For the first time in her adult life, Taylor found Almost too small, too restrictive. Maybe a little too cloying. The caring, the nurturing, the day-to-day details of a daily life suddenly felt pointless and shockingly meaningless. Taylor told herself she had no reason for thinking this way. Then, because of that no reason at all, she began to cry.
Steve had thrown himself into the pornography investigation with a desperation only matched by his loneliness once he had to leave his high-rise office and go home to his sterile, empty condominium.
During the day, hard at work, pressing everyone on his team to resolve this case as soon as humanly possible and probably sooner than that, Steve could tell himself that he hadn’t run from Almost, from Taylor, that he’d only done his duty and gotten out of that single-gas-pump town in the middle of nowhere.
But at night, alone in his bed, he couldn’t hide from his longings, couldn’t duck any truths. He’d been scared. Pure and simple. Taylor Smithton had touched him in ways he’d given up believing possible years before, back in the days when he’d been content to dream of a woman in a photograph, sorry he couldn’t have her, but glad, if anyone did, it had been Doug, his friend.
And when he’d married her look-alikes, however unknowingly, he’d attributed the failures to something lacking in him, rather than seeing that he’d married women who were the exact opposite of Taylor’s warmth and sincerity. And yet he’d been hurt when they hadn’t been like the way Doug had described Taylor. He’d been hurt when they hadn’t conformed to his image of Taylor.
Then, once in Almost and inundated with the force of her personality, he hadn’t been able to hack the raw, unvarnished honesty ever present in her clear eyes. In her kisses, in her touch, in the love for her children... and him?
And he hadn’t been able to hack the idea that someone... Taylor...could see the soft side of him. He’d been terrified that vision would come back later and lay him flat out.
He told himself that if he was stupid enough to resort to his youthful fantasies and fall for a girl-next-door type in a pissant town politicians didn’t even bother to visit, then at least he’d been smart enough to get out before his ultimate destruction had come to pass.
The trouble was, he thought, he didn’t believe this garbage. For it was garbage. Taylor might be the girl-next-door type and the town might be so small as to warrant only an unnamed dot on a road map, but she wasn’t the kind of woman a man should run from. She was the kind of woman a man, a whole, honest man, would grab hold of and never, never let go.
He’d been worried about revealing his inner feelings and having them used against him, so he’d run as far and as fast as he could. And that had proved to be the most torturous route to have taken.
During the past five days, he would occasionally hear a throaty glissade of laughter and turn his head, searching for Taylor, his heart beating faster, his fingertips tingling with the need to touch her, to draw her into his arms and promise her the sun, moon and stars forever, if she would only agree to love him. Her laughter lingered in his mind. Her honest tears lingered in his heart.
He’d used the excuse of his hotter-than-hot investigation to cancel all his Kids versus Crime speeches the past week. But the true reason he’d ducked them was he’d been aware of a burning need to see the boys again, to hear their laughter, to listen to their sometimes absurd, sometimes wise observations. To feel a sleepy head lolling on his shoulder, to shake hands with a grubby, dirt-encrusted boy who grinned through lips stained with milk and the remnants of a chocolate bar. He missed watching them romping with their bizarre assortment of pets. He missed his own game of trying to tell them apart.
He missed them. It was that simple. And because of them, he didn’t want to be around other kids right now, any kids, because short, freckle-faced, shining faces would now, and probably forever, remind him of Jonah, Joshua and Jason.
Doris came into his office then, signaling him that his current case had just escalated up a full flight of stairs.
He grabbed his files and stormed out of the office, ready for battle.
Sure, he thought, he could fight the bad guys; he just couldn’t confront one wonderful woman and three enterprising boys and beg their forgiveness for walking out on them.
