No Turning Back

by Nancy Bush

  “Hey! Hey! Let go!” the kid yelled. He squirmed away from Hawk’s grasp, jumped to his feet, and ran like hell.

  “Hawk?” Liz whispered, scared.

  “Joey . . . ?”

  Confused, Liz said, “He’s all right.”

  He didn’t answer. Unwillingly, she noticed how the contours of his body meshed with hers, matching perfectly. The slightest movement would be described as sensual, so she stayed still.

  Distantly, she recognized the trembling. Some kind of trauma going on here, Liz realized through her own needs and desires. With a strange feeling of déjà vu, she wrapped her arms around him and simply waited. Like old times at the Candlewick Inn. Hawk locked inside his own private hell and Liz providing comfort.

  Slowly, he drew a shattered breath, lifting his head. Those inner demons danced in the depths of his eyes. It took him a long time to focus on her and when he did, he immediately rolled off her onto his back.

  “Who’s Joey?” she finally asked, having come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the boy with the softball.

  Hawk didn’t answer. Liz sat up, dusting herself off. Footsteps warned of approaching visitors and Hawk climbed to his feet, silently offering Liz a hand.

  The footsteps stopped short. A woman with a scowl on her face and the twelve-year-old boy by one hand glared at Hawk. “What the hell do you think you were doing? I could have you arrested for assault!”

  “Oh, no,” Liz began, but the woman swept on, her fury escalating with each syllable.

  “My son says you threw him to the ground and held him down. I’ve sent someone for the police. Don’t leave. They’ll find you. What kind of sick bastard are you?” She shook with fear and anger.

  Hawk, still dealing with his own torment, couldn’t seem to think of an answer. Liz came to his rescue.

  “Detective Hart is a police officer,” she told the woman. “He heard the backfire and pushed both your son and me to the ground to protect us. He thought it was a gunshot.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She blinked rapidly. She was so upset she couldn’t shift gears that fast. “Well, he shouldn’t have!” she declared in outrage. “He shouldn’t have!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hawk put in. “You’re absolutely right. I should have given some warning to your son at the same moment, so he’d know.”

  “You scared us,” she cried, then burst into tears.

  A crowd surged around them, everyone staring at Hawk as if he were a child molester—everyone except those who knew he was a police officer. They wanted to know where the pedophile had raced off to.

  Liz explained the mistake, quietly, calmly, and in a way that minimized embarrassment. The woman finally pulled herself together and half-laughed at the mishap, squeezing her son close until he looked as frightened of her as he’d been of Hawk.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Liz was alone with Hawthorne again, and by that time he was completely in control. “I’m going back to the house to see if Jesse’s there,” he told her, and Liz said, “I’m going with you.”

  It was bold, and another time he would have laughed her out of the park, but this was now, and after regarding her intensely in the half-light he merely nodded and led her to his Jeep. She climbed inside and let her hair blow from the wind of the open window. A thick strand found its way toward Hawk and lay across his shoulder long enough for him to flick a look its way.

  His log cabin was lit from the inside, a warm yellow glow that struck some chord within Liz’s heart. Gravel crunched beneath her sandals as she followed him up the steps to a porch very similar to Avery Francis’s.

  Hawthorne pushed open the door and hollered, “Jesse?” to no immediate answer. “I’ll check,” he told her, leaving her just inside the threshold to examine his rather bare living quarters.

  Like herself, he was a fairly recent returnee to Woodside. This was evidenced in the row of neat boxes still standing to one side of the hearth. The fireplace was made of river rock with a pine mantel. On the mantel was a picture of Jesse, taken several years earlier, in which he was grinning and holding up a good-sized salmon.

  Her heart somersaulted painfully. She’d missed so much. So very much. Yet here was a chance. After all, she was inside Hawk’s house—with his permission—and drawing closer to her son. Mentally, she crossed her fingers as she walked to the hearth to get a closer look.

  Hawk returned a few moments later. In the light, she noticed the grass stains on his shirt. “He’s not here.”

