Almost Perfect

by Marilyn Tracy

  She tried assisting Pete as he struggled against the mud and his own pain for a few seconds, though she felt totally useless, and worse, a hindrance. Finally, between her tugging at him and his oath-ridden pushing, he achieved a shaky-kneed stance. He looked like a wounded bear, and seemed all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

  “We’ve got to get you in out of the rain,” she said.

  He didn’t argue with her, but he seemed to be without use of his legs for several seconds as he leaned his weight against her and shoved against the unresisting mud. His eyes, as they passed over her, seemed without recognition, without anything but that shocked, sharp pain.

  Craig, who had been the kind of man who would complain about a paper cut for three days or more, would have been close to tears and begging for her help. This man, who bore a death’s head tattoo on his arm and a bleeding open wound on his head, was preternaturally quiet and his suffering seemed strangely larger because of his silence.

  “Come on,” she encouraged, rocking him upright, looping an arm beneath his and gripping him around his back.

  Though the bunkhouse was closer, she steered him toward her home, thinking only of the warmth, the water and the bandages in the bathroom cabinet.

  He balked at the steps, pulling back a little. “No,” he muttered, gripping her arm in a painful clasp. “You’ve got to get out of here. Take the girls and go.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, pushing him toward the steps. “You’re hurt”

  He didn’t argue further, but stumbled up the steps, nearly crushing her with his weight.

  She fumbled with the door and guided him to the kitchen table. He sank into one of the chairs with a bitten groan. He rested his forearms on the tabletop, smearing the clean surface with red mud and then laid his head down on his wrists.

  “I’m going to be sick,” he said:

  Carolyn shot to the kitchen cabinet for a pan, telling him to hold on. She flicked on the overhead light before setting the kettle on the floor beside his dripping and muddy feet.

  His face was a sickly shade of gray and his lips were liberally coated with mud. The wound on the back of his head was still sluggishly oozing blood. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were dilated or not, for they were closed now, but his shallow, labored breathing frightened her.

  The mud on her own boots caused her to slip a bit on the linoleum as she flew to the sink to make a warm compress to use in cleaning his wounds.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I was careless,” he said clearly.

  She gently pressed the warm, wet cloth against the lump on the back of his head, wincing as he swore aloud when she touched him. “I thought it was you coming back,” he said. “I went out without my gun.”

  Carolyn knew why he’d gone outside without a gun. He’d been planning to talk to her, ready to explain the tattoo on his arm, the reason for its presence.

  “They didn’t say much,” he said. “Just jumped me and lit out.”

  “The Wannamachers?” she asked.

  “They didn’t leave their calling cards,” he said. “Except on my head.”

  “But you saw them? Big fellows, stocky? Cowboys?”

  “There were three of them.”

  “Three? But...”

  “Three. Bubba, Jimmy...and a man I think is a Canadian. Ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  It was only then that Carolyn realized that mud wasn’t solely responsible for the marks on Pete’s face. His full lips were even fuller now, bruised and dark. A cut trailed from the side of his lips that often lifted into a grin. He wasn’t grinning now.

  One of his eyes was already blackening and a semicircular matching cut showed how closely he’d come to losing vision in that eye. She wished she could kiss the pain away as she did her daughters’ hurts.

  She lightly, gently washed the mud from Pete’s face. She didn’t know which of them winced more, she at the sight of his pain, or he at feeling it.

  “We need to call the state police,” she said, grimacing. “I think this is proof enough.”

  “What you need to do is go out, get in the car and drive you and the girls as far away from here as possible. Until this is settled.”

  “It’s my land,” she said.

  He sighed and worked his bruised fist open and closed. “They’re not playing games, Carolyn,” he said. His tongue gingerly touched his torn lip. “They can be stopped, but not while you and the girls are in danger.”

  “They beat you up as a message to me, didn’t they?” she asked, nearly rhetorically, for she instinctively knew it was the truth.

  He nodded, absently, she thought.

  “And threatened to hurt me or the girls if we called the police.”

  He gave the merest ghost of a smile. “You’re quick.” he said. “So, go get in the car and get the hell out of here.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m staying,” he said softly, evenly, but something in the tone sent a shiver of fear down her spine.

  “I can’t leave,” she said.

  “You have to,” he growled as he took her wrist. His battered face shifted upward and his eyes met hers with fierce intensity. “You have to go.”

  “I can’t,” she said, then added, before he could argue, “I don’t have anywhere to go to. Nor the money to do it with. This place is all the girls and I have.”

  “I’ll give you the money,” he said, releasing her wrist. “You and the girls hole up somewhere—”

  “The girls, yes. Okay. I’ll have Taylor keep them—”

  “That’s not good enough. The Wannamachers will look for them there first. They’ve got to be taken out of the area completely. Are you listening to me? I don’t want those bastards to so much as look at Jenny or Shawna.” He fumbled with his pocket and finally managed to get his battered hand in the slot. He winced as he withdrew his wallet. He handed it to her. “Now will you get in the damned car and go?”

  “The girls are with Taylor,” she said, not accepting the wallet.

