Lost and Found (19 page)

❧

It wasn't an easy question to answer—for either of them. Sam lay awake that night, in the room that had been his when he was a boy. Just across the hall was the spare bedroom where Babs was presumably asleep. It was strange to be so close to her and yet separated by closed doors. He was only just now realizing that, since climbing over the balcony, there'd been hardly a moment when they weren't in sight of each other.

He stared up at the ceiling, hands under his head. It was late. He'd driven all night the night before. He should have been sleeping, not lying awake pondering how quickly life could change. The quiet neighborhood slept, full of suburban serenity. Sam only wished some of that serenity would rub off on him.

Soon this would all be over. Emmet had dumped the car they'd taken from the killers. He'd talked to a friend on the police force who'd agreed to give them forty-eight hours and then the police were going to start official questioning. Emmet hadn't told him about the apparent murder attempts, only that the kidnapping had been a sort of bizarre family joke that had gotten out of hand. It was unlikely the police department would be amused.

In Sam's considered opinion, the entire Malone clan deserved to be hung by their thumbs. Not just for this madness, but for all the years they'd ignored a lonely little girl and all the times they'd used her. But that wasn't his problem. He had to keep reminding himself of that. In forty-eight hours or less, this whole mess would be settled, either with or without the police. His part in it was all but over.

They'd find out who wanted Babs dead, they'd turn them over to the police and he'd be able to go back to his own life and forget all about the demented Malone family. Only he wasn't sure it was going to be that easy. Something told him that Babs wasn't going to be easy to put behind him.

The next thirty-six hours were unusual. After all the danger and adventuring they'd been through, neither Sam nor Babs quite knew what to do with themselves when no one was shooting at them or chasing them. They also didn't quite know what to do with each other.

Sam found himself avoiding Babs and then missing her when she wasn't in sight. It didn't matter how many times he told himself that he was glad this mess was almost over, he couldn't convince himself that he was going to be able to walk away at the end of it. Something pulled him to Babs even as he backed away. Something stronger than just the bonds of two people who'd gone through a dangerous time together.

It was crazy. They had nothing in common. She probably thought nothing of vacationing in St. Moritz, he was more inclined to backpack into the Sierras. He was eleven years older than she was and centuries older in experience. He, better than anyone, knew what her temper could be like. But he found himself thinking of the way her face lit up when she smiled, the way her mouth softened under his and the way her body curved to fit his.

"Sam. What do you think?"

Sam blinked and shook his head, aware that his mind had been miles away from the conversation. He glanced across the table at Emmet and smiled ruefully.

"Sorry. I was thinking of something else."

"So I noticed."

Sam didn't think it was coincidence that the other man's eyes rested on Babs for a moment. Sam looked at her, trying not to notice the way the early morning sunshine caught in her hair, picking out golden highlights. Her eyes met his, questioningly, and he wondered if she had the same questions he did, the same confused thoughts.

He looked away from her and picked up his coffee cup. "So, what did you say?"

Emmet pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, reaching for his pipe. "I've arranged to get the whole family together tomorrow around noon. I figure the best way to find the rotten apple is to get them all together and shake them up a bit. Then we can find out who's trying to kill Babs."

"I still can't really believe that they'd actually want me dead." Babs shook her head, the small movement stirring her hair, reminding Sam of the silky feel of it in his hands, against his body.

Cecily reached out and took Babs's hand where it lay on the table, squeezing it gently. "Perhaps you're right and it's just a terrible misunderstanding."

Babs looked at her, still a bit shy with this woman who seemed to be the embodiment of all her childhood fantasies of what a mother should be.

"I hope I'm right."

"Well, I hope you are too, muffin." Emmet pulled out his tobacco pouch and unzipped it. Before he could reach into it, Cecily had taken both it and the pipe from him. Her slim fingers packed tobacco into the pipe in neat little chunks, tamping it to just the right firmness before adding another layer. Emmet took it from her with a smile, touching his fingers lightly to the back of her hand. "Thanks. You've certainly got a magic touch with pipes."

"Flatterer." Her smile lit her eyes, making her look years younger.

Sam stared at them, his eyes narrowing slightly. He couldn't count the times he'd seen his mother perform the same little task with his father's pipe. He felt a surprising twinge of resentment that she was doing it for another man. But the resentment didn't last, not when he saw the sparkle in her eyes. Anything that made her look that happy was okay with him. It just might take a little getting used to.

