The Sheriff's Surrender (5 page)

At the steps, she grabbed hold of the railing and planted her feet. “I'm not your prisoner!”

“You're in my custody. What do you think that means?”

“I don't want to stay here!”

“Tough. Now I'd advise you to let go of the rail or risk taking a fistful of splinters with you.”

At first she held on tighter, looking as if she'd like to sink her manicured nails into his hide, but after a moment she grudgingly released the rail and, making an effort at regaining some dignity, sedately climbed the steps. At the top, though, she dug in her heels again. “Let go of me.”

“Once you're locked up inside.”

Her eyes were dark with impotent anger and her lip was showing the slightest tremble as they stared at each other. There was no doubt he would get his way—he was bigger, stronger, and way too accustomed to being obeyed. The only question was whether she would enter the house under her own power or over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

There was no telling what the outcome would have been if they hadn't been interrupted by the surge of a powerful engine accelerating down the driveway. As if she weighed less than nothing, he dragged her across the deck and over the threshold, then gave her a shove toward the guest room. “Get in the bedroom, close the door and stay quiet,” he ordered as he closed and locked the door.

There was a time to be obstructive and a time to obey without argument. As Neely watched Reese remove his pistol from the holster tucked at the small of his back, she had no doubt about which time this was. She beat a quick retreat into the guest room, nearly tripping over her suitcase. After locking the door, she leaned against it and gave the room a quick scan. As guest rooms went, for a man who probably shared his bed with most of his overnight guests, the room lacked nothing. As a safe place to hide from unexpected visitors, it lacked everything. There was no way she could fit in the few-inch
clearance between the floor and the bed, no cover in the empty closet and, thanks to the shelves and drawers and her own long legs, no space large enough inside the oak armoire.

She was worrying for nothing, she counseled herself. The visitor was probably the mailman or a delivery man, bringing a package to leave on the porch. It might even be Jace, come to rescue her.

But what if it was cause for worry? What if somehow, some way, Eddie Forbes had tracked her down and he'd come to finish what he'd started? He was too big a coward to come alone, so his thugs would be with him. Would Reese be able to protect her?

Would he even try?

Without warning, the doorknob rattled. Neely clamped her hands over her mouth to muffle the startled gasp that slipped out and whirled away from the door, as if those few feet somehow offered more protection.

“Open the door, Neely.”

Even if she hadn't recognized Reese's voice, she would have known that scornful impatience anywhere. After taking a few deep breaths to ease her tremors, she twisted the lock, then hastily moved to the opposite side of the bed.

He opened the door but didn't come farther than a step into the room. “That was one of my deputies. When the alarm's set off, it automatically dials into the dispatcher. Since I didn't answer the phone when the dispatcher called to clear it and Darren was in the area, he came by to check it out.” His gaze shifted from her to the neatly made bed, then to her suitcase. For some reason she couldn't begin to guess at, he scowled. “I told him I forgot about the alarm. Thanks for making me look like an idiot.”

He never looked like an idiot, even when he was being one, so she didn't feel too sorry for him. Back in Thomasville, they'd had some of the most ridiculous arguments, with him on the side of unreasonable, illogical, narrow-minded fools everywhere, but he'd managed to never look unreasonable, illogical or narrow-minded himself.

Though he'd eventually proven that he was all three.

Clasping her hands together tightly so they wouldn't tremble, she tried to look braver and calmer than she felt. “I'd really like to go to the jail now.” Before he could turn her down flat again, she rushed on. “There's no safe place to hide here. If Forbes finds out I'm here, it's all over. I have no place to go.”

He looked at her for a long still moment, then made a decision he apparently didn't like, followed by an impatient gesture. “Come on. I'll show you the safe room.”

N
eely had heard of safe rooms—who in Tornado Alley hadn't?—but she'd never actually seen one. In her own house, the hall bathroom was her best bet in the event of disaster—an interior room, no windows, only one door—but a best bet was far from an honest-to-God, built-for-that-purpose safe room.

She followed Reese through the kitchen and down the other side hallway into his bedroom. The room was large, comfortable, messier than any other room in the house, but that was all she had the chance to notice before he opened a door in the corner. From the bedroom side, anyone would think it was a closet, which some safe rooms were. But not this one. It was small—six-by-eight, maybe eight-by-eight feet. The walls were painted white, the floor carpeted in beige. Much of the space was taken up by a twin bed. There was an electric light overhead, two wall sconces that held candles and a shelf filled with flashlights, a radio, batteries, matches and bottled water.

“Come over here and close the door,” Reese commanded gruffly, and she returned from her examination of the room to
do so. What had looked like a regular door from the other side was actually steel, she realized, and quite heavy. Fortunately, it didn't require significant effort to move it—at least, not until it was closed and secured. There was what appeared to be a heavy-duty dead bolt lock, along with a steel bar that fitted through brackets on the inside of the door.

“The structure isn't attached to the house, so the house can blow away without affecting this room at all. The walls and ceiling are reinforced concrete, more than a foot thick. This design has been proven to withstand winds up to three hundred miles per hour. It's also bulletproof.”

