AN INNOCENT MAN

by Margaret Watson

  "You wouldn't know your own feet if you fell over them," she spit at him. She would have moved toward her cousin but Connor's arm held her immobile. "Unless your father told you about them, of course."

  Connor bent his head and nuzzled her ear, saying softly, "It's all right, Sarah. Richard can't hurt me."

  "Is lover boy asking you to protect him?" Richard sneered. "What's the matter? Can't he fight his own battles?"

  Connor straightened and looked at the other man.

  Richard took a step backward and a flash of fear passed over his face.

  "I can take care of myself, Wesley. But don't worry, I only pick on people my own size." His gaze raked her cousin and settled scornfully on his face. "I wouldn't waste my time on you."

  Sarah wrapped her arm around Connor's waist as if to hold him next to her. He squeezed her shoulder again and then urged her forward. As they passed her cousin, standing rigid with fury in the middle of the sidewalk, Connor didn't even spare him a glance.

  As they got farther away from Richard, she felt his muscles gradually relax. Telling herself she should let go of him and put some distance between them, she tightened her grip on his waist. For a few minutes they walked without talking.

  "I'm sorry, Connor," she finally said in a small voice.

  "What for?"

  "For the things my cousin said. He's not speaking for the rest of Pine Butte, believe me."

  Ignoring the last part of her statement, he said, "Why do you feel you have to apologize for him? He's an adult. He's responsible for himself."

  She tried to pretend she couldn't feel the weight of his arm on her shoulders, his hand curling into her arm. It was impossible. Every cell in her body was aware of him. "I'm not apologizing for him," she finally said. "I'm sorry that he hurt you."

  "He can't hurt me, Sarah. I don't give a flying … hoot what he thinks of me. The Richard Wesleys of the world lost their ability to hurt me a long time ago. That was one of the first lessons I learned."

  Tightening her arm around him, she murmured, "Then I'm sorry you had to learn that."

  He slowed and stopped, turning to face her. "Why does it matter to you, Sarah?" His voice was oddly strained and urgent. "Why should you care about me? I thought, given the circumstances, you'd be glad of any hard knocks that life had dealt me."

  She looked at him, seeing the defiant, lonely boy instead of the man. "According to Barb, I should," she agreed, her voice soft. All her doubts about Barb's story flooded back, accompanied by a profound sense of guilt. "But I can't hate you, Connor. Whatever you did twelve years ago, you're an honorable man now. I'm trying very hard to judge you only by what I see now and not by what happened in the past."

  Connor could only look at her. The buildings faded away, the dusty street and withered grass of the lawns disappeared. The only thing he saw was the woman in front of him, watching him with her enormous blue-green eyes. Eyes that were a little defiant and a little worried, unsure of his reaction. Eyes that were filled with a wrenching guilt.

  Sliding his arms around her, he backed her up into a huge old poplar that stood next to the Sidewalk. He ached for her, had wanted her since the moment he woke up in her clinic and saw her bending over him. Hell, he'd probably wanted her since he'd heard her voice while he was unconscious.

  "Sarah," he murmured, before he brought his mouth down on hers.

  She hesitated for only a moment. Then she was kissing him back with a desire that burned as fiercely as his own. Her mouth opened and her tongue twined with his, frantic to taste him. His body tightened and he pressed into her, trying to absorb her into him. Their clothes were an intolerable barrier, and he clenched his fists to prevent his hands from tearing them away.

  He kept one hand wrapped around her, and with the other he pushed against the tree and eased himself back. After a moment, he stepped away from her and closed his eyes. He burned for her. He wanted her with an intensity that frightened him. Never before had one woman so obsessed him, haunting his dreams at night and all his thoughts by day. He had to back off before he found himself in serious trouble.

  "I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't mean for that to happen."

  She pushed away from the tree and brushed off her jeans, not meeting his eyes. "You don't have to apologize. It's not like I was objecting a whole lot."

