CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION

by Justine Davis

  "Sorry," he said as he picked up the shirt.

  Sorry? He was apologizing to her? She was the one standing here gaping at him like some kind of voyeur, speculating on the intimate parts of his body, reacting like a schoolgirl to the parts she could see. She couldn't believe it. She, of all people, to fall prey to imaginings like that to have her fingers curling with a desire to touch…

  "I didn't mean to shock you," he said, and began to pull the gray T-shirt over his head. "I don't usually take my shirt off around strangers."

  The scars. He was talking about the scars. Maybe he hadn't even noticed that she'd been eyeing him like a prize bull.

  She should be relieved, but somehow she didn't like the idea that he thought she'd been gawking at his scars much better. "I'm the one who's sorry," she said quickly, feeling unbearably awkward. "I didn't mean to be rude, staring like that."

  He tugged the shirt down, which couldn't have been easy over sweaty skin. "It's all right," he said dismissively. "I'm used to it."

  She knew he didn't mean being stared at by females wondering what he would look like naked—which she still couldn't quite believe she'd done—so she decided to cut her losses and let him think it was indeed the scars that had so transfixed her. It wasn't really a lie; that had been part of it.

  She handed him the glass of lemonade, only realizing when she went to let go of it how tightly her hand had been gripping it. He took it and drained about half of it in a single gulp.

  "My God, Clay, what happened to you?" It burst from her before she could stop it.

  "Things."

  "Was that a … bullet wound?"

  He gave her a narrow look over the rim of the glass. "Changing your mind about me?"

  "No," she said quickly. "I just … wondered. And those burns are so regular, and that X looks like a cut, almost like it was … drawn."

  "It was," he said flatly.

  Casey couldn't help her gasp,

  "Look, I apologized that you had to see them, but I'm not about to give you a cheap thrill by telling you how I got them all."

  His voice was cold, harsh, and while it stung, Casey supposed she had some of it coming. He had a right to his privacy, and she could see why his battered body would be something he didn't care to display or explain. But she didn't care for his assessment of her, and this time, she couldn't let it pass.

  "Judging by those marks, whatever the thrills were, they were anything but cheap," she said levelly. "I'm sorry you think I'd get some kind of charge out of whatever happened to you. I get no thrill out of pain and suffering. That's not who or what I am."

  Then she turned and left him there, before her wayward tongue ran amok and she blurted out more than she wanted to about pain and suffering.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  The dream had come again last night, so he was more tired than usual tonight. He'd forgotten how harrowing it was, how drained it left him. And he'd put in an even longer day than usual today. He'd been working inside on a bit of ceiling that had been damaged by the leak in the roof, and he had lost track of the time until Casey had arrived home from a job long after dark and been startled, even upset, that he was still working. She'd fed him on leftovers that were incredible, as usual, and with his stomach full, he'd been almost falling on his face.

  He was so exhausted now that his rather wild thoughts that the dream was a sign almost seemed reasonable.

  For the first time in five years, he hadn't been thinking about what he'd lost. He'd been fascinated by who was here now, hadn't thought about moving on for days. And the moment he'd realized that, guilt had swamped him, guilt for allowing himself even a moment's peace and relief. And he couldn't help thinking the dream had come back to remind him of that.

  "You'd better turn in," she said as she gathered up their plates, jerking him out of the daze he'd drifted into. There was a lingering touch of excess politeness in her tone that had been there ever since their encounter by the woodpile.

  He couldn't blame her, not after what he'd said to her. He hadn't meant to snap at her, or accuse her of getting some twisted charge out of the signs of battle he carried. As she'd said, she wasn't the type, and he knew that. But she'd stared so long that he'd started to wonder, even when he knew what she was feeling was much more likely to be simple pity. And he'd had enough of that to last him the rest of his miserable life. The phone rang.

  Casey let out a little gasp and dropped the plates. Sleepiness retreated instantly; that wasn't a typical reaction to a ringing phone. And she was staring at the phone as if it were coiled and rattling. He got hastily to his feet and covered the three feet between them in one long stride. He grasped her shoulders. "Casey?" Her head snapped around toward him, and for a moment he saw pure fear in her eyes. Then the ring came again, and she looked away; he saw her take a deep breath. "I was just … startled."

  For a moment she stood there, silent, seemingly waiting for … something. His fingers tightened involuntarily, as if he sensed she was going to pull away and he didn't want her to. And he wasn't sure his unruly hands weren't right. He leaned toward her uncertainly, until he could feel the warmth of her body. Then he stopped, unsure of what he was doing or what was going on.

  After a moment, instead of reaching for the still-ringing phone, she bent to pick up the shattered plates, breaking his grip. Something wasn't adding up here, he thought, and it didn't take his old instincts for him to know it.

  "Aren't you going to answer it?"

  Silently she straightened, set the broken pieces on the counter and reached for the receiver. She said hello, listened for no more than a second and hung up.

  "Wrong number," she said briefly, without looking at him.

  "Casey…" he began.

  "At least they don't have to be washed," she said.

