Renegade (15 page)

“Has she always been an alcoholic?”

She nodded. “All my life. I was calling bail bonds men when I was eight, to get her out of jail. She'd been arrested for soliciting, for public drunkenness, for DUI, for theft…you name it, there was a charge. She latched on to one man after another to get money to support us. But eventually she stayed drunk too much even to do that. I had a paper route to buy my school clothes.” She winced. “That was before Sam came to live with us.”

“He's a loser, if there ever was one,” he said coldly.

“Don't I know it. My mother thinks differently.”

“There's no accounting for taste.”

She laughed drowsily. “That's what I always say.” She closed her eyes. “I'm so tired.”

“You've been through a lot. Too much.”

“You won't let Rory get hurt?” she asked suddenly.

“You know me better than that.”

She did. He might not want Tippy for life, but he was already fond of Rory. He wouldn't let the kidnappers get the boy again.

“You don't think they'll make bond, do you?” she asked.

“Not if I can help it,” he assured her.

What he didn't say was that sometimes a judge could be coaxed into believing a suspect, and setting reason able bond. If Stanton could find a way, he'd get out. And if he did, he'd make a beeline for the woman who'd put him in jail. He'd have nothing to lose.

Cash was going to have his work cut out for him, keeping Tippy and Rory safe. But he was going to. He wasn't going to let anything happen to either one of them ever again.

T
IPPY FACED THE POLICE
the next morning. She held Cash's hand while she gave them a statement. It was the first step to recovery, she told herself. Just one more little obstacle to get through. They took photographs as well, with a digital camera, for evidence of the treatment she'd received at Stanton's hands.

Cash sat with her the whole time, going through endless cups of coffee. It was a straightforward procedure, but it took longer than he'd expected. He went with the investigators back to their precinct to write out a statement of his own. He couldn't tell the whole truth, but he told as much as he felt comfortable with.

“What about Tippy's mother?” he asked the lead investigator after they'd talked for a few minutes.

“She said her mother was behind the kidnapping, in order to get money from her,” the older man said.

“That's right. She's a drug addict.”

The investigator's pale eyes shimmered with anger. “You'd be amazed how many we get here, most involved in burglaries or holdups or murders. We had a guy last week, eighteen, got high on acid and beat his grandmother to death. Never remembered doing any thing, but he'll go to prison for life if they convict him.”

“I know,” Cash replied. “I'm in law enforcement my self. I've spent the last few months rooting out drug money. You probably know where it comes from.”

“Yeah,” the other man nodded. “From respectable citizens who want to make a lot of easy money and don't care how.”

“Bingo.”

“I've always thought I'd like to work in a small town,” the detective mused. “Is the money good?”

Cash chuckled. “If you like beer. It won't get you champagne.”

The older man's eyes twinkled. “I hate champagne.”

“Then you might want to try it. You can do a lot of good on a small scale.”

There was a brief pause. “I heard some things about you from my lieutenant. He was in covert ops in the Gulf War.”

Cash's eyebrows lifted. “Was he really?”

“He's got a nephew named Peter Stone. Lives in Brooklyn.”

Cash gave him a wry look. “My, my, what a small world we live in.” He grinned.

The lieutenant grinned back.

 

H
E GOT A CAB BACK
to the hospital. Tippy was sleeping again when he went into her room and sat by the bed. He was anxious about her. The interview must have been as much an ordeal for her as the wounds had been when she first got them.
It was painful and she had a long way to go before she would recover from her in juries, to say nothing of the emotional scars that had been added to the ones she already carried. He hated the guilt. It was his fault. His fault…!

“Why…do you look like that?” she asked drowsily.

“Like what?” he asked.

Her lovely green eyes opened as wide as she could get them to. He was so handsome. She loved looking at him. She knew that he only felt guilty because he'd let her down, but it felt like heaven to have him this close and concerned about her.

“You look…lost.”

He leaned forward. “I can't get away from my past,” he said after a minute. “Everywhere I go, people know about me.”

“That can't be a bad thing.”

“Can't it?” He studied her hungrily. “I'm sorry about that interview, but they can't go forward without evidence.”

“I'll have to testify against them, too, won't I?” she asked.

He nodded. “But I'll be right with you. Every minute.”

She managed a weak smile. “Thanks.” She shifted, grimacing again. “I'll bet you've had worse than this—concussion, cuts and bruised ribs, I mean.”

