He bit back a need to tell her that "sorry" was the last thing on his mind. "That's just it, Stacy. I don't feel. It's the way I like it. The way it has to be."
"I think you feel very deeply. Too deeply. And I think you felt something just now when you kissed me."
He felt heat climbing his neck. He was immune to damn near every wile a woman possessed—everything but the unguarded look of longing in the eyes of a woman who believed in fortune-tellers. "Stacy, I'm not the hero you see in your mind."
She reached up to touch his face and he flinched. Sadness flickered in her eyes, but she curved her lips into a forgiving smile. "What I see is a very kind, very decent man I care about very much."
"Damn it, Stacy, haven't you been listening to me? I can't give you what you need from the man in your life. I can't give you anything but grief." He realized he was close to shouting and hauled in hard on the need to vent his frustration any way he could. Before he could change his mind, he turned on his heel and left.
* * *
Six
« ^ »
"Damn thing's still lopsided," Boyd muttered, standing back with clippers in hand to study the result of a good four hours' work. The hedge that had started out shoulder high had been whittled to a manageable three feet, its top as flat as a landing strip. Sighting down the length, he saw ripples and dents that shouldn't be there. It was even worse on Prudy's side where those fat, fussy flowers she liked so much were smashed up against the privet bushes like pink and blue snowballs.
What had Stacy called them? Hydrangeas?
He eyed the lacy blossoms with a scowl and tried not to think about soft pink lips curved into a surprised smile that warmed and gentled.
The words he bit off came straight from his rebellious days hanging out in loggers' bars in the small mountain town where he'd grown up. The crude curse didn't help. He still felt lousy.
Seeing where Stacy lived, touching her things, had pushed him across a line toward an intimacy he didn't want. Couldn't handle even if he'd wanted it.
Hadn't he spent three years avoiding personal entanglements? Damn straight, he had. And he was good at it, an expert. His life was predictable, his decisions limited by his own choice. The only responsibilities he accepted revolved around his work. If he made a mistake and underbid a job, he absorbed the loss with a philosophical shrug and moved on to the next job. If he underestimated the time it would take him to complete a project, he worked extra hours without pay to bring it in on time. If he made a mistake—any mistake—he paid the price, no one else.
He didn't want a woman in his life, especially a woman with bruised green eyes and a kissable mouth. He didn't want to admire her spirit or worry about her living alone in a flimsy firetrap. Damn it, he didn't want to find her attractive or sexy or intriguing. And he sure as hell didn't want to dream about her again.
It was too easy to care about a woman when she was always on his mind, too easy to feel close to a woman who crowded his dreams so intimately he woke up hard and hungering. A man made lousy decisions when he let his body control his mind. He sure as hell had made his share.
Twenty minutes and a gallon of sweat later, he had reached the end of the edge closest to the carports and was about to call it a day when he heard Prudy's twenty-year-old Volvo wagon pull into the slot to the right of his.
Leave it to Boyd to do yard work on one of the hottest days on record, Prudy thought as she reluctantly left the car's air-conditioned coolness. But then, Boyd wasn't one to make things easy on himself.
She wanted to tell him it wouldn't help. The memories would still be there when he'd pushed his body to the point of exhaustion and his mind to numbness. Memories he couldn't outwork or outrun or bury deep enough. Memories he had to conquer if he was ever going to heal.
"I swear I'm giving my notice first thing tomorrow," she declared after slamming the car door behind her. "Even pounding nails for you would be more satisfying than babysitting drunks in the ER."
"What do you mean, even?" Boyd challenged, straightening slowly in deference to the tired muscles of his back.
Grinning, she sidestepped the wheelbarrow piled with clippings and joined him on the grass, her gaze sweeping back along the geometrically straight line of greenery. "I love you dearly, Boyd, but as a boss, you would be a nightmare."
"Gee, I guess that means you won't be asking me to help you remodel your kitchen."
She blew a strand of hair off her damp forehead. "Have I asked for your help?"
"You didn't have to. I remember the deck you put in last year. Correction, the deck I put in—after you'd damn near sliced off a foot with the power saw you borrowed from me."
Snorting, Prudy picked up a truncated pink blossom and looked at it with forlorn eyes. "I hope Stacy's not expecting another bouquet, because it looks like you haven't left flowers enough to fill even a bud vase."
Boyd felt heat climbing his neck. He should have gotten the damn flowers from a florist. "How's she doing?" he asked offhandedly. It had been two days since he'd seen her. And two damned nearly sleepless nights spent prowling his house in a rotten humor.
Prudy tucked the flower behind her ear and offered him a bland smile. "I imagine she's fine—or will be, once she lands a job."
"What?"
"She's been calling on the want ads, trying to find work. Last I heard, she hadn't come up with anything more solid than a few maybes."
