TRACE EVIDENCE (12 page)

Clay's desire to hit him … hit something … anything … consumed him. His head ached with the chaos of the emotions that battled inside him. It was bad enough that Sammy had pawned anything of his mother's, but the fact that he'd pawned things she loved only made it worse.

Someplace in the back of his mind he knew he was angrier than the situation warranted. His subconscious mind knew that his rage wasn't just because Sammy had stolen his mother's jewelry, but was also because his father had been attacked, his mother had been taken away, and he couldn't get a handle on who was responsible.

"Clay." Thomas's voice came from the front door, sounding as weary as it had since the day he'd come home from the hospital. "Go home, son. I'll take care of this."

Clay stood his ground, unwilling to let his father take care of it, unable to release the anger that still swelled inside of him. "He took her jewelry, Dad. The jewelry you'd bought for her. He took it and he pawned it."

"What difference does it make?" Thomas cried. "What damn difference does it make? She's gone. She's been gone for so long. We're never going to get her back … never." With a strangled sob, Thomas stumbled back into the house.

Thomas's utter hopelessness was like a mule kick to the gut for Clay. He reeled backward, watching as Sammy hurried after his father into the house.

We're never going to get her back … never. The words reverberated around and around in Clay's head. With his stomach churning sickly both with anger and despair, he turned on his heel and headed back to his car. He peeled away from the house, spewing gravel from his back tires until he hit the highway.

He headed away from town, unwilling to do as his father had said and go home until some of the emotions inside him had quieted.

His father's loss of hope had been the final blow that had broken him. He'd been so strong through the entire ordeal, but he didn't feel strong now. Anger still tensed his shoulders and burned in his stomach. But the anger was mixed with other emotions too raw to identify.

He punched on his radio and tuned it to a favorite oldie station, hoping the sound of music would somehow soothe the beast inside him. But the light, rhythmic music only served to irritate him more.

He punched it off, opened his window to allow in the night air and fought off a press of emotion so intense he felt as if he might die.

Drawing deep breaths to steady himself, he knew that when the anger passed he'd be left with a painful, hollow emptiness.

He needed peace, but he didn't know how to get it. He needed a respite from his thoughts, from the brutal guilt and fear that assailed him more and more with each day that passed.

What if they never found his mother? Or worse, what if she was eventually found in a field, like Riley Frazier's mother had been … dead for months?

What if he never got an opportunity to see her snapping black eyes again, to see her beautiful smile, to tell her that he loved her? What if he couldn't bring her home to his father … a man who would never he the same without his beloved wife by his side?

The what-ifs could kill a man. They could slowly eat him from the inside out, like an insidious disease that can't be stopped.

Weariness tugged at him as well. The weariness of a man who had pushed himself too hard for too long. Since the night of his mother's disappearance, Clay's sleep had been plagued by nightmares.

In his tortured dreams his mother cried out to him, begging him to help her, begging him to find her. He ran, he hunted, he sought, but couldn't find her no matter how hard he tried.

He awakened each morning more exhausted than when he'd gone to sleep. If he could just have a few hours of dreamless sleep, if he could just have a moment in time where he felt at peace, then perhaps he could work more efficiently, find the clues that would lead to his mother.

He pulled his car to a halt and shut off his engine and headlights, shocked to find himself in front of Tamara's little cottage.

What was he doing here? What crazy impulse had led him to this particular place?

The house was dark. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after
midnight
. Of course the place was dark. She was probably in bed, dreaming the dreams of the innocent.

He should go. He reached for the keys to start the engine once again, but before he could, the porch light blinked on and the front door opened.

Tamara stepped out on the porch. Clad in a yellow robe that matched the yellow scrap of silk Clay had seen flung on her bed, she looked like a vision from a dream.

As if in a dream he got out of his car and approached where she stood. He felt no anticipation or expectation. He just felt numb … completely and utterly void of any kind of emotion.

"I don't know … I don't know what I'm doing here," he began haltingly. "I just … I need…" he broke off, appalled by his own confusion.

"Come inside, Clay," she said softly. She opened the door to allow him entry.

He hesitated only a moment. He had no idea what forces had brought him here to her, had no idea what he needed from her, but as he entered the cozy cottage, he knew this was exactly where he needed to be at the moment.

* * *

Tamara hadn't been asleep when she'd heard his car. In fact, she'd been lying in bed thinking about him … worrying about him.

The tension that had filled the car on the way home from Lucky's Pawnshop had been nearly overwhelming. The anger that had simmered just beneath the surface in him had made her afraid, not for herself, but for him.

She'd recognized that he was a man on the verge of collapse, stressed by weeks of overworking, uncertainty and heartache.

She wondered about his confrontation with his uncle, but wouldn't ask what happened. She could tell by the dazed look in his eyes as he walked inside that he had reached his breaking point.

He stood in the center of the living room, as if unsure what to do next. He not only looked dazed and uncertain, he looked to be beyond exhaustion.

"Come on," she said softly and took him by the arm. "You need to sleep," she said to make sure he didn't misunderstand her actions.

She led him into her bedroom where a small lamp was lit on her nightstand. The window was open to allow in the sweet forest-scented night air and the tabletop fountain bubbled a soothing, rhythmic sound.

"Take off your shirt," she said. The dazed expression lifted from his eyes and he raised a dark brow. "Just your shirt, then lie down on your stomach on the bed," she added.

