Charity's Angel (14 page)

"Of course we do," Brian said supportively. "As soon as we get you moved out of here, we"ll settle you anywhere you like."

"Maybe she doesn't want to move out," Gabe said quietly, speaking for the first time since the argument began.

"You stay out of this." Brian shot him an angry look. "If it wasn't for you, she—"

"Brian." Charity didn't shout this time but there was a steely note in her voice that made him break off instantly.

"If it wasn't for Gabe, I would be dead." She tilted her head back to fix her older brother with a stern look. "I've told him and I'll tell you. He has nothing to feel guilty about."

"You don't have to defend me," Gabe told her.

"Damn right, she doesn't." Brian caught Charity's eye and subsided.

"What do you want to do, Charity?" It was left to Jay to get back to the main question.

Charity threw a quick glance at Gabe before focusing her attention on the toes of her tennis shoes. She knew what she wanted to do. She just didn't know if it was the smart thing to do.

Remembering the steamy kiss she and Gabe had shared just before the doorbell rang, she wondered if the smart choice wouldn't be to let Brian move her out as quickly as possible.

But she didn't want to leave Gabe's house. She didn't want to leave Gabe. He'd said he found her attractive, desirable. If she left now, would she ever find out if he'd meant it?

"Charity?" Brian's prompting made her realize how long she'd been silent. The time had come to make a decision—right or wrong.

"If Gabe doesn't mind—"

"He doesn't," Gabe said, earning a fierce look from Brian.

"I'd like to stay here."

"
Y
ou know, there are moments—more than a few of them—when I have serious doubts about my suitability for this job." Gabe slammed his car door as he spoke.

Annie shut her own door with more control, sliding her partner a sympathetic glance. "You can only help people who want to be helped, Gabriel. You can't force people to do what's good for them. Nita has to make the decision to leave Lawrence herself. Then we can see about getting her some help."

"Why would she stay?" Gabe asked, his voice rough with frustration. "She's got family. They'd take her in."

"She thinks she loves him, sugar." Annie shrugged. "As long as she thinks that, she ain't goin' to leave him."

"Why would a nice kid like Nita hook up with a two-bit enforcer like Lawrence?" Gabe turned the key in the ignition, the movement so violent that Annie wouldn't have been surprised to see the key snap off.

"Maybe he seemed real romantic," she suggested as they pulled away from the curb.

Nita had probably already called her boyfriend to tefl him that the cops had been there asking questions. If Lawrence followed his past record, he'd come home and knock Nita around a bit, blaming her for the fact that the police were on to his protection racket.

Gabe's knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, imagining that it was Lawrence Moodie's neck.

"You're takin' this all a little too personal, sugar," Annie said lightly.

"How else should I take it?" he snapped, throwing her a quick, angry look as he flipped on the turn signal. "We just left a nineteen-year-old girl back there with a black eye and bruises all over her arms. And Moodie is going to show up as soon as we're gone and beat the hell out of her again. And we didn't even get anything useful out of her."

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the motion full of barely contained frustration.

"You're a cop, Gabriel, not God. You can't make everyone's problems right, no matter how much you'd like to."

"We're supposed to be taking people like Moodie off the street," he said tightly.

"And we will, but we can't arrest him until we've got enough evidence to build a solid case against him."

"And in the meantime, he uses a nineteen-year-old girl as a punching bag."

"Like I said, she's got to make the first move. Last time I checked, kidnappin' was still illegal, even when it's for someone's own good."

"Well, I think that's a gross oversight in the legal codes," Gabe complained. But he sounded more resigned than angry.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. They'd been partners long enough; spent so many hours together that they were long past the need to fill the silence with conversation.

"I'm thinking about resigning," Gabe said abruptly. He glanced at Annie, judging her reaction. She looked less surprised than he felt at having actually said the words out loud.

"Have you told the captain yet?"

"No." He shot her another look, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused at her calm acceptance. Amusement seemed most appropriate. "Aren't you going to express your stunned disbelief? How much you'd like me to stay on?"

Annie's mouth curved up in a smile. "Well, I'd be lyin' if I said I hadn't seen this comin', sugar."

"Do you know how annoying it is to have spent hours agonizing over a decision only to have someone say that she knew what you were going to decide all along?"

