Читать книгу Kansas City's Bravest - Julie Miller - Страница 12

Meghan didn’t know which disturbed her more—her sudden notoriety or seeing Gideon again.

At least the congratulatory phone calls at the station and the bouquets of flowers from her battalion commander and three animal rights agencies would go away after a few days.

Memories of her time with Gideon Taylor would haunt her forever.

After she’d given her brief statement to Gideon, she returned with her team to the station house. Off duty for the next sixteen hours, Meghan had showered, changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a navy tank top, shoved her feet into a pair of slip-on tennis shoes and sped off in her pickup truck. She’d delivered all but the commander’s bouquet to the Truman Medical Center, and stopped by the animal shelter.

She’d been efficient. An hour and a half later, she was pulling up to a house in the Kansas City suburb of Ray-town, Missouri, not too far from Kauffman and Arrowhead stadiums. She parked her Ford Ranger in the long asphalt driveway in front of the white, two-story, barn-style house that felt more like home than her own apartment.

Meghan rolled down the window and killed the engine before leaning back into her seat and taking the first unfettered breath she’d enjoyed since the station dispatcher had sounded the alarm that morning. She sat in the driveway and studied the house with its detached garage. The gold shutters needed a new coat of paint and the shrubs out front needed some pruning.

There was a normalcy about a house that was truly lived in, which Meghan envied. But it wasn’t the need to tend something, or the towering pine trees, or even the massive yard that brought her back here every evening and weekend she was free. It was the people.

Her boys, to be more precise.

No. Dorie Mesner’s boys. Or, most accurately, the four boys who were orphaned or legal wards of the state who had been assigned to live in Dorie’s group home.

The same group home where Meghan had spent one relatively safe year of her life before turning eighteen and moving out on her own.

She leaned across the bench seat and stuck her fingers through the grate of the plastic pet carrier. She smiled at the cold nose that butted her hand and laughed at the warm tongue that licked her fingers. “Don’t be nervous. I was at my first visit, too. But Dorie’s a nice lady. She comes on all tough in the beginning, but by the end of the day she’ll be baking you cookies. Or, in your case, sneaking you dog treats.”

The plaintive whine from the pooch, which the vet had officially labeled a terrier mix, struck a familiar chord in Meghan. The seven-month-old dog had been abandoned. The dog’s life as a runaway had left her traumatized by the fire, with sore paws and two thumb-nail-size patches of bare pink skin on her tail where she’d been singed by flying embers.

Basically, Meghan had agreed to be the dog’s foster parent. “Come here. We girls have to stick together around here.” She opened the carrier and let the dog climb into her lap so they could cuddle and trade comforts.

With the animal shelter full, she was to watch the dog until they could determine where she belonged. In the meantime, Meghan had to try to take care of her without becoming too attached—just in case the dog had to go away again. She scratched the base of the dog’s ears, reassuring her of her good intentions without actually making the promise that she could stay.

Meghan had heard that promise and seen it broken more than once.

“Whatcha got, Meghan?”

Edison Pike. A gangly ten-year-old with a shock of two-toned blond hair stood at the open truck window. She should have known he’d spot the dog right away. His observant blue eyes didn’t miss much. He was as smart as his namesake, but she knew better than to call him that.

“Hey, Eddie.” The dog propped her two front paws on the door and sniffed at her potential playmate. Eddie, on the other hand, held himself perfectly still. “It’s okay.” Meghan thought he might be leery of the dog’s eager greeting. “She’s friendly. She doesn’t bite, though she might try to lick you on the nose.”

“What’s wrong with her? She’s missing fur on her tail. What are the bandages on her paws for?” Ah, yes. Asked with all the detachment of true scientific curiosity.

A nice cover for a boy who wasn’t willing to risk his emotions. Meghan could relate.

“She was caught in a fire I worked today. The vet said the injuries aren’t severe. No smoke inhalation to worry about, only a few minor burns. We just have to watch that she doesn’t scratch or chew on the raw skin. We get to watch her for a few days.”

Eddie inched a step closer. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet.” He lifted the back of his hand to within reach of the dog’s nose. The dog snuffled Eddie’s hand, then twisted her neck to press the top of her head into his palm, demanding to be petted. “I think she likes you.”

