Chayton (23 page)

“Shhh. I know it's hard,” he whispered into her hair. It smelled clean and a little like strawberries.

“I can't believe they're gone. I talk about going to funerals but it all feels so surreal, like I'm talking about someone I don't know,” Kate said through her sobs. “And I'm afraid to go back to my mother's house. To my house.”

“We'll go together, if you'd like me to come along. I know the investigation is finished but I'm not sure what state the house is in.” Chayton hated bringing it up, but he wanted to prepare Kate in case she walked in and saw blood on the floor. Or the walls. That, he knew, might send her into shock. It was one thing to hear about death and another to see the visceral proof in person.

“Yes. Please come with me.”

The vulnerability in Kate almost broke Chayton's heart. He'd seen her fiery and feisty and hell bent for leather. He'd been at her side when she came face to face with someone she suspected had a hand in her mother's murder, watched as she battled back from a serious accident. This Kate was less familiar but no less enchanting. He rubbed her arm and her side, providing comfort and security in the only way he knew how.

“I will. Here in a few minutes, I'll go check the status of the plane and rouse the pilots. There is luggage in your closet so you can pack what you need. We'll plan on leaving in two hours, how does that sound?”

Kate nodded, cheek pressed against his chest.

“All right.” He paused, then added, “This will get more difficult before it gets better, but eventually, it
will
get better. I'm here for whatever you need.”

Kate leaned back and met his eyes.

Chayton sensed she was on the verge of saying something deep and meaningful and held her gaze without looking away. He stroked his fingers through the fine layers of her hair, sifting the strands against his skin.

“I...I really appreciate your help, Chayton. Thank you.” She smiled self-consciously and brushed tears off her cheeks.

Disappointment ran rampant through his system. He would have bet a year off his life that Kate had meant to say something else instead. “No thanks needed. Would you like me to walk you back to your room before I go make the necessary arrangements?”

“Yes. Please.”

Chayton pulled Kate gently up with him, tempted to wrap her in his arms once
they were on their feet for a proper hug. The stiffness in her spine stalled the action before he could complete it. Instead, he set his hand on her shoulder, gave a squeeze and eased her around on the path to escort her inside.

Why wasn't this easier? Why couldn't he just say what he wanted to say? Growing pensive as they entered the house, Chayton led Kate through the halls and up the stairs. At her bedroom door, he bent to touch a brief kiss to her forehead.

“I'll come for you in about an hour. If you need a little more time than that, then take it. I'll wait.”

“Thank you, Chayton.” Kate smiled a shaky smile, then let herself into her room.

Chayton stared at the closed door, then pivoted on a heel and stalked away to his own bedroom, pulling his phone from a pocket on the way.

. . .

“Are you all right?”

Kate sat forward in her seat, fingers covering her lips. The drone of the jet engine was a quiet accompaniment to the low-volume of a black and white movie playing on a television attached to the wall. She hadn't been paying any attention to the movie other than to stare sightlessly at the screen, thoughts far away from whatever drama the main characters had gotten themselves into.

An hour into the flight, with Chayton sitting at her side in one of the plush, earth toned seats, her stomach had started to ache. She'd ignored the growing nausea until now, when it suddenly felt like she might lose control and be sick.

“I'm not feeling well,” she murmured through her fingers, and got up from her seat. “I'll be right back.” Kate made her way through the jet—laid out more like an apartment living room with sofas, chairs, a side bar and small kitchenette—toward the bathroom located in the hallway. Beyond, behind a closed door, was a bedroom. So far, she'd resisted the urge to lie down, preferring to be upright until the spasm passed.

The bathroom, with matching earth tones trimmed in gold and a white marble sink, was as elegant as the rest of the interior. A shower stall stood to the left in the corner, the glass etched with a swirling capital B. Kate went straight to the sink and turned on the faucet. Catching a trickle of water, she patted her cheeks.

“What's wrong?”