Annie grinned at his plaintive tone. "I know. It's one of my most irritatin' habits," she drawled. "Drives Bill crazy, the way I'm always right."

"And modest, too."

Gabe felt his black mood dissolving. Annie was right. He couldn't make everyone's problems his personal responsibility. A job like this required the ability to distance yourself from the misery that was an inevitable part of the work. He was losing that ability.

"Have you decided to quit for sure?"

"I think so. I'm losing my perspective, Annie. I used to be able to take something like this mess with Nita in stride. You do the best you can but you can't always solve the problem. You concentrate on the ones that go right, not the ones that go wrong." He recited the trite maxims as if they were printed on the windshield in front of them.

"You know that's the truth, sugar. You can't beat yourself up over the ones you can't help."

"It's getting harder and harder to believe that."

"Then it's probably time to quit before you get yourself killed tryin' to help someone who doesn't want to be helped."

"That's what I figured."

Annie smoothed her fingers over the crisp crease in her slacks, her expression thoughtful.

"Does this decision have anything to do with Charity Williams?"

"Indirectly," he said at last, aware that Annie was waiting for an answer. "But I think this has been coming for a long time."

The decision to leave the force had been a long time coming, but Gabe had expected to have more doubts when he finally made it. Instead he was filled with relief.

He wasn't sorry he'd joined the force, and he didn't regret the years he'd spent as a cop. In his more optimistic moments, he felt he'd made a difference, at least for a few people.

But the time to leave was now, while he still felt good about the job, before—as Annie had put it—he got himself killed trying to help someone who didn't want help.

How much of the decision was because of Charity, he couldn't say. Certainly she'd influenced his thinking. All the logic in the world couldn't wipe out the guilt he felt about her. He'd played the scene over in his mind a thousand times, and he honestly couldn't see what he could have done differently, but that didn't change the fact that he'd shot her.

But it wasn't just guilt over the shooting that had made him decide to leave the force. These past few weeks he'd begun to crave something more from life. Charity was the sort of woman who made a man begin to think of hearth and home, of building a life with someone, maybe even kids.

He was more than half in love with her, he admitted to himself. Her smile, her spirit, the way she kept fighting even when he could see the fear in her eyes-all of those were things he admired. But it was the moments when he saw her vulnerability that had made his heart drop into her hands.

The anger and frustration she'd felt over the debacle with the flour; the way she'd clung to him in the pool. He'd wanted nothing more than to gather her up in his arms and hold her close, promise that nothing would ever hurt her again.

Annie might have suggested that it was just his overdeveloped sense of chivalry speaking, but he didn't think it was quite that simple. He would admit that he had a tendency to want to fix the world's ills. But there was more than protectiveness in his feelings for Charity.

He cared for her. He wasn't quite ready to admit to anything deeper at this point, but he definitely cared for her. He was even starting to wonder whether or not she'd be interested in living on a ranch in Wyoming.

❧

Three days after her brother's rather explosive visit, Charity was beginning to wonder if it had been a mistake to stay at Gabe's house. It seemed as if Gabe had been distracted ever since.

Had she misread his signals? Only a few minutes before Brian's arrival, he'd talked her out of moving out—kissed her out of it, really. Surely he hadn't changed his mind in less than five minutes. But there was no denying that even when he was home in the same room, he didn't seem to be quite there.

Charity glowered down at her unresponsive legs. He felt guilty about the shooting—he'd admitted as much. He'd also said that the guilt was separate from wanting her. But how realistic was that?

Wasn't it more likely that he'd convinced himself that he desired her? That he was trying to make her feel better about the wheelchair. Maybe he wanted her to feel that she could live a full and active life, even if she never walked again.

God knows, he had to be wondering how likely that was. With every passing day, it was getting harder and harder to believe that her paralysis was temporary.

"What are you scowling at?" Diane's question made Charity turn her head to look at her sister. Diane was sprawled in a lounger beside the pool. Her perfect size-six body was barely clad in a deceptively simple one-piece swimsuit. Her skin gleamed with layers of sun block.

She looked like an ad for the perfect "California blonde," 1990s style, minus the deep tan that would have been de rigueur in the sixties.

