"I don't remember," he said dryly. "You'll have to ask my mother."
Frannie leaned her head back. "A clan of Bridgers," she said dreamily. "I can see it now. Target practice in the backyard for the men. Glum-faced women in the kitchen. Lots of coffee and Jack Daniel's and—" She smiled, remembering his mild protest that he didn't dance, ever, even though he'd danced with her beautifully. "No dancing."
She peeked out of the corner of her eye to see that he smiled. Better, much better. "So," she said softly, "how right am I?"
"You couldn't be more wrong. First of all, it isn't a clan of Bridgers. I'm the only one. My father died when I was twelve, and while I was in college my mother remarried. Tim had this peach farm then, and three kids of his own. My four sisters, all younger, have married and are reproducing as if the fate of the world rests on their fertile shoulders."
"You have four sisters?" There had been so many days she'd prayed for one. Unfortunately, complications of her own birth left her mother unable to have more children. In truth it was just as well. Lois couldn't have handled more than a single child; there had been times when that one was too much for her.
"Yep, and three stepbrothers I don't know very well. I just see them a couple times a year, at Christmas and this annual spring get-together." He was silent for a few moments. "You were right about the dancing, though, unless you catch my sisters dancing in the kitchen while they wash dishes."
Frannie glanced out her window. The skies were filled with fat, gray clouds, and had been all morning. "I hope it doesn't rain."
"It won't," Bridger sighed. He'd assured her of that earlier, as she'd taken her raincoat from the hall closet.
"How can you be so sure?" She glanced at the dark gray all-weather coat that was lying on the backseat. Of course she hadn't listened to his assurances. No matter what he said, it looked an awful lot like rain.
He glanced briefly at her and almost smiled. "Mom would never allow it. In all the years we've been doing this, it's not rained us out once. Thank God. I can't imagine squeezing everyone into the house, even as big as it is."
Bridger returned his eyes to the winding two-lane road. Frannie sighed. Did he know how lucky he was? This was her dream—a big, happy, close family, with family reunions and Christmas parties in a big house in the country. While she'd never actually thought of it before, sisters dancing in the kitchen sounded wonderful.
"You're not going to wear that all day, are you?" She nodded to the gun on his belt.
He didn't even look toward her, or ask what she was talking about, even though he couldn't possibly see the nod of her head. "Yep."
"Why? Do you expect trouble? It's because of me and this investigation, isn't it?" Oh, she didn't want to bring trouble to this day. What would the family think when Bridger showed up wearing a gun?
"It has nothing to do with you. I wear my weapon pretty much all the time," he said softly.
"Why?"
He didn't answer for a few moments, as he steered the car around a sharp turn. Maybe it was none of her business, but she did wonder.
"To be honest, I feel naked without it."
She could make a joke, tell him she'd seen him naked and it wasn't a bad thing. But she didn't. She had a feeling that Bridger didn't share much of himself with anyone, and if he would talk, really talk to her, she wasn't about to spoil it.
"But surely with your family…" She hesitated when he shot her a sharp glance that told her clearly that this was none of her business. "You could leave it in the glove compartment and lock up the car. It would be close if you needed it, but not so … there."
Bridger didn't say anything for a while, and Frannie decided that he'd dismissed the subject. She should have kept her mouth shut or made her little joke. She didn't want to ruin this day, didn't want to put a damper on it, for her or for Bridger. One perfect day surely wasn't too much to ask.
"It bothers you, doesn't it?" he finally asked.
"What? The gun?"
He didn't look at her or answer. But then, it wasn't necessary. They both knew what this discussion was about.
"Not really." She placed her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was easier this way, not having to look at him. "It's a part of who you are, I guess, and it doesn't bother me."
She was answered with complete silence.
"But it seems to me there's a time and a place to let your guard down, to relax and have fun and forget about the bad guys for a while." In her bed he'd forgotten, she knew it. The unexpected thought made her insides tighten and her skin tingle as if it came to life at the vivid memory.
