Don't be an idiot, do something, she ordered herself. And in an instant she was on her knees on the floor, searching in the darkness for the weapon Jon had dropped.
She heard a heavy blow, then a guttural sound she knew had come from Clay. Jon might be a coward, but he spent long hours in a gym perfecting the physique he was so proud of, and he was no weakling. Suddenly afraid for Clay, she moved faster, feeling her way across the floor.
At last, under the bed, her fingers encountered cool metal. She grabbed the weapon, thankful it was nothing more complicated than a revolver. The solid butt of the weapon felt oddly comforting in her hand.
She got to her feet. Turned toward the two men, the end to the bloody fight in her grasp. They were entangled, Jon on top of Clay, pressing his forearm across Clay's throat as he had pressed it against hers that long-ago day. She aimed the weapon carefully. Moved so that she could be certain to hit only Jon. And as Clay flailed, trying to break Jon's grip, she had no doubt in her mind that she could and would fire.
I should have done something!
I'd failed them. Both of them.
Clay's words, the words that had haunted him for years, played back in her head like some crazy counterpoint to the fierce battle that was playing out before her.
She didn't shoot.
With a sense of clarity and certainty she'd rarely felt in life, she knew she couldn't. Clay needed to—had to—win this fight. He had to succeed this time. If he lost again, if he felt he had failed her as he'd failed Linda and his little girl, he would be dead even if Jon didn't kill him.
She realized she couldn't let that happen. And with a sudden shock she realized why.
She loved him. Irrevocably and completely, she had fallen in love with this complex, haunted man with the merciless conscience and the gentle strength. The man who might never heal if he didn't exorcise his demons.
With a much greater effort than it had taken her to find it and aim it at another human being, Casey set the gun back down on the floor, out of her hands but still within reach.
As if her decision were some kind of signal, Clay suddenly found some extra bit of strength. He wrenched Jon sideways, and she heard a howl of pain from the man she'd once wanted to hurt as he'd hurt her. But now all she wanted was for Clay to win this battle—and the battle within himself.
Jon's howl became a scream as Clay reversed their positions. Casey heard the blows. Saw Jon's head snap back and forth. The scream became a whimpering that filled her with distaste that she'd ever let this coward frighten her. Even Mud backed off, either sensing that the enemy was beaten or that his master didn't need his help now.
And then it was over. Jon was facedown on the floor, groaning. Clay was standing over him, panting, but steady on his feet. Quickly Casey nudged the pistol out of sight under the bed, then crossed the room and flipped the main switch, flooding the scene with light. Clay kept a foot over Jon's kidneys but looked at her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his eyes searching her for signs of damage.
"I'm fine," she answered quickly. "He barely touched me, and then … you were here."
She didn't know if she could have fought Jon off.
It made her shiver just to think about it. But she hadn't had to. Clay—and Mud—had been here.
She smiled at him, although her smile was a bit wobbly with reaction now. But the sight of him filled her with a joy she couldn't deny. His face and his knuckles were bloody, his lip was split, but his eyes were alive. Vividly, vibrantly alive.
Unable to restrain herself, Casey ran to him. He opened his arms for her without hesitation and hugged her to him fiercely. Casey looked into his eyes once more and saw her own joy echoed there. And she knew this demon had retreated at last.
* * *
Casey was still amazed at the way River Bend had taken the shocking revelations. There had been no keeping what had happened a secret, not after the sheriff had had to come out and drag Jon away in handcuffs. It was then that she'd seen the odd scar across his neck; he'd been attacked in prison, it seemed, by another inmate with a sharpened spoon who didn't care for yuppies. His voice had been permanently damaged, which made Casey feel a little less foolish for not having been sure it was him on the phone from the start.
There had been, of course, the first flurry of gossip after that night. Rumors had been flying about what had happened to her in Chicago, and who Clay really was and why he was here. But now, weeks later, River Bend had settled on its own version of events, a version that cast her as heroine for putting away a twisted, city-bred psycho and Clay as an ex-cop good guy who had done the really dirty work.
But most of all they had closed ranks protectively around both of them, until Casey could do nothing but shake her head and smile at the oddities of small towns. They were welcomed wherever they went, stopped on the street to chat more often than not, until even Clay got used to it and quit blushing and looking like he wanted to run.
Which was, she thought now, amazing, considering that there was one thing that stayed the same no matter who they encountered—they were treated by everyone in River Bend as a couple. Casey had already heard the rumblings—Mrs. Clark muttering about what weekends the church hall was available. Sally at the bakery suggesting Casey look at her album of wedding cakes, and even Phyllis Harrington lamenting that her aunt wasn't here to see her little niece with a man at last.
So far she didn't think it had gotten as far as Clay himself, and she prayed it would stay that way for a while; while he seemed to have settled into a pleasant routine here, she didn't know if or how long it would last. But he'd found the peace she'd prayed he would that night. It wasn't, she thought, so much that he'd saved her from Jon—he never said it, even told her she could have done it without him. But it was that he hadn't failed again. It was a fine line, but Casey understood it.
And she never told him about the gun. Clay was whole again, although still and forever scarred, and she would never, ever risk that by revealing something that, in the long run, made no difference.
