GAGE BUTLER'S RECKONING

by Justine Davis

  "Not much." Gage directed his answer to both Quisto and the traffic officer Laurey guessed would be taking the actual accident report. "Dark clothes. Gloves, too, I think, from the hands on the wheel."

  Quisto's brow rose. "Interesting. It's cool out, but not cold."

  He was right, Laurey thought, but she didn't quite see why it was interesting.

  Gage closed his eyes, and Laurey leaned forward, afraid he might be feeling worse. But when he spoke again, she realized he'd only been trying to replay the scene in his mind.

  "Odd," Gage said, sounding puzzled. "It was so close, I should have been able to see more, but it's all … dark."

  "Maybe it'll come back later," the investigator said, then went off to make some measurements on the street and alleyway as Quisto and Gage tried to estimate the extent of damage to the suspect vehicle.

  What a contrast, Laurey thought as they talked about what was obviously most important to them. Quisto's dark beauty against Gage's blond perfection. Yet she knew from Caitlin that both of them considered themselves alike in the most important way; they were both defined much more by the gold of their badges than their looks.

  "I told them which way it went," Mr. Cordero put in helpfully. Quisto turned to look at the older man he apparently hadn't yet realized was there in his concern over his friend. And the escaped hit-and-run driver.

  "Señor Cordero, gracias para su ayudan. ¿Como esta su esposa?"

  "Mejor, Quisto," the older man said. "Gracias."

  She knew just enough Spanish to know that Quisto had thanked him for his help and inquired after his wife. It was interesting, Laurey thought, that both Quisto and Gage allowed this diminutive old man the familiarity of first names, yet accorded him the respect of being addressed as Mr. Cordero. But not surprising, she supposed, when she remembered what Quisto had told her about the part Cordero had played in the breaking up of The Pack, allowing the police to stage a mock arson attack on his store both to further Quisto's own murder investigation and to lure the vicious street gang deeper into the undercover net Ryan Buckhart had been weaving.

  The paramedic who had been checking Gage's temple straightened up at last.

  "You got off easy, it seems," he said. "But I'd recommend an X ray of that granite skull of yours. That's a nasty whack you took there."

  "I noticed," Gage said dryly. "I think I hit the door handle."

  "Since it's you, they'll let us cancel the ambulance and run you in to the hospital," the man said. "Let them take a look."

  "I'm fine. I don't need—"

  He paused when the paramedic shook his head. "No joking, Gage."

  "He's right," Quisto added. "You don't mess with head injuries."

  Laurey waited, expecting Gage to continue to brush off the recommendations. She was surprised when, after a silent moment, he nodded. Somehow she had expected him to be more stubborn about it, although she wasn't sure why.

  The paramedics nodded and began to pack up their gear.

  "I'll go over with you," Quisto offered, but Gage shook his head. Gingerly.

  "I'd rather you find the idiot in the van," he said.

  "You'll need a ride home," Quisto said pointedly.

  Gage glanced at what was left of his car; what hadn't been bent was covered with the foam the fire department had used to be sure no fire started. His mouth twisted.

  "Yeah," he muttered. "But you know how long this'll take. I'll worry about that when they're done poking and prodding and telling me what I already know, that I'm okay. Just find the jerk, all right?"

  Quisto hesitated, and before she even thought about it Laurey said, "I'll go. My rental car's right there, and I can take him home."

  After an instant of consideration, Quisto nodded. Gage, on the other hand, looked utterly startled. Shocked, in fact. No more than I am, Laurey thought, wondering where the offer had sprung from. Strictly out of common courtesy and the urge to offer help where needed, she told herself. Nothing more.

  "That's good of you," Quisto said. "Now I'll get out there and rally the troops. Maybe we can scare this moron up."

  "Do I get a say in this?" Gage asked, his tone teetering on the edge of sarcasm. Laurey knew it was directed at her and couldn't stop the heat that rose to her cheeks.

  "It's the perfect solution," Quisto said, his brows exaggeratedly raised. "Don't you agree?"

