Читать книгу Latimer's Law - Mel Sterling - Страница 12

Chapter 3

Abby sat at the table, hands behind her back, sweating in the sauna heat of the humid sky. The table was out in the sun, and the sweet black shade of the nearby moss-hung oaks taunted her.

What had just happened here? She would have sworn the man had started off in a murderous fury, having every intention of packing her off to the police. Somewhere in his interrogation of her the tone had subtly shifted from one of anger to one of curiosity.

She eyed him where he perched on the incongruously small stool and leaned his back against one of the tall cypress knees that jutted from the river’s edge. His fishing line trailed lazily in the slow-flowing water, and every few minutes he reeled it in and flicked it back upstream to float past again.

He sat with the scarred side of his face toward her. Now she had the leisure to study it, and reflect on some of her limited nursing training, the few years she’d had before taking a professional course designed to focus on adult day care in support of the business. It looked like a chemical burn of some sort, raised and raw-looking, ropy and rough in places, shiny and slick in others. The outer end of his left eyebrow was missing, giving him a somewhat quizzical appearance. He was fortunate that the worst of the chemicals had missed his eye. Even from a distance she could see his thick sandy lashes, which gave his startling blue eyes a deceptively sleepy look.

His T-shirt fit him closely, limning muscles in his arms and chest and showcasing his flat belly between the open lapels of his fishing vest. With the single exception of the scar, he was a man she would have turned to watch on a street. Lean and strong, hair that was more gold than brown, tall. He had a way of moving that spoke of ease and friendliness, until his eyes caught those of an observer and the wariness surfaced. His voice, once the anger had drained away, was quiet and firm with only a slight trace of a Southern accent in the vowels.

She had liked his laugh.

Abby frowned at this thought. Overthinking this man’s general attractiveness was beyond pointless. Shortly he would tire of waiting for her to talk. He would shut her in the back of his truck and haul her off to the county sheriff. He had every right to do it.

She wondered if the lawmen would give her a break if she showed them her bruises and filed charges against Marsh. It wasn’t the first time she’d fantasized about reporting Marsh’s various crimes. She was pretty sure she could make an assault charge stick, and maybe even domestic abuse. But it would mean facing him down in public, and he was so far inside her guard that he knew every last secret, every weakness. He had pried up the edges of all her insecurities and peered beneath to where her doubts and fears lurked, and he had magnified them.

The telephone rang at all hours. It was a comfort knowing he thought about her, even at six in the morning or eleven at night.

“How was the day? Got any good stories for me, Abigail?”

“Oh...nothing fun. Just the usual grind. And messes. Sam had a bad seizure, so I had to call the ambulance, which upset everyone else. Rosemary cried and broke her soup bowl. Tomato soup everywhere. The new girl from the agency is still getting the hang of things, so most of the work is on me.”

“Ah, Abigail, honey. I’m so sorry. Tomorrow will be better, I’m sure. In fact, I’ll guarantee it for you.”

“Thanks, Marsh. I know you can’t do anything from there, but it’s just so good to hear a friendly voice. Someone who understands.”

“Have you got any of that merlot I bought you left?”

“A little.” Smiling to herself now, picturing his charming grin and the way the cork had resisted him when he opened that first bottle and they’d toasted Gary’s picture on the mantelpiece the night of the funeral. Two shared bottles and a crying jag later, she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder with his arm around her and the light cotton throw from the back of the sofa drawn across them both.

Or a wake-up call, when she was drowsy and unguarded, warm with sleep and alone in a bed meant for two people.

“Hey, there...how’s my gray-eyed sister-in-law this fine morning?”

“It’s raining here.”

“I didn’t catch you last night—I called a couple times but you didn’t answer. Were you out?”

“Yeah...what time is it?”

“Still early. You’ve got time to get a little more shut-eye, but I wanted to say hello before I have to start my commute. Were you out with Judy?”

