BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Shampoo!" Frannie said, making an abrupt U-turn in the aisle.

  "I have shampoo," he said through gritted teeth.

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "I can't very well take your shampoo with me, now can I?"

  "You're not going anywhere," he said for what might have been the hundredth time in the past two hours.

  She ignored him. He supposed she was tired of trying to argue the point.

  Whenever he thought of Frannie packing that little bag and climbing in her car to just take off, it terrified him. Nothing terrified him. Nothing but the idea of Frannie on the road all alone, without him to protect her.

  Stupid, stupid notion. He couldn't have saved her from the blast that destroyed her home. He couldn't anticipate what was around the next corner, what the man who wanted her dead would try next.

  But, by God, he would die trying.

  As she paid for her purchases with the cash she'd withdrawn from the bank, his pager beeped shrilly. He glanced at the number that came up. It was Harry's desk.

  More bad news, no doubt, he thought as he hurried Frannie to the car. Another dead body, another dead end. He tossed the bags into his trunk, saw Frannie into her seat and then he snagged his cell phone from the glove compartment and dialed the number.

  "Mal," Harry said as he picked up the phone.

  "Yep." Mal leaned back in his seat and watched the shoppers, people walking by with their buggies filled, many with children in the seats before them.

  "There's a woman here to see you," Harry snapped. "She was there last week when the shooting you were involved in occurred."

  He wondered if the woman was sitting right there at Harry's desk. Probably so. Otherwise Harry would have said something crude.

  "What does she want?"

  "She's got her little boy here with her, and she wants to speak to you. Now, if you can manage it."

  He remembered that little boy too well. The kid had stared up at Mal with terror in his eyes, and it had been those eyes that had haunted him … until Frannie had made him forget even that. He didn't want to look at those eyes again, didn't want to be reminded that he'd terrified the kid.

  "I'll be right there."

  There was something so insanely normal about the police station that was situated on the ground floor of Decatur's City Hall. Efficient and well ordered, it might have been any small company, except for the weapons everyone wore and the occasional uniformed officer passing in the hallway.

  Frannie followed Bridger down the hall. If anything, he was more tense than he'd been before the conversation with Harry. Since he'd been a bear all day, that was saying something.

  She still didn't know why they were here.

  Bridger opened the door to the detectives' room, and, ever the gentleman, he allowed her to enter before closing the door behind him.

  "You can wait at my desk," he said softly, his eyes on Harry and the woman and child with him.

  She should take his advice, she supposed, but perhaps his perverse nature was rubbing off on her. Instead of taking the sharp right that would take her to his desk, she followed as he walked slowly toward the threesome that was silently waiting.

  The woman stood and offered her hand. "Detective Bridger." She tried a smile but it was weak, almost watery.

  Harry jumped in as Bridger took the woman's hand and shook it. "Mal, this is Maggie Talbot."

  "Yes," Bridger said softly. "I remember."

  "I never got the chance to thank you—" Maggie began.

  "Don't," Bridger interrupted. "There's no need."

  Frannie wondered if she was the only one here who knew that Bridger silenced the woman because he didn't want to be thanked for taking a life. Perhaps they thought he was modest, or that he was one of those just-in-a-day's-work kinda guys. But she remembered the look in his eyes as he'd told her he'd killed a man. He'd taken this job to save lives, not to take them.

  Maggie Talbot looked as if what came next pained her; and maybe it did. "The reason I'm here…" Her eyes dropped to the child at her side, a fair-haired little boy who was probably about Parker's age. The child held on to his mother's skirt and stared up at Bridger with pure, undisguised terror in his blue eyes. "Joshua has had trouble sleeping, since the, um, incident, and I thought it might help if he spoke to you."

  It was unfair to spring this on Bridger with no warning, Frannie thought during the short silence that followed. He was prepared to interrogate, to shoot off sarcastic comments when the moment was right, to be brutally honest, but to soothe a kid? That wasn't something that would come naturally to him.

