PAROLED!

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Gravel crunched under her feet. A wild wind snatched at her skirt and tore at the neat French twist that she always wore when she wanted to feel especially professional.

  Head down against the wind, she made her way past the Harleys to the door. As soon as she walked in, she felt her defenses go up.

  The interior was dimly lit. The air was blue with cigarette smoke and smelled of stale beer and sweat. Two pool-tables took up one end of the long narrow room. An ornate, nineteenth-century bar complete with brass rail and flyspecked mirror took up the other.

  Booths upholstered in dingy red vinyl lined both sides of the entrance. In the center of the long room, scarred wooden tables were arranged in a ragged circle around a small dance floor presently packed with burly rough-edged men and hard-looking women.

  Instead of chaps and Stetsons, however, these would-be cowboys wore black leather and tattoos. Their women wore skintight jeans and equally tight spandex tops.

  As Cait hovered by the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the artificial night, several of the women sitting around the tables glanced her way. In moments it seemed that every eye was on her. Not only was she out of her element, but she was conspicuously so in her best cashmere suit and expensive pumps.

  Clutching her purse tightly, she jerked her gaze toward the bar. Through the smoky haze she saw that every stool was filled—by working cowboys, this time. Muscular male backs formed a wall of plaid, obscuring her view of the man behind the bar.

  According to the woman on the phone, however, Tyler was working. "Yeah, Ty always works weekends," the slightly nasal voice had volunteered. "You a friend?"

  Cait had hedged. Not because she wanted to be coy, but because she simply didn't know what Tyler and she were to each other now.

  Taking another deep breath, she craned her neck for a better look at the man drawing schooners of beer and pouring shots of cheap whiskey.

  Sinewy and lean, with long legs and muscular arms, he was wearing a faded blue shirt and black jeans worn to gray at the pockets and in the creases across the front.

  The years hadn't been kind. His thick hair was now more silver than blond, and his cheeks were hollowed into a new gauntness. The web-fine network of lines surrounding his eyes made him look older than his forty-one years.

  In her mind's eye she saw him dressed in prison denim, losing his humanity day after day until his smoke-gray eyes had turned to slivered ice and his once-sensuous mouth had taken on that bitter line.

  Cait felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart was already beating faster than it should. Now it faltered, then began racing again.

  Her bottom bumped the door. Without realizing it, she had taken a step toward escape. A warning twanged in her head. Get out while you can!

  But Cait had run away only once in her life, fleeing from the pain of Tyler's marriage. She had vowed never to be that cowardly again.

  Drawing a steadying breath, she slipped into an empty booth to her right. As soon as the crowd thinned, she would find a quiet moment to approach Tyler.

  Several seconds later, however, she realized that quiet was a luxury at the Lucky Horseshoe. Country rock pounded from the jukebox and reverberated against the nicotine-stained ceiling. Conversation droned like angry bees. Couples crowding the small dance floor called to one another. Others concentrated on their drinking, keeping the saloon's lone waitress in constant motion.

  Five minutes passed before the harried woman with platinum curls and black roots found time to take Cait's order. Her face was young, but the faded blue eyes beneath over-plucked eyebrows seemed ancient. The badge on her cheap red blouse said "Angie."

  "Sorry to make you wait, honey," she said. It was the same weary voice that Cait had heard on the phone. "Gladys called in sick again today, and me and Ty are workin' the place alone."

  Cait instinctively glanced toward the bar. Tyler was drawing another beer. Each movement stretched the fabric of his shirt over wiry muscles and sinew. Under the worn cotton his shoulders seemed wider, his chest broader. That was often the case with men confined for long periods. Exercise and weight training were sometimes the only outlets for their pent-up energy. For a man of Tyler's stamina and vitality, that might not have been enough.

  "Uh, I'll have Beaujolais," Cait said with a smile the waitress didn't return. "Whatever you have open will do."

  "We got white or red, take your pick." Angie's pencil poised over the pad.

  "Red, please."

  Angie scribbled the order, slapped down a white cocktail napkin and walked away. Cait glanced toward the bar once more.