“Yeah. She made me go dancing with her and her hubby. Said I needed a little smoky air and loud music.”

“Abigail...it’s too soon for that.”

“I know. I came home early.”

“I wish I was there with you.”

“Me, too.”

As the weeks after the funeral dragged on, she began changing her schedule to be home when she thought Marsh might call. She told friends she was fine, just tired.

Abby wrenched her mind back again. She had to focus, and try to relax. Her left shoulder was cramping, and she rotated it slowly as far as she was able with her wrists behind her. She kept one eye on the dog, hoping that none of her movements would be interpreted as aggression and trigger a reaction. Dogs had never frightened her, but she had a healthy respect for this one’s teeth and intelligence and exceptional training.

Even more than respecting the dog, she respected his owner. That brought a question to mind. What did a man like him need with this sort of dog? What line of work was he in? Abby traced along this path like a bloodhound on a scent. He carried a gun, he knew how to secure a criminal—for criminal she was, like it or not—and he had a well-trained police dog at his command.

The question popped out before she could stop it. “Are you a cop?”

She thought he stiffened, but he did not turn and she couldn’t be certain. “Why do you ask?”

“It would explain a few things.”

“As I keep telling you, you’re the one who needs to do the explaining. Have you thought about that a little more?” Lazily he reeled in the line, flicked it back out into the river, the reel whirring and the lure landing with a faint plop. Abby watched the rings ripple out and dwindle, erased by the flow of the tea-brown water.

“There’s just...really, nothing to explain. I’ve told you the truth. I’m running from some personal things and lost my head.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m like those TV junkies who sit home staring at the Hollywood gossip shows. I want the dirt.”

Despite herself a rueful laugh forced its way past her lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be back at home staring at the TV.” Even reminding Rosemary to share the television remote would be better than the stomach-roiling anxiety she was feeling now. It was hard to decide which was worse: the fear she’d be arrested and jailed for what she’d done, or the certain nightmare when Marsh caught up with her.

“I guess it would be better if you hadn’t started down this road, huh, Abigail?”

“No kidding.” She fell silent. Sweat trickled down her spine, making her itch as it went. She wondered if she was flexible enough to wriggle backward through the circle of her arms and bring her wrists in front of her. The man would probably stop her if she became too active. A droning sweat bee began to show interest in the moist skin of her neck, and there was nothing she could do about it except toss her head and hope her ponytail knocked the insect away.

“Something wrong?” Was that humor in his voice?

“Nothing a good toxic cloud of pesticide wouldn’t fix.”

Now it was a definite chuckle. “You’re doing it to yourself, you know. Dish a little dirt, Abigail.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“What, you didn’t go through my glove compartment and steal my registration?”

Abby scrubbed her face against her shoulder. The sweat was getting into her eyes, stinging with salt. “No,” she mumbled. “I think your dog needs a drink of water.”

At this comment, the man did turn. He looked with concern at the shepherd, and then nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt. I was getting him a drink when you so rudely interrupted us in that parking lot by stealing my truck.” He propped his fishing pole against a nearby scrub oak and returned to the truck, where he took a bottle of water from the back, and a blue plastic bowl, and proceeded to pour the bottled water in the bowl for the dog. Abby found herself swallowing reflexively, and with a gleam in his bright blue eyes the man spoke.

“Cade Latimer. And this is Mort.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Latimer.” She was afraid that the words would come out sarcastically, but instead she was speaking the truth, to her own astonishment. Under any other circumstances she’d have enjoyed talking to this man. “He’s a beautiful dog.” She watched as Latimer cued the dog off guard and permitted him to drink his fill.

“Thanks. You look thirsty, too.” He tipped his head back, bottle to his lips, and drank down what little he hadn’t poured into the bowl. His muscular throat gleamed with a light film of sweat. “But maybe your stomach’s still unsettled from the rough ride. Or the poor company. Your skin is pasty-looking.”

