When You Call My Name

by Sharon Sala

  Glory turned. “I have to change. I’m muddy, and my hair’s a mess.”

  Wyatt dug his hands through the long, silky length, then buried his face in the handful he lifted to his face.

  “Your hair is never a mess,” he said softly. “It feels like silk, and smells like flowers.” And then he leaned down and pressed a swift kiss on her mouth. “And…I love the way it feels on my skin.”

  And I love the way you feel on my skin, she thought.

  Startled, Wyatt dropped her hair, and looked up. Glory arched an eyebrow, unashamed of having been caught.

  “Did it again, didn’t you?” she asked, and left him wearing a guilty expression as she went to change clothes.

  Within the hour, they were in the car and on their way up the road. When they passed the old barn, Glory turned toward the new grave and impulsively pressed her hand against the glass.

  “When this is all over, you could get another puppy,” Wyatt said.

  Glory shrugged. “If I’m still here to care for it, I might.”

  Wyatt was so angry he was speechless. That she kept referring to the fact that she might not live through all of this made him crazy. He couldn’t shake the fear that she might be seeing something of her own future that she wasn’t willing to share.

  Sundown had come and gone while they were inside Milly’s Restaurant on the outskirts of Larner’s Mill. They exited the lively establishment into a crowded parking lot as the scent of hickory smoke from the inside grill coated the damp night air.

  Glory walked silently beside Wyatt as they wove their way through the unevenly parked cars, absorbing the comfort of his presence even though she was unable to voice what she was feeling. And truth be known, she wasn’t certain she could put into words the emotions swirling inside her head. All she knew was she wanted this man as she’d never wanted another.

  A couple got out of a car just ahead of them, and paused and stepped aside, giving Wyatt and Glory room to pass.

  Pleasantries were traded, and then they walked on just as someone shouted Wyatt’s name. He turned. It was the chief of police.

  Anders Conway stepped off the curb and started toward them while Glory’s good mood began dissipating.

  “Oh, great,” she muttered. “I’m not in the mood for any more of that man’s sharp-edged doubt. Wyatt, could I please have the keys? I’d rather wait for you in the car.”

  He slipped his hand beneath the weight of her hair, caressing the back of her neck in a gentle, soothing touch, then handed her the keys without comment.

  Beneath a tree a short distance away, Bo Marker sat in a stolen car, well concealed behind the dark tinted windows as the engine idled softly. When he’d seen the Dixon woman and her man come out of Milly’s, he’d been satisfied that tonight, he could quite literally kill two birds with one stone, get the rest of his money from Foster, and be out of Kentucky before this night had passed. And then the chief of police had followed them outside.

  “Son of a…!” he muttered, then shifted in the seat.

  But berating himself for bad luck wasn’t Bo Marker’s style. All he needed was a change of plans, and when Glory Dixon suddenly walked away from her watchdog companion, Marker smiled. It creased his wide, homely face like cracks down the side of a jar. He leaned forward, hunching his great bulk behind the wheel of the car, and when Glory Dixon moved into the open, he quietly shifted from Park to Drive, and then stomped on the gas.

  Bo Marker had stolen wisely. The souped-up hot rod could go from zero to sixty in seconds. The engine roared, coming to life like a sleeping lion. Tires squalled, gravel flew, and the car fishtailed slightly as he shot out of a parked position, down the short driveway toward the highway beyond, and right into Glory Dixon’s path.

  At the sound, Glory looked up and found herself staring straight into the blinding glare of headlights on high beam. Before she could think to react, a weight caught her from behind in a flying tackle, and before she had time to panic, Wyatt’s arms surrounded her as they went rolling across the gravel.

  Tiny shards of rock stung her leg as the car flew past, and she heard Wyatt grunt in pain as they came to a stop against the bumper of another vehicle. His hands were moving across her body before she could catch her breath to speak. She didn’t have to hear the panic in his voice to know how close that had been.