The dog was doing all the work, but Meghan was pleased to see that Eddie hadn’t pulled his hand away. “I think we should call her Crispy.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s lucky she didn’t get burned to a crisp,” Eddie reasoned.

“Crispy it is, then. Here.” She hooked a leash to Crispy’s new red collar and handed her through the window to Eddie. “Keep a good hold on her. Why don’t you run her to the backyard where the fence is? Make sure the gate’s shut tight.”

“Okay.”

Pleased with his new friend and new responsibility, Eddie set the dog on the ground and took off toward the back of the house. Meghan moved at a much slower pace. As stress and adrenaline let down, fatigue set in. She picked up the carrier and a sack of pet supplies from the back of the truck, and hiked up to the front door. With her hands full, she nudged the doorbell with her elbow.

Seconds later the door sprang open. “Meghan.”

Dorie Mesner, her cap of snow-white hair flying out in frizzy curls all around her head, uttered the robust greeting and pulled the grocery sack from her arms all at the same time. She stuck her nose inside the sack. “What have you done this time?”

Meghan grinned. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Oh.” Dorie grimaced and ushered Meghan inside. “Come in, come in.”

Meghan followed the seventy-year-old woman through the house into the kitchen, then set up the carrier and bowls with food and water on the screened-in back porch. “Crispy is going to stay with us for a few days, until the humane society can verify whether she’ll go up for adoption or not.”

“Just like those boys. It’s a darn shame, living in limbo like that.” Dorie picked up a wooden spoon and stirred something wonderfully spicy and aromatic on the stove. “Don’t mind my fussin’. She can stay. My Jim had huntin’ dogs the whole thirty-six years I was married to him. That backyard was made for pets.” She covered the pot and rinsed the spoon in the sink. “I just hope those boys don’t get too attached in case she does have a home to go to.”

“I know. It’d be hard on all of us. But we’ll be there for each other, right?” Meghan smiled, well aware of the other woman’s penchant to helping anyone—or anything—in need. With shameless curiosity, Meghan opened the pot Dorie had just stirred. “Mmm. Homemade spaghetti sauce. Mind if I stay for dinner?”

Dorie propped her hands on her ample hips. Her green eyes twinkled. “Have I ever turned you away?”

Meghan crossed the room and traded hugs. “Thankfully, no.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Dorie dashed into the family room and Meghan stepped into double time to follow. “You’re going to be on TV. They showed a picture of you and that awful fire on the news teaser.” She perched on the vinyl couch and picked up two remotes. “I tried to program the VCR to record Channel Ten, but I never can tell if I got the right thing. Oh. There you are.”

Dorie’s infectious excitement lost its appeal when the familiar image of the old Meyer’s Textile warehouse flashed across the screen. The camera shot panned down across the crowd, as if drawn like a beacon to Saundra Ames’s striking red hair.

“That Saundra Ames is a real looker, isn’t she?”

Definitely, Meghan silently agreed. She looked like a small, pale shadow, by comparison, standing beside the statuesque reporter, clutching the dog. Meghan looked as if she’d been working a hard job on a hot day. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead in the light of the camera, while Saundra commanded attention with the just-powdered perfection of her taut cheekbones and bright blue eyes. The reporter’s soft blue silk suit looked stunning, while Meghan’s sweat-marked T-shirt and slacks just looked tired. Like her.

What kind of woman are you, anyway, freak? You can’t look the part, or act it, can you.

That was Uncle Pete’s wretched voice taunting her inside her head. Meghan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block the vile memory. She couldn’t watch this. She could only see herself through Pete Preston’s eyes, and the image wasn’t very flattering.

She couldn’t even remember what lame answers she’d given Ms. Ames, but she was sure she didn’t want to listen to herself drone on about fire safety and her hopes that the young women of Kansas City would set goals and pursue them no matter what life threw at them.

Even if it threw you one doozy of a curve ball. Over and over again.

It was only in the past year or so that Meghan had learned to believe that a strikeout wasn’t her only option. A few times, in fact, she’d managed to take one of those curve balls and turn it into a hit. Her therapist had advised her that her past didn’t necessarily have to be a handicap. She could use it as a tool to help others.

