The Hero’s Sin

by Darlene Gardner

  Everything he told her was true, but vastly misleading at the same time because he was leaving out so much.

  Chrissy leaving Indigo Springs with him.

  Chrissy growing increasingly unhappy away from everything she’d ever known.

  Chrissy dying.

  It was a miracle somebody in town hadn’t told her about it before now. That left it up to him to tell her.

  Right now.

  Except Sara leaned over and kissed him. Her fingers spiked through his hair, cradling his scalp, holding his head in place so she could fasten her mouth more securely to his.

  He’d been trying not to think about the last time she’d kissed him, but this kiss brought the feelings she’d stirred up bursting to the surface.

  He might have fooled himself into believing he’d stayed in town only because of his aunt, but that wasn’t true.

  The more compelling reason was in his arms.

  She tasted of the strawberries from his aunt’s pie, but he’d sampled her kisses before and knew they’d always be sweet.

  She parted her lips, and he accepted her silent invitation, deepening the kiss with an erotic slide of tongue on tongue. His body hardened, his erection straining against the denim of his jeans.

  A phone rang inside the house, a jarring reminder that they were on a lighted porch where anybody who happened to be passing by could see them, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing her, as though she were a drug of which he couldn’t get enough.

  “Michael.” His aunt’s voice followed by the creak of the screen door finally gave him the resolve he needed to break the kiss.

  Sara’s eyes were closed, appropriate because she didn’t know exactly who it was she’d been kissing.

  “Oh. Excuse me.” Aunt Felicia took one look at them and backed away. “I didn’t know…I shouldn’t have…”

  “It’s okay, Aunt Felicia.” Michael was pleased with the even tone of his voice, especially since he didn’t feel in control at all. Sara edged away from him, but only slightly. “What is it?”

  “The phone…” Her voice trailed off again.

  “What about the phone?” Michael prodded as gently as he could, hiding his frustration. Not so much at the interruption as his own inability to put a halt to the kiss. “Who was it?”

  “He didn’t say.” She seemed reluctant to continue. “He said…he said I should tell you that you should never have come back.”

  “Well, of all the nerve.” Sara fumed, the first thing she’d said since the kiss. “Did you check caller ID?”

  “I don’t have caller ID,” Aunt Felicia said. “And I didn’t recognize the voice.”

  “Anybody cowardly enough not to identify himself doesn’t deserve to be listened to.” Sara sounded like the lawyer she was, confident and sure of herself. “Just forget he ever called.”

  “That’s not all,” Aunt Felicia ventured. “He said Michael should check his car.”

  Michael was out of the swing almost before she finished the sentence, striding down the steps and to the curb where he’d parked the PT Cruiser. The rental was between street lamps, more in shadow than in light. Something about the car seemed off-kilter. As he neared, he realized the reason. The body of the car sat much lower to the street than it should.

  “Somebody slashed your tires!” Sara ran ahead of him to the car. “Can you believe it? Who would do something like this?”

  Michael could come up with a dozen candidates, with Kenny Grieb topping the list. There weren’t many people in town who wouldn’t think he had worse things coming to him than slashed tires.

  “Well, they’re not getting away with it.” Sara pulled a razor-thin cell phone from the deep pocket of her dress and flipped up the cover.

  Michael closed his hands over hers. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Even though it was dark, he could see white all around her pupils. “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll take care of it. My rental insurance should cover the damage.”

  “Somebody deliberately slashed your tires!” She said the words slowly as though he didn’t grasp the full import of what had happened.

  He had a much better idea than she did.

  “It’s not worth making a big deal over,” he said.

  “It is if the vandal’s still out there slashing somebody else’s tires!”

  Michael walked to the Volkswagen parked behind the PT Cruiser, verifying its tires were fine. So, too, were the tires on the Chevy across the street. “It’s only my car.”

  “You can’t possibly know that!”

  But he did. He’d have known it without the anonymous call. “Drop it, Sara.”

  “This is something that should be reported, not dropped. It doesn’t matter if you’re the only one who had his tires slashed. It’s a crime, and criminals should suffer consequences.”

  She sounded like a lawyer in a courtroom fighting for truth, justice and the American way. A lawyer without all the facts. She got her phone in position to dial again.

  “I said butt out, Sara,” he said tightly. “It’s not your problem. Not your business.”

  His harsh words sliced through the night. She recoiled. A weaker woman might have surrendered to tears, but a blankness descended over Sara’s face.

  “I need to be going.” The warmth was gone from her voice, something that Michael could only blame on himself. “Please thank your aunt again for dinner.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Michael offered.

  “No need for that. Good-night.” She walked stiffly away, obviously angry.

  He smothered the urge to chase her and explain, but it was best she didn’t get involved with his problems. And she wouldn’t, if he could stay away from her for four more days. With any luck, his aunt’s trouble would be over after that meeting at the bank on Friday.

  Now all he had to figure out was how to keep his distance from a woman he desperately wanted while working downstairs from where she lived.

