His Witness, Her Child Page 7

  The scream pierced the air again.

  Grasping the Defender, he sprang to his feet and raced through the dark maze of the living room and into the blackness of the narrow hall.

  He reached for the bedroom doorknob, shoved the door open and readied his weapon.

  Shadowed figures tangled together on the bed. Jacqueline and her daughter? An intruder? The shuttered window blinds blocked the moon’s glow. Damn this unrelenting darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. Heart pounding, he flicked on the light.

  Jacqueline spun around, staring up at him, eyes wide, skin pale. Seeing the gun, she shielded Amanda with her body. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Amanda had a nightmare.”

  Dillon swept the room with his gaze. No Swain. No high-powered rifle or razor-sharp knife. Only a little girl’s nightmare. He lifted the gun, pointing the barrel at the ceiling. Scooping breath after breath into his lungs, he tried to slow the adrenaline pounding through him. He settled his gaze on Jacqueline.

  Wearing one of his old T-shirts, she huddled on the bed, even more thin and delicate than she had looked in her baggy clothing. The shirt had ridden up in her awkward pose, showing a wisp of white lace panties. Her long bare legs curled on top of the navy sheets and comforter, her skin creamy against the dark linens.

  His mouth went dry.

  He knew he should look away, not take advantage of her shock, her fear, not leer at her like a teenage boy seeing his first glimpse of a woman’s underwear. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from her.

  Jacqueline lifted her gaze from the revolver in his hand and met his eyes. “She’s all right. We’re all right,” she whispered.

  He dragged his eyes from her and tucked the gun into his waistband, the metal pressing against the small of his back.

  Soft mewing came from the bed behind Jacqueline, each sound so heartbreaking, Dillon nearly flinched. Amanda. The poor kid. How could anyone know the horror of what that little girl was going through? He circled the bed.

  She sat propped against the pillow, strands of chestnut hair stuck to her wet cheeks. Her teary eyes focused on him.

  His heart twisted in his chest. She looked so much like Janey had at the same age. Janey’s big blue eyes had glistened in the same way when she was afraid. When she needed her big brother to comfort her.

  He’d loved playing Janey’s knight in shining armor when she’d awakened with nightmares. Loved sitting in her dark room, her little bubble-bath-scented body cuddled into the crook of his arm, her eyes raised to him in adoration. Quite the power trip for an awkward teenage boy. But that was a long time ago. Back when he thought he could save her from the horrors of the world.

  He pulled himself from his memories and focused on the little girl in front of him now. “When my baby sister woke up with nightmares, I used to tell her a story. It made her feel better.”

  Amanda choked back a sob and studied him as though she couldn’t imagine him having a family. Her fingers latched on to a shank of her chestnut hair, twisting it into a tight rope.

  “I’d tell her the story of a filly on our ranch that grew up to be a champion. Do you want to hear that story?”

  Amanda’s nod was so slight, Dillon couldn’t be sure if he’d witnessed it at all. “If it’s all right with your mama, I’ll tell you the story I used to tell Janey.”

  Jacqueline pulled her gaze from her daughter and scanned Dillon’s face. Her expression was soft with compassion. Drawing in a shaky breath, she leaned down and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Roll over on your tummy, punkin, and listen to Mr. Reese’s story. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Amanda looked from her mother to Dillon, fear shadowing her eyes and puckering her little mouth. After sizing up the situation, she rolled onto her stomach. Head turned to face Dillon, she looked up at him with those expectant blue eyes, as if waiting for him to sweep her fears away.

  Jacqueline moved her hand over her daughter’s back, love evident with each rhythmic stroke. But her eyes remained glued to him. Her unspoken message was plain as a boil on a pug nose. I’m trusting you with my daughter’s fragile emotions. Don’t blow it.

  Dillon cleared his throat and drew a fortifying breath. “I grew up on a ranch. From the time I can remember, my daddy raised Black Angus cattle and some pretty decent cutting horses. But way back when I was a boy, a filly was born that was special. The moment she took her first wobbly step, my daddy promised me that she would be my first real cutting horse.”

