Lawman's Redemption

by Marilyn Pappano

  Shoving her hair back from her face, Hallie rolled onto her side and groped on the night table for the clock. Once she found it, she had to rub her eyes to bring the numbers into focus. Sleepily she set it down again. It must need new batteries. It said it was nearly eleven-thirty, and she hadn’t slept until eleven-thirty in…well, forever. Only when she’d had a really big night the night before and needed the extra hours to recuperate, and the last time she’d had such a night was when she ran off and married her first husband.

  Setting the clock down again, she collapsed on the bed and rolled over…and remembered everything—the fire, the hospital, Brady’s admission, their lovemaking. No wonder she was still in bed at practically noon and still tired. She hadn’t gotten there until sometime around 5:00 a.m. and hadn’t gone to sleep until several hours later.

  And she’d sure had fun.

  Brady lay on his stomach, the sheet pulled to his shoulders, his right arm propped on a pillow that was balanced half on the nightstand. His face was turned toward her, and his breathing was steady, slow, deep. It sounded peaceful and could lure her back to sleep in a heartbeat if she let it.

  If she wasn’t curious.

  She hadn’t yet seen his back and the scars that caused him such torment, but there was something so sneaky about lifting the sheet and taking a peek while he slept. Not that she would be doing anything wrong. After all, he’d let her undress him, and he’d slept naked beside her. He’d known there was a chance she would awaken before him, that she might catch a glimpse.

  Not that it even mattered. She hadn’t fallen for the smooth perfection of his skin, so how could she care that it was neither smooth nor perfect? Besides, popular opinion to the contrary, she wasn’t shallow enough to care. Her mother had taught her that beauty truly was in the eye of the beholder, and life had confirmed it for her.

  And she thought he was beautiful.

  Pillowing her head on her arms, she studied him for a time. He could be so fierce and distant when he was awake, but asleep he just looked tired. Vulnerable. She could imagine how much he must hate feeling vulnerable, and how vulnerable he must have felt that morning when she’d undressed him.

  For a wooden nickel she would go to Marshall City, Texas, smack Sandra and destroy Brady’s parents, then pay the city fathers whatever it would take to eradicate their name from the town and its history. Their only legacy would be the plot of dirt where they were buried.

  Which would make her feel better, but wouldn’t do much for Brady. It wouldn’t heal the scars or make him forget.

  A sigh escaped her an instant before she realized he was awake. He hadn’t moved other than to open his eyes, and he looked…wary.

  “Good morning,” she murmured with a lazy smile. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

  “I hope you’re referring to the tussle at your house, the broken wrist and the fire, and not to making love with me.”

  His smile started slowly and curved only one corner of his mouth before stopping. “Absolutely. You were the only good part of last night. You made up for all the rest.” He shifted, moving his right arm carefully, to lean on his elbows, and the sheet slipped down his back.

  Though she tried, Hallie couldn’t have not looked to save her life. Her gaze darted automatically to all the warm brown skin now exposed—skin that was crisscrossed from side to side, from his shoulders to his waist, with long pale scars. Some were thin, hardly more than a line stretching across his back, while others were heavy, ridged and puckered. The differences, she assumed, had to do with the age of the scars and the severity of the injuries that caused them. And there were so many. There wasn’t a single place on his back where she could lay her palm entirely on undamaged skin.

  She couldn’t begin to imagine the terrible pain he must have suffered. She wanted to weep, to hold and protect him, to find some way to heal him, and she wanted to hurt his mother—hurt her bad.

  “It’s not a pretty sight, is it?”

  Her gaze jerked back to his face. His tone was wry, his smile even more so, as if it really didn’t matter. But in his eyes was anxiety, uncertainty and that damned vulnerability. As touched as she was that he could show that side of himself to her—both literally and figuratively—she hated that anything had the power to make him feel defenseless.

  She wasn’t certain how to respond. She could deny that the scars were ugly—and proof that evil did exist. She could shrug them off, insist she’d seen worse. Or she could tell the truth.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It’s not pretty. And it’s made up my mind for me. I’m going to Texas, and I’m going to make your parents disappear from the face of this earth. I have the money to do that, and I think Max has the connections.”

  For a long still moment, he just looked at her, his expression wavering between wariness and amusement. The latter won out. “You think Max has that kind of connections?”

  “You know that Mafia movie that came out last year—the Golden Globe winner? He both directed and produced it. You should have seen some of the shady characters he was having meetings with. I suspect most of them had years of experience at making offers people couldn’t refuse.”

  He rolled onto his side and used his good arm to pull her body snug against his. “So you’ve gone from consorting with mobsters to consorting with a cop.”

  She brushed her lips over his beard-stubbled jaw. “I never did this with a mobster.”

  After pressing a kiss to her forehead, he rubbed up and down her spine in slow easy strokes. She let her eyes drift shut and thought about sleeping another hour or two, but there were still things she wanted to know, questions she wanted to ask. With a great effort, she opened her eyes and focused on him. “What happened to your brother?”

