Running Scared

by Lisa Jackson

  Ever since the incident with Todd Neider nearly two weeks ago, life had settled into its same, slow, normal pace. Except that Daegan O’Rourke had entrenched himself into their lives, and each day he was becoming more important to Jon.

  And to you. Whether you admit it or not, Kate, you can’t ignore the undercurrents that charge the air whenever he’s around. Even though you’ve never been stupid enough to wander back to his pickup at night again, it’s there, simmering between you, a dark fascination that shouldn’t exist.

  Headache brewing, she slid her reading glasses off her nose and rubbed her temples. She noticed him in ways she’d never noticed another man, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the fact that his belt was worn on the third notch, the flare of his nostrils and furrowing of his brow as he concentrated, and the way his faded jeans hung low on his hips. He didn’t bother shining his boots or mending a torn patch in his Levi’s and seemed unaware that he always plowed both hands through his hair when he was frustrated. She’d caught a glimpse of his sense of humor—cynical though it was—and wished she knew more about him and the past that he never shared with her.

  Don’t borrow trouble. So he’d shown up when Jon was freaking out about danger coming their way, so he just happened to be around whenever there was a crisis, so he’d gotten into a fight with his cousin, so he claimed never to put down any permanent roots. So what?

  So you’re beginning to fall for him, Kate, and that’s scary. Damned scary. She’d never let herself become interested in another man, not since Jim had died. The old pain and guilt gnawed at her again and she remembered the last morning she’d seen him, how they’d argued when she’d said she had to work late, how he’d left the apartment so angry he’d slammed the door hard enough to break the doorjamb. He hadn’t wanted to pick up Erin from the babysitter, it was his night to play basketball with some friends, but Kate had been adamant, they needed the money—overtime that she could make working for Tyrell Clark.

  In the end he’d acquiesced, as he always had, and on the way home had been struck by a speeding car. Erin, who had been in his arms, had died instantly. Jim had survived the ambulance ride to the hospital, where he, too, had given up on life before Kate had time to say good-bye or to tell him how much she loved him.

  “Mrs. Summers?”

  A soft voice jarred Kate from her thoughts, and she saw one of her students, Renee Wilson, tentatively sticking her head in the airless room.

  “Are you all right?” Renee asked, nervously biting her lower lip.

  For the first time Kate realized that tears were tracking down her cheeks. “Fine…I’m fine. Come in, Renee, please,” she said, clearing her throat and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she plucked from a box on the shelf.

  “I don’t wanna bother you. If this isn’t a good time—” Renee was edging away, looking embarrassed enough for the both of them.

  Kate gave herself a swift mental kick. What had she been doing, breaking down here at the college? “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what I’m here for. Sit down. Please.” Sliding an old oak chair on rollers toward the door, she brought herself back to the present and shoved all her maudlin, painful thoughts aside.

  Renee, in leggings and a cowl-necked sweater, dropped reluctantly into the seat and left the door ajar, as if she hoped to make good her escape. “I need to talk to you about my grade,” she said, fidgeting with the spiral binding of her notebook. “I—I…you gave me a D on my last paper because I turned it in late, but I don’t really think that’s fair.”

  “You might be right,” Kate agreed, leaning back in her desk chair until it squeaked in protest. She worked hard to walk the thin line between being a tyrant, a teacher who demanded that all her students never break a solitary rule, and being a pushover, an educator who let the kids walk all over her. “Let’s hear your side of the story. Convince me.”

  “Oh, God,” Renee whispered, then seemed to collect herself by drawing in a huge breath. “Okay, I was sick two weeks ago, you know, with that flu that’s going around. I even have a doctor’s excuse—”

  “This isn’t high school.”

  “I know, but I got real far behind, and I tried to catch up and get everything in, but I didn’t have time to finish reading To Kill a Mockinghird and I really didn’t understand the little girl, Scout, and so…”

  A shadow passed by the open doorway and Renee lost her concentration.