  "Hi, Joshua," Bridger said gently, offering his hand for a manly shake. The kid pulled his mother's skirt in front of his face and hid there, and Bridger let his hand drop.

  "Remember what I said?" Maggie Talbot said, her voice as gentle as Bridger's had been. "Detective Bridger is a policeman, and this is where he works."

  From the edge of that beige skirt, one blue eye appeared and it was fastened, Frannie saw, to the gun at Bridger's belt.

  She'd been terrified to watch Phil Stone wave his gun around, when she'd been a child. How terrifying would it have been to actually see a man shot? No matter that it was necessary, no matter that the shots Bridger had fired had saved this kid's life, and others, it was still a sight no one would ever forget.

  Frannie skirted around Bridger. He jumped a bit as she brushed her hand against his back, started so faintly that no one would see it—but she felt it clearly enough. He'd been so intent on the task at hand that he'd probably thought she was obediently sitting at his desk.

  She dropped to her haunches, so that she was face-to-face with the blue eye. "Hello, Joshua," she said, and she smiled. The kid was uncomfortable and more than a little scared. He stared at her, with that one wide eye, and held tightly on to his mother's skirt. Frannie lowered her voice. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

  Joshua nodded his head, once.

  "This guy right here?" She pointed up to Bridger, without looking his way. "You can call him Uncle Malcolm. He has lots of nieces and nephews, some of them about your age, so there are lots and lots of little boys and girls out there who call him Uncle Malcolm." Who could be afraid of anyone called Uncle Malcolm?

  The kid glanced up and stared at Bridger with a new gleam in his eyes. He looked to be more skeptical than terrified at the moment.

  She lowered her voice even more, wondering but not really caring if any of the adults surrounding her and Joshua could hear. "He looks pretty tough, but he's really a nice guy, a real sweetheart. I think I know why he's so sweet," she added softly. "Why, just this morning I found an empty Twinkies box in the back of his pantry. And do you know he has three flavors of ice cream in his freezer?"

  There were two eyes to stare at now. "What kinds?"

  "Chocolate, chocolate chip and cherry vanilla."

  "I like chocolate," Joshua revealed in a soft voice of his own.

  "Me, too."

  A nose peeked out from behind the beige skirt, and the corner of a perfect little mouth that was almost tilted up in a smile was revealed.

  "His mom makes really good chocolate-chip cookies. You know, I think Uncle Malcolm has a sweet tooth."

  Joshua glanced up again, and this time Frannie was certain she knew what the kid was thinking. Uncle Malcolm had a mother?

  Frannie reached out and brushed a strand of pale hair away from Joshua's face. "You saw Uncle Malcolm do something pretty scary, didn't you?"

  His eyes widened and he nodded.

  Frannie cupped the child's cheek. Oh, his skin was so smooth, so pure and untouched. In a perfect world, children would never even know violence existed. But this wasn't a perfect world, not by a long shot.

  She could see his entire face now, chubby cheeks and long lashes and just a few freckles sprinkled across a pert nose. "Uncle Malcolm was there that day to watch over you, did you know that?"

  Joshua shook his head.

  "Well, he was. He was
there to look out for you, and your mom, and all those other people. It's his job. It's what he does. Uncle Malcolm is kinda like…" She searched for a description the child would understand and embrace. "A ninja," she finished. "He's one of the good guys."

  This time when Joshua looked up there was something new in his expression. Awe, maybe.

  Frannie offered her hands to the kid, and amazingly Joshua loosened his hold on his mother's skirt and allowed Frannie to slip her hands beneath his arms and lift him as she stood.

  Joshua was heavy, well past the carrying stage, but it felt right, for the moment. He wrapped his legs around Frannie's waist and his arms around her neck, and she looped one arm around his waist. Together they faced Bridger.

  Bridger was baffled, relieved, amused. She saw all that and more in his deep brown eyes.

  "Joshua, say hello to Uncle Malcolm," she said with a smile.

  "Hello, Uncle Malcolm," he said, still shy and a little wary.

