“In this storm?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. Sounds more like a truck of some sort.”
It didn't sound like a truck to her. In fact, it didn't sound like much of anything but a deep rumble. At first. As it drew closer, the rumble became louder, more pronounced, overriding the howl of wind for prominence.
Her eyes widened. “It is,” she exclaimed excitedly. “It's a truck. Garrett, we've been found!”
Her limbs still feeling leaden from their oh, so recent intimacy, she wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth down to hers for a short but very sound kiss.
Chapter 8
Murphy's Law #8: Disorder expands proportionately
to one's tolerance for it…
THE MAN WHO drove the truck was named Stephen. “With a P-H, not a V,” he'd been quick to tell Murphy and Garrett. “A-yuh. Just like that famous author down the south road a peck.”
If Murphy hoped their problems would be solved once they reached the small town of Greenville, she was mistaken. Doc Kerns, the town's only doctor, examined Garrett's leg and said that, while he could easily remove the chunk of metal, his office simply wasn't equipped to perform the intricate surgery on muscle and tendon that would be required afterward.
That meant Garrett would have to be transferred to Bangor.
Bangor was a three hour drive south in good weather.
It was decided Stephen would drive Murphy back to her brother's house, while an ambulance took Garrett to Bangor.
There was only one problem.
Leaving Garrett Thayer turned out to be one of the most difficult things Murphy had ever done. It shouldn't be, she knew. She'd known him less than twenty-four hours; leaving him should be easy. So why wasn't it?
They had a few minutes alone while Doc Kerns called for the ambulance, and Stephen helped himself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee in the pantry-sized kitchen wedged between the vacant receptionist's desk and the solitary examining room.
“Well,” Murphy said, her tone forcefully light, as she seated herself on the bench beside Garrett, “I guess this is it.”
“Guess so,” he mumbled noncommittally.
The narrow deacon's bench flanked the door of the waiting room. Glancing down, she noticed that Garrett's right thigh was now wrapped in fresh gauze; the color was a sharp contrast to his hair-dusted skin. The heat of his body warmed her; his temperature had leveled out, yet it was still high from the start of an infection. She remembered how it felt to be curled up on the hard shelf of his lap, her head braced against his chest, his heart drumming in her ear as his hand did wonderfully erotic things to her body.
Would she ever forget the time they'd spent alone in her car?
A flush stained her cheeks, and her gaze slid lower. On the floor next to Garrett's feet was the green duffel bag.
With a wince, he leaned down and picked the bag up, holding it out to her. “Do me a favor?”
She glanced up.
He glanced down.
Their gazes meshed, even as their fingers touched.
“Anything,” she said, her voice soft and breathless.
“Hang on to this for me?” He must have seen the question in her eyes because he rushed on, “Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't trust people who work in hospitals. It's just that,” he shrugged self-consciously, “I trust you more.”
It was a high compliment, and she knew it. There was, of course, an entirely selfish reason for her to hold onto the duffel bag for Garrett. She would have to see him again to give it back.
The idea was appealing. Surprisingly so.
True, she would probably only see him that one more time, yet it was one more time than she would have if they parted now to go their separate ways—which they were going to have to do as soon as the ambulance arrived.
“Please,” Garrett said.
That single, hoarsely uttered word was the deciding factor. This was not the sort of man who used words like “trust” and “please” lightly, if at all.
Nodding, she accepted the duffel bag when he pushed it into her hands. It felt no heavier in her lap than Moonshine, who waited outside in Stephen's truck, although the responsibility and faith the duffel bag conveyed was much weightier. “I'll take good care of it. I promise.”
“I never doubted it,” Garrett said, and grinned. His eyes were slightly glazed from the shot of pain medication Doc Kerns had given him, but it was clear his faculties were intact, that he knew what he was doing. “Murphy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Tell me something?”
She hesitated. “If I can.”
“If Stephen hadn't shown up when he did, would—?”
She was blushing, she could feel it. To the roots of her hair. Murphy glanced away quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice, knowing he already had. “I don't know what would have happened. I guess we'll never know.”
“I guess,” he replied. It was clear by his tone, and the way he tapped his toe thoughtfully on the polished linoleum floor, that his mind was still worrying over the possibilities.
For that matter, so was Murphy's. How far would she have let things go if Stephen hadn't shown up when he did? It was a good question. It was also unanswerable. Truly, they would never know. That she'd been positive they were both going to die in that car had undoubtedly had some bearing on…
Murphy sighed, and her shoulders slumped forward. Oh, who was she trying to kid? Yes, a part of her had been sure they'd freeze to death in the storm, however that wasn't the reason she'd let him touch her. Or the reason she'd enjoyed his touch so much. Nothing so simple.
Garrett's voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Murphy?”
“Hmmm?” she murmured, distracted, and glanced at him. While she'd thought the overhead florescent lights adequate a second ago, now she wasn't so sure. Was Garrett blushing?
“If we'd met at another time, another place, under better circumstance,” he said, smiling awkwardly, “do you think…that is, if I asked…I mean. Damn it, what's wrong with me? I never get tongue-tied.” He raked all ten fingers though his sandy hair, tussling it. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “What I'm trying to say is, if we'd met like normal people, would you have gone out to dinner with me…if I'd asked you?”