"Maybe I've forgotten how."
"I don't think so," she whispered.
* * *
Mal had the sudden impulse to pull the car onto the next dirt road and into the wooded countryside. He was hard and aching and he wanted this woman now. Damnation, he hadn't had the urge to have sex with a woman in the back seat of a car since his seventeenth birthday had passed, but he needed Frannie now, and it didn't matter where. How could a mere whisper do this to him?
He drove past the next dirt road without so much as slowing down.
The following twenty minutes passed in complete silence. Frannie closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, and so on occasion he took his eyes from the road to watch her.
She'd emerged from the bathroom this morning in a flowing, flowery pink dress that was much too nice for this occasion. Sleeveless and soft, it fit her form from the waist up, and the full skirt ended at mid-calf. The material was so lightweight that it moved when she did, swinging with every step, every turn. Flat-heeled, cream-colored shoes covered her feet. The entire outfit was flagrantly feminine.
The rest of the clan would be in shorts and T-shirts and jeans—well, except for the teenage nephew who had spent the past two years shrouded in black from head to toe, no matter what the weather.
Frannie would stand out in any crowd like a bit of summer in the wintertime, like a flower in the mud or a ray of sunshine on a gray day like this one. But then, he had a sinking feeling he'd react the same way if she was wearing a burlap sack.
She wanted him to leave his weapon in the car. After Daphne's whining demands and hysterical pleas, he'd sworn to never again let a woman tell him to leave his gun at the door. Frannie didn't whine or plead. She reasoned, she whispered. She worked her way into his head.
But the result was the same, wasn't it? She wanted him to sacrifice a part of himself, deny who and what he was. Frannie's whispers did something to him Daphne's demands never had. They made him question his certainty that the gun and the badge were all-important, that they defined him completely.
A grove of peach trees replaced the evergreens that had tunneled most of their trip. It was a sign that they were almost at their destination. As if on cue, the clouds broke and a ray of sunshine brightened the day and sliced across Frannie's face. She opened her eyes and smiled.
"Looks like you were right and I won't need my raincoat after all."
He pulled into a long, winding driveway, and Frannie was immediately alert, leaning slightly forward and watching with big blue eyes. The house at the end of the driveway was a sprawling white farmhouse, and there were already a number of cars, everything from Lisa's Mercedes to Tim's rusted pickup truck, parked in and along the long driveway. Somebody had a new minivan, he noted as he pulled into the grass.
He shut off the engine and, for a long moment, stared through the windshield, his fingers tapping gently on the steering wheel. A couple of kids, nephews whose names he couldn't remember right now, ran around the corner of the house, laughing and tossing a Neff football from one hand to the other.
He reached for his belt, wondering exactly why he felt compelled to do this, wondering if he was trying to grasp at something he would never have, something he had never even wanted. For a moment he hesitated, as he wondered what the hell he was doing.
The holster and weapon came off as one unit. He reached across Frannie an
d opened the glove compartment. The revolver fit snugly there, atop a map and a rarely used ice scraper. He slammed the glove compartment shut and locked it before he looked at Frannie.
He half expected her to make a playful comment about him being naked, but she wasn't even smiling. Her face was close to his, and she didn't draw back, didn't make a crack about him going to the family reunion naked, didn't throw open her door to escape. Instead she leaned forward just enough to touch her lips to his.
The kiss was soft and easy and comforting, a light touch of her lips to his that was all too brief.
"I'm sorry," she said as she backed away, obviously embarrassed. "I shouldn't have."
He cupped the back of her neck with his hand, threading his fingers through short blond curls, and brought her mouth to his. This time the kiss was neither easy nor brief. Mal closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensations of his mouth against hers, of his tongue inside her mouth and the way she swayed against him. Frannie tasted of sunshine and—impossibly—lollipops. If beauty had a flavor, this was it.
He should have taken that dirt road after all, he decided too late. One night, hell. It wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough. They weren't done; he had a feeling that they hadn't even started.
