A Stranger's Touch

by Roxy Boroughs

  A strangled cry killed the moment. The woman, docile a second before, scrambled to her feet and ran back into the burning house. With the psychic in hot pursuit.

  “Stafford!”

  He turned to Maggie, his eyes bright as the fire. He nodded once then disappeared into the smoke and flame.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A scream crammed Maggie’s throat. She sprinted toward the house, the smoky air scraping her windpipe like sandpaper.

  A wall of heat smashed into her chest. She stopped and Davie rammed her from behind. All she wanted to do was go in after Stafford, to help him, to make sure he got out alive. But she couldn’t leave her child for fear that he’d follow her into the blaze. So she stayed put, protecting Davie, her eyes focused on the spot where she’d last seen Stafford.

  Seconds passed. Minutes. Where were the emergency crews she’d called? She listened for their sirens and heard nothing. Except for the fire, groaning and cackling as it fed itself with deadly greed.

  A sharp crack pierced her ears as part of the roof broke away and crashed into the main floor. She pulled Davie back and watched, her knees limp, her stomach queasy.

  Through the flames, she caught a movement. Maggie held her breath. But there was no sign of Stafford, only fire and smoke, both mindless assassins. She cursed them and their soul-crushing injustice.

  Did finding Davie mean losing Stafford?

  Then she saw him, emerging from the other side, carrying Davie’s abductor in his arms.

  Maggie’s heart thrashed against her ribcage, fighting for more room. Heat pulsed through her body, warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. As Stafford escaped from the building, Maggie took Davie’s hand and circled to intercept.

  Stafford placed the woman on a bed of cool grass, removed his leather jacket and propped it, pillow-like, under her head. His long hair, singed at the ends, lashed his neck as he coughed into the shoulder of his shirt.

  Black streaks marred his face, angry burns made a checkerboard of his hands. Maggie reached out and touched his arm as another coughing fit shook through him.

  He shrugged her off. “I’m fine. Help her.”

  He was far from fine. But she couldn’t argue that the woman needed more attention. With her eyes closed, Davie’s abductor looked hollow and sad, just as Maggie had felt these last days. She relived the blinding desperation, the searing guilt. This woman had taken her son, and probably killed a fellow officer, without any understanding of the pain she’d caused.

  Maggie wanted to hate her. She fisted her hands to dredge up the emotion but could feel only pity. She put her first aid training to good use as the sirens approached.

  * * *

  “Angela Varga. That’s the woman’s name,” Officer Connelly informed Maggie. “And it looks like she’ll make it.”

  Maggie exhaled, tension vanishing with the breath. No matter what kind of pain she’d endured at Angela’s hands, she didn’t want the woman’s death.

  Filling her lungs, Maggie smelled the lingering odor of burning wood, now dampened by a fleet of fire fighters. Apparently, every police officer and emergency crew in Yellowknife had responded to her call.

  “A tragic case,” the apple-cheeked officer continued. “She lost her family – parents, husband, kid – all within a couple of years. Not surprising she went off the deep end.”

  Maggie supposed so. According to the doctor on the scene, the woman had been hospitalized in Calgary. Angela suffered a complete mental breakdown after her son’s death at the Children’s Hospital from cystic fibrosis.

  “She has one remaining family member.”

  And Maggie knew exactly who. “A sister. Linda.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “She dated my ex.”

  Connelly tapped a pen against his clipboard. “That makes sense. We called the sister on route and she kept apologizing. Angela used to ask about her boyfriend’s son – where he went to school, what he looked like. Linda had no idea where the questions would lead.”

  Maggie sympathized. At one time, she may have resented her replacement, but she was sure Linda had no part in Davie’s abduction.

  She gave the small hand in hers a squeeze and looked down at her son. She hadn’t been able to pull herself away from him, even while the ambulance crew checked him over. They’d given him a quick examination with Maggie’s promise that she’d take him to a hospital as soon as she tied up the loose ends here. Apart from his new hair color and lack of food, he seemed fine. Just in case, the crew had given him an extra inhaler.

  “That pretty much finishes things for us,” Connelly told her as she filled out her name and contact information on his form. “But I’m still unclear about how you knew where find your son.”

  “That was Stafford.”

  “Who?”

  “The tall guy.” She scanned the crowd, ready to point him out. “Where’d he go?”

  “He got a ride back to town with the ambulance driver.”

  Disappointment squirmed in her gut. He hadn’t waited for her. The man who’d been her rock had left without so much as a wave.

  And why not? She hadn’t waited for him. She’d gone into hysterics, denied his abilities, then run off without giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Mom, can we go now?”

