Together Always

by Dallas Schulze

  '*I was afraid you were going to tell me you were sorry." Her voice quivered with an edge of pain and Trace felt his heart clench. She was still hurting from Mike's death. He couldn't hurt her anymore, no matter how good the reasons.

  *'I couldn't be sorry. Not ever." He cupped the back of her head, tilting her face up to his, and kissed the dampness from her eyes. She lifted her arms to circle his neck, pressing close to him as if he were the only secure thing in her world right now.

  He held her for a long time, feeling the sweet pain of having her in his arms, knowing it wouldn't—couldn't last.

  '*We ought to get downstairs before John decides we've died up here," Trace told her at last. Lily's arms loosened and he had to resist the urge to grab her close again. Instead, he let her step back. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it behind her ears.

  "I guess I look like a mess."

  Trace's eyes darkened as he gazed at her. Was she really so unaware of how she looked? She stood there, wearing his shirt, her legs long and sexy beneath its curved hem. Her

  hair was a tangled black mane that seemed made for a man's hands. And her face— How could he describe her face? She was an angel, she was a dream, she was everything any man could want.

  The surge of possessiveness caught him off guard and he leaned forward, burying his hands in her hair, tilting her face up to his. He had only a glimpse of the startled green of her eyes before his mouth settled firmly over hers. Her lips softened for him, inviting him inside. It was an invitation he didn't even try to resist, and for a few minutes the room was silent, only the wind outside filling the stillness.

  Trace dragged his mouth away from hers at last, his eyes gleaming with a purely male satisfaction. She looked like a woman who'd be^n well and thoroughly loved. The thought gave him an inordinate amount of satisfaction.

  '*You look fine. Put some clothes on and let's get downstairs before he sends a search party after us."

  A few minutes later they entered the kitchen. The wind roared outside but the kitchen felt warm and cozy in the early morning hours. Curtains shut out the darkness and the rich scent of coffee filled the air. John looked up as they entered, his eyes skimming over them both as if seeing more than just the surface. Trace had the odd feeling that the other man could have told him what had occurred upstairs with fair accuracy. It was not a comfortable thought.

  **I hope you don't mind." He gestured to the plate in front of him. **I made myself a sandwich. The food on the plane was pretty bad and I didn't take time to get anything else before I came here."

  ''Help yourself." Trace crossed to the counter and got down three mugs. Behind him he heard the scrape of a chair as Lily seated herself at the table. He poured coffee and set it on the table, turning a chair around and straddling it. John was just finishing a thick ham sandwich and he

  reached for the coffee, taking a long swallow of the steaming liquid before leaning back in his chair.

  '*Do you mind if I smoke?"

  **Go ahead," Trace told him.

  John reached for his cigarettes, catching Lily's disapproving look and giving her an apologetic smile. "I know it's a bad habit. I keep threatening to quit."

  "It's very bad for you."

  *'I know." He lit a cigarette and drew smoke into his lungs. "I'm going to quit. Tomorrow."

  Lily smiled reluctantly and Trace didn't have any trouble recognizing the look of male appreciation in the other man's eyes.

  "So, I gather you must have received my telegram." He didn't care if his words were abrupt. John wasn't looking at Lily anymore.

  "I got it," he said quietly. The memory obviously held some pain. "I'd have been here sooner but I was in the Middle East and it took a while for the telegram to reach me.

  "You missed the funeral," Lily told him.

  "Dad wasn't much for ceremony. I don't suppose he'd mind that much that I didn't make it home for his funeral." He stopped and stared down at his coffee. "Stupid. The first time I make it home in nearly twenty years and it's for his funeral." His mouth twisted in a half-bitter smile.

  "I'm sure Mike understood." Lily reached out to cover his hand with her much smaller one.

  John swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup on the table with a thump. "I was going to make it home this past Christmas. Then something came up and I figured I'd try for the summer. I guess I just ran out of time."

  He didn't add anything to that. Neither Trace nor Lily spoke, allowing him a few moments of quiet grief. Lily's

  eyes met Trace's, full of compassion. Trace swallowed a jealous twinge, knowing he was being foolish.

  "How did it happen?" The abrupt question drew his attention back to John. "All the telegram said was that he was dead. I managed to get enough information to know he was shot but I don't know much beyond that."

  "How did you manage even that much?" Lily asked. "You must have been traveling pretty steady to get here so soon."

  "I've got sources I can call on. When you've traveled as much as I have, you learn who to call when you need something."

  Trace felt there was more to it than that, but now was not the time to pursue the question.

  "So what happened to Dad?" John asked.

  Trace lifted his shoulders in a shrug, twisting the coffee cup between his palms, his eyes on the aimless movement. "Mike went to open up the store. Someone came in behind him and emptied a three fifty-seven into him." The flat words painted a picture more horrifying than any elaborate descriptions could have done.

  "My God." John's face was pale, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. "Did he die quickly?" It was the same question Lily had asked and Trace wanted to be able to tell him that Mike hadn't even known what hit him.

  "Fairly quick."

  "You found him?"

  "Yeah." Trace blanked his mind from the memory of Mike's body lying sprawled on the floor.

  "It must have been hell."