A shiver danced down her spine, one she thought she controlled, but he noticed and frowned. “You're not claustrophobic, are you?”

“Oh, no. I'm learning to love small, enclosed, safe places.”

They stood there a moment, the silence around them thick and unnatural. When he broke it, Neely wasn't prepared for the sound of his voice…or had she been anticipating it?

“Who is Forbes?”

A chill swept over her, and she rubbed her bare arms vigorously to generate some heat. After a halfhearted effort, she unfastened the two locks, pushed open the door and returned to the brighter, warmer environment of the bedroom. She thought about brushing him off, about flat-out lying that she didn't know anyone by that name or not answering at all. But as long as she was around, whether in his house or his jail, her problems were his problems.

Threats against her now included him.

A large bay window with a seat looked out onto the front porch and the yard. She sat there, folded her arms across her middle and replied, “Eddie Forbes is a convicted felon whose business interests range from trafficking in narcotics to money-laundering to murder-for-hire.”

“Whose murder?”

“That of his primary rival in the drug trade. His wife's lover.” She smiled tautly. “And mine.”

“Why yours? You give him bad legal advice?”

Though her smile didn't waver, she felt a stab of hurt that he thought so little of her. She hadn't busted her butt all those years to become a lawyer to defend people like Forbes—career criminals, amoral scum who took what they wanted, destroyed countless lives and bought, manipulated and threatened their way out of trouble. Yes, she had defended some guilty people, and yes, she'd gotten some of them off when the cops or the D.A.'s office had screwed up. But that was justice. Even criminals had rights that couldn't be violated.

But justice was all she'd ever sought for any of her clients. She had never gone into court with the intention to free a client she knew was guilty. A fair trial. That was all she'd ever promised, all she'd ever delivered.

“No, I wasn't his lawyer,” she replied carelessly. “That would have been a conflict of interest.”

“Why?”

“Because I was working for the D.A.'s office at the time. I was Eddie's prosecutor. I sent him to prison.”

She saw the surprise that flashed through his eyes, followed by a hint of bitterness.
Why don't you put that expensive degree to good use?
he'd asked her countless times back in Thomasville.
Why don't you go to work for the D.A., where you can do some real good?

She'd never wanted to be on that side of the courtroom. Overzealous, ambitious or uncaring prosecutors were responsible, in her opinion, for much of the injustice in the justice system. They sent innocent people to jail, sometimes knowingly, sometimes not, but almost always without caring. But Judy Miller's murder and Reese's breaking her heart had convinced her that, just as in providing poor, uninformed clients with a chance for justice, there could be some noble purpose in providing that same justice to guilty people who so richly deserved to be in prison.

And so she'd gone to work for the Jackson County District Attorney's office. She'd been as good a prosecutor as she was a defense attorney. She'd built an impressive record and been rewarded with a heavier caseload and more pressure to per
form. She'd had less attention to pay to the details, had had to rely on other people's information and opinions. Clearing her cases had become more important than justice.

The day she'd won a conviction against a man whom she honestly doubted was guilty, she'd turned in her resignation. In the years since she'd neither defended nor prosecuted anyone. She handled wills and trusts, product liability and medical malpractice, prenuptial agreements and divorces, custody cases and adoptions—a little bit of everything. She charged big fees of clients who could afford them and adjusted them accordingly for clients who couldn't, made damn good money and didn't care much about any of it.

“So you prosecuted this guy and got a conviction.”

She nodded. “He served five years on a fifteen-to-twenty-year sentence. He warned me at the sentencing that he wouldn't forget me. He got out a few weeks ago, killed his wife, who'd divorced him while he was inside, then came looking for me.” Her smile was thin and bitter. “So…thanks for the great advice. At least when I was on the defense side of the table, none of my clients ever tried to kill me.”

“No, they killed innocent people instead.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but what good would it do? He'd refused to see reason nine years ago, and he appeared even more rigid now. A decade of blaming her seemed to have set his opinions in stone.

When she didn't respond, he walked out of the room, his boots echoing on the wood floors. She didn't follow him, but sank back against the window. She was suddenly tired—of being alone, being afraid, being sorry. Of trying so hard and failing so miserably. Of being damned for doing her job, for obeying the law, for other people's mistakes. She wished she could run far away and never come back, but at the moment she'd be lucky to get within ten feet of a door.

Since that was out, she wished she could curl up in bed, pull the covers close around her and sleep deeply, peacefully, without dreams, until all this ugliness was done. There was a bed six feet in front of her, the navy-blue covers turned down
on this side, the fat pillow with an indentation ready to cradle her head. She could kick off her shoes, leave her clothes in a pile on the floor and sink down into all that softness, with nothing showing but the top of her head. The sheets would smell of Reese, and the covers would create a warm, dark cocoon, and she would feel safe because Reese's bed had always been a wonderful place to be.

Had
been. Until nine years ago. Wasn't anymore and never would be again.