  THE SOLES of Sara’s running shoes squeaked as she walked back and forth over the hardwood floors of her office. She’d gotten quite a workout on the hilly three-mile jog she’d taken to start the morning and needed to cool down gradually.

  She was not pacing.

  She was not nervous about meeting Michael in—she checked her watch—less than fifteen minutes.

  She was not going to forgive him for last night simply because she wanted to kiss him again.

  After she gave him a key to the downstairs, she’d work from upstairs until he was finished with the job so she didn’t have to see him any more than was necessary.

  “At least I’m not a complete liar,” she muttered aloud. “Because I do want to kiss him again.”

  Through the open blinds of the window facing the street she spotted a silver-colored Cadillac pulling up to the curb. A small, trim man of about sixty wearing a dark business suit, his gray hair slicked back from an angular, stern face, got out of the car. Then he headed purposefully toward her office.

  “Oh, crap.” Her hand flew to her ponytail, but taking down her hair wouldn’t come close to making herself look presentable.

  She plastered on a professional smile when he entered the office, as though she greeted every potential client while wearing gym shorts, a sleeveless tank top and running shoes.

  “Hello. I’m Sara Brenneman.” She stopped short of offering her hand, but only because she was sure it was damp. “As you can see, I haven’t yet officially opened my practice. However, I am available for consultation. Although not, obviously, right now.”

  He didn’t return her smile. Neither did he bother to pull the door shut behind him.

  “I’m not here to hire you, young lady,” he said gruffly. “I’m here to welcome you to Indigo Springs.”

  He didn’t sound very welcoming.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m Quincy Coleman.”

  Quinc
y Coleman. She’d heard his name before, it seemed in relation to Michael. Yes, that was right. The men she’d overheard outside the church had been speculating about what Coleman would do when he found out Michael was back in town.

  “It’s very neighborly of you to come by,” she said.

  He stood statue-still, his body between her and the open door so he blotted out the sunlight. “Indigo Springs is overrun with tourists in the summer, but it’s still the kind of place where neighbors look out for neighbors.”

  His words should have sounded kind, but they had a hard, unpleasant edge.

  “That’s one reason I moved here,” Sara said.

  “Good to hear, because I’ve got a friendly piece of advice.” His angry eyes bored into hers. “If you want to be successful in this town, stay away from Michael Donahue.”

  “Excuse me?” She’d sensed he was driving at something unpleasant, had even guessed it involved Michael, but could never have anticipated the stark hatred emanating from him.

  “Everybody knows you were with Donahue at Johnny Pollock’s wedding and that you were at his aunt’s house last night.”

  Her spine stiffened. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “People will give you the benefit of doubt since you’re new in town,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “They’ll figure you didn’t know what he was, but that’ll only last so long.”

  His manner was so presumptuous she should have asked him to leave, but curiosity stopped her. Michael’s certainty that last night’s vandal had targeted only him made Sara feel she was missing half the story.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “What don’t I know?”

  “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That he’s a murderer.” Coleman’s features twisted with disgust so tangible she felt as though it was spewing from him.

  Sara backed away, unwilling to get sprayed.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  Michael was a hero. She’d seen him rescue that little boy from certain death with her own eyes.

  His discordant laugh was without mirth. “What is it about Donahue that makes it so easy for him to manipulate women? Is it his handsome face?”

  “If you knew me,” she said tightly, “you’d realize I’m not easy to manipulate.”

  “Yet here you are defending a murderer.”

  “I’m defending a man I know to be a good man,” she said.

  “Does a good man talk a girl into dropping out of high-school and leaving town with him in the middle of the night? Does a good man promise to marry her and then lie to her and cheat on her?” The tone of his voice escalated with every question. “Does a good man get so angry when she tries to leave him that he drags her out of a bar, says she’s coming home with him and speeds down a narrow back road?”

  Sara started to get a sick feeling in her stomach. She should ask him to leave, tell him she didn’t want to hear any more, but couldn’t form any words.

  “That girl was my daughter, Chrissy,” Coleman continued. “She was in the passenger seat the night your ‘good man’ lost control of the car. The car left the road and rolled down an embankment before it slammed into a tree. Neither of them was wearing a seat belt. They were both ejected. Donahue lived. My daughter died.”

  Sara could barely process the information. His story didn’t seem to leave much room for interpretation except there had to be more to it than what he was telling.

  “But—” she began.

  “Don’t you dare make excuses for him,” he retorted. “Chrissy was only eighteen when she died. Eighteen!”

  Sara had thought Quincy Coleman nondescript when she’d glimpsed him through the window, the sort of businessman getting on in years she’d passed on the street a dozen times a day when she lived in Washington, D.C. Ordinary. Harmless.

  However, the vitriol radiating from the man transformed him, making him look fierce and capable of anything.

  “You’re the one who slashed the tires on Michael’s car,” she accused.

  “If you keep hanging around him, somebody might slash yours, too.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Coleman advanced toward her, the first time he’d moved since entering the office. “I’m advising you to be careful of the company you keep.”