  Gage's eyes were fixed not on Quisto but on Laurey. "Only," he said pointedly, "if she stops referring to me in the third person when I'm right here."

  Laurey wished the night had been cold enough for those gloves he'd said the driver wore; it might cool her now flaming face. She had been talking that way. She hadn't even realized it.

  "You called me Gage when you first got here," he said quietly. "Do you think you could manage it again?"

  Had she? The image of those first moments when she'd seen him lying so still swamped her. And the memory of his name escaping her as more plea than anything.

  "I … thought you were dead," she stammered.

  "Thanks," he said, sarcasm creeping back into his voice. "I guess I know now what it would take."

  She nearly moaned aloud; she truly hadn't meant it to sound that way. Quisto backed up a step, his quick, dark eyes flicking from Laurey to Gage and then back again, speculation dawning on his face.

  "I'll leave you two to work it out," he said. "And I'll check on you later, buddy."

  He was gone before either of them could react. Laurey didn't know what Quisto had been thinking, to bring that speculative look to his face, but she was fairly sure she didn't want to know. It was too much, when placed on top of the obvious need to apologize to Gage for her unintentional rudeness.

  She couldn't even look at him, so she looked down at her hands instead. And saw that they were shaking, rather fiercely.

  "God," she moaned under her breath, closing her eyes. She was reacting as if she'd been the one hit and nearly killed.

  She felt a sudden warmth on her chilled fingers. Startled, her eyes snapped open. She stared down at her hands and saw Gage's big, strong hands cradling them. His heat surprised her. That he'd done it at all shocked her.

  "Your sister … were you there?"

  The quiet, gentle question was the last straw that broke her already shaky composure. She barely managed to stifle a sob.

  "I … no. But the pictures … we saw them. All of them. And her car, after, at the tow yard."

  His hands tightened around hers. "I'm sorry, Laurey."

  There was no doubting the sincerity of his words. And the irony of it hit her suddenly. He was the one who had nearly died tonight, he was about to go to the hospital to find out just how badly he was hurt, yet here he was comforting her.

  Maybe that nomination for sainthood was in order after all.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  He was going to be as sore as he'd ever been, Gage acknowledged glumly.

  He shifted on the narrow gurney. It creaked beneath him. Or at least, he thought it was the gurney; it could just as well have been his aching body.

  Tentatively he ran his fingers over his bare chest to the sorest spot along his ribs. His best guess was that his dive sideways away from the impact had gotten him just far enough for the seat belt to snap tight across his ribs at that spot. But he could hardly complain; had he not moved, he would have been in a lot worse shape. He'd seen how the driver's door had buckled into the interior, how the raw, torn metal would have ripped at his flesh. As it was, he was lucky the damage, thanks to the height of the van that had plowed into him, had been mostly above his legs after he'd dodged to the side. He'd seen enough accidents in his career to know it was a small miracle he'd walked away from this one relatively unscathed.

  And that wasn't the only small miracle that had happened tonight, he thought, still not quite able to believe that Laurey Templeton was really sitting outside in the emergency room waiting area. For him.

  Of course, she might have
changed her mind by now; it had been over an hour. Perhaps it had just been shock that had brought on her unexpected offer in the first place, some lingering need grown out of the memory of the accident that had taken her sister's life. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd left him to find his own way home.

  In fact, he expected it. It was the opposite he had trouble with; he'd never quite gotten used to people being concerned about him, even his friends. He never lost that little jolt of surprise when someone, the Buckharts, Caitlin, or even Kit, expressed worry about him. And he was afraid he didn't react in the best of ways; he tended to brush off their concern rather than accept it with any kind of grace.

  But if he was surprised when his friends worried, he was astonished that Laurey Templeton had cared enough to even think about staying with him at the hospital. She'd made it quite clear what she thought of him, and he'd been more than stunned when he'd looked up from the seat of his mangled car to see her staring down at him, her eyes wide with fear.

