Errant Angel

by Justine Davis

  “True, you won’t have to read ‘that boring stuff,’” she explained. “But you will learn. You’ll learn not only what people did, but why. You’ll learn what they felt, what drove them to do what they did.”

  Their cheer started to fade a little. She paused, looking out over the class again, stretching her senses, processing the information they brought her.

  “How would you feel,” she said casually, “if I told you the government has decided to put a tax on, say, music, but only for kids? Adults won’t have to pay it when they buy a CD or a tape. Just kids. And not because they want the money—but just to show you who’s in charge, who has the authority, just to remind you that you’re only children, and they’re the boss.”

  There was an instant of silence, then an outburst of outraged discussion.

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” Karen protested from the front row.

  “What would you do about it?”

  “Fight it!” the girl exclaimed.

  “Quit buying tapes,” a boy beside her put in.

  “Jimmy?” Evangeline lifted a brow at the boy. “What would you do?”

  He seemed surprised to be called on. The bosses had told her that the previous teacher had been glad the boy was usually content to be sullenly silent. The older man had been intimidated by Jimmy’s appearance and his attitude. But surprised or not, the boy had a seditious answer ready on the tip of his tongue.

  “Screw ‘em,” he said. “I’d smash their stuff and send it back to them in pieces.”

  Cheers and shock seemed to be about evenly spread throughout the room.

  “Well, Jimmy,” she said, grinning, “that is exactly what the men of Boston thought the night they dumped the East India Company’s tea into Boston Harbor.”

  The boy looked startled, then embarrassedly pleased as cheers rose from his classmates. Evangeline felt a spurt of relief; if the boy could still be pleased at the approval of his peers, then he wasn’t beyond redemption. Maybe, just maybe, this job would go right.

  * * *

  “She’s kinda cool, really. Nobody’s cut class for a week now.”

  Dalton MacKay glanced at the boy, hiding his surprise. Cool was not a word Jimmy often used in reference to school. He straightened up from under the hood of the old truck and looked at the boy, who was fiddling with the chain on his rather distinctive bicycle, a conglomeration of brightly colored parts that Dalton wasn’t sure he wanted to know the origin of.

  “Hand me that spark plug socket, will you?” he said. Jimmy hesitated, then reached into the open drawer of the big toolbox. When he handed him the right socket, Dalton gave the boy a smile as he fastened it on the ratchet. “Good. You remembered. So, why is this new teacher cool?”

  Jimmy smiled almost shyly at the acknowledgment that he had remembered what Dalton had taught him last weekend. Then he shrugged. “She just is. I mean, instead of makin’ us read that junk, and then just memorize a bunch of dates and stuff that don’t mean anything, she...she makes it seem real. Like it was real people, who were pissed off and did something about it.”

  Dalton reached down to yank the next spark plug. “It was real people.”

  “I know, but it never seemed like that before. She makes you think about how they felt, you know? Like we talk about something that’s a big deal today, and she gets us all going, and then shows us how what we feel is exactly what they felt, back then.” The boy grimaced. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “I’d say you explained it just fine,” Dalton said. “Hand me that box of new plugs, will you?”

  Jimmy scooped up the small carton from the neatly organized workbench and handed it to him.

  “You’d like her, too,” Jimmy said.

  Not likely, Dalton thought. It had been a long time since he’d liked anybody. He only tolerated Jimmy hanging around all the time because he reminded him so much of himself at that age, full of anger and putting up a tough front to hide hurt feelings he wouldn’t ever admit to having. He knew the boy had been orphaned young, had lived in foster home after foster home since, and he couldn’t help the stirring of empathy he felt, despite his vow never to feel anything resembling closeness to anyone again.

  Jimmy was looking at him expectantly and, trying to hide the weariness of another near-sleepless night, Dalton asked the question Jimmy was expecting.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well,” Jimmy drawled, not disguising the bantering note in his voice very successfully, “it could be because she’s really awesome-looking. And she’s not married.”