“Broken ribs, broken teeth, gunshot wounds, cigarette burns, bruises all the way up and down…”

She caught her breath.

“…Facial cuts and fractures,” he added. “But mine had to have stitches, and there wasn't time for plastic surgery.” He touched the faint white marks on his cheeks.

“I was certain that he'd done major damage to my face,” she said huskily. “There was so much blood. But the doctor said they were relatively minor cuts. They didn't destroy nerve or muscle. I was lucky.”

“Extremely lucky,” he agreed. “But I'm…sorry,” he ground out the word, “that I wouldn't listen to you.”

She drew in a few quick, shallow breaths to avoid the pain of deep ones. “You thought…I was chasing you. It's okay.”

His eyes closed hard. “I don't trust people.”

“I know that. Neither do I, much.”

He looked at her with cold memory in his eyes. “They say bullets are dangerous. But the most dangerous thing on earth is love. It guts you, if you let it.”

She put a hand to her ribs and groaned when she couldn't get her breath.

He got up from the chair. “Here.” He took her spare pillow and put it gently on her chest. “When you have to cough, hold the pillow close. It makes it easier.”

She tried, and it did. “How did you know that?”

“Two broken ribs. One punctured my lung,” he said simply. “It took weeks to get back on my feet. I had pneumonia as a consequence.”

Her eyes opened wider. “That's what the doctor was worried about, with me. He says when you breathe…shallowly…the stagnant air doesn't get forced out of your lungs and it can lead to infection.”

“Exactly. That's why they're giving you antibiotics and making you drink so many fluids.”

She managed a smile. “You know a lot.”

“I've broken most of the major bones in my body at one time or another,” he said simply. “If I hadn't been in such good physical condition, I could have died at least twice.”

Her pale eyes searched his dark ones. “Rory thinks you're the greatest.”

He moved restlessly. “I like him, too.”

“You really don't like people getting close, do you?”

He shook his head. “I'm not comfortable sharing things.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “It was too soon, what happened.”

“Yes. Much too soon, and my fault,” she added.

“It takes two, Tippy,” he said quietly. “We both jumped in without looking.”

Her eyes searched over his face like loving hands. “I bought baby clothes,” she said with a painful laugh. “Stupid.”

“Rory told me.”

She closed her eyes. “Everything happened at once. The job became unbearable with the new second AD,” she said, remembering the arrogant little second assistant director and what he'd cost her. “My mother made threats. I lost my baby.” She ground her teeth together and a tear she couldn't stop rolled eloquently down her pale cheek. “I started drinking.”

She felt his hand grip hers, hard, and hold on.

“Rory told me that, too. He's worried about you. Listen, I know about drinking. I've done my share of it. You can't keep it up. You think it will stop the pain, but it only worsens the impact when you sober up.”

“I found that out.”

“It doesn't even numb the pain, after a while. I ended up in rehab,” he added matter-of-factly.

“After…your wife left?” she probed gently.

He nodded curtly, averting his eyes.

“You loved her.”

He glanced at her and frowned. “I thought I did,” he said involuntarily. “Maybe it was my pride, more than love.”

She smiled gently and closed her eyes. His big, warm hand felt so comforting. Her long fingers curled into it trustingly as the medicine finally began to work again, numbing the pain, driving away the fear…

She was asleep. He watched her with turbulent eyes. His emotions, once so easily controlled, were beginning to get
the best of him. He'd let her get right next to his heart, right under his skin. But he still didn't quite trust her enough. He'd hurt her badly. He'd chased her out of his life, and then had to come back to save her. She felt gratitude certainly. But she'd been traumatized by her recent experience, and he couldn't be sure of anything she said or did at the moment.

The doctor said it would be four to six weeks before she was well enough to work again. Her stitches were easier, they'd be out within five days. But it would also take longer for her emotions to stabilize. Meanwhile, he would take care of her, protect her, spoil her. Then, when she was whole again, they'd take stock of their situation.

That was what his mind said. But his body was tormented as it recalled the sweetness of her body against his in bed, the hunger of her kisses, the aching pleasure she'd given him in the darkness. He'd never touched skin so warm and perfect, he'd never wanted a woman so much. That one night had haunted him. It would haunt him forever. If he lost her…

He let go of her hand and sat back in his chair, worrying. He'd faced that problem already. He'd gone back to his job and tried to put her out of his mind. But he'd never succeeded. He'd felt like half a man ever since.

