by Неизвестно
How many times had that worked for him before?
We descended the staircase and moved toward the common room, my blood simmering with every step. Jake was counting on me to keep quiet. Counting on me to be so frightened, so intimidated, that I would do whatever he said. He had battered Sheila into submission, and he assumed that he could manipulate her daughter just the same.
I clenched my teeth. Jake Kozen was not nearly as smart as he thought he was. He didn’t know that Fletcher had witnessed his attack, and he didn’t know that the police were on the way. He thought the ball was still in his court. He thought he could control me.
He was wrong.
The second we reached the common room, I sidled around the pair and slipped into the kitchen. I located the bottle of brandy I had spied earlier in the week and returned to the men. "Here it is," I announced, holding it up with a flourish. "I brought it over from the house yesterday."
Fletcher swung around to face me. He was furious.
Get out of here! his eyes ordered, and his disapproval hit my gut like a blow. But I forced myself to look away. I knew that he wanted me safely gone, but I also knew that in an area this isolated, it could take fifteen minutes or more for the police to arrive. If I set out after a bottle of brandy and didn’t return, Jake would get suspicious. And I would not put Fletcher at greater risk to save my own hide—no matter what he wanted.
"I’ll pour for you," I continued, unable to keep the tremble from my voice. "Why don’t the two of you have a seat?"
Fletcher spent another split second trying to catch my eye, then turned back to Jake. "Yes, have a seat," he agreed, gesturing to a chair at a table in the middle of the room. Jake sat, and Fletcher promptly seated himself opposite Jake, closer to me. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Fletcher was now out of striking range.
As I poured the brandy and delivered the glasses, Fletcher went to work, besieging Jake with a steady stream of law enforcement questions the latter was only too happy to answer. I returned to the kitchen and watched them from a distance, figuring that the sight of me would only agitate Jake—reminding him of his purpose. My pulse pounded. My eyes and ears strained for signs of the state patrol.
Minutes passed.
"It’s all politics," Jake drawled, reaching for the brandy bottle and refilling his own glass. Offering him additional alcohol had been an impulse on my part, an impulse I was beginning to regret. Though the brandy was doubtless dulling his reflexes, it also seemed to be rekindling his ire. Despite Fletcher’s repeated attempts to keep the conversation light, Jake had fixated on the subject of injustices in the police department, and as I stepped outside the kitchen for another surreptitious glance down the hall, Jake’s dark eyes locked malevolently on mine.
"Shouldn’t even have women on the force," he said coldly. "They’re not worth a damn thing."
I sensed, rather than saw, Fletcher stiffen.
"Women have never caused me anything but trouble—on or off the job," Jake added caustically. "One bitch actually accused me of rape."
My stomach heaved. I was trying not to watch Jake’s face as he talked; I knew that I needed a level head, not more anger. But willpower alone could not block out the loathsome voice, and red heat rose in my cheeks.
"She wanted it, of course," he continued. "They always do. But she pitched a fit afterwards. Couldn’t press charges because she had no case, but that didn’t matter—my ass got fired anyway." He scoffed. "Now you know that’s not right."
I stepped closer to Fletcher, and could see that his poker face was finally beginning to fail him. His antipathy for Jake was now clearly visible in his eyes.
I felt an acute stab of fear. If Jake were to notice, if he were to realize that Fletcher knew what had happened upstairs...
But Jake’s loathsome gaze was fixed on me.
"I could have made sergeant, even detective, about five times over," he spat, oblivious to the way Fletcher’s hands now clutched his glass, his knuckles white with tension. "Instead, they had me writing tickets and sitting at a desk all day. And why?" His eyes narrowed. "Because of a bunch of stupid women, that’s why. A bunch of uppity bitches who don’t know they’re only good for one thing."
Fletcher’s chair scooted back on the floor. I shot forward, gripping his shoulders with my hands. His muscles were hard as rock. I could feel the heat rising from his skin, even through his shirt. He’d kept his cool for a long time—I couldn’t let him lose it now. Jake would go straight for his knife, and this time I wouldn’t be the target.
