Authors: Patricia Rice
Jared staggered through the wax myrtle hedge just as Cleo pulled her pickup into the drive. Her first thought was that he was drunk or high, but he hadn't struck her as the type for either.
He stopped in his tracks at sight of her and swayed slightly while she parked the truck. His aviator sunglasses hung broken and useless from one hand. He wore tight jogging shorts and no shirt. She would have gasped at the vast expanse of nicely molded chest revealed, except it appeared to be splattered in blood. Panic mode nearly stopped her heart, but she got a grip and steadied herself. He wasn't anything to her. She would just take a neighborly interest in the situation.
It would be a hell of a lot easier if he didn't look like a gladiator who'd just ripped off a lion's head.
"Went a little round with the boys?" she inquired with disinterest. Approaching him, she noticed the bruise forming along his patrician cheekbones. She checked the urge to caress the swelling. The man practically exuded male musk and testosterone, and she halted far enough away not to be drawn into the trap.
"Look and see if Kismet is here," he commanded gruffly, swiping at a trickle of blood from his nose.
Panic immediately descended. Shooting him a look of anger and fear, Cleo swung on her heel and raced to the house. She didn't know what Jared McCloud had to do with Kismet, but from the state of his face, it hadn't been pretty.
It wouldn't help to run through the house, screaming. Forcing herself to slow down, Cleo called a greeting as she entered. Kismet was like a dog who'd been beaten one too many times. If she was here, she'd appear, tail wagging in hopes of kindness, but cringing in fear at a sharp tone.
No one answered.
Jared followed her into the house, aiming for the kitchen faucet. "She ran into the woods. I thought she might have made her way here."
"What happened?" Cleo demanded, not waiting for an answer as she raced up the stairs to the attic. Kismet liked being alone and sometimes sketched there on rainy days. The empty attic offered no hiding place, and she saw no sign of her.
Running back down, she stopped in the bathroom for clean towels and washcloths and carried them into the kitchen. If this bastard had hurt Kismet...
He wouldn't. She'd learned a few things about people over the years, and she couldn't see a man like this laying a finger on a child. Dropping his glasses in the trash, Jared accepted her offering and soaked the cloth while she opened the freezer and found a package of frozen peas. "Here, put this on your cheek. Hold your head back to stop the bleeding."
She had an unreasonable urge to stroke his poor, bruised jaw, to comfort him. Like, that was going to happen.
He sank into a kitchen chair and did as told. Cleo figured that was a miracle in itself. Men never did what she told them. A man who occasionally listened to her was good for her battered ego. "What happened?" she demanded again, while she was on a roll.
"Don't entirely know. I had a little encounter at a shack down the road. My kick isn't as high as it used to be."
"You kicked Kismet?" She couldn't hide the incredulity. Nothing people did should surprise her, but this didn't even make sense.
He scowled past the frozen peas and washcloth. "I kicked some big hairy brute who was molesting her. What in hell kind of perverts do you raise around here?"
Cleo sank into a chair and ran her fingers up her face and into her hair. Shit. Damn. Bloody motherf—
She halted that train of thought. Life happened. One dealt with it, one step at a time. "Where is he?" A kitchen knife. She had a blade big enough to castrate the—
Stop it, Cleo.
She dug her fingers into her hair and tugged harder. Count to ten. Think rationally. Don't go over the bloody edge. Kismet needed a sane person, not a madwoman.
"Probably still groaning in the dirt. I finally connected," he said with satisfaction, although it sounded as if he had a severe cold. He tilted his head back farther.
Warily, Cleo raised her head to study him. She hadn't taken the wealthy yuppie for a street fighter, but she couldn't deny evidence of an altercation. Even with frozen peas applied to it, Jared possessed a tough, stubborn jaw she really hadn't appreciated enough.
It was clenched now, whether in pain or fury, she didn't know him well enough to tell. She hoped he really had kicked the pervert in the
cojones
. Her insides did a double backflip and a triple axle in admiration. It made it hell to fight physical attraction when she had to admire his character too.
"I'll go look for Kismet." She scraped back the chair and stood up.
"He didn't rape her," Jared warned. "She didn't seem to be protesting what he was doing before I interrupted."
Cleo nodded, and the sinking sensation in her stomach sank lower. She hadn't been here to help, and she was helpless to prevent the situation happening again. "She's already learned she's not strong enough to fight," she murmured, more to herself than to him. She'd suspected as much all along, but Kismet wouldn't talk about it.
She ignored Jared's sharp intake of breath. He was still capable of shock. She wasn't. She wished she had a hound dog. Kismet could be hiding anywhere.
"I'll call the sheriff and help you hunt." He started to rise from the chair.
"Sit down. Kismet won't come out if you're anywhere near. And leave the sheriff alone," Cleo warned. "She won't press charges so there's no point in causing trouble." She grabbed a cold bottle of soft drink from the refrigerator and opened the back door.
Jared stood and snatched the door away from her. He towered over her by some inches, but Cleo didn't fear him as she might have another man. He scowled and yelled, but if he was going to hit, he would have done so the other night. She hadn't realized that had been a test, but apparently, it had.
"Those kids aren't safe out here. The authorities need to be notified," he insisted.
"Those kids aren't safe anywhere. Go lie down on the couch and don't say a word to Gene if he shows up. Kismet may slip in the back door, but leave her alone. Don't say a word, got it?"
"Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind?" he shouted back.
Cleo walked out and let him shout.
She eventually located Kismet sketching in her favorite tree. The girl had taken to keeping her sketchpad and pencils in an old plastic storage box she'd found or stolen somewhere, so they were always available, no matter the circumstances. Cleo was half afraid to look at the pictures the child might be drawing.
