RENEGADE'S REDEMPTION

by Lindsey Longford

  Closing his eyes, he turned his cheek to the warm wood of the wall separating them. He rubbed his cheek back and forth against the boards.

  Elly Malloy was a woman who could break a man’s heart.

  If he let himself care.

  The blow came from behind him, out of nowhere, a hard crack to the back of his head. Falling forward, his face scraping the house, Royal twisted, turned, reached out for the feet thudding into his ribs, his face. Pain, real and fierce, ratcheted through him as a pointed boot toe slammed into his nose and blood gushed forth.

  Holding on to the boot, he wrestled his attacker to the ground. Grunting, Royal dragged himself to his knees and, with no room to swing, braced his right elbow with his left fist and whacked a stocking-covered chin. Scrabbling for the slick nylon, he fell into unconsciousness as a second blow bounced off his skull.

  *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  The heavy thud against the side of the house brought Elly scrambling to her feet and screaming, “Tommy!”

  Racing down the hallway to the room they shared, she grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder and neck, leaving her hands free, ready for anything. “Tommy?” She snatched up the bag she kept packed outside the bedroom and threw open the bedroom door.

  Lying across his narrow bed sound asleep, Tommy had curled himself around the stuffed whale she’d bought when he was two. Moving swiftly to the partially open window and staying to one side, she slammed the window down and locked it. Her heart beating with slow dread, she peered out into the darkness.

  “Mommy?” Tommy opened one eye sleepily. “Love you.” Rooting into the sheet, he rolled over, flinging an arm out. With a metallic whistle, Baby Whale tumbled to the bare floor, his threadbare belly ceilingward.

  Picking up the toy, Elly tucked it under Tommy’s arm. “But I’m not going to move, Mommy,” he murmured in his sleep as she curled his fingers around the scruffy fluke. Leaving the door cracked, she moved back toward the front of the house.

  The noise had come from the side, not far from the kitchen, where she’d been wallowing in self-pity and frustration. “Damn,” she groaned under her breath. Racing to check out Tommy, she’d left the window open behind her in the kitchen. Even blocked, as all the windows were when open, any of them could be forced open. All it would take was sufficient determination and strength. Or a crowbar. Furious with herself, she edged toward the cracker box of a living room, her back melting into the wall. She had to check the front of the house.

  Ever since she’d seen the cigarette stub in the flowerpot earlier in the day, her subconscious had been preparing for this moment. Her mind was focused, clear. She’d readied herself and Tommy for a fast exit, and now she would deal with whatever was out in the dark.

  Then she and Tommy would leave this place they’d made into a home.

  First, though, she had a job to do here. The muscles running along the ridge of her shoulders ached with the tension of holding still. She was so tired of running, so tired of forever looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t see an end to the constant vigilance. In the past week, she’d finally accepted that Blake would never let her escape.

  Despair had filled her when she’d realized that. But a spark deep inside, some instinct of survival, kept her feet moving forward, kept her running from the pursuer nipping at her heels. All she knew how to do anymore was run. Running was all she could do.

  Run. Protect Tommy. Stay alive if she could. And pray for a miracle. Pushing her shoulder blades against the wall, Elly forced herself to concentrate.

  Hyperalert, she paused. All the sounds of the house were magnified, the smells more intense. The wall at her back seemed to become part of her skin. She wouldn’t act hastily. If she didn’t have to uproot Tommy, she wouldn’t. But she was prepared to dash back for him, grab the suitcase and crawl out the window. She’d had to do that once before, and ever since, she’d made sure she had an escape plan. But she was so tired, so tired of staying alert, keyed up. Prepared. Even adrenaline and coffee didn’t give her a buzz these days. Every incident drained her resources, leaving her at such a deep level of exhaustion that sleep didn’t restore her.

  She couldn’t keep up this kind of life much longer. She would make a deadly error at the rate she was going. She would trust the wrong person, turn left when she should turn right. Or she would surrender to emotional exhaustion and give up, call Blake and wait for the executioner’s blade, yielding to the relief of not having to run anymore.