  She'd just been afraid she was going to be confronting a body, not a living person, he told himself. Disturbing for anyone, but especially to someone who had lost a family member in similar circumstances. That was what had upset her so, not any concern about him. And her offer to help had surely come out of courtesy, the kind any decent person would show in such a situation. That was all it was, and to read anything more into her generous action would be foolish. Worse than foolish.

  But he couldn't help admiring the fact that she had braved what had to be a scenario fraught with awful memories to help someone she didn't even like. He could hardly blame her if she bailed after the shock had worn off and she had time to think about it.

  The ER physician, a young black woman he'd met frequently when his job brought him here, returned, waving at him with a gloved hand.

  "Get outta here, Butler," she said with a grin, "and take those cops that keep coming in and out of here with you."

  He let out a relieved breath; the way his head was pounding, he'd been afraid something was going to show up on the X ray that would keep him here.

  "Thanks, Roxy," he said as he carefully levered himself upright.

  "That's Dr. Roxanne to you," she said. "And next time, be more careful who you drive in front of."

  She accompanied the teasing comment with a stern waggle of her finger, and Gage grinned at her.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, swaying slightly as he slid off the gurney and his feet hit the floor. The woman in hospital greens watched, and he steadied himself quickly, knowing that if he didn't, Dr. Roxanne Cutler just might change her mind and book him into this expensive hotel for the night.

  "Get some rest," Roxanne told him, her voice now serious. She held out a small white envelope the nurse had also brought. "And take these, even if you don't want to. They'll help with the pain, and any swelling later."

  "I'll be good, I promise."

  "See that you are. And you aren't driving," she added in a commanding tone.

  His mouth twisted ruefully. "I don't have anything left to drive."

  "Good." She eyed him pointedly. "Straight home, Butler. And to bed. Preferably alone."

  "Easy enough," he muttered, reaching for his bloodied shirt. He spent almost all his nights alone anyway.

  "I mean it, Butler. Your lady will just have to do without your … attentions tonight."

  He froze. "My … what?"

  She lifted a dark, arched brow at him. "The young lady who's been haunting our waiting room, asking repeatedly if you were really okay."

  Gage gaped at her.

  "Tall, dark hair, gray eyes?" Roxy said dryly. "Ring any bells?"

  "I…" He stopped, swallowing rather thickly. Ring any bells? He didn't want to think about it. "I just didn't think she'd stick around this long," he finally said.

  "Why? You haven't been treating her right or what?"

  There were times, he thought, when he wished Dr. Cutler had a more formal bedside manner. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because the doctor laughed.

  "Oh, honey, I want to hear this story," she said, "but not tonight. It's shaping up to be a busy one, so get out of my way."

  "Gladly," Gage muttered, but he gave her a lopsided smile as he said it; she was one of the best doctors around, and her cheerfully personable manner was part of the reason why.

  When she left, he pulled on his shirt, a task that took three times as long as it should have thanks to various twinges and aches. He fumbled, then gave up on the buttons as he walked out into the waiting room, his steps careful but steady. At least, they were steady until he saw her.

  Even with Roxy's teasing, he hadn't really believed it, yet there she was, still there, not reading a magazine or pacing in irritation at the long wait, but rather sitting quietly, elbows on the arms of the chair, her hands steepled before her as if in prayer.

  She looked up as if she'd heard him, and when she saw him, undeniable relief flashed across her face. She stood up with that easy grace he'd noticed before, so at odds with the gangly awkwardness he remembered from eight years ago, when she'd been taller than all the girls in her class, and many of the boys, as well.

  She walked over to him, stopping a bare two feet away. He caught a whiff of some sweetly spicy scent, a luscious counterpoint to the strong, antiseptic smells of the emergency room.

  "I didn't really expect…" His words trailed away uncomfortably, and he had to try again. "You didn't really have to wait all this time."

  "I said I would," she answered simply.

  "I know, but … I know you didn't really want to."

  She blushed. "I … I know I was…" She sounded as uncomfortable as he had, and when she went on, it was in a rush. "Look, can we talk about that later? I'm under orders to get you home. Fast."

  "Roxy," he guessed.

