A Soldier's Redemption (2 page)

And none of it would have done her a damn bit of good fifteen months ago.

Then she set the alarm. It gave them only forty-five seconds to get out the front door and close it. It was long enough.

The U.S. Marshals had also given her a car along with the house. It wasn't a standout that might draw attention. In fact, it was practically a tank, four years old already, guzzling gas in a way that pained her conscience, but her protectors had insisted. The engine was new, as of a year ago, and was a full V-8 with more power than she would ever need.

Because if they came after her, they wouldn't give her a chance to get in a car and get away. She was sure of that. Someday soon, she promised herself, as soon as she could find a way, she would try to trade it in for a smaller but reliable car. She didn't need this steel cocoon.

If she could say nothing else for the Suburban, it gave Wade Kendrick plenty of room. She doubted he could even squeeze into the subcompact she hoped to have someday.

He didn't say another word until she dropped him off in front of the department store. Then it was just, “Thanks.”

“When should I pick you up?”

He shrugged. “I won't take long. I'm not picky. Whenever is good for you.”

Well, her needs were essentially meager, too. Not even with the extra money could she afford to be reckless. Cooking for one just depressed her, but she made herself buy something more nutritious, like vegetables, and salad fixings, and some chicken. She could shop for more after her next shift, but right now she was off for three days.

Three whole days, and now with a stranger in her house.

Evenings were long here in the summer, the sun not even hitting the horizon until after nine. But as it sank lower in the west, the dry air failed to hold the heat, and the early evening was starting to cool down by the time she emerged from the market with her two cotton bags of groceries. She drove back to the department store, and found Wade already outside on the curb. Apparently he'd bought more than one or two items, to judge by the number of bags, and she was glad she hadn't let him walk. She suspected that if she had, he'd have made several trips because of bulky pillows and blankets as well as sheets and towels.

And he probably wouldn't have said a thing about it. Gage had been seriously guilty of understatement when he said the guy didn't talk much.

She waited while he put his purchases in the back next to her groceries, then he climbed up front beside her.

“Thanks,” he said again.

“You're welcome.”

And not another sound from him. It was almost as if he were trying to be invisible in every way. Out of sight, out of hearing, out of mind.

If he'd been one of her students, she would have concluded that silence came from secrets, terrible secrets, because nothing about him indicated shyness. But he wasn't a student, he was a grown man, and maybe the same metrics didn't apply.

They reached the house and she pulled into the short driveway and parked. She never used the garage because it provided hiding places over which she had little control.

As soon as she put the car in Park, Wade climbed out. “I'll get your groceries, too,” he said.

Part of her wanted to argue that she could manage, but she recognized it for what it was: a desire to exert some control,
any
control, over her life again. The man offered
a simple courtesy, and maybe it was his way of expressing his gratitude for the ride. She knew better than to prevent people from offering such little acts of kindness, especially when they had just received one.

Ah, hell, she thought. She didn't ordinarily swear, but this day was beginning to make her want to. Needing to take someone into her sanctuary to pay the bills was bad enough. But finding that the teacher in her still existed, lived and breathed even though it was now forbidden to her, actually hurt.

She felt surprised that it still hurt. After the last year she had thought she was incapable of feeling any lack except the lack of her husband. God, she missed Jim with an ache that would probably never quit.

Head down, she climbed the front porch steps, going through her key ring for the house key. She had keys from the store, keys for the car, a key for the garage…so many keys for such a narrow life.

Just as she twisted the key, she heard the phone ring. It was probably work, she thought, needing her to come in to cover for someone who was sick. Eager for those hours, she left the door open behind her for Wade, punched in the alarm code as fast as she could, and ran for the cordless set in the living room.

She picked it up, punched the talk button, and said, “Hello?” Let it be more than a couple of hours. Make it a couple of days. God, she needed the hours.

A muffled voice said, “I know where you are.” Then nothing but a dial tone.

The phone dropped from her hands and her knees gave way.

They'd found her.

“W
hat's wrong?”

She looked up from the floor, at the huge man who had entered her life barely two hours ago. He stood in the doorway, his arms full of bags. She tried to breathe, but panic had locked her throat. Speech was impossible, and she couldn't answer that question anyway. Not to a stranger.

Finally she managed to gasp in some air. The instant she recovered her breath, even that little bit, tears started to run. And then she wanted to run. To get in her car and drive as far as she could on what little money she had left, which wouldn't be far at all in that damn Suburban.

And then she realized that if they'd found her, even stepping out her front door could cost her her life.

“Ma'am?”

The giant dropped the bags, and crossed the short
distance between them. He squatted beside her. “Put your head down. All the way down.”

Somehow, with hands that seemed too gentle for someone she had already identified as threatening, he eased her down onto the floor, then lifted her legs onto the couch. Treating her for shock, she realized dimly as the wings of panic hammered at her.

“What happened?” he asked again.

The adrenaline had her panting. Who should she call? The Marshals? She knew what they'd do, and God help her, she didn't want to do that again.

“The sheriff. I need to talk to Gage.”

At least he didn't question her again. Instead he reached for the phone she had dropped and pressed it into her hand.

