BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Don't talk," Frannie demanded. She gripped his arm, hanging on, wanting more than anything to throw her arms around Bridger and hold him tight, afraid she'd hurt him if she did. A few seconds of silence passed, and it was almost more than she could stand.

  "How do you feel?"

  He locked deep brown eyes to hers. "Like I've been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer." His words were already coming easier, if not effortlessly.

  She glanced to Jerry Kruse's lifeless body, and a terrifying thought nearly stopped her heart. "What if he'd shot you in the head? You idiot!" she said, suddenly angry. "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

  He took her hand and held it tight, and worked his way into a straighter sitting position, so that he leaned back against the glass door. "Do you really think that I could sit outside where it's safe and wait for backup while you went and got yourself killed?"

  "It would have been the smart thing to do," she said, but she couldn't stay angry. Her heart was still pounding too hard, the blood was rushing at an incredible rate through her veins, and she couldn't make herself look again at what was left of Jerry Kruse.

  "It's done," he said softly. "You'll be okay now."

  As if she would ever be okay without Bridger around! She loved him, she needed him, but it sounded suspiciously as if he were saying goodbye.

  His eyes were locked on the body that was sprawled on the floor, the body she didn't want to look at again. The agony on his face came from much more than the ache in his chest, she knew.

  "Tell me something, Frannie," he said, lifting the hand that still held a gun to point at the body. "How do you explain this to a kid like Joshua? How do you explain that sometimes the good guys turn out to be the bad guys?"

  Sirens were approaching, and suddenly blue and red lights flashed over everything in the store, over Bridger's face and Kruse's body and tables full of junk and treasure. Bridger held her hand tight, their fingers laced together, and even as the commotion increased behind them he didn't so much as turn his head to look out the window.

  "Explain that, Frannie," he said softly.

  "I can't," she whispered.

  He looked like his heart was broken, and she didn't think there was anything she could say to fix it.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Mal stared at the picture in front of him. It was propped against his computer monitor, at eye level.

  Of all the photographs, this one was clearest. Jerry Kruse was grinning that fool's smile and shaking hands with a scumbag Mal knew was a drug dealer. That's where most of their money had come from. Drugs.

  The photographs had helped them to round up what was left of the Decatur Legion for Liberty, all in a matter of thirty-six hours. They called themselves freedom fighters, domestic terrorists, but Mal knew them for what they were—redneck drug dealers with big plans.

  He could live with that. Bad guys came in all kinds of packages. It was Jerry Kruse's involvement that confused and angered him. What had turned him? Money? Power? There was no answer that made any sense to Mal and, by God, he wanted answers. He wanted there to be answers that were black-and-white, but everywhere he looked … gray.

  He picked up another photograph, one that had come in the mail yesterday. He and Frannie sat close together on the porch at the old farmhouse. She was holding a baby, cradling it as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and that baby was hanging onto his nose with viselike little fingers. And Frannie was laughing. Looking at him, happy and laughing and … hopeful. Always hopeful.

  Harry came sauntering around the corner, two cups of coffee in his hands. "How are you feeling?" he asked brightly.

  Mal didn't look up, but he placed the photo he'd been studying facedown on the desk. "Like I was kicked by a mule."

  Harry set one cup of black coffee on Mal's desk and sipped at the other. "I talked to Frannie yesterday."

  Mal looked up at his sergeant and friend. "How is she?"

  "Fine. I asked her to have dinner with Paula and me sometime. Paula thought maybe we could introduce her to Peter."

  "Peter?" Mal asked calmly.

  "Paula's brother," Harry said with a smile. "You know, the one who just got divorced."

  Mal picked up his coffee and took a sip. "So, what did she say?"

  "She said no."

  Why was he so damn relieved to hear that?

  "You know," Harry, said in that calm, soothing voice of his, the one that sometimes drove Mal mad, "she might wait for you for a while, but she won't wait forever."

  "I know that." Mal muttered.

