“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply you were—” she shrugged. “I don’t mean that you’re not good enough or anything like that. I’m just not your type.”
He took a breath. “You’re right. And I’m not yours.” He stuck out a hand to shake. “Friends?”
She smiled, and the expression was dazzling, innocent and sweet and damnably delectable. She stuck out her hand. Zeke caught sight of her burns again. It triggered that odd sense of déjà vu and as he took her hand, he turned it over quizzically. “How’d you get these burns, honey?”
She sighed and lifted her hands in front of her. “A teddy bear,” she said. “My parents were killed in a house fire when I was six. I was there, too, but the firemen got me out in time, but they couldn’t get the bear away from me in time. It stuck to me.”
Ah, hell. Now if that wasn’t just about the saddest story he’d ever heard—
Irritated with himself, he frowned. “Why do I think I know you? It’s driving me crazy.”
Her face drained of expression and she backed away. “I don’t know. And I’m not going to talk about it again.” She whirled and splashed back toward her rock.
Good. That was that. He stalked through the trees without a second glance. Time to get out of town, all right. Trouble was brewing. He could smell it.
Chapter 3
*
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Mattie counted her stash. Sixty-seven dollars and forty-eight cents, including dimes and nickels. Not enough.
Restlessly she paced the room, trying to come up with some plan. She had to get out of Kismet, and quickly, or Zeke Shephard was going to have her spilling her secrets like a bag of marbles. And that she simply could not afford.
But sixty-seven dollars wouldn’t carry her very far on the bus, and in spite of all the changes in her life the past few weeks, she couldn’t see herself hitchhiking.
There was no one to call for help, no one who might loan her money, no one with whom she could seek refuge. All she had was sixty-seven dollars, a passel of ugly clothes and her wits.
She snorted softly to herself. Her wits. Right. Her wits—or lack of them—were what had landed her in this mess in the first place. If she’d used her wits, she would be happily typing letters and organizing the files of the English department at the university, taking night classes toward a degree in English poetry, instead of running for her life and working as a waitress.
“Damn!” she said aloud and slammed a hand down on the table. Her neat stacks of quarters shivered and clinked into disarray.
She cursed the day she had laid eyes on Brian Murphy, cursed the fact she had not seen the truth of him sooner, cursed her own silly weak hunger for a life and family of her own. Looking back, it was incredible that she had actually believed he could offer her anything. It was idiotic that she’d not questioned his wealth sooner, that she hadn’t seen how shady some of his friends were. She’d even seen a gun in his glove box and hadn’t thought anything of it.
Stupid.
She blew out a long breath and flicked aside the curtain to watch a family of tourists drag their suitcases inside the cabin next door. Three kids in shorts and good tennis shoes, a mother laughing and calling out cautions, a dad grumbling. So normal.
That’s what Brian had seemed to be. Normal. She’d met him at Mass, for heaven’s sake. Every Sunday, he brought his mother, who had trouble driving. Mattie had noticed him a long time before they spoke. A healthy, tall redhead with a smattering of freckles and merry Irish eyes, he never seemed to mind his duty. Sat calmly with his mother, helped her to the front for Communion, kept her arm tucked in his when they left the church.
Everyone at St. Pius loved Brian Murphy. He’d turned his father’s failing trucking business around in a few short years and gave generously to the church from the profits. He had a big family and a sweet way with children, and he’d seemed to think Mattie was the prettiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
Well, her hair, anyway. He had practically worshiped her hair.
From the start, Mattie had fallen for his charm and his intention to make an honest woman of her. Like Mattie, Brian wanted many children. He wanted a wife who devoted herself to making a home, though he didn’t object to her dabbling, as he put it, in poetry.
Thinking of it now, it sounded so patronizing, but above all things in life, Mattie wanted a family of her own. People to love. Children to tend. Pets shedding hair she could vacuum. She wanted the wildness of the Murphy family holidays.
Even now, the loss of those dreams ached.