"So, what do you think, Sam?" Emmet lit the pipe, filling the room with a sweet, spicy scent.

Sam had to drag his mind back to the question at hand. There seemed to be so many questions lately that it was hard to remember which one he was supposed to focus on.

"Sounds good to me. I've always wanted to be in on an Agatha Christie-style interrogation. Too bad we can't do it at midnight. We could add a few candles for atmosphere."

"Not a bad idea but nothing short of an act of Congress could get Dodie to stay up past ten. She believes that late hours have contributed to the decline of western civilization. Noon will have to do."

"It'll do. Just what do you have in mind?"

"Well, nothing specific. I figure maybe we can just try to shake them up a bit and see what falls out."

Babs shuddered and Sam reached out automatically, putting his hand on her shoulder. "It's just to scare out the killer—//there is a killer."

"I know. But this whole thing is a little gruesome."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"I know." There was absolute confidence in the words. If Sam said he'd protect her, she believed him. Sam looked into her eyes, seeing things there he couldn't quite define—things he wasn't sure he wanted to know about. His hand dropped away from her shoulder and he looked away, breaking the odd little spell.

"So, what's next?" If anyone else had noticed the strangely intense exchange, they didn't say anything.

"Well, I think the two of you should continue to lay low here until tomorrow. I've got a meeting with Stefanoni today. He was so pleased to get the real paintings that he offered to find out who hired the men who kidnapped you. He may be able to find out what their orders were. It would make it a lot easier if we knew exactly what we were up against." He looked at his watch and sighed. "In fact, I'd better hit the road now."

Emmet left and Sam stood up, carrying his plate to the sink and handing it to Babs. "I thought I'd go clean out the garage," he mumbled. "Give me something to do."

Babs sighed as she watched him leave. It was pretty clear that he was avoiding her.

"Don't worry about it. All men go through that phase." Cecily gave her a reassuring smile.

"I thought it might be something I'd done."

"No. Sam's just got a lot to think about right now."

"I suppose." Babs reached for a towel. As Cecily washed and rinsed a plate, Babs took it from her and dried it, her movements a little clumsy. After all, a Ma-lone wasn't expected to do anything as mundane as dry dishes.

"You're fond of Sam, aren't you?" Cecily's question was light and nonthreatening but Babs found herself throwing up barriers automatically.

"He saved my life—more than once."

"He seems to think you held up your end pretty well."

Babs shrugged, trying to ignore the little glow Cecily's words created. The idea that Sam thought she'd held up her end was appealing. Maybe too appealing. She had to remember that they'd been together under some pretty extraordinary circumstances. She couldn't lose sight of the fact that they had little in common. They were back in the real world now and, in the real world, their lives ran along very different paths.

"We don't really have anything in common." Cecily didn't seem to have any trouble following the seemingly irrelevant comment.

"You know, I've always thought that people put too much importance on having things in common. You don't have to like the same foods or the same movies to make a relationship work. Sam's father and I didn't have all that much in common when we married and we were very happy together. It all depends on how much you want it to work."

Babs set down a plate and reached for another, a faint frown creasing her forehead. "But what did you talk about?"

Cecily laughed. "Anything and everything."

"Didn't you argue?"

"Some, but in the long run there was nothing more important to us than our marriage so we always found a way to compromise." She paused, glancing sideways at Babs. "Do you and Sam argue?"

"Constantly. Well, not really." Babs flushed delicately and stared at the plate she held in her hands, the towel still. "Sometimes we talked. He's really pretty easy to talk to."

"He's a good listener. He always has been, even when he was a boy."

"What was he like when he was a boy?"

Cecily laughed again, her eyes alight with memories. "An imp and an angel. Like all children. There were times when I was sure he was a changeling—no human child could be so mischievous—and then he'd turn around and do something sweet and I'd forget all about the mischief. His hair would never stay combed, the knees of his jeans were always torn and the house was full of strays that he'd found and just had to bring home. His father threatened to make Sam sleep in the garage if he brought home one more lame animal to take care of but, of course, the next time, Peter was out there helping Sam set a broken leg for a mongrel pup he'd found."