They'd had long, quiet days of reveling in each other and exploring their relationship, now untainted by the hovering shadow of her tormenter. And Casey had been relieved that he'd said nothing about leaving, while at the same time she knew she was about to encourage him to do just that.
Carrying a pitcher of icy lemonade, she stepped onto the screen porch, where Clay sat on the lounge she'd bought when she'd insisted he take Sundays off as the heat of September at last began to ebb toward the promise of the cooler days of October. They'd spent some lovely hours here in the past weeks, Casey telling him stories of her beloved aunt and even of her parents, what she could remember.
And finally, perhaps because she didn't prod or pry, Clay began to talk, as well, began to tell her stories of the wild street kid Ryan Buckhart had been, about Cruz Gregerson and his too wise little girl, about Gage Butler and his devotion to the job, which bordered on obsession.
And now he told her, after several false starts, about Kit Walker and how she'd started the search for him.
Casey felt a slight pang when he described the gutsy, attractive blonde, especially when she had her own little secret to deal with. But when he told her what Kit had done, how she'd recruited those Clay had been important to, organized the intensive search, she couldn't feel anything but gratitude for the woman she'd never met.
"I'd like to thank her someday," she said.
"So would I," he agreed softly, almost wistfully.
Casey held her breath. Then, almost shakily, she said, "Then do it."
His head came around, and he met her eyes. She'd been afraid to see rejection of the idea there, or anger at her suggesting it. But instead she saw an uncertainty tinged with longing that gave her hope.
"Go, Clay."
She hunted for the words that would convince him, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt. They'd been happy here together, they'd found laughter and joy and unbelievable pleasure, but she knew d
eep inside that there was no real future for them until he faced his past. And she desperately, more than ever, wanted a future for them.
"Go," she said again. Then, guessing at what would reach him, she added, "Never mind that you deserve it, they do. They deserve to know that you're all right. Gage, Cruz, Miguel, all of them, but especially Ryan. And Kit. They've worried about you for five years. That's enough."
She saw the wavering in his gaze, knew he was on the edge. "I…" He stopped, swallowing tightly. "I don't know…"
"I'll drive you to Des Moines, and you can get a direct flight from there. Just say when."
He looked startled. "I thought… I was hoping…"
"Hoping what?" she prompted when he didn't go on.
He lowered his eyes, and she barely heard him say, "That you'd go with me."
Casey's heart leaped. Not only had he decided to go, he wanted her with him? She didn't know what to say, wasn't sure if it would be the right thing for him.
"It's not because … I need you there, or because I won't do it without you," he said, as if he'd read her hesitation. "I want you there. I want you to … meet Ryan, and Kit, and the rest."
And Casey knew then that there was no other answer she could give but yes.
All things considered, she thought ruefully as she sipped at her lemonade and wondered if her stomach would accept it, perhaps there never had been.
* * *
He wished he hadn't let Casey talk him into this. It was going to ruin everything. He had no right to be here; it was all wrong.
But she'd been so certain. From the moment they'd arrived in California and found out about this event, she'd insisted it was perfect. And his father, darn it, had agreed.
Clay tugged at the unaccustomed tie as he thought of his father. He'd felt like the original prodigal son when his father had opened the front door two days ago. For a moment, while shock had frozen a face so familiar yet changed by time and worry, Clay had wanted to run; he'd done this to him, to the strong, vital man he remembered. He'd put those new lines in his face, the new gray in his hair.
But then Robert Yeager's face had changed. An expression of unmistakable, pure joy came over him, and moisture pooled in his eyes. He'd drawn his son into a hug with arms that were shaking, and welcomed him home so fervently that Clay had found himself crying, as well.
Casey had, after a brief introduction, announced that she had some errands to run now that they were here, tactfully leaving Clay alone with his father. He'd tried to protest, but she'd insisted, and in the end he supposed it was for the best; they had hashed out a lot of things. And Clay knew now that his father had not forgiven him, had never had to, because he had never blamed him for what had happened. Just as Casey had told him.
Casey, who had gotten him into this. Casey who, when she'd found out about this event, had seized upon it with all the zeal he'd once had for his job.
Casey, who took his hand now, squeezing it tightly. He looked down at her, into those reassuring eyes, and tried to convince himself that she was right about this, as she had been about so much else. No matter that here he felt more like a wayward son.
"There's your father," she whispered.
He looked up and spotted him amid a group of people wearing suits and dresses. Bob Yeager looked like a kid with a secret he was busting to tell. He nodded his head in the direction of the front of the large, crowded room, toward the couple who were the center of all the commotion.
Clay looked, and felt his eyes tearing up again, as they had so many times since he'd come back. He didn't know where all the emotion was coming from, but suspected that when Casey had broken through that wall of ice that had surrounded him, she'd set loose the denied feelings of years.
"Now," she said suddenly. "They're done with all the formal stuff, the cake, the toasts…"
He gulped in a deep breath. So far they'd stayed on the edge of the crowd and no one had noticed them. Once he stepped out among them, he would be committed to this, and he wasn't sure he could do it.