  “Glory! Sweetheart! Talk to me! Are you all right?” Before she could answer, she heard a man shouting orders and remembered. Chief Conway had witnessed it all.

  “How bad is she hurt?” Conway asked Wyatt, as he knelt beside them.

  Wyatt’s voice broke. “Oh, God, I don’t…”

  Glory caught Wyatt’s hand as it swept up her neck in search of a pulse. In the second before she spoke, they stared straight into each other’s eyes. There were no words for what they felt at that moment, nor were any necessary. He’d saved her life, as surely as she’d saved his all those months ago.

  “Thanks to Wyatt, I think I’m all right.”

  “Damn crazy driver,” the chief said. “I am in my personal car, or I’d have given chase myself.” And then by way of explanation, he added, “I couldn’t catch a rabbit on a hot day in that thing, but at least I had my two-way. My men are already in pursuit.”

  Even as Wyatt helped Glory from the ground, the sounds of fading sirens could be heard in the distance.

  “Oh, damn,” Wyatt whispered, as he peered through the faint glow of the security lights to the dark stain coating his hand. “Glory…you’re bleeding.”

  She followed the trail of a burning sensation on her left arm. “I just scraped my elbow.” And then she shuddered, and leaned forward, letting Wyatt enfold her within his embrace. “It wasn’t an accident, Wyatt.”

  “I know, honey.”

  Conway frowned. “Now, it could have been a drunk driver, or a—”

  Angry with Conway’s persistent blind streak where Glory was concerned, Wyatt interrupted. His voice rose until by the time he was finished, he was shouting in the policeman’s face.

  “Last week, someone blew up her house, fully expecting her to be in it. Yesterday, someone shot her dog. We found this in his teeth when we went to bury it.” Wyatt dug the bit of fabric from his shirt pocket and slapped it into the chief’s hand. “Now, tonight, someone tried to run her down. And before you argue, consider the fact that the car wasn’t already rolling when Glory stepped into the drive. I heard the motor idling. I heard him shift gears. He was waiting for her. When he had a clear shot, he took it.”

  Glory shuddered and Wyatt felt it.

  “Now I’m going to take her to the hospital to be checked out. If you want to talk more, feel free to come along. Otherwise, I suppose you can file this information and the bit of fabric I just gave you where you’ve filed the rest of Glory’s case.”

  “No hospital, Wyatt. Just take me home. There’s nothing wrong with me that you and some iodine can’t fix.”

  “Are you sure, honey?” he asked.

  “I’m sure. Just get me out of here.”

  Conway felt restless, even guilty, although there was little else he could do right now, other than what he’d just done. He followed them to the car as Wyatt helped Glory into her seat.

  “Look, Miss Dixon. We’re doing all we can to follow up on what you’ve told us. Maybe we’ll have the man in custody before the night is out.”

  She didn’t answer, and when they drove away, Conway was struck by the quiet acceptance he’d seen in her eyes. As if she knew that what he said was little more than whitewash for the fact that they had nothing to go on, so therefore, they were doing nothing.

  “Damn it all to hell,” Conway muttered. He looked down at the fabric that Wyatt had handed him, and then stuffed it in his pocket as he ran back to his car. The least he could do was get to the office and follow the pursuit from there.

  As they drove through town on their way home, Wyatt couldn’t quit watching the play of emotions on Glory’s face.

  “Honey�
��are you sure you don’t want me to drive by the hospital?” His fingers kept tracing the knuckles of her left hand as he drove, as if he didn’t trust himself to ever let her out of his grasp again. “When I took you down, I hit you hard…real hard. I just couldn’t think of a quicker way to move you out of danger.”

  Glory turned sideways, staring at Wyatt’s profile, wondering how she would bear it when he left her. Her voice was soft, just above a whisper as she reacted to his concern.

  “It’s all right, Wyatt. You saved my life tonight, and we both know it.” She scooted across the seat and laid her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  He exhaled slowly, finally able to shake off the panic he’d felt when he’d seen her in danger. With his left hand firmly on the steering wheel, he slipped his right arm around her shoulders and held her close. “Now you know how I feel about you.”

