Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  P.D.’s sluggish brain fought to make sense of the words. “I can’t go home. There’s a cleanup crew coming and I’ll have to notify my employees and …”

  Helen patted her shoulder as if she were a particularly dense child. “We’ll shoo away the rubberneckers and serve as welcoming committee to the restoration people. Shoot, with as many times as my basement has flooded in the past ten years, I know them all by name. As for your employees, the grapevine has probably already taken care of notifying them. Nevertheless, I’ve got a cell phone and I’m sure I can make some calls.”

  P.D. hugged her arms around her torso. Although the evening was warm enough, she was beginning to shake uncontrollably. “No, I’ve got to board up the broken window and … and make sure no one tampers with anything or gets inside until the damage can be … can be documented and …”

  Her voice began to tremble in time with her body. Worse yet, she felt as if she might burst into tears. And she couldn’t do that—she wouldn’t do that. She didn’t cry in public. Ever. She didn’t cry. Ever. Nothing could be solved by tears. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  She watched in astonishment as Syd unfolded the chairs and took a seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him as if he’d planned all along to spend the morning sitting in the middle of a messy crime scene watching the stars.

  “But your grandchildren …”

  “Are asleep and being watched by their uncle Mark until their parents come to get them in the morning.” Helen squeezed her hand. “We’ll take care of everything,” she said, gesturing to Syd, who proceeded to unscrew the top of the thermos.

  Helen threw a large purse—an only slightly smaller version of her magical carpetbag—onto the empty camp chair. Opening it wide, she removed a pair of mugs, a bag of miniature marshmallows, and a box of granola bars before slinging the strap over her shoulder again.

  “Syd will keep an eye on things until I can drop you off and come back.” She patted her bag. “Let me have a word with the sheriff, then we’ll go. I’m packing, so you don’t need to worry about our security.”

  The remark should have made P.D. laugh. There was no need for Helen to announce she was “packing.” Helen was always packing: a revolver in her purse; a pistol in her minivan; and on special occasions, a derringer in her garter or corset holster. But the humor of the situation suddenly escaped P.D. as the last of her control seeped away like fine sand.

  Not wanting Helen to see how close to tears she was, P.D. averted her gaze and scanned the crowd. It was then that she saw a familiar Dodge Ram skid into one of the few remaining parking places in the lot. As soon as the engine had been killed and he’d slid to the ground, Elam began searching the crowd.

  P.D. stood frozen, waiting for the moment when his eyes would find hers. And she wasn’t disappointed. As soon as their gazes locked, her pulse flip-flopped in anticipation and the pounding at her temples eased.

  He turned to grab something from the back of the cab. Then he was striding toward her, weaving his way through a crowd that was finally beginning to disperse.

  “Well, now, I’ve got Sydney settled and had a word with George and the fire captain, so everything’s arranged. All that’s left to do is get you home,” Helen said from somewhere behind her shoulder.

  P.D. watched Elam’s familiar silhouette weaving through the chaos. He murmured something to the deputies who were stringing up crime scene tape in a large circle around the restaurant. Then, he was dipping beneath the flimsy barrier and closing the distance with his ground-eating strides.

  “Look who’s here,” Helen murmured.

  But P.D. barely heard her as Elam stopped and asked, “You okay?”

  She nodded, clenching her jaw to keep her chin from crumpling. She’d known the man less than forty-eight hours, yet she longed to lean into him, to draw the warmth of his body into her own.

  “You cold?”

  Again, she dipped her head, not trusting herself to answer without bursting into tears. He held out his hands, revealing the heavy Carhartt jacket he’d taken from his truck.

  “Put this on.” Elam stepped behind her to help her slip her arms into the sleeves, then left his hands, warm and heavy, on her shoulders. When she shivered, he stepped closer and drew her back to rest against him, offering her the heat from his own body.

  “Hello, Helen. Syd.”

  “You’re just in time. I was about to take P.D. home. She’s dead on her feet after all this.”