Now that he was closer to her again, Abby could see that the cut was still seeping, though slowly. He had smeared blood over the side of his face each time he wiped at the cut. It looked sore, and the little bit of nursing training she had made her fingers itch to tend the wound. “I’m not thirsty just now. Mr. Latimer, that cut really does need attention. I can see to that for you. It needs cleaning and some antibiotic cream. It might even need stitches.”

He slanted a bright blue glance at her. “How do I know you won’t take advantage of the situation and incapacitate me?”

Now Abby did laugh, the corner of her mouth curling up in a rueful smile. “I’m a thief, not a murderer. I did the damage, I’ll clean up after it. I may not want to tell you all the gory details of my life, but I’m an honorable woman.”

His smile, when it came, transformed him. “Damned if I don’t believe you, Abigail. All right. Sit tight while I dig out the first aid kit, then I’ll clip the cable ties so you can use your hands.”

Abby watched Cade Latimer stretch over the tailgate and emerge with a small blue canvas kit with a red cross silk-screened on it. He brought it to the table and opened it.

“Some more of that bottled water would be good,” Abby suggested.

“I thought you weren’t thirsty.”

“For cleaning the cut.”

Cade nodded and returned with two more bottles of water. He twisted open both and set them near her. He stood very close to her and reached out to cup her chin and turn her face toward him. Abby met his gaze, startled anew by how very blue his eyes were. The work-roughened skin of his palm rasped her jawline and she swallowed, trying not to gulp.

“Understand me, Abigail McMurray. I’m going to let you loose so you can clean up this cut, but make one false move and I won’t hesitate to stop you. It may be as simple as twisting an arm behind your back, or it might be Mort’s teeth in your leg.”

Or a bullet from your gun. She couldn’t look away. The blue of his eyes was intense. A rim of darker blue edged the iris as if to keep the liquid color contained, and different shades of blue rayed from the pupil like spokes in a wheel. His eyes were so arresting she began to lose track of the conversation.

“Show me you understand.”

“I don’t understand what you want, Marsh.”

“What’s to understand? Didn’t you do as much for Gary? C’mon. I know he was a boob man. He always was, from the time we were kids.” Marsh’s hands trembled as he grasped her shoulders, and Abby could tell his hands wanted to slide down, over the breasts he’d just complimented.

“I just want to see your breasts,” he said. “Maybe touch them a little. Gary always said you had beautiful breasts. A little more than a handful, and sweet.”

“Gary never talked to you about my breasts!” She didn’t know what shocked her more—that Marsh wanted her to show him her naked breasts, or the idea that Gary had talked to Marsh about something so personal. “Our sex life is—was—private.”

“He was my brother. He told me a lot of things that would surprise you.”

“What else did he tell you?” Abby gasped, clutching at the front of her shirt as if the buttons might fly off by the force of Marsh’s hungry gaze alone.

“He told me you’re the sweetest bit of tail a man could wish for. He told me you’re generous, and a little shy, and kind of prudish until you’ve had a little wine.”

Prudish? Abby stared at Marsh, her mouth dropping open. Tail?

When he reached out and tucked her tumbled hair behind her ears, she didn’t stop him. He leaned his forehead against hers and spoke sweetly, reminding her how much help he was around the place. He told her how much he missed Gary. When his fingertip touched the hollow of her throat and traced her collarbone, she didn’t stop him. He told her grief had made her slimmer and more beautiful than ever. He talked about the projects he had in mind, how simple it would be to build a ramp out the back door to the patio for their wheelchair clients.

When he unbuttoned her shirt and smoothed the lapels back against the fabric, she didn’t stop him.

And when, a little later, he straddled her, holding her down on the living room floor with his knees planted at her elbows in a promise of pain if she fought, and his hands pressing her breasts together while his hips pistoned his humid, naked penis between them, she couldn’t stop him.

