by Nancy Gideon
She didn't realize she was crying until Zach reached out to brush her tears away. "I don't want to hurt you, Bess."
She jerked back, away from his touch. "You are! Can't you see that? You come breezing back in here and expect me to pretend that seventeen years haven't gone by. You torment me with what I might have had, who I might have become. You ask me to risk everything I have on some wild dream we shared when we were kids. I can't, Zach. I can't walk away from my responsibilities. I can't thumb my nose at people who've been good to me. People who've stood by me for all those years you were gone. It's not fair, Zach. It's not fair for you to demand so much from me and offer so little in return. You don't even trust me enough to tell me where you've been."
He'd been watching her face as she spoke, his gaze intensely focused. His expression gave nothing away when he asked, "Should it matter?"
Bess sniffed back her runaway emotions, her reply as candid as she could make it. "I don't know if it should, but it does."
He blinked, and everything about him changed. A subtle, almost indiscernible difference, but to Bess it was a wall of ice crystallizing between them. Instinctively she wanted to throw herself against it, to begin chiseling it away. But a self-preserving logic held her still, allowing the distance to thicken into an impenetrable barrier.
"I'm sorry." He spoke the words flatly. They could have meant anything. But to Bess, they meant goodbye.
She hesitated, knowing she could yet tear down the wall by simply reaching out to him. Her touch had always crumbled his most determined barricades. She held back, clutching at the sides of her skirt to control her wayward hands. This time she was the one walking away.
Maybe that would make the loss of him easier.
Somehow she didn't think so.
Zach let her go. He could have stopped her, but it would just postpone the inevitable. He had his answer. Now he'd have to live with it. She'd found strength in the passage of years. Unfortunately for him, it was an inner courage, protecting herself and her hard-won independence. Or so she thought. But in Zach's mind he knew she was just replacing one domineering force for the suppression of an entire town. And apparently, preferred it that way.
He was sorry. Sorry it hadn't worked out. Sorry she hadn't given him more of a chance. But not sorry that he'd tried. Never that.
What now?
He didn't expect the answer he got.
He turned, planning to go home for some heavy-duty brooding, when he heard an odd whistle and felt air against his face.
Then the whole world exploded.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Bess almost reached the square before she remembered the excuse she'd given Faith. Supposedly she'd gone to buy a cold drink. It would invite all sorts of questions she wasn't ready to answer if she returned empty-handed.
And it would give her a few extra minutes to compose herself. Faith had built-in radar and wouldn't be easily fooled by a placating "Everything's fine." At the moment, she feared she wouldn't fool a deaf, dumb and blind man. Her eyes felt raw and were most likely red. Her hands shook. Her breathing rattled. And within her chest a heavy weight sat still and cold where her heart once beat with renewed joy.
She stopped, stilling her thoughts, blanking her mind to things that would haunt her nights forever.
Right now she had to think, first and foremost, about Faith and the people of Sweetheart. No stranger to hiding away her own emotions for the benefit of others, she took a few deep breaths to still her trembling, then started back to get her soft drink.
That's when she heard the sounds of a scuffle.
Curiosity brought her cautiously around the corner to the back side of the midway. Alarm held her there, frozen with silent horror.
* * *
Whatever they used to hit him smacked the side of his head with sledgehammer force. He went down like a felled steer, saved from meeting pavement when his arms were grabbed from behind. His head whirled.
"Not such a tough guy now, are you?"
Web Baines.
Zach let his weight sag, giving him time to collect his senses, letting them believe he was worse off than he was.
Baines gave a rusty laugh. "We're gonna teach you what happens when trash like you gets the idea they're good enough for a fine woman like Bess Carrey. You're mama was a fine woman, too, until your daddy got hold of her. That ain't gonna happen again." A hard punch to the ribs was added to convince him.