Had he ever intended for her to find out the true nature of his business? She didn’t think so. The clues had been there all along, if she’d been less eager to dismiss the odd phone calls, the guns he kept everywhere—in his glove box and a drawer in his office and the cupboard at his house, the strange people with whom he sometimes did business.
Once she had become suspicious for a little while. It was money that tipped her off—he simply had too much of it. Murphy Trucking was a successful business, but successful enough to support the purchase of a Jaguar? A rambling home in an exclusive neighborhood? Trips to exotic places on a quarterly basis?
He convinced her he’d simply done very canny investing with the help of a good broker. A reasonable explanation.
But a lie, as she now knew.
She found out that Murphy Trucking operated on two levels—the upfront transport of all sorts of goods, from tomatoes to furniture, and the not-so-upfront transport of illegal goods. Mattie still didn’t know exactly what. Guns or drugs, most likely.
In the whole mess, Mattie was grateful for one thing: she’d learned in time. It made her sick to imagine herself marrying him, bearing his children and finding out ten years from now her husband was a criminal and murderer.
The night that had changed her life, she’d seen what Brian was capable of—cold-blooded murder. She had also seen the rage in his eyes when she fled. If he found her, he would kill her.
It was that simple.
Sixty-seven dollars wasn’t enough. Mattie stared at the quarters as if concentration might make them multiply.
Jamie flashed through her mind—Jamie Andersen, her foster brother, the one and only person who’d taken even a passing interest in her at any of the series of foster homes in which she lived from the time of her parents’ deaths when she was six until she found her own place when she was sixteen.
Jamie. She chewed the inside of her lip. He’d learned every hustle there was in reform schools and in the streets of Kansas City. Some of them he taught to Mattie in order to keep her safe, so she’d never fall prey to the dark-hearted men of the world.
Wryly, Mattie wondered if Jamie would have seen through Brian. Probably.
To give Mattie something she could always use, anywhere, anytime, Jamie gave her a survival skill of her own. In the smoky dark rooms of riverfront pool halls, Jamie taught Mattie the secrets of the stick. “You never know,” he’d told her, a cigarette dangling from his lips, “when your back will be against the wall. Stay in practice and you’ll never be sorry.”
Her back was against the wall.
“You were right, big brother,” she said aloud, wondering if his spirit could hear her. “I’m not sorry.” She scooped the money into her bag and slung the weight over her shoulder. There were a few things she had to do, the first being a ride to Flagstaff. Maybe Roxanne would take her.
*
THAT NIGHT, SOUTHERN rock and roll filled the steamy kitchen, blasting from the jukebox at Bronco’s. Flipping hamburgers, Zeke sang along with the Allman Brothers. With an artful twist, he tossed a patty into the air, caught it deftly on a big metal spatula and chuckled. Cooking wasn’t something he’d choose for his life’s work, but it could be kind of a kick at times.
Onions sizzled in the grease, sending their fragrance richly into the air. He slapped cheese on three hamburgers, rescued the buns from their toasting on the other side of the grill and arranged them on
a plate.
“Hey, Ed,” he called to the owner, who sat in a narrow office not far from the stove, “I’m hungry. You gonna let me go home sometime tonight, or have you just decided to keep me here forever?”
Ed looked at his watch in surprise. “Sorry, man. Didn’t realize it was getting so late. Finish up that order and I’ll take over.”
The cheese was perfectly melted, and Zeke lovingly stacked the burgers onto the waiting buns. French fries from a basket filled the plates, and Zeke slipped the single onto the pass-out bar along with the ticket.
“This one’s mine,” he said to Ed, lifting the double burger. He took off his apron. “I had a feeling it was time.”
He carried the overflowing plate out into the dimly lit bar, taking a place at the counter to eat.
Over the jukebox, he heard the thin, fussy cry of a baby. “Give me a beer, Sue,” he said to the bartender.
At her glare, he grinned. “Please.”
