Protective Instincts Page 4

  He filed the information away, turned off the light and left the room.

  The next door opened just as easily, and he walked into a large choir room. Piano in one corner, racks of long blue choir robes in another. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of a music stand. He stood still, listening to silence that seemed too thick and heavy to be natural.

  Someone was there.

  “You may as well show yourself,” he said, moving toward the choir robes. “I know you’re here.”

  Nothing, but he thought he saw a robe sway. Not much. Just a hint of movement. Enough to get his heart pumping and adrenaline coursing through him.

  “I said—”

  Someone lunged from the robes, darting out so quickly Jackson barely had time to respond. He dove toward the scurrying figuring, bringing the person down to the ground in a hail of fists and kicking feet. The music stand fell, clanging onto the ground with enough noise to wake the dead.

  Jackson grabbed a skinny arm, tried to grab another, a man’s hoarse cries filling his ears.

  “Cool it!” he said as he finally managed to snag the guy’s flailing hand. He looked down into a grizzled face and hot black eyes.

  “Let me go, worthless VC!” the guy shouted.

  “You’re not in Vietnam, man,” Jackson tried to assure him, still holding his arms in a tight grip. “You’re in the States. In Maryland. In a church.”

  He was rewarded with spit in the face.

  He didn’t bother wiping it off.

  He’d experienced worse, heard worse than the stream of curses coming from the man’s mouth.

  “Tell you what, buddy,” he suggested, hauling the guy to his feet. “How about you put a sock in it?”

  “Give me a sock and I’ll—”

  “What’s going on?” Raina peered in the open door, her face pale. She looked like a dim reflection of the happy young woman in the photo he’d seen, and he felt exactly the way he had when he’d seen her in Africa. Worried. Determined. Willing to do whatever it took to get her home safely.

  Only they weren’t in Africa. They weren’t even in danger. Unless a hundred-pound sixty-something-year-old man who smelled like the inside of a beer keg could be considered a threat.

  “I found this guy hiding in the choir robes,” he responded, turning his attention back to his prisoner, because he didn’t want to look in Raina’s face. He didn’t want to see the loss written so clearly there, didn’t want to know that her pain was the same pain he felt when he remembered Charity. Because there was nothing that could be done about that kind of pain. No magic pill that could be taken, no barrier that could be put up. Nothing but time could ease it, and even that only dulled the sharp edge of grief.

  “I wasn’t hiding!”

  “Butch,” Raina said. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here without permission.”

  She stepped farther into the room. “Did you ask Pastor Myer if you could sleep here?”

  “It’s God’s house. I asked Him,” Butch said with a sly smile.

  “How about you show a little respect for the lady, Butch?” Jackson asked, giving the guy a little shake. Not too hard, though. He didn’t want to rattle fragile bones.

  Raina ignored his comment.

  So did Butch.

  As a matter of fact, Jackson thought they’d done this whole thing before—many times—and that they were just letting things play out the way they always had before.

  “You’ve been drinking again.” Raina walked to the choir robes and dug through them, pulling out an empty bottle of beer.

  “Nah. I’m just collecting old bottles for the money,” Butch replied. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

  “You could try getting a job,” Jackson muttered, releasing the guy’s arms.

  “Who’s going to hire me? I got PTSD, a bum back, wrecked knees. Got no hearing in one ear and barely any in the other. Thank you, Uncle Sam, for taking care of your veterans.” Butch grabbed a backpack from behind the clothes, not nearly as drunk as Jackson thought.

  “If you need work, I have some jobs around the house that I can’t do myself,” Raina said casually.

  Jackson doubted there was anything casual about the offer.

  As a matter of fact, tension lines were etched across her forehead, her skin pulled taut along her cheekbones.

  He also doubted it was a good idea to have a guy like Butch hanging around her place. He’d steal her blind and not feel a bit of guilt about it.

  “What kind of jobs? ’Cause I already told you, my back is bad and my knees are gone.”

  “The fence needs whitewashing, and the lawn needs one more mowing before winter.”

  “You still got that riding lawn mower? The one Matt loved so much?”

  At his question, Raina tensed, her hands fisting. “Yes.”

  “I’ll come by day after tomorrow and get that done for you. The fence might be a little harder. Probably will take me a week or more. Gotta take lots of breaks.”

  Raina nodded, but didn’t speak.

  Jackson wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her husband that had thrown her or if it was the fact that Butch had taken her up on her offer of work.

  “See you then, Raina.” Butch waved and would have walked out into the hall, but Jackson wasn’t done with the guy.

  “How long were you in here, Butch?” he asked, and the old vet paused on the threshold, his gray hair falling in a ratty braid down the middle of his back.

  “Awhile,” he finally muttered.

  “You must have heard the gunshots earlier.”

  “Could be that I did.” Butch turned slowly, his black eyes blazing in his gnarled face. He looked older than he probably was. Seventy or more when Jackson suspected he was in his early sixties. Life hadn’t been kind to him, but then, Jackson doubted the guy had been very kind to life.

