His limp was getting more pronounced, clear evidence that he’d made one trip too many up the stairs. She’d seen him carry in a duffel bag and a motley assortment of cardboard boxes but nothing that looked like food.
It would only be neighborly to take him some lunch. Making some extra sandwiches wouldn’t be that much more bother than making just one for herself. Add a couple of soft drinks, or better yet a cold beer, one of her fresh blueberry muffins, and maybe an apple. No, make that two apples. He might get hungry later.
She tucked the food into a basket and set the sign in the shop window to say she’d be back in fifteen minutes. Timing her approach was tricky. She waited until he’d carried up another load. Picking up two of his smaller boxes, she followed him up the steps.
He exited the apartment just as she reached the top step. He immediately snagged the top box off her stack and stood glaring down at her. Tangled in the net of his angry gaze, his eyes green and smoky and framed by ridiculously long eyelashes, it took considerable effort for Tate to look away. He clearly wasn’t thrilled to see her. Fine. He was her tenant, not her best buddy. But he still had to eat.
“I didn’t ask for help.” He shoved the box inside his apartment and reached for the second.
She hesitated before releasing it. “I know you didn’t, Mr. Fitzsimon. I realize you are perfectly capable of hauling all this stuff up here by yourself.”
He didn’t respond. If anything, Hunter looked even angrier. When he held out his hands again for the box, she surrendered it.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, and started back inside.
Before he could close the door, she stepped up on the small landing and blocked the door with her hand.
He prevented her from opening it any farther. “What now, Ms. Justice?”
“It’s Tate, and this is yours.” She all but shoved the basket at him. “It’s lunch. I thought you might be hungry.” She turned away. “No rush in returning the basket.”
“Ms. Justice, I don’t need—”
Ignoring him, she skipped back down the steps. When she reached the bottom, she looked back and smiled. “Look, I know you’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve got to get back to the shop. Let me know if you need anything.”
The sound of the door slamming closed was his response.
Hunter watched his pesky landlady through the window until she disappeared into her behemoth of a house. His first instinct was to go after her and shove the basket right back into her interfering hands, but that was his temper talking.
She’d meant well. Earlier, she’d even run off all the nosy neighbors to afford him some privacy when she’d thought he hadn’t been looking. Maybe she did understand that he wanted to be left alone. And the truth was, he was in no shape to drive anywhere just to eat. If he didn’t rest his leg soon, he’d be in for a world of hurt.
After a final trip up the stairs, he limped over to collapse on the small couch and gingerly lifted his leg up to rest on the coffee table. Shards of pain ripped through his much-abused limb with lightning speed. Gritting his teeth, he kicked his head back and waited for the worst of it to pass.
On a scale of one to ten, the pain was an eight. Anything less than a nine didn’t warrant a pain pill. His rule, not his Handler’s. Doc Crosby had argued that Hunter would heal better if he stayed ahead of the pain rather than wait for the medicine to catch up with it.
But popping pills that made him queasy and dulled his brain would be just one more damn concession to his injury. He’d already lost too damn much; better that he grit his teeth and ride out the pain. Eventually it would fade to a manageable level. It always did. Meanwhile, he’d check out what Tate Justice had packed him for lunch.
He snagged the cold beer and popped the top. He didn’t want to encourage her Good Samaritan act, but he definitely owed her one. The beer was a brand he wasn’t familiar with, probably from a local microbrewery, but it tasted damn fine.
Figuring he shouldn’t be downing alcohol on an empty stomach, he fished out one of the sandwiches and took a healthy bite. He wasn’t much for bean sprouts, but the sliced ham was definitely a cut above the bologna he’d planned on buying for himself. By the time he’d finished the sandwich, an apple, and half the blueberry muffin, he felt a helluva lot better.