* * *

Marsh’s silver Honda sedan started immediately when he turned the key. He adjusted the seat backward an inch. Abigail hadn’t slid it back where it belonged last time she’d driven the car. Her list of sins was long, and getting longer as the day dragged into evening. Marsh backed out of the driveway, now that the last of the clients and their families were gone.

They wouldn’t be back in the morning, either. He’d bought himself a day with the story of Abigail’s contagious virus—a stomach virus, he’d explained to the families, lots of vomiting, the doctor would want her to rest and hydrate, give her body a chance to recover, certainly they were too professional to expose the clients to such a virulent ailment.

She’d need every moment of that recovery time when he was finished with her, Marsh thought furiously, spinning the Honda’s steering wheel and guiding the sedan swiftly around the corner. It was only a few blocks to the convenience store. He could have walked there in the time it would take to drive and park again, but he had a sinking feeling he’d be chasing Abigail all over town half the night.

At the convenience store, he parked by the front door and waited, engine idling quietly, watching a few customers come and go. He didn’t see Abigail inside, and the clerk at the register was a woman, not the idiot he’d spoken to earlier. Even better; he preferred to talk to women, anyway. When the last customer drove away, Marsh went inside.

He scanned the aisles quickly on his way to the refrigerator wall at the back, where he selected a soda and took it up to the register. Abigail wasn’t crouching behind a display or sitting in one of the booths in the café area near the coffee stand and fountain drinks.

“Hey,” said the clerk, smiling.

“Hey, yourself,” Marsh replied with a big grin. She was a cute little number, a bit long in the tooth, but she took care of herself. No dark roots in the blond hair, though it was teased too high for his personal preference. Not too much makeup, except where her mascara clumped. Her top fit her body nicely without looking trashy. “Hope it’s been a good one for you. You must be about to head home to your hubby and a good dinner.”

She laughed and turned his soda around to show the barcode to the reader. “Not me, no. Hubby’s long gone to hell or Arizona, I don’t care which, not that I could tell the difference. Got a while left on shift, too.”

Marsh fished slowly in his wallet, buying time while he thought about how to get the information he wanted from her. “A shame, great-looking gal like you.”

“Well, hey, thanks.” Her cheeks went pink, just a little, and Marsh smiled even wider.

“But speaking of great-looking gals, I was wondering if my own gal’s been here. She’s late getting home. I figured I’d swing by her work and give her a ride home, but they said she left a while ago. Sometimes she stops off here on her way home. Seen her? I hate to sound like a worrywart, but you know how it is.”

The clerk shot her hip to the right and gave him another smile. “Least someone cares about her, right? What’s she look like?”

“She’s got long brown hair. She likes to wear it in a ponytail. Probably in jeans and a blue shirt, if she just got off work. Big gray eyes. Bet she looks tired, too.”

The woman thought for a moment, took the five he held out and pursed her lips. “I don’t think I’ve seen her.”

“Maybe it was before your shift, then. Is the other guy still here? Maybe I could talk to him, too.” Get a real good look at the jerk who’d had his hands all over Abigail. Unbuttoning her shirt. Letting down her hair. Touching things that didn’t belong to him.

He hadn’t said it just right, or maybe he didn’t have his face blank enough. Either way, Marsh knew the moment he’d lost the connection. She straightened up and gave him a long, cool stare before counting out his change. She put it on the counter between them instead of putting it into his hand. She closed the cash drawer, and then took a step back. “He’s not here,” she said slowly. “Tell you what, why don’t you leave your phone number, and I’ll mention you stopped in. He can call you, maybe.”

Marsh pasted a smile on his face again. “That’s okay. She’s probably just taking the scenic route. She likes the park. I’ll try her there. Thanks for your help.” Thanks for nothing.

“Sure you don’t want to leave your number?” She pushed a pad of paper and a pen toward him.

So you can give it to the cops? Think I’m stupid? Marsh shook his head and took his change and his soda. “Thanks, anyway. I’m sure she’s just stopped at a friend’s or something like that. I’m sure I’m worrying for nothing.” He tried another smile, but it felt false on his face. He lifted the soda bottle in a cheery toast and kept his stride even, pace calm. Not a worried man, no. No reason to be worried.