"Hey, kid," she called softly. Kismet didn't even look down. "Want a pop?" She offered up the soft drink.
Kismet scrunched up tighter and didn't respond.
Cleo leaned against the tree trunk and sipped the drink. "You ought to see Jared with a bloody nose. You'd think he was a redneck just like us instead of a stuffy Yankee."
She sensed a slowing down of Kismet's frantic scribbling but didn't look up. "I think he got in a good kick that ought to put the creep out of commission for a while, but he wants to call the sheriff. What do you think?"
Kismet uttered a muffled noise of protest, and Cleo dared to look up long enough to watch frizzy curls shaking negatively. The girl clenched her pencil like a weapon and stared through the willow oak leaves at nothing.
"I can talk him out of it, but give me a good reason," she said gruffly. She wished she was warm and motherly like Maya, but she wasn't. She didn't even know how to hug the kid should she climb from the tree. All she could do was offer to be there. It didn't seem enough anymore.
"Mama likes him." The voice sighed through the trees much as the nonexistent wind. "He buys her things."
That's what Cleo had figured. Her fingers dug into the soft drink can and her stomach heaved, but she'd experienced all these symptoms before. She'd tried fighting back once upon a time, but it had nearly got her killed. She'd tried escaping, and her chosen method of escape had dragged her through hell. She didn't see many acceptable alternatives.
"She wouldn't like him as much if you told her what he did." Logic seldom worked with a terrified kid, but she figured she ought to try.
Kismet shrugged and returned to sketching.
Dead end. Cleo guessed Kismet had endured worse at some earlier time, had probably seen worse. The kids tried to protect their mother, understanding instinctively that she was more brittle than they were. The human mind was capable of accepting and bending things with a weird rationality.
"Maybe you ought to stay with me when your mama's boyfriend visits," she suggested. That was the only practical solution she could see.
Cleo had turned enough to watch the girl and catch her shy smile. All right, if that worked, she could deal with the kid's mother. Maybe she could kick some sense into her. Or let Jared kick some sense into her.
She kind of liked that Jared had come to Kismet's defense, even though he knew nothing about her. In her experience, people who left their own comfortable circle to help others were rare and priceless treasures. To risk being beaten to a pulp for a child he didn't know put Jared several notches above the rest of mankind, in her book.
"When you're done there, why don't you come back to the house with me, and we'll fix some popcorn? Where's Gene?"
"Fishing." Kismet examined her sketch critically, closed the book, and stuck her pencil into her thick hair.
Gene would get himself killed fishing out on that abandoned rock jetty, but Cleo knew without his fish, the kids would go hungry. On bad days, Linda forgot to feed them.
"Well, if he catches anything, we'll grill out. I have to see if Jared is all right. Come on down when you're ready."
She heard Kismet scrambling from the tree as she walked back the way she came. If she didn't find some way of saving the girl from her current situation, she'd end up raped, pregnant, and lost in the same trap as Linda. But no courtroom in the world would give the kids to an ex-con drug addict.
If she turned the kids into Social Services, the social workers would never be able to place them together, even if they could find someone who would take in teenagers for a few bucks. And even if a miracle should occur, and they found places for the kids, there was no guarantee that they would be any safer in the homes of strangers. Cleo knew that from bad experience.
The only remaining alternative was a group home. Kismet couldn't survive in that environment. She was more helpless than dreamy Maya had been.
She didn't like the idea that Kismet hadn't run or fought when attacked. She wasn't a psychologist, but she knew that didn't bode well for her future. What would it take to get the kid to fight back?
She found Jared pacing the front room, shouting into her telephone, his bare chest still wet from washing off the blood. She'd give the Yankee credit for shouting with ardent volume, but she'd rather not look at his naked chest while he did it. Dark curls between muscled pectorals did things to her libido that she preferred not to examine.
If he was talking to the sheriff, she'd kick
him
in the
cojones
.
"She hasn't returned," he shouted frantically as she walked in. "I'm calling the sheriff."
"I'll scalp you, if you do. I found her. She'll be here shortly. Calm down and go home and we'll all cope." She continued walking, through the front room, past Jared, and into the kitchen. She wanted to fall to pieces in private.
Telling whoever it was on the other end that he'd call back, Jared followed her. Maybe she
should
kick him. He didn't seem to get the message in any other way.
"I called a counselor for troubled teens I know. She says we need to get Kismet out of there and into a safe home and into counseling," he announced, as if safe homes and counseling could be purchased at the local grocery for the price of eggs.
"Go away, McCloud." Leaning wearily over the sink, Cleo wished for a huge cold tankard of beer. She'd never been much of a beer fan, but she thought one might go down smooth, and ease some of this pounding behind her eyes. She knew the bliss of a crack high would work even better by making the world go away, but she didn't go there anymore. Still, there ought to be some escape she could use every once in a while.
Jared came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. Not stopping to think, Cleo simply reacted. She spun around and plowed her fist into his rock-hard abdomen. She hurt her hand more than she hurt him, but he backed off with an
oomph
of released breath, and watched her warily.
"What is it with you?" he asked in angry confusion. "I'm trying to help."
She supposed he'd intended to comfort her. Wasn't that just like a man? Did she look the vaporish sort of female who responded to quick hugs and soothing words?
She couldn't remember a time when anyone had offered her gentleness.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and fought her churning insides. Blinking an eye stinging with moisture, she tried not to ache with the need for comfort. Vulnerability didn't become her.
"Don't mistake me for someone else," she said curtly. "Kismet will be here soon. Make yourself scarce. I don't think she's in any shape to walk in on a half-naked man."
He glanced down at himself and grimaced. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. Give me one of those flannel shirts of yours. They're big enough. I don't want Kismet afraid of me."