  “Did you hear anything before that?” Jackson pressed.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Me. Probably the police. Raina.”

  “Here’s the deal, soldier,” Butch responded. “I don’t deal with the police, and I don’t like you. For Raina’s sake, I’ll tell you this—I heard a car pull into the parking lot a couple of hours ago. You tell the police that, and I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

  “Butch—” Raina started to say, but the guy raised a hand, cutting her off.

  “You’ve always been good to me, but I’m not getting pulled into trouble. Been there too many times to count, and I’m starting to realize I’m getting too old for it.”

  “You didn’t just hide in the choir robes and let whoever was in the parking lot do what he wanted to the church, Butch,” Jackson said. “You went and looked out a window, right? This is your space. You were ready to protect it. You looked out the window, and you saw something. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the police what that was.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t help. I’m an old, drunk vet who’s been wandering around these parts sleeping in churches and abandoned railroad cars and under overpasses for more years than either of you have been alive. I’ve got a rap sheet a mile long. You think the police would listen to a word I said? Even if they did, my word is worth squat.”

  “It’s worth something to me,” Raina cut in, and Butch frowned.

  “Could be I looked. Could be I saw an old Jeep. Could even be that I saw someone get out of that Jeep and walk into the woods, but even if all those things are really what happened, ain’t one person around here who’s going to believe me.”

  “You need to tell the police what you saw,” Raina suggested, and Butch scowled.

  “I owe you, Raina, and I owe your husband. I even owe your little boy, but I’m not talking to the police.” He hitched the pack onto his back and walked out into the hall.

>   Jackson could have stopped him, could have forced him outside and brought him to Officer Wallace. He didn’t. Butch was obviously a well-known figure in the community. If Wallace wanted to interview him, he could track him down easily enough.

  He followed Butch into the hall, watching as the guy limped to the exit, opened the door and disappeared outside. Cold air wafted in, the scent of rain and wet leaves hanging in the hallway after the door closed.

  “Poor Butch,” Raina murmured, her arm brushing his as she stepped past. She smelled like flowers, the scent feminine and alluring. She’d chopped her hair short, the thick strands just reaching her nape. On some women, the style would have been harsh, but on Raina it worked.

  Everything about her worked.

  The faded jeans and flannel nightgown. The unadorned fingernails and scuffed boots. She looked natural, and he found that beautiful, but he didn’t think she saw Butch for who he was—a guy who’d take what he could, use who he could and never feel a bit of guilt over it.

  “He’s made his choices,” Jackson responded. “Those choices brought him to the place he is.”

  “Maybe if he’d had a family who cared about him, he would have made different choices.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I’d better get back to Samuel. I really do want to get him home.”

  “Let’s go, then.” He cupped her elbow, as ready as she was to leave the church and get on with things. “We need to talk to Officer Wallace. Let him know what Butch saw.”

  “Unfortunately, he didn’t see much.”

  “Not much that he’s telling us, but he may be more open to providing details when the police bring him in for questioning.”

  “I really hope Andrew doesn’t do that to him. He’ll probably resist and end up being arrested for it.”

  “Andrew?”

  “Officer Wallace.”

  He nodded, leading her back down the hall into the sanctuary and telling himself that it wasn’t his business that Raina was on a first name basis with Wallace.

  * * *

  Pull away! Raina’s brain shouted as she and Jackson stepped into the quiet sanctuary, but her body refused to obey.

  There was something...nice about having his hand cupped around her elbow, his fingers curved along her inner arm.

  She let herself be ushered to the pew where Samuel still sat. She’d given him a pen and an old church bulletin that she’d found, and she’d told him to stay put.

  He’d listened.

  Thank the Lord.

  She didn’t think she could take any more drama. After six months of living quietly, of going to work and returning home, of going to church and returning home, of quiet dinners with friends and quiet evenings trying to forget just how alone she was, she’d stepped into a world of chaos.

  All she wanted to do was step out of it again.

  And not with Jackson’s hand around her arm, his fingers a warm reminder of what she’d lost when Matt and Joseph had been taken away from her.

  “Ready to get out of here, buddy?” Jackson asked, releasing her elbow as he took Samuel’s hand and helped him to his feet.

  Samuel nodded, but he seemed too tired to speak, his eyes glassy from fever.

  “We’ll go to the house, get some medicine in you. Maybe a little something to eat,” Raina told him, her voice tighter than she wanted it to be.

  “I’m not hungry,” he protested weakly, but she still planned to make him some soup, maybe a piece of toast.

  “You’ll be hungry once that fever goes down,” Jackson commented, holding the door open so they could walk outside. “You’ll probably eat half the house.”

  “I can’t eat a house,” Samuel sounded more confused than amused, but he edged away from Raina and moved closer to Jackson.

  She felt like a third wheel as the two discussed how much a healthy kid could eat. She tried not to let it bother her.

  Rays of sunlight streamed over distant mountains and gleamed on the hood of Andrew’s squad car. He waved, motioning them over. “I’m about done here. Anything else you want to add to what you told me?”