  “That sounds like a threat to me.” Michael stood in the open doorway, giving the same response Sara had been about to make. His voice was low, his body taut. “Your beef is with me. Leave Sara out of it.”

  Quincy Coleman whirled on Michael, his skin turning red and splotchy. “You brought her into it! Then you didn’t even have the guts to tell her you were a murderer!”

  Sara waited for Michael to defend himself against the outrageous charge, but he stood rigidly silent.

  “What? You’ve got nothing to say?” Coleman shouted, his breathing harsh and uneven. “Aren’t you going to tell her how you got away with murder?”

  Coleman looked angry enough to attack, but still Michael said nothing.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Coleman.” Sara positioned herself between the two men, suddenly sure that Michael wouldn’t defend himself if Coleman did throw a punch. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Not until you understand I’m not threatening you,” Coleman said. “I’m warning you. Like I wish someone had warned my Chrissy.”

  “Mr. Coleman,” Sara began.

  “I’m going.” He stalked to the door but turned before he exited, pointing a finger at Michael. “Just don’t let yourself be fooled by anything he says.”

  He slammed the door shut behind him, and then for long moments there was absolute silence. The only part of Michael that moved was his jaw, which he was clenching.

  “Well?” Sara prompted. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how unjust it is for Quincy Coleman to go around calling you a murderer! Why, he practically admitted he was the one who slashed your tires!”

  The indignation she expected to appear on Michael’s face never came. “It crossed my mind he might have done it,” he said.

  She didn’t understand his detached attitude, his quiet acceptance of Coleman’s accusations. “Then you should have let me call the police. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be slandering you.”

  “The truth isn’t slander, Sara,” Michael said, sounding tired. “There are things you don’t know, things I should have told you before now.”

  “You can’t tell me anything to make me believe Quincy Coleman.”

  “How about this?” Michael asked. “He’s right. His daughter is dead because of me.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Yes. She left town with me because she thought I loved her. She was wrong.”

  “You were only eighteen! You’d just been thrown out of your aunt’s house. Of course you wanted somebody to care about you.”

  “Would you stop making excuses for me and listen? Coleman had me arrested for vehicular homicide, but the charges didn’t stick. I should have been convicted. I should have gone to jail.”

  Sara stared at him mutely, trying to process what he was telling her. It was too much, too fast. In the legal arena she prided herself on clear thinking, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around any of it.

  He expelled an audible breath and ran a hand over his lower face. “I’ll understand if you don’t want me to paint your office, but please don’t drop my aunt’s case. I’ll pay your usual rate. Just give me the bill and don’t let her know how much it really costs.”

  “Wait a minute.” The cluttered thoughts in her head coalesced into one: He was trying to back out of their business arrangement. “Why wouldn’t I want you to paint my office?”

  “You heard Coleman. You’ll have a hard time getting accepted in this town if you’re connected to me.”

  “I don’t care what Coleman said. We had an agreement, and I�
��m holding you to it.”

  “Are you sure that’s smart?”

  With Michael trying hard to convince her that Coleman’s accusations had merit, Sara wasn’t sure of anything except she’d never been one to let what other people thought dictate her actions.

  “I’m sure I want you to keep up your end of the bargain,” she said.

  Michael didn’t speak for long moments, then held some sheets out to her. “I picked up some paint-chip charts. After you choose the colors, I’ll buy the paint and get started.”

  He kept talking, outlining a timetable that would have him finishing the job by the end of the week, but she was only half listening. It was hard to concentrate when she couldn’t reconcile her impressions of Michael with what she’d just heard.

  If Michael had been driving recklessly that night, Quincy Coleman was right. Michael should have paid for his daughter’s life with jail time.

  She couldn’t help thinking there was more to the story, but how could she continue to defend a man who was so insistent on taking the blame?

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I’VE MISSED the hell out of you, Mikey Mike,” Johnny Pollock cried later that Tuesday night. “But no way am I letting you win!”

  Johnny danced on the balls of his feet across the width of the air hockey table in the noisy arcade, sending shot after shot zinging toward the goal Michael was defending. He looked more like his teenage self than a married man who’d just returned from his honeymoon.

  Michael acknowledged his friend’s cocky comment with an inelegant snort, even as he positioned his mallet in front of his net and strained to deflect the hard shots.

  “Don’t want you to let up.” Michael had to shout to be heard above the motor of the table’s industrial-grade blower combined with the hum of video games. “Victory will be sweeter this way.”

  “Ha!” Johnny shouted. “You’re going down, Donahue!”

  Michael took a quick look at the score displayed in glowing red letters on the game’s panel. Despite Johnny’s relentless attack, they were deadlocked.

  He quickly moved his sombrero-shaped mallet to counteract another of Johnny’s missiles. The puck ricocheted back to Johnny, who leaned over the table and put all his power into his next shot. The thin black disc was moving at such a high rate of speed that Michael couldn’t get his mallet back into position fast enough.