The Honda started right up, as always. But Marsh looked at the glass front of the convenience store, where the clerk stood looking out at him, a pen and a pad of paper in hand.

“You’d better not be writing down my license plate number, bitch,” he muttered under his breath, fighting the urge to screech the Honda out of the parking lot and into the street with the accelerator pressed to the floor. His heart gave a thud at the idea of the cops showing up at his house, asking about a woman who hadn’t come home from work. A check on Abigail’s welfare. For the first time the chance of Abigail reporting him to the cops seemed possible. Always before now he’d had her within arm’s reach, where he could talk her around, explain to her how things worked, how crazy she made him. Crazy with love and desperate to keep her. He’d given up his life in Jacksonville to move to this pissant town, all because Abigail was here.

God, he loved her. Now she was his, the way she should have been from the start, before Gary somehow got between them. Marsh had seen her first, but it was Gary who’d managed to hook her, and Marsh had never figured out how that had happened. Somewhere between one bottle of beer at a neighborhood barbecue and the next, Abigail was laughing at Gary’s stupid jokes and sitting next to him on the edge of her cousin’s swimming pool. Marsh could still see her long tanned legs dangling in the water, the skirt of her sundress above her knees to keep it from getting wet. Then she and Gary started dating, going for long walks and dinners, having heart-to-heart talks that didn’t include Marsh.

Marsh would find her; he had to. He hadn’t worked this hard only to have her run away.

Thinking about the barbecue reminded him of the most logical place to look: Judy and Drew’s house. They were easily a mile away, but Abigail had had all afternoon to walk there. If she was anywhere, she would be at her best friend’s house.

Marsh slowed to a stop at the next corner, got his bearings and headed north, thinking all the while about the first time Abigail had taken him to Judy and Drew’s for a barbecue, not all that long after they’d put Gary in the ground. He replayed the evening in his mind.

“Turn left?” Marsh had asked.

“Yes. Judy and Drew live in that blue house—right here.”

“Where is it you know Judy from, again?” Marsh guided the Honda to the curb. It was quiet and sweet in the cabin of the car, with Abigail in the passenger seat. Sweet, so sweet. He liked when their elbows brushed, liked the way her light perfume fragranced each breath he took.

“She used to help me and Gary out sometimes, when we first opened the day care.”

“Oh, yeah. What’s Drew do?”

“He’s a mechanic. Got his own shop.”

Marsh and Abigail had been out to dinner a few times in the past couple of months, but this was the first time any of her friends would meet him since Gary’s funeral. They stood by the car a moment. Abigail must have noticed him biting his lower lip, because she spoke softly as she came around the back of the car.

“What’s up, Marsh?”

“I was just wondering if we turned off the iron. Maybe we should go back and check.” He really wasn’t in a party mood; he would rather be back at Gary’s—Abigail’s—house, having a quiet dinner in the kitchen, and maybe some television after. They’d sit on the sofa, only a foot or so apart. Where he could touch her, if he wanted.

“It shuts itself off after a few minutes. Gary was so forgetful, it was easier to buy one that remembered for him.”

He nodded, reaching into the backseat for the fruit salad they’d brought for the potluck. Abigail touched his arm. “They liked Gary. They’ll like you.”

“I’m not Gary.”

Abigail was clearly touched by his insecurity. Her smile was gentle and understanding. “Just stick close to me, then.”

The party was on Drew and Judy’s big patio in the backyard. Marsh was friendly to others, but attentive to Abigail, bringing her drinks and surprising her with a filled plate from the buffet table as she sat talking with one of Judy’s neighbors. He stood behind her and reached for an occasional nibble.

“You know, they’ll let you have your own plate, Marsh.”

“Yours tastes better.” Marsh laughed. The neighbor smiled at their banter. They were a couple, weren’t they? It was apparent to others already.

