren. His heart raced, his nerves rioted. What if something had happened while he'd been off licking his wounds?

  He flew to the front door and through the house, calling for Deborah, then he bellowed out Roarke's name. When he entered the kitchen he ran into Allen, who trembled and cried and spoke in incoherent phrases. Huckleberry stood at Allen's side, licking the child's hand.

  Ashe grabbed his son by the shoulders. "Allen, what's wrong? What's happened? Where's Deborah? Where's Roarke?"

  "Deborah's gone." Allen sobbed, his big blue eyes wide with fear. "I don't know what happened. I heard Deborah scream."

  "When did you hear her scream?"

  "Just a little while ago. Her scream woke—woke me and—and Huckleberry."

  "Where's Roarke?"

  "Outside. In the—the backyard. I think he's dead!" Allen threw his arms around Ashe's waist, hugging him fiercely.

  Ashe lifted his son in his arms, sat him down on top of the kitchen table and wiped the tears from his face with his fingers. "Are you all right, Allen?"

  "Yes. But I can't find Deborah. Where is she? Did they get her?"

  "Show me where Roarke is," Ashe said.

  "I called 911. Roarke told me to call, then he passed out."

  Ashe lifted Allen down from the table. Holding his son's hand, he followed the boy and his dog outside. Roarke's big body rested in a fallen heap on the patio. Huckleberry sniffed Roarke's semiautomatic, which he'd obviously dropped when he'd passed out. The gun now lay in a pool of fresh blood that had formed on the bricks.

  Ashe leaned down, turning Roarke slightly. The man groaned, then opened his eyes.

  "Hang in there. An ambulance is on its way," Ashe said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "She was restless." Roarke spoke slowly, his breath ragged. "Worried about you. Thought she … heard your car parking in the back."

  "Where is she?"

  "He took her." Roarke tried to lift his head. "Told her not to go outside. Couldn't catch her. Couldn't stop her. She thought it was you."

  Ashe inspected Roarke's body and discovered he'd been shot several times. Dear God, why didn't that ambulance hurry? If Roarke lost much more blood, he'd be dead before the medics arrived.

  "Take it easy," Ashe said.

  "I walked out—out the door." Roarke coughed several times. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "The minute I stepped out… Shot me. Kept shooting."

  "Did you get a look at him?"

  "Big guy. Ugly. Sandy hair. Jeans. Leather jacket." Roarke lifted his hand, but the effort exerted too much of his strength and his hand fell to his side. "Failed. Sorry."

  "I'll find her," Ashe said. "You just hang in there until—" Ashe realized Roarke had passed out again.

  Four Sheffield policeman stormed the backyard, their guns drawn. Standing, Ashe placed his arm around Allen's shoulders. His son leaned against him.

  "Come on, Allen. After we talk to the police and see Roarke off to the hospital, I'm taking you over to Mama Mattie's. I'll get Chief Burton to send one of his officers to stay with you until I find Deborah."

  "You'll find her, won't you, Ashe? You won't let anybody hurt her, will you? You love her, just like I do."

  "Yeah, son, you're right. I'll find her, and I'll never let anybody hurt her because I love her, too."

  Ashe barely contained the rage inside him, and the fear. Dear God, the nauseating fear! If anything happened to Deborah, it would be his fault. If he hadn't left her, deserted her again, then she wouldn't have been in such a tormented state of mind. She never would have rushed outside without thinking, disobeying Roarke's orders. If anything happened to her or if Roarke died, Ashe would have to face the fact that he could have prevented tonight's disastrous events.

  * * *

  Ashe marched into the Sweet Nothings club like a storm trooper. Evie tried to grab his arm, but he threw her off and swept past the bouncer, making his way to Buck Stansell's office. If the man was responsible for Deborah's kidnapping, he'd kill him with his bare hands—after he found out where Deborah's abductor had taken her.

  Ashe flung open the office door. Buck jumped up from behind his desk, like a scared rabbit dodging a hunter's bullet.

  "Where is she?" Ashe demanded, as he advanced on Buck, not heeding Buck's bodyguard's warning.

  Buck motioned for his bodyguard. Ashe turned on the burly man and, using several expedient thrusts with his hands and feet, brought the big man to his knees.

  "Why are you here?" Buck asked.

  Evie rushed into the office, bringing two bouncers with her. Ashe pulled his gun from the shoulder holster and aimed it at Buck.

  "Call off your goons," Ashe said.

  "Take them back inside the club," Buck ordered. "Go with them, sweetie. I can handle things in here."

  "Where is Deborah?" Ashe asked again.

  "If she's missing, I don't have her," Buck said. "I've been trying to tell you that I'm not behind the recent threats. I thought you were checking into other suspects."