  "She's too good for you."

  "I know that, too."

  "So, get your butt out of that chair and go sweep her off her feet. Frannie's pretty, she's smart, and for some reason she's crazy about you. She deserves to be swept off her feet at least once. Jeez," he said as he walked away. "Do I have to tell you how to do everything?"

  Mal stared at the photograph of Kruse and the drug dealer, trying to make sense of it all.

  It came to him, a good fifteen minutes later, that maybe he didn't have to.

  * * *

  Frannie stood at the counter and looked out over the nearly deserted store. Terri was arranging a new display of collectibles, and a single customer was sorting through some old magazines.

  Jerry Kruse's body had been taken away days ago, and a large braided rug covered the bloodstain they hadn't been able to completely remove from the wooden floor.

  The old Frannie would have run from this place and the horrifying memories of that afternoon. It had been hard, at first, to look around the room and not remember vividly how terrified she'd been, how her heart had almost stopped when she'd seen Bridger go down, how she'd seen a man die … but she wasn't running. That was her mother's solution, not hers.

  Foolishly she kept expecting Bridger to come through the front door, smile at her and take her home. Romantic hogwash. She'd been right in leaving and giving him the choice. Otherwise, she would have always wondered if he cared for her at all.

  Apparently, he didn't.

  Harry had called a couple of times, to ask how she was getting along. He never mentioned Bridger, though he had suggested that she have dinner with him and Paula one evening. Paula had this really nice brother, who'd just gotten divorced. She wasn't interested.

  The phone near her elbow rang, and she picked it up. "Terri's Trash and Treasure."

  There was a short pause, and she waited for the caller to say "wrong number" and hang up.

  "Frannie Vaughn, please."

  She smiled at the sound of the familiar voice. "Speaking."

  There was another small pause, and she could almost see him sitting there at his desk, gathering his nerve for what came next. "This is Detective Malcolm Bridger. I don't know if you remember me or not, but we met a couple of weeks ago at Rick's."

  She leaned against the counter. "I think I remember you."

  "Yeah, well, I was just calling to see if you'd like to get together for dinner sometime."

  Her heart did a funny little flip in her chest. "Detective Bridger, are you asking me out on a date?"

  "Yeah. What do you say, Frannie?"

  Yes! Only she shouldn't be so overly enthusiastic. "Maybe. Say when, and I'll check my calendar."

  "Now."

  "Now?" She laughed into the phone. To hell with trying to hide her enthusiasm. "Well, give me time to change, and I'll—"

  "No need to change," he said confidently. "I think you look great in yellow. Is that new?"

  Her head jerked up and immediately she saw him, standing on the other side of the glass door with a cell phone to his ear and a bunch of red roses in one hand. When her eye caught his he opened the door and stepped into the shop, and as she hung up the phone he pressed the end button on his cellular.

  He handed her roses across the counter, and when he did, she saw that there was something hidden behind the roses—a large, multicolored lollipop. She took the
roses in one hand and the lollipop on the other. "What's this?" She wagged the sucker in his direction and got a wry smile as a response.

  "I'll tell you later."

  Terri was more than willing to let Frannie go for the day, and together she and Bridger stepped onto the sidewalk. A breeze caught the skirt of her new yellow dress, and she was glad she'd decided to wear it today, rather than her usual blue jeans and casual top. She held the roses and the lollipop, and Bridger took her arm and steered her in the right direction. They passed his car and kept going.

  She looked him up and down in his dark blue suit and white shirt and burgundy tie. Something was different.

  "Do you feel naked?" she asked softly.

  He glanced down to his belt where his weapon usually rested. It wasn't there now. "I didn't think I'd need it tonight."

  "Probably not," she whispered with a smile.

  They walked to Rick's, and Bridger paused before the door. The sign said Closed and the shade was down.

  She was a little disappointed. Rick's wasn't the fanciest restaurant in town, but it was here she'd met Bridger. That made it a special place.