  With her eyes closed, she centered herself on the sounds around her, assessing them. The kitchen noises were familiar, comforting. The chug of the refrigerator motor. The drip of the kitchen faucet. Her whole existence reduced itself to these ordinary sounds.

  Opening her eyes, she eased her foot forward.

  In the glass of the picture over the sofa, she could see into the kitchen.

  Empty.

  A faint scratching against the front door stopped her before she turned the corner toward the kitchen. Clearing her throat, she called, “Yes? Who is it?”

  The scratching came again. And then a murmur, rough, the sound of her name whispered softly. She turned her head and listened as silence gathered around her house.

  Gaze fixed on the door, she opened her purse with one steady hand and pulled out a plastic jar of ammonia. Palming it, she loosened the cap with her thumb and finger. Staying away from the windows, she moved toward the front door.

  “Elly?” Through the four-inch window openings, once more came the whispery rasp of her name. Slurred and quiet, the voice was seductive, luring her to open her door.

  “Who’s there?” She could almost identify that voice. Almost. But she wasn’t sure.

  A scraping sound. A groan.

  “Anybody there?” Earlier today at the rental unit, she’d suppressed that urge to call out. But this was different. This was her home. Sending conflicting signals to her, that voice teased her with its hint of familiarity, but she wasn’t about to abandon caution. “Be with you in a minute, okay?”

  She waited a moment for a response before shouting to the back of the house, “Henry! Someone’s at the door. Do you want me to see who it is?”

  Not lingering for the nonexistent Henry’s answer, she duck-walked under the last window and, from the protection of the door, she yanked it open, muscles tensed and ammonia jar at the ready in case she was wrong.

  Curled into a fetal position, the man lay on her front stoop. Blood oozed steadily from the back of his head, his nose, his cheek. The acrid scent of ammonia burned in her nose as the jar fell to the grass and rolled out of sight. Her purse dropped beside the door. “My God,” she whispered, appalled, “Royal?”

  Out in the darkness, a car started up, squealed around a corner.

  “Elly.” His hand twitched.

  Dropping to his side, her knees scraping against the concrete stoop, she reached out to him. Hand hovering over his face, she drew her fist back to her mouth. She was afraid to touch him. What if she made his injuries worse?

  Glancing from him to the street in front of her house, she watched for movement in the dark, for signs of an intruder. Tree limbs moved in the rising wind, and telephone lines wavered overhead, a trickery of motion and shapes.

  But nothing, no one, came leaping toward them from those uncertain shadows that strained her eyes and nerves.

  Turning back to Royal, she bit her lower lip. His shirt was torn, dirt streaked his face and slacks, and along his rib cage, she saw the muddy outlines of a boot. “Can you stand up?”

  His long frame shifted, went still, and she heard the jagged intake of breath. “Not just yet.”

  His voice was so low she could scarcely hear him. Her hair brushed against his bloodied cheek and clung as she leaned forward in distress. She touched his cheek gently. Bristly and grease stained, the lean planes of his face and chin were cold, even in the heat. “How can I help you? What should I do?”

  His words came in
gasps and pauses. “Get me inside. Can you?”

  “All right. This is going to hurt,” she said grimly, standing in back of him and working her hands under his arms. His chest was hard against her palms. Clasping her hands together and doubling over him, she pulled. His shoulder muscles rippled against her forearms and breasts in an intimacy of shared effort.

  “Hell.” His breathing was labored, and she stopped, her face remaining next to him. Warm and coffee scented, his breath stirred the hair along her cheek.

  Beaten and battered, he should have seemed harmless, diminished. He didn’t. She knew better. The air around him snapped with tension, hummed with the cold anger vibrating from him.

  Even so, she held on to him with all her strength, afraid that if she let go of him, she’d never be able to lift him again. He was bigger, more solid, than she’d expected, and she knew each inexpert tug hurt him more than he revealed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted, tugging once more and wincing as he flinched under her hands.