For the first time, he took a close look at his new home. It wasn’t much space-wise, but he couldn’t complain. Whoever had designed the apartment had done a decent job. He’d certainly made do with less in his life. The pillowtop queen-sized bed was a pleasant surprise, as was the oversized tub with spray jets. He planned on trying that out as soon as he unpacked and made a quick trip to the grocery store.
Right now, he was just glad to not be moving. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Since his leg had quit throbbing for now, he could use a little shut-eye. He’d drive to town later and maybe treat himself to a decent meal before coming back. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start learning the lay of the land surrounding Justice Point.
Tate opened the kitchen windows to dispel the smell of burned muffins. She had to admit she was more than a bit distracted. She set the charred remains aside to toss into the woods later. Her usual customers wouldn’t appreciate charcoal-flavored pastries, but her four-legged friends weren’t nearly as picky.
Once she stuck the replacement batch in the oven and set the timer, she’d sit down at the table and see if she could concentrate long enough to polish her latest chapter. That she could also keep an eye on the apartment over the garage was beside the point. Tate had no business spying on her new tenant, but she’d never been able to resist a puzzle, and Hunter Fitzsimon was definitely puzzling.
What was he doing here in Justice Point? As much as she loved the place, it didn’t have much to offer a man like Hunter. He was obviously recuperating from a major injury, but he didn’t seem the type to be drawn to quiet village life. The man was too intense to be satisfied with the slow pace of her boring life.
No! She didn’t mean that. Her life was quiet, true, but calm didn’t mean boring. Life with her mother had been unpredictable and chaotic. The only respite Tate had ever found had been her summer visits to her uncle’s house, which now belonged to her. Bless Uncle Jacob’s heart, he’d left her his ramshackle Victorian and enough money to live on for several years as long as she was careful. He’d made it possible for her to pursue her dream of becoming a published author.
Her mother had promptly demanded she sell the place, probably hoping Tate would then share the profits with her. But in case Tate’s resolve wavered, Uncle Jacob had staged a preemptive strike against Sandra Justice’s greed by stipulating that Tate couldn’t sell the house for at least five years or the proceeds would go to charity. When her mother had heard the terms of the will, she’d stormed out of the attorney’s office cursing her brother-in-law’s idiocy and leaving Tate to find her own way back home.
It had taken Tate less than a week to break her lease, quit her job, and move into the house. Her mother had only spoken to her once since then, and that had been to ask for money. When Tate had explained she didn’t have any, good old mom had hung up in a snit. No doubt Sandra would get over it eventually and reach out to Tate again, probably about the time her creditors started calling.
Meanwhile, Tate wondered what her mother would think of the newest resident of Justice Point. Sandra had always had an eye for a good-looking guy, but she preferred her men old, rich, and malleable. Glancing out the window toward the garage, Tate had to admit that she was strangely relieved her tenant didn’t fit those demographics.
The timer on the stove chimed, reminding her that she was there to keep an eye on her baking, not Hunter. As she was setting the muffins out on the rack to cool, a noise outside caught her attention. She moved closer to the window and groaned as soon as she realized what was going on. One of the Auntie Ms was standing at the bottom of the garage steps and hollering. If they kept this up, Tate might very well lose her new tenant. However, short of posting No Tres
passing signs, she didn’t know how to keep people from bothering Hunter.
Besides, it wasn’t her job anyway. She’d be better off keeping a wary eye on things and seeing how he handled the situation himself.
Hunter jerked awake, his well-earned nap ending abruptly, leaving him groggy and confused. It took him a second or two to recognize his surroundings. Someone was raising a ruckus right outside. He carefully lowered his leg to the ground and used the arm of the couch to push himself up to his feet. After grabbing his cane, he started for the door, ready to order Tate Justice to leave him the hell alone.
Only it wasn’t Tate. Outside on the landing, he found himself looking down at a tiny old woman banging her own cane on his steps with a surprising amount of determination. There were a lot of things he’d done that he wasn’t proud of, but abusing little old ladies wasn’t one of them. He choked back his temper and aimed for somewhere close to polite when he spoke.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
She stopped banging away at the step and peered up at him. “Young man! Come down here right now.”