There were two more added to the original three, each hard, mean and bovine. Two held his arms pinned behind him. The other pair flanked Baines like cowardly coyotes eagerly waiting for leftovers. The obvious place to start was with Barnes. The odds didn't bother him. He'd been up against worse.
Gradually he shifted his center of gravity, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, waiting for the opportunity to surprise the hell out of the brawling loudmouths.
Then they all got a surprise, as meek little Elizabeth Carrey launched herself onto the back of one of the burly men holding Zach. She clung like a cat, all spitting fury and sharp claws. Howling as her fingernails raked the side of his whiskered face, the startled fellow released Zach's arm. And that was all the opportunity Zach needed.
Zach brought his knees to his chest then kicked out. Both feet connected in the center of Web's chest. With a stunned "Ooof!" Baines pinwheeled backward, falling hard to the ground. Before the man holding his arm could react, Zach went down on one knee, dragging the heavier man over his shoulder and flipping him to the pavement.
Not expecting a swift, lethal attack, the other two stood there, jaws hanging until Zach closed them with a couple of precise uppercuts. One went down, out cold. The other staggered in a tight circle only to meet with another flying fist the minute he went the full three-sixty. He, too, collapsed with a groan.
Bess rode the last man standing with the tenacity of a bulldogger. One arm locked about the man's thick neck, the other covered his eyes. And Zach filled the space in between with a solid jab. The big oaf tipped over, landing on Bess before she could scramble out of the way.
She hit the ground hard, the bulk of the man on top of her squeezing the breath from her lungs. Her vision wavered as she wheezed and tried to wriggle out from under the deadweight. Then Zach bent down, shoving the dazed beast off her. He clasped both of her hands, hauling her up with an "Are you all right?" filled with concern and a deeper admiration.
She forced the words, "Look out!" from her constricted chest.
Zach spun, pushing her to safety behind him. Web Baines tottered drunkenly, but the knife in his hand was dangerously steady.
"No scum like you makes me look like a fool," Baines snarled, waving the blade before him in tight figure eights.
Zach was all cool business. "You don't need me to make you look like a fool."
His disdainful remark had the desired effect. Baines lunged at him with a roar, his attack fueled by rage rather than skill. Zach greeted him with a disciplined response. He dodged to one side to let the knife jab past him, clamping down on Baines's wrist with a grip of iron and collecting a handful of unkempt hair in his other hand. He brought up his knee at the same time he smashed Web's head downward, both actions meeting like a traffic accident in the middle. Zach tossed the unresisting Baines aside then retrieved the knife; seven inches of retractable steel, each inch illegal. He pocketed it as he swept the area for further signs of aggression. The five men were efficiently docile.
Bess stared at him. She'd never seen anything like it this side of the matinee screen. More frightening than the exacting violence was the concise way it had been dispensed; quickly, dispassionately, without hesitation or remorse.
She shrank back slightly when Zach came toward her. He didn't miss her anxious move. He stopped and said, "We'd better get out of here before there's more trouble."
Not from the five sprawled on the ground. They wouldn't give anyone trouble for a long, long time. And they'd think twice befor
e trying to assault Zach again with anything less than an armored urban attack vehicle.
Her knees started knocking in delayed shock.
Then she saw Zach sway, hugging his arm into one side. She forgot her reservations, focusing on his bloodied lip and bruised brow.
"You're hurt." She approached him, gentle fingertips touching his face. His nervous system jump-started with a jolt as he pulled her hands down.
"I'm all right. You'd better get back to your niece. You don't want to get involved in this." He pushed her away, insulating her from the situation. She should have grabbed at the chance to escape.
But she didn't.
"Wait right here," she told him with no-nonsense intensity. While he frowned in bewilderment, Bess jogged back to the midway, spotting the mother of one of Faith's new friends.
"Sarah, could you keep an eye on Faith for me. I ran into an old friend, and we're going to get some coffee."
The woman waved. "Sure. What time do you want her home?"
"By eleven."
"We'll drop her off."