Wearily she got to her feet, intending to return to the guest room and go quietly insane. She stopped beside the bed for a moment, picked up his pillow and lifted it to her face. It did smell of him, of the same cologne he'd favored years earlier, of the scent that was simply him, of the time when
she
had smelled of him. She breathed deeply, bringing back sweet memories of sweeter times, then, with a lump in her throat, hugged the pillow tightly to her chest.

When she finally walked away, it wasn't out of the bedroom, but into the safe room. She left the door open barely an inch, allowing a bit of weak light into the darkness, then sat on the bed and breathed deeply. There was nothing wrong with feeling melancholy as long as she didn't cry, and she wasn't going to do that. Crying served no purpose. It solved nothing and merely provided others with proof of her weakness. It didn't even make her feel better—her eyes got puffy and red, her head ached and she had trouble breathing—so she absolutely was
not
going to do it.

And then she lay down, snuggled close to Reese's pillow and cried.

 

Lunchtime came and went with no sign of Neely. Reese had spent the rest of the morning thinking about what she'd said, trying to imagine her working as an assistant D.A., wondering why she'd gone that route when her heart had always been set on defending crooks, not prosecuting them. Was it the Miller case that had pushed her to the other side? Had getting shot
opened her eyes to the fact that there was more to justice than simple fairness?

He'd always thought her insistence that justice equaled fairness was naive. What was just about a man who'd beaten his wife half to death on numerous occasions going free because he hadn't been read his rights—rights he already knew by heart from the five other times he'd been arrested? Where was the justice in dropping charges against a drug dealer because the officers had lacked probable cause for searching his car? When their search had been justified, when drugs and money, both in great quantities, had been found, what did probable cause matter?

Why did acknowledged criminals even have any rights?

When his stomach started grumbling, he put a frozen casserole in the microwave oven, set the timer, then glanced at the wall that separated the guest room from the kitchen. What was she doing in there that kept her so quiet? Reading? Sleeping? Looking outside where she couldn't go and heaping silent curses on his head? He told himself it wasn't important. All that mattered was that she was keeping her distance from him. That was the only way they were going to get through the rest of the day. But when he kept wondering, he finally walked down the hall to check.

It was so quiet in the guest room because she wasn't there. He checked the bathroom—the door was open, the lights off—then his bedroom. It was empty, too. She couldn't possibly have left the house. The first thing he'd done after sending the deputy on his way was reset the alarm. Even if she'd managed to sneak out without his knowing it, the dispatcher would have called.

He made a quick check of the entire house, including the garage, then ended up once again in his own room. He was about to turn away and resort to searching closets when the door to the safe room caught his attention. Normally he kept it closed, but when he'd left Neely earlier, it had been wide open. Now it was only slightly ajar.

He pushed the door open and reached for the light switch,
then abruptly stopped. She was lying on her side on the bed, her knees drawn up, her sherbet-green skirt covering her legs and feet, and she was asleep.

The first sensation that swept over him was relief. He might resent her like hell, might wish she'd disappear from his life and his memory, but he didn't want her dead, hurt or in danger. Whatever wrongs she'd committed, whatever mistakes she'd made, she didn't deserve to die for them. She certainly didn't deserve to die for sending a drug dealer and murderer to prison.

The second sensation was…hard to identify. Something weak. Soft. Damnably foolish. For the first time he noticed the signs of unrelenting stress—the shadows under her eyes, the tension that wrinkled her forehead even in sleep, her fists clutching his pillow to her chest. She looked so fragile. Vulnerable. Pushed to the limits of her endurance and beyond. There was a part of him—the part that remembered loving her—that wanted to close the door and lock them inside this safe place, then gather her into his arms and simply hold her. That part knew instinctively that as long as he held her, she would sleep without dreams, without fear, until the fatigue was banished and she was rested enough to rely on her own strength.

Thank God the rest of him knew better than to give in to such weakness.

Minute after minute passed, and he simply stood there and looked at her. Nothing broke the silence but breathing—hers slow and even, his ragged and less than steady. Nothing existed but the two of them, no place but this room.

The timer beeping in the kitchen finally spurred him to move. He left the safe room, then, on impulse, returned with a chenille throw. Careful not to touch her, he spread it over her, pulled the door nearly shut and went back to the kitchen.

After lunch, he spent the next few hours on the Internet, searching for whatever he could find on Eddie Forbes. By the time he read the last archived newspaper article, he felt pretty damn grim. A lot of criminals accepted the risk of arrest and
prison as part of the cost of doing business and bore no ill will toward either the cops or the D.A. Everybody—good guy or bad—was just doing his job.

Eddie Forbes wasn't one of them. He blamed his unfortunate incarceration on everyone but himself. He'd already killed his ex-wife and her lover and threatened to kill Neely next. Because he blamed them most? Or because they were women and more vulnerable than the cops, crooks and lawyers involved?

Reese had just signed off the computer and risen from his chair when the cell phone rang. He sat back down and answered, fully expecting to hear his cousin's voice. He wasn't disappointed.

“Hey, bubba. How's it going?”

Thinking about Neely's escape that morning and his dragging her back into the house, Reese ignored the heat rising up his neck and carelessly replied, “Everything's okay here. How about there?”