Familiar Stranger (3 page)

The tenderness in his voice was her undoing. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let them go.

"You'll pardon me if I have doubts about that," she said. "I seem to remember telling you the same thing about forty years ago and look what happened."

She walked away, leaving him with nothing but a cold, hard truth. He had walked out on her—twice. Once when she wouldn't run away with him and then again when he left for Vietnam. He headed for the bathroom, feeling a lot less optimism than he had when he walked in the door with her earlier.

Cara barely made it to her bedroom before she started to cry—huge, gulping sobs that shattered her all the way to her soul.

Tearing off her clothes as she went, she staggered into the shower and then turned the water on full force, standing beneath the stinging spray until her mind was numb and her skin was burning.

One minute led to another and then another until she lost all track of time. The adrenaline rush of making love to a man she'd long thought dead was fading, leaving her shaken and weak. If it hadn't been for the slight discomfort between her legs, she could have made herself believe it was nothing more than a dream.

She flinched as the water began to run cold and reached down and turned off the faucets. She pushed back the curtains only to find David sitting on a small stool by the door.

He handed her a towel.

"I got worried."

She clutched it in front of her nudity like a shield, and as she did, realized any show of modesty was like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped.

"If you'll give me a few moments…"

He stood up and quietly closed the door, leaving her alone to finish drying.

Cara's hands began to shake as she swiped erratically at the moisture clinging to her body. It wasn't until she was completely dry that she realized her clothes were in the other room, with him. She grabbed her bathrobe from a hook on the back of the door and quickly put it on, wrapping and tying it firmly before making another appearance. To her relief, he was nowhere in sight.

As she began to dress, she glanced at the clock. It was almost three. It had been just after one when she'd come around the corner of the house. No wonder he'd come looking for her. He probably thought she'd gone to her room and slit her wrists.

She snorted lightly as the thought came and went. If ever there had been a day when that thought had crossed her mind, it was long since over. She'd survived a lot more than this with a hell of a lot less reason. Except for their child. After she'd known about Bethany, everything had changed. David Wilson might have walked out on her, but he'd left a piece of himself behind that he'd never get back. With that thought in mind, she gave herself the once-over in the mirror, nodding in satisfaction at the simplistic style of her clothes. No need dressing like this was any kind of a celebration, because it felt more like a wake. But as she started down the stairs to face the ghost from her past, she had to accept the fact that she didn't want to bury him again.

David was lost in thought, staring at the array of family pictures displayed on the mantel and trying not to resent the picture of the short, stocky man with his arms around Cara. Ray Justice. They had been laughing when the picture was taken. He took a deep breath, making himself accept the reality of her life. She'd done just fine without him. Maybe being here was another selfish act on his part and he should never have come back. Before his thoughts could go further, he heard her footsteps in the hall and turned to face his accuser.

She saw him by the mantel. Her gaze slid from his face to the pictures behind him, and she realized what he'd been doing.

"She's beautiful," David said.

Cara's lips trembled, but she nodded. "She has your coloring. All that pretty dark hair and your eyes."

"But she has your smile."

Cara caught back a sob, determined not to fall apart again.

"Oh, David … where have you been? We were told you were dead, you know."

"Yes, I know."

Cara tried not to stare as she sat down on the sofa, but it was difficult not to do so. Her memories encompassed a young, gangly sixteen-year-old boy; not this powerful, secretive man.

"Won't you please sit?" she said, as she seated herself on the sofa.

"I think better standing."

She sighed and then smoothed her hands down the legs of her navy slacks.

"I couldn't form a rational thought right now if my life depended on it," she said.

David shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "I know this is going to be difficult for you to understand, but you've got to believe me when I tell you that what I did, I did
for
you, not
to
you."

Cara's eyes teared again, but she remained firmly in her seat.

"Letting me think you were dead was doing me a favor?" Her voice started to shake. "Even if I didn't matter to you anymore, how could you father a child and then ignore her existence?"

"No … no … not that. Never that."

"Then explain," Cara begged. "Make me understand."

He took his hands out of his pockets as he began to pace, and Cara couldn't help but stare at the animal grace of his movements. And then he started to talk and she became lost in the sound of his voice.

"It began with the letters."

"What letters?"

"The letters I wrote to you."

"I didn't receive any letters."

"Yes, I know … at least, I knew after a while, but before I found out, I kept wondering why you didn't answer mine. There were dozens and dozens. I wrote almost every day for about three months and then as often as I could after that."

She stiffened. "I don't believe you."

He strode to a chair and picked up a packet he'd gotten from his car while she had been dressing.

"See for yourself. I carried the damn things all over Nam after they came back. Half a dozen times I thought about chucking them, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them. Even though you hadn't opened them, they were the last link I had to you."

Cara's brows knitted as she dumped the contents of the packet into her lap.

"That's not all of them," David said. "But enough for you to know I'm telling the truth."

As she turned them over, she started to shake. The evidence was there before her eyes. Water-stained papers. Ancient postmarks. All addressed to Cara Weber and all unopened. But it was the two newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, that startled her. One was of her wedding, the other an announcement of her baby's birth.

"Where did you get these?"

"Your parents sent them to me, along with all of the letters I'd written you."

She gasped.

"The message was plain," David said. "I had no place in your life anymore. You had a husband and a child." He tried to smile, but the pain of saying what he'd lived with all these years made it impossible. "Only I knew the child was mine. I knew you would never have cheated on me before, and the baby came too soon after your wedding."

"But David … why let everyone think you were dead? I would never have refused you the right to know and love your own child."