  “So I didn’t have enough time to do it right. I should have come to you and asked for an extension, I guess.”

  “That probably would have been a good idea,” Kate agreed, studying the girl’s worried features. She thought about Jon and his own problems at school, how much she hoped the teachers would bend a little when it came to his issues. “Look, Renee,” she heard herself saying as she flipped through the pages of her calendar, “I’ll give you until Monday to rewrite it, okay, but I can’t go beyond that date, and I’ll have to keep in mind that you should have handled this differently; that’s only fair to the other students.”

  “So I can’t get an A?” Renee asked weakly.

  “You’d have to really knock me out. I mean really bowl me over.”

  Renee rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure,” she said with more than a touch of sarcasm, then shrugged and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll try. Thanks!” Slinging the strap of her beaded tapestry bag over her shoulder, she slid out of the door more quickly than greased lightning.

  Kate decided to call it a day. Jon was probably already home and she couldn’t help being on edge. It was Friday, and from past experience, she knew that he was more likely to be in trouble at the end of the week rather than the beginning. She looked forward to relaxing at home

  And seeing Daegan.

  That thought was particularly irritating. Ever since the night alone in the truck, she’d had trouble nudging his image out of her mind. It seemed to haunt her, over and over, night and day. “Get a grip,” she told herself. “He’s just a man. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  And yet her heart told her differently.

  “What do you mean, there’s no one named Roy Panaker?” Robert Sullivan looked as if he was going to wet his pants right here and now in the middle of his den with its cherry-paneled walls.

  “Just what I said. There wasn’t any kind of navy man from deckhand to admiral stationed here fifteen years ago.” Neils helped himself to a cigar in the open humidor and bit off the end. He loved to rattle the old man because Robert Sullivan was such a damned snob.

  “Beatrice told us that—”

  “Beatrice lied, Sullivan. I’m telling you I’ve been over this a hundred times. No Roy Panaker.”

  Robert’s color wasn’t good to begin with; now it was pastier than ever. His voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is the boy’s father?”

  “Good question,” VanHorn said, reaching for the crystal lighter. “Damned good question. Next time we meet, I’ll know.”

  “How?”

  “I guess I’ll have to talk to Beatrice.”

  Aristocratic features pinched together in silent disapproval. “She probably won’t tell you anything. If she’s kept this a secret for fifteen years, I don’t know why she’d say anything different now.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know who the father is,” VanHorn suggested and watched as Robert digested this little piece of information. It stuck in his craw and caused a horrid flush to spread across his cheeks.

  “Of course she knows.”

  “Then it’s one helluva secret because she took a big chance coming up with a phony sailor. Her story could have been checked out without too much trouble years ago.”

  “We—we had a lot on our minds,” Robert said quickly, though he was bothered, and Neils suspected that the old man prided himself in not letting anything get past him, knowing what was going on behind the scenes. This time, his daughter had duped him.

  “I know, you had to avoid a scandal and find a way to get rid of the evidence. Well, the only thing I ca
n figure is that Beatrice lied to protect someone…someone she cared a lot about.” He clicked the lighter and drew quickly on his cigar, sending quick little puffs to the ceiling. “I wonder who that guy could be?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Robert said with obvious irritation. “You just need to find the boy.”

  “I’m going to,” VanHorn said, enjoying his brief moments in Robert’s elegant home on the square. Warm. Stately. Sophisticated. Oozing with generations of culture and refinement. Certainly a cut or two above his little bungalow in the suburbs. But not for long. Neils planned on striking it rich and Robert Sullivan was going to help him. “I think there’s a good chance that when I find out who made the mistake of siring the boy, I’ll locate him.”

  “I don’t care about the father, damn it. Just my grandson!”

