Sometimes you wish you could do more, but the laws won't let you. Sometimes you wish you didn't have to do something, but the laws won't let you not do it.
She bit her lip, looking away from him. Would he really? If they found Melissa, would he just hand her back, to vanish into the convoluted, unwieldy and sometimes apathetic juvenile justice system?
And then it hit her, the other significance of what he'd said. He was trying to keep her out of it? He knew that she knew what Melissa had done, yet he was still trying to … protect her? Even, perhaps, risking trouble for himself?
The thought made her eyes widen, and her gaze shot back to his face. For an instant, she thought she saw something there, some warmth, even a memory of the heat they'd shared last night. She wanted to ask, but the heart that hadn't risked in so long quailed at the thought of what his answer would be, of how humiliated she would feel if she was being, as she must be, an utter fool to even think he might be doing it because he … cared. Not that she didn't believe Cruz more than capable of caring, five minutes of watching him with his little girl proved that. It was the idea that he would care enough about her to risk some kind of reprimand or censure that was ridiculous.
No, she couldn't ask. But she could make sure that censure didn't happen in another way, without giving away her foolish thoughts, and all she had to do was insist on what she wanted to do anyway.
"That doesn't matter," she said firmly. "All I can think about is how scared she must be. I have to keep looking for her."
"Even though she lied to you?"
"She did," Kelsey said, "but that baby didn't."
She knew she saw it then, some sort of softness and warmth in his eyes. Very slowly, he nodded. "Good point, Ms. Hall. Let's go."
She was a little bewildered by how quickly he'd relented; she was used to having to fight much harder, and not always winning. But a few minutes later she was again in the passenger seat of his big four-wheel-drive and they were headed north.
She sat in silence for a long time, trying to think about what to say to Melissa's parents, wondering if there was any point in trying to communicate with the couple the girl had described as cruel and narrow-minded. But at the same time, she was all too aware of the man behind the wheel, and all too full of whirling memories of the passion he had evoked in her.
"Kelsey?"
She nearly jumped; he'd been as silent as she for miles, allowing her to sink deeper and deeper into memories that were too strong to fight off, although she had tried, cursing herself for a fool for every moment she spent dwelling on them. She glanced at him; he seemed intent on the road, and it was easier for her to answer because he wasn't looking at her.
"Yes?" she managed after a moment
"Last night," he began, and her breath caught. He was going to say it had been a mistake, he never should have kissed her, let alone anything else. He was going to take those hot, erotic memories she'd been swimming in and douse them with the icy water of retreat. And suddenly the memories she'd been fighting against became precious to her; she searched for the words to stop him, but before she could think of a thing, he went on.
"You didn't offend me. I'm sorry I … yelled. I… You were right."
"I … was?"
"Yes. I needed to … be angry. I was angry. I just never … let it out. Until last night."
She let out a long, slow breath. She supposed, of the things he could have brought up about last night, this was the less dangerous. To her, at least. She studied his profile for a moment, thinking that never had two races blended so beautifully as they had in Cruz Gregerson.
"I'm … glad you're not angry with me," she said finally. "I know I … overstepped."
"No." He said it quickly, but without heat. "With all the advice I got when she left, all the people who … tried to help, nobody ever told me I had … the right to be angry. Even though it wasn't anyone's fault."
"Anger is usually … a fairly directed emotion. When there's no one thing or person to direct it at, it's worse. It becomes sort of wild, going in all directions. And that's scary."
He glanced at her. "You're … a wise woman, Kelsey."
She nearly laughed. Wise? Her? Sometimes she felt as if she barely knew anything, especially when trying to deal with a kid like Melissa.
"I had people always telling me I was … handling it so well," Cruz went on, "when really I wasn't handling it at all. I told myself I kept it buried for Sam's sake, but maybe I just didn't want to face it. Even though I understood why, at the time it … hurt that Sam and I weren't enough for her."
Kelsey felt a painful tug deep inside at the quiet admission of pain, even long ago. "Maybe…" she began tentatively, hesitant to say anymore than she already had, yet not able to just let it go. "Maybe nothing would have been enough."
"I know that." He gave her a quick sideways look before turning his attention back to the road. "I knew it even then."
"But it still hurt. Both of you."
"I tried to keep it from affecting Sam too much." His mouth quirked. "But she's so … solemn, sometimes, so serious. Especially about her animals. She seems … driven or something."
"She's a very bright child," Kelsey said. "And she cares a great deal about things."
"I know. That was part of the problem. I knew she understood more than some people gave her credit for, when Ellen left, even though she was only four. So I tried to make her feel … as secure as I could manage. But I think I went a bit too far."
"Too far?"
He shrugged. "I let her get away with too much, back then, because I hated fighting with her. I think I was … afraid of losing her, too."
It was such a simple yet poignant admission of parental love that Kelsey felt a rush of emotions, a tangle she couldn't quite sort out. Then she chastised herself silently; she might not have known the kind of love Cruz and Samantha had, but she'd learned something else just as valuable; that that kind of love didn't necessarily have to involve blood ties.
