Protective Instincts Page 6

  And Jackson had no doubt it had been a game.

  The woods were thick enough and far enough from help that Raina had made an easy target. If the perp had wanted to kill her, he could have done so. Easily. The thought didn’t sit well, and Jackson got up, walking to the window and opening the shade.

  He had a perfect view of the front yard and the road that wound close to the property. Beyond it was the neighbor’s house and beyond that thick woods stretched along a bluff. The church had to be at the top of the rise. He couldn’t see it from the house, but he figured it was an easy mile and a half walk through the woods. Probably on the path he’d found.

  A noise drifted into the quiet—water running, the soft clank of dishes. He didn’t think about what he was doing or why, just opened the door and walked to what had probably once been servants’ stairs. The walls were covered with peeling flowered paper. Raina had apologized as she’d led the way to the attic, but Jackson had seen nothing worth apologizing for. The old house had character and charm. Unlike his modern D.C. apartment, it was filled with the stories that had been lived out in it. A little dust, a little peeling wallpaper, those things were to be expected.

  He walked down the stairs, wincing as they creaked. The water was still running as he walked into the kitchen. Raina stood with her back to the stairwell, her hands deep in a suds-filled sink.

  “Want some help?” he asked.

  She jumped and spun toward him, suds flying across the room and splattering his shirt and face.

  “Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry!” She hurried toward him, swiping at his face and shirt with a dish towel. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  The scent of flowers and sunshine drifted in the air, her soft hair tickling his chin the same way it had done before. His stomach clenched, every nerve in his body jumping to life. Maybe Trinity was right. Maybe his life had become too busy, his schedule too limited by endless missions. Based on his reaction to Raina, he’d say he needed to get out more, spend a few pleasant evenings with a pleasant woman.

  One who did not look as though she was going to break if Jackson wasn’t careful with her.

  “It’s okay,” he muttered, taking the cloth from Raina’s hand and putting a few feet of distance between them. “I’ve been covered with worse.”

  “Still...dirty dish water?” She shook her head, her cheeks pink, a smile hovering at the corner of her lips. It changed her face, turned all the angles soft, filled in the hollows beneath her cheeks. Made her look like the woman he’d seen in the photo at the church. Young and happy and filled with enthusiasm for life.

  She was beautiful. More so than she probably knew.

  And he probably shouldn’t be noticing, but he was.

  “It’s better than mud. Or spit.” He handed back the dishcloth. “I’ve had those and a few other things that I won’t mention splattered on my face.”

  “Maybe I should send you home with a backpack full of dishcloths,” she joked, turning back to the sink and plunging her hands back into the water. She’d changed into a soft black T-shirt and faded blue sweatpants that were baggy enough and long enough to have been her husband’s.

  “And, maybe, you should sit down and take a breather. I’ll take over.”

  “Washing dishes isn’t the kind of job a person needs a breather from, but if you want...” She dug a clean cloth from a drawer and handed it to him. “You can dry. The plates go in the cupboard to the left of the stove. Utensils—”

  “In the drawer beneath it?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t look up from the pan she was scrubbing. Jackson had the distinct impression that she wasn’t comfortable having him beside her, but she didn’t comment further as he lifted a bright yellow plate from the drainer and dried it.

  If she’d had her way, they probably would have finished the job in silence, but Jackson had some questions he wanted to ask, some things he needed to know. In a few hours, he and Stella would head back to D.C., and Raina and Samuel would be on their own, sitting ducks in Raina’s little house in the middle of the woods.

  He frowned, sliding the plate into the cupboard and grabbing another. “You’ve got a pretty piece of property out here, Raina,” he commented, hoping to open up the line of communication, maybe make her a little more comfortable.

  “You mean secluded?” She met his eyes. “That’s what Matt liked about it.”

  “Matt was your husband?”

  “I think you know he was.”

  He didn’t deny it, and she sighed, grabbing a couple of mugs from a cupboard and filling both with coffee. She didn’t offer, just handed him the cup and then sat at the table. “We’re probably both going to need more caffeine for this conversation.”

  “I’m already pretty wired, but thanks.” He set the cup on the counter and dried a small handful of utensils.

  “Do you like the seclusion?” he asked, eying the backyard beyond the kitchen window. He could imagine living in a place like this one. Set apart from the hectic pace of D.C., it seemed like exactly the sort of place he’d want to raise a family in. If he were going to have a family.

  Right now, that was off the table.

  He didn’t have the time. His relationship with Amanda had proven that. If she hadn’t broken things off three months before their wedding, they’d be living unhappily ever after, her constant frustration with his travel stealing any joy they might have found when he was home.

  “Sometimes,” she responded. “Other times, it’s lonely.”

  “Have you considered moving?”

  “Yes. Hundreds of times.”

  “But you’re still here,” he pointed out, carrying his mug to the table and taking the seat beside her.