  Though disappointed, Liz nodded, hoping Hawk wouldn’t suddenly return to himself and order her to leave or something worse. “Tell me about Joey,” she suggested, leaning a shoulder against the fireplace.

  Hawk exhaled a frustrated breath, his old self returning. He shook his head.

  “Does it have anything to do with Jesse?”

  “No.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.” Raking a hand through his hair, he ground his teeth together.

  “Tell me,” she urged softly.

  * * *

  “No,” Hawk said. He was struggling not to yell at her. Talking about Joey was too difficult. He couldn’t do it. But everything about Liz Havers invited confidence. He’d let down with her before. He wanted to now.

  And he hated himself for it.

  But after his ridiculous behavior this evening, she deserved to know. He was so damn weak he wanted to kick himself senseless. She was waiting, and he wanted to toss her out, but what the hell would that accomplish? Nothing. It would only invite more questions. He struggled with himself for several moments, then heaved a sigh. “Joey was a kid who got taken hostage,” he said carefully. “We sent in a SWAT team, but he died in the crossfire.”

  “You sent the team?” Liz asked gently.

  “I fired the bullet.”

  Silence fell around them like a blanket. Hawk stared at her, raw. He shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have shown the truth of his failing. It was his fault. His. No one else’s. There was nothing to do now but wait for the ax to fall.

  * * *

  Liz swallowed against a dry throat. Holy Mother of God. Her head pounded. Her own heartbeat deafening her. She understood. Really understood. Remorse consumed her. Guilt for all the awful things she’d thought about him.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, stumbling toward him, her legs woolly, her heart full.

  She’d never been known for offering physical comfort. Except with Hawk, and no one knew about that. She dispensed advice and direction and reality checks for her patients who were lost and confused. She rarely hugged or touched unless the patient practically threw themselves at her.

  But with Hawk it had always been different and that hadn’t changed. She walked straight to him, stopping in front of the well-loved couch with pine arms and feet. Acting on impulse, she laid a palm against his cheek, felt the beginnings of stubble and caressed his skin empathetically.

  It seemed as natural as sunlight to kiss him. Her gaze fastened on his mouth, the urge irresistible. But she didn’t have a chance for he took it from her. One moment he was standing in front of her, the next his mouth was hard against hers, slanting, demanding, eager for her own special brand of comfort.

  Sixteen years receded like mist. She was seventeen and in love. She lusted naïvely yet passionately.

  “God, Liz,” he murmured, all burning need and emotion.

  It was soul-breaking. Undeniable. Impossible. His hands swept down her back spasmodically, one palm searching for her breast, molding it within strong fingers aching with need.

  She was liquid. Nothing. Limp. Willing. Only his strength kept her on her feet. She clung for support, her head lolling back as his lips searched and found the arch of her throat, the beat of her heart at the hollow between her clavicles. Chest heaving, she longed for him to lower her to the floor. To equilibrium. To the chance to have his hard body pushing against her yielding one.

  Sixteen years was an instant. A crystal moment. Forgotten beneath des
ire. Hawk’s body pushed against hers. He was hard and she was soft. But there was space behind her, not solid ground. Her knees bent. She wanted down—and she wanted him with her.

  He groaned. His hands on her buttocks held her tight against his throbbing need. What was the delay? she asked herself in frustration, her thoughts distant, drugged, captured beneath her own demanding ardor.

  “Liz . . .” he whispered.

  She kissed his mouth, shutting those lips. But not quite. They were parted and his tongue reached forward to touch its tip to hers. It broke apart her last objection—had there even been one?—and she tugged him toward her, moving downward so he couldn’t miss the message she was sending.

  That did it. One instant they were on their feet, the next Liz’s back was against the couch’s cushions and Hawk’s body was on hers. A minute of restless hands and grinding hips was all they could stand.

  He reached beneath her dress, yanking the snaps. She saw the scalloped edge of her bikini panties a second before his fingers slipped beneath and his hand found her moist heat. She gasped. It was so quick. So hot. She couldn’t wait. She, who had abstained from sexual trysts and wild affairs, wanted to be possessed so badly she was actually moaning and thrashing around.

