Bounty (Walk the Right Road)

by Eckhart, Lorhainne

  “Not much to tell, really,” she said. “Boring life. I work as a cop, investigate drug kings, build a case against them and try to put those scumbags away for a really long time.” She swallowed again as his long fingers lingered, sliding around both sides of her jaw.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. Tell me about where you came from, your childhood, why you ran away. What are you hiding from?”

  She flushed again. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak or something.”

  “You must have a pretty low opinion of me if you believe I’d think that.” He dropped his hand and walked around the kitchen counter to lift the lid on the steaming pot of rice, giving it a stir. He pulled out a frying pan from a cupboard, poured oil in the bottom of the skillet, and turned on the burner.

  He turned away from her, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she were the bad guy here. Was he right? No, she didn’t trust people. She knew that. She had friends, and they talked about everything except her past, which she never shared with anyone. “I told Sam a little this morning. He knew I was having a problem, trouble speaking, so he brought out the beer, you know, liquid courage. It’s pathetic, but it helped. I spilled some of my story, not everything, but enough that he looked at me differently. He’s my friend. I’ve known Sam a long time, and we’ve been through what feels like a lifetime of shit. I regret telling him. He was uncomfortable. And if I tell you…”

  “I won’t think less of you. We all have secrets, Diane, and it’s what you do with them that makes you stronger. I’m sorry about your friend, but you are so twisted up that you’re not thinking clearly. Bottling things up for years at a time, forgetting them, it doesn’t work, because buried things always break through the surface eventually at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way.”

  He opened the fridge and lifted out a plate of cut-up raw chicken, tossing it into the hot oil. It sizzled and popped as he stirred and focused on cooking dinner for her, something no man had ever done for her, ever. He had changed the focus of his attention not in a way that dismissed her but in a way that gave her a chance to absorb what he was saying. She hoped that was it, anyway. She’d never met anyone like him. He was hard to read and so much like her. The realization sent an unsettling surge of awareness through her.

  “I didn’t know there was any other way,” she said. “I thought the way we lived was normal, even though deep down I always knew something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t know the pure joy that all children should know. I always felt as if I was a square peg and everyone around me was trying to shove me into a round hole, turning me into them, all the same. My mother was the fifth of seven wives to my father, Joseph. I was her only child, but I had seventeen brothers and sisters. The other wives, well, they fought for Joseph’s attention. I could see it in the undermining that happened between them, the jealousy from one or two, generally Elsa, first wife, and Myrna, the second.

  “My father actually scheduled his nights with each of the wives. It was organized. The women were always in the kitchen. We had a main one that we all shared. The women cooked everything from scratch, prepared and baked for the week. It was a full-time job. We lived on a big piece of land nestled just across the border, in Canada, but my mother came from Arizona, where she was born. The brides were shuffled back and forth across the border. We ate every meal together, and it was crowded, and my father would sit at the head of the table as if looking over all of us, proud we were all his.

  “I loved him, but as I got older, pre-teen, I noticed how he’d say he had reached a decision after many conflicting thoughts and that God had provided him the answer. The one that always stuck in my head was the underwear I was allowed to wear. Can you imagine someone having the right to tell you what color or kind of underwear you had to wear? Then, just like that, there was clothing I wasn’t allowed to wear anymore. It was replaced, and my old clothes were burned. It was then I started questioning openly. I said to him at the dinner table, ‘How can God only talk directly to you? If he’s all loving and we’re all his children, can’t we all hear him? Can’t we all talk to him?’” Diane cleared her throat as she swallowed the fear that squeezed it, remembering the way her father’s round face had darkened. His blue eyes had turned a lighter shade that resembled ice, the whites so pronounced that his expression sent the fear of God deep into her, and she remembered gripping her fork so hard it bent.

  “What did he say, Diane? What happened to you for challenging him and making him look small?”

  She was startled from her father’s image, burned into her memories so vividly that it had haunted her dreams every night for years after she left. It still hadn’t faded. “He shouted and threw his chair against the wall, and it splintered into pieces. He yelled out, ‘Turn now, every one of you, from her evil way and evil deed!’ Then he raised his fist in the air, and I know I feared the hand of God coming in right then, striking me down. The other mothers hurried their children out of the room, but they all returned to stand behind him. My mother was forced to remain with me as he spoke of the blood atonement, the spilling of blood for repeat sinners. I was so terrified he was going to kill me right then. I had dared to question him openly, and looking back now, I see he was threatened by my challenge. But I was just a scared kid asking a question because I didn’t believe that God only talked to men.

  “It was decided I needed my mind cleansed, that all my schooling had filled my head with nonsense and thoughts of the devil. As I was subservient, a girl coming into the life of a woman who was owned by her father and her future husband, I was not allowed my own thoughts. He screamed, ‘There are sins committed for which there’s no forgiveness and which water cannot cleanse. The blood must run free!’ But my mother stopped him from whatever he was planning. I still don’t know how she did it, but I remember seeing her the next day, huddled in the corner of the kitchen, wearing a scarf around her head, her face covered with bruises. I couldn’t touch her, and I could see how hurt she was. Things changed after that day. I was avoided by the other children, told I was a horrible child by the other wives, that God would punish me for ever having questioned my father’s wisdom.