  Oh, but I do, you self-serving old geezer. I do. Once I find the father and unlock a few secrets, this gig is going to be worth a hellava lot more than the paltry fee you’re paying me.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Sullivan,” Neils said, “I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  Chapter 17

  “Jab, back away, then jab again. Quick. No wasted motion. Like this.” Daegan’s voice could be heard over the steady, cold drip of the rain. Kate followed the sound, her boots crunching on the wet gravel as she crossed the yard to the open doorway of Eli McIntyre’s dilapidated barn.

  Quietly, she slipped inside but neither Jon nor Daegan was aware that she was standing in the musty shadows away from the circle of light thrown by one bare bulb.

  Raindrops pounded on the tin roof, and water gurgled through the gutters. The smells of grain, dust, and horses drifted in the stagnant air of the sagging barn. A punching bag, still moving from a recent onslaught of human fists, hung suspended from one of the sturdier rafters.

  Daegan’s shirt was thrown over a bale of hay, and despite the cool temperature of the air, sweat sheened on his bare torso. Sinewy muscles gleamed under the harsh illumination, and his hair was damp. Quick as a mountain lion, he struck. Once, twice, three times he smashed the canvas bag. Thud, thud, thud. Muscles strained, flexing and unleashing with swift bursts of power, and Daegan danced around the bag, head ducked, shoulders hunched, always attacking.

  “You see, Jon, you’ve got to keep moving, just out of reach and then—” He stepped quickly to the bag and threw a furious combination of punches. Muscles gathered and stretched in quick succession. Kate watched in fascination as he, concentrating on his opponent, stepped lightly over the floorboards. His feet were bare and energy pulsed beneath his skin. Thick dark hair covered a chest of corded muscles, and the shadow of his beard darkened his square, determined jaw. He glared at the punching bag as if it were the enemy, as if he were convinced that he could knock it spinning, off its chain.

  “Now,” he said, wiping his brow with a strong forearm. “You try again.”

  Jon, his back to Kate, elbows on his knees as he watched, had been sitting on the half wall that separated the stalls from the feed bins. Tightening the laces of his gloves with his teeth, he hopped down and waited as Daegan tied the strings.

  “Okay, give it your best shot.” Jon set his jaw. His eyes narrowed on the bag, and Kate didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that her son was envisioning Todd Neider in his sights. “You bastard,” he growled, then started flailing wildly, like a drowning man trying to swim.

  “Hey—wait, slow down a tad.”

  “You said to hit quick.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to maintain control. You can’t go at it like you’re killing snakes.” Daegan chuckled and the sound was surprisingly heartwarming—as if he had a kinder side that he managed to hide. “Okay, try again and concentrate.” Planting his feet, Daegan held the bag steady with one shoulder, and Jon started again, already learning, mimicking Daegan by rolling onto the balls of his feet and shuffling quickly around the bag. “That’s it,” Daegan encouraged him, a hint of pride in his voice.

  Kate rested a shoulder against the open doorjamb and felt the November wind tug at the hem of her skirt.

  “Come on, keep comin’, show me what you’ve got.”

  Wrapping her arms around her middle, Kate watched the exchange. Jon in T-shirt and navy sweatpants that were way too small and Daegan, all raw muscle and bone, tall and lean, his jeans hanging low enough that she saw his flat abdomen, navel, and the stripe of dark hair that delved beneath his belt.

  The back of her throat turned desert dry and a flush of warmth stole through her blood.

  At that moment, he caught sight of her. His gaze shifted, and he looked at her with dark, brooding eyes. Oh, God. In one heartbeat a current of pure sexual energy passed between them, a force so strong it caused her diaphragm to slam against her lungs. She took a step backward, as if she could move away from the intensity of his gaze.

  “Kate.” It sounded like a caress.

  “Mom?” Jon looked up and an expression of irritation clouded his features. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “I left you a note.”

  “I know, that’s why I’m here.” His face had healed a little and he didn’t look quite so miserable. The bruises under his eyes had changed from a deep purple to a sick shade of green, not much better, but at least indicating that he was improving.

  “We’re working,” Jon said.

  “I see.”

