Night Angel

by Renee Reeves

  He had made his choice. She just had to convince herself of hers.

  His heavy footfalls stopped right behind her, so close that his shadow, distorted by the sheltering canopy of trees, fell across her back and head. An exasperated sounding noise came from above her. “You're sitting next to a pile of rocks and leaves Morgan. Prime nesting material. Didn't I tell you to be careful of snakes?"

  The muscles around her mouth shook. She laced her fingers together and squee zed, pressing her bones together. Determinedly she tightened her lips and kept her head down, watching the water twirl around her toes, numb to the coldness. “You came all the way out here to tell me that?” I will not cry. “Thanks for your concern, but I checked."

  His sigh was long and loud, sounding as if it had traveled from very deep within him. “Damnit, don't be like that.” His booted feet moved into her peripheral vision as he squatted down beside her, forearms braced on his knees, strong, dark hands hanging limply. She hoped he wouldn't touch her because if he did she didn't think she had the strength to remain remote. “I'm sorry about earlier Morgan, if I could take back what I said I would. Again, I apologize. It wasn't fair to you and it really wasn't even about you."

  Morgan dipped her head until several thick locks of hair fell over her shoulder to block him from view. Her hair had always been a perfect hiding mechanism. “Quit playing with me Nick. You made your choice earlier."

  "Damnit," one balled fist slapped against his thigh causing her to jump and flinch. He must have seen the movement because the next instant one hand was sweeping her hair away while the other cupped her jaw, his grip warm and firm, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Morgan...” His eyes were bright, liquid blue. He shook his head and looked at the stream, then closed his eyes. “I didn't choose anything over you earlier. I love you and noth—” He broke off and sighed, chest and shoulder muscles rising and falling with the motion. His eyes met hers again, invading and deeply searching. His mouth opened, then closed.

  A long moment of silence reigned during which Morgan could actually see him struggling, could see his inner fight and the torment in his eyes as he stared at her. He was hurting, whatever this secret was it was hurting him, and she hated it. If it was this hard for him to get out, then maybe it didn't really matter. They could work on whatever it was and maybe knowing that he loved her was enough...

  "I'm an ex-convict, Morgan.” His voice was dead. Flat. No emotion or inflection whatsoever. “I spent six years in prison for killing my father when I was seventeen. I murdered him, in cold blood."

  Morgan choked on a breath, blood turning to ice in her veins. She tried to breathe, to suck in the necessary life-giving air but her throat was tight, strangling her. Blackness edged her vision. Panic ... Dimly she was aware of Nick pounding on her back, speaking directly into her face. Murderer ... oh God...

  His hand clamped onto the nape of her neck. She gasped, a ruthless gust of air shoved itself down her throat and into her lungs, gasping, coughing, and choking she tried to scramble away from him, but his hand clamped hard around her upper arm, stopping her struggles.

  Trapped next to him she froze, every muscle in her body gone stiff, wary. Her chest hurt, raw inside from her panic attack. Nick had killed—murdered, his own father? Oh ... God help her. She was sitting here alone, miles from help, with a murderer. He had killed his father with the same hands that had touched her, caressed her everywhere, inside and out ... and she had enjoyed it.

  She had laid moaning and writhing under his touch, under hands that had killed ... Her mind flashed back to Richard, focusing on his fists right after one of his beatings. He would stand over her, gloating while his knuckles shone wet and shiny, covered in her blood. Fresh and thick, it would run sluggishly over his hands and down his wrists. Had Nick stood over his father afterwards, bloodied and gloating while he watched him die?

  A small, mouse-like noise escaped her tight throat and she tried once again to scramble away.

  Unbreakable fingers tightened on her arm. “Please don't be afraid of me, Morgan. I'm not like your husband. I'd cut off my own arm before hurting you. No matter what you're thinking right now, deep inside you know that's the absolute truth."