Boyd thought about the bright yellow paint covering scarred dingy cabinets and a woman who was determined to brighten her life any way she could. "She didn't say anything to me about looking for work," he muttered, scowling at the mental image of Stacy on a rickety ladder, her balance made precarious by a full-blown pregnancy, determined to finish the job she'd started.
Prudy glanced down, hiding a smile. "Why? Do you have a job to offer?"
Boyd grunted, then bent to gather his tools. Stacy Patterson needed a keeper, he thought. Someone to watch over her until that baby she was so crazy about was delivered safely.
"If you're planning to visit her in the hospital, don't," Prudy said as he straightened to glare at her. "Jarrod released her yesterday morning."
Twenty-five minutes later Boyd pulled into the spot next to the familiar Tenants Only sign and vaulted up the steps to Stacy's apartment. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted a fist and knocked. When she didn't answer, he knocked louder and longer before, giving in to a growing worry, he tried the knob and found the door locked tight.
"Stacy? Open the door. It's Boyd."
An angry—and definitely male—voice shouted a muffled obscenity an instant before the door was jerked inward. The man standing there was scrawny, unshaven and bleary-eyed. Boyd judged his age as mid-twenties, and his origin, when he spoke, deeply Southern.
"Hey, man, whatever you're sellin', I ain't interested." He started to close the door, but Boyd stiff-armed it open again.
"Where's Mrs. Patterson?" Deciding he didn't have the time or patience for a lengthy discussion, Boyd let an echo of his ill-spent adolescence slip into his voice.
"Hell if I know." The man cut his gaze toward the dun-colored house. "Ask the bastard yonder. He's the one who rented me this dump yesterday noon."
Boyd took a hard and fast hold on his temper. "What about Mrs. Patterson's clothes and the baby's things?"
The puzzled look in the kid's bloodshot eyes was all the answer Boyd needed. "Go back to sleep," he shot over his shoulder as he headed down the steps two at a time. By the time he got to the bottom the landlord was already on his way out of his back door. Boyd waited, his temper lashed tight.
"I thought that was your rig, cowboy." The man was spoiling for a fight. Boyd gave some thought to obliging him—after he'd gotten what he wanted from the hustler.
"Name's MacAuley. What's yours?"
The man's weasel eyes narrowed at Boyd's polite tone. "Wattchel. Not that it's any of your damned business."
"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Wattchel," Boyd said slowly,
carefully, rationing his words. "I was mostly raised by my grandmother, and she was a stickler for manners. Now she didn't believe in fighting unless a man had no other choice. She also believed it wasn't polite to beat the crap out of someone until you'd been properly introduced."
Wattchel's jaw went slack, then tightened around a foul curse. "You and what army?"
Boyd reminded himself that he could be patient in a good cause. "Mrs. Patterson's forwarding address. Get it now."
Wattchel's answer was crude and anatomically graphic. Boyd decided he wasn't all that patient after all. "Ah hell, Watchell, just when we were getting along so well." Before the big man could react, Boyd had him pushed up against the truck with a forearm jammed against the man's larynx. "Where did she go when you kicked her out?"
The landlord stared at him goggle-eyed, his lips pulled back in a rictus of fury. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I run a business here, not a charity. The lady knew my rules right up-front. Rent gets paid on time, period. I can't afford no grace period like them fancy places in Lake Oswego."
"Where … is … she?" Boyd exerted just enough pressure on the esophagus to guarantee the man's total attention. When panic surfaced in the man's eyes, Boyd eased off.
"Budget Motel on Eastern," Wattchel got out on a rush of foul-smelling air.
Boyd stepped back and lowered his arm. Because he'd been undersize and skinny until he was halfway through high school, he'd always favored a left to the gut and a right uppercut to the jaw in rapid-fire succession. He pegged Wattchel as a brawler with brute strength and no finesse.
He was right. Wattchel swung from the heels, his massive fist aimed at Boyd's nose. Expecting the blow, Boyd ducked easily, even as he felt his own fist thud into Wattchel's blubbery belly. But it was the solid smash of fist against jaw that sent an icy satisfaction shooting through his veins.
Wattchel went down like an axed log, his mouth open and gasping, his eyes glazing over. Boyd took a minute to make sure the bastard was simply stunned before heading for his truck. It was only when he gripped the steering wheel that he realized he'd split three of the knuckles on his right hand.
In spite of the nervous churning in her stomach, Stacy knew she had to eat, for Tory's sake as well as her own. But after paying cab fare from the hospital to her apartment and then to the motel after her humiliating argument with her idiot landlord, she didn't even have enough money left for a carton of milk.
Tired of pacing the dreary room that was almost as hot and steamy as a sauna, she sank down on the lumpy bed and tried to think. As of this moment she had a roof over her head, a suitcase of clothes and the bottle of prenatal vitamins Boyd had brought her—along with a bill for her hospital expenses well into five figures.