Calling her thanks and surprised by her own lack of guilt at telling such an inventive tale, Bess hurried back to where Zach was checking the wallets of the fallen men. At first she stood horrified, thinking he was robbing them. But all he took were their driver's licenses, tossing the rest of the billfolds, untouched, down beside their motionless forms.
"Zach?"
He glanced around, and she couldn't help wincing at the sight of his battered face.
She urged, "We'd better go before someone gets curious." He nodded and stepped over Baines to take her arm. "What about Faith?"
"She's with friends. I'll take you home."
"Not a good idea. I'll see you to your house. You don't want to be seen at mine."
How suddenly absurd that sounded. "Zach, I don't—"
But he started walking in the direction of her street so she trotted beside him, too shaken by what transpired to argue with him.
She'd helped him beat up five of Sweetheart's citizens. Well, she hadn't actually done much, but she was, in fact, an accomplice. Would Baines and the others implicate her? Great. She could just see Faith trying to raise bail money for her delinquent aunt. The idea didn't strike her as particularly funny.
Zach guessed at her worries.
"They won't say anything," he told her tersely. "They'd never admit that I took the lot of them on and beat them." He grinned at her, a sudden dazzle against brutalized features. "With some capable assistance."
Bess didn't return his smile. She was scared, alarmed by her own actions. She would swear she'd been temporarily out of body if she believed in such things.
When she'd seen Zach seemingly at the mercy of those thugs, a foreign fury had taken possession of her. She'd jumped in without thought, regardless of the fact that she was wearing a skirt and was at least one hundred pounds lighter than the brute she tackled. She could have been seriously hurt. Since she had no idea how or why the tussle started, she might even have been in the wrong. Her trembling returned. Unconsciously she clutched Zach's arm.
When they reached her house, they went up the drive and to the back steps. There, Zach began to pull free. His expression remained inscrutable.
"I'd better go."
Her gaze flew to his ravaged face in tender anxiousness. "You will not. Not until you let me look at those bruises."
He smiled, small and tight. "Just like old times."
"Then you know better than to argue with me." She dragged him up the steps and into her tiny kitchen, where she'd once nursed injuries far worse than these by the faint glow of the stove light so as not to wake her mother.
"Sit."
Unquestioningly, he drew a chair up by the sink, blinking against the abrupt glare of overhead fluorescents as Bess flipped the switch, then turned on the tap to wet a clean cloth.
"Look up," she commanded. When he did, she dabbed at the gash on his lower lip, pausing as he flinched, continuing when he steadied.
"Who started it?"
Strangely moved because she'd asked instead of assuming the answer, he murmured, "We had some words earlier. I should have been better prepared for the inevitable. They're not the kind to let things go."
"They're not the kind you go poking sticks at, either." She paused the cloth a second time. "Will they come after you again?" Or me, she wondered in a quiet panic. Somehow she didn't think her being a lady would keep Baines and his friends from roughing her up to prove a point. Nor did she think their sheriff was likely to do anything about it.
"I don't think they'll be that stupid again."
When she met his uplifted stare, she found a steadying assurance in his gaze. She chose to believe him. He had more experience, after all.
He waited patiently for her to fold another cloth into a small square. She wet it thoroughly then touched it to the swelling at his temple. She was, just as he remembered, unfailingly gentle.
"Hold this there."
He replaced her hand with his, the slight brush of passing contact nudging the mood toward subtle tension. Especially when she reached for the hem of his T-shirt.
"I want to take a look at your ribs."
"Nothing's broken." His protest rumbled in a lower warning register as he twitched away with what she might have thought modesty if she hadn't known him so well.
"Sit still," she ordered, amused and aggravated by his objections. "It's nothing I haven't see before. Don't make me call Doc Meirs."
He sat still, breathing shallow and fast while focusing fiercely on the collection of china teacups lining the opposite wall. Bess hesitated a moment, wondering if he were more badly hurt than she at first supposed. Carefully, she lifted his shirt, and her breath caught in her own chest.