Kate glanced into the mirror, one hand braced against the side of the sink. Chayton, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, regarded her with mild concern. She thought he looked devastating in the strict suit of black, silver and white that he'd changed into before take off.

“My stomach's a little upset, that's all. I'll be all right.”

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing. Really. I just needed to get some cold water on my face.” She patted her cheeks again, then turned the faucet off. Her stomach pitched and rolled, and she gripped the sink, fighting down more nausea.

“Are you hungry? I can have Delia make us something--”

“Oh no, that's all right. It's not hunger, it's just...all this. The closer we get to New York, the more upset I feel.” Kate wasn't sure the upcoming funerals had
everything
to do with the nausea, but she wasn't prepared to say anything about the pregnancy yet. Now just wasn't the time.

Chayton stepped into the bathroom, coming up behind her. Setting his hands on her shoulders, he stared at her reflection while he kneaded the muscles with gentle motions. Kate held his gaze, trading a long look that would have left a surge of heat under her skin if she hadn't felt so awful.

“Tell me what I can do,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I'm not sure. The water is helping. So is the massage.” By degrees, Kate's nausea faded. Not completely, but enough that she didn't feel the need to hover near the toilet.

“Then we'll stand here for a little while longer, until you don't feel sick any longer. All right? Afterward, would you prefer to lie down?”

“I don't think so. Plus, I'll wrinkle my clothes.” She smoothed a hand over the fine linen skirt suit she'd found in her closet. Although it wasn't the black she wanted for the funerals, it was a deep ash gray and quite modest, and it would have to do. It fit her as well as all the other clothes Chayton had ordered.

“If you need to, we can unpack something for you to change into. It's not a problem. Just let me know.”

“I will. Thanks.” Kate, still bracing her hands against the sink, straightened. Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over his knuckles in gratitude for the massage.

Chayton caught her fingers for a light squeeze, then wrapped her hand in his. Like that, he led her out of the bathroom back toward the chairs.

Kate glanced down, mesmerized by the sight of their twined hands. His felt a little calloused and slightly rough, as if he used them for more than pushing paperwork across a desk. And she knew precisely the kinds of situations that caused that kind of wear.

Back at the seats, Kate had the strangest urge to sink down into his lap. There was an awkward moment when her hips started to swivel that direction, too, before she caught herself and plopped down into her own seat.

She glanced aside to see Chayton wearing a quizzical expression. What could she say? Not that she'd wanted to claim his lap for her own. She settled for an uncertain smile and looked away, fixing her attention on the movie.

The chemistry between them was slowly starting to ignite, and Kate wasn't sure she could resist giving in to temptation if it came her way again.

. . .

Chayton was a rock through the difficult process of attending Jones's funeral. Kate stood at his side in front of the gravesite, strangely dry eyed, while Jones's friends and family dabbed at their tears and buried sobs into handkerchiefs. With her fingers curled under the crook of Chayton's elbow, Kate listened to the preacher intone Jones's last rites, staring at the long, shiny casket covered with a spray of bright red blooms. She wasn't sure why she couldn't cry, why she felt so empty and void of emotion. Perhaps she'd spent it all on the plane ride from Montana to upstate New York. Every few minutes, Chayton patted her hand, as if to comfort and soothe her.

It wasn't until it came time for Kate to lay her single stemmed rose on the casket that her breath caught in her throat and tears welled in her eyes.

This was really it. The final goodbye.

Guilt rose up to suffocate her, making it hard to breathe. Chayton must have sensed her inner turmoil; the next thing Kate knew, Chayton had steered her away from the gaping hole in the ground and walked her along a narrow pathway through other headstones.

“You all right?” he asked in a low voice, handing over a snowy white handkerchief.

Kate accepted it and patted the corners of her eyes. Her throat felt oddly swollen and dry at the same time. “Yes—no. No, I'm not. It's my fault he's gone. If I had just--”

Chayton gently spun her to face him, bringing their progress through the cemetery to a halt. “Kate, it's not your fault that Anton took his revenge out on your people.”