  Tyler was now leaning against the counter, talking to an older man wearing a sweat-stained Stetson. Mostly he listened, she noted. She noted, too, that there was a wound-tight tenseness about him that was new.

  She told herself that it was too dark where she was sitting for him to see her clearly. Still, she sank into the shadows and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  A loud burst of laughter erupted to her left, drawing her gaze. A giant of a man with a greasy ponytail and the flush of drunkenness on his unshaved face pounded the table with a massive fist, clearly enjoying his own joke.

  Cait hastily looked away, but not before she'd caught the lascivious glint of sexual interest in the small, mean eyes aimed directly at her.

  Terrific, Cait. Just what you need right now, she thought, glancing at the dial of her gold watch. It was nearly five. How long did bikers party on a Saturday afternoon? she wondered.

  The music stopped. Another song began. Someone shouted an obscenity. A woman's laugh shrilled.

  Across the room from booth number six, Tyler McClane listened to stockman Rand Harding's description of his latest problems with tourists hiking through his south pasture.

  At the same time, force of habit kept his gaze sweeping the room for potential trouble. The place was nearly full and had been since noon. It was the usual mix—bikers, wranglers from nearby ranches, one or two tourists, like the two ladies at the end of the bar.

  Right now the mood was happy. Several of the wranglers were quietly getting drunk. When they'd had enough, he would know it. So would they. There were one or two of the bikers that he would have to watch, particularly their leader, Big Mike Bronsky. Sober, he was run-of-the-mill mean. Drunk, he was dangerous. Tyler had had a bellyful of bullies like him in prison.

  "Hey, cowboy, got a light?" one of the lady tourists called over the din.

  Tyler fished into the watch pocket of his jeans for the matches every bartender learns to carry and silently lit her cigarette.

  As she leaned forward, her blouse gaped open, revealing the rounded globes of generous breasts. Rather than inciting him, however, the invitation made him realize just how long it had been since he'd felt the sharp, urgent ache for a woman.

  "Real interesting place you have here," she said with a gleam of interest in her overly made-up eyes. "Are you the owner, honey?"

  "Nope, just the hired help."

  "Can my friend and I buy you a drink?"

  "Thanks. I don't drink."

  A crusty old man at the bar looked up from his empty glass to shout, "Hey, Ty. Pull me another. I'm 'bout to die of the dust in here."

  Tyler excused himself to draw Ben Hadley another draft. Ben grunted his thanks before taking a long thirsty drink. "You pour a mean draft, son."

  "Part of the job, Ben."

  Hadley had known him when he was a scrawny kid riding a half-broken horse to school. He had been the one to alert Tyler to the possibility of a job. Tyler suspected that he might have applied a little pressure on the Horseshoe's absentee owner on his behalf, and he was grateful.

  A private man himself, Ben asked no questions. Better yet, he judged a man on things he himself had observed, not on the things he'd heard.

  "Busy night?" Ben asked as he wrapped his leathery hand around the sweating glass. Tyler leaned against the bar and watched the crowd.

  "It's better that way. Makes the t
ime go faster."

  "Just wait, son," Ben drawled as he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "When you get to be my age, you won't want time to go so damn fast." He struck a match and took a deep drag on the cigarette, puffing it to life.

  Tyler shot another look at the clock over the bar. Nine hours until closing. Nine hours until he could be alone again.

  Even though it had been eight months since he'd been let out of the cage that had been his home for thirty-seven months, he still craved solitude. Crowds, especially noisy ones like this bunch, made him edgy. Habit helped him shut out the constant racket, but casual conversation still came hard for him.

  "You have any storm damage?" he asked Ben as he concentrated on wiping the condensation from the bar.

  "Lot me two promising heifers," the stringy rancher muttered before lifting the glass to his mouth again.

  "You insured?"

  "Nah. Them companies got so many damn rules and regulations a man could strangle on 'em. I told 'em to go to hell last time they gave me trouble. Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, I know."

  Tyler thought about the long list of rules and regulations that governed nearly every minute of his life, even now. Every week for the next sixteen months he had to call his parole officer and answer his inane questions.