Yes, he thought now. That’s where Abigail will be. Having coffee, getting sympathy from that bitch Judy, telling lies about me to explain why she isn’t home tending to her business.

He parked and got out of the car. It was time for Abigail to come home, where she belonged. His fists clenched at his sides and he shook them out, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, loosening up, before he strode up the walkway to the little blue house. He couldn’t arrive at the door angry. Drew was probably there.

Halfway to the door, Marsh turned around, went back to the car and drove around the corner before turning in a neighbor’s driveway and driving slowly back, to park two houses down. He turned off the engine and the lights, and simply watched. Drew might be there, and he’d certainly understand Marsh’s desire to have Abigail back at home where she belonged, but maybe Marsh would have a chance to see for himself just how traitorous Abigail had become.

Because what if...just maybe...Drew was the man Abigail had run off with?

Marsh sat in the early twilight, strong fingers drumming on the steering wheel, watching Drew and Judy’s house. Thinking.

Planning.

* * *

“Abigail? Do you understand me?” Cade asked her a second time for agreement, looking into her cloudy gray eyes. Though she was meeting his gaze, she was far away in her thoughts, and they weren’t happy ones, judging from the faint vertical line between her silky brows, and the tightness of her lips. Strands of her hair had escaped her ponytail and were sticking to the sides of her face and her neck. Cade knew a sudden urge to lift them away and put them back where they belonged, or to loose her hair entirely, watch it catch the bright light.

At last she nodded. “I won’t try anything stupid. Promise.”

“Good.” He released her, moved behind her and used the short, thick blade of his pocketknife to cut the cable ties that served as impromptu handcuffs. The skin of her wrists was reddened where she had strained against the bonds, but unbroken, and not bruised. It was velvety soft where he touched it, slightly moist with sweat. He watched her shoulders slump in relief at the release of tension. She massaged her wrists and shoulders briefly before standing to examine the contents of the first aid kit.

“Sit down,” she told him, adding “please” when he raised an eyebrow at her. He sat with his back away from her, so she’d have to reach around him to get to the gun, jammed tight in the back of his waistband. He gestured to Mort to wait not far away. The dog retreated to a blob of dark shade under a nearby scrub oak, and turned to face them.

“He’s got the right idea.” Abigail nodded toward the dog, opening a package of gauze pads and wetting two. “It’s really hot out here. Shade would be nice. I’m going to wash the area of the cut. Speak up if what I’m doing hurts.”

Cade felt her slim fingers probing at the wound, assessing the shape and size of the goose egg. Then came the welcome cool of the wet cotton, soaking first, and then gently swabbing away blood from his hair and skin. He sat alert, though it was more for show than need. She seemed absorbed in her task, dabbing, remoistening the pads and setting them aside as they became red with his blood. She was close enough that he could smell her skin, acrid with leftover fear and adrenaline, perspiration, an undertone of soap. She moved his head from one position to the next like someone who was comfortable touching others. An image of Abigail mending the cuts and scrapes of a child snagged in the screen of his mind. The abruptness of the thought and his vague, negative reaction to it startled him.

I hope I’m not keeping her away from her kids. But then, if there are kids at home, maybe they’re the reason she left. Sometimes they get to be too much. I don’t think I ever want kids. He knew she was widowed, but how many people were in her family? The urge to know the answer was too strong, so he began to lead her to an answer.

“You seem like a pro at this first aid thing.”

She replied promptly, though her tone was a little distracted. “Just part of a day’s work. I get first aid and CPR training every year.”

“Kids, huh? How many?”

“No, none.”

He was pleased and relieved by her answer. “Nurse?”

“Adult day care. Hold still.... I’m going to probe around the edges of this lump. I can’t tell you how sorry I am you got injured.”

Adult day care. He thought about that for a while. It didn’t jibe, the idea of Abigail as a skilled health care professional and the fact she was a car thief. People who took on that kind of responsibility didn’t just walk away from their lives without cause. Nothing about her jibed, not yet.