  "If you ever want his attention," Frannie said, "just try this." She reached out and grabbed his tie and jerked on it gently, once.

  Joshua giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, Frannie saw Maggie Talbot smile widely. Maybe this was the first time since the shooting that Joshua had laughed. Children should laugh every day.

  "Come on," Frannie urged. "Try it."

  Joshua reached out and took the edge of Bridger's tie between two short, chubby fingers, and he tugged once.

  Frannie whispered into his ear. "Harder than that."

  With a wider smile on his angelic face, Joshua grabbed the tie and gave it a good yank. And then he giggled again.

  "Now," she said as he fell easily back into her arms, "I want you to give Uncle Malcolm a big ol' hug."

  "Frannie," Bridger began, but his protest came too late. Joshua said, "Okay," and leaned forward, shifting his weight precariously so that Bridger had to either catch the kid or let him fall.

  Long arms closed around the kid, as Joshua wrapped his arms around Uncle Malcolm's neck and hugged tight. It was as heartwarming as watching Bridger catch Parker as he jumped from the porch.

  A revelation came to her, as she watched Bridger hold the little boy. He didn't know it yet, but he should have children of his own, lots and lots of babies to hold and love and watch over.

  They hadn't used protection last night, and she wondered—for the first time—if she might be carrying Bridger's child. She had no job and no home, and Bridger had made it clear there was nothing permanent to their relationship.

  And still she smiled, hoping it was true. It wouldn't be easy; in fact, it would be damned hard. But if there was a baby she would love it with all her heart, and she would never, ever, place her child in danger. She and her daughter or son wouldn't run away in the night. There would be stability and love and security for her child.

  That meant she couldn't run. Oh, there probably wasn't a child, not after one night, but in her heart the resolutions were the same. Her home was here, and if she had to fight for it, she would.

  Bridger and Joshua held a brief, meaningful discussion about a shared love—ice cream. Maggie Talbot grabbed Frannie's arm and very softly thanked her, while Joshua told Uncle Malcolm that he didn't like nuts in his ice cream. Before Bridger placed Joshua on his feet, the child tugged at his tie one more time. And giggled.

  Joshua and his mother left the office, both of them noticeably happier than they'd been when Frannie had first seen them. When the door closed, Bridger and Harry both stared at her, silently questioning.

  "All I did was convince the kid that you're a good guy." They stared at her so hard she was a little embarrassed. "And that you're human," she added. "A fact I know you hate to share."

  "You've been snooping in my freezer," Bridger said softly. "And my pantry."

  Frannie answered with a wide smile. "I was hungry." She turned her back to them and pointed toward the far corner. "Coffee's over there, isn't it?" Without waiting for a reply, she went in search of caffeine.

  As she walked away she heard Bridger mumble, "Ninja?"

  A moment later Harry said softly, "Marry her."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  Mal leaned against the counter and watched Frannie as she scooped the chicken casserole and corn pudding from the refrigerator. She was bending forward from the waist, and her pink skirt—which was almost transparent with the light from the refrigerator behind her—draped softly around her bare legs.

  "I'm glad you thought to bring these in last night," she said as she closed the refrigerator door and placed the plastic containers on the counter. "Otherwise we'd have to make a trip to the grocery store, and after our trip to Wal-Mart I decided that you are a terrible shopper."

  "I brought them in after you went to sleep," he said. "Your raincoat, too. It's in the hall closet."

  She hadn't mentioned leaving town since they'd left Wal-Mart. He wanted to ask her if she'd changed her mind but was afraid she'd say no. If she left he couldn't protect her, couldn't try to figure out what she knew that made her a target, couldn't touch her.

  She popped the lid off one container. "Should I heat it all up or just put a little bit on plates and warm them up in the microwave?"

  Earlier today she'd told Joshua that he had a sweet tooth, as she'd done him the great favor of erasing the fear from the boy's eyes. A sweet tooth? She had no idea.