  “What happened?”

  P.D. forced herself to speak. “Kids. They had a snoot full of liquor and decided to play with matches.”

  “Looks like more than matches. Is there much damage inside?”

  “I won’t … I won’t know until morning. But I think … most of the fire was confined to the kitchen. I don’t know if any of the appliances can be saved. The Sheetrock and the flooring will have to be replaced. The wiring might have to be redone. Everything will have to be scrubbed and repainted, supplies restocked, c-carpets cl-cleaned—”

  Helen stopped her with another squeeze of her hand. “But not tonight. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.” She made a gesture toward Elam with her chin. “Take her home, Elam.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I intend to.”

  SEVEN

  ELAM took P.D.’s hand. Lacing his fingers between hers, he led her through the darkness and the well-wishing townsfolk to his truck. To her surprise, he didn’t take her to the passenger side, but opened the driver’s door and leaned inside to lift up the center console so that she could slide through from his end. But the truck had been jacked up so high, she wasn’t sure if she could climb in. She was just too, too tired.

  She needn’t have worried because Elam wrapped his arms around her, lifted her up, and then took his place beside her. When she would have slid to the opposite door, he stopped her, reaching for the center seat belt and securing it before tunneling into his pocket for his keys and revving the engine. Then, draping his right arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close to his side while he used his left hand to flip on his lights, adjust the heater, and then put the vehicle into gear.

  As they pulled away from the restaurant, taking the winding lane that would lead them to the main road and away from the whirling cacophony of lights¸ the dark summer night settled around them. Stars winked like scattered fairy dust on a velvet blanket. Gradually, P.D.’s trembling ceased, aided by the proximity of Elam’s body and the soft caress of his fingertips on her arm. Funny, how she could feel the caress even through the thickness of his jacket.

  “You’ll have to tell me where to go.”

  “I live in the old Francom house. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yup.”

  P.D. closed her eyes as exhaustion threatened to pull her under. Shifting, she rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. The rumble of the truck, the steady thump, thump of Elam’s heartbeat beneath her ear, and the faint irregular melody of a country-western ballad on the radio were melding together into their own unique form of lullaby.

  She was well on her way to falling asleep when the sudden silence of the Ram’s engine caused her to start. As her eyes blinked open, she realized that she was home.

  Elam slid out. Then he reached in to push her hands aside when she clumsily tried to release her seat belt. Finally, he lifted her to the ground, keeping her in the protective lee of the door. Framing her face in his broad palms, he brushed aside the stray strands of hair with his thumbs.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She nodded. “I’m just tired. Really … really tired.” Again, the tightness gripped her throat. But after averting her gaze from the sharp planes of his face etched by the weak dome light, she was able to say, “Thanks for the ride home.”

  P.D. expected him to move out of the way, but Elam continued to brush the ridge of her cheekbones with his thumbs. And damned if she didn’t want to lean into that caress and soak it up like a wounded cat.

&n
bsp; “I … uh …” she began, then stopped again. She’d been about to tell him that she could handle things from here, and that he ought to head home while there were still a few hours of sleep available to him. But he must have read her thoughts because he leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said lowly. Then, taking her hand again, he led her toward the front door.

  *

  ELAM didn’t need a crystal ball to tell him that P.D. had expected him to drop her off and then disappear into the night. But there was no way he was leaving her. Not when her eyes were wide and shadowed, and she huddled like a wounded little bird in the bulky confines of his jacket. Damned if he knew why, but the moment he’d heard about the fire, his heart had begun pounding with the same fierce jolt of adrenaline that he’d felt countless times when he’d been sent to diffuse an IED. He’d only known P.D. for a short while, but the thought of her being hurt or injured …

  He wasn’t above admitting to himself that he’d been scared shitless.

  Even now, as he drew open the ornate wooden screen to the simple little bungalow, his hands shook ever so slightly.

  “Key?”

