by Lori Wilde
Before July could react, he lightly pelted her with a snowball.
“Hey!” She laughed. “You’re asking for it.”
“Give it your best shot.” He stuck his tongue out, challenging her.
“You’re gonna regret that you started this.”
Giggling, July grabbed a handful of snow, advanced upon him, and dumped snow down his collar.
“You’re in trouble now, woman.” He bent down and packed snow in both hands.
“Tucker.” She held up her palms. Her chest heaved with laughter. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
He had his arm cocked back, the snowball held high.
July squealed and took off across a nearby lawn, Tucker in hot pursuit. His cowboy boots smacked against the snowy ground.
The snowball caught her square in the back and exploded with a gentle plop. July dropped to her knees and pulled more snow into her hands.
Tucker grunted, and before he could rearm himself, she lobbed him in the chest with a snowball of her own.
“Take that!” she exclaimed, her face flushing.
He loved to see her glowing with fun. Anything to keep this up. He launched more snow in her direction. Soon, a flurry of snowballs filled the air.
“Stop.” She gasped, laughing and holding her side. “Truce.”
Tucker staggered toward her, tossing a snowball in his hand. “Say ‘Uncle.’”
July shook her head and backed up.
He flexed his wrist. “You’re unarmed, and I hold the trump snowball. Say ‘Uncle.’”
Her cheeks were beet red, but the smile that adorned her face warmed Tucker’s heart unlike anything else.
“Uncle,” she whispered.
Tucker dropped the snowball.
July launched herself into his arms, her face tilted upward. Her eyes shimmered. Her lips curled into a welcoming smile. The exact results he’d been courting.
Reflexively, Tucker pulled her close against him. “You’re cold.”
“I don’t care. It was a great snowball fight.” She looked so kissable. His mutinous body urged him to claim her mouth.
Tucker stifled a groan. What mortal man could hold out against such a woman?
She breathed in a sigh.
He inhaled her. She smelled so good!
Tucker tightened his grip and lowered his head.
She placed both palms on his chest. “Stop right there.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry, Tucker,” she said. “As turned on as I am, as much as I like you, I simply can’t get involved with a man like you.”
A man like him.
Her words stung. Harsher than a lashing whip. He should have known better than to hope. Hard childhood lessons came back to haunt him. Hadn’t he learned a long time ago that he could never expect a normal life with a good woman?
“You’re right,” he said curtly, putting her aside. “I was out of line, and I’m sorry. How could you get involved with a homeless man?”
“Tucker...I...I…didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Don’t worry, July. I understand completely.”
“It’s not because you’re homeless.”
“No?”
“It’s just that...”
“No need to explain,” he cut her off. “I get it.”
She reached up to caress his cheek, but he brushed her hand away.
“Let’s go.” He struggled to ignore the sharp ache spreading through his body. “They’re expecting you at the shelter.”
“Tucker,” she whispered, but he ignored the pain in her voice.
They trudged along in silence, the joy of the past moments dissipated into the old wariness. It was an emotion he should be comfortable with. After all, he’d spent his entire life distrustful and cautious.
And she wounded him with her words.
Dang. He’d already let his emotions get way out of hand.
Actually, she’d done him a favor. He was a police detective, for the love of Pete. A trained professional who knew better than to let his feelings get in the way of doing his job.
If he made a wrong step, someone could get seriously hurt, and he feared that someone just might be July.
But he’d enjoyed the few playful minutes with her. The snowball fight had him battling images of them as a couple—laughing, talking, sharing. Such thoughts were dangerous.
He could not know such happiness in the long term. As July had said, she couldn’t get involved with a man like him.
“This way,” July said, leading him down Juniper Road.
As they walked along, the houses went from modest family residences to downtrodden shacks.
They crossed the street at the signal light even though there was no vehicular traffic. July headed for a large white building in dire need of paint. Smoke billowed from the smokestack, and the scent of stew wafted in the air.
People in worn, threadbare clothing lined up outside, waiting to get in. They looked cold and forlorn. Some blew on their red, weather-roughened hands to keep warm while others shifted their weight, hopping from foot to foot. One toothless man smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. A woman wearing a scarf over her head, with two little girls at her side, cast Tucker a weary glance.
Normally, he would look at this collection of humanity and dismiss them as hopeless. His prejudice carved by his own family who’d gotten themselves in bad predicaments and then expected others to bail them out.
But today he found himself observing these people through July’s forgiving eyes, and he was startled at what he saw.
They were simply folks. Like anyone else. Some had fallen on bad times. Maybe they’d lost a job or gotten sick. Perhaps they were victims of drugs or alcohol or gambling addictions.
But they were just people with faults and foibles. People who lived and loved. People who made mistakes and stumbled through life the best they could.
Remorseful for his past attitude, Tucker realized he was no different than those he’d judged harshly. Sure, he didn’t drink or steal, prostitute or gamble. But he lied. He deceived.
He took advantage of a kindhearted, sweet-tempered soul like July in the name of duty. He’d convinced himself he was above this, that he was better than them because he’d overcome his terrible childhood and survived.