That’s when she’d called Dorie to ask if she needed an extra hand at her group home.

But healing was a long process. What had still been an open wound two years ago was now a thin scar that could withstand day-to-day encounters with her co-workers and a few close friends. But she still wasn’t ready to see herself paraded in front of a camera as a potential object of ridicule. As a pariah who couldn’t quite measure up. One who wasn’t good enough or whole enough to be a success in a modern woman’s world.

She might never be.

Let Dorie satisfy her curiosity. Meghan wanted no part of this. “Been there. Done that.” She had already backed up to the open doorway. “I’ll just go hang with Eddie in the backyard.”

The older woman nodded without tearing her gaze from the television screen. “The little ones are outside, too. Would you mind checking on them?”

“Sure.”

The evening air didn’t feel any less scorching than this afternoon’s. But Meghan inhaled a muggy breath, grateful for the chance to be outside, far away from the uncomfortable image of her freckled face plastered on the news for all of Kansas City to see.

She stood at the top of the stoop and let the worries of the day fade into the present. Crispy charged across the length of the yard, with Eddie and a tiny toddler in hot pursuit. Little Mark Grimes had just turned two. About the same size as the dog, Mark’s dark brown curls bounced atop his head with each stiff-kneed waddle. His chubby fingers reached out for the dog, though he wasn’t catching anything but air. And his delighted giggle as Crispy changed course and circled around him could only be described as a chortle.

So young, so innocent. Orphaned six months ago by a tragic house fire, all he wanted was someone to love him.

Meghan did.

As he toddled past, she dashed down the stairs and scooped him up into her arms. “Whee-ee!”

Mark laughed. He stuck his arms out like an airplane and she twirled him around, finally setting him down in the middle of the yard where Eddie and Crispy were wrestling. Meghan plopped down onto the ground next to Mark and let him climb on her as if she were a jungle gym.

Mark was an adorable little tyke who would have been snatched up by adoptive parents in an instant if it wasn’t for one not-so-small thing. His brother.

Speaking of which…

With Mark and Eddie occupied, she let her gaze slide around the perimeter of the yard. The swing set was empty, the sandbox unused. The remote-control car on the patio sat untouched.

A tight fist of unease gripped her stomach.

She plucked Mark from her shoulders and sent him toddling off after the dog again. “Eddie?” She rose to her knees, then purposely climbed to her feet. “Where’s Matthew?”

Eddie’s thin chest rose and fell as he panted for breath. He pointed to the garage. “Last I saw, he was in there.”

Unlike his brother Mark, four-year-old Matthew Grimes remembered the night his home was destroyed and his parents were killed. The brothers were a matched set, legally and emotionally bonded to remain together. And Matthew was definitely a much harder sell to any prospective parent. Though child therapists had worked with him, he refused to talk about that night.

He refused to talk, period.

Feeling more than a twinge of concern tingling in her belly, Meghan hurried to the faded side door that opened onto the backyard. With the main door closed, the interior of the garage was dark and stale with humidity. She stood with her hand resting for a few moments on the peeling paint of the door frame, giving her vision a chance to adjust to the shadows. “Matthew?”

Not that she expected him to answer. She couldn’t imagine the terror and grief that must have shocked the boy into such a sullen silence. She scanned the interior, much as she would a smoke-filled building, holding herself still and patiently waiting for some sound or smell to give away the location of any victims trapped inside.

Dorie must have mowed today. The air in the garage was pungent with the scents of cut grass and gasoline. But she detected no light, soap-water scent of boy. Until…

The creak of old wood and the rattle of metal on metal turned her attention to the workbench that had once belonged to Jim Mesner. Perched on top, with his short legs hanging over the edge, sat Matthew.

“Hey, big guy.” Meghan greeted him with a smile and walked slowly toward him. The tension in her stomach eased a fraction at having located the boy, but the sadness in his eyes kept her from celebrating. “What are you doing out here? You know the garage is a ‘no’ place. Dorie wants you to play outside or in the basement or in your room. With the van and the tools—” not to mention the pesticides and can of gasoline for the lawnmower “—this isn’t a safe place to play.”

