CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION

by Justine Davis

  Casey smiled and shook hands first with Cruz, whose dark hair, bronze-tinted skin and bright blue eyes were still a striking declaration of his mixed heritage, then with Kelsey, a woman with deep red hair and eyes that looked at both Cruz and Sam as if they were her own and always had been.

  "My husband once told me that any good in the cops of Trinity West started with you," Kelsey said to Clay.

  His eyes shot to Cruz, who met his gaze levelly, as he always had. "If that's true," he said tightly, "he's the walking proof."

  Cruz smiled, a salute without words, and Clay had to look away. This was almost too much, all of this. But then Casey bent slightly to greet Samantha, who had grown so big Clay barely recognized her as the six-year-old he'd known.

  "The raccoon got well," the girl said solemnly to Clay after she'd politely acknowledged Casey.

  It took him a moment to remember the creature he'd found by the road that long-ago night, scratched up by a nasty feral cat. The wounds hadn't been that serious, but he'd known if he left the animal it would be easy prey for some other predator. So he'd taken it to a vet for treatment, and then to Sam. Even at six she'd had a knack, and a sense of responsibility much larger than she was.

  That she remembered it moved him immensely.

  "I'm glad," he said softly, reaching out to touch her hair. "How big is the menagerie now?"

  "Big," she admitted. Then, with a glance at Cruz and Kelsey, she said in a mischievous voice, "I have to do something until I get a sister or brother."

  Laughter rolled around the group, Cruz and Kelsey included, although there was something in the way they looked at each other that made Clay think it might not be long until Sam's wish came true.

  "There's somebody else you need to meet." The voice came from his left, and Clay recognized it immediately.

  "Lacey," he whispered as he turned.

  She looked as she always had, long, sandy brown hair, clear blue eyes, and where she'd always thought herself too curvy Clay had called her, teasingly, luscious. She and Ryan were meant for each other, always had been, and it had broken his heart when they'd lost sight of that after the tragic miscarriage.

  She hugged Clay fiercely, not even trying to hide her tears. He soon gave up that attempt himself. But after a moment she pulled back and looked at her husband, who had come up beside Clay once more.

  Clay looked, and his chest tightened. Big, powerful Ryan Buckhart was tenderly cradling a child in his arms, a sleepy little girl who looked about a year old. She had Ryan's dark, straight hair but Lacey's big blue eyes, and Clay knew she would be a beauty at all stages. He nearly backed off when Ryan held her out to him. But Ryan just looked at him, steadily, encouragingly, and after a moment he took her, with shaking arms, nearly overwhelmed by the feel of a baby in his arms again. And he didn't even try to hide the warm, salty drop that suddenly appeared on the child's cheek.

  "She's beautiful," he whispered, looking up to see a teary-eyed Lacey and a suspiciously blinking Ryan watching him with expressions that took away what little breath he had left.

  "Amanda," Casey whispered beside him. Lacey looked at her curiously, and Casey explained. "We read about her in the book, about the Pack."

  To Clay's amusement, Ryan blushed. It looked odd against the darkness of his skin. "Darn that Lang, anyway," he muttered.

  "Don't," Clay said quietly. "That book is what … got me thinking about coming back. To tell you … how proud I am of you."

  Ryan's color deepened, and, characteristically, he shrugged off the praise, "In that case, if it got you back here, I'll forgive Carny. He's here somewhere, I think."

  Lacey gave a little laugh. "Find Roxy and you'll find him. I think he's smitten."

  "Roxy?" Clay said, the name immediately triggering a memory. "Dr. Roxy?"

  "The same," Ryan confirmed. "Roxanne Cutler, doctor extraordinaire and general savior of Trinity West."

  "Amen," Miguel and Kit chimed in with a fervency Clay made a note to ask about later.

  "Did you hear about Robards?" Gage asked as Clay handed the baby back to her mother. Clay turned to look at the blonde, remembering that his problems with the old-school tyrant had been different but no less serious than those of the targets of the man's sexual and racial bigotry.

  "No," he said.

