Last Chance

by Jill Marie Landis

  Just as they neared the lath and lattice structure, Lane felt Ty slip a tiny hand inside his own. Shocked, he paused in mid-stride to stare down at the child beside him.

  "What are you doing?" Lane asked.

  Ty looked up at him and blinked. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he explained patiently, "Holdin' hands."

  "Why?"

  "We're gonna be friends, aren't we? If you're a friend of my ma's, then you can be a friend of mine, too." The boy's smile suddenly faded. He lowered his voice and glanced toward the lath house as if he didn't want Rachel to hear. "I heard Ma tell Delphie you danced with her last night."

  "I did."

  Lane wondered if he were about to receive a stern talking-to from a child. He cleared his throat, definitely treading deep water. He was out of his element holding a little boy's hand in the middle of a picture-perfect lady's garden. Lane felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades. He glanced over at the lath house, relieved that Rachel was still moving about inside and had not spotted them yet. The boy was holding back.

  "You got something more you want to say?" Lane asked him.

  "She liked it."

  Lane shoved his hat back onto the crown of his head. "She liked what?"

  The little boy shifted from foot to foot, obviously too excited to stand still. "She liked dancin' with you."

  Lane frowned. "She said that?"

  Ty shook his head. "No, but I know her pretty good, and I can tell. She didn't look as sad as always when she came home last night."

  "Oh."

  "Mister?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You can dance with my ma anytime you want to."

  Lane didn't know what to say, but he guessed he had just been granted a great honor. The corners of Lane's mouth twitched, but he tried to answer as solemnly as he could. "Thanks, I appreciate that."

  "Come on." Ty was tugging on his hand again, leaning forward, trusting Lane to hold on as he pulled him down the stone path toward the lath house. "Ma," he called out. His childish voice piped high on the still air. "Look-it."

  Rachel's head and shoulders appeared around the corner of the lath house, and even though he was still six yards away and she was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, Lane saw the color that immediately stained her cheeks the minute she recognized him.

  Being Rachel, she appeared composed as she waited for them, concentrating on brushing her hands on the dirt-stained garden apron she wore over a faded lavender gown.

  "It's Mr. Cassidy," Ty confidently informed her when they reached her side.

  Rachel never took her eyes off Lane. "Yes, I can see that. What brings you here again so soon, Mr. Cassidy?"

  Looking at her, Lane found it hard to gather his thoughts. Ty continued to fidget up and down beside him, his hand still tucked into Lane's. He couldn't apologize with the boy clinging to him, listening to every word.

  "Last night you didn't say when Chase and Eva were due back from California."

  She straightened the elastic on the edge of the sleeve protectors she wore to cover the lower portion of her full sleeves and cuffs. Lane watched the movement, intrigued at the ivory underside of her wrist and the fine blue veins that lay just below the surface of her translucent skin.

  "They were to be gone a month and they left, let's see, nearly three weeks ago. I would expect they'll be back by the end of next week at the latest."

  Ty was hanging from his hand now, swinging his arm back and forth, forcing Lane to shift and widen his stance to maintain his balance. Rachel noticed.

  "Tyson, don't bother Mr. Cassidy."

  Ty immediately let go. "Can I touch your gun now?"

  "You may not," Rachel said emphatically before Lane could answer. "Run into the house and tell Delphie to fix all of us some lemonade. Tell her I said to let you go down into the cellar and bring up some ice from the icebox to put in it."

  "Can I touch the gun then?"

  "We'll see."

  "Ma…" the boy whined.

  "Go, Ty."

  Lane watched as Ty raced off along the path, head and shoulders bobbing between the blossoms and foliage. Rachel turned away from Lane, thus giving him the opportunity to study her profile.

  "I came to apologize for last night," he said softly, gauging her reaction to his words.

  She glanced up at him quickly, appearing momentarily stunned.

  "I see that surprises you," he said.