  Dalton winced inwardly at the unsubtle words. But he didn’t react outwardly; he remembered enough about being fifteen to know that any reaction would just egg the boy on.

  Then, as if puzzled at himself, Jimmy added, “It’s weird, though. I always thought blondes were the best looking, but she’s got this hair that’s like...like those trees up in the mountains, that change color this time of year, you know? Kind of red, brown and gold all mixed up together. And big brown eyes, all soft and gentle, like that fawn that came out of the hills last year.”

  Dalton blinked; for Jimmy, the description was tantamount to poetry. As if he realized that, the boy instantly lapsed back into insouciance. “She’s kind of little, but she’s built, too—long legs, nice little butt, great ti—”

  “I get the idea,” Dalton interrupted.

  “Well, she’s no older’n you are, and there aren’t any single women as old as you around here—”

  “Thanks,” Dalton said dryly. “That’s what I get for turning thirty.”

  “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Dalton said, more kindly this time.

  After all, he thought as he bent over the fender of the old truck to begin installing the new spark plugs, how was the kid supposed to know that the absence of available women—or anyone else his age—was one of the attractions this little, out-of-the-way town held for him? People were abandoning small towns like this in droves, but he had searched this one out, looking for peace, not to forget, but to remember.

  “I like things just the way they are, okay? The last thing I need is some woman cluttering things up.”

  Especially some long-legged woman with a nice little butt and brown eyes like Bambi.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said, grinning widely now, “but this one drives an absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy.”

  Dalton straightened up, curious now. “A what?”

  “You heard me. It’s red and white, in primo shape, and is it hot!”

  “Two-door?”

  “You got it. Bel Air hardtop.”

  One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirked upward. “Two eighty-three, V-8?”

  Jimmy’s smile faded. “I...don’t know. I mean, it sounds hot, but I...”

  His voice trailed off in uncertainty, and Dalton remembered how hard it was at that age, when you’d worked so hard at that “cool, don’t care” attitude, to admit there was something you didn’t know.

  Dalton shrugged easily. “That’s why you’re here, right? To learn?”

  The boy’s expression brightened. “I told her I liked cars, that you were teaching me about them, so she let me look at it this afternoon.”

  The boy seemed suddenly embarrassed, and Dalton felt a flash of trepidation.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “I...”

  “Jimmy,” he said warningly.

  “I sort of...invited her over here today. I thought you’d like to see the car.”

  Dalton smothered a groan. He’d had a feeling he’d regret the day he let Jimmy start hanging around. He’d come here to be alone, not have everybody in town casually dropping by.

  “Damn it, Jimmy,” he began, but when he saw the boy’s face change, when he saw the flash of fear in his eyes before that uncaring facade snapped back into place, he bit back the rest of his exclamation; it was like looking at an image of himself at fifteen, all the walls already in place, hiding the fear that had filled hi
m. By twenty, those walls had been nearly impenetrable. If Mick hadn’t come along—

  He cut the thought off swiftly, with the ease of long practice. He heard the sound of a car approaching—one that obviously, from the healthy sound of the motor, didn’t need his attention—but ignored it for the moment. Jimmy, he thought. Concentrate on Jimmy. He hadn’t meant to scare the kid.

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s okay. I just had a lot of work to do today.” He shrugged. “But it’ll be here tomorrow. And how often does a guy get a chance to look at an ‘absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy’?”

  Jimmy brightened up, and the practiced facade of indifference fell away. For a moment he looked like an average, excited fifteen-year-old boy. The boy Dalton had seen glimpses of, the boy the rest of Three Oaks would swear didn’t exist. They saw only the troublemaker, the tough-talking, rough-dressing kid, and they shook their heads and muttered about what was wrong with kids these days. Just as, in another town much like this one, adults had once shaken their heads and spoken as if the words Dalton MacKay and delinquent were inseparable.