“Lots of accidents like this in adult day care?”

Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile that made his fingers itch to touch the curling corner and the dimple just beside it. Under the mask of strain she was an attractive woman, if too thin. “If you mean do I take corners too fast when transporting my clients, and give them all head injuries...no. But things get knocked over and break, and then someone tries to help pick up the pieces and gets cut. Or someone will have a seizure. Sometimes the stress is too much for one of them and they think hitting their head on the wall again and again will help. Even obsessively gnawing hangnails until they bleed. Things like that.”

Abigail put her palms on his cheeks and tilted his head far to one side. She didn’t hesitate to touch his scarred face. You get points for having balls, Abigail. Most people shy away from that on first sight. Almost none would be willing to touch me. Her hands were gentle but firm, unintentionally caressing, and an image flitted through his mind of her bending to kiss him. Cade was thankful she couldn’t read his inappropriate thoughts. The idea of dragging her ass—and it could be a great ass if she weren’t so thin; he’d noticed the upside-down heart shape of it already—to the sheriff in Wildwood appealed less and less.

He was glad he didn’t know the deputies in Wildwood, not the way he knew them here locally in his home jurisdiction of Ocala, or Gainesville, where he’d done undercover work, before the incident that marked him for life. He could just picture himself escorting Abigail into his home station and explaining he’d been stupid enough to leave his truck running and the door standing open like an engraved invitation, and this sweet-faced woman with the capable hands had waltzed off with it.

It would be joke fodder for months. Years. He’d hear about it at every stolen vehicle report, every poker night, fishing trip, birthday parties for their kids, weddings, funerals, K-9 training sessions. The ragging would never end. Even the administrative staff and the dispatchers would get in on the fun.

No. If he took her in, and that was looking like a more remote if all the time, it wouldn’t be to any station where he was known, either currently or in the past.

She spoke again. “Does it hurt when I press, or are you just stoic?”

“It hurts a little, but I’ve had worse.”

“Really? Hmm.” She wetted yet another cotton ball and dabbed some more. “This may leave a scar. I’m sorry about that.”

The idea was ludicrous. Compared with the ugly raw meat that was the left side of his face, a half-inch nick in his scalp, easily concealed by hair, was nothing. He tried to hold in his laughter, and ended up shaking silently.

Abigail drew back and stared at Cade. “What’s so funny?”

“It might scar?” He thrust the left side of his face toward her and said, “Like I said, I’ve had worse.”

She blushed, darkly, and it made her gray eyes sparkle. He couldn’t tell whether she was holding back tears or laughter. One knee was up on the bench to balance her, and Cade knew a sudden urge to cup her hips, stroke the long line of her thigh. What the hell, Latimer? Get a grip, and not on your suspect.

“Oh. I...see what you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Chemical burn? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“That old standby...acid.”

“Did something blow up in your face?”

Yeah...a meth bust went bad. They’d made me and I never knew it. That little twerp and his goon of a buddy... The little twerp was smarter than I thought. I got cocky, and he got lucky, and then I got scarred.

“You could say that.” He hoped his tone would discourage more questions, but Abigail just went back to dabbing at the wound as if acid burns were something completely normal.

“It will bleed just a little more, I think. I’m going to put some of this ointment with anesthetic and antibiotics on it. It’ll be hard to bandage unless we shave the area.”

“No shaving. Does it need stitches?”

“I...don’t think so, but I’m going to try a couple of these butterfly bandages on it and see if those help close the gap.”

He felt a slight sting as she applied the cream, then it numbed the area of the cut. It was as Abigail was leaning to reach the kit again for the butterfly bandages that her much-washed chambray shirt, minus a button at bra level, gaped open. Where the plackets separated he saw the purple and yellow of bruises, both fresh and fading, on the upper curves of her breasts, where they swelled from the cups of a practical white cotton bra.