  But Bridger didn't turn and walk away. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a single key, a key that fit the front door to Rick's. He unlocked the door, led Frannie inside and then locked it behind them.

  She stepped into the main room, where candles burned at every table and a meal was laid out at the bar.

  "I rented the place," Bridger said, his words soft behind her. "It's ours for the night."

  "You were confident I'd say yes when you asked me out, weren't you?" she asked, her eyes on the romantic setting. There were more flowers here, and candles on the bar, and lollipops. Lots and lots of lollipops.

  "Optimistic," Bridger whispered.

  Frannie walked through the room, her back to Bridger. He had to care for her to go to so much trouble. Optimistic. She was almost certain there hadn't been so much as a smidgen of optimism in Bridger's body before he'd met her.

  "It's beautiful."

  "It's a date," Bridger said. "You said you wanted a date, and by God you're going to get one."

  She turned to face him. In the soft light of the many candles he was beautiful. But then he'd always been beautiful to her because she loved him so much.

  "Dinner," he said, gesturing to the bar and the meal that was laid out there. "And dancing." He reached into his pocket, drew out a roll of quarters and slapped them on the nearest table. "If we're going to do this dating thing we might as well do it right."

  Frannie walked toward Bridger, needing, more than anything, a kiss. She'd craved a kiss, her mouth on his, his hand strong at her back. When she reached him he took the roses from her, and the lollipop, and set them beside the roll of quarters. Then he took his tie between two fingers and flipped it neatly into her hand.

  She tugged gently, and he kissed her, knowing exactly what she needed, knowing without asking, without hesitating.

  "I just have one protocol question," he whispered as he took his mouth from hers. "How many dates do we have to have before I can propose?"

  "Propose what?"

  He narrowed his dark eyes at her. "Marriage."

  She placed her head against his chest. "Three, I think."

  One hand was flat at her back, warm and comforting. "We danced the night we met, that has to count as a date. And I took you to meet my family, surely that qualifies."

  "I guess it does," she whispered against his chest.

  "So this is number three."

  With a hand beneath her chin he forced her to look up and into his eyes. "I missed you." He whispered the confession. "At first I decided you were right. We could spend some time apart, make sure what we felt was real and not just something fleeting. But every day it hurt worse, like there was a hole in my chest."

  She placed her hand over the center of his chest. "You were shot," she whispered.

  "Well, that hurts, too, but that's not where it hurts the most," he said. "Where it really hurts is over to the left a little, right smack dab in the middle of my black hole."

  She moved her hand, sliding it across his chest until it rested over his heart. "That's it," he whispered.

  He reached into his pocket again and came up with a faded velvet box. He flicked it open with his thumb and presented her with a square-cut diamond solitaire set in white gold.

  "This was my grandmother's. My mother said years ago that it was mine, when I wanted it." He smiled sheepishly. "I told her to give it to one of the girls because I'd never need it, but when I went out there this weekend to see if she still had it, she did. She wasn't at all surprised that I asked for it."

  He took the ring from the box and took her hand, then held the ring over the tip of her finger.

  "All you have to do is say yes." He looked her in the eye, dead on. She saw so many things there she loved—determination and longing, persistence and tenderness.

  There was something missing, the one thing she didn't know if he could give her. She needed it. "Why?" she whispered.

  The ring hovered over the tip of her finger, and Frannie stared at the mesmerizing sight. Her eyes were on the small, candlelit ring in his big hand, as her bare finger waited. All she had to was whisper one word. One simple little word. She waited for an answer to her question. Bridger knew what she needed, didn't he?

  "Because I need you," he whispered. "Because without you I'm lost." He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. "Because I love you."

  She smiled. "I love you, too, Bridger. Yes."

  He slipped the ring onto her finger, where it fit perfectly. "We can get married this weekend at the farm," he said as he took her left hand in his. "Mom's already called everybody in the family and invited them, and she ordered a cake and contacted her minister. Parker wants to give you away. I hope you don't mind."

