Half Moon Hill (20 page)

It made Duke’s heart hurt now to recall what a great day it had been. Sunny and nearly sixty degrees—rare warmth in this part of the country in January—and it had been good to take to the road with some of the friends who hung out at his bar. There had been about a dozen of them—two couples and the rest lone riders. But now came the bad part, the part he knew would give him nightmares the rest of his life.

“We were riding too fast coming back. You know how early it gets dark that time of year and we were racing the daylight.” He stopped, shook his head. “I’m not sure whose fault that was—I just remember saying we’d have to haul ass getting home, but that it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Maybe it was
nobody’s
fault,” Anna suggested. And when he stayed quiet, digesting that, she added, “Sometimes no one is to blame, even when bad things happen. Sometimes things just . . . are. That’s something I’ve come to believe myself anyway.”

Because it was easier than hating the woman who stole her? Duke wondered, but he kept the thought to himself. He could see the point of not blaming when it wouldn’t fix anything—but he’d found that concept harder to embrace when some of the blame lay with
him
.

So he just said, “Maybe,” and went on. “But it was me leading the pack, going too damn fast, when we topped a rise on 23 and there’d been a wreck on the other side.” Just remembering it almost stole his breath. And he suffered the sudden urge to be back in the cabin in the woods, by himself—but he knew he couldn’t run away from this moment the way he’d run away from everything else, and that he had to keep going.

Though he could no longer meet her eyes. He guessed he just didn’t want to see the horror—or pity, or any other reaction that would show up there. He still wasn’t used to the shame the memory heaped upon him.

“A Camaro and a heavy-duty pickup had collided just a couple minutes before. The passengers were out of the vehicles, safe and standing off to the side, but the cops hadn’t even shown up yet and the left lane was blocked.” Duke’s breath grew shallow then—it was like his lungs had suddenly stopped working right, like there just wasn’t enough air. But he made himself go on. Because he still felt like he owed it to her somehow. Or . . . maybe making himself say it was just one more way of punishing himself.

“I managed to veer into the slow lane, but I skidded into the guardrail. And everybody else with us managed to dodge the wreck one way or another, too. Except for Denny.” Breathing became harder and harder. “He slammed on his brakes and slid sideways—his bike went down on its side. Linda hit the pavement and came off the bike. But Denny stayed on it.” He could still see the scene in his mind, unfolding in what had felt like slow motion. Yet . . . in another way, it had all happened so damn fast. “The bike kept sliding—right up under the pickup. And then the truck burst into flames, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, because truly, that was how quickly it had taken place. “And Denny was under it—trapped on the bike, pinned there.”

“But . . . that wasn’t your fault, Duke. None of it.” Beneath the covers, she touched his arm.

She hadn’t heard the rest yet, though. And he glanced at her only briefly before drawing his gaze back down. “I was stopped way closer than anybody else, even closer than Linda. And I was running toward the accident when the gas tank blew.” His voice went quieter then—not on purpose. “I saw him, Anna. I saw him in the flames. And he must have seen me, too, because I heard him screaming my name. And Linda was yelling, ‘Help him! Help him!’ And I kept thinking that if I could just get a hand on him that maybe I could get him outta there. But I just stood there. I just stood there and watched him burn alive.”

She stayed silent for a moment, absorbing it, he supposed. And his gut burned—the same way it had for weeks afterward, giving him the sensation that he was disintegrating from the inside out, being eaten up by tiny embers just like a piece of paper that never really catches fire but slowly crumples to black ashes anyway.

And when finally she said, “That’s a terrible thing to have gone through, Duke, but you’re not to blame. You couldn’t have—” he stopped her by gently lifting two fingers to her lips.

“Stop,” he said.

“Why? It’s the truth. You yourself told me he was pinned.”

But Duke shook his head. “I
think
he was—I’m not sure. And I could have
tried
,
should
have tried. But I didn’t do
anything
.”

He was glad when Anna stayed quiet longer this time—he didn’t want her trying to absolve him; that wasn’t why he’d told her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he went on. “That I wasn’t the only one there, that I didn’t cause the accident, that I’m no more at fault than anyone else.”

“Right,” she said.