  "I'm not sorry I kissed you." He couldn't help looking at her, and for just a moment the desire that throbbed in him was mirrored in her eyes. Jamming his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her again, he looked at her steadily. "I am sorry that I made you a target for every gossip in town."

  She sighed. "Don't worry about it. Chances are nobody saw us anyway. Besides, I'm not ashamed to be seen with you."

  At her words, the fire burned hotter and he simply stood and watched as she turned and started walking down the street. Finally he caught up and fell into step beside her. This time, he was careful not to touch her or brush against her. He'd been in control of himself for the past twelve years, and it frightened the hell out of him to lose that control now.

  "We should just make it to the bank on time." Her voice was slightly breathless, as if she, too, was having trouble with control. His loins tightened painfully again and he closed his eyes, trying to beat down his reaction to her.

  "Do you want me to come in with you?" she asked diffidently. "I can meet you back at the clinic if you like."

  "I want you with me." He didn't want to examine that statement. He couldn't think about how much he wanted her with him, and for how long.

  They paused at the door to the bank and he reached behind him to touch the folded bank statements in his back pocket. They were the first real evidence he had, and he needed to remind himself why he was here in Pine Butte. Using the skills he'd learned over the past years, he blocked out all distractions and tried to focus only on what he would ask Charles Goodman, the banker who'd been handling his mother's affairs.

  They stepped into the lobby of the bank and stood for a moment, looking around. There were a few other customers standing at the tables in the middle of the room, filling out withdrawal or deposit slips. Another couple of people stood at the teller windows, conducting business. Light from the tall, thin windows dappled the floor with the golden glow of late afternoon. Nobody seemed to notice them walking across the room.

  As they approached the row of teller windows, Connor felt someone staring at him. Glancing sharply around, he saw one of the tellers, a small, mousy woman, sliding her gaze away from him. Narrowing his eyes, he watched her for a second, then looked away. It was probably just another curious resident of Pine Butte.

  As they waited in the line for a teller Connor turned to Sarah and said softly, "Do you know the last teller on the right? The one wearing the brown dress?"

  He waited for her to casually glance in that direction, unprepared for her start of surprise. "That's Thelma Harrison, Harley's wife. He's the foreman out at the mine. Why did you ask?"

  His lip curled. "She was staring at me. I was just curious."

  Sarah placed her hand on his arm. Something stirred in his gut, something he didn't want to name. "Don't pay any attention to her, Connor. She's just being rude."

  He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep himself from pulling her into his arms right there in the bank. Somehow Sarah Wesley managed to get around all his defenses. He had to concentrate on why he'd come back to Pine Butte, he told himself almost desperately. He couldn't afford to get sidetracked by a woman, no matter how much he wanted her.

  It was their turn at a teller window, and he was a little disappointed that it wasn't Thelma Harrison's window. He'd have liked to see how she'd handle dealing with him face-to-face, he thought cynically.

  The young man who greeted them was pleasant and professional. "Can I help you?"

  "We'd like to see Charles Goodman. Tell him Connor MacCormac is here."

  The young man looked disconcerted, as if he wasn't used to problems he couldn't handle. "His secr
etary is Debbie James. She's sitting over there." He gestured to his left. "I'm sure she can help you."

  Connor placed a hand at the small of Sarah's back and headed toward the woman the teller had indicated. It wasn't just an excuse to touch Sarah, he assured himself. It was nothing more than a polite gesture. They had almost reached the large desk when he found himself fantasizing about how the skin of her back would feel. He snatched his hand away from her back as though he'd been scorched.

  "Ms. James?" He stopped in front of the desk and waited for the woman to look up. "I'm here to see Charles Goodman. You can tell him Connor MacCormac would like a word with him."

  "I'll check and see if he's busy, Mr. MacCormac," she murmured, pushing away from the desk. Her disapproving glance told him that she didn't think much of people who came in without an appointment.