  “You’re not really mad, then?” Jimmy asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  “Good,” the boy said with relief. “Because here she is.”

  He turned, realizing he should have guessed what the source of that healthy thrum was. He couldn’t help smiling when he saw what looked indeed like an “absolutely cherry” ‘57 Chevy, with the distinctive tail fins and the inimitable styling. The red-and-white car came to a halt, and the rumble of the powerful motor stopped. Dalton felt his smile widen; he’d always had a weakness for beautiful machinery, and this classic was all of that—perfectly straight, sleek and utterly spotless.

  Then the driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever swung out. A woman stood up, a sweep of burnished auburn hair with golden highlights that danced in the sun falling forward as she tugged down a skirt that wasn’t that short to begin with, but seemed that way because of the length of the shapely legs beneath. A gold shape he couldn’t discern from here glinted against the skin below her throat.

  Besides the legs and that incredible hair, the rest of her seemed to live up to Jimmy’s advance billing, as well; she was petite, barely five-three, he guessed, but the womanly curve of hip combined with an eminently cuppable derriere was a potent combination. And speaking of cuppable, Dalton thought a little numbly, aware he was staring but somehow unable to stop, her breasts were more than nice, they were—

  They were none of his business, he snapped at himself, straightening the fingers that had involuntarily started to curl at his thoughts, angry at his unexpected reaction. But she was, as Jimmy had said, awesome-looking.

  Then she raised her head, looked straight at Dalton, and his heart slammed to a stop as his gut contracted fiercely. This was no fawn-innocent woman, despite the huge brown eyes. Those eyes had seen much, and held a bone-deep wisdom and gentleness he’d seen only once before in his life, in the eyes of the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The man he’d killed as surely as if he’d taken a gun and blown his brains out.

  Two

  It was him, Evangeline thought, her breath stalling oddly in her throat. He seemed to be as stunned as she was. The moment their eyes had met she’d felt a rush of reaction from him, so confused and powerful she hadn’t been able to sort out the emotions. Then he’d shut himself off, and she hadn’t been able to read anything. Or perhaps it had been because she’d been dealing with an unexpected response of her own.

  She didn’t understand it. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. Her vision that rainy night had been quite clear, so why was he so much more...more everything, in person? And why did she feel this strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had suddenly lost its rhythm and was trying madly to find it again?

  He was taller than she would have guessed from what she’d seen that night, his dark hair not as shaggy-looking now that it was neatly combed, and he didn’t seem quite so thin now that she was standing face-to-face with his leanly muscled body. But those incredible green eyes were unmistakable, although they were shuttered now, unreadable, even to her. This man had had a lot more practice than Jimmy at putting up walls.

  When the boy had first mentioned Dalton MacKay, she’d thought it must be the man she’d seen; he did live over the garage, after all. And when Jimmy had told her more about him, she’d been nearly certain.

  “About the only guy between eighteen and fifty in the whole damn town,” the boy had said. “It’s weird that he wanted to come here. Everybody else bails out of this pit stop as soon as they can.”

  Just like I’m going to.

  The boy hadn’t said the words, but he hadn’t needed to; the words, the need, were clear in his eyes. As, she realized, was the hero-worship. She’d noticed it the first time the boy had begun to talk about Dalton MacKay.

  It was the boy’s talk about cars, and about the man whose name had once been known by thousands, that had prompted her to decide on the classic car. The quickest way to the boy’s heart, she’d told the bosses. They had, somewhat to her surprise, agreed rather easily and produced the replication.

  She’d known it was the right move the moment Jimmy had seen the Chevy; he’d lit up at the sight of it. His uncaring facade had fallen away, and he’d become uncharacteristically voluble in his enthusiasm. Then he had launched into extolling the virtues of the local mechanic—who was, it appeared, much more than he seemed.

  “He drove at Indy, in the 500, can you believe it? Nearly won it as a rookie four years ago, and held first place up until his engine blew ten laps from the finish the next year. If it hadn’t been for that crash...”

