Heroes In Uniform (315 page)

Fuck the flatware. He attacked his tents, breaking them down and collapsing the poles with a belligerent
snap
.

He wanted to believe her.

No, he fucking didn’t.

He was too angry and felt too vulnerable to trust in his own emotions. Or judgment. Stuffing the tents into their pouches, he dumped them next to his duffel bag and backpack. The entire contents of his camp sat packed and waiting for him to get the hell out of there.

So, what was he waiting for?

He fisted his hands on his hips, and faced the lake.

She walked over to him, and he felt her warm cheek on his back. Her arms stole around his waist.

“Please don't leave me like this,” she whispered. “I love you so much. I want more than anything to stay with you. To be with you.”

His willpower slipped a little at her words.

She took a deep breath against his back. “If I don't do this, I'll be putting your life in danger again. I won't do that, even if it means losing you.”

He clamped his jaw, staring out at the lake. “Is this about those men last night?”

He’d tried to ask her about them last night, because she’d kept insisting the assault was her fault. But one thing or another always interrupted the conversation before she could answer. He realized now, she’d probably been avoiding the subject on purpose. And by the time they’d gotten back to the lookout tower, his mind had been on other things.

“In a way,” she said, ever evasive.

He scrubbed his face, unwilling to let himself believe her. But even more unwilling to let her go.

He turned and put his hands reluctantly on her shoulders. “You say you're doing this for my sake?”

She nodded dismally. “Yes. And for our future.”

He let out a long breath. And realized he had nothing to lose. He’d be furious and miserable either way this went. Either she’d leave and never come back, and he’d be furious and miserable for the rest of his life; or she’d leave and he’d be furious and miserable until she eventually came back to him after she’d done whatever the hell she had to do, proving she was telling the truth. And then he could stop being furious and miserable, and they’d live happily ever after. Or...something like that.

“I don't understand anything,” he said bleakly. “But go ahead. Leave, and do what you've got to do.”

She looked up at him, tears brimming over her lashes. “You trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?” It was the best he could do. The jury was still out.

She laid a trembling hand against his cheek. “And I can come back to you when it's over?”

He gazed into her eyes, wanting like hell to believe her. Needing to believe her.

He slid his arms around her and hugged her close. “I'm counting on it, pup.”

Barely Dangerous: Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One

Maggie paced back and forth in the living room of a four-room Hollywood Hills bungalow. She stared out the window. L.A. had never looked lovelier. The hot Santa Ana winds had blown the smog out of the million dollar view of the basin below and dried the California leaves to the closest they would ever come to fall colors. It would be T-shirt weather today—if she were allowed outside.

Which, she wasn’t. Not yet.

She thought back to that awful morning three months ago—the last time she'd seen Blue Wolf Cooper. He had looked so sad and forlorn sitting on the Indian watching her drive off, that she had nearly jumped out of the car, telling Dinny to forget the whole thing, she wouldn't testify.

But she had known if she didn't put Whitney behind bars at this trial, it would only be a matter of time until he came looking for her—to make sure she never could.

So, she had watched through the back window, tears streaming down her face, as the man she loved disappeared from view.

She resumed her pacing, fear flooding through her. The three month trial was about to go to the jury. What would the verdict be?

The trial had taken longer than anyone had thought, Whitney's lawyer employing every delaying tactic in the books. For every day that went by, she’d worried that Cooper would be more and more certain she'd forgotten about him.

And forgotten about her, in turn.

Maybe, after a while, he had even been grateful she’d disappeared from his life. Hadn’t he always said she made him go windigo?

Finally, today, closing statements in the trial would be presented in the courtroom. The evidence against Whitney had been damning. Maggie had testified about the hidden computer files she'd found detailing his years of derivatives fraud, and about the two men he had sent to kill her. Jane had corroborated the fraud evidence, testified about her phone being bugged by Whitney, and presented the evidence she’d gathered about his dead accountant. The FBI had grimly related the events surrounding the ambush and deaths of the two witnesses in Monrovia, and the other witness being killed a few weeks before the trial started.