  "I never knew you to apologize for anything," she admitted.

  Lane almost smiled. "I like to think I've changed some."

  He couldn't miss her wary glance as it flicked over his gun belt and then returned to his eyes.

  "Was there anything else you wanted?"

  What he wanted was to ask her a few more questions about Chase and Eva, but he didn't want to come right out and admit it.

  "You promised me a lemonade."

  "I'll just be here a minute more. I wanted to get these houseplants watered before the noonday sun is overhead."

  Seeming to ignore him, she puttered about, bending over a variety of lush potted plants, unaware that she was treating him to a tempting, unobstructed view of her backside.

  Lane glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone might be watching them from the adjoining yards, but there was no one about so he let his gaze wander back to Rachel's derriere.

  Oblivious to his perusal, she went on. "Every summer I bring the houseplants outdoors so they'll have a chance to enjoy the warm weather. Just after Tyson was born, I had this lath house built to provide some shade so that I wouldn't have to line them up along the piazza." She chatted nervously as she shifted the potted plants and reached up to hold a hanging basket steady, carefully watering it from a metal can with a long spout.

  When she straightened suddenly and caught him staring down at her, Lane was forced to make polite conversation.

  "You didn't mention the boy last night. How old is he?"

  "He's five."

  Ty was the same age Lane had been when his mother, using her attacker's gun, shot to death both herself and the man who had tried to rape her. Lane couldn't imagine his ever having been that young, small or innocent.

  "Are all five-year-olds that little?"

  "He's a bit short for his age. My in-laws are always telling me it's because he doesn't get enough rough-and-tumble exercise and that I'm turning him into a mama's boy." She cast a worried glance toward the house. "I suppose I am a bit overprotective."

  Lane shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing wrong with watching out for him until he's old enough to take care of himself," he said softly. He knew from firsthand experience that it was probably better to grow up overprotected than neglected and abused.

  She picked up a basketful of cut flowers and held it out to him. "Would you mind carrying these up to the house for me? There's no sense in both of us sweltering out here. You have a glass of lemonade with Ty and Delphie and I'll be along in a minute."

  Except for the slight blush that had stained her cheeks earlier, Rachel's anger had ebbed. She had easily accepted his apology, so he reckoned the stolen kiss had not upset her as much as he'd thought it had. Oddly enough, he felt disappointed that it hadn't affected her one way or another.

  Lane shifted the basket and set off to do as she bid. Before he could figure out how Rachel had managed it, he was walking along the winding garden path toward the butter yellow house, trying to appear as nonchalant as any self-respecting gunslinger-turned-undercover-detective could while sauntering along with a basketful of flowers dangling from one hand.

  Rachel breathed a sigh of relief and watched as he headed toward the back of the house. Except for the sunlight glinting off the evenly spaced row of bullets in his gun belt, Lane was a study in black from head to toe, totally incongruous in the middle of the riot of blooms in her summer garden. She watched him until he reached the steps and then she whirled around.

  An only child, she had been raised in a quiet, orderly environment. Her mother
, to whom appearances meant everything, insisted she comport herself with a ladylike demeanor, always calm and composed, even at an early age. No matter what the situation, Rachel was to remember that she was a lady.

  But according to Stuart McKenna, she was overly composed. Especially in bed.

  Rachel walked the few steps to the pump she had recently ordered installed near the lath house. She hung the watering can over the spout and began to work the pump handle up and down. Clear, cool well water began to fill the tin watering can. She reached up with her free hand to unfasten one button at her throat, then reached beneath the spout, cupped some water and splashed it over her face and neck as her thoughts continued to return to Lane.

  She usually wasn't one to be swayed by appearances, but she couldn't help but notice that without a doubt he was still handsome, in a rugged, untamed way. His reputation was notorious. Being as responsible and levelheaded as she had always been, Lane Cassidy was certainly not the type of man she would ever let herself become attracted to.

