Falling Hard and Fast (18 page)

Her voice sounded in the darkness again. “I suppose the competition is pretty fierce at the annual parish fair.”

His smile came naturally, and he let his hand slide to cup her bottom. “It has its moments. If you talk real nice to me I'll let you tag along and bask in my reflected glory this
year. The fair is next month, to be held outside of Trumbel Falls.”

She was familiar with the name of the nearby town, but had never been there. “You sound confident that you'll win.”

He lazily drew a finger down her arm, was pleased when she shivered. “You might say I'm justifiably certain. The chief of police won it for eight straight years until I entered. I'm afraid that's one more thing he holds against me.”

There was a suspect note of marvel in her voice. “Imagine someone not liking you.”

“It is hard to believe,” he agreed, investigating the hollows below her shoulder blades, “but there's no accounting for taste.” He leaned forward and nipped her mouth gently. “As it happens, I've acquired a taste for you.” His lips stayed to linger, her flavor still on his tongue. It was startling to feel this outrageous hunger for her when it had so recently been satiated; frightening to experience this slow burn in his belly that only she could extinguish. He reversed their positions again while their mouths mated, slid his hand up to shape her breast.

“You're in my system, Zoey.” His words were like silk, sliding through the velvet of the night. “There's no getting over it. I've passed the time when I'd want to.”

How was it possible for such simple words to strike both gladness and terror in her heart? She could feel her pulse skitter, even as she formed her answer carefully. “I think… Let's just concentrate on now. Can we?”

Because he recognized the layer of panic in her plea he brushed his lips soothingly over her brow, her cheek, her eyes. He dodged the blade of disappointment that stabbed deep and instead focused on discovering all the secret places that held her scent—behind her ear, the pulse below her jaw, between her breasts.

Patience, he'd been told, was one of his virtues. As passion stirred between them again, he was very much aware
that convincing this woman was going to take every ounce of patience he could muster.

 

“Last one out of bed has to make breakfast.”

With her usual morning-disposition gauge set at “surly,” Zoey kept her eyes tightly closed and kicked in the direction of that cheerful voice. For her efforts she received a yank of the covers and a light swat on the rear. She rose in one movement, ready to swing, and saw Cage, wearing nothing but boxers and a smile, holding a cup of steaming coffee.

Only partially mollified, she took the cup he held out, shoved her hair out of her face, and observed, “If you haven't been told this before, it's only because people were trying to spare your feelings. But it's a well-known fact that everyone hates a morning person.”

His smile only widened. “If it weren't for the morning people, who'd make the coffee?”

She tucked the comforter around her breasts, closed her eyes and sipped. Heaven. She was unaware of the sound of contentment she made. It was several moments before she reopened her eyes, feeling slightly more human.

“Did you mention breakfast?”

“Only that it was your turn to cook it.”

“But I made supper last night.”

“I helped.”

Her lips moved suspiciously close to a pout. “But I'm your guest.”

“You are that,” he agreed affably, leaning forward to kiss the taste of coffee from her lips. “And if I may say so, you're a lot better behaved than our guest downstairs.”

It took a moment for his meaning to register, then her eyes went wide. “Oxy! Omigosh, he needs to be let out right away in the morning or else he—”

“He did.”

She winced. “Tell me it wasn't on the rug.”

“I can't tell a lie on the Sabbath.”

“You're right.” Guilt sank sharp fangs into her chest.
She pushed the coffee cup back into his hand. “I owe you breakfast.” Arranging the comforter around her, she started to rise, only to find it impossible to move. She turned to see him with both feet firmly planted on one edge of the material, a cocky grin on his face.

“Where'd you say you were going?”

She looked pointedly at his feet, and then at him. “I was going to shower and then cook your meal—an offer I'm rapidly reconsidering.”

“I can help.”

“Good. Go get the pans ready.”

“I meant with the shower.” He picked up a fistful of quilt and slowly, inexorably, pulled more of the fabric toward him. Just as determinedly, she held on to her end.