  "It wasn't much fun." Trace finished his coffee.

  "Do they know who did it?" There was a tightness in John's voice that Trace could relate to.

  "No. Nothing was stolen and there are no fingerprints. At this point it looks like random violence. Maybe some junk-

  ie whacked out on drugs. Could have been gang related, though we haven't been having much trouble with gangs in that area. Could have been almost anybody. We don't have a motive and we don't have much by way of clues."

  He stopped but no one said anything. There didn't seem to be much to say and they sat there in silence, all of them wrapped in thoughts of their loss. Trace looked at John, wondering what he must be thinking, what he must be feeling. Twenty years away from home. There was Httle to be read in his face. His eyes were shuttered, revealing nothing. Trace had the feehng that this was a man who didn't reveal anything he didn't choose to.

  The wind, which had died down while they talked, suddenly hit the house with a powerful gust. The lights flickered, going out for an instant before coming back on. The quick flash of darkness brought them back to the present.

  "Looks like we might lose the lights after all," Trace said as he stood up. He rinsed his cup and set it on the counter.

  "I'd forgotten what the Santa Anas could be hke. In my memories. Southern California was always the land of endless sunshine and perfect weather. You tend to forget the less pleasant aspects of it."

  "Have you traveled a lot?" The interest in Lily's voice reminded Trace of how little he'd traveled, how little he'd seen.

  "I've traveled quite a bit."

  Trace had never been so glad to have the electricity go out. It had the immediate effect of ending the conversation.

  "Hang on. I got lamps out earlier." He felt his way along the counter to the lamps and turned the knob on the first one. There was a click and then a pop as the electronic hghter hit the butane. Harsh crisp light flooded the kitchen as he lit another lamp.

  "Well, at least it waited until we finished our coffee," Lily said philosophically.

>   "True." John looked at his watch. **It's going to be light in just a couple of hours. I don't know about you guys, but I could use a little sleep."

  **Me, too." Lily put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. Trace was suddenly aware of the exhaustion that hovered just out of reach, as if waiting for him to relax before it pounced. He hfted his shoulders but the feeling^didn't go away.

  *'If you don't mind, I thought I'd sack out on the sofa. I can find a place to stay in the morning." John glanced up at the roof as another gust of wind tore at the house. "That is if we don't all blow out to sea before then."

  "Don't be silly, John. This is your house as much as ours, more really. There's no reason for you to find another place to stay or for you to sleep on the sofa," Lily told him in a tone that brooked no argument.

  John glanced at Trace, one brow raised in a question. Trace nodded. "She's right. I can clear out of my room and sleep in Mike's."

  "No, I'll sleep in Dad's room. It probably has less vivid memories for me than it does for you." No one mentioned the fact that Trace and Lily had obviously been sharing a room earlier, which would leave two empty bedrooms in the house. If it occurred to John, he had the tact not to say anything.

  He picked up one of the lamps, lifting it in a vague salute. "I'll see you tomorrow." He strode from the kitchen, his footsteps quiet despite the boots he was wearing. A man accustomed to moving in silence. Trace noticed the habit absently. He was more concerned with the fact that he and Lily were alone.

  Neither of them spoke until they heard the thud of an upstairs door closing. The lantern cast vivid patterns of light and shadow, making the familiar kitchen look strange and otherworldly.

  "I suppose we should get to bed," Trace said casually.

  "I suppose so. It's pretty late."

  They left the kitchen together. Trace automatically shut off light switches as they went. Not that it mattered. He was carrying the only functioning light with him. The lantern swung in his hand, making the stairs seem to shift, growing and shrinking as they chmbed them.

  At the top of the stairs they stopped. Trace reached out to turn the lantern down until it cast a soft glow over the hallway. Neither of them looked at the other. To the right lay Trace's bedroom.

  **I don't want to be alone tonight." Lily didn't look at him as she spoke. She kept her eyes on the floor, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  Trace felt a sharp pain in his chest. She sounded so uncertain, so lost. Remorse washed over him. He was being selfish, only concerned with what he was feeling, his own fears and uncertainties. What about what Lily was thinking and feeling?

  She'd taken a frightening step tonight, giving herself to a man for the first time, and he was making her feel like an unwanted package left on his doorstep.

  "I had no intention of leaving you alone." She looked up at him, relief and surprise in her eyes, and Trace's guilt increased.

  "I thought—" His finger over her mouth stopped her.

  ''Don't think. I may be a jerk but I'm not a fool. And I'd have to be a fool to sleep alone tonight."

  Down the hall John heard a door shut. One door. He half smiled to himself. So he hadn't been wrong about the tension between the two of them. He turned back to the window, leaning his shoulder against the wall and staring out at the wind-ravaged darkness. The surrounding neighbor-

  hood was dark but he could see down into the valley below where lights sparkled like discarded jewels.

  The view hadn't changed much since he was a kid, at least not the night view. He could remember looking out at this same scene when he was small and his father had held him up so that he could see.

  His father. He closed his eyes a moment before opening them again to stare blindly out the window. The pain surprised him. It had been nearly twenty years since he left this house, vowing never to return. And he hadn't, not once in all those years. Youthful pride and anger had long since given way to a life that just never seemed to allow him to come home.