  Amanda’s cheeks seemed to relax, and her mouth lost its frightened pucker. The story was working its magic, just as it had on Janey.

  “But there was one problem. She was skittish as the day is long. Everything scared her. The lighting of a bird on a fence post, the clanging of a grain bucket at dinnertime, every sound or movement.”

  Worry crinkled Amanda’s brow.

  He offered her a reassuring smile. “The filly grew up into a strapping young horse, and when she turned two, my daddy threw a saddle on her back for the first time. It took a long time and a lot of patience, but finally he broke her to ride. The next step was to show her the cattle. When she saw her first Black Angus, she nearly bolted from the pen. She wouldn’t go near the cattle. My daddy tried for months to get her to approach them, but she wouldn’t. She was too frightened. So one day my daddy told me he was turning her out with the broodmares. She’d never be a cutting horse. He’d find me another horse to show.”

  Amanda frowned, her face so sad it pulled on Dillon’s heart. In the face of the filly’s plight, she’d forgotten all about the nightmare her life had become.

  “So my daddy did what he said and turned his attention to some of the other young stock. And one day a big Black Angus bull in the next pasture noticed the grass in the broodmares’ pasture looked greener and more delicious. So he broke down the fence separating the pastures. Well, the grass was delicious. So delicious, in fact, that he decided he wanted it all to himself. He started chasing the mares. The horses ran away from him easily at first. But after a few hours, they started to get tired. Then the filly’s mother stepped in a gopher hole and hurt her foot. She couldn’t run away from the bull anymore.”

  Amanda drew in a sharp breath. A whimper sounded from deep in her throat. Though Jacqueline still ran her hand soothingly over her daughter’s hair, her eyes narrowed to warning slits.

  He hurried to the end of his story. “The bull was mad by this time. Really mad. He decided to take out his anger on the filly’s mother. He lowered his sharp horns and charged her. And who stepped in front of the injured mare but the frightened filly herself. She lowered her head and charged the bull right back. The sight of the filly charging scared the bull so much, he stopped in his tracks, spun around and ran away. Using cutting talent that we always knew she had, the filly chased the bull back into his own pasture and stood guard until my daddy fixed the break in the fence. And the filly was never afraid of cattle again.”

  “And the mommy horse was okay?” Amanda’s little brow creased with worry.

  “Yes. Her foot healed up and she was fine. And she was very proud of her daughter for being so brave and facing the bull.”

  A trembling smile struggled to appear on Amanda’s lips. “I’m brave like that.”

  Dillon’s throat closed. “I know you’re brave, darlin’. Very brave.”

  Jacqueline leaned down and kissed Amanda on the cheek, her long chestnut hair falling like a curtain around her daughter’s face. Turning from her daughter, she looked up at Dillon. Her chin trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

  The tremor in her voice knocked the breath out of him. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at this beautiful, vulnerable woman and her sweet little girl.

  Growing up, he’d always assumed that one day he would have a wife and children. He’d have this sweetness, this intimacy as a part of his daily life. But after Janey’s death, things had changed. He had changed. And a family was no longer an option.

 
But it wasn’t until now that he’d really been able to feel what he’d given up.

  JACQUELINE’S EYES OPENED as the first rays of dawn filtered through the miniblinds covering the windows of Dillon’s bedroom. Beside her, Amanda’s breathing was soft and steady. Visions of the night before crowded into her mind. Amanda’s scream, Dillon appearing at the door with that hideous-looking gun, his horse story and its soothing effect on her little girl. He had made quite an impression on her daughter with his tale. Jacqueline couldn’t forget the determination shining in Amanda’s eyes by the end of his story. And she was more than grateful for Amanda’s peaceful sleep that followed. Sleep for which she had Dillon Reese to thank.

  If only Jacqueline could have slept. Every bone in her body ached. Every cell in her brain throbbed. She’d give almost anything to be able to slip into a deep sleep, free from worry, free from fear, free from the helplessness that nearly suffocated her. But she could never attain such peace. Not until Amanda was safe.

