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“I wouldn’t have mentioned this to you at all, but if you’re going to be here for any length of time, you’re sure to hear about it from other sources.” Jesse rubbed his stomach, where he thought he might be trying to develop an ulcer. “Mustang’s intrepid social reporter has decided to take it upon herself and become the reporter detailing the case of Casanova.”
His stomach burned as he thought of Millicent Creighton, who at the best of times could be an irritant, but lately had been a veritable pain in the rear. Twice in the last week, he’d caught the older woman snooping around the kissing tree, looking for clues to the “madman who held Mustang in his grip of terror.” The last time he’d caught her there, he’d threatened to arrest her if he found her there again.
“Casanova…is that what you’re calling him?”
“That’s what our friendly reporter, Millie Creighton, has dubbed him.”
She released a sigh and twisted a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger. Jesse noticed that her hand trembled slightly. “There’s really no place in this world that’s truly safe, is there?”
She didn’t wait for his reply, but rather continued. “You think you’re safe in your own home, or in a family member’s home, but there are no guarantees. You think you’re safe in your own bed, but that isn’t necessarily so, is it?”
Her unseeing gaze found him, her eyes luminous, yet holding the shadows of whatever nightmare she’d endured. “Tell me I’ll be safe here, Jesse. I just need to know that for a little while I can let go of the fear inside me.”
As Jesse saw the haunting of her eyes, felt both the tragedy and the fear that emanated from her, he wished he could reassure her, promise her sanctuary, but Jesse had never been one to make false promises.
He knew nothing about her situation, knew nothing about what danger might find her here. He wouldn’t lie, couldn’t give her guarantees that didn’t exist.
Something—an expression of need in her eyes—touched him, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t want to get caught up in her drama, didn’t want to know her life history or what had so dramatically changed her life. She was a job—nothing more, nothing less. In two weeks’ time she’d be gone, back to where she belonged.
“My job is to keep you safe, and that’s what I intend to do.” His job wasn’t to help her work through her state of blindness, nor was it to aid her in adjusting to the losses fate had thrown her way.
Still, being sure in his mind what his responsibilities were where she was concerned, didn’t dispel the feeling that if he wasn’t very careful, he could be in way over his head with this woman.
Chapter 3
Allison awoke to sunshine warming her face. For a moment she remained still, pretending that when she opened her eyes she’d have to squint against the brilliant morning light streaming through the window.
She’d never dreamed that one day she would miss that eye-watering, slight sting of looking directly at the sun.
She stretched languidly, realizing that despite the unfamiliarity of the bed, she’d slept well. No nightmares had come to haunt her, no dreams of any kind had disturbed her rest.
Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she thought of the conversation she’d shared with Jesse last night. She’d been seeking comfort, his absolute certainty that she would be safe while in Mustang, but he’d been unable to offer her any absolutes.
She frowned thoughtfully as she realized what she’d really wanted from Jesse was more than a mere assurance that she’d be safe in Mustang; she’d wanted him to tell her that her blindness would eventually go away, that the bad guys would be put behind bars, that she’d be able to pick up the pieces of her life and that eventually the sharp, intense heartache of losing John and Alicia would fade. She’d wanted the impossible from him.
Opening her eyes, a momentary flare of disappointment flowed through her. Darkness. Always darkness. What scared her was that with each day that passed, she expected nothing more.
She was beginning to accept her blindness, and that frightened her as much as anything.
Irritated with her thoughts, she got out of bed. Grabbing the robe that awaited her, she pulled it around her and headed for the bathroom.
She was reaching for the bathroom doorknob when the door suddenly flew open, throwing her off balance. She stumbled forward.
“Whoa,” Jesse exclaimed. He grabbed her by the shoulders and her hands found the broad expanse of his chest.
Her senses filled with the scent of him, the utterly male, overwhelmingly enticing fragrance of spicy soap and shaving cream. At the same time, her fingertips registered the fevered warmth of his skin and the strength of the smooth muscles beneath.
For one crazy moment she wanted to lay her head against his chest, feel those strong muscles beneath her cheek, listen to the rhythm of his heart beating as his arms enfolded her tightly.
She stepped back, still slightly off balance as she quickly pulled her hands from his chest, as if flames of fire danced just beneath the surface of his skin.
His hands remained on her shoulders and she could feel their warmth penetrating the thin material of her robe. “You okay?” he asked, his voice huskier than usual as he finally dropped his hands.
“Fine. I just got off balance for a moment.” She felt the blush of her cheeks. She pulled her robe more tightly around her, hoping desperately that she was sufficiently covered. “I’ll go back to my room….”
“No, I’m finished in here. I’ll just get out of your way,” he said, and brushed past her into the hallway. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Just coffee is fine. I’m not much of a morning eater.”
