by L. L. Muir
And he could probably produce that witness too, the chick who had tried to look up his kilt while he was lying on the ground. Cat was pretty sure the woman would be able to remember every detail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In an act of pure treason, Alonzo Dabelko turned on his granddaughter.
He claimed the Scot was a friend of his whom he’d invited into the house. An upstairs neighbor who had agreed to give his granddaughter a bit of a thrill. He knew how much she liked men in kilts.
Ha ha ha.
Since she wouldn’t call her grandpa a liar in front of the rest, she’d simply excused herself and went to her room, locked the door and got in the shower. If the cops weren’t going to arrest the guy, she wasn’t going to waste any more of her sleeping time. She had a routine. If she didn’t keep to it, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. And no one was going to keep her from her daily dose of shut-eye.
And if Grandpa wanted to fraternize with the enemy, he was on his own—at least for a little while. He wanted to go ahead and trust a stranger who had followed her home from work? He could just fend for himself for a while. Maybe he’d realize the guy was nuts before the cops got around to leaving.
While she washed the smells of coffee and vanilla from her face, she prayed that the little party in her living room was breaking up. Her chest tightened, but she took some deep cleansing breaths to wash away the anger. The cops couldn’t be blamed, of course, for not being more alarmed. They’d probably expected to find a standoff, not a perp having a friendly visit with a sick old man. And of course they couldn’t really take her side of things when they’d learned that she had in fact attacked the perp.
The tightening returned in a heartbeat.
Of course they could have taken her side. They should have taken her side. She’s a young, single woman in the city and they were supposed to be protecting her. It was her home that had been invaded. It didn’t matter how charismatic that invader was!
She hurried through her routine, dried off, and slipped on a t-shirt and sweats, hoping to catch those cops before they were gone. She would give them a piece of her mind, and the Scot too, if she moved quickly enough. She wasn’t the type to hold grudges. She wasn’t even the type to tell someone off. But she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink when she felt so mistreated.
Catherine Dabelko might be a kind, positive person, but she was no doormat.
In her hurry, she grabbed for the bedroom door and the leg of a chair caught her baby toe and nearly ripped it off her foot. She gasped in a deep breath and it came out in the form of a long string of every curse word she’d ever heard in her life, and a couple originals. Unfortunately, she’d been opening the door when she’d said them.
While the pain in her toe subsided to a howling throb, she stared into the faces of four startled men. The cops looked at her with a combination of disgust and disappointment. Her grandfather was downright embarrassed. But the Scot looked pleased as punch. She’d just given the other men another reason to side with the guy. If he and she were at war, this would be the point where her own troops would turn coats and sneak to the other side.
Led by her own grandfather.
She glared at the smaller cop. “I nearly ripped my toe off, okay?”
He looked doubtful, so she reached back, grabbed the chair, and slid it into the living room. It caught the edge of the rug and toppled over. His hand moved to his holster.
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t throwing it at you.”
The guy was still unimpressed. He exchanged a look with his partner that said whatever she got now, she deserved, then he headed for the door. The bigger one said goodnight to the Scot and her grandpa, then followed. He stopped with his hand on the door and addressed her. “We’re going to let you and your grandpa work this out. Since he lives here too, you should let him have some say in who gets to visit. He’s a sick man. Try to remember that.”
When the door closed, her mouth was still hanging open. And though she’d never in her life thrown anything in a fit of temper, she was tempted to throw the stupid chair at the door. The way her luck was going, however, there was a good chance they’d come back and arrest her—for being rude to her grandpa’s guest!
She turned and glared at that guest and was not surprised to find him still smiling.
“You may have them fooled, but the three of us know the truth.” She spared a glance at her grandpa and he had the decency to look guilty. To the Scot she said simply, “Get out.”
“Now Catherine,” her grandpa said in a rare stern tone, “I won’t allow you to be rude to the man. He clearly came to your rescue tonight, and we owe him some gratitude.”
He leaned back against the raised bed and panted like chastising her had taken all his strength. But he could have been acting, like he often did if he wasn’t getting his way. She just couldn’t be sure.
“And Seoc.” The old man lifted his hand half-heartedly, then dropped it to the bed again. “My friend. Trust me. Catherine has never acted like this before. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Maybe she’s just…excited.”
“Grandpa!”
He wasn’t too exhausted to flinch at her tone but quickly went back to playing the part of a dying man.
The Scot bought it all—hook, line and sinker—and hurried to her grandpa’s side. He touched the old man’s forehead. “Can ye fetch me a cloth and a bowl of cool water, lass?” He glanced up at her. “Sweating,” he said. “Could be a number of reasons.”
Sweating?
She went to the linen closet and got a washcloth, trying not to feel too defensive. The word fetch didn’t sit well with her, but it was probably a Scottish thing. Bring, fetch, same thing. She got some water in a small ice cream bucket and took them both to the bed and nudged the Scot out of the way.
