Читать книгу A Different Kind of Man - Suzanne Cox - Страница 10

THE LOUD RUMBLING of a Harley broke the silence. A smile tried to work its way onto Jackson’s face, but he managed to battle it down in favor of a more nonchalant expression. A woman who drove a truck like Emalea’s and rode a custom Harley was something of a mystery to him. One he couldn’t afford to ponder, no matter how badly he wanted to, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself when he bothered to listen.

From the front porch, he watched her come up the driveway. A tightening below his belt called to his attention the fact that parts he’d thought were dormant had suddenly decided to make themselves known. Even though, when he’d first seen her, he’d imagined he could have a fling with a wild biker girl, that idea hadn’t survived long. Besides, Emalea wasn’t exactly a wild biker girl looking for a fling. She didn’t seem to be looking for anything, which was good because he had nothing to offer.

“Hi!” She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly skyward. She’d changed into jeans with a bright red T-shirt.

He fumbled for a moment over what to say next. “I, uh, have some sweet tea if you’d like a glass before I take you home.” He sometimes wondered at his own stupidity. He didn’t know why he’d asked such a thing. She only raised an eyebrow.

“What does someone from Chicago know about sweet tea? I thought you’d only know two kinds of tea, hot and cold.”

He rocked back on his feet. “I’m originally from Arkansas so I know exactly how to put the sugar in the tea when I make it.”

Her laugh was low and soft, not what he expected, but it made him eager to hear more.

“Tea would be good. But I can’t stay. I’ve got an early appointment in the morning.”

He started toward the door. Just a quick drink, then they would leave. “If you’ll come in for a minute, I’ll get my keys, while we have some tea.”

The polite thing would have been to ask if she wanted to join him for dinner. But she’d already said she had to get back home, so he wasn’t being completely inhospitable. He should have been angry with her after yesterday, instead of wondering if he was being a good host. Somehow the whole thing only made him want to grin. A good sign that he’d put all his pent-up anger behind him. He placed her glass of tea on the bar while he admired the way loose strands from her ponytail framed her face. His fingers itched to pull the elastic band off to see how far her hair fell down her back.

He poured tea in his own glass while giving himself a mental butt kicking. He’d known this woman for less than forty-eight hours. In two years he’d never been tempted to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.

“So how does an Arkansas boy, turned Chicago dweller, end up in Cypress Landing, Louisiana?”

He smiled—though he imagined it looked a little forced—while he made a decision only to give her the basics. She didn’t need to know how rough the road was that had brought him here.

“When I first started at the FBI I worked on missing children cases. I came here to help with a string of abductions that were happening.”

“Of course, I remember you. Or at least I remember FBI agents being here. I was new in SAR back then, and I didn’t work on those cases. I guess I never met you.”

“You might have. I had hair back then and no goatee. Right after that I made a move from missing children to working organized crime.” He didn’t mention that after his daughter had been born he couldn’t take seeing what often happened to children who were abducted. “Anyway, I worked organized crime a couple of years then decided to leave the FBI. Matt and I had become friends when I was here and he offered me a job. I really liked the town and I didn’t want to go back to Arkansas.” That would have been too much like hiding, and he didn’t want to have any slipups with his self-control in his own hometown. “So, here I am.”

She nodded, and he tried to let go of the breath he felt like he’d been holding. Obviously, the flimsy story made sense to her.

The phone rang, startling Emalea. She’d been trying to remember Jackson being in Cypress Landing, but that had been years ago. He stepped to the counter to get the phone, while she continued to sip her iced tea. So far so good. He hadn’t made any references to yesterday. As a matter of fact, he was being absolutely cordial. Kind of odd after the way she’d behaved at the bar.

Standing in the kitchen with him while he was on the phone almost felt like eavesdropping, so she wandered through a wide archway into the next room and paused in front of a small mahogany table with several pictures on it. In the other room Jackson ended the conversation and she heard drawers opening and closing.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he shouted. “I need to find a phone number and make a quick call.”