But Casey was sure. And he would die rather than let her down. So when she plowed through the crowd, he followed her. He kept his head down and prayed nobody would recognize him, but he followed. And came to a halt when she did.
She'd planned this all with a glee he hadn't been able to deny her; he would do it just as she said, despite feeling that she was overestimating the impact his return would have. She had told him bluntly he was wrong, and that this would be the best possible way to do it. He didn't argue, couldn't argue, not with the woman who had made life worth living again.
He watched as she stepped up to the formally dressed couple. Clay caught himself sniffing as he looked. And holding his breath as he listened.
"Mr. and Mrs. de los Reyes?"
The tall blond woman in the lovely pale green dress that made her eyes look nearly the same shade turned, as did the taller, aristocratic man in the black formal suit with a bright red tie. They both looked absurdly pleased at her use of the brand-new appellation.
"I know you don't know me," Casey said with a smile so wide that they couldn't seem to help but smile back, "but I've brought you a wedding gift."
The newlyweds looked puzzled. Until Casey stepped sideways and Clay stepped forward.
Kit was the first to react. Her mouth curved into an 0 of shock, but almost instantly changed to that joyous look Clay had seen on his father's face. And then she moved, throwing her arms around him, enveloping him in a cloud of satin and flowers and the sweet scent of gardenia that she'd always worn.
"Clay! Oh, God, I was so afraid you were dead! Where have you been? Are you all right?"
She backed off at last, but she didn't let go. Tears were streaming down her face, but he couldn't doubt that their source was joy, not when she was cupping his face with hands that were trembling.
He felt a strong hand grasping his shoulder and found himself looking into the steady gray eyes of Miguel de los Reyes, eyes that betrayed all the emotion Kit had shown in her voice and reaction.
Mayor de los Reyes, Clay corrected himself. Or soon to be. His father had told him the June primary had been a runaway, and it was predicted the November election next month would be, as well.
But the man who was looking at him now wasn't the mayor, or even the chief, it was the cop he'd worked with—his friend.
"Congratulations," was all Clay could manage to say.
"This is the best present anybody could ever have given us," Kit said fervently.
"The very, very best," Miguel agreed, equally fervent.
Then, as if remembering, Kit looked at Casey, who had been watching silently, jubilantly. Clay saw that her cheeks were damp, as well, and felt that tug of sweet feeling that had at last become familiar because she was so moved.
He held out his hand to her. A little shyly, she took it and stepped forward.
"This is Casey Scott," he said. "And without her I … wouldn't be here." He meant it in more ways than one, and when he looked at the newly married couple, he saw that they knew it.
"Then we owe you a very great deal, Casey Scott," Miguel said with soft emphasis. "Because this man means more than we can say—to all of us."
Clay shifted uncomfortably, but before he could say something deprecating, Kit forestalled him.
"All of us," she repeated. Then, with a gesture behind him, she added, "But some more than others."
Slowly Clay turned.
He realized when he did that he'd known who it was. Who it had to be. And he hadn't really changed much. If anything, he seemed taller, more broad-shouldered and solidly strong. With his long dark hair, bronze skin and high cheekbones, Ryan Buckhart was still exotically striking. A far cry from the skinny, scared kid he'd once been.
The look in his eyes now made Clay wish he'd come home sooner. There was pain, haunted memories, years of worry reflected in the dark gaze. But overlaying them all was the same sense of joy and relief he'd seen in Kit's eyes, in Miguel's.
; And then he was in a bear hug that took the breath out of him. Ryan swore colorfully in his ear, telling him just what he thought of him for leaving his friends to worry about him for so long. Yet beneath every word was an undertone that warmed Clay to his once battered soul. He might be the wayward son, but he was still welcome. Still loved.
Casey had been right.
Casey was always right.
This was home—not this place, but these people he loved—and he'd been away far too long.
* * *
Chapter 18
« ^
It all became a near blur after that. People crowded around, and Clay tried to introduce them to Casey. They all welcomed her warmly and thanked her for returning him to them, but so much had changed that he was having trouble keeping up. Finally, laughing, Miguel spoke up.
"As chief," he began, ignoring with a grin the "Not for long!" exclamations that came from various quarters, "I guess I should straighten this out. For Casey's sake, if nothing else."
He turned to his left, gesturing to the couple at his right, a man with a thick shock of nearly platinum blond hair, standing beside a tall, obviously pregnant woman with long, gleaming dark hair.
"Gage you remember—he's finally abandoned that obsession of his and is happily fishing his life away in Seattle—and this is his wife, Laurey. And of course their soon-to-be son or daughter."
As Casey and Laurey exchanged greetings, Clay looked at the man he'd always known had carried his devotion to the job to the extreme. Funny how he'd been able to see it in Gage but not in himself.
"We both had it to learn, didn't we?" Gage said softly.
Clay heard everything the man intended and nodded. "Congratulations," he said, meaning it.
"I'm glad you've come home," Laurey said, surprising him; had he been a topic even with those he'd never known?
Moving on, Miguel gestured at the trio beside the Butlers. "Casey, this is Cruz and Kelsey and Samantha Gregerson."
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 21
