Casey sighed, then asked, "Why was he on his property?"
"Truck broke down. The battery went dead."
Casey stopped in her tracks. "And this Mr. Snider had him arrested for that?"
"Told you he was a pain. Yeager even had the truck fixed, could have pulled out right then. Deputy offered to jump him, but Snider wouldn't drop it. My guess is he wants somebody else to pay for rebuilding his fence. Must have figured he had some rich Californian snagged."
"He's not rich," Casey said, adding silently, The man couldn't even afford food two weeks ago.
The deputy looked at her curiously. "He doesn't seem much like the typical transient type."
She shifted the now calmer Mud to her hip, not sure what he would do if she put him down, even with the leash on. In a minute, she thought. "No," she answered.
The deputy's mouth quirked. "You're about as talkative as he is. He's got the sarge ready to run a background on him just to find out what he's hiding."
Casey went still. "Nothing … criminal," she said, realizing only when she said it how certain she was of that.
"That's the feeling I got. Whatever's doggin' that boy is personal. But he sure looked a little desperate when they locked him in that holding room."
Casey could picture that far too clearly.
And she knew in that moment that she could no more leave Clay here than she could Mud.
* * *
"Here's your stuff, Yeager."
Clay watched as the man who'd locked him in this small room with only a table and two chairs emptied the manila envelope onto the Formica surface. It didn't take long; all there was were his keys, driver's license, what was left of his cash and two small wood screws left over from his work at Casey's.
Then he looked up at Deputy Vickery. "Sir?" he asked respectfully; he hadn't forgotten everything he'd ever learned.
"You're out of here."
Clay's brows furrowed. "I am?"
Vickery nodded. "Snider dropped the charges and the property damage claim."
Clay slowly got to his feet. He didn't reach for his things; he wasn't sure he wasn't going to have to give them back. "He doesn't seem to be a change-of-heart kind of guy," he said warily.
"He's not," Vickery agreed. "But this time he changed his mind."
There was something in the man's voice, some undertone, that only heightened Clay's wariness. But whatever the reason for Snider's unexpected reversal, he was glad. When Vickery opened the door and gestured him out, Clay grabbed up his scant possessions, stuffed them into his back pocket and stepped outside quickly. He breathed a small sigh of relief to be outside the room; he'd been surprised at how the prospect of jail had affected him.
Only the idea of them probing into his past until they found out who he was made him feel worse. Not just because their probing would open old wounds, but because it would also telegraph his whereabouts to the people and places he'd left behind, intending never to go back.
Not that anybody would still give a damn, he thought as he walked down the narrow hallway beside the uniform. He'd cut his ties too thoroughly, too completely, for anyone to still care. No doubt he wasn't even a passing thought any longer. But he didn't want to take that chance.
It felt both strange and oddly familiar, this trek through the night-quiet building. They paused at a door while Vickery reached for keys on his belt. There was a glass panel about two feet high and a foot wide in the upper part of the door, and through it he could see an identical door a few feet farther on, which he guessed led back to the front lobby; this was a small substation, and he supposed the way he'd come in, through that lobby, was the way everyone in custody came in. It was—
He stopped dead when they moved to where he could see through the window in the second door. Across the lobby stood Casey, with Mud sitting quietly at her feet. They'd told him two hours ago that she'd arrived to pick up the dog, and he'd been relieved that he'd been right in thinking she would not hold his cravenness against the dog. But he'd assumed she was long gone by now, back home, still angry at him, but at least taking care of Mud.
"You're a lucky man, Yeager," Vickery said as he unlocked the first door.
He looked at the deputy, who had apparently been watching him stare at Casey through the two doors.
"Not that I'm surprised Snider withdrew his complaints," the deputy went on. "A lady who looked like that could talk me out of just about anything, too. Of course, being Snider, he wouldn't give up, but when she offered to pay for the damage, he agreed to drop everything."
Clay nearly groaned. "She paid him for that damn fence?"
Vickery nodded as he pulled the door open and gestured Clay through, toward the second door. "Not as much as he wanted, I suspect, but you're free and clear. All you need to do is sign for your truck."
Understanding bit again. "She paid the tow fee, too?"
"Like I said, you're a lucky man."
Right. Now I'm in hock to her for probably ten times the cost of that damned prime rib.
"You know, if I had a rescuer who looked like that, I'd be looking a bit more cheerful," Vickery said with a drawl.
Clay was saved from having to respond by a sudden, joyous chorus of barks from Mud as he leaped as close to the door as the leash would allow, giving Casey's hand a sharp yank.
Vickery winced and hastily unlocked the second door. The moment she saw Clay, Casey let go of the leash, and Mud scrambled across the floor in a crazed run.
Clay stopped, knowing what was coming; from four feet away the dog went airborne, and Clay braced himself for the impact.
"Second time I've seen that trick," Vickery muttered. "That's quite a dog."
So he'd been right about that, too, Clay thought. Mud had been as glad to see Casey as he'd hoped. He'd been desperate when he'd asked them to call her. He certainly hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't been able to stand the thought of the dog being locked up. He knew Mud would go crazy, and who knew what might have happened if somebody lost patience.