  “Me, too.” In his blood-and grease-smeared face, Royal’s eyes glittered at her. “But I’ll live.” Edginess surfaced, crackled around them.

  “That’s encouraging. I’d hate to waste all this effort.” Jittery, she made a note to watch her step. Even wounded and vulnerable, Royal Gaines was a threat.

  “Smart mouth—” A low groan stopped him.

  “Right.” Preparing to lift him, she inhaled and tightened her stomach muscles. “Okay, here we go. Ready?”

  “Yeah.” Left arm clasped tightly around his chest, he raised his head. “Let’s get this over and done with before I puke all over your step.” He straightened his legs and pushed as she pulled. “Wait,” he grunted. Finally, his words coming out in short bursts, he said, “I can stand. Give me a second.” He leaned back, resting against her bare legs. Dark with night and grease, stiff with drying blood, his hair scratched the top of her thighs.

  “You okay?” Still gripping him under the arms, she wiped her damp face against her shoulder. Her arms were quivering with strain, but she didn’t dare let go.

  “I’m feeling better by the minute, sugar.” The light coming from the kitchen to the front stoop shadowed the angles of his face, lost itself in the dark, oily streaks dulling his bright hair.

  “I can tell.” Staring at him, she shook her head. “Picture of health, a real poster boy, that’s what you are. How silly of me to think otherwise.” She took a tremulous breath and gathered her strength. “Don’t men ever get tired of pretending to be tough?”

  “Part of our charm, sugar.” Undaunted, he fixed her with a gleaming green eye. “It’s why you women love us.”

  “Oh, gosh, thanks for clearing that up for me. I never understood it before.” Elly tightened her grip ferociously and steeled herself against the feel of his body against hers, the forgotten texture of male skin and muscle. The damned idiot was three breaths away from collapsing in a heap and he couldn’t stop joking. She sent a silent prayer that she could haul his battered, foolhardy self safely inside before he passed out.

  Bending forward, he coughed. As he leaned against her, sweat popped out along his hairline, and he clenched his mouth. “Hell. Let me catch my breath.”

  “I can move you. You don’t have to stand up. I can do this. I can.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” he grunted, steadying himself. “I reckon you can do about anything you put your mind to.”

  Tugging and pulling, she worked him into the living room. Sliding her arms free of him, she was amazed to find them shaking, her muscles quivering. She hadn’t been aware at the time that she was straining as hard as she’d been. She shut and bolted the door behind her. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  “Nice bedside manner, Nurse Ratched.”

  “Who?” she muttered, leaving him there while she circled the room, pulling down the shades.

  “A mean nurse. She liked pain.”

  Distracted by the lights of a passing car, she paused, looked toward the street. She rubbed the goose bumps along her arms as she watched the car pass in front of her house. “What?”

  “Never mind,” he mumbled. Working himself slowly into a sitting position, he leaned against what passed for her sofa and fought for breath. “Damn,” he groaned, and wrapped his arms around his middle. “Nurse Ratched would be very happy if she were here.”

  “Oh.” In the breeze drifting through the small gap of window and sill, the shades flapped fitfully. Bass beat throbbing, the car slowed at the Stop sign, waited and turned the corner. As it did, light from the street lamp winked inside.

  Her neighbor’s teenage son. Giving her arms one last rub, Elly knelt down beside Royal and gingerly touched the gash over his eye. She grimaced. “Nasty.”

  “Yeah, ‘nasty’ covers it.” His head dropped forward, and she saw the deep cut at the crown of his scalp.

  “You’re going to need stitches in that one.” In the slash, drying blood matted strands of hair darkened with sweat and grease. “Let me see your eyes.”

  The obedient tip of his head mocked her. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a mom. Bossy comes with my territory.” One at a time, she lifted his eyelids. “Hold still.” She grabbed her purse in one quick step and returned to him. Fishing in its depths, she found her keys and twisted the end of the miniature flashlight dangling from the key ring. Her purse clunked to the floor. Shining the light into his eyes, she watched as his pupils contracted and reacted. “Seems okay.”