  He didn't mean to startle her, but when he placed his arms around her waist she jumped. She even squealed a little and dropped the plastic lid so that it rolled across the counter.

  "I swear, I'm going to put a bell around your neck if you don't stop sneaking up on me," she teased as she relaxed, falling back into his arms. Her head rested against his chest as he raised one hand to brush his palm against a full breast. He could feel the nipple harden in response, could even feel the faint tremor that shot through the body that was pressed against his. The way she responded to him, so quickly and absolutely, was as amazing to Mal as the realization that he couldn't get enough of her.

  "I thought you were hungry," she murmured.

  He bent his head to kiss her neck, to suckle gently at the enticing curve of flesh where neck became shoulder. It was the only answer he was capable of giving her at the moment.

  He had never wanted a woman this way—endlessly, uncontrollably, completely. Frannie was inside him, somehow; she had changed him forever. There were moments when that knowledge scared the hell out of him, and other moments, like this one, where he tried not to think about it all, but only to feel.

  His ache for her consumed him, until there was nothing but the press of her body against his, the sound of her quickening breath, and the certainty that this was as right and true as anything he'd ever known.

  He slipped one hand lower, to flatten against her belly so that his arousal was pressed snugly against her backside, then lower still, to cup her femininity. Everything about her was warm and welcoming. She was heat and comfort, desire and refuge. Home.

  He reached beneath her flowing pink skirt to slip her panties down. The slip of silk fell to the floor and Frannie kicked it away and turned to face him.

  When he looked into those big blue eyes he remembered that she thought she loved him. How could he not remember? Frannie's face was an open book. Every joy, every pain, every hunger was there for the world to see. All he had to do was look at her to know what she felt. She was open and honest and trusting. Once those qualities had terrified him, they were so foreign, but right now he was certain they were part of the reason he needed her so much.

  Lifting Frannie easily, he spun around and set her on the edge of his kitchen table. He stood between her spread thighs and touched her, his fingers delving into her hot, damp center. She closed her eyes and her head fell back slightly. Savoring. Frannie savored everything—every sight, every sound, every sensation. He loved to watch her relish life; he loved even more to watch her react to his simplest touch.

  As he stroked her
he kissed her bared throat, tasted her skin as he delved gently within her and she rocked against him, into him, and moaned so deep in her throat he could feel a tremor against his mouth.

  Her fingers found his zipper and lowered it, and she slipped her hand over his erection and gently dragged her fingertips up and down its length. That was all it took to send every other thought out of his head.

  He freed himself and then he surged inside her, hard and fast. Legs wrapped around him, as Frannie lifted her hips to take all of him, to take everything he had. This wasn't a gentle coming together, but was a primitive, driven mating. She cried out softly, once, and her inner muscles tightened and squeezed around him, and while she was still climaxing he drove deep one last time and found the release he'd been so fiercely seeking.

  In that moment when there was nothing in this world but his body and hers and the way they came together, Mal felt a rush of greedy possession for this woman and what they'd found. She was his, and though he had never been a man to give anything of himself easily, he was hers.

  Frannie came up slowly, into his arms, draping her limp arms around his neck and resting her head against his shoulder. She turned her head and whispered something softly against his neck, mumbled low words he could not understand into his skin. I love you? Or maybe, What do we do now, Bridger? He ran his fingers through her short curls, unable and unwilling to ask her to repeat herself.

  * * *

  If she was going to stay and fight for her life and for Bridger, plans had to be made. He'd gone to the office early, making her swear to check the caller ID before picking up the phone, and insisting that she not answer the door to anyone but him, and promising to be home early again.

  She'd liked it, kissing him goodbye and straightening his tie as he went out the door.

  After she showered and dressed in a pale blue knit sweater she'd found in the bottom of one of Bridger's drawers—a gift, surely, that had probably never been worn—and the jeans she'd purchased from Wal-Mart, Frannie sat on the couch and stared at the telephone on the end table. She could call Reese and have her old job back in a heartbeat. Problem solved. Well, one of them, at least.