MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  Nate was still and taut. "What's this about, Sheriff?"

  "Someone beat Mario Bustamante badly early this morning. He's been in the hospital over in Amarillo since Ignacio Torres found him in the field out behind his house. He came to about an hour ago." Thompson paused. "He says you did it."

  Nate's arm dropped. He moved an infinitesimal distance away from her. Just enough so that he stood alone. "Of course, Sheriff," he said with a courtesy so smooth his very civility was mocking. "Shall we talk in one of the rooms here, or did you plan to arrest me immediately?"

  Thompson's face was impassive. "Bustamante admits he's the one who's been shooting cattle around here. He says he shot your dog to get back at you. You suspected as much, didn't you?"

  Hannah's heart thudded in her chest. Her mouth was dry, so dry she had to lick her lips to summon enough moisture to speak. "When, Sheriff?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "How early this morning did this happen?"

  Thompson looked at her thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"

  "If it was before dawn, I can swear Nate didn't do it. Because he was with me. All night."

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  «^»

  The past had bled into the present, staining the night with nightmare. Nate felt disoriented, swamped with a sense of unreality as one of his deepest, most secret fears slipped out of his unconscious and took shape before him in the person of the quiet sheriff—the fear of being locked up again, cut off from the land and the sky. Imprisoned.

  In the midst of that waking nightmare, he heard Hannah's words with a deepening sense of disbelief … and fury.

  She was lying. She hadn't been with him all night. He'd gone to the stable, and she'd woken up and found him gone. Hadn't she told him that a few hours ago? Hadn't she probed and pried to find out where he'd gone, and why?

  So why was she lying now?

  He didn't challenge her, though. Not in front of the sheriff and all the whispering party guests. With the brutal control he'd learned over the years, he forced those feelings down out of sight. "No," he said calmly in response to a question from Thompson. "I haven't seen Mario since the day he and a gang of his buddies accosted Hannah. He slapped her." Remembered anger heated Nate's blood and chilled his voice. "I left him sprawled in the dirt that time."

  "Are you aware that he's been bragging about how he was going to pay you back for that?"

  "No, but it doesn't surprise me."

  "Do you blame him for shooting your dog?"

  "Yes, but I didn't beat him up for it."

  "Where were you this morning at five a.m.?"

  "Like Hannah says, I was at home. I didn't leave the ranch all day today until I came here." Nate managed to answer Thompson's question without mentioning that he'd woken up about four that morning and gone to the stable. That he felt forced to back up her lie added to his rage. Never again had he wanted to be at the mercy of a woman's lies. But Hannah had slid hers around his neck like a noose—and he had let her, dammit. That fact baffled him as much as it frightened him.

  Now she was in control. She could tighten that noose whenever she liked, couldn't she? All she had to do was threaten to tell the sheriff that she'd lied about Nate's whereabouts. She could always say that she'd been afraid to tell the truth, afraid he would hurt her. That would do the trick. Hadn't he learned how easily people believed that particular lie?

  Thompson asked a few more questions, directing some of them to the room at large. He left without arresting Nate, though. No doubt he felt he didn't have a solid case. Because of Hannah's lie.

  When Earl escorted the sheriff to the door, conversation broke out around the big room in a babble of startlement and speculation. Hannah turned to Nate. "Thank God," she said, and rested her hand on his arm. "Mario must really hate you, if he was willing to lie about who beat him in order to pay you back. Do you think Sammie did it? He said he was going to do something about Trixie being shot."

  "Probably." Anger grew, first matching, then overtaking the fear.

  She shivered. "I didn't think Thompson would believe that, though. I was so afraid he was going to arrest you."

  "You saw to it that he didn't, though, didn't you?" He grabbed her arm. "Come on. We need to talk."

  There was an alcove just off the entry hall opposite the entrance to the living area. Nate headed for it now, his hand clamped around Hannah's wrist. They passed Earl in the entry hall. Nate's friend gave the two of them a quick, assessing glance, but he went on into the living room without speaking.

  Nate pulled Hannah into the darkened alcove.