  Who had he seen that week? Had he gotten laid? Was he staying away from schools and playgrounds and every other damn place where children congregated?

  Every fourth week he had to drive into Sacramento to see the patronizing bastard in person. He'd had to get permission to take this job, to renew his driver's license, to move in over the bar. Hell, sometimes he wondered if he should call his PO before he took a leak.

  "Another shooter?" he asked Joselito Garcia as he emptied the brimming ashtray in front of Ben's foreman. The squat Chicano shrugged.

  "Why not? Ain't got nothing better to do 'cept try to get Angie here to go out with me." He wiggled his black eyebrows at the approaching waitress. As she reached the bar, Angie shot him a disgusted look.

  "You wish, cowboy."

  Joselito flashed a white smile that showed off his new gold tooth. "Sí, es verdad, señorita bonita."

  Angie pushed back her limp bangs and set her tray on the bar. "Lordy, my feet hurt."

  Tyler handed her the glass of wine he kept for her under the bar. "How many have you taken Big Mike?" he asked as she plopped her tray of empties onto the bar and reached for the wine. She drank heartily until the glass was empty, then set it next to the others.

  "Four, five, something like that."

  "What's he drinking tonight?"

  "Whiskey, but he's holdin' it pretty good so far."

  Tyler disposed of the empty beer bottles and put the dirty glasses into the bin under the sink. "Let me know if he orders another."

  "Will do." She yawned and flexed her sagging shoulders. "Damn, Gladys. I'm whipped, and the shift ain't half over."

  "Take a break. I'll work the tables."

  "Maybe I will, after I serve the uptown lady in booth six. Red wine."

  "Uptown ladies don't drink the kind of wine we serve." He opened the cooler and pulled out a jug of cheap California burgundy, then stretched overhead for a glass.

  Angie leaned forward. "No kiddin', Ty. We got us a classy one for once. I saw her soon as she come in. And I got a bulletin for you. She can't keep her eyes off you."

  "Yeah, right." Tyler glanced toward the booth by the door. The blow came hard and fast, like a homemade shank in the gut.

  "Know her?" Angie asked.

  Tyler jerked his gaze to hers, surprising a look of speculation in her weary eyes. "Yeah, I know her."

  Surprise flickered across Angie's face. "What's this, Ty? A secret love?"

  He placed the glass of wine in the precise center of Angie's tray, then slowly raised his head to look at her. Her gaze was bright with curiosity, her red lips slightly parted like those of a child eager for candy.

  "Serve the wine, Angie."

  His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. But the sudden white-lipped fear that crossed Angie's face was familiar. He had seen it often, on the faces of prison-wise cons who had mistaken his self-imposed silence for weakness. They had backed off then, just as she backed off now.

  "Sure, Ty. Whatever you say," she murmured uneasily as she hefted the tray.

  Shame brought a slump to Tyler's shoulders. He passed a hand down his cheek, tracing the faint scar edging his jaw. "Sorry," he said in the gentlest tone he could manage. "Just don't ask me any more questions."

  Angie nodded and scurried away. Tyler's gaze followed her toward the booth where Cait was sitting. She was half-hidden in shadow, but the clean fragility of her profile and the sweep of her rich, dark hair was unmistakable. She was wearing it up, the way she did when she was feeling vulnerable and didn't want the world to know.

  Vulnerable.

  Yeah, sure, he thought in disgust. The woman who had turned on him like a fierce vixen defending her kit.

  Tyler felt the tremors start deep in his gut where no one could see. He turned his back on the others and clenched his fists against his belly.

  For four years he had lived with her contempt festering in his soul. For four years he had burned inside whenever he'd thought of her.

  There had been times when he wondered why he hadn't given in to his needs ten years ago and buried himself so deeply inside her that she would never forget him.

  There had been other times when he'd wanted to put his hands around her slender neck and press his thumbs into the carotid arteries until that honeyed skin turned blue and her accusing eyes were closed forever.

  A monster. Caitlin believed him to be a monster. Knowing that, accepting that, had nearly broken him.