He asked no questions, but did as she requested. As he stretched out on her bed she reached into her nightstand drawer and removed a bottle of lavender oil.

She had no idea if what she was doing was right or wrong, good or bad. She was moving on instinct and she rarely doubted her instincts.

"Just relax, Clay." She kneeled on the bed next to his prone body, careful not to make any physical contact. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. "I'm just going to give you a little back rub to help relax you. This is going to be a bit cool."

He stiffened as she poured a liberal amount of the scented oil onto his broad back. She leaned over him and began to work the oil into his shoulder muscles with her fingertips.

His muscles were taut as bowstrings as she kneaded and smoothed over his bronze, warm skin. She tried to keep her mind carefully schooled away from the sensation of touching him and focused on the fact that she was trying to give him comfort in the only way she knew how.

But it was difficult not to notice that his attractive masculine scent filled the room, that his skin was soft and supple over the tight muscles. It was difficult not to notice the breathtaking expanse of his upper back that tapered into a slender waist.

It took several moments of her kneading and working his muscles before she felt them begin to relax. His breathing grew deeper … slower.

The only sound in the room was the rhythmic bubbling of the water fountain and Clay's deep, even breaths. She knew the instant he'd fallen asleep. The energy field that always emanated from him vanished and his muscles went lax beneath her hands.

Still she lingered, running her hands softly over his skin as a new kind of tension built inside her. Would she reject him if he turned over and took her in his arms? No, she had to admit to herself that she would not.

She scooted off the bed, careful not to awaken him. She stood by the edge of the bed for a long moment, taking the opportunity to gaze at him as he slept.

He nearly filled her double-size bed and she knew the scent of him would linger in the sheets until she decided to wash them again.

His mouth was slightly agape, making him look oddly vulnerable. She turned off the bedside lamp, deciding he wouldn't want her staring at him in the defenselessness of sleep.

She grabbed a blanket from a small utility closet, then went back into the living room and made a bed on the sofa. As she turned out the light, her thoughts were on the man sleeping in her bed.

She had no idea what had transpired from the time he'd dropped her off and the time that he'd returned. But it had been a near-broken man who had shown up on her doorstep.

Taking off her robe, she settled in on the sofa, the light blanket covering her. She had no idea what the morning would bring, what kind of a mood Clay would wear in the dawn of day.

His mood might have been better if she'd made an instantaneous decision that what he needed was to be held in her arms, made love to with a passion that stoke away all other thoughts from his head.

However, she knew making love to Clay would be a foolish thing to do. She learned by her mistakes, and part of her life experience with Max had taught her that having a relationship with a man who didn't share your beliefs and core values only ended up in heartache.

Making love with Clay would be a mistake on her part, but she had a feeling it would be an enormous complication in his life. The last thing he needed was a personal relationship with anyone. He had more than enough emotional drama in his life with his missing mother and the serial killer.

She fell asleep with the memory of his skin beneath her fingers and the evocative scent of him invading her senses.

She awakened just before dawn, for a moment disoriented as she realized she'd slept on the sofa. Then she remembered. Clay.

Pulling on her robe, she went to the bedroom door, surprised to see Clay still asleep in her bed. She quietly pulled the door closed, then padded into the kitchen.

As she waited for the sun to come up and the coffee to brew, she wondered how long he would sleep. When she'd fallen asleep the night before she'd half expected him to be gone before she awakened. The fact that he was still asleep told her he'd been even more exhausted than she'd thought.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table in the predawn light, unable to find thoughts in her head that didn't have to do with Clay.

She wondered if he'd always been as intense … as driven as he seemed. Certainly Rita had worried about his workaholic tendencies, but his mother had also considered Clay a lost soul, a man who had lost his spirituality and no longer listened to the beat of his Cherokee blood through his veins.

Tamara certainly didn't have the energy to heal a wounded man, nor did she want to fall in love with one. She was in the process of pouring herself a second cup of coffee when she sensed she wasn't alone.

She turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway. Shirtless and barefoot, with his jeans riding low across his slender hips and his hair tousled from sleep, he momentarily stole her breath away.

"What time is it?" he asked. He looked sexy and handsome and cranky as a bear.

"Almost seven." She gestured toward the coffeepot. "Help yourself."

He frowned, irritation still riding his features. "Just a fast cup." He walked over to the cabinet and pulled down a mug as she resumed her seat at the table. "I can't believe I slept so long. What did you do? Work some sort of Cherokee hocus-pocus?"

"You know better than that," she said dryly. "I'd say you slept because you were exhausted."

He poured himself a cup of coffee, but remained standing by the counter instead of joining her at the table. He took a sip of the coffee, then looked at her, his gaze as obscure as she'd ever seen it.

"Thank you for your hospitality last night," he said. But his tone didn't hold any real gratitude, rather he sounded somewhat resentful. "I don't even know why I wound up here last night."

He took another sip of his coffee, then continued. "I guess I just needed to crash someplace peaceful and that's one thing I've noticed about this place … a sense of peace."

His voice still held a tinge of irritation. Apparently Clay James wasn't a morning person. He finished his coffee in a couple of swallows, then placed the mug in the sink. "I've got to get on my way."

He didn't wait for her reply, but instead strode out of the kitchen. Tamara silently watched him go. She had a feeling his foul mood was more than just the possibility that he might not be a morning person.

She had a feeling his mood was because he was angry … embarrassed that she'd seen him weak, seen him vulnerable. She was certain he wasn't a man who showed weakness on a regular basis, if ever.