Together Always

by Dallas Schulze

  His hands reached for her blouse.

  This wasn't like the first time they'd made love. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He didn't need to soothe her fears and she didn't want soothing. Her fingers were as impatient with his clothing as his were with hers. But when the last garment hit the floor, some of the frantic need ebbed, and for the space of several slow heartbeats, they simply looked at each other.

  Trace saw a woman, delicately formed, her fragile exterior masking an inner strength that still had the power to leave him awestruck. Her skin was pale ivory. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like a thick black cape. And her eyes... God, her eyes. They were emerald green, heaven on earth.

  Lily saw a man, strongly muscled and broad shouldered. His hair a shade that hovered somewhere between gold and brown. His features were a little too rough, his jaw a little too strong. His eyes were summer-sky blue, clear and deep. The color of angels and heaven.

  They reached out to each other at the same moment. Lily shivered as his hands cupped the weight of her breasts, his thumbs brushing across dusky nipples. Her palms rested on the thick mat of hair that coverod his chest, learning the pattern of muscle beneath. His hands slid around her back as he eased her onto the bed, following her down, his chest covering her breasts. She moaned, arching upward into his body, and the moment's calm was gone.

  Desire burned between them. Need was a living presence. Her legs parted, shifting restlessly, and his thighs slid between them. He stopped, just touching the threshold of her need. The ache built until he could stand it no more. Lily accepted him as he sheathed himself within her. She was made for him alone. He was complete only with her.

  Their lovemaking was desperate, raw emotion exploding into physical action. They moved together in an age-old rhythm—give and take, thrust and parry. Nothing was given that wasn't returned a hundredfold. Nothing could be truly taken because each belonged wholly to the other.

  Lily lay beside him afterward, her head on his shoulder, her body curled into his. He stroked her hair back from her forehead. Just like the first time they'd made love, this had been inspired as much by a sense of belonging to each other as by passion. Wrapped in Lily's arms, held tight within her body, he felt as if he belonged somewhere. Truly belonged.

  *'You know, maybe I should cry more often. You made love to me the last time I cried, too.''

  "You shouldn't ever cry," he told her, his voice husky. His thumb brushed over her cheek. Her tears seemed to wash away all the barriers he worked so hard to build.

  **I love you, Trace." She said it quietly, without fanfare, as if the words weren't going to pierce him to his very soul.

  Trace closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her. She loved him. The knowledge swelled inside him, filling him up, taking away the emptiness. And yet pain slid through him. It wasn't right for her. He wasn't right for her. Words trembled in his throat. He loved her. God knew he loved her. But he couldn't tell her that. Wouldn't tell her.

  He said nothing and he wondered if it was his imagination that made him think that Lily shrank away from him a little. He felt like a worm. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her and he knew his silence was a hurtful thing. But wouldn't he hurt her more in the end if he told her how

  he felt? She'd get over her feelings for him. She'd find someone better. He couldn't tie her to his side.

  "Trace?" Lily's questioning voice broke the silence that had built between them.

  "I think it's too soon to be talking about how we feel." God, what a stupid thing to say. Too soon. As if they'd just met. As if she weren't already so much a part of him.

  Lily closed her eyes for a moment, her face tight with hurt. When she looked at him again, the green of her eyes shimmered with tears he knew she wouldn't shed. Her pain was more than he could stand.

  "Lily, I~"

  *'You're right. It's much too soon." Her mouth curved in a superficial smile. Behind the pain in her eyes, he thought he could see a kind of understanding, as if she knew what he was doing.

  He brushed her hair back, unaware that the tend^ness in the gesture revealed his love as surely as any words could have. He'd have given his soul if things could have been different.

  "You are so beautiful." It wasn't what she wanted but it was the best he could give her.

  She was quiet for a long time, and when she spoke, it was on another subject.

  "I'm sorry I fell apart tonight. It's just that I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. You and Mike were the only family I had. And now Mike's gone. When I found out that you'd been involved in the shooting today, all I could think about was how I'd have felt if you'd been killed. I couldn't stand that."

  "Nothing is going to happ)en to me." He set his cheek against the top of her head, his voice low. "Today was some kind of crazy isolated incident. Chances are, nothing like that will ever happen again. Hey, you know what John just told me?"

  "What?" Her voice held only vague interest. It was clear she wasn't interested in talking about anything John had said, but Trace wanted something to distract her.

  **You remember the truck driver who picked us up in Oklahoma and took us to Denver?"

  "Vaguely."

  "That was John."

  "John? Mike's son, John?" She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him, her interest caught. "You're kidding."

  "Nope. It's the same guy. I should have made the connection ages ago but it's been a long time. I'd all but forgotten the guy's name. But ever since John showed up I've had this niggling feeling that I'd seen him before."

  "Why didn't he say something right away?"

  Trace shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he just wanted to see if we'd figure it out on our own."

  "Everything comes full circle." Lily's face was thoughtful, her eyes dark. "I still can't believe Mike's gone. Sometimes I expect to see him walk through the door and say that it was all a joke."

  "I know." Trace brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears, his hands lingering on the softness of her cheeks.