  Her panties were dispensed with. A muscular twist and he was out of his trousers, falling upon her as if they’d orchestrated this from the beginning. He tore off his shirt and the remaining snaps of her dress, those last sentinels, broke away.

  And then his body was on hers and there was only the sound of breathing, gasping mouths, and twisting bodies.

  “Liz . . .”

  She moaned a response. He was poised at the entrance, ready to plunge into her. She wanted him to. She squirmed to urge him on. But he hesitated that one heartbeat too long, and reality fought its way inside her head.

  This is how you created Jesse.

  Jesse.

  Her son. Who could appear at any moment.

  Hawthorne’s head was cocked. He was listening. Panic surged over Liz, and she hissed through her teeth, “No! Oh, God. What if he comes home!”

  Hawk pulled away from her as if she’d burned his skin. Scrambling, Liz grabbed for her panties, snapping her dress with trembling fingers. Hawk dressed quickly, too, but his shirttails still hung loose as Liz, re-clothed and standing ten feet away, stared him down in horror.

  She couldn’t speak. Neither, apparently, could he. At least for a moment. When he finally did open his mouth, she winced at his words.

  “You always appear when I’m at my weakest. I don’t know who to blame, me or you. Probably me.” He was sardonic. “It won’t happen again.”

  Liz struggled. How could she have believed, even for an instant, that he was someone special? Because she had believed it. She’d desperately wanted to believe it. But he’d spoiled it. He told the truth. And she hated him—and herself—a little for it.

  “No, it won’t,” she agreed tightly.

  “You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

  That was it? He thought this was because she felt sorry for him? Pissed, she said, “I don’t. I’m just naturally sexual. I can’t help myself.”

  His eyes narrowed. He almost believed her, which pissed her off some more. But then his gaze fastened on her still quivering lips—those damn betrayers—and she knew he sensed she wasn’t as bold as she pretended.

  Liz tore her eyes from his. She was still fighting to get her breath under control and so was he. He finished tucking in his shirttails.

  “I’ll take you back to your car,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  She sat stiffly beside him. They traveled silently through the warm August night, the air feeling thick and enveloping. At her car, she slid out of the Jeep, but some latent chivalry brought him outside the vehicle and he closed her door behind her as she climbed into the Miata.

  The top was down. His hands rested on the edge of the door. She looked straight ahead and said, “Let me know about Jesse.”

  A moment.

  “All right,” he told her, then headed toward his Jeep, climbed back in, and drove away.

  Liz laid her head against the headrest and fought a sting in her sinuses that had come out of nowhere.

  Chapter Eleven

  Slipping back inside the old homestead unnoticed was no easy task, but Jesse had years of experience. It was quiet, only an occasional cricket sending out its own music. His window was cracked open, although you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you went right up to it—something he’d banked on his dad not bothering to do. And it was greased. Thank you, WD-40. Sliding it upward was soundless and effortless. With animal grace, Jesse hoisted himself inside and, managing only the faintest of rustlings, stripped naked and slid between his sheets.

  He fell asleep instantly and dreamed of Tawny.

  She was crying. She didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want her to leave, and he was trying to tell her as much but was distracted by a major woody. While he struggled with this embarrassment, she just kept on crying. He was glad all over that she couldn’t see, but he wanted to help.

  Maybe if he touched her . . .

  Someone was shaking him. Violently. His teeth rattled. Holy shit! Her father! He’d been about to make love to her when Guy Fielding—with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body and teeth like a grizzly—grabbed him around the throat and started bellowing at him.

  “Wake up. Damn it all! Do I have to yank you out of bed?”

  Jesse’s eyes flew open. His dad was yanking on one arm. He jerked it back and yelled, “Let go of me!”

  “Why’d you come in through the back? Afraid to face me?”

  Slowly, Jesse recognized that his dad was livid. “What’s eating you?” he demanded, to which Hawthorne Hart swore pungently and dropped Jesse’s arm as if it burned.