“I can do this,” she said, trying not to sound like a witch. She wet the cloth, wrung it out, and patted her grandpa’s forehead. “How are you feeling?” She still suspected he was acting.
His lips moved a little, but then stopped. After a few deep breaths, he was asleep.
She turned off the lamp next to the headboard and pressed the button that lowered the head of the bed. She couldn’t lower it too much or he would start coughing, but she was able to make him a little more comfortable.
A couple of weeks before, he’d been able to lie nearly flat. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to lay him back at all. What would she do then? Make him sleep on his stomach?
She smoothed the covers and touched his hand for a long minute. All part of the ritual. Ritual was all that kept her going these days.
Suddenly self-conscious, she turned and found that the Scot had given her some privacy. He sat at the table in the kitchen staring at his fingers like they were new to him. He looked up when she flipped on the light above his head.
“I am sorry, lass.”
“For?”
“For yer fairly immanent loss.” He nodded toward the living room.
She sighed and shuffled over to the stove to turn on the kettle. It was going to take a little herbal tea to get to sleep this time. The stressful day ritual.
“I’m going to have tea. Would you like some, before you go?” The slight stress she’d added to the word go had sounded pretty rude, but she was too tired to care. Besides, the Scot brought out the worst in her. Not her fault at all.
“I can go now if ye prefer it, lass.”
She shook her head. “That’s all right. We’ll call it apology tea.”
He inclined his head.
“And you can tell me what the hell you’re really doing, following me home and climbing through my window.”
He bit his lip for a second, then nodded.
The rest of the ritual went on in silence. She opened up her tea box and let him choose what he wanted. Chamomile for her. Since he was obviously Scottish down to his boots, she figured he was probably used to having a snack with his tea, so she pulled out a tin of chocolate chip cookies
she’d made two nights ago when she hadn’t been able to sleep. She took off the lid and set it on the table and nodded for him to take one.
“They’ve got walnuts,” she warned. “My grandpa likes anything that crunches.”
He took a bite. “Divine, truly. I thank ye.” Then the rest of the large cookie disappeared in two bites. She pushed the tin toward him and watched him down two more.
It had been a long time since anyone had complimented her cooking and she tried to hide her blush behind her cup. But then again, sitting so close and staring at his handsome face might have been the real reason she felt flushed. It was a little unnerving to be facing any stranger without a nice, high counter between them, let alone Adonis.
She finally forced herself to set her cup down. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He pushed the tin away from him and took up his tea. “Not dangerous, that is for certain.”
“Except to thugs?”
He nodded. “Not dangerous to you nor Alonzo.”
His use of her grandfather’s first name didn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It was kind of nice having someone else think of him as a person and not a patient. Usually, people called him Mr. Dabelko when speaking about him, even if he was still in the room.
“Okay. So let’s pretend I believe you. Why are you here?”
He frowned and took so much time deciding what to say, she knew it wouldn’t be the truth.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t need to know.” She took up her cup again and drank the rest in spite of the temperature. “He’ll be waking up in a few hours, so I need to sleep while he sleeps.”
The Scot got the hint and stood. He carried his cup to the sink before walking back to the living room. She pointed to the door and raised her eyebrows.
He shook his head and all that lovely hair with it. “I’ll just go the way I came, aye? Instead of fumbling through the building trying to find my way out of it.” He unlocked the window, then turned to look at her again. “I’ve no doubt ye’ve been a fine nurse to yer grandfather,” he whispered. “But I believe ye should prepare yerself. He’s not much time left.”
She hurried around the bed and stood close to keep her grandpa from overhearing any more than he already might have. “He doesn’t need to hear anything negative, do you understand? Especially from a stranger that doesn’t know anything about him. You’re not a doctor—”
“Aye, lass. I am.” His hand rose up and cupped the side of her face. The lamplight from the far corner reflected in his eyes, and they were filled with such sincere regret it nearly shattered her.
“Get out.” It was a little more than a breath, but their faces were so close he had no trouble hearing her.
He nodded but didn’t move, like there was something more he intended to say, but she didn’t want to hear it. She tried to pull his hand away from her face. Only, when she laid her fingers on his wrist, they just kind of…stuck there. It was so warm and firm and strong, she could almost imagine borrowing some strength from it.
The silly thought passed and after a slight tug from her, his hand fell away. He lifted the window and disappeared in one smooth, drawn out movement. The tail end of his plaid was the last to disappear through the opening before the window lowered again.
She moved closer to the bed and watched her grandfather sleep peacefully on with the clear forks of a cannula stuck up his nose. He hadn’t heard a word, thank goodness. His hand was still warm and soft. He was no worse than he had been the day before. No need to turn up is O’s—his oxygen. Everything was fine.
She ignored the warmth that lingered on her face in the shape of a man’s hand…
A doctor? Please. Doctors didn’t run around in costumes and break into apartments to visit patients that weren’t theirs. He was just crazy!
She reached for the latch to lock it, but paused. Just one more glimpse of him wouldn’t hurt anything, and she could rest easier knowing that he had really gone. So she lifted the sash and stuck her head out.
