A Mom for Callie (11 page)

She started down the hallway, her decision solidifying with each step she took, Kyle's lean, strong form coming into view once again as she rounded the corner into the family room. He turned and looked at her, his tall body nothing more than a shadow against the brightness of an exterior light that had been tripped by some sort of motion.

“Is everything okay?”

Shrugging, he turned back to the window, his voice tense. “Someone was outside the house. But by the time I got in here, he was running down the road and jumping on a bike.” He raked a hand through his hair then let it fall at his side in a tight fist. “I called the department but it's unlikely they'll find him. There's six different ways to get out of this area once you leave this street and even though he was on a motorcycle there's still no guarantee they'll locate him.”

“I'm sorry.” She heard the shake in her words despite their quiet tone.

“So am I.” His back still to her, he continued to peer outside. “I simply didn't move fast enough.”

She tried again. “No, I mean…I'm sorry…but I have to leave.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, his facial features easier to identify in the absence of light from the motion sensor. “I'll go with you.”

She shifted from foot to foot, her gaze skirting the floor, the couch and the knickknack-covered mantel before finally meeting his once again. “No. I'll take the spray and the bat. That's enough.”

His jaw dropped as he turned all the way around. “Don't you get it? Someone was just outside my home. Someone who's linked us together.”

Inhaling deeply, she mustered the courage she needed to stand her ground despite Kyle's disagreement. “So they have a picture of me, big deal. That doesn't mean they know where I live. My name is not listed in a phone book or on a deed recorded in any local government office. I'm fine on my own.”

“You're fine on your own, huh?” he repeated, his eyes narrowed on her face.

“It's my preference, actually.”

“Your pref—so that's it? You can just walk out the door without so much as a care in the world as to my feelings?” He flung his hands in the air, his mouth forming an angry slit across his face. “Wow. And here I thought you were different.”

“Different? Different than what?”

“Not
what,
Betsy.
Whom.
”

“I don't under—” She stopped, the meaning of his words hitting like a slap across the face. “Wait. You tell me you're not like Mark. Yet you don't think twice about making me one and the same with your ex-wife?”

“You are female, aren't you?”

She stopped at the door, the cruelty of his words raining down on her as she considered her reply. Should she reiterate her fear? Should she tell him that watching him leave for work or run outside at every sound was a pain she simply couldn't handle? Should she tell him she was terrified at the notion of losing him one day?

No.

Not now. Not with the things he'd said. Sometimes the lie was better, easier. On everyone. And if it accomplished the same thing, what difference did it really make?

Squaring her shoulders she turned to face him one last time, her throat tight with disappointment, her heart heavy with sadness. “Yeah, that's it, Kyle. I'm a selfish person. My number one concern at all times is myself and my own needs.”

If she'd realized anger was such a powerful writing tool, she'd have sought it out months earlier rather than letting some bookstore calendar uproot her from her life and drag her halfway across the country to accomplish the same thing. Still, scrolling her way through her work in progress, she couldn't help but feel encouraged regardless of the match that struck the flame.

She'd been too keyed up to sleep when she returned from Kyle's, his accusations making short work of any lingering sadness and morphing it into the emotion that had helped her crank out ten pages during the night. Ten pages that brought her further into the book and closer to meeting her deadline.

With a double click on Save, Betsy rose from her chair and stood at the sunporch window that afforded the best view of her neighbor's home across the hedge line. She'd heard him leave for work nearly two hours earlier, the sound of his car making her type faster.

Kyle Brennan was a jerk. A first-class jerk.

Shaking her head at the memory of his pompous accusation, she wandered into the kitchen and over to the stove. Coffee was her morning staple. It was the one thing she could count on each day to get her up
and moving. Today was no exception. Even though she'd gotten in a good day's work already, sleep wasn't something she could indulge in just yet. When she hit twenty-five pages, maybe…

Who did he think he was, likening her to a woman who cared about no one but herself?

She turned the handle on the front right burner, the sound of the gas igniter lost against the angry questions firing through her mind…

Did she not walk away from her writing to help Callie get ready for her program? Did Callie not tell him about the poem she'd encouraged the little girl to write? Had she not volunteered to keep Callie with her while Kyle was at work? Had she not admitted to him she was scared for his safety?

As the water heated, she grabbed a coffee mug from the cabinet and clunked it down on the counter, her free hand instinctively reaching for the tin of coffee and pulling it close.

To have Kyle insinuate she was selfish was simply too much. It was wrong and it was unfair.

Or was it?

When the water was ready she poured it into her mug, watching the steam rise in swirls. Did she plant herself on his front step about the time he was due home from work? Did she set him straight on who she was and who she wasn't?

No. Because even if she came clean as to the reason she left, the big picture wouldn't change.

She could handle the heartache of walking away on her own two feet. Sure, it was painful. She had real feelings for this man. Feelings that were both foreign and wonderful all at the same time. But what she couldn't
handle was having him ripped from her life without warning.

Especially when he'd take her heart with her.

Lacing her fingers through the handle, Betsy pulled the mug to her chest and closed her eyes. Maybe staying in Cedar Creek wasn't such a good idea. She'd already gotten the jump she needed to get writing. The words were flowing. So why stay?

Because you signed a three-month lease.

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. She knew that better than anyone. But knowing it and learning from it were two separate things.

Besides, the hassle of moving back would only slow her progress on the book. And she liked it here. She liked the people she'd met at the school, she liked having her own yard, and she liked the pace that was Cedar Creek. Not too fast and never impatient.

On second thought, Cedar Creek was the perfect place to finish the book. It just happened to have one pitfall. Kyle Brennan.