Her mind flashed an image of soft music, candlelight, and an intimate lobster dinner at Capriccios, the classiest and most expensive restaurant in Providence. A perfect evening. Perfect because the man sitting across the table from her was Garrett Thayer.
With the tip of her tongue, she moistened suddenly parched lips, then regretted the impulse when she felt his gaze shadow the movement. “I-I don't know. Like I said, my life is a mess right now, and—”
“Pretend your life isn't a mess.” His eyes were dark, probing. “Pretend your job is perfect. Pretend your life is perfect. Would you have gone out to dinner with me then?”
It was a tall order, considering, but she tried to pretend the chaos she'd once called work didn't exist. Her nod was automatic, her sigh wistful. “Oh, yes.”
Garrett grinned. It was a slow, lazy curve of one corner of his mouth. The sight had a devastating affect on Murphy. Her senses somersaulted, and she couldn't help but grin back.
They sat in companionable silence for a minute. He was the first to break it. “Murphy?” he asked yet again.
“What?”
“There's just one more thing.”
Her attention had drifted across the room, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the framed diplomas hanging slightly askew on the wainscoted wall. Garrett slipped the crook of his finger under her chin, turning her head toward him so she was forced to meet his gaze. His touch was warm and gentle and comforting.
“Remember what you told me before? About Billy?”
She stiffened. “I thought we were going to die when I told you about that.”
“A technicality. We didn't. Just like I said, repeatedly as I recall, that we wouldn't,” he added pointedly. “And the fact remains that you did tel
l me.”
She tried to lift her chin from his grasp. His hand turned inward, his fingers gently vising her jaw. The pulse in her throat hammered against the back of his hand. She didn't ask him to continue, mostly because she didn't want him to.
“It wasn't your fault,” he said. He angled his head until they were so close the tips of their noses brushed. His breath whispered like hot puffs of fire over her mouth and chin. “You've known that all along, haven't you?”
She didn't answer. What could she say? That he was right? Knowing it didn't erase the sharp stab of guilt she felt whenever she thought about Billy Meyers. Maybe she should tell Garrett that she was afraid to keep her job, afraid the same thing would happen again, to another child? Only next time the ending might be even worse.
When it came right down to it, the problem was, she no longer trusted her own judgement. That was the crux of it. She was afraid to trust it, afraid it would let her down again, afraid that next time an innocent life would be lost because of her own foolish mistake.
No, she couldn't tell him any of that. She was having a hard enough time admitting it to herself, never mind admitting it to anyone else. Just the thought terrified her.
Leaning forward, he closed the scant space separating them. His lips feathered over her mouth, his kiss soft and fleeting, somehow more reassuring than words. The contact was brief; it came and went in a blink. Yet Murphy had a feeling the warm, quivering repercussions of it would span a lifetime.
“You know,” he said, easing back to look at her, “if you decide to change careers, you can always look into teaching school. God knows you've got the voice for it.” With that simple observation, he severed the tension between them.
“I was thinking about going into screenwriting. I could probably write a bad-B movie that would knock your socks off.” Murphy grinned. She couldn't help it. Until her gaze shifted to his bandaged leg, and her grin evaporated. “Then again, after tonight, I guess I could probably teach courses in first aide.”
“I don't know if I'd go that far.” He tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger. Then, as though that contact was too platonic for his tastes, he leaned forward and kissed her there instead. “You get squeamish at the sight of blood.”
“A technicality,” she said, unable to resist tossing his own words back at him as she smiled. Her grip on the duffel bag tightened.
The sound of someone clearing his throat snagged both their attention.
Glancing up, Murphy saw Stephen framed in the doorway. The man was in his mid-twenties, tall and paunchy, with dark hair that was already thinning and cheeks that were so red they looked perpetually windburned. His brown eyes were narrow but kind, his smile as warm as summer rain. He wore a thick blue parka with fur-trimmed hood. Beneath was a pair of bib-overalls, and beneath that a red plaid shirt that looked right at home on his robust body.
“You ready to go ma'am?” Stephen said to Murphy, after nodding politely to Garrett.
Murphy almost said no, until she realized she really had no legitimate excuse to linger. She stood. “Good luck in Bangor,” she said, glancing down at Garrett. Was it wishful thinking on her part, or did he look as reluctant to see her go as she felt to be going? “I'm sure everything will be fine.”
He shrugged as though that concern wasn't a priority at the moment. She chalked his reaction up the pain killer racing through his bloodstream.
“Yeah, I'm sure you're right,” he said.
Clutching the duffel bag beneath her arm, Murphy zipped her coat. The duffel bag. Ah, that reminded her of something. She nodded to the green nylon bag, and said to Garrett, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. I just wanted to double check.” She tucked her hands deeply inside her coat pockets. During the long drive into Greenville, she'd mentally practiced at least a dozen ways to say goodbye to Garrett. Odd, but, now that the moment was at hand, she was at a loss for words. “I guess this is goodbye.”
“For now.” He glanced meaningfully at the duffel bag. “I'll swing by to pick it up as soon as I'm on my feet again…er, so to speak.”
