Lawman (8 page)

“Yeah,” Cash replied. “That didn't make it any easier to pull the trigger.”

“At least it was a clean kill. This is messy. It's messy and deliberate and depraved,” he said harshly. “I don't like sharing the planet with a human being who could do something like that to a little girl.”

“So catch him and make sure he gets Death Row,” Cash replied.

Garon glanced at his brother and managed a smile. “You're an optimist. We don't even have a suspect yet.”

“Ask enough people, and somebody will have seen something,” came the reply. “I guarantee it.”

Garon nodded. He stared at Grace without actually seeing her. “Thanks,” he said curtly.

“What are brothers for?” Cash chuckled.

 

T
HE WAKE
was only two hours, but Grace felt exhausted, physically and emotionally, when it was all over. She climbed into the car with Garon and Miss Turner without a word.

She went into her house to fix the cake and some of the food for Garon to take home with him while Miss Turner waited in the car.

“I really appreciate you and Miss Turner going with me tonight,” she said in a subdued tone. “I didn't realize how lonely it would be.”

“Lonely?” he murmured, watching her put food in sealed plastic containers. “Half the town was there.”

She turned, staring at him. “You can be alone in a city.”

“I suppose so. Save some of that for yourself,” he told her.

“I'll still have plenty. I'll freeze what I don't eat right away.”

“Don't bother with that apple pie,” he stopped her when she began to unwrap it.

“But you like apple cake,” she replied, perplexed.

“I like
your
apple cake,” he corrected.

She flushed and laughed a little nervously. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Compliments embarrass you,” he noted.

She shrugged. “I'm not used to them.”

But she should have been, he thought, watching her. From what he'd heard, she was a good little cook. And she seemed never to get tired of listening to other people talk. So few people could listen.

She put the plastic containers in a big plastic bag and handed them to him. “Thanks again,” she said shyly.

“Thank you.” He hesitated. “What time is the funeral tomorrow?”

“It's at eleven,” she said. “But please don't feel obliged to—”

“I can't make it,” he interrupted. “I have to help interview neighbors around the child's home. I'm sorry.”

“You've done so much already,” she began.

“Miss Turner will go with you,” he continued. He held up a hand. “She volunteered.”

“All right, then. Thank her for me.”

He nodded. “She'll pick you up a few minutes past ten in the morning.”

“All right.”

She looked sad and lonely and lost. Impulsively he reached out and touched a lock of her blond hair that had escaped from its bun. She caught her breath and moved back a step instinctively.

That irritated him. His dark eyes flashed. “Good night, then,” he said curtly, took the bag and turned to leave.

She bit her lower lip almost through. He was being kind, but she couldn't help her own reactions.

He paused at the front door. “Keep this locked,” he told her as he opened it. “Even out here in the country, there are dangerous people.”

“I will.”

She was like a stick figure. Her posture spoke volumes. Her large gray eyes were glittery with fear. He turned and moved toward her, noticing how much more she tensed as he approached her. He scowled down at her. “Why are you afraid of me?” he asked very softly.

She stumbled for words and couldn't find any that would suit the occasion. She grimaced, avoiding his penetrating gaze. He saw too much.

“Never mind,” he said when she didn't reply. “It isn't as if I'm interested in you that way,” he added almost as an afterthought, and with a cold, faint smile. “Good night.”

He walked down the steps as nonchalantly as if he'd forgotten her existence. She knew he'd been mentally comparing her with that flashy niece of Mrs. Tabor's and it made her furious. She wished that she were a whole woman, a beautiful woman, who could drive him mad with her good looks and make him forget that flashy newcomer. But it was a forlorn hope. She dressed as she lived—behind barriers of sexlessness. It was a prison from which there would never be an escape for her. Despite the attractions of her sexy next-door neighbor.

T
HE FUNERAL
was brief, and only a few people attended it. Grace wept for her grandmother at the graveside service and then dried her eyes. She had to learn to take care of herself, to live alone and work alone, with nobody to talk to. It was going to be a hard existence, until she got the hang of it. She was aware, and surprised, that Garon had shown up just in time for the graveside service. He stood apart, frowning curiously at one of the other people attending the ceremony.

After the minister offered his condolences, she got up, turned and almost plowed right into Richard Marquez, standing beside Barbara.

“Thank you both for coming,” she said, smiling. “I wasn't expecting you.”

Barbara hugged her warmly. “You're family. Of course we came.”

Marquez nodded, and smiled. Garon noticed that Marquez made no move to touch Grace or even approach her. Why was he here? How well did the man know his mysterious next-door neighbor? He hadn't mentioned Mrs. Collier's funeral to Garon when the task force met.

Grace looked toward Garon a little uneasily. He joined the small group, with Miss Turner beside him.

“I didn't know you'd be here,” Marquez said, shaking hands. “Did you know Mrs. Collier?”