  She couldn't look at him. “I thought that of Richard...” her voice went whisper-soft, “and look how wrong my instincts were."

  "Please don't say that, Morgan.” His voice, usually so strong, bordering on arrogant, was weak with vulnerability and desperation. Shame. Something she would have never associated with a man like Nick Evanoff.

  'I hated my father ... had our differences ... last straw ... gambling debt ... ‘ His earlier words ran through her mind, and suddenly some of the fear left her, leaving her with a burning desire to understand. He had already told her a brief bit of his childhood. Maybe there was more, much more. Based on her own life experiences Morgan knew she had no room to judge him until she knew the truth.

  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and pulled her feet from the water, tucking them underneath her Indian fashion. His hand was still on her arm and she gave a little tug until, hesitantly and one by one, his fingers were removed. “I won't run away, but you have to make me understand Nick. Because right now all I can see is you covered with your father's blood and I can't—” she stopped, shaking her head miserably, “I can't merge that Nick with the one I know. The one I fell in love with."

  Finally she looked at him. His handsome face looked haggard and strained, as if telling her his dirty little secret had sucked all of the arrogance out of him. All of his pride was gone. But his eyes, those beautiful, midnight blue eyes were what upset her the most. They were staring at her with a hopeless desperation that she recognized all too well, having seen it plenty of times in the mirror, when no one but her had known of her own private hell. It was a lonely, bleak place to be. A darkness when everything else around you was bright and sunny. Looking into Nick's eyes she knew without a doubt that, like her, he had known a similar darkness and, also like her, had lived with it all these years.

  It was this knowledge that kept her feet still, that kept her from lunging up and running back to her house where she would lock the door and pack her bags. People had judged her all through her marriage. Richard had fooled them with his cloak of saintly deeds and social graces. It had been she who had been sneered at and deemed the cause of their marriage problems. No one had given her the opportunity to explain ... no one had wanted to listen.

  She wouldn't do that to Nick.

  Morgan cleared her throat and nodded towards his arm. Those same arms that had held her tenderly and made her feel so safe, but had also committed a brutal murder. She had caressed those rippling, bunching muscles, felt them flex and move beneath her fingers as he drove her towards ecstasy. Those same muscles had bulged and flexed when dealing a death blow.

  She swallowed tightly past the pain in her chest and forced herself to focus on the here and now. “The chain tattoo ... it symbolizes your time in prison, doesn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  He rubbed his eyes with his hands, and then dropped them to his sides. “I tried, damn it. But every time I started to I chickened out.” His voice dropped to an agonized whisper, “All I could think about was losing you, and what you had already been through with your husband. I figured the last thing you needed was to know you were cozying up to an ex-con."

  She could see his point, if he had told her before she had really gotten to know him, she most certainly would have run screaming in fear. Probably all the way back to Chicago where she would have turned back into a timid little mouse, hiding away from everyone and everything, never knowing the pleasure that could be found in a man's arms. But she also would have stayed safe, not winding up in the arms of a convicted murderer. A murderer who she had fallen in love with and who was now begging for her understanding...

  "Please...” she whispered a little sickly, torn between the emotions warring in her head and her heart,
“tell me what happened. Why you did it ... Please, I need to understand why you would ... why you would kill your own father."

  Nick had gotten up and walked a few steps away, probably guessing that she needed some space. He always seemed to know what she needed even before she realized it. She sat still and watched him as he leaned against a tree and passed a shaky hand over his hair, then crossed his arms over his chest. The look he threw her was frantic, as if nothing mattered more than her believing him.

  "My dad was not a dad to be proud of. The only good thing about him was his way with horses, which I happened to inherit.” He flashed her a brief, very grim smile. “But he got fired from the stable he worked at as a trainer because he was caught drinking in one of the stalls. After that everything went even more downhill, he could never keep a job more than a month and he only got meaner and more belligerent. My mother worked two jobs trying to support us and I did my best to shelter Jake. Somehow, like our mother, he managed to stay sweet and did great in school. Straight ‘A's’ all the way through."