“But I was the driver in the lead, going too fast. And I was the only one close enough to try to get to him in the end. And I didn’t because . . . I felt the heat from the flames. And I was . . . afraid.”

“A healthy fear,” she countered. “You’d have died, too.”

“Maybe that would have been better,” he told her. “If I could have saved him first. Because I don’t have anybody to miss me when I’m gone—but Denny had Linda, and now she’s alone, and none of it makes any sense to me. And . . . I don’t know when the hell I became afraid—of anything. I thought after the Devil’s Assassins nothing could scare me. I thought I’d run the gauntlet, gotten through the bad part, and the rest would be easy now. And then when I least expect it, life suddenly doesn’t make a damn bit of sense anymore.”

“But—”

“Shhh,” he told her quickly. “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, baby—but you can do that all day and I’ll still know inside that I was a coward.

“And so now you know,” he concluded quickly, more quietly.

But even now his Daisy kept coming at him. “Not all of it. I don’t know . . . how you got hurt.”

Duke sucked in his breath—and
felt
the scar on his face. He saw it like . . . his own version of the scarlet letter, or that he’d been branded by fate—it was the constant physical reminder of what had happened that night, the thing that would never let him begin to forget it. Maybe that had been one more reason to live in the woods. The beard, the lack of mirrors—he hadn’t had to look at it. But coming out of the woods to be with Anna changed that, made him face that reminder on his cheek, like it or not.

“Yeah . . . forgot that part,” he said quietly. And he supposed that, somehow, it just hadn’t seemed important compared to Denny’s death. “Like I said, I slid into the guardrail—had to slam on my brakes. My bike’s mirror ended up cutting my face. I didn’t even know it at the time—didn’t know it until after Denny had died and the EMTs showed up.”

She nodded, a guarded sort of sympathy in her brown eyes, and he suffered the familiar sting of feeling . . . broken. In a way the whole world could see. And, of course, right now, only Anna could see—but that was more than enough.

“I still don’t really get why you’re living in that shack, though,” she told him then. “Or why you sold the bar. And Lucky thinks you’re with your family in Indiana.”

Yet one more small sting shot through him. God, she was full of questions.

Another uneasy swallow before he said, “I sold the bar because I couldn’t face Linda or anybody else who knew and loved Denny. I couldn’t just . . . live life like it was normal again. It
wasn’t
normal. Pouring drinks for people seemed . . . fucking meaningless when Denny was in the grave and Linda could barely even make it to the funeral. I just didn’t want to do it anymore.”

“What about your family? Did you go to Indiana?”

At this, everything inside him stiffened. “That didn’t work out.”

“And then . . . ?”

“Then I just started riding. With no real idea where I was headed. And I ended up back in Destiny—I guess the bike knew the way. But since I’d lived in the apartment above Gravediggers, I didn’t really have any place to go when I got here.” Aw shit, that sounded pathetic.

“You could have called Lucky,” she suggested timidly.

Yet he only shook his head. “I was too raw inside—couldn’t deal with seeing
anybody
.” And that fresh rawness had come from what had happened in Indiana—but he’d said too much already and he just wasn’t gonna go there, so he moved on. “Then I remembered Lucky once telling me there was an old cabin in the woods here—said he’d hung out there with friends, drinking, when he was a teenager. When I found it, I figured it was a good enough place to stay for the night. And when I woke up the next day, I . . . guess I liked how quiet it was. And I kept planning to leave, but . . . one day turned into another, and another. Guess I was just too beat down inside to keep trying.” His heart felt tired, remembering those first few days here. Denny’s death, his visit to Indiana, the way he looked now—it had all added up to make him feel like some kind of monster. And that had been pretty damn immobilizing.

She stayed quiet and so did he, and he realized the whole story—even without the part about going home—embarrassed him a little. Now
she
knew he was weak, too. “I hope you don’t have any more questions, Daisy, because I’m about spent here.”

“I do have one more.”

Shit. Couldn’t she take a hint? When he lifted his gaze back to hers, it was to flash a look of warning.

Which didn’t work.

“What’s your real name?” she asked.

“Huh?” The question caught him off guard, seemed out of the blue.

“I’m pretty sure your mom didn’t hold you in her arms when you were born and say, ‘I think we’ll call him Duke.’ So what’s your real name?”

