When Bruce Met Cyn (4 page)

Mentioning his family would hopefully help him keep his head. “Not really. He's darker. My brother and I got our fair hair from our mother, but our brown eyes from Dad.”

“Dad's gotta love the bounty hunter, huh?”

Bruce enjoyed her teasing. “We're very proud of Bryan. He helps people, same as we try to do. It's just that his methods are…a little different.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” She winked at him. “So, where are we going to eat?”

“The construction crew's managed to leave most of my living quarters around back untouched. It's small, but then I'm only one person. I don't need much space.”

“Lead the way.” But when Cyn went to take a step, she stumbled, and Bruce saw a grimace on her face.

She was hurt more than she wanted to admit, stubborn woman. “Lean on me, and I'll help you inside.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

Even though she held herself stiffly—due more to pride than discomfort at his closeness, he was sure—he was very aware of her softness, of how slight she felt against his side, the heat of her small body. The top of her head aligned with his mouth, and he fought the instinct to plant a small kiss on her forehead.

She was dead tired, had probably been on the road for hours, but she still smelled fresh and spicy and so much like a woman that Bruce almost stumbled, too.

As they passed the side of the church, she noticed the crumbled wall where plastic had been tacked up to protect against the weather. “You sleep in there with your house open?”

“Visitation isn't exactly a hotbed of crime, and it's not for long. They're saying within a month, but it'll probably take longer. I'm learning that in construction, a month often means three months. A very nice glass block niche will go there. Shay, my sister-in-law, donated the money for it. We'll use it as a sunny play area for the little ones who come to church with their parents.”

“She donated that, huh?”

“Did I mention that Shay was filthy rich?” He grinned. “She could probably buy the whole town, but instead, she's been running amuck making improvements everywhere. Thanks to her, we've been able to hold services in the basement of the only local bank. She's paying the rental fee until the church is complete.”

Bruce unlocked the door that led into his kitchen. Warmth greeted them, along with the scents of sawdust and drywall. He flipped on the inside light. “Here we are. Why don't you sit down and rest your ankle.”

He glanced at her, winced at the dirt still on her face and clothes, and pulled out a kitchen chair for her. “You're a mess, young lady. Sit still and let me get you a few damp cloths.”

“Thanks.” Once Cyn was seated, she kicked off her sandals again and bent to look at her ankle, while saying, “You're a man who housed hookers, with a preacher for a father, a bounty hunter for a brother, and a wealthy sister-in-law. Your life must never be boring.”

What an understatement. Much of the past year had been chaotic, sometimes frightening, and full of change. “You should meet some of my friends here in Visitation.” He returned to her with two damp dishcloths. “Hold still.”

She held up her hands. “See these? They make it easy for me to do my own bathing.”

Bruce winced. “There's no mirror down here, and I doubt you're up to climbing the stairs. As to these hands…” He laid the cloths down and caught both her wrists, examining her palms. In places, they were scraped raw, probably from her fall in the woods. She had dirt under her nails, scratches and scrapes.

Bruce pulled her upright and practically carried her to the kitchen sink a few feet away. Her bulky purse was between them. “You can leave your purse on the table.”

“It goes where I go.”

“What about when you sleep?”

She patted it. “Makes a nice pillow.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. She must have something mighty important inside that she thought to protect with her person. “Suit yourself, but it pains me to be thought a thief.”

“Yeah, well, it'd pain me more to lose it.”

Did she have her entire life in that bag? It was possible, so Bruce let it drop. Trust would come in time.

Feeling bedeviled by his own wayward musings, he stood beside her, supervising while she washed away the dirt and small streaks of dried blood on her tender palms.

When she saw his frown, she said, “Relax, Lancelot. It's no biggie.”

How many hurts in her life had she dismissed as
no biggie?
Her stomach rumbled, breaking his troubled thoughts enough that Bruce laughed. “I can take a hint.”

While she finished washing, he opened the refrigerator and took out a covered container. “Leftover chicken, broiled potatoes, and string beans sound good?”

