Grateful.He gave a derisive snort at the memory.
"Russ said he would clear it with Bill Armstrong. A day or two later, he gave me the go-ahead. I made sure everyone had left the bank for the day,then I did exactly what I had told Russell I would. I circumvented the system, including the security cameras, let myself into the vault and took the five thousand dollars. I drove back to Asheville, where he was waiting for me in his office, and I gave him the money. I didn't stop at the boarding house to pick up my stuff. I knew that, as soon as Russ saw that I was right, we would be going back to work at the bank again, so I figured why bother."
"What happened?" she asked when he didn't immediately go on.
"Armstrong was supposed to be at the meeting with Russ, but he wasn't. He was inCatlin . In the bank. Russ called him, told him that I was there with five thousand of the bank's dollars, told him to go ahead as planned and take the rest of the money, then notify the sheriff that the bank had been robbed."
She was silent and still for a long time. Had he lost her with that last part? Had she been willing to believe everything he'd said until he'd implicated Bill Armstrong? She had known Armstrong all her life. Along with her ex-husband's family, theArmstrongs made up the upper class ofCatlin society. It was one thing for her to believe that Russell Bradley, a complete stranger, was involved in the robbery. It was another altogether for Dillon to ask her to believe that a man she knew and probably considered a friend was also involved.
He waited uneasily for her response, for skepticism, a denial, an accusation that he waslying . When it finally came, it was better than he could have hoped for, provided he had been able to hope at all.
"So Bill Armstrong robbed his own bank," she murmured. "I always thought he was an insufferably arrogant man. So he's a crook, too. He and Bradley set you up."
He reached for her, pulling her down beside him again. "Hell, yea, darlin', they set me up. I made it so easy for them."
"Why did you run? Why didn't you stay and tell your story then? Seth would have listened. He would have investigated your claims right along with theirs. Running just made you look guilty."
"Stay and tell Seth my story? You think it would have been that simple?" Even though she was entirely serious, he laughed anyway. "And what would I have said? 'Yes, Sheriff Benedict, Iamthe world's biggest loser. I can't hold a jobor a woman, I've spent most of my life in one sort of trouble or another and I have an arrest record going back to when I was nine years old. And, yes, Bill Armstrong and Russell Bradleyare upstanding citizens and highly respected businessmen, but I'm telling you the truth when I say thatthey robbed the bank, not me.I only broke in—theytook the money.' And you think he would have believed me? You think he wouldn't have slapped the handcuffs on me and sent me off to prison as quickly as he could?"
"He would have looked into it," she insisted stubbornly. "When you disappeared, it was only natural for everyone to think you'd taken all that money. But if you'd had any faith in the system…"
He interrupted her with a quieting touch. "It's easy for you to talk about having faith in the system. You've never been in trouble. People have always liked and respected you. If you said something was so, they would believe you." He stared up at the rafters and the dried herbs hanging there. "When I was nine, one of my father's sons—Alex, the one whose name I share—cornered me on the playground at school and beat the tar out of me. When the principal broke it up, Alex said it was my fault. He said I had started it, that he had only defended himself. Keep in mind he was three years older than me, five or six inches taller and a good twenty pounds heavier. The extent of his injuries was a tear in his shirt. My shirt was torn, too. I also had a black eye, a bloody nose, two teeth knocked out, a busted lip and more bruises, bleeding and swelling than you can imagine. Do you want to guess who the principal believed? Who got suspended from school? Whose mother had to pay practically a week's salary to replace the little bastard's shirt?"
She didn't say anything. She just turned onto her side to face him, wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. It was such a simple gesture, just an embrace, nothing more, but it made his chest grow tight and stirred a longing that left him feeling empty inside.
Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and smelled her scents combined with his own. "We've lived different lives, Ash," he said quietly. "I've always had to prove myself. No one but my grandfather ever had much faith in me, and I learned not to have faith in anyone else. Yes, running made me look guilty, but I didn't see that I had any choice. In my experience, cops, more than anyone else, need proof, and all the proof, all the evidence in the bank robbery, pointed to me. Maybe Seth would have been different. Maybe he would have listened. Maybe he even would have looked for proof, but these are two intelligent men. I doubt they left even the smallest clue to implicate themselves."
"You're an intelligent man, too." Her voice was muffled against his chest.
"No, I'm not. But I'm smart enough to know when I've been beaten. If I thought there was a chance that I could clear my name and stay out of prison, I'd go into town tomorrow and tell Seth everything. But there's no chance at all that Russ and Bill Armstrong are going to let me do that. If I try, I'm dead."
Tilting her head back, she stared at him in the dim light. "And if you don't try, then what? You live the rest of your life as a fugitive. That is, assuming that they don't track you down and kill you anyway. You can't let them win, Dillon. You can't—"
Twisting toward her, he cut off her argument with a kiss. She made a frustrated sound that quickly turned into a soft sigh of submission. When at last he gave her a chance to catch her breath, she sighed again. "You're a wicked man, Dillon, trying to distract me like that."