  *Tromise me you'll take care of yourself." Her eyes met his and it was impossible to ignore the intensity in them.

  "I promise. Nothing is going to happen to me." He lifted her and placed a slow thorough kiss on her mouth, distracting her. It worked better than he'd hoped.

  This time their lovemaking was slow and gentle. The urgent passion had been dissipated earlier, leaving them relaxed, more at ease with each other. There was time to savor, to explore.

  Lily fell asleep in Trace's arms, her slim body lax against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He held her, draw-

  ing in the wonder of the moment like a drowning man would draw in oxygen. She loved him. He didn't doubt that. She loved him. It was incredible. It was miraculous. He fell asleep, holding the miracle close to his heart.

  The morning dawned warm and clear. Lily still slept beside him, her face burrowed into the pillow, the covers drawn up over her shoulders.

  Trace felt at peace in a way that had been all too rare in his life. He looked around the room, savoring that feeling of peace. Lily's bedroom reminded him of her. Cool ivory walls, simple furnishings and a splash of color here and there that drew the eye. Enameled shelving covered most of one wall and was filled with books and knickknacks and mementos, all the small treasures a person collects in life.

  Sitting on the top shelf, his pale pink fur mostly worn off, was Isaiah, his dark eyes seeming to look down at Trace with deep wisdom. Trace smiled at the stuffed dog, remembering the first time he'd seen Lily, the toy held under her arm. Isaiah had been through a lot with the two of them but his sewn-on mouth still smiled. The smile was a'little lopsided now and Trace felt a pang, remembering Mike's clumsy stitches as he'd attempted to repair the treasured toy.

  His chest hurt. God, the things that stuffed animal had seen. Oklahoma and the trip to Denver. The months when their money was running out and then the months after it was gone. Through it all Lily had clutched that dog t
o her, drawing some strength from the matted bedraggled lump of fur and stuffing. They'd been through a lot together—the three of them. So many things that no one else could ever share.

  Lying beside Lily on a bright winter morning. Trace could almost believe in miracles. They'd been through so much together. They'd been so much to each other. There'd been

  a time, before they found Mike, when they'd had nothing but each other.

  He remembered those times and all that had come afterward. All the years their lives had twined together. A tiny hope flickered deep inside him. Maybe, just maybe— He refused to finish the thought as if it would be bad luck. But he nodded to Isaiah as if the two of them had just made a pact. He felt younger than he had in years as he slipped out of bed and gathered up his clothes.

  Lily was still sleeping when he left the room. He stopped in the doorway to look back at her and his mouth curved in an irrepressible smile. She slept on her stomach, one knee drawn up, her arms wrapped around her pillow. The sheet had slipped down to bare a length of smooth back and her hair spilled in a tangled black skein across her skin. There was an innocent sensuality to her that made him want to crawl back into her bed and wake her with a kiss. He resisted the urge with difficulty and backed into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Trace was whistling softly under his breath as he let himself out of the house. The sun was shining with enough strength to make it almost possible to believe that it was June rather than February. He shrugged out of his denim jacket on the way to the car. He refused to put a name to just what he was feeling. If he labeled it, he'd have to look for its source, and right now he preferred not to look too deeply at his feelings.

  The 'Vette sat in the driveway, gleaming black perfection. He felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw it. It had taken him two solid years to restore the car but it was showroom fresh now. He opened the door and tossed his jacket into the car. Before he could begin the morning ritual of folding himself into the low passenger compartment, he noticed the piece of paper wedged under the windshield-wiper blade. He pulled it out with only mild curiosity. It was

  probably someone who wanted to know if he was interested in selling. He'd had notes left on the windshield before. He unfolded the plain white sheet and all the vague optimism he'd been feeling vanished like mist under a hot sun.

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. NOT HIM. BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER, you'll PAY ANYWAY.

  Chapter Twelve

  The note was printed in block letters, the paper clean of fingerprints. There was no clue as to who had stuck it on his windshield or when they might have done it. Trace sat in the captain's office, his hands resting in his lap, his fingers deliberately relaxed. His face was carefully blank, giving no hint of the emotions seething inside. It was a look he'd perfected a long, long time ago when it had been important to keep his stepfather from seeing his fear. Jed was long gone but the look remained, a shield he still kq>t ready.

  **It seems likely that the note is referring to Mike," Captain Jacobs said heavily. He looked at Trace from under bushy brows, trying to weigh the impact of his words, knowing what a powerful burden they carried.

  "I don't see who else it could be." Trace glanced up, his eyes a cool clear blue, revealing nothing of his thinking. "I should have thought of it before. Mike took my car to work that day. Whoever killed him must have seen the car and thought it was me. They shot before they realized they'd made a mistake. Mike died in my place."

  **Maybe." Captain Jacobs stroked his upper lip, his eyes thoughtful. "It looks like that may be the case at this point but there are some gaps in that scenario. Even from behind, you and Mike didn't look much alike. The killer would have to have had his eyes shut not to notice that it wasn't

  you. Besides, why would they be expecting you at the Hq-uor store that day?''

  *'I don't know. Maybe they drove by and saw the 'Vette and thought they'd just take advantage of the opportunity. All I know right now is that it looks like Mike died in my place." There was a wealth of pain in the words, all the more powerful for the calm way he said them.