“Like heaven.” She returned to the table, pulled a chair around, and propped up her legs, making herself at home. “So tell me about your friends.”

Bruce began preparing a plate to go in the microwave. “There's Joe Winston. Now, you want to talk about a man with a colorful past, Joe fits the bill. He's been a police officer, a PI, a bounty hunter, and a bodyguard. Now he's married to Luna, and together they run a recreational lake here in Visitation. It's further out, very private and very beautiful.” He turned and watched her running her fingers through her hair, attempting to untangle it.

Wishing he could do that for her, he cleared his throat. “You remember the deputy I told you about? Scott Royal.”

“Cops tend to stick in my mind.”

“Scott's a deputy, but you seldom see the sheriff, so if you need the law, odds are it'll be Scott. He's a nice guy, but he goes bonkers whenever Joe's sister, Alyx, is in town.”

“How come?”

“They rub each other the wrong way. Or maybe the right way—with those two it's hard to tell.” He laughed, remembering their last encounter. “The Winstons are pretty outrageous, and they have a lot of presence. When one is around, you know it. But watching Alyx and Scott spark off each other is entertaining.”

“Alyx doesn't live here?”

“Not yet, but I expect her to move to Visitation any day now. So far she's restricted herself to monthly visits, which is probably all that's saved Scott's sanity.” Bruce put the plate in the microwave and turned it on. “I can't tell you about Visitation without mentioning Jamie Creed.”

Cyn cocked her head to the side. Curiosity shone from her light eyes. “Jamie Creed?”

He opened the refrigerator and surveyed drinks. “Jamie has never come right out and said it, but he's a psychic of some sort. Or maybe more specifically an empath.”

“He picks up on others' emotions?”

Bruce frowned at himself. “Yes, but actually, it goes beyond even that. Jamie somehow knows things, even before they happen. And he knows how they'll happen, how to manipulate events so they work out the way he wants them to.”

“Sounds spooky.”

“Not really. The women in town see him as a dark, romantic mystery. The men, from my observations, are both jealous and leery of him.”

“Why would they be leery?”

Bruce poured her iced tea, which was about all he had to offer other than water, then joined her at the small oak table. “Jamie has this habit of only showing himself long enough to shake things up. He lives up on the mountain—where, exactly, I'm not sure. One minute he'll be here, then he'll be gone, and he only comes back when it suits him to do so.”

Cyn's expression became pinched. “He lives in the middle of tall trees with no one else around?”

Because he watched her so closely, with so much fascination, Bruce noticed how the mention of Jamie affected her. “As I said, I don't really know. I suppose so, though. The mountains here are so thick with trees, they're almost impenetrable.”

Cyn slowly licked her lips. “He's tall. Dark hair, a beard. Trim but muscular.”

Bruce leaned toward her. “You've met Jamie?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But he has the darkest brown eyes, not sexy like yours, but almost black and empty and sort of eerie…”

The microwave dinged, and Cyn nearly jumped out of her chair.

Bruce reached for her hand. “You haven't met him, but you've seen him?”

She avoided his gaze. “This'll clinch it. You'll definitely think I'm nuts.”

“I know Jamie, who fades in and out, and I don't think he's nuts. Trust me, nothing you can say will shock me after meeting him.”

“All right, you asked for it.” She gave him a crooked smile. “It's this strange dream that I keep having. Remember I said Visitation pulled at me? Well, I didn't know it was Visitation, I just knew what it looked like and how it felt. I'd see this big, clean lake and so many trees that sometimes you couldn't see the sky and I saw…Jamie Creed. I didn't know his name, I just saw him. But unlike the other things, like the lake and the trees, he was always vague. There, but not real defined.”

Beyond fascinated, Bruce rose from his seat to get her plate, giving himself a moment to think. Was it possible that she knew Jamie from somewhere? Maybe Jamie's mysterious past was somehow tied in with hers. “What did he say to you in this dream?”