“Yes it is. It's all my fault. I should have...should have...done
something.
Called other policemen who weren't paid off, or who weren't blackmailed, or hired a different lawyer sooner. I should have tried harder to get Anton brought up on charges.”

“You couldn't have known Anton would stoop to this. No one could have. Even if you'd brought your suspicions about his involvement in your mother's death, it would have taken time for them to investigate the claims. Anton might have done all this regardless, just because he was so desperate.” He smoothed a hand down her arm and caught her fingers in a gentle grip.

“But Chayton, they're all
dead.
So many people. And I feel guilty.” Kate, shaken to her core, dabbed more tears from the corners of her eyes. She didn't know how she would find the strength to attend the next four funerals scheduled for today.

“No one else blames you. His family didn't look at you with hate or blame, and their hugs before the memorial seemed genuine to me. They seemed worried
for
you, if anything.”

Kate knew he was right about the families. No one had made her feel as if it was her fault. She was doing that all on her own. Exhaling, she stared at his eyes. “It's not going to go away that easy. The guilt.”

“I know. It never does. All you can do is show your support for your friends and try to heal from here. I suspect you've not even grieved for your own mother yet, thanks to Anton putting so much pressure on you.”

Shocked to realize he was right, Kate released his hands so she could wrap her arms around his neck and hold on tight. She didn't care about anything in that moment other than giving in to the need to be close and sheltered. To share her pain with someone who had, time and again, offered to be there for her. He hadn't needed to come with her to New York, and yet here he was, solid as stone, allowing her to vent her grief against his chest. The feel of his hands running up and down the back of the suit coat soothed some of the agony, and finally, after several minutes of expending some of her misery, she leaned back far enough to see his face. He stared down at her, expression as serious as Kate had ever seen it. Cupping both sides of her jaw in his hands, he bent down to kiss her brow.

“Come on. Let's get through these next funerals, and then we'll go back to the hotel,” he said into her skin.

Kate gave her hand to him when he reached for it. She found security and comfort in his firm grip. As they walked, she said, “Sometimes, I don't know what I would do without you.”

Chayton examined the rolling meadows and distant treeline from the back window of a limousine. Straight up noon, on a clear, sunny day, the landscape leading up to Kate's mother's house was appealing and serene. He caught scents of green grass and other sweet smells, like flowers, from an open sunroof.

Three days of funerals had left Kate, in the seat next to him, a shell of her former self. Glancing aside, he took in her pale features, forlorn gaze and wilting posture. She had endured countless funerals and hundreds of grieving families, all while attempting to retain some kind of composure. Now they were en route to her mother's house, as Kate continued to call it, and the closer they got, the more tension he detected in her body.

Throughout the agonizing hours of the preceding days, he'd done what he could to help her through the pain. Admittedly, he was at a loss for what to do about this. Shelby, whom he'd gotten in contact with on the sly, said she'd sent in a cleaning crew but couldn't make any guarantees about what condition they would find the house in. All Kate's assistant could tell him was a report from the cleaning crew:
It's not good.

He'd tried gently talking Kate out of the decision over breakfast that morning, a breakfast she'd only picked and pushed at. Twice she'd excused herself for the ladies room, returning long minutes later looking paler than when she'd left. Nothing he did, or said, pulled her out of her funk.

Not that he could blame her. The funerals had been brutal even for him, someone totally disconnected to the situation. Lost fathers, crying sons and daughters, mourning mothers. It had been difficult to watch.

When the house came into view past a copse of Sugar Maple and White Ash, it wasn't far off the mark of what he'd expected. Grand, imposing, statuesque. Intimidating. It appeared to fit the woman who'd loved and built it very well. He thought it an ill fit for Kate, who struck him as more of a traditionalist, preferring her grandeur on a more private, subdued scale.

Reaching over, he caught her hand and held it, surprised to find her palm clammy and cold. Glancing at her face, he understood why. Eyes wide, lips parted as if she was about to speak, Chayton detected growing unease and distress.