  “Selling a property that’s out in the middle of nowhere isn’t as easy as buying one. Even if it were, I’m still not sure I’m ready to leave. There are a lot of memories here.” She fingered a scratch in the Formica. “I’d feel like I was letting those go if I walked away.” She dug at the scratch, her short fingernail bending. In another minute, it would rip, but she didn’t seem to care.

  He covered her hand, gently stopping its movements.

  She stiffened, looked straight into his eyes. “What?” she asked as if he had said something.

  “The memories aren’t in the place.”

  “That’s easy to say, Jackson. If you’ve never lost someone you loved.”

  “You’re making assumptions, Raina. That’s never a good thing.”

  “I’m just stating a fact. Unless a person has experienced what I have—”

  “My sister was kidnapped in Cambodia eight years ago,” he cut her off. “She hasn’t been recovered. My folks sold the house we all grew up in because they couldn’t stand to live in it after she was gone. That didn’t help ease their grief. Every Christmas they buy her a gift and put it in their spare bedroom. They do the same on her birthday. You can’t walk in that room without seeing what was lost or feeling every memory they have of her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Raina said, turning her hand so that she could squeeze Jackson’s. She’d been washing dishes, feeling sorry for herself, and she’d allowed that to color their conversation.

  “For what?” he asked, his fingers twining through hers, his skin rough and warm. Her heart ached at the contact, all the memories she’d been reliving as she’d stared out into the backyard fading as she looked into his dark blue eyes.

  “For what happened to your sister. And for making assumptions. You’re right. That’s never a good idea.” She eased her hand from his, grabbed cream from the fridge. She didn’t need it, but she poured some into her coffee. Anything to keep from looking into his eyes again.

  “You’re forgiven,” he responded, that deep Southern drawl as warm as his hand had been.

  She shivered, staring into the coffee cup as if
it could offer some answer to the reason why her heart was galloping in her chest.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  Scared, she wanted to respond.

  Of you and the way you make me feel.

  “No. Just...tired. It was a long night.”

  “A long six months, I’d say,” he commented. “It was quite a fight to get Samuel here.”

  “That’s true, but it will be worth it if he regains his health. This is the best place for him to do that.”

  “I’m glad you think so. There are plenty of people who would have sent money for his care and left him right where he was.”

  “He’d have died there, Jackson. I couldn’t live with that. Although, right at this moment, I think he’d be happier if I could have.”

  Much happier.

  Samuel hadn’t said a word to her when she’d brought him to his room, had seemed angry when she’d tried to help him into cotton pajamas. He’d brushed her hands away, turned his back to her. She’d been too tired to respond with anything other than “Sleep well.”

  “He’s sick and exhausted and probably a good bit of scared. Don’t base your judgment of how this year is going to play out on today or even tomorrow.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I won’t.”

  But she couldn’t say it hadn’t bothered her.

  She’d given him Joseph’s room, and she’d wanted him to feel at home in it. Otherwise, what was the point of cleaning out the drawers and the closet, packing up the boxes, moving out all of the things that had once belonged to her son?

  “Andrew never showed up,” she commented, wanting to change the subject and her focus. “I wonder if the evidence team found something else.”

  “I was wondering the same. I’m hoping they’ve got the Jeep. That seems to be the key to finding our perpetrator.” He took a sip of coffee, eying her over the rim of the mug. “Have you spent any time thinking about what I said?”

  “You’ve said a lot, Jackson. Exactly what should I be thinking about?”

  He chuckled, setting the mug on the counter and unwrapping the loaf of bread she’d made the previous day. She’d cut it into thin slices, and he took one, opened the fridge and grabbed the raspberry jam. “I guess I need to be more clear,” he responded as he slathered the bread with jam. “Have you thought of anyone who might have a bone to pick with you? Anyone who might think it’s funny to scare you?”

  “Like I told you, there’s no one.”

  “There’s someone, Raina, and he definitely wanted you to know about him.

  “I know.” How could she not? She’d seen the guy standing in the trees, his face hidden, his eyes glittering. She shuddered, swiping sweaty palms across the sweats she’d saved when she’d cleaned out Matt’s drawers and given away his clothes. They were old and worn, the fabric soft with time. She should have thrown them out, but she just kept washing them and shoving them back in her pajama drawer.

  “Then maybe you can spend a little more time trying to figure out who it might be,” he suggested. He bit into the bread, closed his eyes. “This is the best jam I’ve ever had, but if you tell Grandma Ruth I said it, I’ll deny every word.”

  “Are you afraid she’ll disown you?”

  “I’m afraid she’ll smack me upside the head with her frypan.”

  The comment surprised a laugh out of her.

  “That’s better,” he said, running a knuckle along her cheek.

  Her breath caught, her heart jerking hard. “What?”

  “You laughing. You should do it more often, Raina. It’s good for the soul.”

  “What I should probably do is get some rest,” she responded, moving away because standing close to Jackson wasn’t conducive to clear thinking. “As soon as Samuel wakes up, I’m taking him to the clinic. He has an infection that needs to be treated.”