  Careful not to disturb her daughter, she hoisted her body from the bed. All she needed was a hot shower and a cup of black coffee. Then she would be stronger. Then she could face another day.

  She pulled on her jeans, opened the door and padded across the cool hardwood floor to the bathroom, her bare feet making no noise.

  As if in a daze, she turned on the shower and faced the mirror. Dark shadows lurked under her eyes. The pallor of her skin nearly matched the white T-shirt she wore.

  A T-shirt. That’s all she’d been wearing when Dillon had burst into the room last night. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, her skin hot to the touch. Why hadn’t she covered herself? Why had she frozen, staring at him as if he’d pulled the gun on her?

  She knew why.

  She had wanted his gaze to travel over her bare legs. She’d relished the desire in his eyes. She’d soaked it in the way the frozen earth soaked in the first warm rays of spring. And she’d wanted more. Even now she wanted more.

  She turned away from the mirror. She had to get her thoughts under control. Nothing was going to happen between Dillon and her. Nothing could. She had a daughter to protect and raise. And Dillon… Dillon had a crusade to fight.

  A hot shower, followed by a steaming cup of coffee, that’s what she needed to get her life and her errant feelings in perspective. Hurriedly she stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower. Hot water and thick, fragrant shampoo washed over her hair and sluiced down her body. Finally when her skin had started to prune she flicked off the water and grabbed for a towel.

  She dried herself and pulled on her sweater and jeans. What she wouldn’t give for a change of clothes. But her suitcase, along with Amanda’s, was still in the back seat of her car, probably locked in some police garage. She would have to ask Dillon if they could get it back.

  Dillon. At the thought of him, her pulse picked up its pace and a shiver traveled over her skin. She rubbed her hands over her arms and turned off her mind.

  Coffee. She’d follow through with the second part of her morning’s plan. She’d make coffee and breakfast—a breakfast to thank Dillon for his story last night, for Amanda’s night of peaceful sleep. And most of all, she’d pray that she could keep her mind from wandering off in directions better left unexplored.

  DILLON HUNG UP THE PHONE and hefted himself out of his desk chair. The scent of frying eggs, browning toast and brewing coffee tantalized his nostrils and made his mouth water. The delectable smells had teased him the entire time he’d been on the phone with Mylinski planning their next move.

  If he was going to catch Swain and his informant, he needed access to certain files in the D.A.’s office. And he couldn’t risk having them delivered to his house. Which meant he had to leave the house, leave Jacqueline and Amanda, and go get them.

  But first, breakfast. He eased his way into the kitchen.

  Jacqueline stood at the old gas stove, steam rising from two frying pans in front of her. Even dressed in the wrinkled, shapeless jeans and sweater from yesterday, she looked sexy as hell. Almost as sexy as she had last night with her long bare legs tangled in his sheets.

  He pulled his gaze from her and focused on Amanda, who sat at the kitchen table swinging her dangling little legs in a crazy rhythm.

  An uneasy feeling pricked the back of his neck. It had been a long time since he’d shared breakfast with anyone. Longer still since someone had actually cooked for him. And he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Not sure at all.

  Jacqueline and her daughter had already worked their way under his skin like a pair of damned chiggers. He didn’t need to get any more involved with them. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. And a cozy Saturday-morning breakfast wasn’t about to make it any easier.

  He grabbed two coffee cups from the cupboard. Sneaking the pot out from under the automatic drip coffeemaker, he filled both cups and set one on the counter near Jacqueline.

  She turned to him with a quiet smile. “Thank you.”

  For a moment he just stared at her. Never before had he seen such a beautiful smile. Her eyes, wide and blue as a Texas sky, crinkled slightly at the corners. Her square, drill-sergeant jaw softened. And the cutest dimple he’d ever seen dented one smooth cheek.

  “No problem. I was pouring myself a cup anyway.” He brought the scalding-hot coffee to his lips and gulped.

  “Not just for the coffee. For telling me the truth about your sister. For being there for Amanda last night.”

