Running Blind (43 page)

Carlin backed toward the front door. One step, then another. She didn’t want to be any closer to Brad than she had to be.

“Maybe you think I won’t. Do you think I haven’t prepared for this? This is
my
pistol, and I’ve shot a hell of a lot of rounds through it, thinking about the day I’d be aiming it at you.” If he knew she didn’t intend to pull the trigger he might go for his own pistol again. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to shoot, period, but she especially didn’t want to be forced into trying to shoot a moving target. She knew her limitations.

Of course, if he went for his gun, she’d have no choice but to shoot. Her squeamishness had its limits.

“I’d rather be dead than go to prison. Do you know what it’s like for a cop in prison? Do you have any idea?” He sounded infuriated, as if he’d been unjustly accused of something.

“I don’t care. I hope you rot in jail.” Carlin couldn’t find an ounce of pity in her. He’d stolen months of her life. He’d murdered Jina, a woman whose only crime had been to be a friend and borrow a raincoat—oh,
yeah, for Jina she wanted Brad to suffer. The miserable son of a bitch, she wanted him to suffer and
then
die.

Brad smiled. “That’s what I thought.” The smile changed to a smirk. “You’re not going to shoot me. If you were, you’d have done it by now.” He pushed himself forward and up, reaching for his gun. The son of a bitch was doing it!

Carlin let out a curse word and aimed, praying wildly, bracing herself, hoping she at least hit him somewhere because he was moving and she’d never practiced that—

And then she heard the back door open.

Brad heard it, too. The door squealed and a floorboard creaked as someone took a step into the house. He dove the rest of the way for the gun, grabbed it, rolled, and aimed for the door between the living room and the kitchen.

It could be anyone. Zeke, Kat, a deputy, a neighbor Kat had sent to help. She couldn’t let any of them be harmed.

She dug deep inside herself, took aim, and fired. He grunted and fell back, blood blooming on his side. From his position on the floor he turned and looked at her, surprised, then sat up as he swung the gun toward her once more. “You bitch, you shot me!”

The blood distracted her. There was a lot of it, and it was darker than she’d expected, and shooting a person wasn’t at all like shooting a target. Then Zeke came through the door, low and fast, weapon in his hand. Carlin barely had time to recognize him, but she saw Brad jerk his head around at this new threat, saw him settle and decide and bring his pistol back around toward her, his finger tightening on the trigger. Zeke fired, and the side of Brad’s head blew out in a red mist of blood and brain matter.

Carlin stood frozen for a moment, completely incapable of doing anything. Somehow she held on to the pistol, didn’t let it drop; when she had some command
of her body again she carefully, very carefully, put it on an end table and backed away. Zeke was right there, closing his arms around her, sheltering her head against his shoulder.

She held on tight, because she could. Because she needed it.

“It’s over,” he said gently. “It’s done.”

She wanted to tell Zeke that she loved him, that he’d given her something worth fighting for. But not now, with the scent of blood in the air. Later, when they were alone and she’d washed the stench of Brad off of her, and off of Zeke. Later, when her heart wasn’t beating so hard that the drumming drowned out everything else.

And for the first time in a long while, she knew without a doubt that they would have a
later
.

I
T HAD TAKEN
some time for Zeke to convince Carlin that neither of them would face charges for shooting Brad; their actions had been clear-cut self-defense. Even if they hadn’t been able to document Brad’s violent behavior and finally tie him to the murder in Dallas, there was also Kat’s testimony, and her injuries. It turned out two of her ribs were cracked, so she was in for some painful days.

The sheriff had known Kat—and Zeke—forever and a day, and he was a big fan of Kat’s cherry pie. No charges would be filed. Maybe “he needed killin’ ” wasn’t an acceptable excuse now, but add on son of a bitch, as in “the son of a bitch needed killin’,” and it came close. Regardless, there were no repercussions.

It had been a few long damn days, but the worst was behind them. Kat was healing, Brad was gone for good, and Carlin was still here. She didn’t
have
to stay now; she didn’t
have
to squirrel away cash, watch every penny she spent, so that meant every day she was there was a day she wanted to be there. She’d called her brother and sister, on his house phone, at his insistence, and talked to them for hours. He didn’t give a damn what the final bill would be; her joy at actually talking to them, at being
free
, was worth every penny.

He woke with her in his arms. Snow had been falling all night, and the temperature was predicted to drop well below zero for the next few days, and God only knew what the windchill would be. They’d have their hands full, protecting the animals and the machinery. Carlin would make chili or soup, or maybe even the Mexican shepherd’s pie if the guys wanted something really substantial, but at any rate it would be something hot to warm them all from the inside out, and at night she’d be here, in his bed. The only question that remained was: would she stay?

After what she’d been through, he figured the best thing he could do was not push her, let her decide for herself what she wanted to do, where she wanted to be. He wanted her here, he wanted her to stay, but the best way to show her that he loved her was to be willing to let her go, if that’s what she wanted. But, damn, it wasn’t easy to back off when every instinct he had made him want to hold her close.

She fit against his side as if she’d been born to be there. She snuggled in tight and warm. In a few minutes they had to get up and start the day, but for now … it was nice and warm, and felt as if this was the way the world was supposed to be.

“I’m going to see Kat today,” she finally said around a yawn. “And I plan to take her a
real
get-well present—flowers, or a coffee mug filled with candy.”

“WD-40
is
a real get-well present when your back door squeals like a son of a bitch,” Zeke argued.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a smile. “Well, it did make her laugh,” she conceded.

Even if laughing still hurt.

He rubbed his hand over her bare shoulder. “Just a couple of months until spring,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “March will be here before you know it.”