  Frannie laughed. How could she complain? It sounded perfect. "Of course I don't mind." She leaned close, glancing up at the hard and beautiful face that was all hers. "Such plans you made. You were pretty sure of yourself, Bridger."

  He bent to kiss her again. "Optimistic, Frannie. Optimistic."

  * * *

  Epilogue

  « ^

  If anyone had told him, years ago, that he had an appalling weakness for blue-eyed blondes, he never would have believed it. Ah, but he did have a weakness. Especially, he'd discovered, for very short blondes who had big blue eyes and freckles and curling pigtails, who made him necklaces out of macaroni and called him Daddy.

  "Daddy, Daddy!"

  Mal looked up from the barbecue to see his two girls running toward him. Angela, a bubbly five-year-old, was in the lead as always, and Kate, three years old and always behind—because she kept stopping to pick up pretty rocks and discarded bottle caps and pennies—was close. Harry and Paula's redheaded Chelsea, who was six months older than Angela, brought up the rear, a misused doll hanging from her hands.

  "Mommy says it's time." Angela said, looking up at him with serious wide eyes.

  "Tell Mommy the burgers aren't ready yet." Mal glanced at Harry, who was sprawled in a chaise longue and sipping on a beer. "Being eight and a half months' pregnant makes her a little cranky. And if it's time to eat, it's time to eat now."

  The doctor had assured them that this would be another girl. The nursery was a freshly painted pink, and Frannie had been going through all the little outfits Kate had outgrown so quickly.

  Paula left her chair, a big grin on her face. "Frannie chased me out of the kitchen awhile back. Maybe if everything else is ready she'll let me back in."

  The girls were running toward the house, their short legs pumping, Paula following at a distance.

  Harry stared at his wife's retreating form. "House looks good since you painted it," he said, taking another sip of beer. "I had begun to think there was no hope for this old place, but you've got it looking good."

  It was Frannie's dream house, big and rambling and full of old things and
little girls. There was a big garden that had just been planted with vegetables the girls had picked out themselves, including a striped tomato they found fascinating, and the azaleas against the house were in full bloom. Oddly enough, this was Mal's dream house, too. He'd just not known it until he got here.

  Angela came bursting through the back screen door a minute later. "Daddy!" she yelled as she bounded from the porch, past the blooming pink azaleas. "Mommy said let Uncle Harry finish the darn burgers. It's time now."

  Understanding crept into Mal's brain, and he spared a quick glance to Harry. "She's not due for two weeks." He dropped the spatula onto the grill as Harry slowly left his chair, groaning only once with the effort.

  "I'll finish the burgers and feed the girls and take them home with us," Harry said in his most soothing voice. "Just give us a call when baby girl Bridger number three arrives."

  Mal ran into the house, expecting Frannie to be waiting by the door with her bag in hand. Her first two deliveries had been fast, and she took no chances. That bag had been packed for a month.

  But she wasn't waiting.

  Angela and Chelsea were standing at the door of the master bedroom, eyes wide and forgotten dolls hanging from their little hands. From beyond that door, he heard Frannie's raised voice.

  "Where is he?"

  Kate came running from the downstairs bathroom, her little legs pumping, her arms filled with sloppily folded towels. "Here are the towels, Aunt Paula," she said, barely able to see over the top of the stack.

  Mal took the towels from Kate and sent the girls upstairs to their room to play. He stepped into the spacious master bedroom that he and Frannie had shared for the past four and a half years. His heart stopped when he saw her. She was sitting up in the bed, a sheet draped over her knees and her rounded stomach, her lightly curling ponytail hanging over one shoulder.

  Frannie was right in the middle of a contraction. One hand rested over that tremendous stomach, and she was taking short, shallow breaths.

  Paula stood beside the bed, talking on the phone. "No, you don't understand," she snapped. "She's having this baby right now."