“I believe I have enough proficiency in that area to handle things on my own.”

He gave a mighty yank and pulled her closer. “But you don't know how to work the hot water.”

Backing away from him wasn't the wisest course of action. She stumbled over the excess length of the comforter. “Something tells me I'm in hot water right now.”

With one jerk he had her lying across his lap, and was laughing down at her. “Very hot water, indeed.”

His lips were still curved when they met hers and her heart simply turned over. She'd never shared this with a man before, never engaged in this fun-loving sparring for fun's sake. If she wasn't careful, Cage would be much too easy to fall for. But she was, she reminded herself as she returned the increasing urgency of his kiss, a very cautious person.

He had her in his arms and was following her down onto his bed when the doorbell sounded. Sighing, he rested his brow against hers. The doorbell pealed again.

“Maybe if we ignore it they'll go away.”

“Yeah, that's what they said about gangsta rap.” He let out a breath and loosened her hands from around his neck, pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. He crossed to a dresser
against the wall that looked to be more than a century old, took out a pair of jeans and drew them on.

“I'm coming,” he mumbled as he headed down the stairs and the bell rang again. “But not the way I'd like to be.” He pulled open the door to see one of his deputies standing there.

“DuPrey,” he said flatly. “This had better be good.”

The man's cheeks were flushed with excitement. “I sure am sorry about the interruption, Sheriff. I tried to call but there's a lot of phone lines out because of the storm last night. I've already checked with the phone company. They'll have trucks out shortly.”

Cage propped one hand against the doorjamb and eyed the man with dwindling patience. “And you need to talk to me because…”

“Oh. Yeah.” His Adam's apple bobbed nervously. “Chief Deputy Fisher said I should let you know. Doc Barnes had Stacy Rutherford transported by ambulance to St. John's in Baton Rouge last night. She's in pretty bad shape. Says Donny Ray tried to kill her.”

 

The doctor came out of the patient's room and looked at the man leaning against the opposite wall. “You can talk to her, Sheriff, but she shouldn't get too agitated. And she's going to be difficult to understand.” Cage nodded, stood, and forced himself to enter the room.

“Hey, Stacy.”

She turned her head toward him and he swallowed hard. One of her eyes was swollen closed and her nose had obviously been broken. Her bottom lip was puffy and twice its normal size. “Sheriff.”

He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed, reaching out to gently clasp the hand that wasn't in a cast. “I know this is hard for you. I want you to take all the time you need. I'm not going to let him hurt you again, Stacy, but you're going to have to help me. You know it's past time.”

“You want…a…statement.” The words had to be pronounced carefully, but they were intelligible.

He consulted the form in the folder he was holding. “Doc Barnes said he found you collapsed in front of the clinic last night.”

“I…ran.” Her good eye closed for a moment. “I never seen Donny like that before…so full of mean and hate. I knew he was gonna kill me. He swore he would.”

Cage's nerves tightened, but he kept his touch gentle. “Was he drinking again?”

She gave a slight nod of her head. “Some. He came in from the barn…had this queer look in his eye.” She stopped and looked toward the table. Cage got up and poured her a glass of ice water, guided the straw to her bruised lips. When she finished she lay back again against the pillow, as if the single act had exhausted her. When she began speaking again her voice was eerily lifeless. “Donny Ray…asked if there wasn't something I should tell him. I said I didn't know what he meant. Then I saw the bag in his hand.”

Cage felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “What was in the bag?”

“The extra money you give me. And them little cards. I was thinking…I didn't want to have to go to one of them places where I don't know no one. I was gonna save up some, and if things got too bad I could run off. Somewhere Donny couldn't find me.”

Tears squeezed from under the swollen eyelid and trailed down her face. Cage didn't think he'd ever seen a sight so heart-wrenching. “How did Donny Ray break your ribs?”

“Caught me by the woodpile. Staved them in with a big piece of kindling. I tried to fight back.” She gestured to her cast. “He caught me in the arm.”