  He rocked on the balls of his feet and waited for her to reappear. He had no intention of taking no for an answer, even if he had to barge into the office uninvited. He had nothing to lose, he thought bitterly. Since everyone here was determined to think the worst of him, he might as well give them something concrete.

  "He says to come on in." Debbie James looked puzzled and annoyed, as if the intrusion was a personal affront to her. She stood aside and held the door open, and Connor took Sarah's hand and urged her into the room after him.

  "Connor." The portly man behind the desk stood up and extended his hand. "It's good to see you again."

  Connor shook the older man's hand briefly, then settled into one of the smooth leather chairs that stood in front of his desk. "Thanks, Charles." He had felt Sarah's start of surprise at the cordial welcome and shot her a reassuring look. He probably should have explained about Charles before they got here.

  "What can I do for you, Connor? I assume everything's satisfactory at your mother's house?"

  "You've done a good job there," Connor agreed. "Everything's fine. I'm here about something I found in my mother's house that I'd hoped you could explain."

  The banker's smile became infinitesimally less welcoming. "I'll do my best."

  Connor leaned forward and pulled the sheaf of bank statements out of his pocket. "I found these while I was going through my mother's things." He laid them on the cool marble of the desktop and smoothed out the brittle pages. Running his finger down a column of figures, he stopped at the unexplained deposit and looked at the banker. "I wondered where this money came from, and I figured you would know."

  Goodman picked up the top statement and studied it. After a minute he picked up the next one, then the one after that. Each sheet he examined made his smile fade just a little more.

  "I have no idea where this money came from, MacCormac."

  Connor silently noted the switch from cordial, first-name basis to the more businesslike use of his last name. "This was a significant sum of money, Goodman. It was more than twice as much as her pension from the mine. Surely you would have noticed a deposit of this size."

  "We have a lot of customers, MacCormac. It would be impossible to remember every single transaction from every one of them. This was ten years ago, after all."

  "What about the bank's records? Wouldn't they tell you where she got this money?"

  Goodman shook his head quickly. "We only keep records for nine or ten years. Anything we'd have about this matter would have been destroyed by now."

  Connor stared at him, certain that the banker knew more than he was willing to tell him. Goodman couldn't quite meet his eyes, and he was fidgeting nervously with a letter opener on his desk. "Is there any way we could … jog your memory?" he said softly.

  Goodman pushed away from his desk and stood up, blustering. "Are you threatening me, MacCormac?"

  Connor raised his eyebrows. "Of course not. Why on earth would I want to threaten you? I was merely asking if there was anything we could do to refresh your memory."

  The banker turned his gaze on the woman sitting quietly next to him. "What are you doing here, Sarah? Surely you, of all people, don't want to associate with him."

  "I'll decide for myself who I want to associate with, Mr. Goodman." Connor heard the steel in her voice and wondered why she'd let her uncle push her around for so many years.

  "And if I were you," she continued, the smoothness of her voice not concealing the meaning beneath the words, "I would think twice about not cooperating with Connor. If I understand correctly, he's done business with your bank and you personally for a number of years. He might be interested in doing an audit of the accounts for his mother's house."

  Connor glanced at her, flabbergasted. She sat with her back very straight staring at Charles Goodman. To his complete astonishment, the banker turned a dull red and looked away.

  "I'm sure that Mr. MacCormac would find everything in order," he muttered, sitting down slowly. He looked at Connor with an almost pleading look in his eyes. "I'm sorry, MacCormac. If I could help you I would. I simply cannot."

  Connor stood up, taking Sarah's hand and pulling her with him. "I'm sorry to hear that, Goodman. Real sorry. You keep thinking about it. I'm sure something will come to you. And if it does, you know where to find me."

  The banker didn't offer his hand this time and Connor didn't offer his. He simply turned and walked out of the office. He strode past the secretary's desk, through the lobby and out into the hot sunlight on the street.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  "That was a hell of a curve you threw old Charles," Connor said as they walked slowly to the clinic. He was more tired than he'd realized, and he silently cursed his weakness.