"It sounds like you were a close family." Babs wasn't aware of the wistfulness in her tone but Cecily heard it and her heart melted.

"We were." She reached out and brushed a lock of hair back from Babs's face, the gesture automatic. It wasn't until she saw the startled look in the younger woman's face—the yearning—that she realized how strange the casually affectionate gesture was to Babs. She felt a burst of anger against the people who'd let her grow up so untouched. The anger didn't show in her face.

"You know, it sounds silly but, somehow I kind of think of you as family. Ever since Emmet showed up, I've been thinking of you with Sam and hoping you were both safe. And Emmet talked about you a lot so I feel like I know you."

Babs laughed self-consciously, her fingers twisting in the towel. "You can't believe everything Uncle Emmet tells you. He only had me in the summer so he probably doesn't know me as well as he thinks."

"Oh, I think he knows you pretty well. He said you were sweet and full of spirit and courage. I think that's a pretty accurate description."

Babs stared at her for a moment, her eyes dark and vulnerable and then she looked away, struggling for some light comment. It wasn't there.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Cecily's smile was like a balm, soothing years of emptiness. The two women looked at one another for a moment, sensing the beginnings of a bond that lay outside Sam and his relationships with each of them—a bond to be treasured.

It was Cecily who broke the quiet moment, sensing that things might be moving too quickly. "I was going to make some cookies. Would you like to help?"

"I don't know. I've never made cookies."

"Then your education has been sadly lacking, my dear. Everyone should know how to make cookies. When Sam was little, he argued quite seriously that cookies should be the fifth basic food group, coming right after milk."

"Did you talk him out of it?"

"Certainly not. I happen to agree with the theory." Cecily grinned, her eyes sparkling in a way that made Babs think of Sam. Funny—a lot of things made her think of Sam.

❧

The sun was setting out over the Pacific but it still cast a warm glow of light over the coast. Sam leaned his shoulder against the pole that supported the back porch and stared out at the hillside that sloped up out of the wide backyard. It was a tangle of brush and chaparral. When his father had been alive, he'd kept the slope cleared. Sam felt tired just remembering hours of backbreaking labor in the warm sun, rooting out weeds.

Looking at it now, he realized how overgrown it had become. He really should clear it out before summer arrived/As the sun dried out the twisted shrubs, it turned them into living tinder, just waiting for the smallest spark to set off a fire. He'd have to get to it soon. Maybe this next week. After tomorrow he'd have nothing better to do.

Tomorrow the Malone caper would be settled and life would go on. He frowned. The thought didn't give him the satisfaction it should have. He should be thrilled to be out of this mess without a bullet in his hide. He was thrilled. Having people shooting at him was not his favorite occupation. It was over. He was happy. So why was he scowling?

"Hi." Sam swung around. Babs was standing a few feet away, the screen door just closing behind her. The muffled thud as wood met wood seemed to emphasize the quiet evening. A scrub jay screeched raucously in the live oak that spread its branches over the yard.

"Hi."

"Were you thinking about something vital?"

"No. Nothing in particular." His eyes skimmed over her, taking in the snug jeans and loose cotton shirt. He wanted to reach out and test the fit of her jeans with his hands. He wanted to feel the silky skin beneath the soft shirt. Instead, he smiled.

"Has Mom taught you everything you always wanted to know but were afraid to ask about the fine art of cookie baking?"

"Just about." Babs took a few steps forward, wrapping her hand around one of the trees and leaning against it. "I think we baked just about every kind of cookie known to man. We may have invented some new ones. I had no idea it could get so messy."

"So I see." Sam reached out to brush a faint dusting of flour from her cheek. It was a casual gesture, certainly not out of line between two people who had been lovers. But neither of them expected the electricity that arced from the simple touch.

Babs's gaze swept upward, her eyes deep brown pools of uncertainty. Sam's hand lingered, his fingers cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lower lip. Her lips parted slightly, her tongue coming out to moisten her mouth. Sam couldn't drag his eyes away, his thumb touching her again, lightly, ever so lightly, feeling the dampness. She leaned forward and he knew that it would take only a touch, a whisper for her to be in his arms. His body ached with the knowledge.

He drew a shuddering breath, his hand dropping to his side, the fingers still tingling. He saw her expression change. Disappointment? Relief? It was impossible to tell. How could he read what was in her mind when he didn't understand what was in his own?