Emalea didn’t respond but stood staring at the pictures in front of her. The first silver frame held a photo of Jackson with two men and a younger girl. The resemblance was too strong for them to be anyone other than his brothers and sister. A wistful smile drifted along her lips. Two more pictures framed in silver caught her eye.

“Do you know where the SAR training will be held?”

Emalea jumped at the question. He hadn’t looked up from the drawer he was digging in. She continued to stand by the table. “I’m not sure.”

He must not have thought her mumbled response unusual, because he continued plundering in the drawer. She lifted the pictures from the table. One was Jackson with a beautiful blond woman and an equally beautiful blond little girl. The other was of the woman and the girl alone.

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never considered that he might be married. Not that it mattered to her, but why weren’t they here? Maybe they were coming after he got settled.

She glanced back toward him. “Is this your family?” No reason to beat around the bush; if the guy was married or divorced or whatever, he ought to let someone know.

Jackson, half smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question. He strode to the sink—his back to her—and stopped to grasp the edge of the counter.

Returning the pictures to the table, she went in to the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself, this might be a subject that makes him angry. She didn’t want to make him angry with her, not while they were alone at his house. Although this time, her usual flash of fear was absent. The sickly mask of stone that had settled onto him concerned her more.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.” He slowly relaxed his grip.

“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory.”

He nodded, still gazing out the window as though he might see something in the darkening sky. “You’re lucky if you haven’t had to deal with losing someone in your family.”

“My mother was killed in an accident when I was twelve.” Emalea fought the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. Why in heaven’s name had she said that? He didn’t need to know about her past. An accident? What a stretch.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you not able to stay with your dad? Is that why you went to live with your aunt and uncle?”

She wondered if she could say she had to go to the bathroom, then just never answer his question. “My dad was… Well he wasn’t around after my mom died.”

Jackson didn’t respond, seemingly satisfied with her rough interpretation of the truth. His fingers tapped absently on the counter.

“It’s still not like losing your wife and child, though. I’m sorry.”

He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.

“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”

The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she’d run out the door. But she didn’t even feel the fear that had once resided constantly inside her. Even though he appeared physically capable of doing whatever he wanted, he didn’t seem to have that spark of pure meanness that could make men dangerous. He didn’t notice that she stared at him, and she was glad because she couldn’t stop. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.

“I guess I better get you home.” He stepped away from the sink, grabbing a set of keys from the bar. “You want to go in my truck or on the motorcycle?”

“Truck,” she responded quickly. An image of being on the motorcycle with her arms wrapped around him was too much.

“What about the phone call you needed to make?”

He shook his head. “It can wait.”

CLASSIC ROCK MUSIC HID the fact they weren’t talking. She had only spoken to give him directions, and Jackson easily found her small house at the end of a short driveway. Huge live oak branches hung low in her yard. The whole scene sent waves of peacefulness washing over him.

“Live here by yourself?”

“Yeah, my aunt and uncle live just around the corner from their shop in town but I like it here.”

He rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “It’s been quite a change for me from the city. I’m enjoying the solitude, most of the time anyway. I appreciate your bringing the bike and having tea with me.”

It was true, even though he’d had to speak of his family. Something he was always loath to do, though what had he expected when with the pictures were sitting in plain sight? Normally, he was able to discuss the horror of two years ago without all the emotional upheaval he’d felt tonight. He should have told her the whole story. But what was the point?

She was out of the truck, waving goodbye before he realized she had opened the door.

“Umm. Thanks for the ride, and no hard feelings about the motorcycle thing, right?”

“None at all. I said so earlier, remember. Everybody has to let their bad side loose once in a while.” He smiled but she appeared to be less than congenial. She seemed…well, scared. There was no other word for the way her eyes rounded and her breath seemed to come in gasps. He’d seen plenty of people afraid—he’d been the cause of it many times—but he certainly hadn’t expected to see this woman afraid of anything. The worst thing was he didn’t know what had caused that expression.