Now she was hurt and she needed him. Rory needed him. He'd never had to take care of anyone, not like this. He'd cared for wounded comrades in battle. He'd cared for buddies under the gun in covert raids. He'd saved civilians from peril in the course of his duties. But he'd never been needed on such an intimate level in his life, except by his mother, when he was very young. He hadn't been able to protect her from death. But he'd saved Tippy.

He studied her sleeping face hungrily. Didn't they say that a saved life belonged to the rescuer? He thought about having her in his house, providing for her, taking care of her. He
thought of Rory living with him, looking up to him, coming to him for comfort, for reassurance, for affection. Rory had only had Tippy. There hadn't been a man in his life, except at military school.

He felt suddenly afraid of the responsibility, uncertain of his ability to shoulder it. He'd never had to consider the welfare of another person in his adult life. He hadn't been responsible or accountable to anyone except himself. That was going to change. Tippy was going to be dependent on him for weeks. So was Rory, while his sister was unable to take care of him.

Life was taking on a new form. He wasn't sure he was going to like the changes. But they would be interesting.

Only a few years ago, his life had been in flux. He'd wandered from job to job, never comfortable, never happy. He hadn't fit in with his co-workers. He hadn't found anything that made him secure.

Now, he had a job in a tiny little town that seemed hardly significant. But he was surprised to find how much it fulfilled him. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction he'd never had when working in the military or in big city police departments. He checked on elderly residents, to make sure they were all right and set up neighborhood watches. He spoke to grammar school classes about drug prevention. He assisted local and state authorities with drug raids. He reassured citizens who were robbed. He comforted people whose children at tacked them in drug-crazed frenzies and helped them cope with the terror and emptiness of being both victim and parent. He stood beside frightened women who had to go to court to testify against brutal husbands. He instigated patrols in dangerous areas. He taught gun safety and self-defense classes for local citizens. He badgered the acting mayor, Ben Brady, to go before the city
council and fight for better patrol cars and a bigger budget for night surveillance on crime-ridden neighborhoods.

Brady wouldn't do it. He was more concerned with his uncle—state senator Merrill—and his re-election campaign, than any city business. Cash was sorry their last mayor had been forced to resign after a heart attack. Certainly, Brady was going to have a hard time keeping the mayor's job, since a former well-loved mayor, Eddie Cane, had entered the race and was Brady's only competition to keep the job. They were both Democrats. It wasn't going to be much of a surprise at the primary in May. And the man who won it would be virtually unopposed at the November general election.

Nobody much liked Brady. He was narrow-minded and he did anything Senator Merrill—or the senator's daughter, Julie—told him to do. Cash knew things about them that most people didn't. Very soon, there was going to be a political scandal in Jacobsville that would raise the roof at city hall. But aside from that problem, the other councilmen and the city manager liked Cash and worked well with him on his projects, well, except for the two who were loyal to Brady—but Cash privately thought Brady intimidated them. His officers had warmed to him over the months. They were beginning to feel like family. Jacobsville felt more and more like home. He'd been an outsider his whole life until now.

His eyes returned to Tippy's sleeping face. This woman had gone from active enemy to intimate friend in a space of months. He'd become part of her life, and she'd become part of his. He didn't understand his own feelings anymore. He'd been crazy about Christabel Gaines. Her innocence, her kindness, her sense of humor, her independence and strength of will had attracted him. But Christabel had never known the sort of life he'd led. She would have been sympathetic to his nightmares and his horrific past, but she'd never have understood them.
Tippy would. She hadn't been through wars, but the traumas of her youth had predisposed her to understand his.

Funny, he thought, how he'd been so positive that she was a sophisticated, sexually liberated sort of woman when he first met her; he'd been sure she was a man-eater. But her real personality was one of fragility, vulnerability, yet she was no shrinking violet. She was strong and fiercely protective of people she cared for. Her turbulent upbringing had been one of pain and terror.

He didn't know if he could ever share his past with her. It was far too brutal and cold. But if he could, he didn't think it would repel her. She had an empathy that he'd rarely encountered, and that annoying sixth sense that gave her an unwanted insight into his deepest feelings. He hated having her read his mind. She saw far too much.