“Need me to leave?” he asked. “I'll just go unload the car…”

He shouldn't hear this, but around his dark eyes she saw something like genuine concern. Something that said he'd do whatever was best for her, regardless of what it might be.

Her throat tightened. So few people in her life who would care if she lived or died anymore. Even the Marshals would probably just consider her a statistic on their chart of successes and failures.

“I…” She hesitated, knowing she wasn't supposed to share her true situation with anyone. Not anyone. But what did she have to say that he couldn't hear? She didn't have to mention anything about the witness protection program or her real identity because Gage already knew.

“It's okay,” he said. “Just don't get up yet. I'll get the rest of the stuff from the car.”

Amazing. He rose and went back to unloading as if she
hadn't just done the weirdest thing in the world: collapse and then demand to call the sheriff.

Amazing.

But she realized she didn't want her car left unattended and unlocked with bags in it. Bags in which someone could put something. And she didn't want her front door open indefinitely, or the alarm off. Her life had become consumed by such concerns.

Muttering a nasty word she almost never used, she brought up Gage's private cell phone on her auto dialer. He answered immediately.

“Cory Farland,” she said, aware that her voice trembled.

“Cory? Did something happen?”

“Gage I…I got a phone call. All the guy said was, ‘I know where you are.'”

Gage swore softly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Most likely it was just a prank. You know how kids are when they have time on their hands. Stupid phone calls are the least of it.”

“I know, but…”

“I know,” he said. “Trust me, I know. I'm not going to ignore it, okay? Stay inside. Don't go out at all, and keep that alarm on. Do you have caller ID?”

“No, I can't afford it.”

Another oath, muffled. “I'm going to remedy that as soon as possible. But Cory, try not to get too wound up. It's probably a prank.”

Yeah. She knew kids. Probably a prank, like Prince Albert in the can. Yeah. A prank. “Okay.”

Gage spoke again. “Think about it, Cory. If they'd really found you, why would they warn you?”

Good question. “You're right.” She couldn't quite believe
it, but he was right. She drew another shaky breath, and felt her heart start to slow into a more normal rhythm.

“I'm not dismissing it, Cory,” Gage said. “Don't misunderstand me. But I'm ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain it's some kind of prank.”

“Of course.” She said goodbye and disconnected, then lay staring at her ceiling. It was an old ceiling, and watermarks made strange patterns, some like faces she could almost identify. Like the face of the man who had killed Jim and almost killed her.

She heard the front door close, the lock turn, the sound of the alarm being turned on. The tone pierced what suddenly seemed like too much silence, too much emptiness.

She heard footsteps and turned her head to see Wade. Still impassive, he looked down at her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I'm fine. I'm fine.” Life's biggest lie, and it rose automatically to her lips.

“Your color is a bit better. Need help getting up?”

“I can do it, thanks.” Yeah, she could do it. Get up, go to the kitchen, put her groceries away and resume the pretense of normalcy. Because there was no other option. All her options had been stolen over a year ago.

Sighing, she pulled her feet off the couch and rolled to her side to get up. A steadying hand was there to grip her elbow, surprising her. She looked into the rigid, unrevealing face of Wade Kendrick and wondered if he were some kind of instinctive caretaker.

She should have protested the touch. But all of a sudden, after a year of avoiding contact with other people, she needed it, even just that little bit of a steadying hand offered out of courtesy.

“Thanks,” she said when she was on her feet. “I need to put groceries away.”

One corner of his mouth hitched up just the tiniest bit. His version of a smile? “I think,” he said slowly, “it might be best if you sit for a bit. I can put your groceries away, and you can supervise.”

She should have argued. The independence thing had become of supreme importance to her since circumstances beyond her control had gutted her entire life. But she didn't feel like arguing at all. No, with her knees still feeling rubbery, and perishables like frozen food and milk in her two shopping bags, the task needed to be done soon, and she honestly wasn't sure she could manage it.

Adrenaline jolts had a high price when they wore off. So she led the way into the kitchen, her knees shaking, and sat at the chipped plastic-topped table while he emptied her two bags and then asked where each item went. He went about it with utter efficiency: economy of words and economy of movement both.

And she felt very awkward, unable to engage in conversation. She'd lost most of her conversational ability over the past year because she didn't have a past, at least not one she could talk about, and lying had never come easy. So she had become limited to the most useless of topics: the weather, work, a recent film. No depth or breadth of any kind.

And when faced by a man like this, one who seemed disinclined to talk, all she could do was sit in her chair and squirm.

“There,” he said when the last item was put away. Then he faced her. “If you're okay now, I'll take my stuff upstairs.”

She should have said thank-you and left it at that. That's what she
should
have done. But all of a sudden, maybe because of the phone call, being alone was the last thing she wanted. Solitude had been her fortress for a long
time, so why she should want to breach the walls now, she couldn't understand. But she did anyway.

“If I make coffee,” she said, “would you like some?”

One eyebrow seemed to lift, but she couldn't be quite sure. This was a man who seemed to have lost use of his face. Either that, or he had trained himself to reveal absolutely nothing. And the question about coffee seemed to give him pause. He treated it as if it needed real consideration.