She was on her front porch and in the house before he could say anything else. Stepping on the accelerator, he headed toward the highway. He hadn’t really had a good chance to tell her how his family had died, had he? But then again, why bother? It wasn’t like he was going to be asking her to dinner or spending long hours cuddling on the sofa with her, although just the thought of it made him want to give it a try. He shook his head. No way. He’d have to help with the search-and-rescue team, it was part of his job, but helping didn’t mean getting involved with Emalea.

He wasn’t going to have a relationship with a woman again. Being a magnet for death and destruction wasn’t conducive to happily ever after. That’s what he was, a death magnet. The loss of Christa and Connor had proved that.

The charred ruins of Christa’s car hung in his memory like the black smoke that had poured from the wreckage. Just another job for one of the men hired by the Mafia family he’d gone undercover to investigate. That assignment had ended his world and sent him, two years later, to live in this small town, far from the greedy fingers of organized crime. He’d never again let himself have so much to lose.

THE BEEPER IN EMALEA’S PURSE hummed as she finished her notes on Kent’s session. Her last for the day, thank goodness. Something was bothering the boy. Though he’d been gone for nearly an hour, she was still struggling with the feeling. Hints of violence at home had Emalea doing a very personal check. She didn’t want to miss any abuse that should be reported, nor did she want to read something into the situation because of her own experiences. Another session, then maybe he’d begin to trust her more. All she really wanted to do now was go home and soak in the tub for, oh, maybe an hour.

Her lips thinned and her pulse quickened to a rapid pace. Finding the number for the sheriff’s department on her beeper wasn’t usually a good sign. Putting her pen and notebook aside, she found her cell phone and called the number.

“Dana, it’s Em. What’s up?” Emalea tapped her finger on the desk hoping someone had dropped a boat motor in the river and needed help locating it.

“Thank goodness I got you, Em. There’s been a shooting at the boat launch at Red Bluff Road.”

“A shooting? What do you mean?”

“I mean someone’s been shot and killed. The body’s still there. Jackson thinks the shooter might have tossed the gun in the water. Matt wants you to get your gear and come have a look-see.”

Emalea groaned inwardly. “I’m on my way.”

Diving in the river was something she absolutely hated, though she’d never admit it. The water was muddy and she was never sure just what she might find in the heavy silt.

Leaving the school behind, she tried to keep herself calm. She hadn’t even asked who’d been shot. People just didn’t get shot in Cypress Landing. Unless you counted the time Ole Sebe’s hunting rifle had gone off and the bullet had grazed Grady Redding’s arm. Unfortunately, working search-and-rescue meant seeing some ugliness firsthand. She generally ended up knowing way more about crimes in the community than she wanted. This was definitely going to be one of those times.

THE SCENT OF MUDDY WATER, crushed grass and car exhaust was thick in the air as Emalea sat on the tailgate of her truck tugging her wet suit on over a bright blue swimsuit. The water wouldn’t be cold, but she liked the protection of the wet suit, and if the search took very long, even the warmest water could begin to chill.

She watched the deputies keep back a few nosy onlookers. With its grassy parking area and shade trees, Red Bluff boat launch was a more likely place for a picnic than a shooting. The launch itself was at the bottom of the hill and not quite as picturesque. The current here didn’t make it a very good place to launch a boat, so few people used it, but the parish kept it in working condition as best they could, though she remembered hearing that it was underwater only a few weeks ago.

With her weight belt fastened and her tank secured to her buoyancy compensator vest, she was ready to go. The buoyancy compensator, or BC jacket, could be inflated with air to keep her from sinking to the bottom of the river once she was underwater. The regulator she would breath from was also attached to the tank and swinging near her arm. With fins and an underwater metal detector in hand, she set off in a cumbersome gait to the river’s edge.

“Em, sorry I had to call you.” Matt took off his shades to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “I tried Bud and Cody, but they were both working out of town.”

The wet suit was making the heat feel oppressive, and Emalea took a deep breath. “No problem, I can do it. Was the victim someone from around here?”

Matt shook his head. “No. He had an Illinois driver’s license.”

A large body appeared between Emalea and the river. “What are you doing?”