  "What is it?" she said. "You act like you're angry, but that doesn't make sense."

  "Doesn't it?" There was a single window in the alcove. When lightning flashed outside, the livid glare played across Hannah's face. "Why did you lie?"

  She stared at him. "Isn't it obvious? I didn't want you to go to jail! And—and it isn't really a lie. I know you didn't put Mario in the hospital. Do you think that Sammie did it?"

  "So what changed your mind? You were worried about what I might do to someone when we were at the vet's the night Trixie was shot."

  She shook her head. "That was different. You were in the grip of a rage and I thought you might do something you would regret later, but I never thought you'd cold-bloodedly beat someone badly enough to put him in the hospital."

  "So you think I'm only dangerous when I'm angry." He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close to him, staring down into her face. "Then you should be frightened now. Because I'm very, very angry."

  "Dammit, Nate!" She shoved against him, but of course he didn't move. "What's wrong with you? The way you're acting, you'd think I'd just lied because I wanted to get you put into jail, the way Jenny did, instead of lying to keep you out!" She blinked rapidly several times. "I'm not Jenny. You told me you knew that."

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. "But you've put me in almost the same position she did. All you have to do now to get what you want from me is to threaten to change your story. Just like all she had to do was keep telling her lies. She wanted me to take her back. I wouldn't. So don't think—"

  She yanked on her arm so suddenly that she managed to wrench it free from his grasp. And then she slapped him. Hard. She drew her arm back to slap him again, but he caught her wrist. "Don't." His voice was cold. His cheek was hot and stinging from her blow.

  "Don't you ever tell me I'm like that. Like her. Don't you dare!"

  "Why not?" he said, his voice low and ugly. "You say you love me. Just like she did." How many times had he heard those words? Spoken sadly. Spoken in anger, or through tears, or in that needy voice he'd grown to hate. Spoken so often as an accusation, because she'd been certain he hadn't loved her back. Not enough. Never enough. Nothing he'd said or done had ever been enough, and toward the end of their marriage, she'd been right. He hadn't loved her. He dropped Hannah's wrist. "Tell me you haven't been thinking about marriage. Tell me you haven't been hoping I would end up marrying you. Tell me you don't love me."

  She looked at him, her eyes huge in the dimness. Huge, and shiny because they were wet. One tear leaked out and trickled down, leaving a glistening trail along her cheek. "I can't," she said softly. "Because I do love you, Nate. Very much."

  The prison walls closed in around him. He pushed her away.

  She lifted her chin proudly, but her lip trembled. And she turned and left.

  Nate stood in that dark, empty alcove for several long minutes. The emptiness grew and grew inside him. He hadn't meant to push her away. He just didn't want her to love him. He couldn't stand that. He wanted her to stay, but he didn't want those chains wrapped around him ever again.

  He ran a hand over his face. "Christ," he said out loud, unsure whether he cursed or prayed.

  The squeak of rubber wheels on the tiled entryway roused him slightly. Apparently Mark had figured out a way to propel himself in his chair without help, because he sat in front of Nate now, right in the entrance to th
e alcove.

  "What the hell did you say to Hannah?" he demanded.

  "We argued," Nate said wearily.

  "You made her cry. Dammit, Nate, if I could get out of this blasted chair I'd show you what I think of a man who—"

  But Nate wasn't listening anymore. Behind Mark, Hannah hurried toward the front door. She wore her bulky jacket. Memory and realization flashed through him simultaneously. Hannah hadn't given him back the keys to the Lincoln after she unloaded the wheelchair. They were in the pocket of her parka.

  She was leaving.

  "Wait!" he said, and tried to get past Mark. "Hannah, wait."

  His brother gave the wheel a quick jerk, turning the chair so it blocked him. "Leave her alone."

  "Dammit to hell, Mark!"

  Hannah didn't even slow down. She flung open the door, letting in the rushing sounds of wind and rain, and ran outside. He heard the slap of her running footsteps an instant before lightning flared again, followed by a clap of thunder.

  Nate managed to get his brother's chair out of the way, but it took precious moments because Mark did everything he could to hinder him—including lading a single short jab in Nate's stomach with his one good arm. The second Nate got past the wheelchair, he ran after Hannah.