It was not true.
“Tucker?” July stood with the back door open, staring at him. “Are you coming in?”
“Huh?” Tucker blinked and returned his thoughts to the cute little pixie in front of him.
“You were a million miles away.”
“Sorry, my mind wandered.”
“Yes.” She turned away.
Scraping his feet on the tired rubber doormat, he followed her inside.
11
They entered the large kitchen furnished with stainless-steel sinks and an aging commercial gas stove. Workers bustled, preparing large vats of stew. The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air.
Tucker licked his lips and realized he was hungry after their snowball fight. He thought again of the huddled people lined up outside and fought off his guilt.
“Hello, July,” several people greeted her in unison.
“Hey, guys,” she chirped.
She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on a peg beside the other coats dangling there. Tucker followed her example. He noticed how her friends smiled and welcomed her. Feeling like an outsider, he squelched the urge to turn tail and run.
“Got a pretty big crowd, huh, Diane?” July spoke to a gray-haired woman peeling carrots at the sink.
“You know how the cold weather brings them in.”
July nodded. “Sure do. Hey, everybody, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” Once she had everyone’s attention, July placed a hand on his shoulder. Her face dissolved in a beatific smile as she introduced him. “This is Tucker. He’s come to help.”
“Nice to have you, Tucker,” Diane greeted him.
“Hi, Tucker,” the othe
r kitchen workers chorused.
“Hey, man.” A skinny guy in a turtleneck sweater tossed him an apron. “Always glad to have an extra pair of hands.”
“Got an apron for me, too, Chet?” July asked.
“Sure do,” Chet replied.
Before he knew what was happening, Tucker had been recruited. Awkwardly, he wrapped the starched white apron around his waist.
“Let me tie that for you.” July’s nimble fingers grazed the small of his back as she tied the apron securely into place.
His nerve endings sent an urgent message swift as a brushfire straight to his groin. Pursing his lips, he slowly blew out his breath.
“There.” July stepped back and accepted the apron Chet handed her. She smiled at Tucker again as if begging his forgiveness for her earlier rejection.
He wished she’d stop glancing at him like that because he wasn’t sure his heart could stand much more of this relentless pounding.
Rolling up his sleeves, Tucker followed July over to the sinks. They washed their hands then worked side by side, peeling and dicing potatoes.
A small MP3 player that was perched on the kitchen window ledge emitted rock songs. July’s tight little bottom twitched provocatively in time to the Arctic Monkeys.
Tucker closed his eyes against the fine picture. Damn, what the woman could do to him without even trying.
“You okay?” July stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.
Swallowing, Tucker nodded. “I’m fine.”
She gave his arm a squeeze, and Tucker almost jumped out of his skin. “Thanks for coming with me.”
How could he have refused her? Even if he’d wanted to, Tucker had the most overwhelming urge to meld himself to her side no matter where she went or what she did. In the back of his mind, he found himself thinking about the possibility of what might happen between them after the Stravanos case was closed and he could reveal his true identity.
What would she think of him then?
Tucker slanted a sidelong glance at July. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes shining as she chuckled at someone’s joke. The potato in his hand was starchy and cool. His ears rang with her lilting laughter.
Nah. He was deluding himself. July Johnson was far too good for him. He would only sully her. She deserved so much better than anything he could offer. She’d said so herself—she could never get involved with a man like him.
She doesn’t even know you. Don’t give up hope.
But even when she discovered he was not a homeless man, they would still be worlds apart.
How might his life have been different if he hadn’t been raised among drunks and addicts, prostitutes and thieves? Would he have a more loving heart? A better attitude? A different career? Would he have a positive outlook, a sunny disposition? Would he then have something to give in a romantic relationship?
Anger welled in his gut. Anger at his abusive father, at the mother who’d abandoned him. Tucker gritted his teeth. He should have made peace with his past by now. He should have learned to forgive and forget, but the memory of ugly beatings, of bailing his father out of jail, of being one of those sorry Haynes in Kovena, Oklahoma resonated in his head as strong and vibrant as if the offenses had occurred yesterday.
Would he ever be free of the stigma that had followed him from birth and prevented him from forming emotional attachments?
He wondered if the words Mr. Talmadge had uttered so long ago were right. Was he from the stagnant end of the gene pool? Did the apple indeed fall close to the tree? Would alcohol be his bane? Or would he find some other way to self-destruct?
Would he ever be free of the fear that he, too, would end up just like his father—desperate, alone, lost forever in the endless spiral that gripped men who could not face their weaknesses and change their fates?
“Tucker?” July touched his arm, and peered into his eyes.
His lips pressed together in a hard line, dark shadows rimmed his eyes, and his skin had paled. He was attacking the potatoes with a vengeance, welding the peeler at warp speed, flinging peels all over the sink.
“You okay?” she whispered. She felt bad about what she’d said to him after the snowball fight. She hadn’t intended on hurting him. She’d been upset and conflicted, and she had said the first thing that popped into her head. Anything to circumvent that kiss.