  She sighed, and her breath trembled, thick with tears she wouldn’t let go. “Wyatt…oh, Wyatt, what are we going to do?”

  God help us, I wish that I knew, Wyatt thought, but didn’t voice his own fears. Instead, he pulled her that little bit closer and stared blindly down the road, aware that their fate was as dark and uncertain as what moved through the night beyond the headlights of their car.

  Marker cursed loud and long. He knew the moment he sped past that he’d missed. And all because of that man who walked at her side. Instead of the solid thump he’d expected when bumper met body, he’d got nothing for his trouble but a high-speed pursuit that had taken him hours to escape.

  Thanks to the fact that the car he’d stolen was faster than the police vehicles, he finally eluded the chase. He dumped the hot rod where he’d hidden his own vehicle hours earlier. When and if they found the car, they’d have nothing to pin it on him.

  He’d made sure to leave no fingerprints behind, and he was an old hand at never leaving witnesses to his crimes. It was what had kept him out of prison this far, but cold-blooded murder was a different business and a little bit out of his class. Fed up with the hit-and-miss success of his strikes against Glory Dixon, as he drove, he made plans. New plans. Next time, he wouldn’t miss.

  Chapter 9

  Moonlight lay across Glory’s bare shoulders like a silver sheet, broken only by the presence of a long, ivory braid down the middle of her back. Covers bunched around her waist as she struggled with nightmares she couldn’t escape.

  Wyatt heard her moan, and turned from the window where he stood watch, sickened by the darkening bruises on her shoulder and the bloody scrapes on her elbows. It was all he could do not to crawl in that bed with her and take her in his arms. But he didn’t. He’d let down his guard once and it had nearly cost her her life. It wasn’t going to happen again.

  Even now, the playback of the engine as it accelerated and the tires as they spun out on the gravel was all too real in his mind. He didn’t remember moving, only feeling the impact of hitting Glory’s body and then rolling with her across the parking lot.

  As he watched, a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and then down her cheek like a translucent pearl. Impulsively he reached out, catching it with the tip of his finger and then tracing its path with his lips, tasting the satin texture of her skin and the salt from the tear.

  His breath fanned her cheek as he whispered, “Darlin’, don’t cry.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and then she sighed. Reluctantly, he moved back to his post, took one last look out of the window by her bed, then picked up the phone and headed for the tiny living room.

  The view from those windows wasn’t much different from the view at the back, and yet he couldn’t let go of the notion that something or someone watched them from the woods. Lightly, he ran his fingers across the gun in his waistband, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the dark, and then finally, he began to dial.

  Lane Monday’s voice was rough and thick with sleep, but he answered abruptly before the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Wyatt.”

  Lane rose on an elbow, leaning over Toni as she slept, to peer at the lighted dial on the alarm. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. That, plus the tone of Wyatt’s voice, gave away the urgency of the call.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We went out to eat this evening. Someone tried to run Glory down in the parking lot. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t an accident.”

  Lane rolled out of bed. Taking the portable phone with him so as not to wake Toni, he went down the hallway and into the living room where his voice could not easily be heard.

  “I can be there in about six hours.”

  Wyatt cursed softly. “And do what?” he muttered. “I was right there beside her and I was almost too late.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Except for bruises and scrapes…and some more nightmares to add to the ones she already has…yes.” Then Wyatt started to pace. “Look, I didn’t call for backup. I just wanted to let you know what’s happening. The only positive thing I can tell you is that Anders Conway witnessed the whole thing.”

  Lane sighed, torn between wanting to help and knowing that there was nothing he could do that Wyatt wasn’t already doing.

  “Okay, but keep me posted,” he muttered, and then added, “Remember, all you have to do is call. If it’s an emergency, I can hop a copter and be there in a couple of hours.”

  The nervousness in Wyatt’s belly started to subside, if for no other reason than the fact that someone besides him knew what was going on.