Chapter 14
Two more days passed, making Steve’s time away from Almost exactly one week, and the pornography case had worn to a sordid, anticlimactic finish at roughly midnight the night before. Anyone remotely suspected of involvement in the pornographic ring had been arrested, Miranda rights had been read and repeated, and the smut dealers were hauled off to spend the remainder of the night in jail. Their attorneys would have them back on the streets by the time the day really warmed up. But the evidence secured the night before would eventually lock them away for a healthy portion of their lives.
The case in Almost wasn’t going along quite as neatly, Steve discovered, after placing a quick phone call to Tom Adams. That phone call hadn’t been difficult, utterly unlike trying to contact Taylor. According to Tom, Richard DuFraunt—and assorted aliases—was aligned with a Canadian chemical company, ChemCon. “Get this, Steve, ChemCon is the primary focus of a widespread investigation of drug smuggling. Different division, of course, which is why we didn’t snap right away.”
Also, Tom said, the Almost citizens’ search of their town had yielded one or two more interesting items. Sam Harrigan had discovered a satchel in his barn, a backpack containing bundles of cash, another couple of false passports, some film containers filled with heroin, and to no one’s great surprise, a change of Armani casual wear.
“Thanks to Pete Jackson’s memory, we’re pretty sure this DuFraunt was the Canadian connection to the case last spring. And we’re fairly certain, given the discovery of the backpack and his murder, that he was caught skimming some of the proceeds from a haul,” Tom said. “Our boy liked the good life. His tastes in clothes, hardware, even manicures, were expensive. Taking some of the product and creaming off some of the cash in the process must have been too great a temptation for him.”
“Why Almost? You’d think the heat after the incident in the spring would have kept him a million miles from there.”
“The case was essentially folded up. We got the local connection, stopped the drops, basically pulling the plug on the whole shebang. This guy already had an established route, probably ranged as far north as Canada and then on down to Mexico. Almost has a dozen or so barns where he could easily stash his skim-offs. Then all he had to do was dance in later and pick them up with nary a suspicious glance in his direction.”
“So you’re thinking his death was a hit?”
“Could be. Or it could be we missed the real local connection back then.”
Steve had frowned at that notion. He pictured the group of people at Taylor’s house, the food providers, the caring neighbors, the concerned citizens of Almost. It was impossible to see any one of them, for any reason, condoning dealing in white death.
“Listen, Tom,” he said, “do me a favor, will you?”
“Just name it, Ace.”
“Keep an eye on Taylor Smithton and her boys for me, okay?”
Without hesitation, Tom agreed, then added, “Taking the plunge again, Steve?”
“Just watch out for them.”
“Actually, I have a guy watching their place already. We were afraid the killer might think the boys may have witnessed a little too much for comfort.”
Steve felt his heart constrict at Tom’s words. He should be there, he thought. If there was the slimmest chance their lives were in danger, he had no business being six hundred miles away, no matter how pressing his current case had been.
He sat up straight. Hell, he should be there anyway. Danger or no. What was he doing in a high-rise building a day’s full drive away from Almost? The only real happiness he’d encountered in his adult life he’d encountered in that little one-horse town in the arms of a beautiful homemaker named Taylor.
He lift
ed the telephone receiver and punched in Taylor’s number before he allowed himself to consider the consequences. And he could picture the exact location of the phone in her kitchen. And her slender hand reaching for the receiver.
He saw Taylor as she’d been on her front porch, a smiling, radiant woman. He saw her rocking on her back porch, her face golden in the light from the sunset, her features serene and smooth with inner peace. And he saw her stricken eyes when he’d announced he was leaving, her lip caught between her teeth when he’d said he would call and then just drove away. Without a single word about the night before. Without a word about how she’d turned him inside out, made him wholly defenseless in her honesty, her beauty, her passion.
And he pictured the triplets, saw them playing with their unlikely pets, heard them giggling in their darkened bedroom. He’s coming for you, Jason... and he’s got dirty fingernails. He thought of their determined matchmaking efforts, remembered how easily he’d succumbed to them. How readily he’d gone along with their plans and how swiftly he’d fallen for them.