I massaged Fletcher’s shoulders with haste. His muscles didn’t relax, but he did cease scooting his chair back.
A car door slammed out front.
My heart skipped a beat. I cast a nervous glance at Jake, but once again, he seemed deaf to the extraneous noise. He was focused on me, staring at my hands on Fletcher’s shoulders with disgust. Fletcher made a loud attempt to change the subject, successfully masking several more, similar sounds.
I gave Fletcher’s shoulders a final squeeze, hustled to the door, and opened it. Two state patrol cars were parked in the lot; four troopers were making their way toward me. I let out a breath. Hot tears of relief welled behind my eyes.
A tall, pleasant-looking blond man about my own age approached and introduced himself. "You having trouble here?" he asked.
I nodded, then gave as succinct a description of the situation as I could. The blond man dispatched one trooper around the side of the inn; the other three followed me as I walked back into the common room, my pulse pounding.
Jake and Fletcher remained at their places at the table.
"Fletcher," I called, my voice quavering. "Guess who’s here? Your friend Ben decided to come over—now you can congratulate him in person."
"Hey Fletch!" the blond man said jovially, stepping up and shaking Fletcher’s hand. "I hear you’re having a drink in my honor."
Jake watched with bleary eyes while the lawmen filed in. I moved close to Fletcher’s side, my limbs trembling, poised for Jake to explode. But the sight of other men in uniform seemed to make little impression on the career cop. As he focused calmly on the exchange between Fletcher and Ben, perhaps wondering why a Pennsylvania State Trooper would be promoted to detective in West Virginia, the two other troopers stepped neatly to either side of his chair.
"So," Ben continued, looking at Fletcher. "What’s up, big guy?"
No sooner were the troopers in position than Fletcher flung an arm out towards me, pushing me back and away from the table. His eyes remained trained on Jake, all semblance of geniality gone. "Aggravated assault," he said, his deep voice unmistakably livid. "And be careful. He’s got a knife in his pocket."
***
Jake Kozen put up a valiant struggle. But with a trooper on each arm and two more as backup, his drunken resistance was to no avail. Ben Eversen, who had actually been promoted to detective several years ago, had him subdued, cuffed, and dispatched into a patrol car within seconds.
No one got hurt.
Fletcher and I were immediately separated and questioned, then informed that we would have go to the barracks later to give an official statement. I had no problem with that. I would give any number of statements, any number of times, to put Jake Kozen in jail where he belonged. But I was relieved when the troopers at last concluded their business and began to leave. I wanted to be with Fletcher. I wanted us to be alone.
Only Ben remained now, standing with us in the front hall.
My legs were still unsteady; my heart rate, still rapid. But Ben’s news had been encouraging. Jake’s drunken performance would earn him felony charges, and Fletcher’s testimony, which included seeing the knife brandished in my face, promised to make them stick. This time, the snake would not wriggle away.
Preparing for his exit now, Ben offered a courteous goodbye to me, then clapped Fletcher heartily on the back. "Got to say, big guy," he praised. "You did a hell of a job here. If you’d tried to manhandle that sleaze, things
would have gotten ugly. Good thing you’ve got experience talking down drunks."
Ben noticed the puzzled expression on my face. "Didn’t Fletch tell you? He used to moonlight as a bouncer. Darned good one, too. It helps if you’re the nonviolent type."
Fletcher’s jaw tensed. "I did have a plan B."
Ben shook his head. "No way, buddy. We can’t have you banging up that million-dollar hand. It’d wreck the local tax base." He opened the front door, but then paused and turned. "Oh, and by the way—I noticed girl stuff in two of the rooms. Is Tia back?"
Fletcher shook his head gravely. "Forget it, Ben. She’ll only break your heart again."
The trooper merely grinned. "Love’s always a gamble," he replied, stepping out. He cast Fletcher a knowing look, one that held a challenge. "But it’s worth it."
Fletcher shoved his friend the rest of the way out the door. "We’ll see you at the barracks. Thanks."
The door closed. Fletcher turned around and looked at me.
We were alone.