"You'll never lose her, Cruz. Not completely. She'll grow up and away, naturally, but you'll never lose her."
"I hope you're right." He gave her another sideways glance. "I don't ever want to be doing this for her."
"Just keep talking to her," she said softly. "But more important, don't ever stop listening. And believing in what she tells you."
He glanced at the road, then back at her. "Is that what happened to you, Kelsey?" he asked softly. "You talked, but nobody believed you?"
She felt herself pale, felt the rush of a chill sweep over her. He's a cop, she told herself. He's a cop, and he's smart. He's just making a lucky guess. He doesn't know anything.
"Let's just deal with Melissa," she said, refusing to meet his gaze.
She was afraid he would push, and he had every right to, as much as he'd shared with her, but he said nothing. And she was seized with the irrational urge to pour it all out to him, the whole ugly story, something she'd never done in her life.
Cruz Gregerson had a dangerous effect on her, she thought, in more ways than one.
But she couldn't quite quash the thought that if she was to let it all out, he would understand.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous effect of all.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
"It's all our fault," Mrs. Bargman wailed. "If we hadn't—"
"Stop it, Connie," her husband said sharply. "Melissa is as much to blame as we are. More. She's the one who kept seeing that punk after I ordered her not to. And look what happened."
"But she's just a child—"
"She's old enough to let herself get pregnant, isn't she?"
Last time he'd checked, Cruz thought, it took two to manage that. But he kept his thoughts to himself; further annoying the already aggravated man would accomplish nothing. Not that they were accomplishing anything, anyway; these people knew so little about their own child that it was grimly depressing. They didn't know who her friends were, what
her interests were, beyond "damn loud music," had no idea where she might have gone.
He leaned against the back of the chair, thinking he was going to be paying for days for that excess of exertion he'd indulged in last night.
"Edward, please, don't. We've been through all this."
"I said that she could come home, didn't I? But she can't keep the brat. That's out of the question. I've been embarrassed enough as it is, without having to put up with that."
"Surely that doesn't matter now?" Kelsey suggested gently. "The main thing is to find Melissa safe and sound, and then the rest can be dealt with."
They had told the Bargmans the minimum, a variation on the truth, that Kelsey had seen the girl and Cruz had offered to help. They didn't ask why a Trinity West cop would be involved, and Cruz hadn't volunteered an explanation. He wasn't sure he knew, anyway.
"Easy for you to say," Bargman said to Kelsey, his voice quivering with indignation. "You didn't have that punk busting into your house, waving around a knife and threatening you."
Cruz straightened up. "When did this happen?"
"Just this morning. He accused us of hiding her."
"What happened?"
Bargman's mouth tightened. "He searched the house. When he saw she wasn't here, he left. I called the police, and they came, but they weren't much use," he said, giving Cruz a pointed look.
He could imagine, Cruz thought. Domestic problems were the bane of a cop's existence. Everyone expected the police to magically solve in ten minutes family problems that had been years in the building. But at least this explained the man's attitude; it was a common result of having your home invaded and being helpless to stop it. It was frightening, and many men didn't take too well to that, hiding it behind a wall of outrage.
"What else did he say? Where he was going? Where he thought she might be?"
"He just screamed cuss words over and over. Typical. Then he drove off in that yellow car of his, screeching tires and waking up all the neighbors."
Cruz didn't bother to ask for a description of the vehicle; it had been on the supplemental report.
"Anything else?" he asked instead.
"He … threatened Melissa," Mrs. Bargman said quietly. "Said he was going to find her and kill her, so we'd better not try to hide her or help her."
"Bastard." Bargman spit the single word out. "Punk like that won't stop me from taking care of my own daughter."
So there was parental concern there, under the anger and the arrogance, Cruz thought. But it was buried deep, and he understood why Melissa hadn't thought it was there at all.
"Please," Mrs. Bargman said, "you're the only ones who have seen her since she ran away. You have to find her."
"We'll do our best," Cruz said.
"If we find her," Kelsey said, "there's no guarantee she'll want to come home. She was … very upset."
Mrs. Bargman sighed. "I'm sure she is. We were just so … shocked when she told us she was pregnant."
"She was always a good girl," Bargman insisted, "until she met this dope freak."
"Please," Mrs. Bargman begged, "bring her home. I'm so worried about her."
Cruz stood up. He was weary of this, and he'd only been here an hour; he could imagine how the girl had felt. "If we find her, we'll try to at least get her to talk to you. You might want to think about what you want to say, if you really want her to come home. I'd guess she'd take some persuading."
"But she's my daughter, and she's a minor," Bargman exclaimed. "You have to bring her back. It's your job!"
Cruz sensed, rather than saw, Kelsey stiffen. He glanced at her and saw that she'd gone very pale. He looked back at Bargman.
"It's not even my jurisdiction," he said, an edge in his voice that was due more to the look on Kelsey's face than to the man's belligerent attitude, even in the face of his daughter's possible danger. "Any agency that finds her can hold her for about six hours at the most."