His gaze drifted over to her shoulder without really looking at her. Meghan climbed up beside him on the bench. Maybe he was making progress, after all—he didn’t slide over or jump off to get away from her.

“I’ll bet you didn’t come here to play.” She knew he hadn’t. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually seen him holding a toy or chasing a ball or doing anything as carefree and therapeutic as letting loose and running through the yard with a child’s energy and abandon. She tucked her hands between her knees and continued in a gentle voice. “Did you come in here to be alone?”

She’d almost given up hope of getting any kind of answer when he slowly nodded his head. Meghan pressed her lips together to keep herself from startling him with an effusive smile.

“I like to be alone sometimes, too.” She shrugged her shoulders with an honest sigh. “Especially on a day like today.” She skipped any talk about the fire. “Did you know I was on TV? Dorie’s making a tape. I looked pretty silly holding that dog. Did you meet Crispy?”

Matthew was watching her face now. This was the kind of therapy his counselor had said he needed. Just keep talking to him. Keep interacting. Keep including him in day-to-day activities. Eventually, when he was ready, he’d join in. He’d start talking when he had something he wanted to say.

With his brown hair and brown eyes, Matthew was a miniature version of Gideon. Instantly the illusory pain in her belly returned.

Just keep talking. “I met an old friend of mine today.”

Well, not exactly a friend. Not anymore.

“He looks a lot like you. Dark brown hair. Dark eyes.” She offered him a gentle grin. “He’s taller, though. I imagine you’ll be just as tall one day.”

Nothing.

“His name is Gideon Taylor.” She’d steer away from his being a firefighter and wouldn’t mention his big family. That left her with, “He’s a very special man. Strong. Quiet, like you. Sometimes he communicates without using any words at all.”

Matthew made eye contact.

Meghan’s smile wavered. “I wish you could meet him.” He’d make a perfect daddy. “He’s patient.” Matthew’s eyebrows lifted into a questioning frown. “That means he takes his time to do things. He doesn’t push anyone to go faster than they need to.”

Her mind drifted back to all those evenings Gideon had worked with her after a training session to help her build her strength or to teach her a new skill. She thought of all those nights when he’d patiently shown her the way a man and woman could please each other. He hadn’t minded the scars that showed on her belly. He’d treated her as if he thought she was beautiful. She remembered all the mornings after when they’d cuddled in bed and talked.

He’d made her feel as if she was a beautiful person—almost.

“He was a wonderful teacher.” Her breath hitched on an unexpected gasp. Oh, God. Were those tears stinging her eyes? Meghan turned her head so Matthew couldn’t see.

She was the one who had screwed things up. She was the one who had broken Gideon’s heart without an explanation. He’d been willing to take a chance she couldn’t allow him to take.

She didn’t have the right to cry.

“The grass on that lawnmower must be getting to me.” She’d never had an allergy in her life. Meghan wiped her hand across her eyes. “You’d like him.”

On impulse, needing the human contact as much as she suspected Matthew did, she leaned over and hugged him. She squeezed him tight and pressed a kiss onto the crown of his silky fine hair.

Matthew didn’t hug her back. But he didn’t push her away, either.

This was as close as she’d ever come to having a child of her own. So she held him close a few moments longer, inhaling his sweet, clean scent and damning the fates for making her so flawed in the first place.

“Meghan!” Eddie’s young tenor voice nabbed her attention before he appeared at the side door of the garage. Was there a problem with Mark? Crispy? She left a comforting hand on Matthew’s shoulder and focused in on the rapid-fire delivery of Eddie’s words. “Dorie says you have to come into the house right away. There’s a phone call. It’s Alex. I think he’s in trouble again. She looks like she’s gonna pass out. You gotta come.”

Alexis Pitsaeli was the oldest boy who lived at the group home. He was all of sixteen and ready to take on the world. Unfortunately he didn’t always choose the smartest way to conquer it.

Meghan jumped down off the workbench and took Matthew’s hand. She never released him as he climbed down. Pulling him along behind her, she picked up Mark and followed Eddie into the house.