We stood silently. Awkwardly. His face was troubled. Not, this time, with the self-directed hurt of betrayal, but with empathy for me. "I’m so sorry, Meara," he said quietly. "Are you sure you’re really all right?"
I managed only a nod. Though both his expression and his voice showed genuine concern, he remained standing several feet away from me. And to my still-shaky limbs, every inch seemed a mile. Why was he holding himself back? Surely he knew how much I craved an embrace. Had he not offered as much before?
"I saw the blue car from the top of the ridge," he explained, not moving. "I got here as fast as I could. I wish I could have stopped him sooner."
I shook my head, but couldn’t speak.
He took a small step forward, but kept his hands at his sides. "What can I do?" he asked softly, miserably. "What do you need?"
Whether he was willing or not, I couldn’t stand any more. I flew forward, clasped him about the waist, and pressed myself to him. To my delight, his arms wrapped around me immediately, flooding me with a strong warmth that soothed my raw nerves like a salve. When his grip tightened further, the feeling turned to bliss.
He exhaled loudly, and my heart leapt as he dropped a kiss on the top of my head. "So, this is what you need," he confirmed, his tone mild. "I’m sorry, but I wasn’t sure. After what happened, I thought maybe you wouldn’t want—"
I leaned back just enough to look at him. The memory of Jake’s roughness wouldn’t be easy to shake, but thanks to my rescuer, I had escaped more grievous injury. I knew that recovering completely from such an assault would take more than a few tender hugs. But I was not so traumatized that my heart could no longer recognize genuine affection. I still needed it. I still wanted it. "It’s sweet of you to worry," I whispered back. "But don’t. I really will be fine." I buried my face in his shoulder. "In fact, I’m feeling better all ready."
We stood that way a long time, his strength seeming to flow into me, filling the hollowness that a week’s worth of uncertainty and terror had wrought in my soul. And as my sense of security began to reform, my mind turned involuntarily to the puzzle pieces Jake’s rant had thrown into the air.
"Fletcher," I asked in a whisper. "Do you think that—the night Sheila shot Jake—it happened because he had just found out I wasn’t his?"
His hold on me tightened, but he didn’t answer right away. When he did speak, his voice was mild. "Probably." His hand moved tenderly across my back. It was a chaste motion, but I savored it as more. "My guess is that he battered Sheila for years, and when he found out she’d been unfaithful, he flew completely off the handle. If she hadn’t stopped him, he probably would have harmed you both."
I drew back slightly. "But why would Sheila confess to attempted homicide without a fight?" I questioned. "If your mother was a witness, she could have testified that Sheila only shot him to defend herself—and me. Wouldn’t they want to put Jake in prison? It doesn’t make sense."
"I can’t answer that," he replied. "Maybe they were afraid that being a cop, Jake would somehow beat the charges. Sheila might have figured that prison was the safest place for her to be, and that you would be better off adopted—through a closed system where even Jake couldn’t find you."
I mulled over his words, and a wave of grief washed over me. I could see again the look in Sheila’s eyes as she lay in her hospital bed, dying. I always loved you, she had said. Deep in my heart, I had wanted to believe her. But I couldn’t. Not when she had lied to me. Not when she had completely fabricated her entire history that day at the coffee shop.
Only now, I understood. Sheila had wanted to meet me, but she hadn’t wanted me to know the grim truth about my past. Ever. Her own life was nothing but a source of embarrassment to her, and of guilt. A disastrous marriage, infidelity, a criminal record, terminated parental rights. She had to wonder if I would ever be able to understand. She had to have feared that I would never forgive her.
But more importantly, she must have still been determined to keep me away from Jake. He was the birth father of record, and she knew that if I was persistent, I would eventually find him—or vice versa. So she signed up on the registry, hoping to meet with me. She allowed herself a few final, pleasantly uninformed minutes of bonding with her only daughter. Then she told me a story that she hoped would dissuade me from ever trying to find out more—either about her, or my birth father. And then she said goodbye.
My eyes welled up with tears.
"Perhaps it would be best to accept what you know and leave it at that," Fletcher said, giving me a gentle squeeze that signified the hug was ending.