Maggie prayed for a guilty verdict on multiple counts. But one way or another, she'd have her life back by the end of the week.

If Whitney was found guilty, she'd take off immediately for Sacramento. But if he was found innocent, she'd have to go into witness protection. Forever. And all her tears and reassurances to Cooper will have been for nothing. She could never ask him to give up his home and his family, his career, to change his identity, and go into hiding with her for the rest of their lives.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and held her breath to keep from crying. She didn't want to upset the policewoman who was staying with her at the bungalow. The grandmotherly woman was so sympathetic, every time Maggie broke down, she fixed her mint tea and fussed over her until Maggie felt doubly awful. After three months, she would have thought the woman would be immune to her bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, but she continued to be endlessly comforting.

Maggie placed her hands on her abdomen, closing her eyes. And smiled for the first time that morning. She hadn't told a soul about the baby. She wanted Cooper to be the first to know. But the policewoman had four kids, and three grandkids, so Maggie suspected she didn't need to be told. No doubt, being pregnant earned her extra points with the kind woman.

She wandered into the bathroom to get ready for court. The ordeal would be over soon. She'd done her bit for justice by testifying, and all she could do now was hope there was enough evidence to convict Whitney.

And let her get back to Cooper.

Barely Dangerous: Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two

Cooper picked morosely at his frybread and stared sullenly into space. Around him at the dinner table, he sensed his mother, father, and grandfather exchange glances, shaking their heads.

He'd been at his parents’ home for over a week now, and had hardly spoken a word. He felt guilty subjecting them to his black mood, but couldn't help himself. He needed his family to help get him through this thing with Maggie, and he hoped they understood.

His mom looked at her watch and rose from the late afternoon meal they'd shared. “I've got to get to the hospital now. It's my week for the night shift.” She glanced uneasily at Coop, then over to his dad. “Do you still have that faculty meeting tonight,
cherie
?”

His father checked his watch, too, and nodded. “'Fraid so. Best be on my way.” He paused behind Coop's chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “You going to be all right, son?”

Coop saw the worry evident in his parents' eyes. “Yeah, Dad. Thanks. I've got some reports to read through that Jack emailed about the poaching ring we busted a while back. Seems the two poachers gave up the buyers, and a few days ago our wardens raided a couple of import-export companies. Got a whole bunch of evidence and arrested five of the ring leaders.”

“That's great, son! Good work.”

“Thanks.” He gave his father a crooked smile and thrust a chin at his grandfather, Jimmy Blue Wolf, sitting across from him at the table. “And if I run out of things to read, I've got
Nimosom
to cheer me up.”

His dad snorted. “If you don't mind watching that stultifyingly boring Whitney trial on Court TV. I swear your grandfather's obsessed with it.”

Coop saw a look pass between the old man and his mom before
Nimosom
said gruffly, “The trial's been over for days. We're just waiting for the verdict. That scumbag should—”

“I know, I know,” Coop’s dad said indulgently, holding up a hand. “But you'd think the man had swindled you personally out of millions the way you've been glued to that TV for the past three months.”

“
Hrumph
.” The old man slurped his tea noisily. “You should have more respect for your elders.”

Coop’s mom grinned, and looped her arm through his dad’s, tugging him toward the door. “Come on,
cher
, we'll be late. I'll drop you at your stop.”

After they'd gone,
Nimosom
grumbled, “Impertinent pup. What does he know?”

“
Hmm
.” Coop didn’t even want to
hear
the word pup. He fell back into his dark thoughts, tearing off bits of frybread and tossing them onto the pool of honey on his plate.

His grandfather set down his teacup with a clatter, and scraped back his chair. “Come on, boy, I've got something to show you.”

His grandfather creaked across the room to the hall stairway and paused. “I ain't goin' up but once, so you'd best get your butt movin'.”