"I guess it will all be settled tomorrow." He looked out over the yard, seeing nothing, his every sense tuned to the woman beside him.

"I guess so. It's going to be pretty horrible if it turns out that someone is really trying to kill me. I wonder what Uncle Emmet found out from Stefanoni."

"I don't know. When he called, he said he was going to see someone who might have seme information. He'll be in touch as soon as he knows something."

"I know. But the waiting is hard."

"Waiting always is." He looked at her and then looked away. Did she know how tempting she was? "Still, it's better than being shot at."

Babs laughed, the sound low and husky. "Just about anything beats being shot at."

"True. You know, you really handled yourself very well. A lot of people would have fallen to pieces."

Why don't you just say what you really mean, you idiot. Tell her how you feel.

"I was... impressed with how cool you stayed under fire."

Wimp. That's not what you want to say and you know it. Tell her.

How could he tell her when he didn't know himself? He didn't want to lose track of her. He didn't want everything to end between them tomorrow. He knew

what he didn't want but he wasn't sure what he did want.

He looked at Babs, reading the same questions and desires and uncertainties in her eyes. She'd never looked more desirable and she'd never looked more dangerous. His life was turning upside down. Too much, too soon. He looked away, staring out at the nearly dark hillside. The porch light cast a bright circle onto the lawn and Sam wished that a light would go on in his mind, casting equal light on his confused thinking.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is—" Whatever he was trying to say was destined to remain unsaid. From behind him, he heard Babs giving a funny choking little sound at the same moment that he heard a muffled thud.

He spun around, every sense on the alert, reaching for Babs even before he cdnsciously realized that she was falling. His arms caught her as her knees buckled, a terrifying red stain spreading over the pale pink of her shirt. Sam dropped to his knees, his body hunched protectively over hers. He threw one look at the dark hill, knowing that was where the shot must have come from but that wasn't important now. The only thing that mattered was the frightening amount of blood soaking her shirt.

He grabbed the front of her shirt and tore it open, sending buttons flying. The screen door squeaked as it was thrust open and he threw one look upward, seeing the shocked horror in his mother's eyes.

"Oh, my God! What happened?"

"She's been shot. I need some towels to stop the bleeding. Call 911. Tell them we need an ambulance." Cecily disappeared back into the house and Sam returned his attention to Babs. She looked up at him, a bewildered look in her eyes.

"I think I've been shot."

"It's all right, sweetheart." Sam used the tail of her shirt to wipe away the blood, searching for the entrance wound. Half-formed prayers floated through his mind.

"I have been shot." She seemed more incredulous than anything else and Sam knew she was still in shock. The pain hadn't reached her yet. But it would. He'd have given anything to be able to take the pain and make it his own.

He heard a door open and reached up without taking his eyes off Babs. A wad of soft towels was thrust into his hand as Cecily knelt beside him.

"I called 911. They're sending an ambulance. How is she?"

"Fine. She's just fine." His tone dared anyone to argue with him. He pressed a towel to the wound high on her shoulder, lifting her slightly to press another towel underneath where the bullet must have exited. The small movement broke the fragile web that had been shielding her from the pain and Babs gasped, what little color she'd had leaving her face.

"Sam? Am I going to die?"

"No. You're not going to die. I'm not going to let you die." Her eyes started to glaze and he reached down to catch her hand, lifting it to his mouth, his eyes fierce on her face. "Hang on, honey. You're going to be all right. You have to be. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you."

But she was beyond hearing anything. Her body had taken charge, sending her into unconsciousness as a protection from the shock she'd sustained. Her eyes closed, her breathing was barely perceptible. Sam felt a terrible fear press against his chest.

"You can't die. I love you. I love you." In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren, the sound growing closer.

Cecily put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. He looked at her, his eyes full of wild despair. "She can't die. I love her. She can't die."

Tears filled Cecily's eyes and slid down her cheeks. Just as Sam would have given anything to make Babs's pain his own, so would his mother have done anything to take the agony from his face.

"She'll be fine."

"She has to be." There was absolute finality in the words, as if he couldn't conceive of anything else.

Cecily looked at Babs's still figure, the blood soaking through the thick towel, her face as still as a waxen doll. She prayed that Sam was right. Please God, let him be right.