Compared to that, the motel room was a steal. Which is exactly what it would be if she didn't come up with some cash and fast. So far, however, she hadn't even scrounged up a decent chance at landing a job. Much as it galled her, she was going to have to apply for assistance. But that would have to wait until Monday. The welfare office wasn't open on Sunday.
In the meantime—
The thud of a hard fist on the door startled her. In a panic, she shot a fast look around, but the shabby room had only one entrance and no telephone.
"Who is it, please?" she called, her hand automatically cupping her belly.
"It's Boyd, damn it. Let me in."
Surprise made her heart speed. Relief made her giddy. "I don't know any Boyd Damnit," she called as she unbolted the door.
The man on the other side was not laughing. Not even smiling. In fact, from the thunder in his eyes and the hard compression of his mouth, he was one breath shy of furious.
"What are you doing here?" she asked in a rush that deepened his frown.
"Getting you the hell out."
She offered a frown to match his. "How did you know I was here?"
"Wattchel."
"You went to my apartment?" It was a silly question. How else could he have known where to find her. There was another, more urgent question, however. "Why?"
"Damned if I know."
"Boyd—"
"Get your things." He bit off the words with those same hard lips.
"But—"
"Don't argue with me, Stacy. I'm not in the mood." He moved past her so fast she had to step backward to get out of his way. With an economy of movement that amazed her for so large a man, he had the few things she'd unpacked shoveled into her open suitcase and the suitcase itself closed almost before she could blink.
"Let's go." His voice had an edge sharp enough to slice nails.
"Go where, exactly?" Because she was feeling vulnerable and scared, Stacy planted her feet wider and lengthened her backbone.
"To find you another apartment."
She thought of her empty bank account and nudged her chin higher. "That's not necessary," she said stiffly.
He drew his eyebrows together. "You can't stay here."
"Why not? It's clean."
He dismissed that with a look. "Don't you read the papers? There've been two murders and at least one rape in this neighborhood already this year."
She knew the statistics all too well. But beggars, as some street-corner philosopher had once claimed, couldn't be choosers. They could, however, hang on to their self-esteem—or what was left of it. "I'll be careful."
He muttered something under his breath before disappearing into the bathroom. Two seconds later he reappeared carrying her small clutch of toiletries, which he threw into the open suitcase.
"Now listen here, Boyd MacAuley, those are my worldly possessions you're treating so cavalierly."
Ignoring her protests, he slammed the case shut and snapped the lock. "You're not staying here, period."
Telling himself it wouldn't do any good to snap at her, he carried the suitcase outside to his truck and tossed it into the bed. Returning to the room, he nodded impatiently toward the open door.
"Ready?"
Stacy took a breath. "Boyd, I appreciate your wanting to help, but I've imposed on you enough for one lifetime."
"Stubborn as a little mule," he muttered a split second before scooping her into his arms.
Stacy didn't know whether she wanted to sock him one on that hard jaw or snuggle down into his protective warmth. Because she couldn't decide, she settled for calling him a bully and brute.
He spared her an amused glance from dark gray eyes before turning toward the door. "My purse," she all but shouted when she realized she was leaving, like it or not.
He detoured to the dresser and allowed her to grab her bag and a deep breath before carrying her to the truck. Moments later, he had her belted into the passenger's seat and was himself behind the wheel.
"Wait," she blurted when he reached for the ignition key. "I, um, haven't paid for the room."
He glanced her way before shrugging. "I took care of it when I checked with the manager to get your room number. You can pay me back later."
Later? As in next week? A month from now? How long did it take to process a welfare application? she wondered, cringing inside.
"I need the receipt," she said with a smile she intended to look assertive. It felt stiff instead.
Without a word, he shifted to his left hip while using his right hand to pluck his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. She noticed then that his knuckles were covered with dried blood.
Prodded by a need she didn't fully understand, she reached out to touch the discolored skin. He froze, his gaze instantly on hers.
"What happened?" she questioned softly.
His jaw tightened, as though he had suddenly gritted his teeth. "Ran into a door at your apartment."
Stacy had a sudden image of that same callused hand knotting into a huge, punishing fist, smashing into Griff Wattchel's Neanderthal jaw. She felt a moment of giddy elation, followed by a pang of conscience. No doubt about it, Wattchel was a pig, but to be fair, he had warned her up-front about paying the rent
on time. So why had she thought he would make an exception in her case?
"Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh," he said with just the slightest softening of those hard lips, as though a smile were waiting.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, allowing her fingertips to caress the swollen flesh. She shouldn't be touching him, she realized when the quick flash of sympathy melted into something more elemental. More threatening. Something very close to love. Too close.
Boyd told himself he was glad when she drew back her hand. Told himself he was only thinking of her well-being. And the baby's. Told himself he didn't miss the sweet comfort of her hand on his.
Daddy by Accident Page 7