  “Thanks,” Wyatt said, then added, “Oh…kiss Toni and Joy for me.” Then he hung up and began pacing from window to window, afraid to sleep, afraid to turn his back on Glory…ever again.

  Sometime before morning, Glory woke with a start, then groaned beneath her breath when aching muscles protested the sudden movement. Seconds later, she realized what was wrong.

  Wyatt was gone!

  Careful not to insult her injuries, she crawled out of bed, picked up the nightgown and slipped it over her head before leaving the room.

  The floor was cool beneath her feet. The old hardwood planks were smooth and polished from years of use and cleaning, and as familiar to Glory as her own home had been. The half-light between night and dawn was just below the horizon as she made her way into the kitchen. He was standing at the window.

  “Wyatt?”

  Startled by the unexpected sound of her voice, he spun. When she saw the gun in his hand, she wanted to cry. He was holding fast to his promise to keep her safe, even at his own expense. She crossed the room and walked straight into his arms.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered. “Whatever is going to happen will happen. You can’t change fate, Wyatt. No matter how much it hurts.”

  He cradled her face in the palm of his hand, tracing the curve of her cheek and the edges of her lips with his fingers as a blind man would see.

  “You don’t understand, Glory. I don’t quit. I don’t give up. And one of these days, I’m going to get my hands on the bastard who’s doing this to you. When it happens…”

  Her fingers silenced the anger spilling out of his mouth, and in the quiet of Granny’s kitchen, she took the gun from his hand and laid it on the table, then slipped her arms around his neck and whispered softly against his mouth.

  “No, Wyatt, there’s no room for hate in this house, only love. Now come to bed. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

  Unable to resist her plea, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to her bed, making room for himself beside her. Just when Glory thought he was settling down, he suddenly rolled, then bolted from the room, returning only moments later. When she heard a distinctive thump on the bedside table, she knew he’d gone back for the gun.

  “Don’t say it,” he growled, as he crawled in beside her. “Just let me have that much peace of mind.”

  Tears shimmered across her vision, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and cradled his head on her breasts.
>
  Just sleep, my love. It’s my turn to keep watch over you.

  For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

  Like all the Hatfields, Wyatt had been full grown in size by the time he was sixteen years old. At three inches over six feet, he was a very big man and had been taking care of himself for a very long time. If anything, he was the caregiver, the fixer, the doer. That a little bit of female like Glory Dixon dared suggest she could take care of him might have made him smile…if he’d been able to smile through his tears.

  Long after the quiet, even sounds of his breathing were proof of his sleep, Glory still held him close. Wide-eyed and alert, she watched morning dawn and then sunlight come, as it spilled through the slightly parted curtains and onto the man in her arms.

  Sunbeams danced in the air above her head, bringing hope with the new day. Wyatt stirred, and Glory shifted, giving him ease and a new place to rest. When he smiled in his sleep, the scar on his cheek shifted slightly, reminding her of what he’d endured and survived. A deep and abiding ache resurfaced. She recognized it for what it was, and while he wasn’t looking or listening, let herself feel what was there in her heart.

  I love you, Wyatt Hatfield. And then a small, silent prayer to a much greater power. Dear God, please keep him safe. Don’t let me be the instrument of another man’s death.

  Hours later, Wyatt rolled over in bed, reached out to pull Glory closer, and then woke as suddenly as she had earlier. He was alone. But before he could panic, the scent of fresh coffee and the familiar sounds of a kitchen in use calmed his nerves.

  He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. A shower and a change of clothes later, he was entering the kitchen just as Glory set a pan of hot biscuits on the table. She looked up with a smile.

  “Your timing is impeccable,” she said.

  Wyatt grinned. “So I’ve been told.”

  It took a second for the innuendo to sink in, and when it did, a sweet blush spread across Glory’s face and neck.

  “You are a menace,” she muttered, and turned back to the stove just as his hands slid around her from behind and came to rest just below the fullness of her breasts.