  “My mother said nothing. She kept her eyes lowered and kept her distance from me. The family started growing, and my father added another wife. He was powerful, but not as powerful as the leader. My father could lose everything he had, his wives, his children, if the leader discovered what I’d said. It was the ultimate disrespect, what I’d done. All the wives, all of us kids, could have been given to another man. One night, on my fourteenth birthday, he announced that God had told him I was to be married, and he’d consulted the prophet. My husband was waiting for me. Arrangements were being made.

  “You see, we all knew how you left. There was a bus stop at the border, Bonner’s Ferry. We kids would make up stories of what it looked like, as no one spoke of it. I always pictured this building at the border with one door at the Canadian side. You’d walk in and sit and wait. Then the other door would open and your husband would walk in and take you to your new home. With just a few words from the prophet, a girl could be married to a man three times her age and taken away, never to see her family again. The preparation included a note of permission to cross the border with a friend to visit relatives, a note signed by both parents.”

  Zac slipped a plate filled with steamy rice and fragrant, spicy stir fry in front of her. He set a fork on her plate. “What happened next?”

  “My mother woke me that night, handed me a bag with a sandwich and fifty dollars, and told me to leave and never come back. And I left.”

  Chapter 9

  Zac slid his hand over hers. She didn’t know how long she’d sat there, lost in thought, but his simple touch as he lifted her hand and set the fork in it touched something tenderly inside her. She hadn’t relived that moment in a long while, and the deep pain took away her hunger. She didn’t want to think about it.

  “Eat. Put the fork in the food, and
put the food in your mouth,” he said as he moved his own plate beside hers. As if showing her what to do, he scooped up a forkful and shoved it in his own mouth.

  Diane lifted the food and took a bite, but even though she realized the trouble he had gone to and how good it had to taste, she just wasn’t able to enjoy it.

  “Keep going. Just put the food in your mouth. Don’t think anymore.”

  She held the fork stiffly and glanced his way. “Do you pity me? Do you now see me as different? Has your opinion of me changed? Am I less to you now?”

  “No, I don’t pity you, I admire you. Whatever you lived through, I have a feeling that what you told me only touches the surface. I’ve seen horror stories, and it’s all about what you make of your life after. You evidently picked up the pieces. You made something of yourself. I bet you’re always looking after everyone else before yourself, determined to bring down the bad guy despite the cost to you. How many times in every one of your cases do you see your father and those from your community, and it makes you want to dig in more, bring ’em down? Am I right?”

  Diane played with her fork, pushing the food around her plate, because what he was saying was everything she’d never admitted to herself. She bit her tongue when her instinctive response was to deny everything he’d said. She did what she did to bring justice and right to the world and make it a better place. What did it matter why she did it?

  “Thank you for dinner, Zac. No one has ever cooked for me before. But I should go.” She was forced to look up at him and paste a smile to her stiff lips, which were trembling. What she didn’t expect was the kindness, something soft in his expression.

  He slid his hand across her jaw and around the back of her neck. His fingers slid into her short dark hair, and his soft gray flecked eyes deepened to something darker. His interest, which reached out and touched her…well, she knew it was just for her. He lowered his head closer, his breath whispering warmly across her face, against her lips. She could see every line, the slight tan of his skin, the difference in color from his scars. He was giving her an out, and he waited, saying not one word as she stared at him, mesmerized by the closeness, unsure of what to do, fearing he’d kiss her and worrying that he wouldn’t.

  Then, so softly, his lips brushed over hers. The contact sent a shiver racing up her spine, leaving her lightheaded. Her heart pounded harder and faster until it echoed in her ears. Couldn’t he hear it? He pulled back and traced his thumb over her lips, and she took in all of his face, his expression. He filled the entire space around her and became everything in that moment. She struggled for a breath and parted her lips instinctively from his touch, her tongue darting out to lick her lower lip. His gaze immediately went to her mouth, and the burning heat turned to scorching from the connection sizzling between them. She waited for him to do something, but he stepped back, allowing his hand to drop.

  The magic of the spell had broken. She wondered if she’d said too much tonight. Regret, her constant companion, took hold, and she wondered why he’d kissed her. Why had he pulled back?

  “There’s more innocence to you than you let on. But some things you can’t hide,” he said, scooping up her plate, half eaten, and dumping it into the sink. “I’ll drive you.”

  “It’s all right. I have my vehicle, and I can find my way home.” She leaped off the stool, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. A geeky awkwardness rippled through her senses, and she supposed that if she had been an experienced woman, she’d know what to do in this uncomfortable moment. But she couldn’t figure it out, as she glanced at the door and then at his large frame in front of her.

  He held out his hand. “For once, allow yourself to lean on someone.”

  His expression when she looked up was so solid that she wondered whether all those fairy tales about knights in shining armor omitted the part where the scarred warriors had their own baggage, which hung off them like dead weights, pushing those around them away until they were ready to let a princess in.