  "Miguel took him down," Kit said proudly, and gave him a quick version of the murder and subsequent belated investigation that had ended the twisted and ugly reign of the autocratic lieutenant.

  "If anybody took him down, you did," Miguel told his bride. "I just handled the formalities."

  "So he's in jail?" Clay asked.

  "Was," Ryan said with some satisfaction.

  Clay lifted a brow and looked at Cruz when the man let out a compressed sound that was half chuckle, half snort.

  "Sorry," Cruz said. "It's not PC to enjoy such things, but I can't help it."

  "He murdered an innocent boy in cold blood just to make a point," a woman said harshly.

  "And he'd been shaking down scared street kids for money for years," Kelsey added.

  "He was corrupt, evil, vicious, a traitor to the badge, and he had it coming," Kit said.

  The women of Trinity West had most definite opinions about the man, it seemed. Clay looked at Miguel, who seemed as if he were struggling to look solemn. He cleared his throat. "We recently got word that Robards met with an … unfortunate fatal accident in prison. Another inmate with a shiv took offense at his … racial attitudes."

  Memories of those racial attitudes, especially when the brutal Robards had turned his venom on a young, uncertain Ryan, came back to him. Memories of the man belittling and demeaning every woman he came across. Of the man ruling by fear and intimidation, getting away with it until his ego had apparently grown to the point that he thought he could get away with murder.

  And he'd paid, it seemed, the appropriate price. Clay couldn't find it in him to feel very badly about it.

  After that, the greetings came thick and fast, from people he remembered and some he didn't. And from some he'd only heard of.

  One he remembered was Caitlin Murphy, the strawberry blonde who'd opened her club for kids, the Neutral Zone, in the midst of the worst part of Marina Heights just before he'd left. They'd all tried to convince her to move it to a better neighborhood, but she'd stubbornly refused. And had, by all accounts, including a mention in Carny Lang's book, made a rousing success of it. As Kelsey Gregerson had made of her youth shelter right next door.

  The Trinity West cops had picked spouses to match their nerve and grit and dedication, he thought. And he felt a pride that had an odd, almost paternal feel to it in all of them.

  Caitlin introduced him to her husband, Quisto Romero, a former Marina del Mar cop, now of Trinity West. And to their little girl, Celeste, a beautiful child who caused no end of teasing for her father, who apparently had been quite the ladies' man before he'd run into Caitlin.

  "She's going to run you ragged, and rightfully so," came the amused observation from a tall blond man beside them. "Not," the man amended with a glance over his shoulder to where a lively little boy of about three was playing with a toy truck complete with sound effects, "that my boy, Sean, isn't doing the same to me. Chance Buckner," he added, extending a hand to Clay. "I had the misfortune of being this reprobate's partner at Marina del Mar."

  Clay blinked. Chance Buckner? The Chance Buckner? "I've heard of you," he said, shaking the man's hand. "A lot."

  "Ditto," Buckner observed with a grin.

  "Ah. The two legends meet at last."

  Clay shifted his gaze to the woman who'd come up beside Buckner. Her dark, smoky gray eyes and mass of dark shiny hair looked vaguely familiar. She was smiling widely, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Pregnancy seemed to be in the wind around here, Clay thought.

  "I'm Shea," she said. "And it's wonderful to meet the legend of Trinity West at last."

  Clay mumbled something as he realized why she looked familiar; she was Shea A
ustin, a famous songwriter he'd seen on some television special in a bar one night when he'd been using alcohol to drown memories that wouldn't die. He remembered it despite the haze, because her words had seemed to cut so deep, as if she'd been where he was, knew his pain. It had finally driven him out of the bar, unable to face what her sweet voice said.

  "Welcome home," Buckner said. Then he added, with a glance at Casey, "In more ways than one."

  He had the look, Clay thought, of a man who knew all about hell. And it came to him then, the memory that Chance Buckner had lost his first wife and unborn child in a bomb explosion that had been meant for him.

  Buckner nodded, as if he knew just what Clay had been thinking. "We'll talk," he promised Clay. Then he reached out and gently laid his hand on his wife's belly, heavy with his child. "I think I've learned some things you need to know."