Hell, he’d fallen for the whole town. That silly little one-horse town in the middle of the high plains, a speck on the face of the Texas-New Mexico map, and he’d give anything to be back there again, walk right out of this bust and be there, sipping iced tea or drinking a cup of steaming hot coffee, surrounded by chaos and clamor, encircled, as Taylor and her sons were, by love and concern and human warmth.
But the phone had gone unanswered, ringing into a silent house. And echoing in his heart.
Doris stuck her head through his opened door. She held out three envelopes to him. “These are from Almost. From your Almost triplets, I’d guess, being the eagle-eyed assistant that I am.”
Steve practically hurdled the desk to get hold of them. He was surprised at the depth of disappointment he felt to realize there were only three envelopes. Closing the door against Doris’s blatant curiosity, Steve opened the letters as he went back to his desk. He was touched by the fact the boys had sent their letters in separate envelopes. It was as if each of them was extending him an individual and separate friendship.
He pulled out the first crumpled and imperfectly folded sheet of notebook paper and flipped it over to read the signature, wanting to be able to conjure up an image of the right boy with the right letter.
Jonah. Steve smiled, though the smile would have been there had it been either of the other boys’ names, as well. An image of Jonah burst readily into his mind. Jonah the conscience, Jonah the mediator. Jonah the cautious and methodical. Jonah the trusting.
Dear Steve, How are you? I am fine. We’re still sad because you had to go back to Huestin.
Steve grimaced at the message but grinned at the spelling.
But we’ve been working real hard on comunity service. Jose—
The poor man’s name had been written and marked out at least five times, with Jonah finally settling on “Colthroses.”
From his years in the Southwest and from memory of people talking at the nearly-dead-guy party, Steve automatically supplied the correct Spanish pronunciation of Caldrerros and continued reading.
He runs the antique store. Jose called Mom and said we could work off some of our community servis.
Steve grinned again.
He has a gun just like the one Kurt Thompson found in Mr. Hampton’s field. We all hope you can come back to Almost soon. Mom’s real sad, I think, but won’t talk about what’s wrong. I think she misses you a lot. Love, Jonah.
Frowning now, Steve ripped open the second envelope, this one from Josh. Steve could more readily hear Josh than picture him. Way cool. Like, just way, way cool. Yeah.
Dear Steve, Like, gosh, you shoulda been hear. Jose Cauldrenhose has us like working in his junk shop. Rember, he was like out of town when we found the nearly dead guy, but he like came home yesterday. He asked us all about it and stuff. Jason said the killer could still be after us ‘cause we mighta seen something, like him killing the guy. I hope you can come back to Almost like soon. We need to solve this case. Your fan, Joshua Smithton.
Steve smiled at the full moniker. Only Josh. “Now Jason’s,” he said, opening the final envelope and smoothing out the letter, picturing the bravest but most sensitive of the three. Jason so readily took on the older-brother role that he often forgot they were only minutes apart and he was just as much a kid as the other two.
Dear Steve. How’s it going, man? We’re in the middle of a heat wave around here and it’s BORING BORING BORING cuz we can’t go outside or anything.
Doc gave us up to Jose Cuhdrayros—
Steve stood up without being aware of doing so.
And blood was coming out of his mouth... and he held out a hand toward us and said, “Cold dray horse.”
“Oh, dear God,” Steve muttered, gathering the letters together in a tight fist. He was out of his office and racing down the hall in less than three seconds flat.
“Where’re you going?” Doris called after him.
“Book me a flight to Lubbock,” he called, jabbing his finger at the elevator button. “Those kids are working community service with the man who murdered DuFraunt! And call Tom Adams—have him meet me in Almost. And call Taylor and tell her to get her kids out of that antique store!”
The elevator door finally opened and he all but flew inside, stabbing the button leading him to the parking lot. By the time the door opened in the basement garage, he’d already checked his weapon, made sure his cell phone battery was charged and was fully prepared for action.