  She knew without a doubt that her story was safe with him. There was something about his simple gesture of driving her home such a short distance that touched her deeply. No man she’d dated or worked with had ever, not even once, shown her that kind of concern, acknowledging that she was human and needed others to lean on. No one had ever seen it. Except Zac.

  She nodded, as her voice was so dry she didn’t think she could speak. She set her hand in his—large, warm, and very male—as his long, slender fingers closed around hers, and he held her in a way that let her know she was safe.

  Chapter 10

  Diane hadn’t slept well. In fact, she’d tossed and turned until the break of dawn, when the darkness of the dead of night broke away and the birds started chirping, allowing something light to move in. The steel rod that had been keeping her muscles and nerves so stiff and tight loosened until she could finally breathe. It was then that she relaxed enough to drift off, only to be awoken by the alarm a few hours later. Her head ached as if she’d gone on a drunken binge the night before, but it was just a combination of the stress and two days of very little sleep. This morning was what she dreaded. In that moment, she prayed for any other case to fall in her lap, even for a plane to land on her house, anything so she wouldn’t have to go in and work this case.

  She loved being a cop; it was in her blood, and when she worked a case, solving the crime, she dug in and worked herself into a frenzy, at times feeling, breathing, and living every part of the crime. Except she couldn’t become part of this one, and she hadn’t yet figured out how to solve something that hit way too close to home, especially with Green, her new boss, and Casey and the others in the Sequim detachment watching her every move. They’d notice if she didn’t throw herself into every detail of the crime and get worked up, screaming and shouting in a normal way.

  How could she when she already understood where this girl came from, what she’d experienced, what she’d lived through, without asking any questions? She couldn’t fake it. She already knew the deeply personal answers she would have asked for if this were any other crime. She always put the victim first and dug deep, but for this one, this time, she couldn’t hide how it was affecting her. She couldn’t allow anyone else to know who she really was, because they’d see her as weak, tainted, and they’d never look at her the same way again. It would be awkward: the averted gazes, the whispers behind her back, the speculation and talk. No, she’d never ever be that misfit again.

  The doorbell rang as she lay wrapped in her duvet, nightshirt twisted and pillows scattered. She shoved the duvet off and scrambled from bed, her striped blue and gray nightshirt draped to mid-thigh. She caught the image of herself in the bedroom mirror: short dark bed hair, the thin shirt draped over her small breasts, her ordinary body, her solid legs. With her pale complexion, round cheeks, and plain brown eyes, she wasn’t stunning, and, since shedding a few pounds this year, she had started hiding her feminine curves under baggy t-shirts and jeans that were loose and unflattering, the cheaper kind that were serviceable and didn’t show off the great butt she had. She’d never looked at herself that way, but now, dressed in this thin shirt, there was no hiding anything. Where was her housecoat? She searched her closet as the doorbell rang again, and someone pounded on the door, so she gave up and hurried to the front entrance. “Coming,” she shouted.

  “Diane, it’s Zac,” came the reply.

  She froze, feeling the earth shift beneath her. What the hell was he doing here? Oh yeah, he had driven her home last night in his truck, and her SUV was still parked at his house. She couldn’t open the door dressed as she was, so she slid open the front closet and yanked out her brown sweater, shoving her arms in and then opening the door a crack, clutching the sweater closed in front of her breasts. There he was, Zac, standing there, holding two coffees, looking so damn good. He was dressed in dark jeans, a blue button-up shirt, and a black leather coat, and he was watching her with the same hard-to-read expression he had worn the night before.<
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  “Open up, Diane. I brought you coffee.”

  “What the hell, Zac? It’s like the crack of dawn.” Diane pulled the door open but used it as a shield as she set one foot over her other bare toes.

  “It’s after seven, Diane. It’s late. Here, take the coffee. You had breakfast yet?”

  She accepted the Thermos and sipped. Zac stepped in and shut the door, and he didn’t hesitate to take in her attire or lack thereof. He glanced at her bare legs and then landed squarely on her face. A hint of an amused smile touched his lips. “Nice,” he said.

  Nice? What did that mean? Was he making fun of her, or did he actually like what she was wearing? Seriously, she had to give her head a shake to clear away that thought. Well, of course he was amused.

  “Go get in the shower, get dressed, and I’ll make breakfast.” He started for her kitchen as if he’d been there a thousand times.

  Diane froze for a second and said nothing. First dinner last night, and now he was going to cook her breakfast in her house? She took another sip of the best cup of coffee she’d ever had and couldn’t think of one intelligent thing to say. “Okay,” she muttered and hurried down the hall to her bedroom, shutting the door. As she leaned against the cold wood, her heart pounded. Being so rattled, she needed to take a breath and then another to pull it together. She set the coffee on her nightstand. She had to still her mind or she was going to go crazy, and she needed to get dressed. “No, no, no, you need to focus. Come on, Diane. Grab clothes, get in the shower, because there is one hot man in your kitchen cooking breakfast for you, and you need to report in to work at the precinct in less than an hour,” she muttered to herself.