“Nothing. He was just there. Quiet and not really frowning, but not smiling, either.”

“No, Jamie doesn't smile much.” Too many times to count, Bruce had pondered Jamie and his too serious, too sober outlook on life. Jamie seemed to feel responsible for everyone, even though it was plain he wanted to keep himself separate from others.

But now Cyn had some sort of connection to him.

“Will I get to meet Jamie, do you think?”

He set her plate in front of her and watched her inhale the scent of roast chicken with great anticipation. “That's up to Jamie. If he wants to meet you, he'll show up.”

She accepted that with a nod. Before Bruce realized what she was doing, she'd dug a small pill bottle out of her purse and had two round tablets ready to toss in her mouth.

He caught her wrist. “What are you taking?”

She stared at his restraining hand, and slowly, her gaze moved up to his face. They had a visual standoff, but Bruce didn't relent, so finally she said, “It's aspirin. For my ankle.”

“Let me see.”

She stiffened and her chin tucked in. “You're calling me a liar?”

Her wrist felt slender, almost fragile, with his fingers wrapped around it. “I don't like drugs.”

She jerked away from him. “And I don't like pain.”

“What pain?”

Her foot got thrust in his face. “You saw me limping. You even kept harping about it. Remember?”

Bruce wrapped his fingers around the arch of her small foot. He lowered it to his lap so he could inspect her ankle. It was swollen and bruised and she sucked in her breath when he touched it. “I don't think you broke anything or you wouldn't have been able to walk at all, but it's probably sprained.”

“So do I have Your Majesty's permission to pop some aspirin?”

Leaving her foot balanced on his thigh, Bruce again caught her wrist and pried her fingers open. Two small, chalky-white pills were on her palm. He recognized them as brand-name aspirin.

She started to jerk her foot away, but Bruce held her still. “I'm sorry.”

She didn't soften one bit. “I'm not a drug head.”

He'd already apologized, and by her comment, he knew she understood his concern. “I'm glad.”

His simple but sincere sentiment took the heat from her eyes. She licked her lips. “I know a lot of the other girls took drugs, but I never did.”

“Other girls?” She made sarcastic comments, but hadn't outright admitted to being a prostitute yet.

She met his gaze without flinching. “From the time I was seventeen, until now, I was a hooker. But you already knew that.”

“I thought it was possible.” It took all his resolve to keep his expression impassive, when inside his emotions churned. Seventeen. It hurt him to even consider it. “Why?”

“The usual reason—I needed money.”

“Why prostitution? Why not some other job?”

“Whoring is easier?”

He chastised her with a frown. “No, it's not.”

She laughed. “You're right, it isn't.” She turned her head, giving him a long look, then shrugged.

“I tried to get other jobs, but I was young, dumb as dirt when it came to skills, and even the most basic job wanted some sort of ID.”

It was a typical story for runaways, one he'd heard many times. “You couldn't give any ID?”

“Nope.”

“Because you didn't want to be taken back?”

“That's about it.”

He closed his eyes, pained for her. “And so you sold yourself.”

“I didn't have much else to sell. And it wasn't like I wanted to do it.” She half laughed, showing no signs of real humor. “But I got hungry, ya know?”

“Yes. I know.”

“I'd watched some girls turning tricks. I saw what they were doing and how they dressed and the stuff they said. Guys are notoriously easy. You stand there, smile, show a little leg or cleavage…”

“I understand.” But he couldn't bear to visualize it.

“Anyway, I watched them, what the drugs and the flesh peddling did to them, and I knew I never wanted to be like that. So I was more careful and I stayed away from the pushers.”

Her idea of caution would make most people faint in fright. Still, he understood her—and he admired her. “Good for you.”

“It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that drugs mess up your head. And like you said, being a small woman puts you at a disadvantage from jump. I didn't need to be loopy on top of it. Besides, I wanted to save all my money, not waste it on getting high.” After saying that, she popped the aspirin in her mouth and washed them down with tea, the topic dead by her decree.