“He and Miss Turner have been kind enough to watch out for me in the past few days,” Grace said without looking at Garon.

Marquez seemed curious, but he didn't press it. “I have to get back to work,” he told Grace. “Mom wanted to come, and I didn't want her to have to come alone.”

“Worrywart,” Barbara chided the young man. “I'll outlive you.”

“See you around,” Marquez told Garon.

He nodded, including Barbara in the gesture. She smiled secretively at Grace and followed Marquez out of the cemetery.

“I didn't know you were acquainted with Marquez,” Garon remarked as they walked back toward their cars with Miss Turner. Miss Turner had ridden in with Grace, and she went a little ahead of them to wait at the Expedition for her.

“We grew up together,” she replied to Garon. “Sort of,” she amended. “He was six years older than me.”

He didn't say anything else, but he was curious.

 

G
RACE WENT BACK HOME
and started cleaning out her grandmother's bedroom. It gave her something to do, kept her busy. It was a sad task. In the closet, the old lady had kept some gowns that had belonged to Grace's mother. There were photographs, too, of her parents and both sets of her grandparents. She sat in her grandmother's chair, looking through the photo album, and crying a little as it grew later. Death wasn't exactly an option in life—everyone had to face it sooner or later. But she wasn't ready. As unpleasant as her grandmother could be, it was lonely without the old lady.

She didn't have to go to work the next morning, so she slept late. It was just as well; the nightmare had come back again in the early hours before dawn. She'd sat up in bed, sobbing wildly. She recalled Garon's strong hands on her shoulders, lifting her, the night when she'd been afraid. She felt drawn to him, but she had an irrational fear of men when they got too close. It was a shame that she was imprisoned in her own memory. He seemed a very decent sort of man, and he had a kind heart.

She had a light lunch and spent the afternoon hard at work on her project, in the sewing room that her grandmother had once used. She was pleased with her progress and hopeful that it might one day provide a new source of income, if she were lucky.

The afternoon was cold and the wind was blustery. It was slowly growing dark and her old tomcat, Wilbur, hadn't come up for his evening meal.

She walked out into the yard, looking for him. There was a faint cry on the wind. She heard it without realizing what it was until the pitch escalated. It was Wilbur, and he was squalling.

She turned and ran toward the sound, at the back of the house, calling him at the top of her lungs.

He squalled again. She ran faster, pausing just a minute to catch her breath before she forced her body back into speed. As she approached the beginning of the plowed field, she saw a flash of orange with a big, reddish brown form gaining on it.

Instinctively she picked up a fallen limb from the pecan tree and hefted it. “Wilbur!” she yelled.

The old cat veered, quickly for an animal of his years, and moved toward her. As the animal behind it came closer, she realized that it was a coyote. She'd heard neighbors talk about them eating cats and killing dogs. She got a firmer hold on the limb. He wasn't eating Wilbur!

She moved toward the animal, no thought of the danger she could be in, and slammed the limb down at his head. He stopped abruptly and let out a cry. Then he looked at her, crouched and growled.

“You get out of my yard! You're not hurting my cat!” she yelled, swinging the limb again. This time it connected with his hind quarters and he let out a yowl. She was too angry to feel fear. She went toward him again, yelling as she swung the limb. He started backing up, growling, but retreating.

“Git!” she yelled.

He shook himself, gave her a last indignant look and trotted back off into the field.

She leaned on the limb. Her ankle was throbbing. She'd run right over a bush chasing the coyote. She hadn't fallen, but she'd tripped uncomfortably hard. She groaned as she bent to wrap her fingers around it. “Wilbur?” she called.

The old cat came trotting up, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. He rubbed up against her leg, twirling around it affectionately. She could hear him purring in the stillness of late afternoon.

“You horror,” she muttered. “Look what you made me do!”

He purred louder.

She started to turn and fell heavily to the ground. Holding her ankle, with the cat now in her lap and rubbing against her furiously, she couldn't get up. This was a fine way to end the day, she thought miserably. She'd probably be out here all night, unless she could drag herself to the front porch. Well, at least the coyote was gone…

“Grace!”

She frowned. That deep voice sounded oddly familiar. It sounded like Garon. But surely he hadn't heard her?

“I'm here!” she called.

He came around the house, still dressed in his work clothes. “What the hell happened?”

“A coyote was chasing Wilbur. I ran him off with a stick, but I turned my ankle in the process,” she said with a small laugh.

“I heard you yelling from the front porch. I thought you were being attacked,” he muttered, bending.

“Here, I'll carry you…!”

She froze, her eyes wide, her body rigid as he bent. She jerked back, clutching her sweater around her chest.

He swore fiercely, standing abruptly upright. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded.

Tears stung her eyes. She hated the way she was with men. He didn't mean to hurt her. He was trying to help. But she couldn't bear a man's touch on her skin. How could she explain that to him?