Resigned, Coop got up and followed. What did the old man have up his sleeve this time?
Nimosom
had been chock full of ideas and tricks to shake Coop from his melancholy—none of which had worked, of course.

He'd remained firmly mired in the no-man's-land between fury and misery ever since Maggie had calmly waltzed off with that reprobate FBI agent.

Okay, so she hadn't been all
that
calm. In fact, she'd been sobbing her eyes out. But waltz off she had, nonetheless.

Coop wondered for the ten-thousandth time what the hell Paxton was doing with her.

He’d been in law enforcement long enough to figure it must have something to do with a criminal the FBI was chasing. She could be an informant, or a witness, or something like that. But why Coop, a trusted government employee with a high security clearance, wasn't deemed worthy of sharing that information, he could only guess.

For the first few weeks he'd been patient and hopeful, believing her protestations of love, trusting her word. Then he'd started worrying. Had something happened to her? Those two guys who shot Coop had seemed pretty bent on finding her. Had someone else succeeded?

Eventually, he'd called the FBI office in L.A. and had a short conversation with Special Agent Paxton, who had curtly and forcefully told him to back off and mind his own damn business. That Maggie would return to him when she was good and ready. If ever.

That's when Coop had gotten mad. Really mad. She better the hell come back!

That had been almost two months ago. And she still hadn’t appeared. So, now he’d sunk into a depression, struggling to accept the fact that Maggie might not want to be with him. That he really might never see her again.

Which had led him to San Francisco on a leave of absence, to curl up in the bosom of his family to try to heal himself.

His parents had urged him to be patient. His grandfather had not said much of anything, but he had taken Coop on a couple of excursions into the woods north of the city. To reconnect with the spirit, the old man had said. Which spirit, Coop wasn't sure, since his grandfather had remained largely uncommunicative on the trips, just playing his drum and singing old songs.

With a sigh, Coop took his grandfather's arm, helping him climb the steep stairs to his second floor bedroom. When they got there, the old man went straight to the old steamer trunk that held the mementos of his life with the band in Canada. Whenever Jimmy Blue Wolf opened the steamer trunk, it meant some really serious talk was sure to follow.

Great
.

Coop sat pensively on the bed as
Nimosom
pulled out a rolled up bundle of leather and started untying the thongs that held it together. He immediately recognized Jimmy Blue Wolf's old dance regalia as it emerged from the bundle. Now, what?

“What is that,
Nimosom
?” he asked, though they both knew perfectly well.

“These are the regalia your grandmother made for me to dance in, when I was still a young man, over fifty years ago.” He went on to tell Coop the well-worn story of which animals were used, and how his wife had sewn it, fringed it, and embroidered it, adding designs in porcupine quills and trade beads over the years until it was the splendid garment laid out before them now. He then told, once again, of the various ceremonies it had been worn for, and the dances, and later the powwows when they became popular.

Coop smoothed his fingers over the leather, and let his grandfather's words, and the stories of their deep connections to the past, fill him with peace.

“Grandson, I want you to have these regalia now, so they might continue to be worn in pride.”

“But
Nimosom
, I don't dance anymore,” Coop said. He hadn’t danced in ages. Not since he’d come to the painful realization that the old ways would never manifest themselves in him. So, what was the point? “It would be better,” he said, “that you give them to my sister's son, or one of my cousins, who would use them in the proper way.”

As he spoke, he fingered the fine leather, tracing the patterns his late grandmother had meticulously stitched so long ago.

“It is you who needs them, Cooper Blue Wolf.”

He looked up at his grandfather's use of his clan name, and knew he couldn't refuse the generous gift. “Thank you,
Nimosom
. You know I'll always cherish them.”

“To hell with that,” Jimmy Blue Wolf said, cackling and batting the air with an impatient hand. “You'll need them tomorrow when you dance.”

He hobbled over to the dresser and waved a notice of a powwow.

Coop frowned. Well, hell. The old bugger had tricked him again. “Grandfather. I. Don't. Dance,” he enunciated.