by Rachel Lee
Damn, he had a case of it, worse than any since his early twenties. He could almost have laughed at himself, except that the yearning was so powerful.
It didn’t matter anyway. He’d never seen a woman who was looking any less for a relationship. She was plainly self-reliant, and not by word or gesture had she betrayed even the remotest interest in him as a man.
And even if she had, it would have been a recipe for heartache.
Hell, it was nothing to get all worked up about anyway. He just needed to get laid. All of this mooning was merely a function of protracted celibacy. There was nothing special about Esther Jackson except that she was an unattached female. Any unattached female would have the same effect on him.
Yeah. Right.
Laughing quietly at himself, he decided to drive into town and get some ice cream. The kids would be thrilled tomorrow and it would give him something to do besides mope.
The stairs mocked her. Esther stared at them with sudden loathing and considered sleeping on the couch in the study rather than climbing them. It wasn’t that they were difficult to climb or descend—although they were—but suddenly she was awash in memories of the role stairs had played in her life.
Stairs were everywhere, and she’d never developed a phobia about them. They hadn’t been responsible for her own injuries or her mother’s death, after all. Her father bore the entire, unmitigated blame for that. Other than a qualm about the difficulty she would have mounting them because of her leg, she hadn’t been put off by the stairs in her house.
Until tonight. Until she had to sit up with her insides roiling in fear over Richard Jackson’s return to her life. Dad. How could he dare sign himself that after all he’d done? There wasn’t a man on the planet less deserving of that title.
She had turned off all the lights again because the darkness seemed safer, the action a definite throwback to her childhood. When Richard had been on a drunken tear, she and her mother had tried desperately to stay out of the way and to avoid attracting his notice. One of the ways they had done that was to turn out all the lights and hide. Among her earliest memories was hiding in closets with her mother.
There was a sliver of moon tonight, and its light fell through the uncurtained window at the landing where the stairs switched back, and fell in a silver cascade toward Esther’s feet. It could have been beautiful, moonlight gleaming on polished wood. Instead it looked eerie, a stage set for a play that hadn’t yet happened, a stage awaiting the arrival of the actors.
She shuddered and forced herself to turn away. If she ever bought another house she was going to buy one without stairs. Ridiculous or not, she didn’t need unnecessary reminders of her past.
That was one of the reasons she didn’t even keep a photograph of her mother out where she could see it. Not that there were many pictures. Family photos had consisted of the occasional snapshot taken by a friend or neighbor.
And that was another thing. Her parents had had a lot of friends, especially in earlier years, while Esther was still small. Neither of them had been such heavy drinkers back then, and had gone through long periods where they didn’t drink much at all. There had been friends who came over in the evening to play cards and friends who had lived next door. There had been laughter and even some love.
She could remember it, if she tried very hard, although she usually tried to avoid it because it hurt so much. But there had been a time when her father hadn’t been so angry very often, a time when she had felt secure in his arms and love.
Then had come the drunken rage when he threw her down the stairs. After that…well, after that things had steadily deteriorated. His drinking had increased, and so had her mother’s. And sometimes Esther had felt that the very sight of her and her useless leg had repulsed them so much that they had hidden in booze.
Maybe. Her analyst had suggested that Richard Jackson had felt so guilty for hurting his daughter that he had sought forgetfulness in his drinking.
Esther wasn’t prepared to be that generous. After all, saying the man drank out of guilt almost sounded like a valid excuse. But there wasn’t any excuse. None at all. And in the end she had come to believe that her father hated her, that he had never really loved her at all.
Now he wanted to talk to her, and here she was in the middle of nowhere with a staircase that might prove to be the perfect weapon for him. After all, he’d managed to kill her mother by knocking her down the stairs. Out here with no witnesses, and with Esther’s bad leg, he could probably make it look like an accident.
God! Couldn’t she stop thinking about this? She was going to go nuts and all the man had done was write to her! He hadn’t even said anything about showing up; he’d just written a letter.
But she hadn’t written back to the address printed beneath his signature, nor was she going to. What then? If he got no answer would he call? Or would he just show up on her doorstep?
Feeling disgusted with the way her mind kept worrying the problem, like a rat on an exercise wheel, she ordered herself to go into the kitchen, turn on the lights and make a cup of tea.
She turned on the overhead light, but its brilliance was far from reassuring. The brightness inside made the darkness beyond the window opaque. No longer could she see the moonlit countryside and that made her even more uneasy.
She forced herself to ignore the feeling while she put the kettle on and tried to decide between her various teas. Green tea, she decided at last. It had been a long time since she’d made herself a cup.
And this had to stop, she told herself. Her father had consumed the entire first fifteen years of her life with fear, and she wasn’t about to let him consume any more.
But how could she stop this obsessive cycling of her thoughts? She was scared, the man posed a threat, and until something concrete happened to settle the issue, she could hardly just stop being afraid, right?
When the tea was ready and she poured herself a cup, she had to fight the urge to turn out the light once again, thus making herself safe in the dark. She believed that if she didn’t give in to the fear, perhaps she could conquer it.