  “Brad’s been stealing from Lannie’s and you’re implicated.”

  “Bullshit!” Jesse sat straight up. “Who told you that? They’re lying. Those jerk-offs set Brad up. They took the goddamned beer and they’re—”

  “Stop swearing.”

  “—covering their asses! Go ask ’em. I’m sick of being the only delinquent around here. They’d all sell their own mothers for a dip or a cigarette. They’d murder for a beer! Goddammit,” he added, belatedly responding to his father’s request to stop swearing.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Jesse rejoined heatedly. “God, I’m sick of this. You go ask them. Be a lawman. Go ahead.” He was suddenly slammed back into the bed by one strong palm. “Hey . . .”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Hawthorne said through his teeth. “I’m on your side. So get over that attitude.”

  Jesse didn’t respond. His dad reeked of hostility, so who was the one with attitude here? Wisely, he kept that thought to himself and simply nodded in the semidark. It wasn’t often that Dad lost his cool. Oh, sure, that kid being wiped out with the sniper had definitely done a number on him, but you had to expect that, being a cop and all. Jesse was a little unsure about why his dad had taken it so hard. Blamed himself. Like, what? Hawthorne Hart, ace shot and dead-calm aim, could take out an innocent victim? That was a total joke!

  But he had to admit his dad felt differently about the whole thing, so Jesse kept his thoughts to himself. And he’d heard he’d once had a drinking problem, so he supposed Hawk was a little sensitive on the stolen beer issue.

  But it wasn’t his or Brad’s fault. “Those guys at Lannie’s really did steal the beer and blame it on Brad,” Jesse said seriously.

  His dad slowly pulled away, standing beside Jesse’s bed, thinking hard. That’s what he always did. Think hard. The guy didn’t know how to lighten up.

  “Something wrong?” Jesse guessed.

  “No.”

  It wasn’t often they conversed. Jesse just didn’t have time and Hawk’s authority got in the way. But Jesse was intuitive enough to sense a change and he mentally groped for a cause. “Did you have
something to drink?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “It was wine coolers that were stolen, not beer,” he said at length.

  Jesse tried to read his father’s mind. “So, okay, it was wine coolers.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you did it if you didn’t even know what it was,” Hawk pointed out.

  “Well, yeah, that’s right.” Jesse shook off his nightmare-haunted sleep and clicked his brain into gear. “That’s right!”

  He debated whether he should be incensed that his father thought the worst of him but, given his own personal history, that might be pushing things too far. Instead, he waited for Hawk to say something more, but silence was the only response.

  Conscious of his father’s darker outline in the dimness, Jesse asked, “How’s the murder investigation going?”

  “It’s going.” His bitten-off answers didn’t invite questions.

  “Any idea who killed the guy?”

  “Nothing concrete.”

  Because he felt a strange connection tonight, Jesse offered, “A girl I know thinks her mom’s boyfriend stole that old lady’s trees.”

  Hawk’s interest sharpened; Jesse could feel it. “Who?”

  “Carrie Lister’s mom’s boyfriend. I don’t know his name, but he’s at the Listers’ a lot.” He paused, thinking. “Carrie goes to see Brad’s shrink, Mrs. Havers, too.”

  “Ms. Havers,” Hawk corrected,

  Jesse smiled in the darkness. Oh, ho. “‘Miz Havers,’” Jesse drawled.

  “Why does Carrie think he took the trees?”

  “Money,” Jesse responded.

  His father jerked visibly.

  “What?” Jesse asked.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Hawthorne said, heading for the bedroom door.

  Jesse lay awake in bed for quite a while, his hands cradling the back of his head. A general feeling of dissatisfaction crept over him as he reviewed the events of the day. He was so pissed at Brad. Here they were, in trouble again, and it wasn’t their fault. And Brad, the dumbass, acted like it was no big deal. In fact, he’d been really annoying. Jesse’d wanted to hit him.

  “Did you get on her yet?” Brad had asked, referring to Tawny. They were on the run from Lannie’s, having realized they’d been set up by the older guys.