Her mouth was dry, and she had to wet her lips with a parched tongue before she could speak. “I’m searching for the gun you think is in the river.” She flapped her fins against her leg. “Kind of obvious I would think.”

Jackson turned to Matt. “Absolutely not. She’s not doing this. If there’s no one else, I’ll do it.”

Matt winked while attaching a safety rope to the front of Emalea’s vest. “She’s doing it, Jackson. You’re the investigator. I need you up here coordinating. She’s the search-and-rescue diver. This is what she does.”

Jackson didn’t move for a moment, then his fingers closed around her upper arm.

“No. It’s too dangerous. The current’s fast, and who knows what could be down there.”

Emalea made a half step but the restraint at her arm tightened and she jerked to loosen his grip. When he wouldn’t let go, she felt a little sick. She twisted roughly away from him, nearly upending herself. Matt held her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“Enough already. We did handle things before you got here.” The sheriff glared at Jackson.

Bossy, and overbearing, that’s what he was. She poked his arm with the metal detector. “Don’t worry, boss, I can handle it.” She moved away from him and waded into the water.

Following her, he caught her upper arm again but this time with less force. She noticed Matt still watching them. If Jackson planned on manhandling her, he’d have a huge fight on his hands. Instead he helped her balance, as she lifted one foot then the other to slide her fins in place. When she reached for her mask, he still held on.

“I’ll be needing that arm.”

He tightened his grip. “Be careful. If something doesn’t feel right, I want you back here immediately, understand?”

“You act like the shooter’s sitting on bottom waiting for me.”

“I don’t want you sitting on bottom.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Grabbing the slate and pencil hanging from her BC, he jotted compass coordinates. “Use your compass and work this grid. I don’t know how deep it is here but don’t go deeper than fifty feet.”

Emalea flashed him a thumbs-up then settled her mask on her face. She placed the headphones attached to the metal detector over her ears before wading into the murky water. Her first thought was how many times she’d have to wash her hair to get rid of the gunk.

Two flicks on the hose had the air adjusted in her BC jacket and she turned on her headlight. Now she was ready to work. Kicking hard, she made her way around the river bottom in small squares as Jackson had planned. Nothing but thick brown water swirled around her while the staccato beats of the metal detector sounded in her ears. The darkness began to close in and her chest tightened. She forced herself to breathe slowly and repeat, “Stay calm, this is important.” Her pulse slowed and she began the painstaking process again.

With only one small section of her search incomplete, Emalea had nearly decided the gun wasn’t there. Then the beeping of the machine changed. Her hand plunged into the mud, fingers connecting with something solid. Even through her gloves, she could tell it wasn’t a gun. Probing farther, she realized it was a heavy cloth, probably a bag that had fallen off someone’s boat.

She grasped the strap of the bundle, but it was wrapped around what she thought was a tree limb. Giving the bag a jerk, she sent silt swirling into the cone of light from her lamp. The thing felt as if it weighed a ton. Whatever it was would be the devil to get to the bank. Her fins planted in the mud, she hauled at the object. Something was coming toward her. It was… Oh God, a man’s face. And most of the flesh was missing from one side.

Letting go, she pushed for the surface. At the first brush of late evening sun on her skin, she flung the regulator aside sucking in the warm thick air. When she exhaled, the scream that had been bubbling all the way from her toes went with it. In her peripheral vision she saw Jackson shove the deputy holding her safety line to the ground. Then he grabbed the line himself and pulled until she was at the bottom of the launch. Her legs wouldn’t seem to work so she stayed on her hands and knees, gasping.

A huge pair of hands jerked her gear off and carried her to the back seat of the sheriff’s cruiser. Jackson swept scraggly wet hair away from her cheeks, until she could at last get her eyes to focus.

“Everything’s fine, Emalea. Just relax, then tell me what happened.”

Those brown eyes should have revived harrowing images of surging, dirt-filled water, but they didn’t. She could have happily, peacefully drowned in these depths.

“It’s… There’s another body.”

Jackson shot a look at Matt, who leaned into the car.