If Frannie pushed him away he'd know he was wrong. If she didn't feel this … ah, but she did. She answered this kiss in kind, her tongue teasing his lower lip before flicking into his mouth.
A thud and a slight jarring of the vehicle brought Mal to his senses. He opened his eyes just in time to see an orange and yellow football bounce off his windshield. A couple of laughing kids were right behind it.
One of the boys waved and the other collected the ball and then they were off.
"Maybe we should go in now," Frannie said, only slightly breathless.
"In a minute." Mal leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He told himself, in the passage of a split second, that he didn't want any of the things Frannie wanted from life—family, stability, white picket fences and babies. The certainty didn't make him want her any less.
"Let's talk about—" he glanced to the side while Frannie waited anxiously, her eyes wide and her mouth just slightly swollen from the kiss "—baseball. Batting averages and bull pens and ERAs. The Dodgers, the Mets, the Mariners. Dammit, Frannie." He smiled. He almost laughed. "I can't go in there like this."
She didn't make him explain, didn't even glance at his lap to check for herself. "How about those Atlanta Braves?" she asked in a voice that was innocently seductive.
* * *
It was obvious to Frannie that Bridger had never brought a woman to one of these get-togethers before. She was the center of attention for a while as each and every one of his sisters and their husbands gathered around for introductions and a nice, long, good look.
Bridger's mother, Katherine Gilbert, was sweet and lovely, the very picture of Southern grace and charm. She welcomed Frannie with open arms—literally—and a bright smile. A pretty woman who had to be nearing sixty, she wore her thick gray hair in a short, neat style that complimented her oval face.
Frannie realized right away that she was overdressed for the occasion, and she wished that Bridger had warned her. Even Mrs. Gilbert was dressed casually, in faded blue jeans, an oversize button-up shirt and a pair of comfortable walking shoes.
Bridger's four sisters were especially curious about her. They gathered around at one point, all but looking her up and down for flaws and checking her teeth for cavities. Denise and Robin had dark hair and brown eyes like their big brother, though their features were soft and pretty where his were harsh. Mindy's hair was dark blond, and Lisa's was chestnut, and they both had strikingly square features and hazel eyes. Frannie felt all those eyes on her, at one point.
When they smiled, all at once, Frannie decided she'd passed the inspection.
Eventually, thankfully, the novelty of her presence wore off. While everyone continued to be friendly, they were too busy eating and playing games and tossing footballs and horseshoes to bother much with her.
In a rare, peaceful moment, Frannie sat on the edge of the porch and watched. Goodness, she'd been to county fairs that had fewer attendees than this reunion! There was Tim and Katherine Gilbert, his three sons and their families, and Bridger's four sisters with their husbands and children. He was right about the girls producing children at am alarming rate. The youngest, Denise, had three boys, and according to the other sisters she had some catching up to do. Lisa and Mindy had four children each, and Robin had five!
It was a madhouse, a loud, chaotic melee … and Frannie loved every minute of it.
Her feet dangled over the edge of the porch, and she sipped on the tall glass of iced tea Mrs. Gilbert had pressed into her hand. A cool breeze ruffled the skirt that brushed her calves. No wonder Bridger had been so confident that it wouldn't rain today. Nothing but perfection would suit a day like this one.
"Hi."
The greeting startled her, and she glanced around to see a baby-faced little boy in a bright red T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He held two cookies, one in each hand. If she remembered correctly this was Denise's oldest, Parker, who was six years old. His short dark hair had been mussed by all the running and jumping he'd done this afternoon, and his deep brown eyes—Bridger eyes she surmised—were looking just slightly weary.
"Hello." She smiled at him, and he took that greeting as an invitation and sat close beside her.
"Wanna cookie?" He offered one to her, a chocolate chip cookie that was clenched in filthy fingers.
"Thanks, but I'm still pretty stuffed from lunch." While she had no desire to take a cookie from that dirty hand, her protest was the truth. She'd never eaten so much at once in her entire life!