“That would be nice,” he finally said.

Only then did she realize she was almost holding her breath. Maybe she feared rejection of some kind. How could she possibly consider a
no
over a cup of coffee to be rejection? God, was she beginning to lose her mind?

It was, of course, entirely possible. In the past year she'd come perilously close to living in solitary confinement with only her memories.

“Okay.” She tried a smile and it seemed to work, because he nodded.

“I'll just take my stuff up and be back down in a minute,” he said.

She watched him walk out of the room and noticed his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The ease with which he moved in his body, like an athlete. Yes, she was definitely slipping a cog somewhere. She hadn't noticed a man that way in a long time, hadn't felt the sexual siren song of masculinity, except with Jim, and since Jim not at all.

She didn't need or want to feel it now.

Shaking her head, she rose and found that her strength seemed to have returned. Making the coffee was an easy, automatic task, one that kept her hands busy while her mind raced.

Surely Gage had been right. The killers wouldn't warn her they were coming. So it
must
have been kids pulling
a prank. When she thought about it, her own reaction to the call disappointed her. There'd been a time when she would have reached the same conclusion as Gage without needing to consult anyone at all. A time when she hadn't been a frightened mouse who couldn't think things through for herself.

She needed to get that woman back if she was to survive, because much more of what she'd gone through the past year would kill her as surely as a bullet.

Piece by piece, she felt her personality disassembling. Piece by piece she was turning into a shadow of the woman she had once been. She might as well have lopped off parts of her own brain and personality.

How long would she let this continue? Because if it went on much longer, she'd be nothing but a robot, an empty husk of a human being. Somehow, somewhere inside her, she had to find purpose again. And a way to connect with the world.

As one of the Marshals had said when she argued she didn't want to do this, “How many people in this world would give just about anything to have a chance to start completely fresh?”

At the time the comment had seemed a little heartless, but as it echoed inside her head right now, she knew he'd had a point. She hadn't liked it then, didn't like it now, but there was a certain truth in it.

A fresh start. No real reason to fear. Not anymore. If they were going to find her, certainly they'd have done so long since.

Wade returned to the kitchen just as the drip coffeemaker finished its task. “How do you like it?” she asked.

“Black as night.”

She carried the carafe to the table, along with two mugs and filled them, then set the pot on a pad in the center of
the table. She always liked a touch of milk in hers, one of the things she hadn't had to give up in this transition. She could still eat the foods she preferred, drink her coffee with a little milk, and enjoy the same kinds of movies and books.

Maybe it was time to start thinking about what she hadn't lost, rather than all she had.

Brave words.

She sat across the table from Wade, trying not to look at him because she didn't want to make him feel like a bug under a microscope. But time and again her gaze tracked toward him, and each time she found him staring at her.

Finally she had to ask. “Is something wrong? You keep staring at me.”

“You're a puzzle.”

She blinked, surprised. “You don't even know me.”

“Probably part of what makes you a puzzle,” he said easily enough. His deep voice, which had earlier sounded like thunder, now struck her as black velvet, dark and rich.

“Only part?” she asked, even though she sensed she might be getting into dangerous territory here.

“Well, there is another part.”

“Which is?”

He set his mug down. “It seems odd to find a woman so terrified in a place like this.”

She gasped and drew back. His gaze never left her face, and he didn't wait for a denial or even any response at all.

“I know terror,” he continued. “I've seen it, smelled it, tasted it. You reek of it.”

She felt her jaw drop, but she couldn't think of one damn thing to say, because he was right.
Right.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I have no business saying things like that.”

Damn straight, she thought, wishing she'd never asked him if he wanted coffee. Wishing she'd never agreed to share a house with him. Those dark eyes of his saw too much. Way too much.

He'd stripped her bare. Anger rose in her and she glared at him. How dare he? But then, hadn't she all but asked for it?

He looked down at his mug, giving her a break from his stare, from his acute perception.

She thought about getting up and walking into her bedroom and locking the door. Hiding, always hiding. The thought stiffened her somehow, and instead of fleeing she held her ground. “Is it that obvious?”

He shook his head. “Probably not to anyone who hasn't been where I've been. Except for when you got that call, you put on a pretty good act.”

“My entire
life
is an act,” she heard herself snap.

He nodded, and when he looked at her again something in his gaze tugged at her, something that reached toward her and tried to pull her in. She looked quickly away. None of that. She didn't dare risk that.

“Look,” he said finally, “I don't mean to upset you. I just want you to know…” He trailed off.

She waited, but when he didn't continue, she finally prodded him. “Want me to know what?”

“I'm not useless. Far from it. So if…if you need help, well, I'm here.” Then he poured a little more coffee in his mug and rose, carrying the mug away with him.

She listened to him climb the creaky stairs and wondered what the hell had just happened.

 

Wade made up his bed with the skill of long years of practice in the navy. Perfectly square corners, the blanket
tight enough to bounce a quarter off. His drawers were just as neat, everything was folded to fit a locker though, so the items didn't exactly match the drawers, but the stacks were square.