  The words were joking, but her tone didn't match. She tossed the pieces into the trash, put the one glass that had survived into the dishwasher and slammed the door shut. She picked up a dish towel and wiped off the counter.

  "You'd better get some sleep," she said. "You were about to fall asleep in your dinner."

  And you jumped out of your skin at a phone call, he thought. But she'd so clearly closed the subject that he had little choice but to let it go.

  It was tough, he thought as he and Mud headed outside to the truck. You couldn't very well push someone else to answer questions when you avoided them yourself.

  But what really bothered him was the fact that he wanted to push, that he wanted answers, that he wanted to know about her, especially what had her so frightened. He supposed it was natural to be wary of a late-night phone call, especially for a woman living alone, but she had been more than wary; she'd been downright scared.

  And almost secretive.

  He stopped in his tracks and glanced back at the house. The front was already dark, the single light in the house glowing from her bedroom in the back.

  Secretive.

  He turned away and made himself keep going. She had a right to keep things from him; he was, after all, just the hired help, and nearly a stranger at that. She had a right to privacy, just as he had. And if he expected her to observe his right, he would have to observe hers.

  It would be better that way, anyway, he thought, continuing his internal lecture as he sat on the tailgate of the truck and pulled off his boots and socks. The last thing he needed was to become any more involved than he already had. And he sure as hell didn't need to do anything as stupid as … kiss her.

  He froze in the act of tossing his socks on the small pile of laundry he was going to have to attend to tomorrow.

  Kiss her?

  He hadn't really been going to kiss her, had he? That hadn't been what those moments had been about, had it? Those moments when he'd found himself leaning toward her without realizing why?

  It couldn't be, he told himself, but he was shaken. He hadn't wanted, or even been aware of, a woman in a sexual way for longer than h
e could remember. At first, the trauma of five years ago had made the idea repellent. As time passed, the active aversion faded but left in its place something he could only describe as indifference. He'd assumed his ability to feel desire had been destroyed. It had been an odd feeling, realizing he was for all intents and purposes impotent, and then realizing that he didn't really care. It was distant, remote, something that would have bothered the man he'd been but meant little to who he was now, a hollow shell in the guise of a human being. He had simply accepted it as part of the punishment he felt he deserved.

  And it had been so long that he hadn't even recognized the sensation when it had happened.

  Mud made a low sound, as if he sensed his master's sudden distress. He jumped up on the tailgate and nuzzled Clay's hand with his nose.

  "I'm losing it, buddy," Clay muttered. He scooted inside the truck bed, pulled up the tailgate after them, leaving the windowed section open so Mud could get in and out if he needed to.

  He lay back on the bed, a thick foam pad cut to fit the space between the side cabinets and over the raised storage in the truck bed. Mud went to his niche beside Clay, circling until things were arranged to his liking and then settling in. Clay reached down and scratched the dog's ears in that sweet spot that made the little collie get as close as a dog ever did to purring.

  "Fine state of affairs," he said to the dog who had been his main listener for five years. "Don't want to sleep in case the dream comes back, but if I stay awake, I can't stop thinking about … things I shouldn't be thinking about."

  Mud whined his understanding of the mood, if not the words.

  "Don't know why I'm telling you," Clay said dryly. "You're ready to adopt her. If you haven't already."

  Clay sighed. Maybe Mud was tired of the road; maybe that was why he had taken to Casey so quickly. He liked the place. Lots of open space to roam, squirrels to chase and regular meals.

  Maybe he was tired of the road, to even be thinking like this.

  He shied away from the thought. It didn't matter if he was tired of it. It wasn't as though he had any other choice. He hadn't just burned his bridges, he'd blown them up midspan, and he couldn't go back, even if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. There was nothing for him there, nothing but constant reminders of the one huge failure of his life, the one that made all the successes seem minor and pointless. The one final, deadly mistake he'd made that had destroyed everything. He was just as dead as his once happy life, but his body kept going. He'd thought of ending the pain permanently, but he didn't deserve that kind of peace. Maybe someday he would.

  Maybe someday he would take the .38 he'd carefully packed away in a hidden compartment of the truck and eat it, as he'd wanted to all those years ago. He kept it hard to get at; he didn't want it to be too easy, too tempting. Didn't want to be able to end the torment at any moment when it got to be too much.

  He didn't think about it that often anymore. Maybe that was a sign he should move it, make it easier. The whole point had been to never forget, to endure the punishment, pay the price no one else would exact from him. Maybe it was a sign he'd healed too much, maybe…

  "I'm just full of maybes and signs tonight, aren't I?" he said under his breath to Mud.

  With a sigh he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Even the dream was better than this endless string of maybes and wonderings and ridiculous thoughts about things that no longer applied to him, about a woman he had no business thinking of.

  But the maybes chased him into sleep, and only the dream had the power to vanquish them.

  * * *

  The night was dotted with fireflies, and knowing it would be one of the last shows of the season, Casey took her iced tea out on the back screen porch and sat on the built-in bench to watch. The darting, faintly green lights never failed to amaze and entertain her. They were as much a part of her childhood as the chickens, cows and other livestock, as much a part of the passing seasons as the fields of corn starting as tiny sprouts and ending up taller than she was.