  "I'm still checking." With gun in hand, Ashe walked across the room, motioning for the bodyguard to sit. "Someone shot my partner at the Vaughns' home tonight and kidnapped Deborah. What do you know about it?"

  Buck eased down in his big velvet chair behind his desk. "I didn't put a contract out on Deborah, but I know who did."

  "Keep your hands where I can see them." Ashe stood in front of Buck's desk. "Tell me what you know."

  "I checked into the situation for you, just like I said I would." Buck laid his hands flat atop his desk. "I found out that a prominent Sheffield citizen hired one of my former employees—Randy Perry—to kill Deborah. Randy just got out of the pen a couple of months ago and I didn't see fit to rehire him. He's a bad apple, that one."

  "Who hired him?"

  "A relative of Deborah Vaughn's, one who had a twofold purpose in wanting her dead."

  "Who?"

  "The man wanted revenge on his wife's former lover, the one he's cried in his beer about here at Sweet Nothings on more than one occasion. Seems his wife has always compared him to this guy and he's always come up lacking."

  "Whitney's husband?" Ashe asked.

  "Of course, getting back at you isn't his main reason. The inheritance is. Seems Jamison thinks that old Mrs. Vaughn hasn't got much longer to live, and with Deborah out of the way, his wife would be the logical one to oversee Deborah's estate and take custody of Allen."

  "My God! Is Whitney involved in this scheme?"

  "Don't know. Wouldn't know what I do if Randy hadn't stayed buddies with some of my boys and if he wasn't the type to brag to the ladies."

  "Do you have any idea where he's taken Deborah?"

  "I didn't even know he'd taken her tonight until you stormed in here. Why don't you pay a visit on Mr. Jamison?"

  "That's exactly what I intend to do." Slipping his gun back into the holster, Ashe nodded to the door. "Why don't you walk me out, Buck, old friend?"

  Buck chuckled. "Still don't trust me completely? I don't blame you."

  Buck walked Ashe all the way outside to his car, then put his hand on Ashe's shoulder. "I'll find out what I can about where Randy's taken your woman. If I learn anything that can help you, I'll send Lee Roy to find you."

  Ashe didn't say anything, only nodded, got in his car and headed back to Sheffield, straight to the Jamison house on River Bluff.

  * * *

  The Jamison home sat on the bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. Ashe parked his rental car behind George Jamison's Jaguar. The fury inside him had built to the "kill" stage. His common sense urged him to stay calm, telling him that he must remain in control in order to find Deborah before her kidnapper killed her.

  The very thought of Deborah being harmed angered Ashe, and created a pain deep inside him. The hired assassin had been waiting for his chance to get Deborah, and Ashe had given him the perfect opportunity. If anything happened to her, he'd never forgive himself.
>
  He rang the doorbell and waited, checking his gun. After endless minutes of keeping his finger pressed against the buzzer, Whitney Vaughn swung open the double doors and stood in the foyer smiling.

  "Why, Ashe McLaughlin, whatever brings you to my house in the middle of the night?"

  Ashe noticed she wore nothing but a thin, lavender nightgown, sheer and revealing. "Where's your husband?"

  "Not in my bed." She draped her arm around Ashe's neck. He pulled free, walking farther into the foyer. She closed the doors and followed him.

  "You want to see George?" she asked. "At this time of night?"

  "Where is he?" Ashe went from room to room, turning on lights as he went. "If he's not here, tell me where he is!"

  "What the devil's the matter with you, Ashe?" Whitney planted her hand on her slender hip.

  "Deborah's been kidnapped," Ashe said. "And I have reason to believe that your husband put out a contract on her life."

  "George?" Whitney's large brown eyes widened, giving her an owlish look. "But George would never… What reason would he have?"

  "You tell me. For all I know you could be in on it with him."

  "I'd never do anything to hurt Deborah. She's my cousin. I care deeply for her."

  "Where's your husband?" Grabbing Whitney by the shoulders, Ashe shook her soundly.

  "He—he's upstairs in his room."

  "Show me." Ashe jerked Whitney around, grasping her wrist. "I don't have any time to lose."

  Whitney ran up the stairs, Ashe beside her. Halting, she pointed to a closed door. "That's George's room."

  Ashe crashed through the door. George Jamison had one leg in his trousers, the other on the floor. Ashe grabbed him around the neck. When George swayed, Ashe steadied him by slamming him up against the wall. Whitney stepped inside, but stayed by the open door.

  "Where did Randy Perry take Deborah?" Ashe tightened his hold on George's neck.

  "I—I don't know what you're—you're talking about." George pawed at Ashe's hand, trying unsuccessfully to loosen his hold around his neck.

  "Don't play games with me, Jamison. You tell me what I want to know or I'll break your neck. Do you understand me?"