Bruises with a definite outline of the too-firm grip of a hand. She hadn’t done that to herself.

Cop reflex took over. He gripped her upper arms and brought her upright again where he could review the evidence. She gasped and paled in pain.

“Sit down,” he said roughly, rising. He hadn’t grabbed her that hard, which only meant she had more bruises elsewhere, as instinct and experience had told him she must. He slackened his grip, but only slightly.

What happened next twisted his gut.

“Please. Please don’t. Please. Please. I’ll do whatever you want, just please. Don’t.” The woman was begging, scrabbling backward, trying her damnedest to get away, and her voice was filled with the most pathetic dread Cade had ever heard. Cade released her upper arms since it was clear he was causing her pain, and let his hands slip down to her wrists, where he locked his fingers in a grip she would not be able to break easily, even though she had more leverage. She flailed and thrashed, continuing to beg for release, until he caught both wrists in one hand and got close enough to thread the fingers of his free hand into her ponytail and immobilize her. She froze, gazing up with terrified, tear-filled eyes and half-open mouth, breathing as though she’d sprinted a mile.

“Stop. Abigail. Calm down. I don’t want anything from you but the truth. That’s all.”

Her breath came in sobbing, hitching gasps, but she remained still. Holding her gaze, Cade dropped her ponytail and carefully, slowly, turned back the front of her shirt before he looked at the uncovered area he’d glimpsed.

Oh, yes, finger bruises. Someone liked to squeeze her small, pretty breasts to the point of pain and beyond. He bet himself he’d find matching bruises in rings around her upper arms, too. God knew where else. Anywhere they could be easily hidden, no doubt. He knew how abusers worked. Their private, sadistic indulgences were just that, and there would be hell to pay when their victims couldn’t conceal the evidence any longer.

Or in Abigail’s case, wouldn’t. This was why she’d stolen his truck. She was running, running like hell.

She bent her head and her ponytail slithered forward over her chest, shielding herself from his gaze.

“Let me see, Abigail. I won’t hurt you, but I need to know bruises are the worst of it.”

“That...that crummy button!” The words came out in the most embarrassed, horrified tone Cade had ever heard a woman use.

He couldn’t tell whether the trembling that shook her entire body was laughter, tears, fear, pain or all of the above. She swayed on her feet like an exhausted toddler, and he realized she might fall if she remained standing. He sank back onto the picnic table bench and drew her down with him. She drooped like a flower with a crushed stem, and it was the most natural thing in the world to put an arm around her. In all his thug-tracking days he’d never comforted a criminal like this. How many of them had wept and gazed at him with pitiful, wet eyes? How easily had he withstood those bids for sympathy and lenience? How many of them ended up in the back of the patrol car on the way to jail, where they belonged?

But how quickly, in just moments, had Abigail McMurray and her gigantic problem become the thing he most needed to fix in the world. He felt her stiffness melting away like snow in the Florida sun, and shortly she was leaning against his chest, her hands creeping up to hang on to his shoulders as if he were the only solid thing left on the planet. He took his gun out of his waistband and set it on the ground out of her reach. No sense in being stupid, even if his gut and his crotch were trying so damned hard to overrule his brain.

Now I have the truth.

He had what he thought he wanted, yes. But knowing what had pushed Abigail to take his truck wasn’t enough. Now he wanted the man who had done the damage, wanted him fiercely, with a dark, chill fury that was more vendetta than justice. He shouldn’t feel this way—his law enforcement training should have kept him from the brink. He hardly knew Abigail, and the fact she’d stolen his truck didn’t make her domestic abuse issues his problem.

But somehow they were.

He felt her tears soaking his shirt, her sobs shaking her body, and stared over her head toward the tea-dark river where something had taken the lure on his fishing line and was merrily dragging his pole down the sandy bank into the water.

Aw, hell. You know it’s bad when I choose a sobbing woman over the best reel I own. Goodbye, pole. Hello, trouble.