  "Fireflies?"

  She looked up to see Clay, fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and combed back. "Yes. They're putting on quite a show tonight."

  "I've heard about them, but I've never seen them."

  Another clue, Casey thought, although she wasn't sure why she persisted in wondering about him, where he was from, where he'd been.

  "Then sit down and watch," she said. "You're lucky to see this many. They've fallen victim to the spraying for other bugs, I'm afraid."

  After a moment's hesitation he joined her on the bench.

  The only other place to sit was Aunt Fay's rocker, and she noted his reluctance to sit there. She appreciated his sensitivity even as she was coping with the thought that she wouldn't really have minded.

  As he watched the aerial dance, she watched him. He'd been very careful never to let her catch him without his shirt again, and she didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed.

  Some tiny part of her mind was telling her that she should be grateful for even a spark of interest in a man; she'd wondered if that part of her would be crippled forever. Every one of the ladies of the historical society seemed to have a son, nephew or grandson they just knew would be perfect for her, but not one of those she'd met had evoked the slightest bit of reaction beyond casual friendship. Not one of them had made her want more.

  Not one of them had set her mind to fantasizing and her hormones to humming.

  A sharp yap from Mud snapped her out of her reverie. She looked for the dog, but before she found him, Clay laughed.

  She stared at him. He had actually laughed. He'd been here nearly two weeks, and she'd never heard him laugh. Chuckle, maybe, for about two seconds, but never laugh. And she found she loved the sound of it.

  "You catch one of those, Mud, what are you going to do with it?" he called out.

  She looked again for the dog, and found him out in the yard, trying desperately to catch one of the flitting little powerhouses. Looking like one of the dogs she'd seen on TV chasing Frisbees, the collie leaped up, often doubling back on himself in midair, landing flyless and barking his frustration at them. Then he tried again, determinedly.

  She understood why Clay had laughed; in fact, she couldn't stifle her own amusement at the dog's antics.

  "Get one, Mud!" she called out. He looked over his shoulder at her with a tongue-lolling grin. Successful or not, it was clear the dog was enjoying himself. And he seemed content to go on trying endlessly.

  It was a few moments later that Clay spoke softly, almost absently. "I haven't seen him act like this since he was a puppy."

  "How old is he?"

  Still in that abstracted tone, he answered, "Five years and three months."

  Rather exact, she thought, for a dog. But he seemed to be all Clay had in the world, so maybe it was to be expected. She leaned forward on the bench and rested her elbows on her knees.

  "Has he grown up on the road?"

  "Pretty much. He was—" He stopped suddenly, as if he'd just realized what he'd been about to say.

  She let it pass. "So you've been on the move for a long time. Do you like it?"

  "That's not an issue."

  She carefully kept her tone even. "And not something you discuss, right?"

  "No."

  He didn't sound angry or curt, as he had in the past when she'd inadvertently trespassed. In fact, he hadn't sounded like that ever since he'd rather awkwardly apologized for his comments when she'd caught him shirtless that day.

  "Fair enough," she said. "We'll just watch the circus act."

  He smiled then, and her breath caught. How could such a simple thing as a smile be so incredible? Was it simply the rarity of it? Or was it the amazing difference between the smile and his usual somber expression?

  They watched Mud play. The dog was taking a new tack now, trying to chivy the uncooperative bugs into a corner. After a moment Casey said, "My aunt used to say that the instinct in Border collies is
so strong that if they can't find anything else to herd, they'll herd running water."

  Clay laughed. Again. Even lighter, more genuine, this time. And it was, Casey thought, a lovely sound. "Or, in his case, fireflies," he said. "How do they do it, do you know? The flies, I mean."

  It took her a moment to get herself together enough to answer lightly, "Yes and no."

  He blinked. "What?"

  "Yes, I know how they do it, and no, I won't tell you. I refuse to ruin the mystery of it."

  He laughed again, and she felt a sense of accomplishment that seemed all out of proportion. But she couldn't deny it and didn't try. She just looked at him, smiling her pleasure in the sound.

  He went quiet, his smile slowly fading. His eyes looked surprisingly dark in the faint light of the porch. His lips parted, and she thought she could see him take a deep breath. Then, with painful slowness, he raised his hand. So lightly that she could barely feel it, he touched her hair. She held her breath, afraid to move, and not exactly sure what she was afraid of.

  He began to pull his hand back, but as he did, he stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She finally took a deep breath of her own at the feel of his touch, at the shiver it sent through her.

  "Casey," he breathed, so low it seemed no more than the beating of the fireflies' wings.

  She swallowed tightly. She bit her lip, afraid she was going to start trembling at any moment.

  And suddenly he jerked away. Sharply, as if burned. He stared at her for a moment. Even in the faint light, she saw shock in his eyes, and more.

  What was gone was that dull flatness. His eyes might indeed be full of shock, even fear, but they weren't dead anymore. They were alive. Very alive.