She was wrong. There was plenty she hadn't seen before. His body was hard and dangerously fit. Smooth sinewy youth had metamorphosed into the solid power of adulthood. A thick mat of black hair hugged a meanly sculpted torso, built, not by bale lifting but by deliberate design. Its cruel beauty mesmerized her for a long moment until she noticed another change.
A thin pale scar carved a harsh diagonal across his rib cage. She traced it with quivering fingertips, causing a jerk and a taut flutter in his abdomen.
"Did you lose this one?" Her voice was oddly gruff.
"No. Just careless, and he knew what he was doing."
Her hand inched lower, to the puckered seam disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.
"And this one? Another fight?"
"With a surgeon." She glanced up to find dimples capping his broad grin. "Appendix."
She looked down, embarrassed, intrigued, breathless. Her palm loitered against the heat of his skin until she realized her preoccupation with the indentation of his navel and the gradually shifting contours within his denims. Her gaze jerked up as she exhaled shakily. His grin faded to a slight, bemused curve. Then—
"Owww! Geez!"
"I'm sorry!"
He eased back onto the chair, protecting the tender spot on his side from any more unintentional prodding. Her lips pursed at the sight of ugly bruising mottling the area.
"I bet that hurts like a son of a gun."
"You'd win," he hissed from between clenched teeth. Gradually he expelled his breath and made himself relax. "But like I said, nothing broken. You don't forget what a broken rib feels like."
Bess kept her gaze fixed on the discolored flesh. "Did you learn that where you learned to fight?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Her fragile response alerted him. She wouldn't look up until he filled in the blanks. "I was division boxing champ in the marines."
Surprise rounded her eyes. "The marines? I thought—" She bit back the rest.
"You thought what?"
"I— Nothing, Zach. A misunderstanding."
He caught her chin in his palm before she could evade him. "Where did you think I learned it, Bess?"
She couldn't meet his eyes. "In prison,
" she whispered weakly.
He was silent for so long, she finally risked a peek. She couldn't tell what moved behind the granite set of his expression.
"I've never been behind bars, Bess," he explained with a scary lack of inflection. "At least not for longer than overnight in the care of good Sheriff Baines. Why would you think I was?"
"I—I don't know."
He pressed her chin between the vee between his thumb and forefinger. His low, flat tone distressed her. "Did someone tell you that, or did you just suppose that's where I'd end up?"
Catching the accusation beneath that smooth question, she made herself reply unfalteringly.
"It was something you said, about being unable to contact your family. I thought you— I thought wrong," she finished miserably. "I'm sorry, Zach. I should have known better."
His grip loosened, evolving into a slow caress of her cheek and jawline. "Why, Bess? Why shouldn't you have thought the worst? Everyone else did." His touch was soothing, his tone was not.
Her gaze grew direct. "Because I knew you better than everyone else."
He studied her, assessing her flustered shame, her remorseful eyes. She'd thought he'd been in jail and yet invited him into her kitchen while they were alone, not knowing what crime he might be guilty of. Whether it was trust or naiveté, it humbled him completely.
"I was in basic, Bess. Then I did a tour overseas. In Germany. I had a lot of things to sort out. A lot of things to put behind me."
She nodded unhappily, knowing she was one of those things. Her sad eyes lowered, a glimmer of dampness rimming her lashes. "I shouldn't have assumed the worst." But she had then, and just a while ago, when she thought he was stealing from the men he'd beaten senseless. She knew better. She knew the real Zach Crandall.
Before the first tear fell, he was kissing her.
The reacquainting sweetness of his mouth on hers twisted sundry emotions through her, weaving them into a delicate pattern of dreamy delight. It was very much like the first kiss they'd shared: light, soft, almost chaste, a tender tease of what might follow. She leaned into it, wondering at the wisdom of opening up, of inviting him in to make himself at home once more.