  Too late. He stood in the pouring rain and watched as the big Lincoln pulled out of the short drive and headed off into the storm.

  * * *

  Hannah didn't cry often or easily. When she did give in to tears, it wasn't a pretty sight. She sobbed and gulped and wiped her runny nose, cursing Nate and pounding the steering wheel all the way back to his house. Her tears and the rain forced her to drive slowly and cautiously, but both were letting up by the time she pointed the nose of his car down the long driveway leading to Nate's house. She felt drained and sad, mortified that some of the party-goers had seen her cry, though she'd managed to stifle the worst of her personal storm until she'd reached the privacy of the car.

  Fortunately, Mark was one of those who'd seen her. He'd been in the darkened hallway where she'd fled, being entertained by one of the more persistent members of his frequent caller's club. Hannah had dashed into the bedroom that Susie had designated as cloakroom, grabbed her parka from the pile on the bed, and emerged to find him waiting for her, alone.

  He'd asked what was wrong. She'd been too upset to be very coherent, but he'd grasped the fact that she wanted to leave, needed to leave. After extracting her promise to drive very slowly and carefully, he'd offered to run interference with Nate for her.

  Hannah sniffed and thought about where she would sleep that night. Lying in Nate's bed beside him didn't just sound painful, after what he'd said and done; it sounded impossible. She turned into the driveway that led to the detached garage, thinking that she would move back into her own bedroom, just for tonight.

  Tomorrow she had some very hard decisions to make. For now, for right this moment, she couldn't stand to think about what she was going to do.

  Nate always parked the pickup next to the house, leaving it out in all kinds of weather, but he kept the car in the garage. Fortunately, the remote for the garage door was clipped to the visor. Unfortunately, the garage sat a good twenty yards from the house. Hannah got the car safely tucked away in its nice, dry garage, and then had to go back out into the rain herself. She sighed and left through the side door, the car keys in her left hand.

  It was still raining, but the wind had died. There were puddles on the sidewalk that wound from the garage to the house. The branches of the old oak nearest the house creaked and groaned in the wind, sounding mournful as any ghost. Hannah's feet crunched on the dirt and debris the storm had left on the cement. She was wet and cold and too deep-down miserable to care about the drizzle soaking her uncovered head.

  The sudden glare of a light blinded her.

  "Hey!" she said, automatically raising a hand to shield her eyes. "Watch it!"

  "Sorry," said a soft voice.

  The beam of light lowered. Hannah blinked, clearing the dazzle from her eyes, and saw someone standing several feet away on the cement path, holding a metal flashlight.

  Jenny.

  Hannah scowled. "What are you doing here?"

  Jenny's face was a pale oval in the darkness. She wore some sort of dark slacks or jeans and a bulky sweater, but no coat or hat. Her hair clung to her head and shoulders in long, wet clumps. "I'm so glad you're back, Hannah."

  "What is it? What's wrong?" Something certainly was. The other woman was soaked and shivering, as if she'd been out in the downpour for some time.

  But when Hannah took a step forward, Jenny stepped back.

  "Where's Nate?" Jenny asked breathlessly.

  "He—uh, he'll be along shortly."

  "He didn't come home with you?"

  Hannah didn't answer. Alarm prickled along her nerve endings.

  "Never mind." Jenny's strained expression eased. "I can see that he didn't. Good. I'd thought of all sorts of ways to get you away from the house later tonight. I still have my keys, you know, so I could have done it. But it would have been tricky." She smiled. "This way is better. Unconsciously, Nate must know what I want. He's helping me."

  Hannah's heart pounded out a warning. Her hands tightened into fists, making the keys she still held dig into her palm. "What are you talking about?"

  Jenny lowered the hand holding the big silver flashlight, and raised her other had. It held something metal and shiny, too. A gun. "You'll have to come with me, Hannah. I really can't let you interfere between me and Nate anymore."