“I found something that felt like a bag. I think the arm of whoever it is might be tangled in the strap. When I yanked it really hard, a corpse floated right here.” She held a hand in front of her face, her body shivering uncontrollably.

Her wet suit would soak Jackson’s clothes, but the thought of protesting never crossed her mind when he pulled her close. She was beyond questioning why.

“Get someone in here to recover that body before the current takes it,” Jackson said to Matt.

“No, I can do it.” Dragging someone else in to finish her job wasn’t an option.

Arms tightened around her. “You’re not going back down there.”

She pushed him away. “Of course I am. I know where to find the body. Send me with an extra line and I’ll tie it off. You can pull in the body and the bag.”

“I’ve got another line in my trunk,” Matt said and headed for the back of the car.

Jackson moved with a swiftness Emalea hadn’t expected of such a big man. With one hand to the shoulder, he spun Matt around. “I said she isn’t going to do it.”

Matt spread his feet and stared. Jackson’s hands were clenched into fists, and she waited for him to take a swing. But Cypress Landing’s sheriff wasn’t one to back down, even when he was outsized. Matt continued to stand his ground.

Where was the man she’d shared a glass of tea with just a week ago? She’d been right to be afraid when he’d mentioned people letting loose their bad side. Emalea shivered and this time not from the cold water or the thought of the dead body she’d pulled from the mud. Jackson’s face was tight and the anger in his eyes seemed to have a life of its own.

Finally, Matt spoke, his lips thin and voice tight. “This is Emalea’s job as part of the SAR team. She said she’s willing to do it, so she will.” He paused for a moment. “I thought you told me you had a handle on this.”

Jackson’s whole body seemed to droop as he looked away. He strode quietly to the river as if he’d forgotten both of them. Had a handle on what? she wondered.

Matt retrieved the rope from the trunk and handed it to her. “He has a problem with his temper, so you steer clear.” He stood in front of her for a moment before going to answer a call on the radio. He didn’t bother to explain what had just happened, but one thing was obvious. She couldn’t risk getting to know Jackson Cooper.

As she pulled on her gear, Jackson appeared beside her. She would have preferred to ignore him, but he seemed intent on trying to help her.

“I’ll tie the bag and the body to this extra line, then you can pull both to the bank,” she told him.

He took the rope from her and knotted it to her vest. “This is the kind of stuff that will give you nightmares,” he said in a gruff whisper. His breath was warm against her ear. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

“They’ll have to get in line.” Their breath intermingled, and Jackson leaned toward her then blinked and quickly straightened. Emalea waded into the murky river again. More afraid of what was on the bank than what was in the water.

Using her compass as a guide, she went immediately to the spot where the body had been. Of course, the current had shifted it. As the minutes ticked by, she was certain the men on the shore were getting more anxious. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with the slow pace.

Just when she was beginning to think she’d never find the bag or the body, she felt something. This time, she grasped a pant leg. Continuing to delve around the muck, her hands landed on the bag. She found what felt like the handle and ran her extra line through it. Now for the worst part. Locating the leg again, she inched her hand along until she found a belt loop. Not allowing her brain to dwell on exactly what she was doing, Emalea knotted the line onto the loop then swam away. She surfaced and waved to the men.

As she started toward the boat launch, she felt herself being propelled through the water. Glancing ahead, she saw Jackson pulling at the safety line hooked to her vest while a few feet away deputies hauled in the body and bag. With his help, she was on the bank in a matter of seconds.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking off her gear.

He stepped forward to help her but she waved him off.

“I’ve got it. I just want to get this stuff off me. I’m sure they need you over there.” She tipped her head toward the bank where the body was lying.

He took a step away, then paused. “I’d like to see you before you leave.”

She frowned. “Sorry, but I’m going straight home to bathe for an hour or three. I imagine you’ll be tied up here a while.”

For an instant Emalea thought she heard him sigh. But he left without another word. Struggling to her truck, she dumped her gear in the back and slammed the tailgate. She’d spend the first hour washing the dirty water from her diving equipment. As the truck rumbled down the road, she wondered if anything would wash from her mind the image of the body floating in front of her.