  She didn't notice that she was overfilling the can until water sloshed over the rim and soaked her hem and shoes. Rachel let go of the pump handle and marched back into the lath house, determined to collect her wits and squelch any wayward, inexplicable notions her heart might harbor about Lane Cassidy.

  She was a teacher, a well-educated woman who was used to reasoning things out and using her head. She wasn't about to let Lane's dark eyes and slow smile replace common sense at this stage of her life.

  Moving quickly around the inside of the shady structure, she emptied the watering can on the India rubber tree, the aspidistra and then the camellia. She straightened, set the pot aside and drew the sleeve protectors off her arms. Tossing them onto a shelf that held her garden trowel, gloves and spade, Rachel untied her apron and hung it, along with her straw hat, on a nail driven into one of the posts that framed the lath structure, then set off toward the house.

  Her gaze found him the minute she entered the kitchen. He was seated at her table, his legs spread wide, Ty standing between them as Lane carefully held his gun out for the boy's inspection.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice going as high and shrill as a fishwife's.

  Both Lane and Ty spoke at once.

  "He's showing me his gun."

  "Showing him my gun."

  Delphie stood at the sink, up to her elbows in dishwater, watching the unfolding scene over her shoulder. Rachel shot her a dark glance before she reached out and grabbed Ty by the upper arm and jerked him away from Lane. Rachel pulled her son protectively against her skirt and held him there, her hands firmly planted on his shoulders.

  "Mama, you're hurtin' me," Ty whined as he tried to wriggle out of her grasp.

  Rachel eased up, but she continued to scowl down at Lane. The gunslinger's expression darkened; his eyes became unreadable. He didn't make a move to slip his gun back into the holster, merely laid it against his thigh with an almost sensual familiarity.

  "I'll thank you to put that gun away, Lane Cassidy." When he didn't budge, Rachel experienced an unfamiliar pang of a loss of control, and realized she didn't like it one bit.

  His expression made it very clear that he had heard her and that he didn't care. "It's been a hell of a long time since I stopped taking orders from you—"

  "Ty, leave the room."

  "But, Mama—"

  "I said go. Now." Rachel turned to Delphie. "Would you keep him in the parlor for just a moment, please?"

  Rachel didn't even try to feign a smile. Clasping her hands at her waist, she tried to pull herself together. She forced herself to take a long, deep breath as she looked away from the dark, brooding eyes of the man seated across the kitchen from her.

  Delphie wiped her hands, crossed the room and took Ty by the hand. Staring up at Rachel as if his mother had suddenly transformed into someone else, the little boy followed Delphie out of the room without argument. Rachel didn't speak until she heard the parlor door close behind them. Lane hadn't moved.

  "I'm sorry, but I won't have Ty exposed to danger."

  Lane opened the palm of his free hand to reveal six shining bullets. "It wasn't loaded."

  Rachel felt the starch go out of her. She started to reach up to brush a damp strand of hair away from her temple, but when she realized her fingers were trembling, she abruptly stopped.

  "I don't care if that gun was loaded or not. We no longer keep weapons in this house, nor do I intend to obtain one in the future."

  Lane was still watching her closely, his black-eyed gaze flicking from her feet to her hairline and back to her eyes again. "You ought to know that the more you forbid something, the faster you're going to send him running straight at it."

  "Ty isn't like that. He's nothing like…"

  "Me?"

  Unable to meet his penetrating stare any longer, she whirled around and walked to the back door. She stood in front of the screen, hoping the breeze might pick up, flow into the house and relieve some of the heat.

  "You know I didn't mean anything of the sort," she tried to assure him. "What I meant to say was—"

  "What you meant to say is that you don't want your son to end up like me. And you want to know something, Rachel? I hope to God he doesn't have to. I hope he grows up with everything he ever wanted, that he'll know how to read and write and what it's like to walk down the street without folks whispering behind his back about him."