  Almost numbly, Clay nodded. And only then realized he was hanging on to Casey's hand as if it were his sole lifeline.

  Maybe it was, he thought. Maybe she was.

  A tapping on a glass from the front of the hall drew the crowd's attention. Miguel de los Reyes stood before them, looking almost regal in his formal wear.

  "I know it's not tradition that the groom speak at his own wedding, but I've never been much for tradition for its own sake."

  A small cheer arose from those who knew exactly what tradition he meant, the tradition of ruling by coercion that had been his predecessor's approach.

  "So I'd like to propose a toast," Miguel continued, holding up his glass of champagne. "To the cops of Trinity West, the best there are. To those who have found the love and the courage to go on even when it becomes a job you hate. To those who have found the courage to quit when they had to. To those who have come home at last," he said, lifting his glass in Clay's direction. And then, in a quiet but powerful voice, he added, "And most of all, to those who never will."

  "Here, here," echoed through the crowd in hushed tones. It was the same feeling he'd known before, Clay realized, that feeling of kinship beyond anything outsiders could understand. And yet it was different; the people of Trinity West were different. It was a sense he got from all the people he'd known as they took this joyous occasion to renew their own commitment to one another and marvel at the changes love had brought to them all.

  They'd had the nerve, Clay thought later as they followed his father back to the house. The nerve to reach out and take what they'd found, despite the odds. Despite the memories. Despite everything.

  He wondered if he could find the nerve to do the same.

  * * *

  Casey stood quietly, feeling more than a bit nervous as she watched Clay's still figure, even though it had been her suggestion that they come here. He'd looked surprised at the idea—or the fact it had come from her—and then thoughtful. Then he had nodded, and they had driven to the hillside cemetery in silence.

  But now she was wondering if it had been such a good idea. He'd been there so long, between the two graves marked Yeager. She could only imagine what he was thinking, what memories were running through his mind.

  She'd seen photographs of his daughter; Bob had shown them to her. She'd been a lively, bright-eyed child, and if, as Casey guessed, her father had been holding the camera in the large picture Bob Yeager had framed, she had adored Clay. The look in the little girl's eyes made Casey ache inside. How could anyone get over the loss of such a child? Even a man as strong as Clay?

  For he was that. She'd always known it, but she'd learned just what kind of man he was at the wedding reception. She'd heard the tales of Clay Yeager, had heard what he'd meant to all those he'd helped. She'd heard the tales of his heroism, including the acts that had won him three Medals of Valor: the accident where he'd dragged a baby out of a flaming car, giving him the burn scars on his shoulder and the deep gash on his arm; the bank robbery where he'd taken a bullet protecting an elderly woman who had wandered into the line of fire; and the most incredible, the hostage situation where he'd given himself in exchange for four children being held by a crazed, barricaded suspect, and had nearly died from the resultant torture.

  And she had also seen the guilt in those who had been his friends and colleagues, guilt that they hadn't done more when he'd needed their help.

  "He was the rock that held us all together," Kit had told her. "He helped us all, was our mentor, our coach and our chaplain, all in one. He always listened, always helped. But there was no one to listen to him."

  Ryan had echoed her sentiment in short, blunt, pained words that told Casey exactly how it had eaten at the big man. "He saved my ass. I would have died for him. But when it came to the crunch, when his life fell apart around him, I didn't do a damn thing to help."

  "No one could have helped him then," Casey had told him gently. "He was already gone."

  Ryan had looked at her intently, then smiled, and what it did to his stern, bronzed face was startling. "But you brought him back. And for that, we all owe you. If you ever need anything, you just call Trinity West. Any of us will be there for you, anytime."

  Can you help him let go? she asked silently now, not sure who the question was directed to.

  At last Clay stood up, and her pulse accelerated. She knew a great deal depended on the next few moments. Perhaps everything. As he approached her, she was almost afraid to look at him, afraid to see that she'd been wrong to suggest this, that she'd only opened up old wounds.