  "But then dad found a new pastime—besides beating the shit out of us I mean—and that was gambling.” Morgan's heart began to pound, knocking against her ribcage as her sense of foreboding grew. “He loved to gamble, but each time he lost,” Nick stopped and took a deep breath. Unconsciously Morgan began to hold hers. “Each time he lost, which was often, he would come home and knock me around. Sometimes he went after Jake even though Jake was a lot younger than me ... and he always...” Nick paused, looking at her with eyes so filled with pain that Morgan had to stop herself from jumping up and going to him. “Always went after our mother. She was so beautiful and sweet, much like you.” He gave her a soft, sad smile and Morgan felt her eyes grow wet.

  "Oh Nick."

  "He slashed her with kitchen knives, beat her with a belt buckle until she went blind in one eye ... and yet somehow she stayed a sweet, loving wife and mother. Always loving him and making excuses. For years and years he abused her, treated her like a walking pile of shit.” Nick ran a hand down the tree trunk, tearing off pieces of bark as he went. “I could handle him coming after me, even as a kid I was pretty big, but when he went after our mother I went off on him. Many times the whole house would be wrecked because of our fights. I can't count the number of times the police were called out to take him away, only to have one of his drinking buddies bail him out again and again.” A muscle in his jaw bunched, throbbing just under the surface of his dark skin. “And the living hell that was our existence would start all over. Our house was a rented trailer with paper-thin walls. Each time he got out of jail he would go after my mother first. I could hear him with her ... in their room. The loud slaps, the sound of things breaking ... her crying and begging him to stop..."

  Morgan stared at him, horrified, unaware that she had taken several steps towards him, “Oh ... Nick. I'm so—"

  "Don't,” he said quietly, “I need this to be out. I don't want anything else between us. No more misunderstandings. So please, don't say anything until I'm finished."

  He waited until she nodded. “Each night I would hear him forcing her, raping her. And there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it."

  He stopped and took a big breath, turning away from her, but not before Morgan caught the glimpse of tears in his eyes ... “Some people believe a man can't rape his own wife, that it's his right and goes with being married ... but they obviously haven't been in the other room, listening to it...” His broad body tensed, then began to shake. A low, guttural groan filled the silent clearing and as Morgan watched, frozen sick with helplessness at the visions and memories his story conjured, Nick gripped the trunk of the tree with both hands and dropped his forehead against the rough bark.

  This was not Nick the successful horseman; this was Nick the young kid who had had no way out of a desperate situation other than to kill his own father. He might have been punished and served his time, but he was still hurting, even after all these years. Morgan's brain jerked back to awareness and she closed the last remaining steps between them, throwing her arms around him. He jerked like she had poked him with an electric prod, his big body tensing for a few long moments, and then he turned in her embrace. She snuggled her face against him, breathing in his familiar scent and listening to his pounding heart.

  After a long moment his arms went around her, locking her tightly against him. “Go on,” her voice was muffled in his shirtfront and she angled her head slightly away from him, “tell me the rest ... I'm not going anywhere."

  His hand smoothed over her head, playing lightly with the long mahogany strands, apparently lost in thought. Morgan rested her cheek against his chest and just waited, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

  "I love your hair,” he said finally, stroking his fingers down it, “the first time I saw you, right here, you were sitting by the river with the moonlight highlighting your face and hair."

  Morgan smiled, “And to think I thought I had found the perfect private spot."

  "You did. I just happened to come with it.” The weight of his chin landed on the top of her head. His beard stubble had grown so much that she could feel the prickles through the thickness of her hair, massaging her scalp as he spoke. “You looked like an angel, and right then I knew you were the woman I wanted.” His voice lowered, growing deeper, huskier.

  "I think that's when I fell in love with you, even though I didn't know it or recognize it at the time."

  Tears burned at the back of her throat, choking off her voice and the response she knew he was waiting for.