  Rachel turned around in time to see him reload his gun, bullet by bullet, performing a silent ritual that had become second nature to him, so much so that he didn't even have to look down. He worked deftly, his hands and fingers swift and sure, talking as he completed the task.

  "I hope your son never knows what it's like to spend a cold, dark night alone wondering what it is he can't remember and why he's so damned afraid—not knowing where his next meal is coming from or if he'll even be alive to see another sunset."

  She watched with her heart beating in her throat as he shoved his gun into his holster and then crossed the room in four long strides to stand toe to toe with her. Rachel took a step back and wound up against the doorframe.

  His defiant stance was reminiscent of the one she remembered so well from his youth. She had not been afraid of him then, nor was she now. Eva Cassidy had told her what she knew about Lane's childhood—how Chase had given Lane over to a neighbor's care while he tracked down the men he thought responsible for the boy's mother's death. It wasn't until he was sixteen that Lane recalled the hideous nightmare he had erased from his childhood memory. His mother, Sally Cassidy, had killed herself in front of him with a gunshot to the head.

  Lane's world had been a shambles and Chase Cassidy had ridden off seeking revenge. Left behind, Lane had been sorely neglected by the stranger who had eagerly volunteered to care for him. By the time his uncle had finally returned to claim him after years on the trail and then prison, Lane carried a deep-seated resentment and hatred for the man who had left him behind.

  Rachel had known what caused his pain and acts of defiance when he was her student, but until now she had not considered that all the old hurts might still be very real, still alive in some forbidden corner of his heart and soul.

  As she stood there captivated by the stormy darkness in his eyes, she felt herself inexplicably drawn to Lane in a way she would never have thought possible.

  She was attracted to the man he had become and not the rebellious youth she remembered.

  It was a sobering, puzzling realization.

  His voice was low, but still, she heard him quite clearly when he said, "Ty will never grow up to be like me, not with a mother like you to see to it that he doesn't."

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, barely able to see him through a sudden film of tears.

  "Don't ever feel sorry for me, Rachel."

  "I don't. I was simply apologizing."

  With her spine pressed against the doorframe, Rachel continued to stare up at him. For a long while he didn't move, nor
did he speak as he weighed the sincerity behind her apology.

  She could hear his slow, even breath, feel the heat of temper that emanated from him. Last night there had been the shadow of a beard, but today his firm jaw was clean-shaven. There was a forbidding yet compelling edge to him that existed no matter what he wore or how hard he tried to mask it. Besides that, he was standing so close it was hard to think. She tried to excuse her reaction by admitting it would probably be impossible for any woman to deny his overpowering attraction.

  Her mouth suddenly gone dry, she licked her lips. "Ty must be worried," Rachel whispered.

  "Maybe. Then again, by now he's probably forgotten all about your little outburst."

  "Not Ty. He has the memory of an elephant. Now, will you please move so that I can get a glass?"

  Lane stepped back abruptly. Relieved, Rachel quickly walked over to the cabinet, opened a glass-fronted door and took down a tall drinking glass. After setting it down near the pitcher of lemonade, she turned around.

  He walked over to the table, picked up his glass of lemonade and brought it to his lips. Lane's Adam's apple pumped as he drained the whole thing in three long gulps. Rachel watched as droplets of condensation fell from the bottom of the glass to join the ring of moisture on top of the oval oak table.

  Lane set the empty glass down, careful to center it on the wet spot before he looked up at her again. "I need to ask you a few questions about Chase."

  Rachel poured herself some lemonade and then refilled his glass. "Are you thinking of a reconciliation?" She set down the pitcher again and, thinking of Eva and the children, smiled up at him. "Oh, Lane, that's wonderful! I know Eva will be so pleased. It would mean so much to—"

  "Don't go jumping to conclusions."

  She frowned. "What is it then? Don't tell me you're just curious. You rode out of here without a word and haven't contacted them since, as far as I know."