  “That’s what Stella said,” he replied before she could make an excuse and leave the kitchen. She wanted to go, because the last time she’d been in the kitchen alone with a man, the man had been Matt.

  “She’s a nurse, right?” That’s what Raina had been told when she’d contacted HEART and asked if someone there would be willing to escort Samuel to the United States. Two days later, she’d gotten a call from the owner and CEO, Chance Miller. He’d said they’d be happy to help and that they had a nurse on staff who’d be perfect for the job.

  Raina hadn’t realized the nurse was the woman she’d met in Africa until a few weeks later.

  Not that it would have mattered.

  She hadn’t wanted Samuel to travel alone. Even if she had, the airline wouldn’t allow it. He was still sick, still fragile, and she was too much of a chicken to step foot on African soil again. Hiring someone was the only option, and the people at HEART already knew the situation, knew Samuel, knew what he’d been through and what he needed.

  “She was a navy nurse for a few years before she joined the team.” Jackson replied. “You two probably have a lot in common.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve spent most of my life in River Valley.” Except for college and the mission trip to Kenya, she’d never considered going anywhere else.

  “You were an emergency room nurse here,” he pointed out.

  “I was. Now I work at Moreland Medical Center.”

  “Owned by Dr. Kent Moreland, right? He spearheaded the mission team you were part of in Kenya.”

  “You know a lot more about my life than I know about yours. I’m not very comfortable with that.” She leaned her hip against the counter, looked straight into his face. He needed to shave. Or maybe not. The stubble on his jaw added to his rugged good looks.

  She blushed, but didn’t shift her gaze.

  “Ask me any question you want to about my life, and I’ll answer,” he offered, not even a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “Why are you here? I thought Stella was escorting Samuel alone,” she asked, because she didn’t want to ask him anything personal. She didn’t want to know if he had a wife, kids, a family that was waiting for him when he returned home.

  Or maybe she did and just didn’t want to admit it to herself.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Playing chicken, Raina?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you could have asked me anything, and that’s a pretty lame choice.”

  “Okay. Fine. What is your family like?”

  “Big. I have three brothers and two sisters. One of them is missing, but I already told you about that.”

  “Is that why you and your brother founded HEART?”

  “That would be exactly why.” He moved close, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the room, his gaze steady. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “I didn’t know we were taking turns.”

  “You do now.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing along her jaw. “It’s been four years since your husband died. Why are you still wearing his sweats?”

  The question jolted her from the moment, from whatever strange spell Jackson was weaving. “That’s a really personal question.”

  “I thought the rule was that we could ask anything.”

  “No rules, because this isn’t a game,” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. It had been four years, and that did seem like a long time to be wearing her deceased husband’s sweats. “But I’ll answer your question, and then I’m going to my room to get some rest. I’m wearing the sweats because they’re comfortable and because they remind me of Matt. If that’s a crime—”

  “I don’t recall saying that it was,” he cut in gently. “I was just curious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know just how in love with your husband you still are, Raina.”

  “I—”

  The doorbell ra
ng, cutting off whatever response she might have given. It was for the best. She had no idea what she would have said, no answer that really made sense. She loved Matt, but she wasn’t in love with him. Not anymore. She was more in love with the idea of what they’d still have if he hadn’t been taken from her.

  She ran to the door, her heart pounding hollowly in her chest. She shouldn’t care about Jackson’s reasons for asking such a personal question. She shouldn’t wonder why he had.

  Somehow, though, she did.

  SIX

  Jackson followed Raina from the kitchen, sticking close as she hurried to the front door. It was early for a visitor. At least in Jackson’s world it was. Raina didn’t seem bothered by it. She peered through the peephole, her husband’s sweats skimming over narrow hips and thin legs. He shouldn’t have asked about the pants, but he’d wanted to know. He’d spent the past six months trying to get Raina out of his head. He’d failed. He was still trying to figure out why. He’d blame that on his lapse of judgment and forget about the way his heart softened every time he looked into her violet eyes.

  “Kent!” Raina exclaimed, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “What are you doing here?”

  “Since you wouldn’t let me come to the airport with you, I spent half the night awake, worrying about Samuel.” A tall, lanky man stepped into the house, his dark slacks and white dress shirt perfectly pressed, his shoes polished to a high gleam. Jackson had seen him before in much worse circumstances—a few weeks’ worth of beard on his emaciated face, his eyes burning bright with fever. Dr. Kent Moreland had recovered well from his time in the Sudanese insurgent camp, his face filling out, his smooth-shaven jaw and cheeks nicely tanned. He looked as though he spent a fair amount of time in the gym and probably even more on the golf course. Not that it was any of Jackson’s business or concern.

  “I didn’t go to the airport, either, so you didn’t miss out on much,” Raina responded, brushing a hand over her T-shirt and sweats.