  So she showed him instead.

  Sliding her palms up his chest to his shoulders she entangled her fingers around his neck and urged his head down to hers for a kiss. It was deep, sweet and infinitely tender. His lips moved against hers, coaxing and endlessly patient, while his tongue met and parried, dragging a soul deep response from her.

  He had killed his father, been locked up in prison for it. Yet in a short amount of time, with only gentle touches, patience and kind words, he had driven away the nightmarish memories of her previous life.

  No matter what, she loved him.

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  Chapter 29

  Nick settled back against the tree and Morgan leaned into him, letting him take her weight against his chest. She didn't know what to do with her hands so she wrapped them loosely around his neck and rested her head just below his shoulder. His powerful body shuddered once and then he wrapped his arms tight around her waist.

  Morgan stroked his neck, trying to soothe away the invisible beasts that plagued him.

  "I don't want you afraid of me Morgan.” His voice rumbled against the top of her head, “Not ever."

  "You've shown me enough times that I don't have to be,” she murmured. “The horses show me that I don't have to be."

  "The rest may change your mind."

  "I know what I feel Nick,” she insisted, leaning back to look up at him.

  "But I—"

  "Shhh,” she pressed her lips against his and after a moment's hesitation he was guiding her into a slow, searching kiss that left her feeling weak, boneless. “Just tell me, Nick. It can't be any worse than I'm already picturing in my mind."

  He stared down at her, blue eyes hollow and tired, drilling into hers. Then he blew out a long breath and dropped his head back against the tree, rolling it back and forth. “It's damned ugly Morgan. I hate that you have to know, but I'm not going to keep it from you, no matter how much I want to.” Morgan's heart constricted, doing a tight little ‘thump, thump’ against her chest. Nick's hands tensed on her back. Then one stroked up the length of her spine and slowly down again. He did this several times, almost as if he were trying to calm or prepare her the way he would a horse.

  Morgan braced herself for whatever horrible words were going to come out of his mouth.

  "Anyway,” he began, “his drinking escalated and so did the fits of rage he would go into. We dreaded hearing him co
me through the door. Hell,” he gave a short laugh, but Morgan found no trace of humor at all, “we hated seeing the clock hit noon because we knew he would be coming in, demanding that my mother fix his goddamned meal.” Nick paused and took a deep breath. Morgan stroked his neck encouragingly, picturing his bully of a father stomping into the house and yelling for food.

  "So,” he continued, “in order to stay out of the house I got a job at a local convenience store when I was seventeen. I worked as many hours as I could, just to stay away from home. Then one night I came home early and everything was quiet. So quiet it was spooky. I was used to the TV blaring with dad parked in front of it, or hearing mom crying in the bedroom, or them shouting ... but that night there was ... nothing.” His voice had deepened, becoming more forceful and determined. Morgan's skin prickled, her heart pounding in her chest. Dread, fear of what he would reveal filled her throat, stinging like battery acid. Like an animal sensing an impending storm she knew what was coming.

  "Thank God Jake was spending that weekend at a friend's. I don't know what he would have done ... how it would have affected him ... I-uh ... I walked into the house, went to each room looking for someone ... and when I opened the door to my parent's room I saw the end of my mother's shoe on the floor, peeking out from behind the door."

  "Oh Nick,” she whispered, burying her face against his neck, “I'm sorry ... so, so sorry."

  Against her ear she heard his throat work, swallowing wetly, again and again.

  "I still remember the long creaking sound that door made when I pushed it ... Wider and wider it opened until I saw my father standing over my mother, holding a baseball bat."

  His voice cracked and Morgan clutched him to her, gripping fistfuls of his shirt in her fingers. Pain for what he had gone through—then and now—rippled through her body, making her heart crack wide open and bleed for him. Tears gathered on her lower lids, hovering there until she blinked. Sniffling she pressed one wet cheek against his shirt.