  He eyed Jackson, looking as if he thought there might be more information to be had. That was the way Andrew had been for as long as Raina had known him—driven, serious and devoted to the law.

  “Actually,” Jackson replied, “there was someone in the church who might have seen the Jeep and its driver.”

  He explained briefly while Raina and Stella helped Samuel back into the SUV. Raina was about to slide in beside him when Andrew touched her shoulder.

  “Hold on a second, Rain,” he said quietly, and she paused, her hand on the hood of the vehicle, her back to Andrew. “I found something in the woods. I think you need to see it.”

  A crisp breeze blew dead leaves across the pavement. She watched as they skittered toward the SUV, refusing to turn, because she was afraid of what she’d see in Andrew’s eyes.

  “Rain?” he said again, and she knew she couldn’t avoid it.

  She turned, cold air bathing cheeks that suddenly felt too hot and too tight. “What is it?”

  He hesitated. A sure sign that whatever he had to show her was as horrible as she’d thought it would be. She knew Andrew well, knew him enough to know that hesitation meant worry and worry meant things were bad.

  Destiny’s brother had spent most of the time Raina was growing up teasing her. After she’d married Matt, he’d stayed close, forming as strong a bond with him as he had with Raina. He’d responded to the accident that killed Matt and Joseph, and he’d been the one to tell Raina that Matt had died at the scene. He’d been at her side when the doctors declared Joseph brain-dead. He knew what she’d been through, and he’d never have wanted to add to it.

  She had a feeling he was going to.

  “Whatever it is, just show me,” she demanded, her voice hoarse with fear.

  She hated that, hated that Stella was standing on the other side of the SUV, watching with curiosity. Hated that Jackson’s eyes were filled with pity.

  “I left it where it was until I could bring in an evidence team, but I have a picture. I want to get your take on it.” He was all business, his tone brusque just the way it usually was when he was working.

  But he watched her with that steady gaze, that sorrowful look that she’d only ever seen one other time.

  She didn’t want to see the picture.

  She didn’t want to know what he’d found.

  Because she was afraid that whatever it was would change everything, that it would turn her life upside down, make her question everything she believed, make her want to turn the hands of time back.

  Just like four years ago.

  Just like the day she’d lost everything.

  Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera. He scrolled through a couple of photos and frowned. “Here it is.”

  She took the camera, her hands steady despite the fact that her entire body seemed to be shaking. The image on the screen was clear. Wet ground, bright-colored leaves strewn around. That wasn’t the focus of the picture, though. A stuffed dog was. Fluffy and blue. About twelve inches high. Muddy and wet, but obviously well loved by a child, its ears ratty, its fur threadbare in a few places. She knew that if she could lift the dog out of the camera and study it closely, she’d be able to see that one eye was missing and that its tail had almost no fur. She thought that if she could hold it close to her nose, she’d still be able to smell baby powder and shampoo on it.

  Her eyes burned, her chest so tight and heavy she didn’t think she’d ever breathe again.

  “It looks like the dog I gave Joseph that day we all went to the county fair together. Remember?” Andrew prodded.

  Remember?

  She couldn’t forget. Not any second of any minute of t
he short time she’d had with her son. If she let herself, she’d lie in bed at night, remembering his laughter, his chubby toddler belly and happy blue eyes.

  She never let herself.

  And she didn’t want this...reminder.

  She thrust the camera back into Andrew’s hands and turned on her heels, walking away from him and from Jackson. Walking past the SUV and Stella, leaving Samuel right where he was. Walking faster and faster until her feet were flying and her breath was heaving, and she was running so fast her legs ached and her lungs hurt, and the tears were streaming down her face.

  And still, she couldn’t outrun her sorrow.

  FOUR

  Footsteps pounded behind her, but she didn’t stop. She knew the way home. Just a mile to the main road, a half mile from there to the dirt road and another mile to the house. She’d run it many times in the past few years, so many times she thought she might have worn potholes into the pavement.

  “You can’t run forever,” Jackson said, his voice and breath so even he might have been walking.

  Her breathing was frantic, her lungs burning from cold air, from anger, from sorrow, from all the emotions that stuffed dog had made her feel.

  It couldn’t be Joseph’s.

  Could it?

  Jackson grabbed her hand, forcing her to slow down to a walk. She could have pulled away. His grip was loose, his touch light.

  She let her hand lie where it was, the warmth of his palm seeping into her cold skin. He didn’t speak again, and she didn’t.

  Ahead, the sun peeked over the trees, bright gold rimmed with pink. The beginning of a new day, and she had another little boy to take care of. One who hadn’t ever had a blue stuffed dog won at a local fair. Her breath caught, the tears that had been sliding down her face pooling in her throat and chest and heart.

  An SUV pulled up beside them, and Jackson opened the back door. Raina slid into place beside Samuel, turning her face away because she didn’t want him to know she’d been crying. He’d seen too much sorrow in his life. She didn’t want to bring any more into it. She’d brought him to the United States because he’d needed more medical help than he’d been getting. She didn’t want to add to his burdens or create more trouble for him.