  "Dr. Cutler," she said.

  He nodded. "She's used to giving orders."

  "And you're not?" Laurey said, but in a teasing way that made it impossible to take offense. She was trying to keep this light, he saw, and he wasn't going to be the one to make it harder on her. It was kind enough of her to have stuck around to give him a ride home.

  "Just let me call Trinity West and—"

  "Uh-uh. She warned me that you'd want to do that, and she said the phone's off-limits. Home, take your pills and to bed."

  Gage blinked. "But—"

  "Besides, I already called."

  He blinked again, really startled now. "You … called Trinity West?"

  "I did. They didn't know who I was, of course, so they wouldn't tell me anything. But I had Quisto call here. They found the van."

  For the moment, he set aside his surprise that she'd done it in favor of the more important fact. "Where? Any driver? Did they—"

  He stopped when she held up her hand. "They found it over on Trinity East, abandoned. That was as far as it got, with all the damage. No driver."

  "And let me guess," he said tiredly. "When they called the owner, they said they were just about to report it stolen."

  It was her turn to stare. "How did you know that?"

  "Because that's the standard story. Sometimes it's true, most times it's to try and cover up the hit-and-run."

  "Oh."

  She looked almost chagrined, like someone confronted with something they supposed they should have realized before. And she also looked almost let down, as if she'd thought she had good news that had fallen flat. It made him feel bad about his reaction.

  "Thank you for finding out," he said.

  She gave him a half smile that seemed almost shy. "I thought you'd want to know."

  As a peace offering, it might not be the largest, but to Gage, it was enough for the moment. He was too tired, aching too much, to resist, anyway.

  "I did. Thank you," he said again.

  "Let's get you home," she said, and he found himself nodding and quietly following her as she walked out through the automatic doors. He watched her walk, wondering how he'd known, all
those years ago, that she would someday have this delightfully feminine grace.

  And telling himself that if he'd known a mere traffic accident would change her attitude so much, he might have been tempted to have one sooner.

  * * *

  It really wasn't very flattering, Laurey thought, that he'd been so completely surprised that she was still there when the doctor had finished with him. She had, after all, offered to wait. Did he think she would go back on an offer to an injured man? Any man?

  No, just him.

  Her breath caught, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. She hadn't looked at it from that angle before, but now that it had hit her, she couldn't deny it. Why wouldn't he think that? Why wouldn't he believe that while she would do such a simple thing for almost anyone, she wouldn't go out of her way to spit on him; hadn't she virtually said as much? And for the first time she realized just how she must have appeared to him since they'd met again after all those years.

  No wonder he'd thought her childish and naive. It was true. Only a child would bear such a grudge over so little for so long. She remembered her mother saying, after she'd graduated college, that she wanted to send Gage Butler a thank-you for getting her back on the right course. She'd been furious, of course, and angry with her mother for tainting her proud day with even a hint of those ugly memories.

  Her parents had, annoyingly, laughed at her, seeming startled that she still harbored such anger about the long-ago incident. Her father—a week after the graduation he couldn't be bothered to attend—had said she was selfish, only remembering her humiliation, not theirs, while her mother had told her they had feared that their daughter was slipping away into dangerous territory, and that someday, when she had children of her own, she would understand.

  Of course, they hadn't known she had been well into teenage love with the boy—the man—who had betrayed them all. No wonder it hadn't made sense to them.

  No wonder it hadn't made sense to Gage.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror, at the quiet street where she'd dropped him off. Nothing fancy, it was an older but still tidy neighborhood. When he'd directed her to the house on the corner, a modest Spanish style with a red tile roof like many in the area, she'd pulled into the driveway carefully, trying to stay on the twin, narrow strips of concrete and off the grass. She had exclaimed in surprise at the profusion of flowers that grew around the small front porch—that was something she missed about southern California, flowers all year round—and had found herself smiling when Gage disclaimed responsibility and told her to thank his gardeners, he didn't have time to keep up the garden. The place had been his family's, he told her, and he'd kept it after they'd left Marina Heights.