  "All I did was explain some facts to him." Sarah seemed surprised by his remark.

  "Why did you just assume he was skimming money from the account for my mother's house?"

  She smiled sadly. "Human nature. He didn't think you'd ever show up in Pine Butte again, and he probably saw you as a never-ending source of anonymous money. I'm sure he rationalized it by telling himself that he deserved a cut for his time."

  "Well, whatever he thought, it wasn't enough to loosen his tongue about those deposits into my mother's account." His mouth tightened with anger. "And I'm damn sure he remembered what they were about."

  "You left him with something to think about." A slight smile curled her lips. "I wouldn't be surprised if you heard from Mr. Goodman again."

  "It depends on who that money was from."

  When she didn't answer, he glanced at her. "If that money was from someone powerful in this town, Goodman might be afraid to say anything," he said more gently. "You know who that means, don't you?"

  "My uncle may be used to getting his own way, but he wouldn't murder anyone. He's not like that." She sounded almost desperate.

  "We'll see," he said noncommittally. As they approached the clinic he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. All he could think about right now was that big bed in the back room. He glanced at Sarah's red head as she bent to unlock the door. And Sarah in it with him.

  Closing his eyes, he moved a step away from her. He was too tired to deal with those feelings right now. If he wasn't careful, he'd reach for her and say all kinds of things he'd regret later. Things he had no business even thinking about Sarah Wesley, let alone saying.

  "I'm going to lie down," he muttered.

  She took his arm immediately. He saw the concern and worry in her face. "Are you all right? I was afraid you were going to overdo it today. Do you need some help?"

  "I'm fine, Sarah. I just need some rest." His voice sounded too brusque, but he couldn't help it. He wanted nothing more than to turn to her and put his arms around her. He ached to tumble into that bed with her, to sleep with her body tucked in close to his.

  He turned away and headed toward the bedroom. Hell, who was he trying to kid? He wanted to do a whole lot more with Sarah on that bed than just sleep. A whole hell of a lot more. And that couldn't happen.

  He knew with a desperate certainty that if they made love, he wo
uld never be the same. He wouldn't be able to put her aside easily, as he had all the other women he'd dated over the years. She'd be engraved on his soul, burned into all those cold, lonely places inside him that yearned for her. No, Sarah scared the hell out of him. And if he touched her again he would be lost.

  As he eased the bedroom door closed he couldn't stop himself from turning around for one last look at her. As their gazes met and locked, he saw his own yearning reflected in her eyes. For just a moment, awareness blazed between them. He closed his eyes to block out her image, and when he opened them again she'd disappeared.

  Her footsteps echoed on the stairs up to her apartment, and he shut the door with a quiet click. Moving carefully, he walked to the bed and lowered himself onto the quilt. His body begged for sleep, but he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling.

  * * *

  "I don't think that's a very good idea."

  Connor sounded very final, and Sarah sighed. Dealing with a stubborn man wasn't her idea of fun at nine o'clock on a Sunday morning.

  "Why not?" She tried to sound logical. "It's a perfect opportunity to get to know some of the people here."

  "I didn't say I wanted to get to know the people. I said I wanted to find out what happened to my father."

  "Well, if you talk to enough people, maybe one of them will be able to help you."

  He pushed back from the table in her small, sunny kitchen and strode to the window. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he stood staring at the distant mountains. The worn fabric pulled tight against his hips, and she had to force herself to look up at the back of his head.

  "You still haven't figured out who sent that note, have you?"

  "As far as I know, only one person in this town knew my address, and that was Charles Goodman. Getting me back to Pine Butte is obviously the last thing he'd want to do. So, no, I don't have a clue."

  "You're not going to have another opportunity to see so many of the people who live here in the same place at the same time. I would think the town picnic is just the place you'd want to be."