  “Oh. That’s why they’re not here asking a thousand questions.”

  “Yes,” she agreed shakily, feeling an odd desire to chuckle at the thought.

  He bit back another oath as she brushed the cloth over his cheek. Another cut came to light with the removal of the mud. It carried the same semicircle shape.

  Bubba Wannamacher always wore his high school class ring. It could easily produce this kind of cut, she thought.

  Carolyn didn’t try to analyze why she felt guilty, she simply accepted it. She’d been the one to bring Pete onto their ranch. She’d been the one who left him there. And she’d been the one, with Doc, to let the Wannamachers know Pete was alone out there. And she’d been the reason why Pete had gone out to meet them without a weapon, because there had been too much left unsaid between them.

  Pete gently pushed her hands away from him and used the table as a crutch to rise to his feet. Unsteadily he crossed the kitchen to the sink and turned on the water. He ran his muddy hands beneath the warm stream and lowered his head to the faucet. When he raised back up, Carolyn could see the shiver ripple down his back.

  “You’re freezing to death,” she said. “We’ve got to get you out of those wet clothes.”

  He ignored her. “They said they’d give you two days. I don’t want you to take even those. I mean it, Carolyn.”

  “It’s not just the lack of money. This is my home, damn it, and I’m not walking out on it. Not without a fight.”

  Pete smiled crookedly. Or perhaps he grimaced. “These boys fight dirty,” he said, leaning heavily on the countertop.

  “What do they want so badly?” she asked.

  “My guess is drugs. They’ve been using your place as a drop site. Probably a connection point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A distribution center. A place where a large stash is separated into several smaller caches and dispatched. Usually by small planes.
This would be a perfect site. It’s largely unpopulated, close enough to a bigger city to have airports, fuel, even trucks, but far enough from civilization that small planes wouldn’t be noticed.”

  “But why this place? The Wannamachers have their own ranch. Why not right on their own land?”

  “Probably because that would be too close to home. Literally. Your place has been empty for years. Piece of cake to use it,” he said, but he no longer was looking directly at her. She had the feeling that he knew something and was leaving it out. Some other reason why they would use her place.

  “We have to call the police. They’ll give us protection.

  They have to know about this.”

  “No,” he said uncompromisingly.

  Appalling her, she remembered his words only that afternoon. Don’t tell them where I am. Surely that wasn’t his consideration. She thought of the tattoo on his arm, the suggestion that she call the FBI.

  “I’m not leaving, Carolyn,” he said.

  Strangely, at that moment, his leaving was the furthest thing from her mind. “You’ve got to get out of those things,” she repeated.

  “I mean it, Carolyn. You’re getting out, but I’m not.” His broken lip lifted in a half grin. “I’ll stop them. Trust me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  He turned to the countertop and leaned forward, propping his body on his hands, and while the position should have struck her as weary or even weakened, it seemed to her that he was holding in a wild fury.

  “Come upstairs,” she said. “I’ll run a bath for you. And there are dry clothes in my closet.” Craig’s clothes, items she hadn’t been able to throw away. They would be somewhat small on Pete but would do. She didn’t know why the notion of Pete wearing her husband’s clothes should rattle her, but it did.

  “I mean it, Carolyn. I’m not leaving.” He was caught in the broken-record cycle of shock, repeating his strongest, most pressing concern. That it should be about her touched her deeply.

  “I’m not asking you to,” she said softly.

  He turned then and met her gaze squarely. She didn’t know what he could read in her eyes, didn’t even know what she was feeling. But what she read in his was a combination of scarcely banked anger and a shockingly deep determination.

  Carolyn had the clear knowledge that the Wannamacher brothers had messed with the wrong man. And on the heels of that thought she realized the power exuding from him at that moment acted on her like a splash of freezing water even as it thoroughly heated her.

  “C-come upstairs,” she said raggedly.

  He nodded then and pushed away from the sink. Slowly, carefully, he made his way past the kitchen table and through the door. She placed her hand on his arm as he passed her and she felt his muscle flex in response, though he didn’t say a word.

  She followed him up the stairs and went on down the hall to her room as he entered the bathroom. She could hear the water running in the tub and fought the shaking in her hands as she gathered a fresh towel and the largest sweater and pair of jeans she could find.

  Oddly, though she still had many of Craig’s clothes, she couldn’t seem to find underthings. Why would she have kept the outer wear and gotten rid of the rest? Holding Craig’s clothing in her arms, she realized she felt no attachment to them, couldn’t remember Craig ever wearing this particular blue sweater, couldn’t imagine him pulling it over his head, his blond hair ruffled afterward. But she could picture Pete running his hand through his hair, a lopsided grin on his battered face.

  She lightly tapped on the bathroom door and, when he didn’t answer, hesitated before turning the knob. It was unlocked and opened silently at her touch. Cautiously she peeked around the door. And froze in place.

  Pete had already shed his wet things and was lying back in a cloud of steam. His eyes were closed and his hands were resting on the curved sides of the large tub. One long leg was stretched up the wall and the other was bent and resting against the side of the bath.