"Like what?" He kissed her again, quickly, hungrily. "This?" He cupped her breast in his palm, teasing her nipple until it was hard and swollen. "Or like this?" Ducking his head, he drew his tongue across it, slowly, hard, creating an unbearably pleasurable friction. "Or maybe like this?" His caresses and kisses moved lower on her body, across her ribs, spanning her waist, following the curve of her hip. He settled between her legs, bracing himself on one arm while, with his free hand, he treated her to a series of lazy, intimate caresses that made her back arch, the muscles in her thighs straining.
"Dillon…"Her voice was barely a whisper, harsh and throaty. Erotic.
"Do you find this distracting?" He slipped one finger inside her, then another, feeling her heat and the dampness that had come from both her own body and his. Her body clenched and tightened, and she tried once more to speak, but the sound faded into a gasp, then a low, husky moan.
You can't let them win,she'd said, but she was wrong. He couldn't do anythingbut let them win. He couldn't do anything but leave, try to stay alive and hope that his leaving kepther alive. He couldn't do anything but sacrifice the rest of his life, all those years that he could have spent here with her.
Except forthis. Tonight he could bring her pleasure. He could make love with her. He could forget about Bradley and Armstrong, could put them out of his mind and give her a few hours of normalcy, of intimacy, of love, and he could pray that it would be enough. For her.
And for him.
* * *
Chapter 9
«^»
Ashley woke up early Saturday morning, momentarily disoriented until she realized the weight across her ribs was Dillon's arm and remembered why she was in her own bed and not on a pallet on the floor. Twisting onto her side, she faced him, watching him sleep, committing every detail of his face to memory. The relaxed line of his mouth. The graceful curve of his lashes. The way his hair fell across his forehead. The shadow of his beard across his jaw. It made him look sinister, she'd told him earlier, but she knew now that she'd been wrong.Wicked was a much better word, much more accurate. Yes, indeed, he looked incredibly wicked unshaven.
Raising her hand, she drew one fingertip lightly across his lips. His muscles twitched and, without waking, he brushed her away,then turned hi
s head to the other side. Blowing out her breath in a heavy sigh, she eased from the bed, dressing quickly in the clothing she'd discarded the night before. She added logs to the fire, put a pot of water on the stove to boil,then put on socks and shoes. Five minutes later, wearing her parka and carrying a mug of hot tea, she slipped silently out the door and made herself comfortable in the rocker on the porch.
The sun wasn't up yet, though the eastern sky was already lightening. Once the sun rose high, it would burn off the mists and heat the air to a comfortably warm spring temperature. It would finish the job of drying out the land … and Bessie's distributor. Unless Ashley's prayers were answered and the rains returned, there was little doubt that the van would be ready to go as early as this afternoon, ready to start Dillon onajourney that would take him out of her life.
She wasn't sure she was ready for that.
She felt like such a liar. She had told him right here on the porch last night that she understood that he would leave her, that she accepted the fact that she would never see him again. She had promised that she wouldn't ask for anything else beyond those few hours in her bed—no commitment, no future.
This morning her heart couldn't understand why he had to leave her; her soul couldn't accept never seeing him again. This morning, more than anything else in the world, sheneeded a commitment from him and a future with him. And she knew only one way to get them: if he turned himself in.
Or ifshe turned him in.
Drawing her feet onto the seat of the rocker, she tucked her skirt around her bare legs,then wrapped both hands around the mug for warmth. She could do it—could find some excuse for going into town today, could talk to Seth, could repeat everything Dillon had told her last night. Seth was no fan of Dillon's, but at the same time, he was no fan of Bill Armstrong's, either. He hadn't liked the banker before the robbery and liked him even less now. He'd taken a lot of grief from Armstrong about his department's inability to locate Dillon. If he had even the faintest suspicion that Armstrong had been ragging him about a crime thathe had committed, Seth would certainly investigate, and he wouldn't stop until he either found evidence to support his suspicions or was positive beyond a doubt that Armstrong wasn't guilty.
Ashley could plant those seeds of suspicion.
If she dared. If she was willing to face the risks. If she was ready to accept responsibility for possibly sending Dillon to prison. If she told Seth, and he was unable to find any evidence implicating Bradley and Armstrong—evidence Dillon insisted would be too well protected to be discovered—then Dillon would remain the one and only suspect. Seth might not arrest him immediately, might wait until the investigation was complete and the other men cleared, but he would never allow Dillon to escape again.
But if she told Seth and hewas able to put together a case against the other men… The rewards could be rich. Dillon could stay inCatlin . He could make a home and a life for himself right here. She could take that long look years ahead and see the two of them, living, working and raising a family together.