  She sounded grateful. And behind the words he sensed a loneliness, a vulnerability that turned the warning prickle at the back of his neck into a full-fledged ache. “Just doing my job.”

  She drew herself up, her grin fading, her dimple disappearing in her smooth cheek. “Well, job or not, you went the extra mile. I really do appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

  What could he say? You’re welcome? Just part of the job, ma’am? Glad to do it? Any response he could come up with seemed too shallow, almost flip. He’d already made her withdraw. He didn’t want to do even more damage. The reality was that if he hadn’t encouraged Mark to testify, Amanda wouldn’t be needing his comfort now.

  Jacqueline seemed to accept his silence, and turned back to her breakfast preparation. Using the spatula, she rolled the omelettes out of the pans and onto plates. She handed him two of the plates, and they sat at the table next to Amanda.

  Dillon took another gulp of scalding coffee and shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. The tangy cheddar and the fluffy, buttery eggs melted on his tongue. “Delicious.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Glad you like them.”

  “I do.”

  For a moment her eyes lingered on him, as if she expected him to say more. Then she turned her attention back to the eggs in front of her. Across the table Amanda picked at her food and watched him speculatively.

  Silence stretched between them like a chasm waiting to be bridged. He shifted in his chair. He stuffed another bite of eggs into his mouth and chewed. He’d never been one to be uncomfortable with silence. In fact, he’d used it as a tool more than once. It was surprising how many defendants were more concerned with filling an awkward silence than with hiding their sins.

  Even more surprising was that right this moment he understood what they must have felt. He searched his mind for something benign to say. He’d never been good at small talk, but it was worth a shot. “How did you get into the brew pub business?”

  Her brow furrowed at his awkward attempt. “My dad opened the brew pub when I was a kid. He used to let me go to work with him on Saturday mornings. I’d chew on malted barley and watch him work.”

  As her melodic voice, deep and rich as the dark roast coffee, resonated through the room, the muscles in Dillon’s shoulders relaxed a little.

  Still eyeing him curiously, Jacqueline sipped her coffee and nodded. “My dad loved making beer. He’d spend hour after hour experimenting with different malts, yeasts, hops. You should have seen the excitement on his face when he worked.”
A slight smile played over her lips at remembering.

  “It must have been contagious.”

  “Must have been. The only thing I ever wanted to do was work with my dad in the pub. I studied in Germany to be a brewmaster. Then I worked in a microbrewery in Oregon for a couple of years. But I always wanted to come back here and work alongside my dad in the pub he started. And I finally did. I guess I was a chip off the old block.”

  Her smile turned wistful, then sad. “When he died, my mother moved back to Germany and I took over the pub on my own. It was called Der Brauhaus back then. We changed the name to Schettler Brew Pub when I married Mark.”

  “It’s been quite a success, I understand. It seems packed every night.”

  “My dad wasn’t much of a businessman and neither am I. Mark made the place the financial success it is.” She paused for a moment, her eyes sparking with enthusiasm. “But the beer, that was my domain. The beer has won just about every major award in North America. Three years ago, my Doppelbock won a gold medal at the Great American Beer Festival.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  She shrugged. “The prizes and money were great, don’t get me wrong, but the best part was the day-to-day operation. Trying new blends of malts, hops and yeasts. Experimenting. Creating.”

  He couldn’t help picking up a tone of sadness in her voice, a note of regret. “If you owned the pub before you married, why did you give it up?”

  “Mark wanted it.” She glanced at her daughter, who was quietly eating her omelette. “I did what I had to.”

  Dillon gritted his teeth. Obviously Mark had traded the brew pub for custody of Amanda. What kind of man would force his wife to make a choice like that? And what kind of a man would use his daughter as a bargaining chip?

  He’d known even before the night Jacqueline had received the first threatening phone call and Mark had refused to come home from his party to protect and comfort her that her husband was a self-centered worm. This new revelation didn’t come as a surprise. Neither did the anger boiling inside him. “He was wrong to force you to make that choice. He shouldn’t have gotten away with it.”