  Underneath the cut over his eye, the skin had swollen, leaving a puffy slit. One eye barely visible, the other a baleful flash of green, he glared at her. “Sympathy’s not your strong suit, is it, Ms. Malloy?”

  She regarded him irritably. “If you want an ice pack or a ride to the emergency room, I can help you. If you want pity, go scratch on someone else’s door.”

  “Like a junkyard dog, huh?” His laugh was closer to a shaky bark, but he groaned again as she probed his ribs tentatively.

  “You or me?”

  “Killed anyone with that razor of a tongue?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” She stuffed the flashlight in her shorts pocket and leaned forward, cautiously touching his ribs.

  He gasped. “Yeah, sugar, that hurts. Keep it up, and you’ll have me out cold.” Sweat beaded along his forehead, slid down his face and left pale tracks through the blood and grease.

  Despite his wisecracks, she could see the pain shimmering in his good eye. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  His eyes were shut, and he passed a darkened hand across his face, mixing sweat and grease and revealing more clearly the ugly scrapes on the left side of his face.

  “I can’t tell how badly you’ve been hurt. You don’t have a concussion, but you might be bleeding internally. You need to see a doctor.” Suddenly drained, Elly sank to her knees beside Royal, her muscles shaking uncontrollably, her arms and legs quivering.

  “Give me a sec,” he gasped. “Rough neighborhood you live in, Elly Malloy.”

  “Must be the company you keep,” she mumbled, head down as she tried to think what to do. Should she call an ambulance, whether he wanted one or not? Would he let her drive him to the emergency room? Reports would be filed. If the newspaper got wind of what had happened— If pictures of her— Elly bumped her chin against her knees. She’d done the best she could. “I’ve never had any problems in this neighborhood. Must be your attitude. What happened?”

  “I was careless. But that’s no surprise. I’ve been pretty damned dense lately.” Scowling, he palpated the wound at the top of his head. “Malignant stupidity. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You fell?” Tilting her head sideways, Elly glanced at him. In her fog of exhaustion, she couldn’t follow what he was saying. “You got this banged up from a fall? I don’t understand. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Your neighbors have an interesting way of welcoming a fellow to the neighborhood, sugar.”

  “Wha
t?” She massaged her kneecap anxiously. He’d been attacked. She understood that much. She would have to call the police.

  She couldn’t.

  “A committee decided to shower me with affection.” He was motionless, watching her too closely with that brilliant right eye. “A couple of knights of the evening used me for a punching bag.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated helplessly. She pressed her fingers against her eyes. It was bad. The police were going to be involved. There seemed to be no way she could keep them out of it. And then Blake could— A thought struck her. Her head shot up. “What were you doing in my neighborhood, Mr. Gaines?”

  “Back to ‘Mr.’, are we? Wondered how long it would take you to realize you’d reached a first-name basis.” He edged up straighter against the sofa and took a shaky breath. “I promised Tommy Lee I’d check to see if he could go to the Fourth of July rodeo. You left the center before I got around to suggesting—”

  “You were at my front door when you got beaten up?” Elly frowned as she interrupted him. He’d left something out. “I heard the sound against the kitchen wall.”

  “They dragged me off the walk and bounced me off your house, sugar.”

  “But the kitchen’s nowhere near the walk—”

  “Very impetuous gentlemen they were. Never once asked me if I wanted to check out your landscaping.” His words were coming more easily even though he still took careful, shallow breaths as he tried to sit upright. Dropping his hand to the sofa, he hoisted himself to his knees. “Can you lend me a shoulder?”

  “Don’t get up! You probably shouldn’t be moving around like this!” Distracted by the sudden pallor appearing under the grime on his face, she rose to her feet. “I think you need to see a doctor. I really do.”

  His face contorted by pain, he glared at her. “I really, really don’t.”

  “But you may be seriously hurt!” She gripped her hands together to stop their shaking. She hesitated, but she didn’t have any other choice, not if she wanted to face herself in the mirror tomorrow morning. “I’ll take you to the hospital if you don’t want to call the paramedics. Whatever you want.”