  For just an instant his hand stilled on her back, then resumed the relaxing massage. “Logan ran off just before his sixteenth birthday. He’d committed some infraction—there were so many of them, I don’t even remember what—and I took the blame for it. That’s what an older brother does, you know? I was bigger, tougher. I could handle it better than him. So our mother punished me, and…I guess he just couldn’t take it anymore. He packed whatever he could carry and took off in the middle of the night. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  So he’d been betrayed not only by his parents and his wife, but also by his brother—the brother he’d literally suffered for. How awful Logan’s leaving must have been for Brady…but how impossible it must have been for Logan, seeing his brother beaten in his place. If he were anything at all like Brady, he would have preferred enduring the pain himself over the helpless heartache of being responsible for his brother’s pain.

  “Have you tried to find him?”

  “A time or two. Not seriously. He left me a note the night he took off—one line. Damn you. He ran away from me as much as from our parents. The least I can do is respect that.”

  Hallie stared at him in dismay. “Brady, he didn’t mean that! He was a child!”

  “We were never children.”

  His tone was so even and casual, but the words and the truth behind them sent a shiver through her. She responded by snuggling even closer, as if he could protect her. But all she needed protection from was his memories. Everything he’d gone through made her sick at heart.

  And yet he’d survived—not without scars, both inside and out, but he was a kind, honorable, respected and admired man. He didn’t have many friends, but Neely and Reese loved him. Lexy loved him. And Hallie….

  Deliberately she redirected her thoughts from too-dangerous-on-a-lazy-morning territory. “Tell me you have at least one good memory from your childhood.”

  He took a moment to think about it. “My grandmother—my mother’s mother—lived down the road from us in a little white farmhouse with dark green shutters, a porch across the front and a swing on the porch, and she smelled of fresh-baked bread and roses. Every time I went over there, we’d sit on the p
orch swing and she would hold me in her lap and tell me stories, feed me cookies and make me feel safe…. She died when I was five.”

  And thirty years later he’d bought his own little white farmhouse with dark green shutters, a front porch and a swing.

  And last night those bastards had destroyed it.

  She was trying to think of something else to ask when a knock sounded at the door. “Are you guys ever gonna get up so we can eat?” Lexy called.

  Predictably, Brady turned crimson. “Aw, hell, I meant to be back in the guest room before she woke up.”

  Hallie slid out of his arms and located her chemise on the night table. Funny. She didn’t remember putting it there. She certainly didn’t remember folding it. “She’s fourteen,” she said as she tugged the garment over her head, “and she probably knows more about sex than you and I did when we were twenty—and we were both married. She wouldn’t have been fooled.”

  She turned to get his clothes, but there was no sign of them. No T-shirt carelessly tossed aside, no jeans left in a pile on the rug, no boxers tossed heaven knows where.

  “I’ve got Brady’s clothes,” Lexy called. “What do you want me to do with them?”

  Opening the door, Hallie gave the girl a bright smile. “Your dad cooks and cleans and you do laundry? You guys are a prize.”

  “I only do laundry when all my clothes go up in smoke.” Lexy handed over a messily folded stack of clothes. “It’s lunchtime, and we missed breakfast.”

  “We’ll be right out.”

  Hallie closed the door, then set the clothes on the dresser. Brady was lying on his back, the cover pulled up to somewhere around his nose, but it couldn’t hide the color in his cheeks.

  “She came in here while we were asleep,” he said with a scowl.

  “Yes, she did, and she washed all the smoky smells out of the only clothes you own, so show some gratitude, grumpy.”

  “Why don’t you come over here and make me?”

  She sashayed to the bed and climbed right up into his lap. “I know some tricks that will turn Mr. Grumpy into Mr. Happy like that—” she snapped her fingers “—but not until I get a shower and some food.” He’d just slid his hand under her gown to cup her bottom when she wriggled away and off the bed.

  “Give me ten minutes, then we’ll fix your cast so you can shower, too.”

  Brady watched her leave the room before he slowly sat up. He wrapped the quilt around him, then reached for his jeans to get one of the pain pills the ER doc had given him. The pockets were empty, of course, so he put the jeans on, left the bedroom and followed the tinny sound of music escaping headphones through the kitchen and into the dining room. Lexy sat at the table, headphones covering her ears, a journal closed in front of her and an assortment of items on the table.

  He pulled out the chair across from her. There was the paper packet of pills, his keys, his badge and wallet, along with seventy-eight cents. The only other things he’d stuck in his pockets were the photographs, and they were in Lexy’s hands.

  “Hey.” When he got no response, he reached across the table and waved his fingers in front of her.

  She looked up, offered a tight smile, then pushed the headphones down around her neck. “Hey. How’s your hand?”

  “Better. You want to turn that down?”

  Sliding her hand into the backpack that hung on the next chair, she shut off the music, then unhooked the headphones. “I, uh…I found these in your pocket.” She thrust one photo toward him.

  “Who is that? It looks like you, but not.”

  He glanced at the familiar face, taken Logan’s sophomore year in school. Funny. His brother was thirty-three now—if he was even alive—but Brady still thought of him as a fifteen-year-old kid. He couldn’t imagine how Logan the man would look.

  Maybe like him, but not.

  “That’s my brother, Logan.”