"I know, but you have to understand. It was hell over there and Frank died about a month after I got the package. After that, I guess I pretty much went out of my head. I tried so many damn ways to get myself killed, but it didn't work. I volunteered for mission after mission, and each one should have been my last. When my tour of duty was up, I reenlisted. I was there when Saigon fell."

Tears slid down Cara's face as she sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

"Why didn't you come home then? Why did you let me … let everyone … think you were dead?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Hell … I felt dead, I guess I was just waiting for my body to catch up with my mind. Only thing was, Uncle Sam beat me to it."

"I don't understand."

He hesitated, trying to figure out exactly what he could say without giving too much away.

"I can't tell you everything," he said. "But I got recruited by a Special Forces unit and became involved in some covert missions for the government. One thing led to another and now, let's just say that my years with Uncle Sam are coming to an end."

"Are you telling me you became a spy?"

"Don't ask me anything more, honey … please. I've already said more than I should have."

"My God," Cara muttered. She stared down at the unopened letters in her lap and then covered her face with her hands.

David dropped to his knees and took her hands in his.

"Cara?"

Forced to look at him, she realized that, for the first time, she was really seeing the man—and his secrets—and his scars.

"Why did you come back? Why now, after all these years?"

He hesitated again, still carefully choosing his answers.

"Because I needed to make peace with myself and with you. I needed to look you in the face and tell you that when I left for Vietnam, I had every intention of coming back and making a life with you. I couldn't go to my grave knowing you still believed I'd walked out on you, leaving you pregnant to raise our baby on your own. I swear to God, Cara, I would never have done that to you. I loved you."

"What do you mean, go to your grave? Are you ill?"

He slid into the seat beside her, reaching for her hands.

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that. I'm fine."

Cara looked down at his hands, so gently worrying the knuckles of her fingers, wondering if it was safe to give so much of herself away. And then she shoved the worry away. They'd already lost too many precious years. Whatever he had to give her, she was willing to take.

"What are your plans?" she asked. "I mean … can you stay awhile? Maybe a few days? I want to show you things … and oh, David, you have to stay and meet Bethany. She and her family are on vacation, but they'll be back at the end of the week. Five or six days. You can stay that long … can't you?"

He heard himself answering and knew he was making a mistake, but there was no way he was going to lose her again, at least not yet. There was every reason to believe that his final showdown with Frank could be his last. He didn't want to give Cara false hope, but on the other hand, he couldn't deny himself this little bit of heaven.

"Yes. I'll stay. At least for a while."

For the first time in a very long while, Cara felt a sense of anticipation.

"Are you hungry? I was coming in the house to make myself some lunch when I heard you arrive."

The lilt in her voice only deepened his guilt, but he found himself agreeing. "That sounds good. I can't remember when I last shared a meal with anyone."

Cara pulled out of his embrace. "Can't remember when you last shared a meal? My God, David, what kind of life
have
you been living?"

"You don't want to know."

* * *

It was the dripping faucet in this excuse for a kitchen that finally sent Frank over the edge. He picked up a pan and began hammering on the fixture until it broke off in the sink. Water shot up like a geyser, spraying the ceiling and cabinets alike. A string of virulent curses filled the air as he reached for the shut-off valve beneath the sink. Finally, the water ceased to flow and Frank was left with a bigger mess than before he'd started. But it wasn't the condition of his decrepit hideout that was pushing his buttons. It was the fact that, once again, he had failed to reach his goal. The water pooled around his pant legs as he leaned back against the cabinets and closed his eyes. He'd been close, so close.

He'd seen the stealth chopper coming in and knew in his bones it was David. Who else would have access to such state-of-the-art military equipment but the infamous Jonah?

As he thought of David, the muscles in his wounded shoulder gave a twinge and he shifted, easing his back to a more comfortable position against the cabinets. It was nothing but a flesh wound. He'd had worse. And the wound on his ear was almost well, too, although it would never be the same. Then he ran his hands through his hair in mute frustration, absently fingering the ancient burn scars on the side of his face. Hell, nothing had been the same since the day his own brother tried to burn him alive.

Disgusted with the mess in which he was standing, he went to the phone to call the manager to fix the sink. It didn't occur to him that, like the sink, all of his troubles stemmed from something he'd done, rather than something that had been done to him. Afterward, he strode into the bedroom to change his clothes, absently stepping on a cockroach as he went. As he crossed the threshold, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked and dusty mirror across the room and froze. In that moment, he saw himself as others saw him, a tall and aging man with a glass eye and a bitter expression. His gray, thinning hair was brushed back, baring his scarred face for anyone who chose to look. Oddly enough, the look seemed to appeal to a certain type of woman, although he rarely took advantage of the fact. He still mourned his beloved Martha, his wife of so many years.

As he thought of her, pain shafted. He turned away, moving to the closet to get a fresh change of clothes. As soon as his shoulder was better, he was going after David himself. No more trying to get to him through the agents who worked under him. He was tired of this game. He wanted it over.

He dressed quickly, his mind shifting from one scenario to another, imagining the pleasure of watching the life drain out of David's body. There was no future for him beyond that fact. His daughter had ceased to exist for him when she'd defected to the other side by falling in love with one of the agents. If only Martha was still alive. She'd been his reason for living. Then he blanked out the thought. There would be time later to wallow in memories. Right now, he had murder on his mind.

* * *

Night had come when Cara wasn't looking. One minute she was cleaning up their supper dishes and tidying the living room and the next thing she knew it was dark. The idea of sleeping under the same roof with David Wilson was almost frightening. She'd known the boy, but she didn't know this dark, brooding man. Then she reminded herself that his persona hadn't bothered her enough to stop her from making love to him in her hall. Surely they could sleep beneath the same roof without incident. It wasn't like he was going to murder her in her bed.