He made an attempt to detach himself, but—after a split seconds’ internal debate—I decided to hold on. I was enjoying his embrace immensely, and I wasn’t ready to give it up yet.
The tears in my eyes escaped to my cheeks, but, surprisingly, there were no more behind them. Jake’s admissions, along with my newfound understanding of Sheila, had lifted a huge burden from my heart. And despite the blow Jake’s attack had rendered on my psyche, I felt suddenly free—nearly exuberant. My birth mother wasn’t perfect, but she had loved me. Truly loved me. Jake Kozen was no relation whatsoever. What else mattered?
I had an answer to that.
"I can’t imagine how I could have gotten through these last two weeks without you and Tia," I told Fletcher sincerely, my head still against his shoulder. "You’ve been so good to me. Thank you."
He made another attempt to detach himself, and this time I let him succeed. "You’re welcome," he said. "But it’s nothing. I’m just glad you don’t have to be afraid of Jake anymore."
He stepped away from me. I studied him as he stood there, tense, guarded. He was smiling, and his expression was still friendly. But he hadn’t given in yet. He hadn’t budged. I could envision quite plainly the wheels turning in his head—the conflict, the resolve. There was nothing between us, he was assuring himself. He had merely been comforting a damsel in distress. He didn’t want anything more. He could keep things platonic. No problem.
My jaws clenched. If I had vowed patience and understanding, I was officially reneging. I had had enough of his nonsense, and I was going to end it. Now.
"It’s no fun being afraid," I said pointedly. "It’s much more fun to take a risk now and then. That’s what life is all about, don’t you think?"
A look of suspicion, laced with no small amount of dread, crossed his features. He took another step back, colliding inadvertently with the newel post. "I suppose."
I smiled and scowled at the same time. I was good at that. "Fletcher Carlisle!" I chastised, using what I presumed, from Estelle’s earlier rant, was his middle name. "You are unbelievable. You have no qualms about facing a half-crazed, drunken lunatic with a knife, but when it comes to a five-foot, four-inch grade school teacher, you’re scared to death!"
He stiffened. "What are you talking about?"
"You heard me," I continued, taking a step closer. I straightened my back, partly because
I was feeling wonderfully good about myself again, and partly because I knew what effect it would have on the scoop-neck shirt. "You’re afraid of me. You know it and I know it. And we both know why. But I’m telling you right now, I am not Isabella. And I’m not Amanda Kozen, either. I’m Meara Kathleen O’Rourke, daughter of Colleen and Patrick O’Rourke, who raised me to be an honest, loving, and loyal person—and considering their late start, did a darn good job of it."
He stood motionless, watching me as warily as if he were an animal in a trap. "Don’t be ridiculous, Meara. I’m not afraid of you."
"You are too. You want to be even more afraid? Listen to this. I could identify any tree, bird, or animal track on this place. My favorite book in kindergarten was The Lorax. I contribute to the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy. My favorite place to sleep is under the stars, and my favorite thing to bake—and eat—is pie. You can thank your mother for that one; I think she must have imprinted me early on."
He said nothing, but alarm mounted in his eyes as I talked, and the words "sleeping under the stars" sparked sheer panic. I resisted the urge to scream.
"Just admit it," I cajoled. "You’re afraid of me because you’re afraid of falling in love again. You’re afraid of getting hurt. I don’t blame you—I understand. But you have to get over it sometime. You can’t spend the rest of your life living in some emotional cocoon."
He bristled. "Thank you for your concern," he said with an intentional coolness, reminiscent of our first meetings. "But I don’t need the two-bit psychoanalysis. I have a sister for that."
I ignored his tone completely. "Well," I answered with cheer, "she’s right, too."
He growled.
I smiled at him.
"Look," he said, measuring his words. "You’re a wonderful person, and I enjoy your company. You know that. But I am not afraid of you. I’m just not interested, that’s all. I consider you a friend."
He tried to look at me while he was talking—he really did. But he couldn’t make it past the third sentence. His gray-green eyes flooded with guilt, then transferred their gaze to the doorknob. He wasn’t a bad actor. But I wasn’t an idiot.