Sue fished a brown bottle from the cooler, and twisted off the top with a quick flick of her wrist. As she settled the beer on a napkin before him, she looked toward the line of tall booths against the far wall. “That poor mother. She’s exhausted. Look at her.”
Zeke looked over his shoulder. A trio of tourists sat miserably in the booth. Mom and Dad and baby. The couple was young, no more than twenty-five. The mother’s face was glazed as she stared at her husband eating the hamburger Zeke had just made. The dad, too, looked frazzled. His hair was uncombed and a smear of black grease stained his forearm. He ate as though he was starving.
The baby, about six months old, just fussed in its mother’s arms.
Zeke grabbed a french fry from his plate. “What’s their story?”
“Broke down just outside of town. The car’s in the shop—Jerry’s working on it, but the motel is full. I don’t think they were thrilled to have to come into a bar, but there isn’t anyplace else open.” She smiled wryly. “Poor baby.”
Zeke ate slowly, tapping his foot against the floor in time to the music. When he was halfway through the burger, the baby started to scream in earnest, pushing away the bottle his mother tried to give him.
“He sure is tired,” Sue said slowly.
With narrowed eyes, he glared at her. “Don’t even start, woman.”
“But you’re so good with babies, and that mother is so tired she can’t see straight. Come on—you know you want to.”
The baby shrieked and settled into the steady, low crying of pure, miserable exhaustion. Zeke sighed and tossed his napkin down. He stood, ignoring Sue’s smile.
With reluctance, he let his feet carry him across the room. “That’s one tired young ’un,” he said to the exhausted couple.
“I’m sorry,” the mother said. “Is he bothering you? I just can’t calm him down—I think he knows I’m worn-out, too.”
She was near tears.
He cleared his throat. “I got five sisters back in Mississippi—why don’t you let me take him for you for a minute so you can eat and wash your face?”
Doubt crossed her weary features, and warred with the hope of relief.
“I work here—ask the bartender. I won’t go anywhere with him,” he said. “I’ll just stand right over there and we’ll dance a little. Y’all can keep an eye on us.” He held out his arms.
The mother looked at the father. He gave her a quick nod. “It can’t hurt, honey. Go wash your face and order a hamburger.” He touched her hand. “Have a beer, too.”
“If you’re sure,” she said, looking at Zeke.
He grinned and winked. “Give him here.”
The baby had quieted a little at the sound of Zeke’s voice. When he took the hefty, soft weight from his mother’s arms, the baby was surprised into silence for an instant. He stared up at the stranger holding him with wide blue eyes, swollen and red from crying. “Hey, sweet pea,” Zeke said quietly. “Let’s go dance a little while. I’ll make you feel better.”
He wandered a little closer to the jukebox. Another soft bluesy Allman Brothers piece was playing and Zeke started to dance gently, cradling the baby close to his chest. He sang along, quietly, and the baby stared at him in amazement. Zeke grinned. “You’re so tired, sweet pea. Come on and go to sleep. Your mama’s tired, too.”
The baby found his fingers and started to suck. A shuddering breath passed through the round little body as he settled into the crook of Zeke’s arm. “Yeah, that’s it,” he crooned. “Go on to sleep now. I’ll just dance awhile with you.”
He started to sing again, quietly. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mother slip into the ladies’ room. Her husband called the waitress over. From behind the bar, Sue grinned at Zeke, shaking her head.
He looked back at the small face. Through half-open eyes, the baby looked back. For just a minute, Zeke felt lost in time. How many times had he rocked his sisters this way, helping his mother? Or held a cousin while an uncle danced with some girl?
Give the baby to Zeke. He’ll take care of it.
And he always did. He had a weakness for babies.
All of them—their sweet round faces and tiny hands and feet, the smell of baby powder and the incredible softness of their cheeks. Only thing as soft as a baby’s skin was a woman’s breast. He liked the way they went together sometimes, too.
The baby drifted off, but Zeke kept dancing and singing quietly. No hurry. The mother emerged from the bathroom, a little calmer, and she smiled in gratitude. He nodded.