“Fine.” His tone was short, clipped. He moved his shoulder, constructing a physical barrier between them.
Oh, dear! She had wounded his pride.
“Tucker, I’m so sorry about what I said earlier,” she whispered. “I was scared, and it just came out. I—”
“It’s forgotten.”
“I’m afraid you took what I said the wrong way.”
He stared at her. “You made yourself perfectly clear.”
“But that’s just it. I didn’t make myself clear at all.” July studied the deep furrow in his brow and fretted.
“Sure, you did. You could never get romantically involved with a man in my situation. I understand.”
“That’s not true,” she protested.
How could she tell him it wasn’t the fact that he was down on his luck that bothered her but rather her own fears? Her heart chugged.
What an enigma! On the one hand, he appeared cool, aloof, almost dangerous, and yet, on the other, he seemed fragile, vulnerable, hungry for love and attention. She could tell he held back, defending his true self.
Like some men, Tucker didn’t know how to express his emotions. July thought of her father and how he had refused to face her mother’s opioid problem. He had a need to appear competent and capable, and as such he couldn’t admit their lives had spun out of control. She suspected Tucker was similar. The strong, silent type with a tissue-paper heart.
“We’re ready to serve,” Diane said. “July? Tucker? Want to help?”
“Right behind you,” July replied, scooping up a large stack of bowls. “Tucker, could you carry the soup pot?”
Mutely, he nodded and took the thick pot holder she offered. Their fingers touched, oh so briefly, but it was enough to sear her nerve endings.
Stop this, July. Now. Immediately.
But no matter how hard she tried, she could not control her body’s response. Not knowing what else to do, she held the kitchen door open so that he could go into the dining hall ahead of her.
Tucker set the soup pot down where she directed. The homeless people surged forward in a line, anticipating a hot meal. Diane joined them at the long table with a dozen loaves of homemade wheat bread nestled on a tray.
“Here,” July said, putting a ladle in Tucker’s hand. “You dish it up; I’ll serve.”
He put a ladle full of soup into a bowl and passed it on to her. She added a slice of bread and a spoon and handed the meal to the elderly lady at the head of the line.
“How’s the arthritis today, Janine?” July asked the woman.
“Doin’ poorly.” Janine shook her head. She raised her wrist to reveal several copper bracelets. “But gettin’ a warm lunch oughta help.”
“Remember to wear your mittens.” July smiled as the woman wandered off to a table.
“Janine’s one of the regulars,” July leaned over to whisper to Tucker. “She’s got no family and lots of health problems, but she refuses to stay in a nursing home. We try our best to fend for her.”
“You can’t take care of everyone,” he murmured, his lips only inches from her ear. His warm breath tickled, and July found herself imagining his moist tongue nibbling her earlobe.
“No,” she said, “but I do what I can.”
Tucker dished up another bowl of stew and watched the line shuffle forward. July joked and teased with the people, and asked about their health and their problems. She was so at ease, Tucker found himself jealous of her talents. She related to each and every person as a worthwhile individual.
“Here’s a sad case,” July whispered to him again when she spotted the weary mother and the two little girls Tucker had spot
ted earlier. “Trixie Muldoon and her daughters, Patsy and Belinda.”
“Oh?”
“They moved here from Minnesota after Mr. Muldoon lost his factory job. They were living in their car until last month when Mr. Muldoon drove off and left them at a roadside park. No one has seen him since.”
Tucker shook his head. What could he say? In the course of his career as a law enforcement officer, he’d seen dozens of Mr. Muldoons.
“I’m working on trying to get Trixie a permanent place to stay. The shelter is only temporary.” Worry creased her brow, telling him just how personally she took every case.
The pitiful little Muldoon family accepted their food and seated themselves. Tucker studied those wide-eyed girls and felt a melancholy stirring in his heart. They reminded him of himself—abandoned, frightened, betrayed. Without realizing it, he clenched his hands into fists and gritted his teeth.
What had happened to his impersonal facade? The one he’d constructed years ago. The mask that never failed him. Until July Johnson.
Trixie Muldoon looked exhausted. Her features were thin and pinched, her color an unhealthy gray. The older girl was somber and quiet, but the younger one had a lively air about her.
Tucker continued to ladle up the stew, but his eyes kept straying back to the Muldoons. The third time he looked up, he noticed the younger child had disappeared.
Alarm raced through him as his eyes searched the room.
No matter how naive July might be, Tucker recognized that many of the people here had mental disorders and/or criminal histories. He hated to think someone had snatched that pretty child.
Then he saw her climbing a folded ladder leaning against the wall. He sucked in his breath as her foot reached the top rung, and the ladder teetered.
Without another thought, he pushed past July and Diane. Running at full speed, he reached out and caught the child just as the ladder fell.
The noise rumbled throughout the dining hall. A collective gasp rose.
The little girl stared up at Tucker, a surprised expression on her face. Then, as if realizing that she’d narrowly missed being hurt, the child wrapped her arms around Tucker’s neck and gave him a peck on the cheek.