  “What did you think of our boy here?” Daegan asked, the corner of his mouth turning up as he grabbed his shirt and stuffed his arms down the sleeves.

  Our boy. Just a turn of phrase, but one that caused a fleeting image of them as a family—Daegan, Jon, and her. But that was crazy, impossible, a silly fantasy. “What do I think? That I wouldn’t want to meet either of you in a dark alley.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Jon said, rolling his eyes.

  “It’s true. I’m just a defenseless woman, after all.”

  “Just the kind I like,” Daegan teased as they walked to the door.

  “Can’t I stay awhile longer?” Jon asked, and before Kate could protest, Daegan shrugged.

  “Sure. I’ll buy your mom a drink.”

  “I don’t know, I think we should—”

  “Come on, Kate, what would it hurt?” he asked, his flinty eyes searching hers. “Nothing fancy, but I’ve got a couple of beers in the refrigerator or I think I could even scare up a bottle of wine.”

  It seemed too intimate, too close. With his work shirt open, its tails flapping in the stiff breeze, the scent of rain mingling with that particular male musk that she’d begun to associate with him and the invitation in his gray eyes, she couldn’t resist. “One drink,” she agreed, “but then we’ve got to go.”

  “It’s Friday,” Jon pointed out.

  “Thank God,” she said under her breath, thankful that another week of school had passed without any incident. Jon turned quickly away and dashed back to the area beneath the dusty lightbulb and immediately began punching in earnest.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly and her heart began to pound. Ever since the night in the truck when he’d kissed and touched her, she’d avoided being alone with him, tried to maintain her distance. She’d even called her sister twice, determined to find out something about him, but so far Laura couldn’t help her determine if he was lying, if, instead of growing up on a ranch in Canada, he’d lived in Boston. But all her worries seemed far away as Daegan laced his fingers through hers and tugged on her hand. Together they dashed across the yard between the barn and house. Holding up her skirt with her free hand, feeling the fresh wash of rain in her hair, avoiding puddles that had already formed in the uneven ground, she felt fifteen again. There was something steadying in his grip, a comfort from feeling his calloused fingers twined in hers.

  Their boots thundered up the few worn steps, and when they reached the porch, he didn’t let go. His other hand circled her waist. Pressing against the small of her back, he pulled her closer to
him. She gasped, uncertain, and he hesitated just a second, his gaze steady and bright as it locked with hers, then his mouth crashed down on hers with a hunger that snatched the breath from her lungs. Hot, wet lips assailed hers, and she didn’t have time to protest, couldn’t think. He was hard and wanting, his breath as shallow as hers.

  Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! she told herself, but didn’t stop him, couldn’t deny the heady warmth of desire that surged through her own blood.

  His tongue touched the seam of her lips and they parted, allowing him entrance, opening as a flower to the sun, anxious and needy. He wound his hands in her hair and she closed her eyes, hoping the kiss would go on forever, knowing that the turn of her thoughts was dangerous. This was a man she couldn’t trust, didn’t know, but all her doubts slipped into the shadowy recesses of her consciousness and her arms circled his neck, holding him close, feeling her breasts, through her jacket and blouse, crush against him.

  He lifted his head and regarded her with smoky eyes. “Kate,” he said roughly, his breath as uneven as her own, his hands shaking slightly when he released her. “Sweet Jesus.” His gaze still burned with a restless, hungry fire, and he turned quickly away, placing both hands on the old, sagging rail, and shaking his head as if arguing with himself. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  Kicking at a post that didn’t seem to need much help in falling over, he said, “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Shit!” he growled, furious with himself. When, exactly, had he lost his self-control? The first moment he’d seen her walking along the sidewalk when she’d let him change the tire that he’d flattened earlier? Or later, when she’d been wary of him, distrust evident in her amber eyes as she’d let him use her phone? Or still later when Jon had accused him of being a murderer? Or had it been the night in the truck when he’d kissed her and touched her and fantasized about making love to her?