Emily and the Stranger (2 page)

I'm sorry! Mitch screamed silently as he stepped backward, his glazed stare darting back and forth from the burning building—a Styles and Hayden building—to the ambulance speeding off down the street, carrying a severely burned woman
to
the hospital.

He glanced
at
the sidewalk. A shiny spot of something pink caught his eye. Bending over, he picked it up. A tattered piece of the woman's nightgown! Mitch clutched the silk fragment in his hand.

He walked aimlessly down the street, accidentally bumping into several bystanders, curiosity seekers gathered half a block away. In his mind's eye, he kept seeing the seared, soot-smeared, satin gown hanging on the woman's body, and the length of her long, dark, singed hair falling over the fireman's shoulder.

The smell
of
smoke filled his nostrils. The sound of weeping children and women echoed in his ears.

He was responsible for this nightmare. He and Randy. If he ever got his hands around his partner's neck, he'd strangle the life out
of
him.

"I'm sorry," Mitch cried out. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for anything like this to happen. Forgive me. Dear God, forgive me for being such a blind fool!"

Mitch awoke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He shot straight up in bed. His heart hammered at breakneck speed.

Running a trembling hand over his face, he took several deep breaths. Two years, dammit! Two years, and yet he couldn't escape. Neither awake nor asleep.

Flinging back the light covers, he crawled out of bed, then heard someone snoring. He looked back at the bed. A naked woman lay sprawled on the wrinkled yellow-and-green striped sheet. Her bleached white-blond hair spread across the pillow like thin strands of dried straw. Smeared mascara circled her closed eyes. One large breast lay uncovered, its rosy nipple staring up at Mitch.

Carly. Carly something or other. He'd known her about a week. He'd met her at the Gold Digger the night he'd ridden into town. Into
Hartsville
,
Kentucky
.

Glancing around the room, he realized he was in Carly's apartment. He had spent the past few nights here with her, the two of them drinking and messing around. He'd won at poker last night and they had celebrated with a pizza and beer.

As he made his way to the bathroom, he stepped on an empty beer can. Early-morning sunlight illuminated the tiny living room, which he could see from where he stood in the square hallway. The place was a mess. Carly might be damn good in bed, but she wasn't much of a housekeeper. The place looked as though it hadn't seen a decent cleaning in months.

He flipped on the bathroom light, raised the commode lid and relieved himself. Turning on the water faucets, he leaned over the sink, then made the mistake of glancing into the mirror. Bloodshot blue eyes stared back at him from a face he barely recognized. Three days' growth of light-brown beard stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. Deep lines marred the corners of his eyes. And he was in bad need of a haircut.

But haircuts cost money. He wondered how much of his poker winnings he had left. Enough for a haircut? Enough for a few decent meals? Enough for gas so he could ride his Harley out of town?

He splashed cold water on his face, then lathered himself with soap, cleaning the remnants of sex from his body. He wondered if Carly kept any razors and shave cream around. He thought he remembered her saying something about having her legs waxed at her cousin's beauty salon.

He opened the medicine cabinet and found it empty except for a few bandages and some cotton swabs. Without thinking, Mitch looked down at the wastepaper basket beneath the sink. He sighed. Two used condoms rested atop the trash. Thank God he hadn't been too drunk to remember to use protection.

He lived daily with the memories of a cool April morning two years ago when his successful life had come to an end—the day the Ocean Breeze Apartments in
Mobile
,
Alabama
had collapsed and burned.

He'd been lucky, he supposed, to walk away without going to jail. But it really didn't matter that the state hadn't prosecuted him; that, legally, he'd been innocent. He'd been living in a prison of his own making, trapped behind the bars of regret.

M. R. Hayden had lost everything that mattered to him. His business, his good reputation, his hefty bank account, his luxurious apartment in
Mobile
, his Jaguar, his closet of expensive clothes—and his fiancée. When the dust had settled and he'd been left with nothing, Loni had walked out on him. She had reinforced the bitter lesson Randy Styles had taught him. Never trust anybody.

Mitch returned to the bedroom, picked up his clothes off the floor and slipped into them. He pulled out his old, battered wallet, removed a couple of twenties and tossed them onto the nightstand. He figured he owed Carly a little something for his room and board the last few days. The sex had been free. She'd made that fact perfectly clear.

On his way out, he picked up his jacket off the back of the sofa. After closing the front door behind him, he walked down the steps to the ground floor.

Glaring sunshine nearly blinded him when he emerged from the two-story apartment building. He opened his saddlebags and stuffed his jacket inside, then lifted his helmet, put it on and jumped astride his Harley.

Revving the motorcycle, Mitch tossed his head back, took a deep breath of crisp
Kentucky
morning air and willed the memories out of his mind. Memories of long, dark hair cascading over a fireman's shoulder. Memories of burned flesh and scorched pink satin. Memories of a woman named Emily.

Chapter 1

«
^
»

Z
ed Banning checked the address again. Good God, had Mitch come to this—a homeless shelter in
Claypool
,
Arkansas
? Zed straightened his tie before he opened the front door and walked inside the ramshackle old building less than ten yards from the railroad tracks.

An elderly man with a weathered face and gnarled fingers looked up at Zed from his seated position behind a scuffed, army-surplus metal desk.

"You here to make a donation?" The man wheezed when he spoke. "If so, I'll go get the reverend."

"No, I'm not here to make a donation." Once the words left his mouth, Zed felt overcome with guilt. "Well … that is … I'll probably make a donation, but that's not my main purpose for being here."