“I…don't like…being touched,” she whispered, not looking at him. She was too embarrassed.

It had been a long day, full of frustration, and he wasn't in a good mood. He almost stormed off and left her to it. Then he remembered the nightmare she'd had at his house. He remembered the shapeless clothing she wore, her lack of makeup, her uneasiness with men. He'd been in law enforcement long enough to recognize those signs. It hit him like a brick. He should have seen it sooner.

He knelt down in front of her, his eyes even with hers. “Grace,” he said gently, “I won't hurt you. I promise I won't. But you can't walk, and you can't stay here all night.”

She still had a stranglehold on her sweater, but his voice was calm and steady, and he didn't look angry anymore. He didn't even look threatening. She ground her teeth together.

“It isn't…personal,” she gritted.

“Of course it isn't. Come on.”

He held out his arm and she took it, pulling herself to her feet. She assumed that he would lend her some support on her way to the porch. But he suddenly bent and swung her up in his arms, carrying her toward the porch.

She made an odd, frightened little sound in her throat and stiffened.

He stopped, looking down into her eyes. “You don't like being carried,” he murmured. “It frightens you.”

She swallowed, hard, her eyes full of pain. He didn't know. She couldn't tell him. She drew in a long breath, and then another. He wasn't going to hurt her. He was a kind man.

She forced herself to relax. Her cold hands eased up around his neck as he shifted her weight. “S…sorry,” she stammered.

He wondered what in the world could have happened to her, what had made her so jumpy and uneasy with men. An attack of some sort? A rape? He didn't know her well enough to ask questions. He wished he did.

“Taking on a coyote with a stick,” he murmured as he carried her back to the house. “Now I've heard everything.”

“He was trying to hurt Wilbur,” she explained.

He smiled. “I see.”

“He's just a helpless old cat,” she said.

“No need to explain. I used to have a cat, myself.”

“What happened to it?”

He didn't like the memory. “I had to give it away. I was transferred to another city and the apartment didn't allow cats.”

“That's sad.”

“There was a little girl next door who loved cats. I gave it to her.”

She wanted to know about him, about his past. But she sensed that he was very much like her; he didn't talk about himself.

She was noticing other things. He smelled of a nicely masculine aftershave. He smelled of soap, too. He was a fastidious man. His shirts were always starched and pressed, his boots highly polished. His skin was olive tan, and his eyes were dark and mysterious. He had high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth.

The thought embarrassed her. She hadn't thought of a mouth being sensuous before. And she was having some odd sensations because of the way he was holding her, so that one of her breasts was almost flattened against his broad chest. Her heartbeat accelerated, and her breath came unsteadily past her lips.

He felt those reactions in her with an odd sense of pride. She was afraid of men but she was vulnerable with him.

He carried her into the house and put her down in an easy chair. “Do you have an Ace bandage?”

She gave him a wide-eyed look. “And what would I be doing with an Ace bandage?” she asked reasonably.

“Good question.” He eyed her calmly. “We could manage with some gauze and adhesive tape, I suppose.”

“Nobody normal uses that on cuts,” she pointed out. “We have Band-Aids.”

He pursed his lips. “We could use an old pair of panty hose.”

“I don't wear…”

He held up a hand. “Please. I have problems discussing women's underthings.”

At first she took it seriously, and then she saw the twinkle in his dark eyes and she started laughing.

The action made her face glow, emphasized the softness of her gray eyes and the beauty of her perfect skin and pretty mouth. He found himself staring down at her helplessly. Her hair was up in a high ponytail. He wanted to take it down and see if it felt as silky as it looked.

“Well, you're going to have to come home with me,” he said. “I'm sure Miss Turner can find something to bind your ankle with.”

“I've only just come back home,” she pointed out.

“And Wilbur has to be fed.”

He shrugged. “I'll feed Wilbur.”

“I suppose I could leave him inside,” she began. “I just bought a litter box…”

He left her in midsentence to attend to the old tomcat, who came right in when he opened the front door and led him to the kitchen.

 

H
E HELPED
G
RACE
into his car, leaning over her to fasten her seat belt. He noticed her breathing changed as he came close, and his gaze suddenly dropped to meet hers in the glare of the top light. It was like lightning striking. His dark eyes narrowed and fell to her full mouth, lingering there until he heard a faint gasp come out of her throat.

He had to force himself to stand up. He closed her door and moved around the car, reciting silent multiplication tables to himself as he got in beside her and started the car. It really had been a long, dry spell, if this frumpy woman was arousing him, he told himself.

He carried her into the house, pausing to ring the doorbell and wait for Miss Turner to answer it. He looked down into Grace's face and felt his arms involuntarily drawing her closer. She shivered, once, and her hands stole up around his neck as she met the open curiosity of his gaze.

His chest rose and fell heavily. His jaw tautened. He looked at her mouth and felt an insane fever to take it under his and devour it.