The rain had stopped, but the smell of wet streets and damp bricks swirled around her head along with the remnants of smoke. Poindexter, from the apartment below, had been smoking something on the fire escape again. Maybe that was who the Scot had seen and tried to rescue her from. Maybe he hadn’t been making up that part either.
Though she searched the shadows, there was no trace of him. She would have expected it to take him more time to reach the ground. But it wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared on her. After she’d tased him, he’d gotten up off that sidewalk and disappeared awfully quickly.
She turned her head and looked up toward the roof, but there was no movement on the small metal ladder that led from her own landing to the top of the building. Besides, you’d have to be a ghost to get up the rusty old thing and not make a noise.
A ghost? She laughed to herself. Only moments ago, she’d had a firm grip on one of his wrists and he definitely was not a ghost. Some self-appointed superhero was more likely. But either way, he was gone, and good riddance. Her grandfather’s health was holding its own, and as long as she kept the coffee flowing and the home health nurse paid, Alonzo Dabelko wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he heard the window open, Seoc peeked over the top of the ladder and was pleased to see the lass was at least curious about him. It had taken a trick or two to get the lass’s attention and he’d begun to think his appeal might have been omitted from his new body. But perhaps she’d only been pretending her indifference.
Her bonny head turned to look up the ladder and he quickly backed away and held his breath while he waited to see if he’d been caught.
A canny lass, to be sure.
A stubborn lass as well. She clearly had no intention of letting her grandfather leave this world without fighting God or Lucifer for him. But in the end—in the very near end—she would lose that fight.
While the lass had been in her room, he’d asked the old man some pointed questions. And after the policemen had realized he was a doctor, they stood back and gave them some privacy.
It was clear the man’s body was shutting down, something he didn’t want to tell his granddaughter. And when she’d told Seoc to get out just a moment ago, he’d realized why the fellow had wanted to keep his secrets. The lass would likely try her hand at resuscitation on the spot!
It had been Alonzo out on the landing, enjoying a precious private moment and a pull on his pipe. And in his current state, it was a wonder he was able to make it back into bed before his granddaughter found him. She’d come home early, it seemed.
Luckily for Seoc, the old man held Scotland near and dear even though he’d never stepped foot there. So the sight of a Scotsman in full regalia had given him a shot of adrenaline to see him through the evening. He’d pressed Seoc for details he wasn’t willing to share, but after he’d confessed to the old man that he did not have a place to lay his head for the night, Alonzo had pointed to a key hanging beside the window on a wee nail.
An enclosed shelter awaited him on the roof, a potting shed of sorts where his granddaughter puttered around when she had the time.
Seoc waited for the lass to close the window once more before he dared move about. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the starlight, but he easily found his shelter. The lock turned, the door opened, and the smell of rich earth welcomed him into the darkness.
A damp night, to be sure, but he left the doors wide and stretched out on the long chair. Rich earth, rain, and a wet chill in the air. He couldn’t have felt more at home.
He took a deep breath and bid welcome to a mortal night’s rest, but the lass’s face sprung to mind. So many expressions to choose from. The welcoming smile at the coffee shop. The split second when she’d decided to shoot him. The drop of her jaw when he sat on the bed, and when the officers would not share her concern.
And as much as he’d wanted to make her admit that there was a meanness inside her�
�something that didn’t smile at the world unconditionally—he now wanted something else more.
He wanted to wipe away the terror he’d seen in her eyes when he’d warned that her grandfather was not long for this world. He’d seen that same terror a hundred times when he was alive, and hundreds more at the Battle of Culloden, when the wounded realized they were going to be murdered where they lay.
No matter what he did, or how he begged, he was unable to save more than a few of his fellow Scots that day. But maybe, if the minx downstairs would allow him to get close again, he could save her some of the heartache that now stalked her…like a Redcoat wielding a bayonet.
~
In spite of the fact that Grandpa’s face had twisted when she’d mentioned food, Cat was cooking him the most tempting breakfast she could.
“If this bacon doesn’t make him hungry,” she murmured, “nothing will.”
“What’s that?” he hollered.
“I said,” she hollered back, “that I wasn’t going to call you a liar in front of the police, but next time you tell stories about a neighbor from upstairs, you need to remember that we’re on the top floor.”
Grandpa laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. “I was wondering when you’d catch that.”
She plated up a large mound of scrambled eggs, added buttered toast and a pile of bacon. A mug of coffee was already cooling and she scooped that up too and headed for the other room, chuckling as she came around the corner. “I’m just glad you didn’t offer him the key to my shed—” She stopped and stared at the empty nail beside the window. “You didn’t!”
“What?” Her grandpa looked at the nail and frowned. “I certainly did not. I don’t know where you’ve lost it this time.” He pointed to the plate. “Is that all for me?”
She watched him for signs of guilt, but didn’t see anything obvious. The way he was eyeing his breakfast made her a little suspicious, of course, since he’d made such a face when she told him she’d be cooking it.