But it wasn’t easy, especially when it occurred to her that someone could come right up to the window, look into the brightly lit room and see her clearly. But the café curtains were drawn, she assured herself. Somebody would need a ladder to see over them.
Was that a car engine? Her heart slammed into overdrive as she strained her ears to hear. The wind here never seemed to stop, and even now it was making little sounds, rattling the power and phone lines against the eaves, making the dryer vent clatter. Maybe…but no. At some level just below the audible, she detected it, a faint rumbling vibration.
Then it stopped and she heard the distinct thunk of a car door slamming. Panic ripped through her in a searing wave, then subsided as adrenaline took over. Moving swiftly, she grabbed a butcher knife from the block on the counter and headed for the front door.
No one, absolutely no one, was going to beat her up ever again.
She left the light on in the kitchen, not wanting to alert the person outside to the fact that she was aware of him. Golden light fell through the door into the foyer, illuminating it. She hesitated only a moment before stepping out there, taking care not to cast any shadows across the windows on either side of the front door.
Someone was outside. She could see the dark shadow on the porch through the sheer curtains on the window beside the door. Gripping the knife tighter, she took a deep breath and moved another step closer to the door.
Her heart was hammering so loudly that it was a moment before she realized that the person outside was knocking gently on the door. Knocking? She froze, confused. Her father wouldn’t knock, would he?
“Esther?”
She recognized the voice, and in an instant relief poured through her, leaving her feeling weak. Craig Nighthawk. What was he doing here after midnight?
She walked toward the door, and with each step the confusion of the previous moments when pa
st and present had somehow mingled to create a nightmare slipped away, leaving her firmly centered in the now.
Opening the door, she found Craig Nighthawk standing on her porch holding a foil bag and two plastic spoons. He held them up. “Ice cream? I just bought some in town and thought you might like to share.”
Then his eyes fell to the butcher knife in her hand. “Did something happen?”
She looked down at the knife and felt horror creep through her. She’d been carrying a knife with the intention of inflicting serious injury, possibly even fatal harm. That wasn’t her, was it? She didn’t do things like that.
“Esther? Is something wrong?”
She looked up at Craig, wondering how someone she hardly knew could be so welcome. “I… No. No, nothing’s wrong. I just…” For some reason it seemed impossible to explain that she had been terrified of nothing at all except her own fears. “I…was nervous, worrying about my father, and when I heard your engine…”
He looked embarrassed. “I guess I take the jerk of the year award. I should have thought about how it would make you feel when you heard me drive up in the middle of the night. I was on the way back from town with the ice cream when I saw your light was on—”
“My light?” she interrupted. “But the highway is a mile from here.”
“There’s nothing else out there to get in the way. I could see your light easily from the highway.”
It had never occurred to her that her house lights would be visible that far away. Now how was she going to deal with that?
He shifted a little and lifted the bag. “I’m sorry I scared you. Would you like to share some ice cream with me or should I just go home before it melts?”
He asked the question gently, as if he realized he was not the foremost thing on her mind. She hesitated, not because she was uncertain, but because she seemed to be unable to drag herself out of the morass of her own confusion and concern.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Just sit out here with me on the porch. I have a spoon for each of us and we’ll eat out of the carton.”
She started to step out with him when she realized she was still carrying the butcher knife. “I— Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
When she returned without the knife, they sat together on the top step and ate from the carton like a couple of kids. Moment by moment her fears receded until they seemed like a bad dream she had had long ago. The night became once again beautiful, the Milky Way a misty, sparkling spray across the heavens.
The ice cream was one of the better brands, rich and creamy, and she savored it slowly on her tongue.
“This is my favorite time of day,” Craig remarked. “When I was trucking it was the best time for driving. Now it’s just a quiet time when the work is done. I’ve spent a lot of hours looking up at the stars.”
“I prefer the dawn.”
He looked at her. In the faint silver light of the sliver moon, his face was unreadable. “Any particular reason?”
“It means the night is over.”
He didn’t reply, just waited for her to continue. Something about his silence made her feel safe, as if she could be sure he would not judge her.
“It’s ridiculously obvious,” she said deprecatingly. “My father always got drunk at night. Never in the morning or the afternoon. So the nights were scary. Full of threat.”
“Makes sense. That’s why you were holding the knife when I got here.”
She nodded. “I’d worked myself up into a fine state.”
“Don’t say it like that,” he chided. “Don’t say it as if you have anything to apologize for, because you don’t. Anyone in your position would be uneasy. Isn’t there someone you can get to stay with you until you’re sure there isn’t any danger?”
Esther shook her head. “I don’t really know anyone around here.” She smiled wryly. “I’m a recluse, you see.”
Just then, headlights turned off the highway and began to head up the driveway toward them. Esther gasped. Her stomach rolled over uneasily as fear speared through her. Her father!
Craig watched the lights for a couple of seconds then turned to Esther. Even in the dim moonlight she could see that his face had gone hard. “Go inside,” he said flatly. “Get the hell out of sight.”