Casey didn't speak to him while Vickery quickly filled out a form and handed it to him to sign. Clay wasn't surprised; he hadn't expected her to welcome him. If she was even civil to him, he would figure he'd gotten off lucky.
"You won't be able to get your truck until morning, I'm afraid. Buck doesn't cotton much to waking up in the middle of the night."
Clay glanced at the form again. "Buck Chapman?"
"You know him?" Vickery asked.
"Sort of," Clay said wryly.
"Well, good luck, then," Vickery said. "And watch out for that mutt, huh?"
Then they were alone. Casey's expression revealed little. And Clay had no idea what to say. Finally, rather lamely, he said, "Thanks for coming for Mud."
"I couldn't leave him to be locked up." Her voice was as unemotional as her expression.
You, on the other hand… He was certain that was what she was thinking, that he could have rotted in a cell, were it not for Mud.
"How much did you pay the old man?"
"It doesn't matter. It's done."
"It does. I'll pay you back—"
Her cool demeanor snapped. "I did it for Mud's sake. Just forget about paying me back, and as soon as you get the truck you can be on your way to … wherever the hell you were going."
The uncharacteristic language told him how much his unexplained, unannounced departure had hurt her. But he knew he couldn't do as she pungently suggested. His freedom had cost her hundreds of dollars, no doubt. That was even more impossible for him to walk away from than the cost of Mud's escapade with the roast.
The fact that she probably didn't really need the money only made it worse, in a way he ruefully admitted was probably some perverse trick of his upbringing and personal code of ethics. It made it charity, and he could not accept that. He'd failed at the most important principle, so all that was left to him was to try to keep the smaller ones.
He had to repay her.
Which meant he had to go back.
>
He couldn't go back.
He had to go back.
For a long moment he just stood there, barely managing to keep from shaking. With a grim burst of honesty, he admitted he was terrified. He was afraid to go back on a very deep, gut-wrenching level.
And he was even more afraid that he knew why. That there was only one explanation for the crazy effect Casey had on him. That there was only one explanation for why he'd run like he had, when he hadn't cared about anything enough to want to escape it for years. And it was something he couldn't let happen.
He couldn't fall in love with her.
Nor could he let her fall in love with him, because he would let her down, he would fail her.
Just as he'd always failed the people he loved. And who had loved him.
A sudden image flashed into his mind, vivid, painful, coming straight out of his nightmare, and he shuddered almost violently.
He would hang on to that image, he thought. He would hang on to it, remember it, replay it until his suddenly unruly emotions—and body—were forced into submission. He would use the brutal memory as a weapon against himself. He would keep a safe distance.
And he would not fall in love with Casey Scott.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Casey knew she was manufacturing work, rearranging her already efficient kitchen, experimenting with recipes she'd perfected long ago. But she had to do something. Otherwise she was quite simply going to go crazy.
Clay was back, yet he wasn't. At least, this was not the Clay she'd known. True, the old Clay had been prickly and touchy on occasion, but he'd also been pleasant enough, had even laughed now and then.
And he'd comforted her like no one had ever been able to the night her guard had collapsed and she'd told him what had happened to her in Chicago. Even after she'd nearly caused him great bodily harm.
But this Clay … this Clay barely spoke. When he did, it was brusque, cool, distant. And he spoke only when he couldn't avoid it; otherwise, he avoided her as if she were lethally contagious. He was as distant as if he'd built a wall between them. He talked only of business, of what chore he would do next, and if she had anything else to be done.
When she'd taken him to pick up the truck, she'd half expected him to turn it in the opposite direction.
Their relationship before, edgy as it was, had been downright affectionate compared to this. He ate dinner in silence, and quickly—no more casual conversation. He wouldn't even come into the house for breakfast, and as always, he ate sandwiches on the run, as if he were desperate to pile up the six hundred dollars—he'd demanded she tell him the amount—as quickly as possible.
Nor did they ever discuss his reasons for leaving. She'd asked him, the first day he'd been back. She'd wanted to hear him say something, anything, to tell her she'd been right, that it hadn't been what he'd learned about her that had sent him running. But she didn't get to hear it. He'd said only that he'd had no choice. And that she should think twice about what he'd done before ever trusting him again.
For three days it had been like this. Clay looked almost as bleak as he had when he'd first arrived, Casey felt as if she'd been walking on eggshells forever, and even Mud was showing the strain. The dog seemed to sense the tension between them, and the collie wore himself ragged going from one to the other, as if trying to send some message of his own.
At this rate, she had at least eleven more days of this to look forward to. And that was assuming—as his glacial disposition seemed to indicate—that he would be taking off again as soon as she was paid back, forgoing the chance to build up his traveling money.
But then, at the rate he was working, top speed and from dawn to dark, there might not be enough chores to last much beyond that. At fifty dollars a day, she was getting one heck of a deal, production-wise.
But there wasn't enough money in the world to pay for the disquiet he was causing.
"I'll need some more galvanized nails to fix those gutters."