They found Dorie standing in the kitchen, grasping the disconnected phone in one hand and the counter in the other. Her skin had faded to an alarming shade of ash and her cheeks were splotched with color. This wasn’t good.

“What’s wrong?” Meghan asked, depositing Mark into Eddie’s arms and sending the three boys down to the basement. She hung up the phone and guided Dorie to the table to make her sit.

“It’s Alex. He’s at a police station in downtown K.C. The officer said he’d been in a fight.” Dorie breathed in shallow puffs of air and patted her chest. “I can feel my blood pressure going through the roof already. I hope he’s all right.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, or the officer would have said otherwise.” She hoped. “How can I help?”

“Will you go down to the precinct office for me? I don’t think I can handle the paperwork or his attitude right now.”

“I’ll go.” She turned Dorie’s wrist between her thumb and fingers and checked the older woman’s racing pulse. “You been taking your medication?”

“Yes. And watching my diet. There’s not a lick of salt in that spaghetti tonight.” Her vehement protest faded on a pant of breath. “It’s just stress. And my seventy-year-old heart.”

Meghan frowned. She fully intended to help Alex understand the consequences of his actions. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll feed the boys, and when I get back with Alex I’ll bring you some dinner.”

Dorie shook her head. “Nonsense. I can feed the little ones. You just bring that teenager home so I know he’s safe.”

“I will.”

Reluctant to leave Dorie alone, but understanding that this was the best way she could help, Meghan pressed a kiss to her grandmotherly temple and hurried toward the front door. She slowed her pace as she neared the entryway, thinking something looked odd. She stopped when she realized what was out of place. A large bouquet of yellow roses sat on the hall table. Long-stemmed and studded with statis and greenery. Meghan released a long, low whistle. Someone had spent a fortune.

On one very sick idea of a joke.

Meghan felt a corresponding tension quiver through her muscles, setting her entire body on edge. She looked over her shoulder to Dorie. “Where did these come from?”

“Oh, those came for you while you were out back. After that phone call, I forgot to tell you.” Dorie pressed her hand over her heart. “Imagine. A dozen roses. You must have an ardent admirer.”

Meghan frowned. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all. “There are only eleven roses.”

“I didn’t notice.” The older woman shuffled into the foyer beside her. “Did the florist make a mistake?”

“I don’t think so.”

One anonymous rose she could write off as a little weird and donate it to the hospital with the rest of her flowers.

Eleven golden mates showing up on the same day to complete the gift was downright creepy.

“Did you see who delivered them?”

“The doorbell rang during the news.” She could hear the agitation in Dorie’s voice as she picked up on Meghan’s tension. “By the time I got to it, the bouquet was on the doorstep and a white van was backing out of the driveway. The sun was reflecting off the windshield and I didn’t have my glasses on.”

“Was there a name on the side of the van?”

Dorie shrugged an apology. “If I remember, there were some red letters or markings on the driver’s door.”

Meghan pulled a thorny stem aside to get a closer look at the blank envelope. “And you’re sure they’re for me? There’s no name.”

“Honey, my Jim’s been dead goin’ on ten years now. Who’d be sending an old girl like me flowers?”

Meghan traded worried looks with Dorie. “How did they know where to deliver them? Why didn’t they go to my apartment?”

Only John Murdock and the chief knew that this was her second home. And she doubted anyone at Family Services who knew she volunteered here would be sending flowers. She supposed someone could have tried to deliver them at the station house and been redirected here. But John was off duty, too. Who else knew to find her here? Had she been followed?

Dorie tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t stand there gawkin’ at ’em. Open the card and see who they’re from. Maybe that’ll solve the mystery.”

An uneasy feeling settled around Meghan’s shoulders as she plucked the envelope from its plastic mount. That uneasy feeling knotted into a combination of fear and anger—a sense of violation deep in her gut—as she pulled out the card and read it.

“That’s odd.” Dorie’s confusion echoed her own. “It doesn’t say.”

Meghan crammed the note into the pocket of her shorts. The discomfiting words were already emblazoned in her memory.

You are truly Kansas City’s Bravest.

You know I love you.

Only one man had ever claimed to love her.

And she’d thrown his proposal back in his face and walked out of his life forever.