  Lexy’s eyes widened, and he realized the bar that usually extended through her brow was gone. Lost in the fire, he hoped. “You have a brother? I have an uncle? That’s so cool! Where is he? Can I meet him? Does he know about me?”

  “I haven’t seen him since right after that picture was taken. He ran away from home and never came back.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s still cool I have an uncle. Uncle Logan.” She grinned, then tossed out another picture. “Who’s that?”

  “My grandmother. Your great-grandmother.”

  “Huh. I didn’t think either of your parents came from mothers. Bet she’s dead, ’cause she’s pretty old in this picture, and it’s an old picture.”

  “Yeah, she’s been dead a long time.”

  “Was she Jim’s mother or Rita’s?”

  “Rita’s. But she wasn’t like Rita at all. You would have liked her, and she would have loved you.”

  “Really.” Lexy looked intrigued by the idea for a moment or two as she shuffled through the remaining photos. Finally she laid one on the table between them and waited.

  Brady smiled faintly. If he closed his eyes and let himself remember, he would still be able to smell the scents he’d quickly come to associate with Lexy—baby powder, baby shampoo, burped-up apple juice and that sweet, innocent, indefinable something that had filled him with such…love.

  Until Sandra had taken it away.

  “That’s you and me.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “You were ten weeks old.”

  “You looked like a baby yourself without the mustache.”

  “That’s why I grew it.”

  She moved to sit in the chair at the head of the table, so she could see the photo, too. “You looked—” She drew a breath, then rushed the words. “You looked like you liked me.”

  “Nah, I didn’t like you,” he said, putting on a careless tone. Then he looked at her. “You were my daughter, my baby. And I…” They weren’t difficult words—just sounds that could mean everything or nothing at all. People said them all the time, and no one needed to hear them more than Lexy…except possibly him.

  “I—I loved you.” His face grew hot again, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Then why did you leave me? Why did you forget all about me?”

  “I didn’t forget you. You were a baby, Lexy. I couldn’t take you with me.” As far as he’d known, he’d had no right to take her. No right ever to see her again.

  “Then why didn’t you stay in town? Why didn’t you stick close by so I could see you?”

  “I couldn’t. Between your mother and my—my parents, I couldn’t stay.”

  She sat back in her chair. “So it was Sandra’s fault. Of course.”

  “No, it wasn’t—” How many lies did he want to tell her? He was already playing father to her, when odds were even that he wasn’t. If he was, Sandra had cheated him of fourteen years with her. Either way, she’d denied Lexy a father. All the problems and hurts were Sandra’s doing. Did he really want to lie to defend her?

  Before he’d reached a decision, Hallie’s voice drifted through the air. “Brady, I’m out of the bathroom. If you want to take a shower, I’ll help you cover your cast.”

  “Okay.” He gathered the photos together, then left them on the table as he stood up. Pausing beside Lexy, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t want to leave you, Lex, and I never forgot you. You got caught in the fallout when things went bad between your mother and me, and I regret that more than I can say.”

  She nodded, then forced a smile. “Hey, I’m here now. That’s what counts, right?”

  “Now, and whenever you want in the future.” He awkwardly hugged her, then headed off for his shower, to be followed, he hoped, by lunch. He needed all the energy he could get. They had a lot to do that afternoon—shopping, Hallie had reminded him with unholy glee—then tonight, bed. Just the two of them. Again.

  He met Hallie in the bathroom, where she gestured for him to sit on a wooden stool. The air was steamy and smelled of flowers and citrus, and the same fragrances clung to Ha
llie, who wore nothing more than a bath towel knotted between her breasts with a smaller towel holding her wet hair on top of her head.

  “I’ve had plenty of broken bones,” he remarked as she secured a plastic bag over his cast, “but I don’t remember them being such a nuisance before.”

  “How many is ‘plenty’?”

  He shrugged. “I told you my father liked to use his fists to discipline us—to the tune of five broken ribs, three arms, one collarbone, a dozen or so fingers and one skull fracture.”

  Her jaw tightened, and for a time it seemed she’d stopped breathing. He slid his good arm around her waist and pulled her to stand between his knees. “It’s all right.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tightly. “You’re a hell of a man, Brady.”

  No…but he was a survivor. And that was something.

  After a moment, she stepped back. “You’re ready for your shower. If you need anything, just yell. And—” her eyes took on a wicked gleam “—I’d be happy to shave you if you decide you don’t like the desperado look. Frankly, though, I find it one heck of a turn-on.” With that, she turned and strolled from the room.

  Brady was grinning as he turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, then stepped under its spray. He didn’t reach for the razor hanging there, though.

  After a remark like that, he might never shave again.

  The next few days passed uneventfully—though the nights…my, oh my. Hallie couldn’t remember the last time her nights had been so amazing that she’d wanted to hurry through the day to get to them. She and Brady made love, which was incredible, but even more special, they talked late into the night, with shadows surrounding them and only the thin light from the moon seeping into the room. She told him things about her marriages that she’d never been able to share with her sisters for fear they would think she was an even bigger idiot than they’d known. He found a few more good memories from his childhood, mostly having to do with Logan, and they talked about Lexy and her future.