With one more wild look at the approaching headlights, Esther obeyed.
Chapter 5
Craig stood on the top step, waiting as the car approached. From inside the house, Guinevere barked, and he heard Esther shush her.
He was bound and determined that no one was going to hurt Esther Jackson while he was near enough to do anything about it. He’d gotten only the sketchiest glimpse of what her childhood must have been like, but he had no trouble filling in the blanks. Nobody, absolutely nobody, deserved the kind of treatment she’d had from her parents, and by God he was going to make sure that her father didn’t hurt her again.
A corner of his mind insisted on reminding him that he didn’t know this woman, that her problems were really none of his concern, but he paid it no heed. For even though he’d always been a loner, he’d also felt it was the obligation of a human being to get involved when someone needed help, and Esther Jackson plainly needed help. It was a purely humanitarian gesture, he told himself. There was nothing at all personal in it.
His hands clenched and unclenched as adrenaline began to pump through his veins. That damn car was sure taking its own sweet time getting here. He watched the headlights wind their way up the narrow dirt track, knowing full well no one was driving this way by accident. Whoever it was better have a damn good excuse.
As the vehicle drew close, he saw the silhouette of a rack of lights on top of it. A cop. That didn’t make him feel any easier. While a cop wouldn’t pose any threat to Esther, he was never going to forget being carted off to jail for a crime he hadn’t committed. If hell froze over and demons played with snowballs, he would never again feel easy around the police.
The sheriff’s Blazer pulled to a stop in front of him. The spotlight flashed on, nearly blinding him. He heard the car door open, then Virgil Beauregard’s voice reached him.
“Where’s Miss Esther, Mr. Nighthawk?”
“Inside. We didn’t know who was coming up the road, so she’s waiting inside.”
“Ask her to step out, please.”
Slow anger burned in the pit of Craig’s stomach. He understood perfectly that the cop was only doing his job, making sure that Esther was all right, but he didn’t like the assumptions behind it.
Esther had apparently been listening, because she stepped out onto the porch before Craig even turned to come get her. Behind her, through the screen door, Guinevere chuffed.
“I’m all right, Beau,” she told him. “Mr. Nighthawk and I were just having some ice cream together. I’d offer you some, but I suspect it’s all melted by now.”
The spotlight snapped off and Virgil Beauregard became visible. He approached them. “Sorry for the scare, Mr. Nighthawk, but we’ve been alerted to keep an extra sharp eye on Miss Esther, and I’ve never noticed her lights being on this late before. And I didn’t expect to find anyone here.”
Craig nodded, understanding but still irritated. There was no way he was going to tell anyone it was okay, not after his life had been destroyed by suspicions.
“Thanks, Beau,” Esther said. “I really appreciate you going to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, Miss Esther. Living this far away from everyone, you got no one to depend on except us.”
“And my neighbors,” Esther said warmly, resting her hand lightly on Craig’s forearm. “Would you like to come in for some iced tea? Or I could make coffee?”
Beauregard hesitated only an instant before accepting. Watching the other man climb the steps, Craig suddenly realized that Deputy Virgil Beauregard was sweet on Esther Jackson and she didn’t even realize it. And what he felt then was a hot surge of jealousy, fueled by her familiar use of his nickname. His jealousy heated up another notch when G
uinevere greeted Beau as a long lost friend, and Beau returned the greeting with familiarity.
Beauregard had it all going for him, Craig thought as he followed the two of them to the kitchen. He was a good-looking white man in his late thirties with a steady, respectable job.
Not that it mattered. There was no possible way it could matter. Esther Jackson plainly wasn’t looking for a man, and Craig Nighthawk knew for certain that he wasn’t looking to get hitched, only to get laid, and Esther wasn’t that kind of woman.
Esther poured iced tea for all of them while Craig rinsed the melted ice cream out of the carton and tossed it. “Never ceases to amaze me how fast that stuff melts to nothing,” he remarked.
“It was already a little soft by the time you got here.” She gave him a smile. “I’ve been considering getting an ice-cream freezer.”
“I’ve got a really good one,” Beau volunteered. “My mother gave it to me for my birthday a couple of years ago, and I don’t think I’ve used it but twice. You’re welcome to borrow it, if you like. I mean, it makes sense to try it out before you buy one. Make sure you like it.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
He shrugged and colored faintly. “I’m glad to do it.”
Well, Craig thought with sour humor, he supposed he could offer to lend “Miss Esther” a pair of sheepshearing scissors. Or some wire cutters, or some of the paper twine he used to bale wool.
Conversation languished for a few minutes, as if nobody really had much of anything to say. Finally Beau rose and carried his glass to the sink.
“I need to get back on patrol,” he said. “Thanks for the tea, Miss Esther.”
“My pleasure, Beau.”
He smiled down at her. “I’ll be back by a couple of times tonight, so rest easy.” Then he nodded to Craig. “Good night.”
Esther walked Beau to the door and watched him drive away into the night. It was good to know the sheriff was beefing up the patrols, good to know that men like Virgil Beauregard were watching over her.