  Maggie crouched beside her son, wrapping her arms around him. “Absolutely. I bet you’re tired.”

  “Hungry,” the boy corrected, but followed the one-word answer with a yawn.

  “We’ll grab something to eat then get you checked over at the hospital.”

  “Aw, mom, I’m okay.”

  She stroked his black hair. “So you keep saying. You don’t mind if I verify that, do you?” She couldn’t stop touching him. It was as if she had to convince herself he was real, that they were together at last. And this time, she was going to cherish every minute. She wasn’t going to be her father.

  Davie’s crooked smile gave her heart a kick. Much the same as the mystery man in her life. The stranger who’d become her ally ... her lover.

  “We’ll catch up with Stafford in town. See if he wants to come out for dinner with us.”

  “You can try,” the sergeant said, his head coming up from his notes. “I overheard him talking to the emergency workers about getting a plane out of here, pronto.”

  Maggie felt her mask give way. She tried to keep her composure as she shook the sergeant’s hand. She walked to her car, her arm wrapped around her son’s shoulders, biting back tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Maggie held up a fist. It had been two days since she’d last seen Stafford. She’d spent the night in Yellowknife then started back for Calgary.

  Driving with a little boy, who was hungry every twenty miles and had to pee every ten, made it slow going, but she had no other commitments than to see her child safely home. And to see the man who’d made sure that it could happen.

  Still, she paused outside of Stafford’s door, ready to knock, wondering if he’d toss her on her butt in a snow bank.

  Overly dramatic, perhaps. It was almost October now, and still no snow on the ground. But it was cold as hell. She might have to knock to avoid hypothermia.

  As she made her decision, the door opened and Stafford appeared – his hair damp and unruly, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Well-worn jeans hung low on his hips, a dark T-shirt hugged his torso. Maggie licked her lips and tried to breathe.

  His familiar scent filled her with need – to hold him, to kiss the burns that marred his hands. His musky cologne was imprinted in her memory. It conjured up two words. Stafford and Home.

  “Are you going to use that to slug me?” he asked, his voice cool.

  She lowered her hand and hid it behind her back. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “ESP?”

  “Nope. Your car is parked in my driveway.”

  Maggie nodded. How many times would she fall into her own trap
?

  Stafford moved away from the door, leaving it open. The message was clear – come in if you want to, leave if you want to. And I don’t care which.

  Maggie had spent the better part of the day begging Owens to tell her where Stafford lived, so she might as well take advantage of the knowledge. She stepped through the entrance, closing the door behind her.

  The place was huge. Not a home at all but a warehouse.

  A section of the large room contained tools, wood, and half-finished projects. Down the middle, a large strip of thick plastic separated the workspace from the living area. This other half sported old, makeshift furniture. And not a lot of it – a bed, a desk, a small fridge, a table, and a chair. It looked like their owner didn’t plan to stay long. The packed duffel bag on the floor was another clue.

  “I just poured myself a scotch, if you’d like it.” He gestured toward an overturned cardboard box – an impromptu coffee table.

  “Thanks. I may need a drink.”

  “If it’s that difficult to be in the same room as me, why are you here?”

  Oh, God. He’d totally misinterpreted what she’d said. She’d come to smooth things over, not antagonize him. “No, that’s not it at all. More the reverse. You might need a drink after being with me.”

  That came out equally harsh. He looked as though he’d tasted something bad, like the hard spaghetti she’d heard about.

  “Let me start again.” She scooped up the scotch, had a small sip, and made another attempt. “I’ve come to apologize. I doubted you, after you’d done everything to reassure me. And you were right. All the stuff about Angela, where to find Davie – you were one hundred percent right. And I couldn’t believe you. You had to keep proving it to me. Again and again.

  “And I want to thank you. For everything. For finding my child. For taking care of me. For living with my craziness, my doubts, my insults. I want you to know how truly grateful I am.”

  She stood there, expectant, waiting for him to say something. Anything. “You could help me here, a little,” she prodded.

  His brows rose. “What would you have me do?”

  “Accept. Say, ‘You’re welcome.’“

  “You’re welcome,” he repeated with a deadpan delivery.

  Maggie shook her head. “Just what I need. A funny psychic.”

  “It’s a defense mechanism.”

  She realized the truth of his words. He’d always used humor to underplay his gift. The life he’d had, his upbringing, must have included one rejection after another. No wonder he’d taken hers so hard.

  “I guess I have a few defensive tactics myself. I suppose that’s why I never thanked you for the nights we spent together. When you were so kind, so loving, so ... absolutely incredible.”