  * * *

  Earl was at the back of the white Caddy, stowing Mark's wheelchair. Susie stood by the driver's window, leaning down to give Nate entirely unwanted advice. Mark was in the back seat, and Nate was behind the wheel. The garage door was already open, letting some of the rain in. "I won't scratch the paint," Nate told her, trying to stifle his impatience. "Thanks for letting me borrow your car."

  "Oh, just get going," Susie said, straightening. "And try not to be an idiot when you get home! Skip the explanations and the justifications and go straight to groveling. You don't want to lose that woman, Nate."

  No. He didn't. Nate pushed a button and the window slid closed. The moment Earl slammed the trunk closed, he pulled out of the garage. Once out of the driveway, he accelerated smoothly and strongly.

  Though rain drummed down outside, it was too quiet in the car. Mark didn't speak. Nate wanted him to. He wanted his brother to say something—to condemn Nate, or explain himself. He wanted Mark to argue or yell, anything to prevent the two of them riding along, trapped together in grim silence. It was too empty, and entirely too familiar, that silence. It had lasted six years.

  But Nate didn't know how to break it, or how to bridge it.

  The storm was easing. Rain still came down, but more gently, and the Caddy was a big, heavy car with excellent tires. Nate could keep the speed up in spite of the wet roads. He told himself as he took the second curve that the Lincoln was just as large and heavy.

  But Hannah had been crying when she took this curve. Between them, Nate and Mark had sent her out into the night in tears. All of a sudden he couldn't stand it. "Dammit to hell!" he exploded. "Why did you help her get away from me? She was crying. She shouldn't be on the road when she's crying."

  "Hannah's not stupid. Not about most things, anyway. She'll take it easy heading home."

  "Why did you help her?"

  "Why did you hurt her?"

  Nate couldn't answer at first. He tried. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but it was so hard to get the words out. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. Everything got tangled up for a while." The past with the present. Old fears with new ones.

  "Yeah, well, that's not good enough, Nate. Hannah tried to tell me what happened, but she kept stopping and gulping back tears, and she wasn't making much sense. I thought she said something about you hating her because she didn't want you to go to jail, but surely that was wrong."

  "I l
ost it," Nate said bleakly. "That's what happened. For a few minutes I thought I was going to be locked up again, and then … Hannah lied. I couldn't handle that. She told the sheriff she was with me all night. She wasn't."

  "But dammit, Nate! She did that to help you! What's the matter with you? Are you too proud to accept help from anyone?"

  Proud? Nate shook his head. "Pride has nothing to do with it. As soon as she lied—as soon as she had everyone believing her lie—she had control. Just like Jenny. Maybe I overreacted, but…" His voice dropped. "For God's sake, Mark, you were there. You lived there with us. More than anyone else, you should know what it was like for me with Jenny."

  "I'm not sure I do, though," Mark said softly. "Yeah, I was there, but I was fifteen when you married her. I saw everything through a haze of hormones and stupidity. Since then, I've figured some things out, but at the time—hell. Like I said, I was stupid."

  "You weren't stupid," Nate said as he slowed for the turn onto the last stretch of highway before reaching home. The rain had let up considerably, and for the first time he saw another vehicle on the road. It was a Bronco or Explorer, though, heading in toward town. Thank God, he thought. Nate was terrified of seeing the crumpled wreck of a Lincoln on the way home. "You were only fifteen when we got married. I was twenty-two, and I obviously didn't know better."

  "She's one hell of a liar."

  "Oh, Jenny's a world-class liar. She always has been. I knew that. Even back when we were dating, I knew she made things up, but I thought it was just about little things—'the dog ate my homework' sort of lie. I didn't realize…" Maybe he hadn't wanted to realize how serious her problems were. "But I was pretty young, too, when we went together in high school. I didn't take time to really get to know her again when I came home from college before we got married."

  "I always wondered about that. You two did get hitched pretty quick."

  Nate shrugged. "She said she'd waited for me. She was devoted to me, and, God help me, I thought that was just great. And I…" Nate couldn't finish that sentence. He'd loved her, too. Once. "Lying was Jenny's way of staying in control. I didn't understand that until it was too late. She lied easily and well. People always believed her."