He hesitated. He didn’t particularly want to tell her; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d told
anyone
. There was nothing wrong with his name—he just . . . didn’t feel like that person anymore.

When he didn’t reply, she said, “Well then, where did the name Duke come from?”

This one was easier to answer. “When I was in high school, I got into it with a teacher who said I acted entitled. I didn’t even know what that meant—and mostly, I was just being a troublemaker. Anyway, the guy started calling me ‘the duke’—and I guess it stuck.”

“Makes sense,” she said easily. “But you still haven’t told me your name.”

Shit, why was it so hard for him to say? Maybe because it had been a long time since he’d been that kid. That kid who’d had normal hopes and dreams and . . . a more tender heart. That kid who’d felt loved.

But finally he whispered, “David. My name is David.”

He met her eyes once more, long enough to see the light in them. “David,” she repeated. “I like it.”

He said nothing—he didn’t know what to say. And he wasn’t sure what had happened to the little boy once named David Dawson.

“So when I wake up in the morning, David,” she whispered, “am I going to be alone?”

“Do you want to be?”

She drew her chin down slightly, appearing at once vulnerable and confident. “Not really. But I wouldn’t try to make you stay if you’d rather go. What would be the point?”

He nodded, thought about it, and said, “You won’t be alone, Daisy.”

And if he wasn’t mistaken, a look of contentment came over her just before she said, “Goodnight, David.” Then she closed her eyes.

And Duke lay there watching her like that, realizing with a soft, muted sort of amazement that she hadn’t thought he was horrible, and that somehow, despite his protests, her simple understanding had made him feel a little less awful. And that was the last thing he’d expected.

“One more thing,” she said, eyes still shut.

“What’s that, Daisy?”

“You were wrong when you said no one would miss you if you were gone. Lucky would miss you. And I would miss you, too. A lot.”

D
uke felt a little weird sitting at Anna’s kitchen table the following morning as she served up pancakes, scooping them from the griddle onto his plate with a wide metal spatula. “I’m good at pancakes,” she told him happily. “So at least that’s the beginning of a breakfast menu for the bed-and-breakfast.”

“Thanks for making them,” he told her after a short hesitation.

She met his gaze. “It’s nice to have a reason to. Cooking for two seems a lot more worthwhile than cooking for one.”

“I used to cook for myself,” he told her, not necessarily agreeing with her thinking. “In my apartment above the bar.”

After putting a couple pancakes on her own plate, she cast a grin. “Oh yeah? What did you cook?”

He shrugged. “I make a mean burger. And in winter I can cook up a pretty good pot of chili. Nothing fancy—just stuff like that.”

She nodded, now lowering the empty griddle back to the stove before joining him at the table. “Maybe we can grill hamburgers some night. I bought a gas grill on sale last fall—you’ve probably noticed it in the garage.”

“Sure,” he said, giving a quick nod of his own. He wasn’t sure he wanted to promise—or get too cozy playing house here—but the idea didn’t sound bad to him. Then, almost thinking aloud, he said, “Actually, guess I still do cook for myself. Out in the woods.”

She stopped in the midst of pouring syrup on her pancakes, eyes widening on him. “Oh?”

“Fish,” he said, answering her unasked question. “I catch fish from the lake and fry them in an old pan I found, over an open fire. Bass and bluegill mostly.”

“I like fish,” she said with just a trace of a smile, clearly hinting.

And thinking her cute as hell, he supposed he didn’t mind saying, “Maybe I’ll make you some sometime.”

“So I was thinking,” she began—and he cut her off by saying, “Uh-oh. That’s scary, Daisy.”

But his sarcasm didn’t daunt her. “I was thinking maybe we could go see Lucky together. Let him know you’re here. I know he’d want to know. He misses you.”

He and Lucky weren’t the kind of guys who ever talked much about missing each other, but the truth was—seeing Lucky sounded . . . good. Well, sort of. Part of him wanted to just keep on doing what he’d been doing—keeping to himself, working on Anna’s house. He’d gotten used to living a solitary life. And somehow . . . the more people he dealt with, the more he would be forced to deal with what had happened to Denny. He still wasn’t quite sure how to function normally again, and staying in the woods sounded easier.