With a sigh, he looked back into the baby’s face. “I got you, sweet pea,” he murmured, and touched the downy head.
His only regret in life was the lack of babies to cuddle. But he’d vowed a long time ago there would be none. Ever. Babies had to grow up and suffer and he just couldn’t stand it. He’d fled Mississippi after watching too many suffer at the hands of those who supposedly loved them the most.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy holding one now and again. With a smile, he swayed lazily along with the music, comforted someplace deep inside by the round softness against his chest.
*
“OH, GOOD GRIEF,” Roxanne said as she pushed in the door of the bar.
“What?” Mattie asked, coming in behind her.
“Look at that.”
“What?” Mattie scanned the room. It was crowded. That was good. Not all locals; equally good. There were a few people dancing, and a couple of pool games going on in one corner. Mattie smiled. Excellent. But she didn’t really know what disgusted Roxanne so much. “What?” she repeated.
Roxanne stepped aside and lifted her chin in the direction of the jukebox. Two couples danced close together on the little cleared section of floor, a common enough sight.
And then Mattie saw him. Zeke. Swaying gently in time with the music, a baby cradled in the crook of his arm. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt that left his powerful, muscular arms bare, and the tiny head of the baby looked as if it could be crushed if Zeke bent his elbow.
Except there was such gentleness in his hold, and his head bent over the sleeping child to murmur sweet nothings. Mattie watched his mouth move.
Yesterday in the restaurant, she’d seen his sex appeal and roughness. At her house, she’d seen his danger. This morning, at the river, she’d seen his beauty and teasing, and again that danger.
Of all of them, the tenderness she saw now was the most compelling. And terrifying.
With some alarm, she looked at Roxanne. “I don’t think I want to stay here, after all.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Where are we going to go? The Plaza?” She grabbed Mattie’s arm and pulled her into the room. “I’m sick of being cooped up in my house.”
Mattie kept her eyes averted as they settled in a booth and ordered a beer. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but beer and Kismet seemed to go together, and there were rules about the game Jamie had taught her. A beer in hand was important.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Zeke take the baby back to its mother,
then take a seat at the bar. “You think he did that for effect?” Roxanne asked.
“What?”
“Danced with a baby.”
Mattie frowned. “Why would he do it on purpose?”
“Well, it’s a known fact that women can’t resist a man who likes children. Maybe he’s got his eye on the bartender.”
Mattie shrugged. She’d already spent too much time thinking about Zeke Shephard, as it was; she didn’t want to get drawn in now. Deliberately, she shifted to get a better view of the pool tables.
A tourist with a sunburned nose played cheerfully, sipping a beer and nodding his head in time with the music. A recreational player, and probably a father with kids to get back home, too. No good.
His opponent was thirtyish, a local who worked on the road crew. He smiled at her. Mattie waved. He was single, with plenty of money to spend, and he probably dropped at least a third of his paycheck in this bar every week. He also played well, with honed concentration and a sharp break.
Roxanne tapped her arm. “I didn’t come here with you to talk to myself, you know,” she said curtly.
“I’m sorry,” Mattie said pleasantly, as if life and death did not hang in the balance. “I just like pool. Do you play?”
“A little. Not too well.” She sipped her beer with a dark glance toward the bar. “How do you think he got that tattoo?”
“Are we back to Zeke again?”
Roxanne grinned, and the strained look of peevishness disappeared. “Yes. Do you think I can’t see how carefully you’re ignoring him?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe what a dress and a haircut did for you.”
Mattie touched her hair, pleased with the sleek swinging feel of her new cut. “You like it?”
“It looks great.” She eyed Mattie’s new dress, too. “And I love the dress. With a body like that, I’d wear skintight every day.”
Mattie shrugged. She never wore skintight clothes, and even this new dress was a bit too risqué for her usual taste, but there wasn’t much selection in her price range or in the tiny little shop she’d found. It would do the job; that was all she cared about. If Roxanne thought she’d dressed up for Zeke, all the better.
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