  Jacobs shifted a few objects on the desk, his head bent over the task. Trace noticed the way the light exposed his pink scalp with merciless clarity. Jacobs was trying to think of something to say that would make his officer feel less guilty but there was nothing to be said. Nothing could change the facts. Someone had wanted him dead but Mike was the one who'd bled out his life all alone. Nothing could change that.

  "Do you have any idea who might want you dead?"

  Trace shrugged. "Not really. I gave a list of everyone I could think of to Martin and Castillo. They were investigating Mike's murder. There wasn't anyone who really jumped out at me."

  "Too bad. It could be some nut case who's just decided he doesn't like you. You know, the note could mean nothing. It might just be a crazy who knew about Mike's death and saw this as an opportunity to make a cop squinn."

  "What about the shooting yesterday at Gillespie's? Whoever that was, they seemed real sincere about wanting me dead. We thought it was just a random cop shooting but it could have been someone after me."

  "Maybe. But spraying the pavement with an automatic weapon is a clumsy way to kill one man."

  "Maybe they don't care who gets killed along with me. They must have known it wasn't me before they shot Mike but they killed him anyway."

  "Maybe he saw their face. Maybe they were afraid he could identify them," Jacobs suggested.

  *'The report said that they opened fire when his back was to them."

  Jacobs sighed. "At this point we're talking pure speculation. The note could be a crank with a grudge. It could mean absolutely nothing. We've got people going through your files looking for something we can work with. I want you to go home for the day, get some rest and let your mind wander. Maybe you'll come up with something."

  *'rd rather stay here and go through the files again."

  *'Go home, Dushane. You've been at the files for almost five hours. Get out of here and clear your mind."

  "Yes, sir." Trace stood up, his reluctance clear, but there was no arguing with Jacobs's tone.

  He didn't drive straight home. His thoughts were twisting and turning in too many directions for him to just go peacefully home. There was so much to think about. He pointed the 'Vette's nose in the direction of the Angeles Crest and headed up the Glendale Freeway. It was still early afternoon and traffic was light. Lighter still on Foothill Boulevard, and the highway up over the crest itself was almost empty.

  He drove faster than he should have, pouring all his concentration into the snaking turns that wound upward into the mountains. At this speed he couldn't afford to think about anything but his driving, which was exactly what he needed. The sports car clung to the curves, hugging the narrow road as if it were a lover. The temperature dropped as he climbed to snow level but he didn't stop to put on his jacket. He barely noticed the chill. Near the top of the crest, he turned off on a narrow dirt road and parked the car.

  The snow lay in dirty white drifts on the ground, banking up in hollows and shaded areas, fading to almost nothing where the sun rested. The air was crisp but not bitingly cold. Even in the mountains, winter was losing the fragile grip that was all Los Angeles ever allowed it.

  Trace got out of the car, tugging on his denim jacket. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the grubby white landscape. The blankness he'd drawn around his emotions was fading. He tried to hold on to it for just a little while longer but it wasn't possible. It slid inexorably away, leaving him raw and aching.

  Mike had died because of him.

  The knowledge refused to be pushed away any longer. Mike's death should have been his death. He should have been the one to die. Had Mike known? In those last few agonizing moments, had he known that his death was a mistake?

  Trace's hand knotted into fists in his pockets, his knuckles aching with the pressure. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It was Mike who had taken him in. Mike who'd ta
ught him how to be a man. Because of Mike he'd become a cop instead of ending up on the other side of the bars. He remembered Mike's face the day he'd graduated from the academy. He'd been so proud, and that look had made all the training worthwhile. Superimposed over that memory was the last time he'd seen Mike, his face twisted in agony, his blood pooling around him.

  'Wo/*' The mountains echoed his cry. The sound bounced off the hills, full of anguish. Rage and denial boiled inside him. It wasn't right. Mike shouldn't be dead. Mike had given so much; he'd had so much more to give. He should be the one lying in that graveyard, covered with sue feet of soil. It wasn't fair.

  One thing to keep in mind, Trace, is that life isn't fair, and anybody who tells you it is is either a damned fool or a damned liar.

  Mike's voice echoed in his mind but it did nothing to ease his torment. Nothing could change the fact that Mike had died because of him. Nothing could ease the guilt and pain of that knowledge. He stood there for a long time, his eyes

  focused on nothing, his vision turned inward. But he could find no comfort.

  The sun sank behind the mountains and the air grew colder. Trace gradually realized that his ears were starting to feel numb, as were his feet. He turned back to the car and folded himself into the low seat. The engine caught immediately and idled with a deep roar that promised speed. Enough speed to sail right off any one of the sharp curves that led down off the crest. The thought slid in and was pushed away. He wasn't a quitter. No matter what else, he wasn't a quitter. He'd learn to live with the knowledge that he was partly responsible for Mike's death, just as he'd learned to live with other things in his life.

  He drove home slowly. Pulling into the driveway, he looked at the small house and remembered how he'd felt when he walked out the door that morning. It seemed like aeons ago. He'd been so optimistic, even daring to hope that he and Lily—