Parker munched on one of the cookies, and then took a small bite out of the other. His sneakered feet swung lazily from the porch.
Frannie looked for Bridger. He was easy to spot even in a crowd. He was taller, darker, broader than the others, and her eyes always seemed to be drawn to him. As she watched, he tossed a football to another nephew, the one who apparently had a penchant for all things black.
Parker took a bite out of one cookie, and then he nibbled at the other. "Why didn't Uncle Malcolm wear his gun today?"
"I don't know," she said, looking down at a tousled head. "Maybe he didn't think he'd need it."
"Uncle Malcolm always wears his gun." Parker glanced up, wide-eyed. There was a smudge of chocolate by his mouth. "He never lets me touch it, though."
Frannie was horrified at the very thought. "Of course not," she said calmly.
"He says I can hold it when I'm thirty, maybe."
She could see it so clearly, Bridger stern and protective, Parker wide-eyed and innocent. "Sounds like a plan to me."
Parker finished off his cookies and leaned back on his hands, a little man with his adopted pose and curious eyes. "When I grow up, I'm going to be a policeman just like Uncle Malcolm."
"You are?"
He looked directly at her then. "Well, either that or a ninja. I haven't decided."
"A policeman or a ninja. That's a tough choice." Frannie kept her voice low and serious as she fought back a joyful laugh. Parker was certainly not joking.
"Maybe I could be both," he said thoughtfully.
Frannie reached down and brushed away the chocolate smudge with her thumb. She half expected Parker to turn his face, but he obediently held still as she wiped off the chocolate. "What does Uncle Malcolm think about your plans?" Uncle Malcolm. She couldn't help but give in to a smile as she said the words.
"He says I should be a ninja."
With his cookies gone and his questioning done, Frannie expected Parker to jump off the porch and join the fun in the big yard. But he remained where he was, at her side and watching his large family play. Frannie sipped at her sweet tea.
"My daddy says Uncle Malcolm needs a woman."
If she'd been swallowing tea she would have choked on it. "What?" Surely she'
d misunderstood.
But Parker looked up at her unflinchingly, eye to eye, and repeated the statement. "My daddy says Uncle Malcolm needs a woman."
It was surely a whispered statement the child should not have overheard or remembered. "Well…" she began, searching for a way to handle this explosive comment.
Parker didn't wait for her explanation. "I need a dog."
She laughed. Maybe it was the wrong reaction to the perfectly serious statement, but she couldn't help it. It was a laughter that came from someplace deep inside, from the heart and the soul and the magic of a day like this one. Parker smiled, apparently pleased with himself that he'd made her laugh.
"Do you have a dog?"
Her laughter faded. "No, I don't."
She looked up to see that Bridger walked toward her, his football game forgotten.
"I don't like the looks of this," he said, unsmiling but with a touch of humor in his voice. "What have you two been talking about?"
"You don't want to know," Frannie said softly.
Parker piped up. "She's a woman," he said as if he were imparting great wisdom.
"Why, yes she is," Bridger conceded.
"But she doesn't have a dog."
Bridger stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, face flushed with color from the exertion on this warm afternoon. He was achingly handsome today, for some reason she couldn't define. Maybe it was the way his knit shirt and jeans fit him, or the way the sun shone on his face. Whatever the reason, she found it difficult not to gawk.
"No," he said, staring at her. "No dog."
She could not for the life of her understand why Bridger was so dead set against having this for himself. Today had been one of the most perfect days of her life, and she was an outsider, a stranger intruding on this family reunion. But this was all his. How could he not appreciate it?
Parker leaped to his feet. "Catch me, Uncle Malcolm," he said, and then he jumped with all the strength his short legs could muster, flying off the porch and into Bridger's arms, never once doubting that his uncle would catch him and lower him safely to the ground.
She wondered if Bridger had ever trusted anyone that completely. Sadly, she thought not.
BRIDGER'S LAST STAND Page 13