  She shook her head. “This is Bliss.”

  P.D. reached out to twist the knob and stepped inside.

  “Damnit, P.D., you don’t lock up your house?” he groused as he followed her inside.

  “Why? No one in Bliss locks their doors. The landlords didn’t even have a key to give me. It was lost several renters ago.”

  “You should at least have a deadbolt.”

  “I keep telling myself to get one, but then I forget. I can lock things up while I’m on the inside, just not while I’m on the outside.”

  “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  “So sue me.” She was feeling her way through the dark. “Wait there. This old house doesn’t have a light switch by the door for some reason, so I’ll have to turn it on from the other side of the room.”

  Elam waited as he’d been told, allowing what little moonlight remained to slip through the screen. Then, with a snap, light from an overhead bulb chased away the gloom.

  Elam quickly shut them inside and fastened the lock.

  “What? Are you afraid someone’s going to sneak inside? Everyone is down at the restaurant gawking. There’s no one left to bother us.”

  Her blithe disregard for her safety was arousing Elam’s inner “caveman.” But rather than argue with her, he simply decided that he’d head to town sometime soon and buy a set of new locks himself. Besides, she looked like a gust of wind could knock her down. Even worse, she stood in the center of her living room, too exhausted to string a coherent thought together.

  “Why don’t you get out of your things and into a hot shower?” he said as he drew his coat from her shoulders.

  She looked down at herself as if suddenly becoming aware of her sooty clothing. Then her nose wrinkled. “Are you trying to tell me I stink?”

  At the faint resurgence of her usual feistiness, he smiled. “No. But there is a certain eau de campfire about you. And if you climb into bed like that, you’re bound to wake up with your sheets smelling like a BBQ pit.”

  She snorted, but he’d managed to chase a few of the shadows from her eyes.

  He nudged her toward the hall. “Go on. While you’re doing that, I’ll fix you something to eat. Then you can go to bed.”

  She made a face. “I’m not hungry.”

  “No, but your body is hovering on the edge of shock, so it will take the edge off.” He grasped her shoulders and turned her toward the shadowy doorways he could see. “Now, go.”

  “Can you cook?” she argued as she headed toward a room at the far end of the hall.

  “I haven’t starved yet,” he called after her.

  “Yet,” she argued back as if she were aware of the twenty pounds he’d dropped since leaving the Navy.

  He remained where he stood until he heard the slamming of drawers, then the hiss of the shower. Then, turning, he surveyed the room before him.

  The décor was like nothing he’d ever seen before—except perhaps for P.D.’s office. Muted shades of taupe and ivory blended with at least a dozen variations of white with little pops of jadeite green and pink and blue. It was at once elegant and casual. And soothing. Most of the furniture was old and repurposed, the wood painted or slipcovered. Overall, the pieces looked well loved and comfortable with a hominess that could only come from a woman’s touch. Nevertheless, it was still a room where a man wouldn’t feel awkward kicking off his boots and resting his feet on the oversized ottoman-like coffee table while he relaxed and watched television.

  Moving to the small kitchen, he flipped on the light and nearly laughed out loud when he found a continuation of the scheme. But here, there more obvious dashes of color. A retro, fifties-style stove and refrigerator in jadeite green were the focal point of the minuscule room, as was an Arts and Crafts breakfast table and four chairs.

  After searching through the cupboards and the shelves of the refrigerator, Elam realized that most of the ingredients were above his skill set. So he settled on cereal, thick slices of bacon, and eggs.

  By the time he heard the water turn off, he was ready to dish up the food. As soon as he heard the whisper of P.D.’s feet on the carpet, he grasped the plates and turned.

  For a moment, he was struck dumb at the picture in front of him. P.D. stood fresh-faced and vulnerable in a pair of oversized men’s flannel pajamas, her damp hair streaming in wild ringlets down her back. She could have been a little girl coming to say good night if it weren’t for the very womanly body limned by the soft fabric of her nightwear.