And as he screeched his car out of the garage, he began to smile. As excuses went for showing up where his reception might be understandably chilly, this one was a doozy.
Chapter 15
Taylor was leaning against the broad counter at her aunt Sammie Jo’s minimart, listlessly absorbing another lecture on the benefits of picking up the telephone and simply calling Texas Ranger Steve Kessler, when he walked into the store.
When Aunt Sammie Jo broke off speaking at the tinkling of her miniature cowbells hanging on the door, Taylor didn’t bother to turn to see Alva Lu, Mickey or Martha. But when Aunt Sammie Jo’s hand automatically lifted to adjust her wig, Taylor felt the transfer of tension and somehow just knew Steve was there.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t turn around.
“Sammie Jo...” he said, his voice low and gravelly and fitting too perfectly in the grooves etched in Taylor’s heart.
She closed her eyes, picturing him removing his hat, dusting it gently against his muscled thigh as softly as a caress. Why had he come back? He’d made it clear in his absence and his sustained silence that the happenings in one tiny town in the Panhandle didn’t concern him.
“Well, Taylor honey, lookit who’s here.” When Taylor didn’t look, her aunt shot her an inscrutable glance, then shifted her gaze back to Steve. She continued tartly, “Forget something, Mr. Kessler?”
For the past week, Taylor had heard every possible discourse about her own cowardice, her lack of gumption, her own ineptitude at “catching the only good thing that’s likely to come down this road in a century or two” and her apparent stubborn need to cling to the past. But the moment the man returned, all Sammie Jo’s ire was reserved for him.
“Like a bad penny,” Steve said, “I just keep showing up.”
“You’ve got that right,” Aunt Sammie Jo snapped, but she smiled nonetheless and fished a couple of quarters from her cash register. “My, it’s a real scorcher today. Think I’ll go get me a soda.” Without another word, she left the counter and went out of the store via the back door.
“Taylor...?”
Half hoping that when she turned around she’d find she’d been mistaken about his looks, mistaken in her feelings for him, mistaken about everything, Taylor finally pivoted to face him.
As she’d pictured, he filled the space in the doorway, six feet four inches of solid muscle and broad shoulders. His hair shifted in the draft from the ceiling fan a scarce five inches ab
ove his head. His lips were parted slightly, as if he were somewhat out of breath. And his jaw was set in that harshly determined line she’d caught glimpses of on her children’s faces only a few days before.
She schooled her own features to what she hoped would be read as polite impassivity. “Hello,” she said, and was vaguely pleased to find her voice sounded neutral, collected. If he’d been able to hear her heartbeat, he’d know exactly how shattered she was just to be seeing him again.
“I tried to call,” he said.
Liar, she thought.
“There was no answer.”
She wasn’t about to tell him how many excuses she’d dreamed up so that she could spend the day indoors, sitting and waiting for the telephone to ring, waiting to hear his voice just once more. She lifted a hand and dropped it again.
He frowned. “Taylor, I know how it looks...”
She raised an eyebrow, not bothering to pretend to misunderstand his meaning. “I’ve come to grips with being the country cousin,” she said.
His frown deepened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, the hick who falls for the city slicker and wants more than he’s prepared to give.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, stepping forward.
“No?” she asked, leaning back against the counter as if utterly nonchalant. In truth, it was the only thing holding her erect.
He took another step. Taylor remembered the night on her back porch, the first time they’d kissed, when he’d taken one slow step at a time in coming to her. She held her hand up in a classic “stop” signal.
He halted, his hat bouncing on his leg.
“Why are you here, Steve?” she asked coldly.
He looked angry for a moment, then uncertain. “The boys,” he said finally. “Didn’t Doris get ahold of you?”
If he’d said he’d come because he read it in his horoscope, she would have been no less confounded. “What?”
Almost A Family Page 18