It would take an even harder heart than his to ignore her summons. He started down the steps slowly to avoid setting off his leg again. His visitor stood at the bottom and watched him through her thick glasses for several seconds before abruptly turning away.
At first he thought she was embarrassed for him as he awkwardly limped down the steps, which seriously pissed him off. Then he realized that someone else was headed in their direction. He didn’t have to look to know that once again Tate Justice was intruding on his privacy. She was still a few yards away when he reached the bottom. The old lady immediately turned back toward him and thrust a plate of cookies at him.
“My sisters and I wanted to welcome you to Justice Point. We thought Tate would’ve had the good manners to introduce you around.” She shook her head, looking sorely disappointed. “I’m Mabel. My sisters are Madge and Margaret. They would’ve come along to meet you themselves, but we didn’t want to overwhelm you on your first day in town.”
It was impossible not to like her feisty spirit. “That was nice of you, Miss Mabel. I’m Hunter Fitzsimon, and I have to admit to having a sweet tooth. These cookies will be greatly appreciated, so please thank your sisters for me.”
She patted him on the arm. “I’ll do that. You have nice manners, young man. Now I’d better get back home.”
As she made slow but steady progress back up the driveway, he debated whether to wait for Tate to get up the courage to make her final approach or to go on back upstairs. He decided to wait, figuring she would make a better target for his aggravation.
“Well, have you taken root there, or did you want to say something?”
“I was going to try to head Mabel off at the pass but didn’t get here fast enough. She and her sisters like to bake cookies for everybody in town.”
“So what’s the problem? Did you think I got my kicks being rude to old ladies?”
She shifted from foot to foot. “Not exactly, but I could tell you don’t like being bothered.”
He couldn’t resist tweaking her temper a bit. “Maybe it’s only nosy landladies I don’t like bothering me.”
Her chin came up and her dark eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t being nosy. I was being neighborly.”
“Obviously my mistake, but it’s hard to tell the difference. At least now you can sleep nights, knowing that I don’t eat old ladies for dinner.”
Tucking his cane under his arm, he held the plate of cookies in his right hand and kept his left on the railing as he climbed the steps. When he’d gotten halfway, he looked back to see Tate still standing right where he’d left her.
“The show’s over, sweetheart. You can go back to whatever it is you do besides stare out your kitchen window.”
Ignoring her gasp of outrage, he continued on up, waiting until he was inside before risking another look. She’d almost reached her back porch, righteous indignation clear in every step she took. He set his cane aside and ate a cookie as he watched. Chocolate chip, his favorite. The sound of a door slamming carried across the lawn, making it clear that Tate Justice definitely had a temper.
For the first time all day, he smiled.
Hunter aimed the remote at his new television and started flipping channels while he reported to Devlin. “I’ve moved in, but I haven’t had a chance to look around yet.”
“How’s the apartment?”
“I’ve lived in worse.” Much worse. At least it had real walls and windows. He’d spent much of his life living deep in the caves that served as headquarters for the Missouri branch of Paladins. The light green paint and floral upholstered furniture sure as hell beat limestone walls and army surplus furniture.
“What’s your landlord like? Did he ask many questions about what you’re doing there?”
“It’s a landlady, and if she’s got questions, she hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask them yet.” But she would, and sooner rather than later.
Devlin was silent for several seconds. “We never talked about a cover story, did we?”
No, they’d been too busy shuffling Hunter out the door and on the road to his new duty station. “I’ve got one.”
“Well, what is it?” Devlin asked, sounding irritated.
Hunter smiled, enjoying the game. “I thought if anyone asked, I’d just say I was looking to relocate to the Northwest and was trying to get a feel for the place.”
“And if she asks why that particular spot?”