  Sweat broke out on Tyler's brow. Sickness churned in his stomach. The hatred he'd had for Crystal had been pure and clean, the kind a man reserves for evil. But it wasn't hatred he felt for Cait.

  "Uh-oh, looks like Big Mike's got delusions of grandeur," Ben muttered into his beer.

  "The señorita don't look none too happy, that's for sure," Joselito wisecracked to the mirror.

  Tyler turned in time to see Big Mike stop in front of Cait's booth. Instinctively he had one hand on the bar and his body braced to vault over, when he stopped himself. Cait was a big girl. Whatever happened, she'd brought it on herself.

  Across the room, Cait saw Tyler turn his back on her. From the expression that crossed his face, she knew that he had recognized her. She knew, too, that he didn't intend to be the first to renew old acquaintances.

  As the bleary-eyed biker leaned closer, she resisted the urge to look toward the bar again.

  "Name's Mike Bronsky, pretty lady. My friends call me Big Mike." He favored her with a boozy grin, showing teeth in desperate need of cleaning.

  "Mr. Bronsky." Cait tried to be polite, but her facial muscles seemed frozen.

  "I just been sittin' over there tellin' my buddies that a classy broad like your shouldn't be all by her lonesome." His voice had a definite slur. The man was drunk, or close to it.

  "I'm fine, really."

  Bracing massive fists on the table, he leaned forward a few more inches, bathing her face with the sour stench of whiskey. "You waitin' for someone? Some guy, mebbe?"

  "Yes, I am."

  Mike grunted. "Looks like he done stood you up."

  "I don't mind waiting. Really."

  Mike frowned. Just then a new song blared from the jukebox, causing his expression to turn cunning. "While you're waitin', honey, let's you and me show them bozos how it's done." He grabbed her arm with a sweaty hand and pulled her to her feet.

  Yelping in surprise, she jerked away. "No thank you." Her professional calm was unraveling at the edges. But a man like Mike fed on fear. Remaining calm was her only hope.

  The drunken glint in his eyes hardened into anger. Before she could anticipate his actions, he hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her from the booth. Reacting on ins
tinct, Cait stomped on his instep with her heel.

  "You bitch!" he bellowed.

  Cait saw his hand rise. She ducked, but he was too fast for her. The back of his hand struck her left cheek, sending her sprawling to the dirty linoleum.

  Pain exploded in her cheek as tears sprang to her eyes. Adrenaline flooded her veins, and she began to shake. The metallic taste of blood nearly gagged her.

  "You asked for this, bitch. Now you're gonna get it."

  Clearly enraged, Big Mike stood over her. Voices erupted. Chairs scraped as the biker's buddies jumped up. She was alone in a forest of legs.

  Almost strangling on fear, she hastily looked around for a weapon. There was nothing on the floor but cigarette butts and spilled beer. Desperate, she grabbed for her shoe and hefted it heel out, like a tomahawk.

  "Mike, wait a minute!" Her voice was husky with urgency. "You don't want this."

  "Better watch it, Mike," a drunken voice called out. "Bitch's about to make you into a soprano."

  "Like hell," Big Mike bellowed, charging toward her. Before he had taken two steps, however, he was caught from behind and swung around.

  "What the f—"

  "Time to call it a night, Mike. Right now." Nothing showed on Tyler's face. Nothing had to. The too-quiet, too-silky timbre of his voice said it all.

  Mike took a step backward, then caught himself. His buddies were watching. He'd heard that this guy McClane ran a clean, no-nonsense place by using muscle when he had to, but a man had his pride.

  "Butt out, cowboy," Mike sneered with as much bravado as he could muster. "I'm about to teach this bitch a lesson."

  Tyler didn't move. Nor did his gaze shift to Cait, but she felt certain he was intensely aware of her. "Seems to me she's the one doing the teaching," he said with a hint of amusement underscoring the stillness of his tone.

  Nervous laughter rippled through the onlookers. "’Bout time you learned manners, Mike," a woman's voice shrilled.

  "Damn right," added another.

  The derision only served to fuel Mike's rage. His mouth drew down, and his chest heaved. "Outta my way, cowboy," he said, surging forward.