She shifted, the movement rubbing her body against
his. “That’s true. Have you put out an ad for a grumpy old man to take my place?”

“Not yet.” He tilted his head to look down at her. “Should I?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she rose up, leaned over him so they were chest to chest and eye to eye. “I’ve been wondering what spring and summer would be like here. I’d like to watch everything turn green, and maybe see a calf born and learn how to ride a horse, and you know what you need, Zeke? You need a dog. Make that two or three dogs. I would kind of … like to have a dog.”

“A dog,” he repeated. He’d had dogs before, would have them again, but he’d hardly expected that would be a reason Carlin might want to stay.

“And besides,” she said, turning her head slightly so she was no longer looking him directly in the eye. “I think I love you, and I’d like to see where we go when there’s no crisis between us.”

She’d said it before, without the qualifier, but this felt like the first time because before had been, well,
before
.

“You
think
you love me.”

She slanted a look up at him. “Fine, I love you. I didn’t face down Brad just to save Kat, though that was reason enough. I took him on so I’d be free to stay here, to see what we’re like—”

He rolled her over and fitted himself between her legs. “What kind of dog do you want?”

She wrapped her legs around him and laughed. “That’s all you have to say? I tell you I love you and you want to know what kind of
dog
I want?”

“Well, I’ve already told you I love you. Isn’t once enough?” he asked, teasing her. Then he said, “Stay,” and interrupted her laughter. “I want you here. No one else, Carlin. You. Be my wife. Let’s have kids to go with those dogs.” So much for taking it slow.

“Not wasting any time, are you?”

“I’m tired of wasting time.”

Her hands skimmed down his sides. “Boys or girls?”

“Are we talking about the dogs or the kids?”

She laughed, and he liked it. He loved it. “The kids.”

“Both, though I don’t think we get to actually place an order for gender.”

“Married to a cowboy,” Carlin said, her voice dreamy. “I must really be a glutton for punishment. Kat warned me about cowboys, but did I listen? Oh, nooooo. I had to fall hard for one.”

“I love you,” Zeke said. “Cautious, Carly, Carlin … whoever you are today, whoever you’re going to be tomorrow, I love you.”

She heaved a big, contented sigh. “That’s perfectly wonderful. Now … how about a ride?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and did as commanded.

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Brown the beef and onion together; drain, add the taco seasoning. Then mix with the corn and pinto beans, heat, and pour into a casserole dish. Make the instant potatoes, and spread over the top of the beef mixture, making sure entire surface is covered. Make extra potatoes if you have to. Bake for 30 minutes. Remove from oven, spread the shredded cheese over the entire surface, and return to oven for 5 minutes, just until the cheese is melted.

Serve either as a stand-alone dish, or use it as a hearty dip, with tortilla chips.

I made this often for the construction crew when we were building a house. I cooked for them a lot—scones, muffins, homemade ice cream, biscuits, and salmon patties, but I think the Mexican shepherd’s pie was their favorite. The guys told me that this was the only time they’d GAINED weight on a job. —Linda Howard

Mix the first three together until you like the way it tastes. (Hint: try a fairly small batch at first, so maybe 1½ or 2 cups of milk, then sugar and flavoring to taste.) It takes more sugar than you’d expect. Then fold in the snow until it reaches an un-runny consistency. I don’t know if “un-runny” is a word, but it’s certainly a description.

Eat.

If you make too much, you can freeze it. The consistency is different after that, but the taste is still there. Are Southerners the only ones who make snow cream? Surely not, though I admit a lot of people make faces at the idea of eating snow. Of course, they’re from places where the snow is yellow, or gray, or any other unappetizing color. Here in the South, and out in the rural areas, the snow is as white as … well, you know what it’s as white as. And we eat it. —Linda Howard

Preheat oven to 425°F.

Using your hand, squeeze together the flour, Crisco, and salt; it’s easier than it sounds, and a lot faster than using a pastry blender or fork. Stir in the buttermilk until the dough forms a ball in the bowl; I use nonfat buttermilk, and it works just fine.

Grease a cookie sheet or biscuit pan, but a cookie sheet is about the right size. I use butter-flavored Pam to spray the pan. For that matter, I cover the baking pan with aluminum foil and spray the foil, because I hate washing baking pans! Anything to make cleaning up easier :-).

Dump the dough onto a floured surface, and sift a very light covering of flour over the top of the ball. DO NOT KNEAD THE DOUGH AT ALL. If you do, it’ll make the biscuits tough. The tenderness of biscuits depends on the amount of oxygen in the dough, and kneading works the oxygen out. Use a rolling pin, the smallest, lightest one you can find, to very gently roll out the dough until it’s about ½ inch thick. Using a medium-sized biscuit cutter, cut out the biscuits and place them on the baking pan so they’re touching each other; this forces
them to rise since they don’t have room to spread out. This should make about 8 biscuits.

Don’t roll the leftover pieces together to try to make another biscuit or two. Just take the dough tidbits and arrange them on the baking pan with the biscuits. They’re odd sizes and shapes, of course, but you’d be surprised how this will turn out.

Bake in the oven for 8 to 9 minutes. These biscuits won’t be brown on top; if you want a brown top crust, turn on the broiler for a minute, but watch them very closely. While the biscuits are baking, melt the half stick of butter, and as soon as you take the biscuits out of the oven brush the melted butter on top of them, including the odd biscuit tidbits. Tip: Even if you’re using salted butter, which I recommend, you may want to add a dash of salt to the melted butter anyway. The difference to the finished product is amazing. If you follow this recipe, guaranteed you’ll have fat, pretty, incredibly tender biscuits—and kids will love the biscuit tidbits. For that matter, a lot of the adults in my family prefer the tidbits over the actual biscuits. Go figure.