The level, businesslike voice came from behind her. It took all of her already tattered self-control to keep from jumping. She slowly put away the mixing bowls, right back where they'd been before this urge to rearrange had overtaken her, then turned to face him.
"I'll pick them up tomorrow."
He nodded once, short, sharp, then turned as if to go.
"Do you want dinner now?" Casey asked; she'd fixed some pasta salad for herself.
He stopped, but kept his back to her, not even looking at her. "No. Thank you."
"Perhaps you'd like some tea to go with that ice?" she said sweetly.
There was a fractional pause, and she thought she saw the muscles in the back of his neck tighten, but his only response to the gibe was to keep going toward the door without a word.
And suddenly it was too much.
"That's it! I've had enough of this."
He stopped again, but this time he half turned toward her.
"Just go, will you? You can send me the money when you get it, if you're so determined to pay me back, but go." Her voice broke, and to her distress she felt a stinging behind her eyelids. "I can't stand this anymore."
He closed his eyes, and she saw his mouth tighten. He lowered his head slowly.
"Casey," he said, his voice low, sounding as if he were the one in pain, as if he hated this as much as she did, as if he hadn't been the one to put this distance between them.
"I don't know why you left, and I don't know why you've been acting like a Hatfield working for a McCoy since you came back. But—"
"Casey, please. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I'm past being hurt. Now I'm just confused. And tired of this minefield we're living in."
He let out a compressed breath. He turned the rest of the way to face her but came no closer, choosing instead to lean against the doorjamb.
"I know I've been…" His voice trailed off, and he lifted one shoulder in a half shrug.
"Yes, you have," she said, resisting the urge to tell him exactly what she thought he'd been, although she wasn't sure why she restrained herself. "I told you, I did it for Mud, and you don't need to pay me back. So why don't you just go? You obviously don't want to be here."
"Want," he said tightly, "has nothing to do with it."
A vivid image of that look of anguish on his face when he'd told her not to trust him, that he would only let her down, came back to her. And she wondered just what she wasn't supposed to trust him with. And thought she must have been right.
"Look, I understand. A lot of men don't want to deal with a woman with my … particular brand of baggage."
He came upright in a rush. For a moment he just looked at her; then he swallowed visibly.
"Casey, you don't really believe that, do you? That … what happened to you had anything to do with my leaving?"
He looked so stunned that Casey knew it hadn't had anything to do with it at all. She hadn't been aware how much that had been nagging at her since he'd come back until she felt the rush of relief now. It was so strong that for a moment she couldn't answer him.
"God," he muttered, so low she could barely hear it and wasn't sure she was supposed to, "this is worse than what I was afraid of in the first place." Then he looked at her, almost urgently. "I would never … you've got to believe, the only thing I feel when I think of what you went through is anger at that piece of slime, and … admiration for how you brought him down. I'm not one of those men who wonder what the victim did to bring it on, or who feel she's … somehow less after. I swear, Casey."
She found her voice at last. "I think I knew that. You wouldn't have been able to … say all those things if you did. All the things I … needed to hear. But when you left like that, without a word…"
He left the support of the doorjamb then and crossed the room to stand in front of her. "I never meant to hurt you, Casey."
"So you said." But she couldn't doubt that he meant it, not when she could see the pain, the
remorse, the utter truth of it, in his eyes. She hadn't meant to say it, had sworn she wouldn't ask, wouldn't beg him to explain, but it escaped before she could stop it. "Then why? Why leave like that?"
He sighed audibly, long and weary-sounding. "Partly because I was afraid you'd … start counting on me. Depending on me. And I'd only disappoint you."
"You have a pretty low opinion of yourself, don't you?"
He gave her a look that was so bitterly cold she almost backed up a step. "Some would say it's still too high."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she made the only point she could think of. "If I start to depend on you, isn't that my problem? Besides, I got along on my own before you showed up, and I could do it again."
"I know you could. But I didn't want you to start thinking I might … stay. Because I can't. I won't."
"You made that fairly clear," she said. Then, heedless of the dangerous territory she knew she was heading into, she added, "Partly?"
He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"What else were you afraid I'd do?"
"Casey…"
"Were you afraid I'd fall in love with you?"
He winced. "I'd never presume that much."
No, she thought, he wouldn't. No matter what signals she'd sent him. And she had, she knew that. She also knew he hadn't missed those signals. But whatever reaction he'd had, it couldn't have been any more intense than her own shock and surprise at her response to him.
"Besides, you knew you weren't staying," she said softly.
He drew himself up as if she'd delivered a blow. And when he spoke, he sounded as if he were waiting for another one. "Yes. I knew I wasn't staying. Don't ask me for promises I can't keep, Casey."
"I never asked for any promises at all."
For a long moment Casey looked at him, wondering if she had the nerve to take this plunge. Now that she knew why he'd left, that he'd had some idea about protecting her from her own foolishness—and foolish it would indeed be to fall in love with a man who wouldn't stay—she was left with the one fact she couldn't ignore.
"I don't expect any promises, either," she said slowly. And then, taking a deep breath, she made herself say it. "But you're the first man who's made me want to feel like a woman again."
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 13