Charity sighed, looking down at her own pale legs. It wasn't their pallor that bothered her. If only they'd move.

"You know, if you'd stop worrying about it so much, you'd probably walk a lot sooner," Diane said, guessing the direction of her sister's thoughts.

"Thanks for the advice," Charity snapped. "When was the last time you were paralyzed?"

"You're not paralyzed." Diane swung her legs to the ground, sitting on the edge of the lounger. Reaching up, she removed her sunglasses, fixing concerned green eyes on her younger sister. "You've got to keep thinking positive."

"I'm sick and tired, of thinking positive. It hasn't done me a bit of good. And I'm really tired of hearing people who are walking around on two perfectly good legs, telling me to 'think positive.'" Her voice took on a nasty, mimicking edge as she repeated the words.

"Sorry," Diane said stiffly. "I was only trying to help." She reached down to slip on her sandals. "Maybe it's time I left."

Charity watched her shrug into a gauzy beach robe and pick up the bottle of sunscreen. Her conscience nagged at her, demanding attention no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

"Wait." She reached out to grab Diane's arm before the other woman stood up. Diane waited, her expression stiff.

"I'm the one who's sorry," Charity said. She sighed. "I seem to have developed a temper like a rabid wolf lately. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

She felt Diane's arm relax beneath her finger an instant before she gave the smile that had graced countless magazine covers.

"That's okay. I shouldn't spout trite phrases at you."

"Trite phrases are about all anyone can offer at this point. No." She held up her hand. "Don't tell me that I've got to keep believing I'll walk again. I do believe it. Sort of. Most of the time."

"Well, I believe it completely, all the time," Diane said fiercely.

"Thanks. It helps to know somebody does." She sighed again, her hand dropping away from her sister's arm as she relaxed back in the chair. "I just get so impatient," she said, half to herself.

"Of course you do. But you've got to use that impatience, make it work for you." She caught the look Charity sent her and broke off with a laugh. "Okay, so I sound like a book of maxims for salesmen. But it's true and you know it."

"I guess."

Charity was aware of Diane's concern and she tried to project a more positive attitude. She didn't know why it had gotten so difficult to maintain that image lately. A combination of Gabe's distraction and her own building frustration, maybe. Whatever it was, it wasn't Diane's fault, and she didn't want her sister to worry any more than she already did.

"You know what you need?" Diane spoke so suddenly that Charity started.

"What?"
Besides legs that worked?

"You need to get out of this house. You haven't set foot off this lot since you got out of the hospital, except to go back to the hospital. No wonder you're feeling gloomy."

"I don't think so." Charity's hands locked on the arms of the chair.

"Of course you don't think so." Diane pursued the idea with ruthless good cheer. "You've gotten used to being here, and it feels nice and safe. But you should get out, see some new faces."

"And watch them stare at my legs?" Charity interrupted, not caring if she was being rude. Just the thought of going out in public was enough to make her sick to her stomach.

"No one's going to stare at your legs, Char."

"Oh, come on." Charity rolled her eyes, swallowing the urge to scream a refusal. "You don't believe that any more than I do. Maybe no one would be rude enough to gawk, but they'd steal little glances at me, wondering what's wrong with me, wondering if it's something marvelously interesting and fatal."

"I think you're underestimating people, Char."

"No, I'm not. I'm not saying anyone would be unkind. Or that they wouldn't feel sorry for me. But it's only human to wonder about something like this." She thumped the chair for emphasis. "I've been on the other side, remember? You see someone with a handicap and you wonder. You pity. And you thank heavens it isn't you."

Diane was silenced by the bitter accuracy of her words. But she wasn't quite ready to give up on getting Charity out for a little while.

"We wouldn't have to go where there were a lot of people. A restaurant, maybe, at off hours. Or even just a park."

"No. If I was going to be in this thing permanently, you'd be right. It would be important for me to learn to cope with the limitations of the wheelchair. But I'm not going to be like this permanently. I'm not.''

There was steely determination in her voice. Diane's suggestion had renewed her determination to get back the use of her legs. It was all a matter of willpower and work. She was willing to put in any amount of work, and her willpower had simply needed a small boost. Diane had unwittingly given her that.