 

“B
ACK IT UP A LITTLE MORE
.”

He glanced at his partner in the passenger seat, his daydreaming stymied by the man's instructions. “What?”

“Back it up a little more.” Tom pointed out the front windshield. “The weather dude said it's gonna be a near-scorcher today and I'd rather spend the next hour sitting in shade than baking in the sun.”

“Okay.” He slipped the gearshift into Reverse and backed their patrol car farther into a grove of maple trees. The spot, itself, was just off a dirt road on the
northern edge of town—the kind of place few people frequented unless they had a reason.

Like being up to no good.

“So tell me again what this guy in the coffeehouse said?”

Kyle slid the car into Park, lowered their windows and leaned back against the seat, his focus squarely on the road in front of them. “He said he'd heard talk about a gang. A group of cousins hell-bent on bucking the law.”

Tom hooked his left leg at the knee and turned to face Kyle. “I wish the lieutenant would give us five minutes alone with those scumbags from the bank. Five minutes to get what we need from them.”

“I wouldn't be opposed to that.” He stared out the front windshield. “But, since we know that can't happen, I'm going other routes. Like this guy at the coffeehouse.”

Tom nodded. “If this band of thugs are truly cousins, shouldn't that make it easier for us to track them down? Can't we get some genealogist in to help us trace the bank perps' family tree?

“They're not really related. Something about ties through various marriages and life essentially throwing them together.”

“Ahh. That kind of stuff makes my head hurt. Just give me a flowchart with boxes to follow and I'm okay.” Tom pointed toward the road they had under surveillance. “And why are we here again?”

“My source said there's been increased bike traffic out here lately. And, since our perps were riding bikes when they tried to hit up the bank, I just think it needs to be checked out.”

“The guy last night…he was on a bike, right?”

Kyle nodded, his teeth clenched.

“Did you get a look at him at all?”

“No,” he snapped. “By the time I got into the living room, he was disappearing down the road.”

“Was he alone?”

“It's possible there was someone else. I didn't even realize he was on a motorcycle until a few minutes later when I heard the roar. He must have parked it down a house or two.”

“And since this dude at the coffee shop mentioned increased bike traffic out this way, you want to see if the two go hand in hand?”

He shot a look at his friend. “Wouldn't you?”

“Whoa, dude. I'm not second-guessing you. Just getting myself up to speed.” Tom pushed back against the passenger side door and stared at Kyle. “There's something else going on with you this morning.”

“You mean, beyond the fact that I've got some dirtbag skulking around my house because I apprehended his buddy?” Kyle waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Nah, that about covers it.”

“It's Betsy, isn't it?”

“No!”

Tom laughed. “You're such a lousy liar.”

He turned his head, focused his gaze outside the driver's side window in an attempt to regain the composure he knew he was losing.

“She didn't like the idea of you hovering over her under the guise of protecting her, huh?”

In an instant he was back in the spare bedroom of his home, Betsy in his arms, his hands exploring the lusciousness of her body. He clamped his mouth shut to stifle the memory-worthy groan. “She seemed okay
with it. At first. Heck, things were even getting hot and heavy.”

“Hot and heavy?”

The intrigue in Tom's voice made him laugh in spite of himself. “Hot and heavy.”

“Details?”

The smile left his lips. “The details are simple. Things felt awesome and then she walked. Said she preferred to be on her own. And she wasn't just talking about protection when she said that. She was talking about me.”

“That doesn't sound like Betsy.” Tom dropped his left foot onto the floor mat and repositioned himself in the vinyl seat. “She's not like that.”

“And how the hell do you know?” Kyle spat. “You sit across from her at a pizza parlor for a few hours one night, lose your shorts to us in a volleyball game one evening and that makes you an expert on Betsy Anderson?”

For a moment there was only silence in the car, the anger in Kyle's words hovering in the air. When Tom finally spoke, his normal genial tone was gone, in its place a cocktail of disappointment and distaste. “You should hear yourself, Kyle. I mean, really hear your self. You are still so disgustingly bitter over Lila's leaving that—”

“This has nothing to do with Lila,” he snapped.

“Oh, no? Are you sure? Did you ask Betsy why she split?”

Had he? He wasn't sure.

“Or did you start hurling accusations?”

Kyle smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel as his partner continued, the man's words more truthful than he realized. “News flash, dude…you made a bad choice when you hooked up with your ex. That's
it. It happens to everyone at some point. What matters is how you rebound.”

“I've rebounded.”

“No, you haven't. You're still carrying the same chip on your shoulder you've had since Lila left. But here's something to chew on for a minute—Betsy isn't Lila. Never was. Isn't. And sure as hell never will be.”

He stared at his friend. “Then why did she go from being putty in my hands to walking out my door?”

“I suspect the reason can be found in the in-between part.”

“The in-between part?”

Tom nodded. “Did something happen between the make-out fest and her leaving?”

He snorted. “Yeah, the loser casing my house showed up on my property and pulled the focus off of her.”

“Did she know something was wrong?”

“I'm sure the fact that I left her without notice and ran down the hall was some indication.” Pulling his attention from his partner, he fastened it on the dirt road once again.

“Do you think—I don't know. Maybe, just maybe, she was scared?”

“Scared?”

“Yeah…scared.”

“What? That I couldn't keep her safe?” He threw his hands into the air in frustration.

“I was thinking more along the lines of her being scared that something would happen to you?”

Suddenly it was all crystal clear—the fear in her eyes when she came around the corner, the slump of her shoulders when she saw him standing by the window.
Betsy hadn't been upset because he'd run out on her. She'd been worried. Terrified, even.

He was an idiot. A first-class idiot.