  His chest sported a few bruises though it was his muscled stomach that had taken the worst abuse. The cut beside his eye and the one at the edge of his lip seemed to stand out in relief against his pale skin. He’d already rinsed the mud from his body and hair and he resembled nothing so much as a knight back from the wars.

  As if he could feel her staring at his naked body, he opened his eyes and met hers. He didn’t smile. Nor did he move to cover himself.

  “H-here are some clothes,” she stammered.

  “Thanks,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

  Did he have a concussion? Should she leave him alone? What if he slipped into unconsciousness?

  She set the sweater and jeans on the hamper and hesitated beside the tub, trying not to stare at him, unable to do anything else.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, carefully shifting her gaze to the window above the tub.

  “No.” His answer was uncompromising and definitive. She didn’t know why it flayed her and made her feel as if he were shutting her out, pushing her away.

  “Sure?”

  He didn’t answer and she quietly left the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind her. Through the wood barrier she heard a sudden smack of his hand against the water before he shut off the faucets. She leaned back against the door, unashamedly eavesdropping, worried that he would get sick, that he would drift into sleep.

  She heard him mutter something to himself and again heard a splash. And in a flash she understood. He was angry. Embarrassed and angry. He’d come to her ranch to drive off the Wannamachers and had been brutally beaten because of it. But he was furious that he’d been caught without a weapon in his hands, livid that they’d gotten the better of him.

  And embarrassed that she knew about it.

  Oddly enough, this understanding of his reaction eased Carolyn’s mind. He wasn’t drifting into unconsciousness, he wasn’t suffering a concussion. He was simply, starkly furious.

  Carolyn pushed away from the door and went down the stairs. It wasn’t until she saw the disaster of mud in her kitchen that she remembered she’d left the car running with the lights on.

  She grabbed a jacket from one of the pegs and, accidentally slamming the door closed behind her, dashed out into the sleeting rain and after only a slip or two, managed to reach the Ranger. She left it where it was, merely cranking the key to the left to turn it off. The lights doused with the dying engine and she raced back to the house.

  She collided with a dripping, naked Pete as she reentered her kitchen. He grabbed her shoulders and held her back from him. “Damn it, Carolyn, you can’t go out there without a gun.”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. She only stared at him, the heat rising in her cheeks.

  “You saw what they did to me. For God’s sake, sweetheart, what’s to stop them from coming back a second time? You think they won’t rough you up, as well? Or worse?”

  The battered condition of his face and body and the look of stark horror and shock in his eyes robbed his words of real rebuke, but sparked a rush of tears to her eyes anyway, not because he’d expressed himself with anger, but because it was so obvious that he cared for her.

  And cared deeply.

  Chapter 9

  At the sight of tears springing to her eyes, Pete swore softly and slid his hands down the slick, wet sleeves of her icy-cold parka.

  “Ah, don’t, Carolyn. Please,” he said.

  Her tears and the fact that he’d been the cause of them made him want to strike out at some inanimate object, yell at the night...or drag her into his arms to cradle her against his body, holding her forever.

  “Carolyn,” he said again, and even to himself her name sounded ragged and harsh on his lips.

  If she had looked away from him, if she had pulled back even a step, if she had done anything signifying that he should release her, he told himself he would have complied. Surely he would have.

  But she didn’t look away. A film of tears
washed her blue eyes, making them seem larger, even more luminous than he’d thought possible. And she half smiled, a tremulous, partly apologetic lifting of the corner of her lips.

  That she should apologize to him...

  A single tear snaked a trail down her cheek, carving a path in his heart. She lifted a shaking hand to the bruises at his ribs. “They hurt you so badly,” she said.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered. He felt incapable of vocalizing anything beyond begging her to melt into his arms and felt he couldn’t utter such a plea...so said nothing more.

  She closed her eyes then and another tear raced for freedom. He rubbed it away with his thumb. And another ran free and he caught it, also. It seemed to tremble on his thumb like some rare gem seen only every couple of hundred years. The hot tears on his skin seemed to burn him, to reprove him for chastising her after she’d done so much for him that night. Every night since he’d come to her ranch.

  In some mysterious fashion, she and her daughters had pried open a doorway deep inside him, a door he’d thought closed forever. He had the sensation of a warm, scented wind blowing through him now, and it both terrified him and made him ache for more. But not at the expense of hurting her. Never that.

  If she’d moved, turned, even sighed, he would have been able to resist kissing her. But she held perfectly still, a rain-drenched butterfly snared by his harsh words, caught in his rough grip. Her face was slightly upraised and her lips parted slowly, unconsciously, he thought. And he had to touch her, had to feel the satin of her skin, had to taste the tears on her face, needed to erase her sorrow with a kiss.

  Or perhaps it was his own pain he needed to assuage.

  And then he didn’t care about rationales or reasons. He lightly, almost nervously pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips trembled beneath his own and he both heard and felt her quick intake of breath. The cut at the side of his mouth stung for a second then was forgotten as her tongue lightly, hauntingly connected with his own.