  But she made herself look up. Made herself meet his eyes. The quiet peace she saw there gave her hope. And when he came to a halt before her and smiled, a soft, gentle smile, she felt a flood of relief.

  "Thank you for suggesting this," he said solemnly. "I feel like I've … really let go, for the first time. Like I've finally said goodbye."

  Casey blinked rapidly.

  "And thank you for coming with me," he added. "You were right. About going to the wedding, about everything."

  She floundered for words, wishing he hadn't sounded so … final. "I … I'm glad it's all working out. Very glad. For you."

  He looked puzzled. "For me?"

  "Well, yes," she said, feeling miserably awkward. "That was the point, wasn't it? I just want you to be … if not happy, at least at peace."

  He was staring at her with a sudden intensity that was nearly unnerving. "Why, Casey? Why do you want that so much?"

  She thought of a dozen things to say, ways to dissemble, things close to the truth but not the truth, things that hinted at it but didn't say it, things that were safe and comfortable to say.

  She said none of them. In the end, she gave him that simple truth, because she could do nothing else.

  "Because I love you."

  He let out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "Thank God," he murmured. Then he opened his eyes and searched her face. "It's not just … pity? Sympathy?"

  "Is that what you feel for me?" she countered.

  "No!" It was swift, emphatic and satisfyingly urgent.

  "I rest my case," she said.

  He gave her a small, rueful smile. "You're really something, Casey Scott."

  She remained silent, waiting. She knew, had known the minute he'd breathed that heartfelt "Thank God," but she needed to hear him say it, needed to hear the words. No matter how odd the place. And when he finally said them, they were sweeter than she'd ever hoped for.

  "You know I love you, don't you?"

  "Knowing and hearing aren't the same thing," she said.

  He reached out and grasped her shoulders, looking down at her with that intensity that made the deadness she'd once seen in his eyes seem a dim memory.

  "I love you," he repeated. "I never thought I'd say that again. Never thought I'd be able to say it. And I've never meant it in quite this way."

  As a declaration, it was eminently sufficient.

  "Do you … understand?" He looked concerned, almost worried. "Why I couldn't say it before, I mean?"

  She lifted a hand and put it over his, savoring the warmt
h of him, the life force that had once ebbed so low.

  "I understand," she said softly. "You had to face your goodbyes."

  "You gave me back my life," Clay said, and before she could protest, he added, "But that's not what this is about. This is about the future, Casey. And feeling like I have one again. If you'll marry me, and share it."

  Casey had to fight down the tears welling up to get out her answer. "Yes, Clay. Yes."

  He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, murmuring her name over and over. "We'll work it all out later," he promised. "I want as much of forever as we can get, Casey."

  She let him hold her, wanting this. Needing this. Knowing it might not last. It was a long time before she finally worked up her nerve to ask the crucial question.

  She waited until they were away from the reminders of tragedy, until they were, at Clay's suggestion, walking arm in arm along the beach in Marina del Mar.

  Only then, when they were nearly alone on the fall-weekday-empty sand, did she come to a halt. She pulled back a little, looking up at him, knowing this could change everything, but knowing she had to do it.

  "Now that you've said your goodbyes," she whispered, "do you think you could manage a hello?"

  His forehead creased in puzzlement. "Hello?"

  Casey took a deep breath. And plunged on. "To a new little Yeager."

  For a moment the puzzled look remained. Then his eyes widened. "You're … pregnant?" he asked, his voice hoarse, tight.

  This breath Casey held on to as she nodded.

  "Pregnant," Clay repeated. "A baby."

  "That's usually how it works," she said, hating the panic that was building in her. She had to look away, and lowered her eyes. "It must have been that … first time," she said, also hating the need she felt to explain, when she knew he knew perfectly well they'd been careful about protection.

  "A baby," Clay said again. "We're going to have a baby?"

  We.

  Casey could suddenly breathe again. And when at last she looked up, she saw everything she could have wished for in his face. Surprise, awe, wonder, a touch of fear, even a faint trace of regretful memory … but most of all, love. It was there, shining in his eyes, and now she could feel it in his touch.