  No, that wasn't entirely true. It had been easier not to come home. There always seemed to be plenty of time to mend the last few fences between him and his father. The rage and frustration that had driven him to leave had faded long ago but there'd still been just enough of the rebellious boy in him to make coming home difficult.

  He let the curtain drop, shutting out the windy darkness as he turned away from the window. He looked around the room with eyes that were twenty years older than the last time he'd seen it. Like the view, it hadn't changed a whole lot. It was the same oak furniture that his father had screamed bloody murder over when his mother bought it. The carpet had to be different, but it was the same dark shade he remembered. In the crisp light of the butane lantern everything looked strange. Too bright, the shadows too dark.

  He wandered across the room to the dresser, flipping open the lid of a small mahogany box that sat there. Memory stirred and he remembered giving Mike the box. He*d been twelve, still young enough to think his father was perfect. The box had been a project in shop class and he'd been so proud of it. And his dad had kept it all these years.

  John shut the lid quietly and turned his attention to the photos that stood along the back of the dresser. The first one he picked up was one he remembered vividly. It was taken before the last football game he'd played in high school. He could smile now at the self-consciously fierce look the boy in the photo was giving the camera, but he remembered how important that game had seemed at the time. Life and death.

  He set the picture down and lifted the next one. This one must be a graduation photo of Lily. She looked out at the camera with total calm, not in the least intimidated by the lens. He studied the picture, comparing it to the woman who'd come downstairs wearing a man's shirt and nothing else. She looked a little older than the girl in the photo, even more beautiful if that was possible. The self-possession was the same, a measuring look in those expressive eyes, as if she were seeing much more than you wanted her to.

  Lily was in the last photo, too, a little younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Trace was with her. It was a candid shot. They were both wearing jeans and casual shirts and John recognized the front of the house behind them. It might have been nothing more than just another informal family portrait if it hadn't been for their expressions. Trace had his arms around Lily's waist, her back against his chest. It wasn't hard to guess that Mike had posed them that way but neither of them was looking at the camera. Lily had leaned sideways to gaze up at Trace and he was looking down at her. It wasn't the position that caught the viewer's attention. It was their expressions. Trace was looking at Lily as if she were the most precious thing on earth, and Lily looked at him as if the sun rose and set because of him.

  John set the picture down, feeling a funny little ache in his chest. He'd known; all those years ago, he'd known. Two scruffy kids and a battered suitcase. Nothing special, and yet there'd been something about them. They hadn't recog-

  nized him. Fifteen years was a long time and they'd been just children back then. No, Trace might have been a child in age but he'd been well on his way to manhood. Odd, he hadn't known what they were running from—he still didn't know—but he hadn't doubted that they had good reason.

  He turned away from the photos and looked at the bed. He'd said that he'd take this room because it held less vivid memories for him, but that wasn't strictly the truth. The memories were th^e, just as real as ever. He crossed to the duffel bag that held just about everything he owned in the world and pulled out a sleeping bag, rolling it out on the carpet near the door.

  He'd wanted to stay here because of the memories, a chance to say goodbye maybe. But goodbye was turning out to be a httle harder than he'd expected. There were too many things left to say, too many explanations that couldn't be given.

  He slid into the sleeping bag and reached out to turn off the light, plunging the room into darkness. John closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. The wind howled outside, isolating the little house. But it didn't take
a wind to make a man feel alone. Sometimes he carried that feeling inside himself.

  Chapter Nine

  John paused at the top of the stairs, taking a deep appreciative sniff. The smoky rich scent of coffee wafted upward, greeting the day with more enthusiasm than he'd managed to muster so far. Sleep had been elusive, teasing him with the promise of rest but never delivering. It hadn't been because he was sleeping on the floor. God knew he'd slept in worse places in his time. No, it hadn't been the physical conditions. His mind had simply refused to shut down long enough to allow him to fall asleep. Too much to think about, too many decisions that needed to be made.

  He shook his head and breathed in another whiff of coffee. Right now the only decision he planned on making was whether to have two or three cups of coffee. It was about all he felt capable of.

  "I hope there's enough coffee for two in that pot." Trace was seated at the oak kitchen table, a steaming cup in front of him.

  "Help yourself. I don't quite function until I've had my second cup."

  **I know what you mean." John sat down, cradling a cup between his palms, letting the warmth seep into his body. "Looks like the winds have died down."

  "The weather report says they're gone for now," Trace said.

  "Have you been outside? Is there much damage?"

  Trace shrugged. *'It's not too bad. A couple of broken branches and a section of the back fence down. Mike was— Mike was going to replace the fence this summer anyway.*' He picked up his cup and sipped at the steaming liquid.

  "It's probably the same fence that was there when I was a kid and Dad was threatening to replace it then."

  Trace grinned, the first openly friendly expression John had seen from him. "It's the same one. He almost replaced it about five, six years ago, but then he priced new fencing and swore he'd make the thing last till doomsday before he shelled out that kind of money for a few moldy boards."

  John laughed. "Doesn't sound like he'd changed much."

  "No, he didn't change a whole lot."