“Ah, your loss. I make a mean omelet.”
“Okay, maybe just a small one.” She smiled. “A woman has a right to change her mind, right?”
He laughed, the deep sound permeating through her. “From what I understand about women, it’s the one thing you can count on.” He hesitated a moment. “You need help getting to the kitchen?”
She shook her head. “I’ll manage.”
A few moments later, standing beneath the warm spray of the shower, she thought of her words. She’d manage. Perhaps it was time to stop wishing her blindness away and learn to manage what fate had handed her.
She could learn Braille, buy a computer program that would talk so she could write letters and such. There were all kinds of products available to help the visually impaired.
No! Her mind rejected the thought. Some place deep inside her was the superstitious fear that if she learned to cope with her blindness, then fate would keep her forever blind. She didn’t want to cope. She didn’t want to manage. She wanted to see. She wanted her life back.
Leaning her head beneath the brunt of the spray, she allowed shampoo and thoughts of blindness to drain away. Instead, her mind replayed that moment when her hands had touched Jesse’s chest.
Heat rushed through her at the memory.
She wished she’d had an hour to explore the muscled contours and smooth skin, wished her fingers could have taken the time to give her the mental picture that her eyes couldn’t provide.
Shutting off the water, she pulled the shower curtain open and reached for the towel near the sink, her mind still filled with thoughts of Jesse.
She pulled her robe back on and left the bathroom. In her room, she quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
As she brushed her hair, she recognized her vulnerability with Jesse. It would be easy to fall into some sort of demented romantic fantasy where he was concerned. He was her protector, her single contact with the world at large. Where Keller had been cold and impersonal, Jesse exuded a warmth that was appealing.
However, she couldn’t forget that, to him, she was an assignment. Nothing more. Nothing less. Besides, she thought with a touch of bitterness, what man in his right mind would want to saddle himself with a helpless blind woman? A blind woman who several Templeton cops would love to see dead.
All the lessons her mother had taught her about independence and self-reliance replayed in her mind—needing a man was a weakness not to be tolerated. She’d lectured over and over again that ultimately a woman could only depend on herself for survival, and depending on a man for anything was the work of a fool.
Allison ran a hand over her hair, feeling for errant strands. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she left the bedroom, deciding that she’d indulged herself in deep thought for entirely too long, especially considering the fact that she had yet to have a cup of coffee.
As she entered the kitchen, she drew in a deep breath of the luscious scents that permeated the room. The fragrance of fresh brewed coffee battled with browning sausage and onion. “Something smells wonderful,” she said as she eased into the same chair she’d sat in the night before.
“I love breakfast. Coffee?” Jesse’s voice came from someplace to the right of her.
“Please.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“No, just black.” She heard the sound of a cup being set in front of her. “Thanks.” She reached out with both hands and wrapped her fingers around a sturdy ceramic mug.
“The omelets will be ready in just a few minutes,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby.” She took a sip of her coffee. “How about you?”
“I almost always sleep like a baby.”
She took another drink of her coffee, enjoying the warmth of the sun at her back. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. How—how did you know?”
She smiled as she heard the surprise in his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not a psychic. There must be a large window near my bed. I could feel the sun shining on me this morning.”
“It’s a typical gorgeous Mustang day,” he said, and set a plate in front of her.
She waited until she heard his chair scoot across the tile and knew he was seated across from her at the table. “A typical gorgeous Mustang day,” she repeated with amusement. “You make Mustang sound like Camelot.” She picked up her fork and attempted to cut off a mouthful of the omelet.
“It’s as close to Camelot as you can get,” he replied. Again an easy amusement lightened his voice, an amusement that was wonderfully attractive. “It only rains after sundown and July and August may not get too hot.”
Allison laughed in delight. “You know the song,” she said. Who would have thought a sheriff from Montana would know the title song of a Broadway show?
“My senior year in high school, the drama department put on Camelot. In order to graduate, all seniors had to work on the production in some capacity or another.” He paused a moment, then continued. “I made my debut as a thespian in Camelot.”
“Really? What role did you play? King Arthur? Lancelot?”
He laughed. “Nothing quite so illustrious. I was one of the knights of the Round Table who didn’t have a single line of dialogue. I just wore cardboard armor and looked pure and knightly.”
“It must have been fun,” she said, wistful at the thought of all the high school experiences she’d missed out on. “Our school did plays, but I never got to participate.”
“Why?”
She paused a moment to take another bite of the omelet, her thoughts winging backward to her adolescence and teen years. “My sister and I were raised to believe that extracurricular activities were a waste of time. School was for an education to pursue whatever career would be our livelihood. Spare time was used for jobs to save money for college. There was no time for glee club, or football games, or dating or plays.”
“Sounds pretty dismal,” he said, no censure or judgment in his voice.