“I’ll tell her I’m thinking about applying for a teaching job at one of the local colleges.” He took pity on the Paladin leader and added, “I’ve even got the credentials.”
He’d always thought teaching history would be fun, but Paladins couldn’t hold outside jobs. There would be too many unexplained absences when the barrier went down, especially if one happened to die and needed time to recuperate.
“Good. One less thing for me to worry about.”
“Like I’d stay up nights fretting about that.” Hunter settled on a baseball game, more than ready for this conversation to end.
“You’re a real charmer, Hunter. No wonder Jarvis kicked your ass out of Missouri.” Devlin didn’t sound all that mad. “Keep in touch or I’ll send out a crew to check on you. Got that?”
“I don’t need a keeper, Bane. You can send anybody you want to, but that doesn’t mean I’ll talk to them. You’ll hear from me when I have something to report.”
The silence coming from the other end of the line was heavy. Finally, Devlin sighed. “Like I said, keep me posted. You don’t want me to be the one that comes up there.”
When the line went dead, Hunter tossed the phone behind him, not really caring if it landed on the table or not. It wasn’t like there was anyone he really wanted to talk to anyway. He missed Jake and Jarvis, but it was too soon to contact them. He wasn’t ready to hear the concern in their voices. No matter how many times he told them he was fine, they knew he was lying. They’d done as much as they could to help him, but not everything broken could be fixed.
His interest in the ball game ended as the walls of the apartment abruptly closed in on him. In the space of only a few seconds, his pulse revved out of control and his lungs struggled with the increasingly thin air. Recognizing the onset of a full-blown panic attack, he grabbed his cane and concentrated on the cool feel of the ivory and textures of the carved handle. Without looking at it, he traced each line and curve, his intense focus giving him something to think about until he reestablished some semblance of control.
When he could finally move again, he pushed himself up off the couch and headed straight for the door, grabbing a jacket on the way out. Outside, he breathed slowly, deeply, and held his face up toward the night sky. The air was rich and heavy with the threat of rain, the damp scent of fir and cedar clearing his head. So far, so good. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses, trying to locate the small stretch of barrier that Devlin said was close by Justice
Point.
There. He turned toward the woods that clung to the top of a rugged bluff above Puget Sound. It was there all right, a soft, soothing crackle and buzz in the back of his mind. More of a comfort than a compulsion, although that could change the longer he remained in its proximity. With his leg still unpredictable at best, he’d be better off to wait until daylight to find a safe path to the barrier so that he could see it for himself.
For now, he’d walk along the narrow road that led to Justice Point. There was a definite chill to the night, but he didn’t care. The need to move, to walk off the darkness that crashed in on him whenever he was closed in too long, was more important than physical comfort.
Nights were the worst. In the daylight, the view out the windows helped hold the demons at bay. But as soon as the sun set, the ghostly memories of his tormentors crept closer, tearing at his hard-won control until it shattered. His fear made no sense, but then phobias weren’t logical. It was no one’s fault that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had paid dearly for that mistake. That didn’t mean he didn’t hate his friends for not having been there to save him and himself even more for thinking that way.
Time to get moving. He eased his way down the steps, favoring his good leg to make sure he didn’t set off another bout of painful spasms. Upon reaching the ground, he started up the driveway, which circled around to the front of Tate’s house.
Details were welcome distractions, like how good the cool air felt on his face and how the wind playfully teased his hair, reminding him he was long overdue for a haircut. As he passed by Tate’s house, he noted that the first floor was dark, but light poured out of the windows on the upper floors. Did she live alone in that big monstrosity of a house? Her personal life was none of his concern, but he was in Justice Point to find out who’d been abetting the enemy. That meant he had to know who all the local players were. So far, he’d only met Tate and Mabel. Somehow he couldn’t imagine either woman to be part of a grand conspiracy, but only time would tell.
Defeat the Darkness (Paladins of Darkness 6) Page 3