Hell, why was he trying to explain to some pitiful old man his reason for flying in to
Little Rock
, renting a car and driving all the way to Claypool?

"You here to see Reverend Wilkes about something?"

"Yes. Could you tell me where he is?"

"Out in the kitchen, helping with lunch." With labored breaths, the man stood, then burst into a coughing fit. "I'll show you—" Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. "The way."

Zed's self-preservation instincts warned him to step away from the source of whatever kind of germs the man was spreading, but instead he followed him out of the entrance hall and down a narrow corridor. On each side of the middle hallway lay two large rooms filled to capacity with metal beds, every one neatly made with worn sheets and muddy-gray, woolen blankets. Two of the beds were still occupied.

Zed stopped, took a good look inside the room to his right and saw the broad shoulders and long legs of a man who was the right size for Mitch Hayden.

"Something wrong, mister?" the old man asked.

Zed walked into the room, pausing several feet away from the still body of the man he thought might be his old friend. The guy was big and had scraggly, dirty blond hair.

"Mitch?"

The reclining form turned over, his bloodshot eyes apparently unable to focus as he glared up at Zed.

"Huh?"

A breath-robbing smell of stale alcohol stunned Zed.
Dammit, Mitch Hayden, how the hell did you let yourself sink so low?
His old friend had aged ten years in five. His once pretty-boy good looks had been erased forever, his handsome face irrevocably marred by years of hard living.

Zed rounded the corner of the bed, knelt down and grabbed Mitch by the shoulders, shaking him soundly. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Zed?" Mitch raised his head up off the threadbare pillow. "What are you doing here? Did you come to have a drink with me or to get that little blonde who stole my last five dollars?"

"I haven't heard a word from you in nearly five years." Zed sat down on the edge of the cot. "I wondered if you were dead. I see now that you're worse than dead."

"Worse than dead," Mitch repeated. "Living hell. Remembering that building burning… All those people staring at me in court… That—that pink nightgown."

"What have you been trying to do—kill yourself?" Zed lifted Mitch up into a sitting position, bracing Mitch's back against the wall behind him. "You've turned into a damn drunken bum!"

"Yep. I'm damned all right."

"Why, Mitch? Did you think destroying your life could bring back the man who died when Ocean Breeze Apartments collapsed? Did you think it would erase any of the pain and suffering those people endured? Did you think if
you
suffered enough you could somehow change what happened to Emily Jordan?"

"I had to do something to try to forget. Dream about them … all those people. Dream about her. That pink satin gown and her long, black hair."

What could he do? Zed wondered. He'd known Mitch for nearly twelve years. He'd hired him on as a construction worker on that motel down in
Tampa
,
Florida
, right after Mitch had left the marines.

Back then Mitch had been smart, hardworking and very ambitious. Zed didn't doubt for a minute that if Mitch hadn't fallen for Loni Prentice's obvious charms and allowed her to dupe him into a partnership with Randy Styles, Mitch would have been a partner in Zed's construction firm by now.

"May I help you?"

The deep, authoritarian voice came from the open doorway. Zed turned and saw a small, slender man wearing old jeans and a white T-shirt walk into the room. "I'm Zed Banning. Are you Reverend Wilkes?"

"Yes. I appreciate your coming to see about Mr. Hayden," the reverend said. "We were fortunate that your friend still carried a wallet." He turned to the old man who'd greeted Zed when he entered the shelter. "Go to my office and bring me Mr. Hayden's wallet."

Zed offered his hand to the reverend, who accepted the greeting.

"When you phoned, you said the only name and address in the wallet besides Mitch's expired driver's license was my business card," Zed said.

"That's right. I was so relieved to know you're willing to help Mr. Hayden. We're able to give these men a bed for a while and some food and occasionally a change of clothes, but that's about it."

"I understand." Zed nodded. "I plan to take him back to
Mobile
with me as soon as I can get him cleaned up and completely sober. How many nights did you say he's stayed here?"

"Last night was his third night. He came in around
midnight
, banging on the door. Woke everyone."

"Thanks for letting him stay." Zed glanced around the dismal room. "I'll mail you a check."

"Any small amount would be appreciated." Reverend Wilkes smiled, the dimples in his cheeks softening an otherwise hard, weary face.

"I'll take Mitch off your hands. I plan to rent a hotel room in
Little Rock
so he can clean up before we fly home. I've got a rental car outside." Zed turned back to Mitch, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head over on his left shoulder. "Come on, let's get you on your feet."

"Here's the wallet, Reverend." The old man held out the battered leather wallet.

"Give it to Mr. Banning, please, Homer."

Zed took Mitch's wallet and turned it over and over in his hand. He flipped it open. Empty. Except for Mitch's driver's license, Zed's business card and a tiny patch of pink material. Zed lifted the scrap from the wallet.

"My God!" Zed recognized the pink satin. Mitch had shown it to him nearly five years ago, shortly after Ocean Breeze Apartments had collapsed and burned. Hastily, Zed returned the dirty fragment of Emily Jordan's pink satin gown to Mitch's wallet, feeling somehow that he had invaded his friend's privacy.

"What do you plan to do with his motorcycle?" Reverend Wilkes asked.

"His what?"

"Mr. Hayden donated his motorcycle to us the first night he came here, but I'm sure he wouldn't have if he'd been sober."

Standing, Zed rubbed his forehead and grunted. "There he lies only partially sober, looking like hell warmed over, smelling like a brewery, not a dime to his name, but somehow he's managed to keep a battered old wallet—" Zed slapped his hand over the pocket where he'd placed the wallet "—and the Harley he bought twelve years ago when he first got out of the marines."