But what ifhe didn't share the same vision? What if she deceived him, turned him in, helped him clear his name and get the charges against him dropped and he still wanted to leave her? What if he returned toAshevilleand toPris or went home toAtlantaor headed out west anyway to try to put to rest memories of the worst time of his life?
He had never hinted or indicated in any way that he wanted to stay with her. Even last night when they'd made love, the closest he'd come to a declaration of emotion had been right after he'd removed her shirt.You're sweet and lovely and delicate and tough, and you take my breath away. As sweet as the sentiment was, it was a long way fromI love you.
So those were her options. She could help him escape, thereby putting his life in danger, and never see him again. She could turn him in, and he might go to prison or he might be cleared of any wrongdoing. In that case, maybe he would stay with her, love her and never leave her. Maybe he would hate her for risking his freedom and betraying his trust, would leave her and never forgive her. Maybe he would be grateful for her help but would leave her anyway because, as he'd pointed out, she wasn't his kind of woman.
Every outcome but one would break her heart, but there was only one she couldn't live with. She couldn't watch him take off again, damned to a shadowy existence, unable to trust anyone, unable to let down his guard even for a moment, always knowing that there were people looking for him who wanted him dead. He was an innocent man, and he deserved to live like one. He deserved a home, a wife, a family, a job. He deserved to live his life with dignity. The only way he could have those things was to stop running, to stand up to Russell Bradley and Bill Armstrong, to trust in Seth and the justice system to clear his name. Surrendering was the best action he could take, whether he believed it or not.
Besides, shehad to tell Seth about Steven Vickers.
A few feet away, the door creaked as it opened, but wisely Dillon didn't step out. She could see him—mussed hair, a lot of bare skin, a sleepy, contented look—through the wedge of the open door. "You're up early," he said in greeting.
Summoning a smile from all the worry inside her, she let her shoes hit the floor with a thump,then got to her feet. Just in case there were curious eyes that she couldn't see, she didn't speak until she was in the doorway, her back to the world. "Good morning." After closing the door behind her, she set the tea down, shrugged out of her parka,then moved into his embrace. He smelled of heat, soft sheets and herbs, and he felt…
Her smile against his chest was just a little sad. He felt like the other half of her.
With his hands in her hair, he tilted her head back and studied her face, his eyes dark and intense,his expression thoughtful. After one moment and then another, she shifted uncomfortably and asked, "What are you looking for?"
"Regrets."
"Do you see any?"
"No. I don't think I do."
With a smug smile, she cupped her palms to his cheeks,then leaned forward for a kiss. "That's because I don't have any. Listen, Dillon…" Her smile quivered before disappearing. "I need to go into town."
He went utterly still for a moment, then, reaching up and catching hold of her wrists, he pulled her hands from his face and clasped them tightly in his. "Why?"
"To get some money from the automatic teller. To let Seth know that I'm okay so he doesn't come up here to see. To find out where the roadblocks are and how many there are."
He wanted to say no. She could see it in his eyes. No arguments, no discussions, no leaving, no way. But clearly struggling with that desire, instead he offered a cautious response. "You can get the money tomorrow on our—our way out of town." His falter was slight, barely noticeable—butshe noticed. "The roadblocks don't matter, and if Seth comes up here, you'll just have to keep him outside,then send him on his way. You did it the other day. You can do it again."
"The bank, you may recall, is directly across the street from the sheriff's department," she gently reminded him. "I would really prefer to not park out front there and leave you hiding in the van while I get money from the machine. You're right, I probably can distract Seth if he comes up here again, but I don't want to take any chances. And, sweetheart, the roadblocksdo matter. They're the biggest obstacle to your getting out of here safely."
He continued to look at her, his gaze still searching her face, but it wasn't regrets he was looking for this time. He was seeking some sign that he could trust her, and it made her heart ache to know that, if he offered his trust, she would simply turn around and betray it. Would it make a difference to him that the end result would, with God's blessing, be his freedom? Would he care that she was only doing what she believed in her soul to be right for him? She hoped so. She prayed so.
When he released her and turned away, she felt his rejection more strongly than ever before. She didn't move but simply stood there, staring down at the floor, a welcome numbness slowly filtering through her. Then, from across the room, with his back to her, he finally
spoke, and she understood that it wasn'ther he'd turned away from but himself. He'd sworn to never again do what he was about to do, and he wasn't happy that he was doing it now. He wasn't convinced that he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life.
Neither was she.
"All right," he said, his voice quiet, self-reproachful and tentatively—very tentatively—trusting. "When do you want to go?"
* * *
"What about the key?"
Ashley looked up from the shoe that she was tying and grinned. "I'll take a quick look through the weeds, but if I don't find it, it's no big deal."
Dillon's scowl deepened in proportion to her grin. "No big deal? How are you going to drive Bessie without keys?"
Survive the Night Page 20