“It was,” she admitted. “Although I understand now what motivated my mother. She was twenty when my father walked out on her—on us. She had two babies less than a year apart in age and no education or job.”
“Did you ever hear from your father again?” he asked.
“No. I don’t even remember him. I was only a year old when he left.” She paused a moment to sip her coffee. “Anyway, Mother worked like a demon to support us. At the same time she went to college and got a degree in accounting. By the time Alicia and I were in high school, my mother had a very successful accounting business with four people working for her. But she never forgot those years of struggle, and she was determined we’d never have to go through similar experiences, that both of us would be able to survive without a man.”
Allison released a slightly bitter laugh. “Thank goodness my mother isn’t alive to see me now. I’m not exactly excelling in the self-sufficiency department.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, his voice gentle.
She forced a smile. “You just don’t want to send me to my room for indulging in self-pity.”
His hand touched hers. It was a light touch, yet held warmth and comfort. There had been little solace in her life for the past month. The hospital staff she’d come in contact with had been efficient, the few law-enforcement officers she’d spoken with had been impersonal and demanding.
The comfort in Jesse’s touch broke through the self-control she’d fought so hard to maintain and tapped into the grief that had yet to be fully expressed. She grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly.
“They killed her,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion that ripped at her heart. “They killed my sister and my brother-in-law. They shot them while I was hidden in the closet.”
Tears burned at her eyes, choked in the back of her throat, but she swallowed against them as the horror of the trauma replayed itself in her mind. “I did nothing to help them. I stayed in the closet and watched John and Alicia die.”
As she remembered the final gasp of Alicia’s life, recalled her sister’s blood on her face and her chest, she felt Jesse squeeze her hand more tightly.
The warmth of his touch met up with the coldness of her grief, creating a tumultuous tornado of emotions she could no longer contain.
Deep sobs tore through her as her heart constricted with a pain so great, she thought she might die from it. It was the grief of loss…and the guilt of survival.
She had pushed her emotions aside for weeks, focusing on the loss of her sight rather than confront the overwhelming pain of the loss of her family. Now that pain riveted through her like a hot poker stabbing her heart, searing her soul.
She was vaguely aware of Jesse removing his hand from hers. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was making a spectacle of herself and probably alienating Jesse, but she could no more stop the grief than she could go back and stop the bullets that had ripped her life apart.
In his years as sheriff, Jesse had faced many things, including drunk men with guns, a scared teenage bank robber and a vicious rabid dog, but nothing in his years of experience prepared him for dealing with her tears.
Helplessly he watched her fall apart, aware that nothing he could say would possibly comfort or touch the deep anguish that obviously pummeled her. His heart ached for her.
As Cecilia’s sobs grew deeper, more harsh, he stood. Not knowing if he was right or wrong, he touched her shoulder then pulled her out of her chair and into his arms.
She came to him willingly, as if needing to be held. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in the center of his chest as she wept uncontrollably.
Jesse rubbed a hand down her back and tried to ignore how sweet she smelled, the intimacy of her body pressed so tightly against his. “It’s all right. You’re safe now,” he whispered as he patted her back.
Beneath the comforting press of her breasts against his chest, he could feel the beating of her heart. He continued to soothe her with soft words, at the same time patting her back in a rhythmic cadence that mirrored the pace of her heartbeats.
Finally her sobs began to ease, but still she clung to him as if he were a lifeline in a sea of tears. Jesse felt her heartbeat slow, returning to a more normal pace. Her weeping halted altogether, but still she remained in the circle of his arms.
She raised her head, as if to look at him. Her lashes were still damp, long dark spikes that emphasized the beauty of her eyes despite their slight redness. “Thank you,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. “That had been building for a while.”
“Tears are supposed to be cathartic,” he replied. “You want to talk about it some more?” he asked. He wished she’d move away as he felt himself responding in a decidedly unwanted way. But she remained unmoving, her lower body still pressed against his.
“In a minute. What I’d like to do right now… I’d like to know what you look like.” She removed her arms from around his neck and instead placed a hand on either side of his face. “I can only see you through touch. Do you mind?”
Before he could reply, her fingertips moved across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, then across his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, her cool fingers explored the contours of his face, each touch evoking heat inside him.
“What color are your eyes?” she asked, her breath warm on his face. He realized his heart was now beating a rhythm faster than normal.
“Blue.”
She nodded, and continued her exploration of his facial features. Slowly, methodically, her hands continued to work.
When her fingers danced across his lips, he fought an impulse to open his mouth and kiss her fingertips. He breathed in relief when she moved to his hair.
“Black,” he said, answering the question before she could verbalize it.
“Thank you,” she said, and finally stepped back from him. “I’m sorry about ruining your breakfast.”