"But the guy who took the report said if we filed charges against her for grand theft—"
"That," Cruz said, really irritated now, "is between you and your conscience. Kelsey?" He gestured toward her, indicating the door. She stood up, still a little white.
"I still want to know why you didn't call the police when you saw her," Bargman said, with a suspicious look at Kelsey.
"She'd never seen Melissa before," Cruz interjected smoothly. "How was she to know she was a runaway? And then she was gone again, anyway."
It wasn't exactly a lie, and at this point he wasn't sure he cared whether he lied to this blustering man or not. Right now, he just wanted Kelsey out of here.
She said nothing as they got in his truck, and nothing as he drove away from this house that was the picture of Middle America on the outside—neatly mowed lawn, flowers in the flower beds, windows glinting in the California sunset—and chaos inside.
When they were out of sight, he let out a pent-up breath. "Well, they're not quite the monsters you said Melissa painted them as, but they're no prize, either."
Kelsey said nothing.
"It never stops amazing me how little some parents know about their own kids. Don't they ever listen? I'd like to hear Melissa's version of what happened."
The silence continued. Kelsey stared at … nothing. Cruz was worried, but he didn't know what to do or say. Finally he decided to just let her alone to work it out; he wasn't sure anything he would say would help anyway.
But when they had been driving for neatly a half hour and Kelsey still hadn't spoken, he pulled off the road into a rest area. She didn't even seem to notice. He turned in his seat and reached out to take her hands; they were like ice.
"Kelsey? Are you all right?"
She stared down at their hands, then, slowly, lifted her gaze to his face. She was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. Or as if she'd slipped back to another time, a time in which he didn't exist, when nothing existed except the pain that shadowed her eyes.
"God, honey, stop it!" he exclaimed, fear kicking through him. "It's all right. He's just a jerk, that's all. And he's not your jerk. You don't have to deal with him."
It sounded silly even to him, but her eyes seemed to focus then, just a little.
"He … said that. Those same words. Just like he did."
It took him a second to sort out the pronouns and realize which two hes she was talking about. He swore silently, stung by her pain. He didn't know enough, and she didn't trust him enough to tell him the source of her fears. And that hurt in a way he'd never quite known before; somewhere in the past two weeks, Kelsey had become more important to him than he'd realized.
"Kelsey," he whispered, tightening his grip on her hands. "It's all right. You're safe."
He didn't know what else to say. But it seemed to be enough; after a moment she seemed to come back to herself. He felt a spark of admiration when she drew herself up and shook off the ugly memories that had seized her.
"I'm sorry," she began, but he hushed her with a gentle finger across her lips. A bad decision on his part, for the feel of her just reminded him of the well of hot imaginings he'd been living in of late, and of the moments beside the pond when those imaginings had nearly become reality, but when she lowered her eyes in grateful acceptance, he was glad he'd stopped an apology that was hardly necessary.
She drew a deep, long breath, and he saw her shiver as she let it out. He couldn't help himself, he reached out and pulled her against him. To his surprise, she came without resisting, sagging against him, as if too weary to protest.
They sat there for a long time as the last of the sunlight faded and the sky went from pink-and-orange-streaked blue to black.
"That … hasn't happened in a long time," she said at last.
"It's all right," he repeated. Then, trying for a lighter tone, "I can see where he'd bring it on. He's a real … peach."
He couldn't see her face—and he wasn't about to move her from where she was resting her cheek on his shoulder—but he thought he
felt her smile.
"Thank you," she said.
"For a weak joke?"
"No. For … getting angry at him. For Melissa."
He opened his mouth, realized what he'd been about to say, and shut it again. Then, as she shifted slightly, resting more of her warm weight against him, he rather recklessly said it anyway.
"If I was mad, it was more about you than about Melissa."
She went very still. "Me?"
"He upset you, and I didn't like it. Or him, at that point. You didn't need that."
"That's … one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," she said quietly.
He gave her a swift, hard hug. "If that's true, then you need to hang around better people."
She leaned back then and, for the first time since they'd left the house, met his eyes. "I am," she said.
Cruz blinked. Then, incredibly, he felt himself blush, something that hadn't happened in years.
"I… That was quite a leap for somebody who hated the very thought of cops not too long ago."
"I never really hated cops, only what they … sometimes have to do."
"Even the cops who took you back home?" he asked gently.
"I…"
She shivered and pulled away from him. He hated to let her go, but he sensed this wasn't the time to hold her closer than she wanted to be. He didn't push, didn't speak at all, and after a silent moment a rush of words came from her, not the denial he'd expected but an admission he hadn't dared hope for.
"I did hate them. For a long time I hated them. But I grew up. I saw it wasn't their fault." She shook her head then. "At least, I thought I had. But apparently I was carrying around more of those old feelings than I realized."
Cruz tried not to read too much into the fact that she had used the past tense, but at the same time he felt a burgeoning of hope deep inside him.
"Things have changed, Kelsey," he said. "Kids have more rights than they used to, and while the system is a long way from perfect, it's a lot more aware that sometimes … home isn't always sweet home."
A MAN TO TRUST Page 19