  “What?” she demanded, looking down.

  “Nothing. You look …” He scrambled for an appropriate description. Somehow hot as hell didn’t seem appropriate, so he quickly substituted, “Shorter.”

  She blinked at him in confusion. “Shorter?”

  He gestured to the hems puddling around her feet to waylay her suspicions, then wrapped his foot around the leg of a chair to pull it out for her. “Sit.”

  P.D. took in the box of Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries and laughed. “I thought you said you were cooking?”

  “I cooked.”

  He set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of P.D., then took the seat at right angles to hers.

  “You put cheddar cheese on the eggs.”

  Elam glanced up, wondering if she was “anti-cheese” or something. But she eyed them with an expression close to wonder.

  “Never could stand a naked egg. That’s how my mother got me and my brothers to eat them when we were little.”

  “You must miss her,” P.D. said softly.

  For the life of him, Elam couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than his brothers had acknowledged Maureen Taggart’s passing, and for some reason, it touched him.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He waited, his fork poised over his own plate while P.D. took her first bite. When she closed her eyes with an unconscious “Mmm” then licked the back of her fork, he couldn’t prevent the jolt of arousal that shot into his gut.

  “What about you?” he asked, knowing this was not the time or the place to give in to his baser instincts. “Do you see your folks much?”

  P.D. grimaced. “Not unless I happen to intersect one of their ‘Interstate Rambles,’ as my mother calls them.” She took another forkful of egg. “My parents seem to be constantly chasing the weather. If it’s too cold, they move south. If it’s too hot, they go north. If it’s too windy, they head west.”

  Elam’s brows rose.

  “My mother lives in fear of Tornado Alley since what little televised news she sees is full of trailers being swept away by floods or fires or gale-force winds. But she’d rather see their bus blown away to Oz than put down roots somewhere in a real house.”

  When she frowned, poking at the yoke of her egg, Elam realized that he’d unwittingly hit a nerve. “It must have bee
n tough for you as a kid with all that moving.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then, as if the admission were somehow a betrayal, she pasted a too-bright smile on her face. “You, on the other hand, must have been in kid heaven with your own room, horses, siblings, and acres of land to explore.”

  He smiled, realizing that Bodey must have been talking about the family. “Yeah. It had its perks. Still does.”

  As if the sharing of confidences was still too new, too awkward, they both turned their attention to their food. But even though a silence descended on the kitchen, it was a comfortable one. Elam didn’t feel the need to search for something to say. He absorbed the peaceful hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of a clock from deep in the house. After all the time he’d spent on his own, he couldn’t account for the way P.D.’s nearness was easing kinks of tension he hadn’t even known existed.

  After their meal was finished—Elam eating two bowls of cereal to P.D.’s one—he nodded toward the back of the house. “Get to bed. I’ll clean up.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a ferocious yawn.

  He laughed, urging, “Go on. When I’m done, I’ll crash on the couch.”

  “But … my couch is … your feet will probably hang off the edge.”

  He began gathering their plates in a stack. “I’ve slept on far worse,” he offered ruefully.

  She took two steps back, paused, then reversed her course until she was standing in front of him. Then, before he knew what she was about to do, she knelt down until they were at eye level.

  “Thank you, Elam,” she whispered.

  The plates were abandoned as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek, the jaw, and then his lips. The caress was tentative and sweet, like the brush of butterfly wings. Then, without a word, she hugged him close, her arms tight, her body warm and feminine and still bearing the scent of lemon soap … and some kind of shampoo that smelled like it came from a candy dish.

  Elam’s heart ached at the simple gesture, at the emotional contact that he’d only ever shared with his wife. As much as he longed to sweep P.D. into his arms and carry her into her bedroom, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. In her office hours ago, he would have taken her on the swooning couch if he’d had a condom at hand. But their coupling would have been nothing but an expression of lust and sex—great sex, but just sex.