  His lips twitched. “I wasn’t sure you’d noticed.”

  “I noticed, all right. I might have been distraught but I wasn’t dead.” She sobered. “That’s another thing you were right about. Making love was life affirming. I think that’s why I reached out to you. Maybe why we reached out to each other.”

  “I hope that’s not all it was.” He eased the drink from her hands, ice clinking against the glass.

  “Me, too. In fact, I was hoping you’d be interested in a repeat performance.”

  He took a step toward her so they were chest to chest. “Recreational sex? Is that what you’re offering me?”

  Man, he made it sound so good.

  “No.” At the look of confusion on his face, she clarified. “Yes, to the sex. No, to the recreational part.” She took a breath and shared her dream. “I want more.”

  He glanced down at his duffel bag. “I can’t give you more. Not right now. I’ve got a vendetta to settle south of the border.”

  “I’ll wait.” She slid her fingers through his thick hair. “But catching Morley – is that really going to do it for you?”

  He sighed and looked up to the ceiling. “Maggie, you got closure. You got your son back.”

  “Because of you.” Maggie grasped his broad shoulders, waiting until he looked at her again before speaking. “Stafford, you saved three people up north – Angela, Davie and me. Doesn’t that ease your guilt? Just a bit?”

  She moved closer and softened her voice to a whisper. “Even if you find your sister’s murderer, even if you bring him to justice ... Brianna will still be gone.”

  He turned away, but not before she’d noticed his pained expression. It killed her to see him hurting. She reached for his hand and brought it to her lips.

  “But I’m here,” she told him and, for the first time since she’d known him, a fraction of the sorrow creasing his brow evaporated.

  “Since when did you become a philosopher?”

  “I learned a lot on our journey. I realized I didn’t want to be my father. I don’t want to come home after a fourteen-hour day to find my little boy’s life passing by without being around to enjoy it. And I don’t want to spend my life focused on work and not on living. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to give up my job. But it’s only part of my life.” She let out a grunt of frustration. “I’m not making this sound right at all.”

  Stafford put the drink to one side and took her hands in his. “You’re doing fine.”

  He cupped her face, moving closer until their lips touched. He tasted warm and spicy, like the scotch. She opened her mouth and invited him in. With a growl of approval his tongue met hers.

  She eased herself back against the paper-strewn desk. His fingers walked up her ribs until they found her breasts. Her nipples hardened with his touch, a beautiful ache. She reached for one of his hands and coaxed it between her thighs.

  “I thought you were reserved.”

  “The way I feel,” she panted, “I don’t have time for reservations. I’m not looking for finesse, buddy. Just get the job done.”

  He complied, pulling down the zipper on her trousers and reaching his fingers past her panties and into the moistness waiting for him. She let go a gasp, arching her back to take him in further.

  “I want you. All of you. Now.”

  “You even talk like a cop,” he told her, still joking, though his ragged breath betrayed his arousal. “We’ll move to the bed. I think I’ve got some condoms there.”

  “Here. Now,” she ordered. “I’ve some in my purse.”

  “Sounds like you weren’t going to take no for an answer.”

  Without removing his hand from his pleasing work, he brushed his free arm across the desk, the papers falling to the floor with a swoosh. She heard a rustle as he went through her purse, then the tear of a wrapper, and the zip of his fly.

  She felt herself airborne, lifted and repositioned on the desk. The next moment she was gasping as he moved on top of her. And inside her. She came instantly, biting down on his shirt to muffle her cries.

  “You didn’t wait for me,” he chided.

  “Give me a minute,” she breathed. “I could go for seconds.”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  She experienced another flying moment and came to land on the bed, her back to him, her hands braced on his knees. He entered her again, deeper and harder than before. With nothing to bite down on, her cries of pleasure came out uncensored.

  One of his hands reached around and cupped her breast, the other found the mound of flesh at her core and stroked. Both the movement of his hand and the thrusts inside of her matched her rhythm, beat for beat.

  She added her own voice to the music, repeating his name, like a chant, like a mantra. When his pace quickened, she could no longer talk. No longer form words. Her breath came out in short gasps, the sweat dripping from her forehead into her eyes.

  Not tears. No more tears.

  Again, she came. And after a moment, his body tightened and released. He pulled her back against him, resting on the bed together, him spooning her.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “You’re a master of understatement.”

  She smiled. Time for more
truths. “I guess you know … I’m crazy about you.”

  “I’m starting to get that impression.”

  She bit her lip. Should she say it? “I know what I’m about to tell you is probably dangerous. It’s made lesser men run in fear...”

  “You’re pregnant?”