“Stacy.” Cage took her hand in both of his and waited for her to look at him. “Will you testify against him?” He could see the indecision on her face and bit back a curse. “He won't get near you again.”

“Wouldn't have to be him,” she whispered hoarsely.
“You know how them brothers of his are. Any one of them would do me in if I made trouble for Donny Ray.”

“I'll guarantee your safety,” Cage promised grimly. “A guard will be posted outside your door for as long as you're here. When you're ready to be released we'll find a safe place for you until the trial.”

“And then I could get far away?”

He nodded. He'd make sure the woman got clear across the country, even if he paid her way himself. “As far as you want.”

A deep breath shuddered out of her. “Probably won't be a trial, anyhow.” Her hand trembled convulsively in his. “If Donny Ray knows you're looking for him he'll hightail it to the woods. Won't no one ever find him there.”

 

The full moon hung heavy in the sky. Zoey held Oxy on her lap, rocking slowly back and forth in the glider. When the car pulled silently into her driveway her heart gave a little leap. As Cage walked toward her, she could tell by the way he carried himself just how long the day had been.

She put the puppy down and reached for the pitcher of lemonade she'd brought out with her, poured some in a glass and handed it to him as he dropped down beside her. He drank it in one long swallow. She poured him another and he curled his arm around her shoulders, urging her to his side. It didn't take much to keep her there. She'd worried about him all day. There had been grim purpose in his eyes when he'd left the house that day. That and a sort of horrible knowing. She no longer questioned this need she had to offer him comfort, and she refused to question the quiet satisfaction she felt at knowing he'd come to her for just that.

“Suppose you heard most of what went on last night.” He sipped from the glass and let the tensions of the day seep out of him, a fraction at a time.

“I stopped by the Stew 'N Brew for lunch. Becky Jane filled me in, and she had it ‘on good account from Tommy
Lee.'” The last words were uttered in the inflection the waitress had used.

Cage grunted, sipped from the glass. “Tommy Lee, huh? If that boy ever wants to make deputy he's gonna need to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“He didn't tell anything people weren't already buzzing about. I ran into Fern Sykes later and she had even more details. That's the one thing this town never lacks.”

He laid his head back against the swing and closed his eyes. “I've never seen a woman more beat-up than Stacy was—face all bruised, broken arm and ribs. But she was still scared. I had to work at convincing her to swear out a statement. Even now, I'm not sure she won't back out again later.”

He'd answered domestic-dispute calls in New Orleans, of course. Had dealt with the fear and the circle of violence before. When an abused woman returned to the batterer's household, he'd never failed to feel useless. Helpless.

Her hand skated down his arm, a warm source of comfort. “Sometimes we just have to figure that all we can do is our best.”

His eyes came open again, and he stared up at the porch ceiling. “And if our best isn't good enough?” For an instant he was no longer talking about Stacy Rutherford and other victims like her. It was Amy Lou Travers's image that flitted into his mind and lingered.

Silence stretched between them. The night insects creaked and chirped in melancholy harmony. Her voice, when it came, was soft. “The day I won permanent custody of my brother and sister was the most terrifying day of my life. All of a sudden I was flooded with self-doubt. What if I was being just as arrogant as my aunt and uncle had accused? Was I only thinking of myself by keeping Caroline and Patrick with me? The truth of it was, my relatives had the maturity and the means to provide for them more comfortably.”

He set his glass on the porch railing and picked up her
hand, measured his palm against hers. Mildly he asked, “So it was selfishness and an overdeveloped maternal instinct that had you fighting for them?”

Her head snapped toward him. He couldn't see the flare in those beautiful green eyes, but he knew it was there. “My aunt and uncle would have stifled every wonderfully creative thought Caroline ever had. Patrick's high spirits would have been crushed for fear they'd lead him to delinquency.”

He laced their fingers together. “So you made the best choice. Your brother and sister turned out okay, didn't they?”