“Tom only loaned me his house for the week. I'll be heading back to Providence on Thursday. Should I stop by the hospital and drop it"—she gestured to the duffel bag, snuggled protectively beneath her arm—"off on my way?”
“No.”
“Okay. Why don't you give me your address and I'll mail it to you?”
“I don't want you to do that, either.”
No, of course he wouldn't, Murphy chided herself belatedly. There was a lot of money and jewelry in that bag; no one in their right mind would entrust it's care to the U.S. Snail Service, as her secretary at DCYF had “affectionately” dubbed the Providence Post Office. She frowned. “Then how will you get it back?”
“I'll come for it.”
“You can't. You don't know where I live.”
“I know you live in Providence. You've told me that much.”
“So?”
His grin was wicked and quick; it made Murphy's heart beat a little—oh, okay, a lot—faster.
“I'm a cop, remember? I'll find you.”
“I hope so,” she said, liking the sound of that. If anyone could find her, it would be him. Fast on the heels of that thought came another, more disturbing one: that out of all the people in the world, if there was anyone Murphy wanted to have find her, it was Garrett.
She smiled and, feeling suddenly nervous, turned toward Stephen and told him she was ready to go. They were halfway to the door when Garrett's voice shot out from behind them.
“Murphy?”
She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Garrett saw the excited flush that hearing her name on his lips had brought to her cheeks. “Yes?”
“Two things. First, I want you to remember, always, that Murphy's Law has to change sometime. Second…um, what's your last name?”
“Didn't I—?” Already tell him? No, she never had, Murphy realized, and laughed. “It's McKenna.”
“Murphy McKenna,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue. His gaze dipped to her lips, darkened as though with a memory, then rose to capture hers again. “Typically strange, but nice. Thank you, Murphy McKenna.”
“For what?”
“Everything.” His gaze raked her, and Murphy smoldered under the intensity of it. “But mostly, thank you for coming back for me.”
She wasn't the sort to act impulsively; most things in life she very carefully planned beforehand. Yet today, for an unprecedented second time, she acted on instinct alone.
Turning, she walked backed to Garrett and, bending at the waist, kissed him hard and long and deep.
He sucked in a quick, unsteady breath. It was no more quick and unsteady than her own.
Against his mouth, she whispered huskily, “You're very welcome. And just for the record, I'm very glad I went back for you, too.”
Chapter 9
Murphy's Law #9: If there is a worse time
for something to go wrong,
it will happen then…
“IT COULD HAVE been worse, Murph. You could have burned the house down.” Tom McKenna grinned and, reaching into the milk-glass bowl of cashews Murphy had set out on the kitchen table for him, scooped up a handful of the crescent shaped nuts and popped them into his mouth. He munched contentedly.
In looks, he was similar to his sister; curly brown hair, fair skin, vaguely slanted, sea-green eyes. Tom McKenna wasn't tall, standing scarcely two inches over Murphy's five foot seven. His build was wiry. What he lacked in size, however, he made up for in character. His sense of humor was as big as it was warped, and he had a grin that could charm Moonshine out of his fur.
“Enough already.” Murphy rolled her eyes, absently patting Moonshine, who'd curled up into a warm, heavy ball in her lap. “Why is it that, in the three weeks I've been home, the only thing you've wanted to talk about is my vacation?”
“You have to admit, as vacations go, it
was some vacation. Most people who go to Maine for a week can't brag about getting kidnapped by a bank robber, then almost freezing to death in their own car while he tries to make a getaway.”
“Have you been watching bad B movies again?” Moonshine squirmed on Murphy's lap, nudging her to scratch behind his ear. “For the last time, Garrett isn't a bank robber, he did not kidnap me, and he wasn't making a ‘getaway', he was trying to get to a doctor.”
Her brother's grin broadened as he popped another cashew into his mouth. “Uh-huh. If you say so.”
“Don't make me hurt you,” Murphy grumbled, her tone only half serious. It was a common threat; she didn't expect him to take her seriously, and therefore wasn't disappointed.
“You realize,” Tom replied, and grinned conspiratorially, “that he never came back for the loot.”
“It's not—Oh, never mind.” She drank the last sip of her coffee. It was cold, but she didn't care. At work she was used to pouring a cup, then getting so involved in a case she forgot about it, only to drink it stone cold hours later. “And no, Garrett hasn't come to get the duffel bag yet. In fact, I haven't heard from him at all.”
“Uh-huh.” Her brother's tone was edged with good-humored accusation as he nodded to her empty mug. “More?”
“Yes, please.” Murphy handed him her cup. “And what was that ‘uh-huh’ for?”
Tom stood and crossed to his sister's counter, where he poured them each a fresh mug of coffee from the automatic-drip coffee maker he'd given her last year for Christmas. The kitchen was small; in only two steps you could get from table to counter, then back. If not for the sunshine yellow walls, making the room feel bigger than it actually was, it would have been claustrophobic.
He set one mug in front of his sister—she mumbled her thanks—then reseated himself across the table from her. “We both know it isn't quite true that you've had no contact with him, Murph.”
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