  “Crash?” she’d asked, remembering the scar she had seen on the forehead of the man whose pain had overwhelmed her on that rainy night.

  “Yeah. In the 500, two years ago. Dalton was hurt, and couldn’t race anymore. It really stinks, because he would have won, I know he would.”

  And if he had, she thought as she looked at Dalton now, what were the chances that he’d be here, in this quiet little town, to become the idol that kept one angry teenage boy from blowing up entirely?

  She knew the answer to that: zero.

  She glanced at Jimmy; the boy’s gaze was flicking from her to Dalton, somewhat uneasily.

  “Er...Dalton, this is Ms. Law,” he said finally, awkwardly. “The teacher I was telling you about.”

  Evangeline felt a tiny spurt of triumph. If the boy had been talking about her to his idol, then she was getting through. She hadn’t expected results so quickly.

  “I gathered,” Dalton said.

  Her breath caught again at the sound of his voice. And she didn’t understand that any more than she did her other reactions to this man. In all her years in this work, nothing like this had ever happened to her.

  “Isn’t the car great?”

  Jimmy’s enthusiasm bubbled over, and satisfaction rippled through Evangeline at his innocent delight. This had been the right approach. The car had gotten her close to the troubled boy faster than anything else could have. Maybe at last she was getting the hang of this work. Maybe she could avoid a stern lecture on her sometimes chaotic methods this time.

  “Yeah,” Dalton agreed, turning his attention to the car. As she watched him, Evangeline was sure she had only imagined that sensation of relief as he had turned away from her. She had to have imagined it, because if she hadn’t, then she was stuck with the problem of determining which of them it had come from, and she was having a little problem with that at the moment.

  She heard Jimmy’s excited chatter about the car, but her attention was fastened on the man beside him. She stared at him, reaching out with her senses; she had to know if he meant well by Jimmy, or had some ulterior motive for letting the boy hang around all the time. It was something she’d sadly learned over the years, that ulterior motives were often the norm rather than the exception, and she didn’t like the idea of any
one using an already troubled boy—barely more than a child, really—for some reason of their own.

  It wasn’t working. She was blocked. She couldn’t get through his formidable defenses, not from this distance. Those walls of his were too high, too thick; it was going to take more to read him. She was, she thought, sucking in a quick breath as the realization came to her, going to have to touch him. Only then could she find out what she needed to know. The idea disturbed her, and she wasn’t sure why. But she knew it was the only way.

  She moved toward them.

  “...love the red-and-white tuck-and-roll. And wait until you see the motor,” Jimmy was saying, running around to the front of the car and moving as if to reach for the latch.

  “Jimmy,” Dalton said warningly, glancing at her.

  The boy looked blank for a moment, then color tinged his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked at Evangeline, his eyes pleading. “Can I show him?”

  “Of course you can.” Good Lord, she thought. The town mechanic teaching the wild boy manners. Much of her wariness about the man’s motives faded, but she still needed to be sure. She came up beside him as Jimmy fumbled with the hood latch.

  Concentrating on thinking only of Jimmy, to screen the information she would get, she casually, as if accidentally, brushed against Dalton’s arm. Her breath caught as skin touched skin; something seemed to leap between them, something hot, vivid and alive. For an instant she felt him stiffen, then, as casually as she had, he moved away. But it had been long enough.

  For a moment the flood of images confused her; she thought by some glitch she was getting Jimmy directly instead. It seemed altogether too possible that she’d messed it up, as much trouble as she was having getting Dalton MacKay out of her thoughts. Then she realized it was only that the situations had been so alike—a temporary home with frustrated foster parents who were spread too thin and an abandoned boy who hid his fear behind a front of anger and sullen indifference.

  She knew in that instant that Dalton MacKay had opened a tiny gap in his solid protective walls for no other reason than to try to help a boy whose feelings he understood all too well. And she knew, as well, how very hard it had been for him, to open up even that little bit.