Nighthawk & The Return of Luke McGuire (14 page)

Emboldened, she said, “It’s no trouble, really. I have some turkey breast that will make wonderful sandwiches.”

“You’re on,” he said promptly. “I love turkey.”

So they rode on into the night while she wondered wryly if all she needed to do to attract a man was keep plenty of turkey on hand.

By the time they got home, the rain had stopped but the yard in front of her house was a great big mud puddle with the forlorn heads of flowers sticking out of it. In the distance thunder still growled and lightning still flickered, giving the night a restless, uneasy feeling.

Esther climbed out of the Jimmy, nearly losing her footing on the wet, slippery ground. She steadied herself against the door, then hurried up onto the porch, suddenly afraid that Craig would offer to help her. She didn’t want him to help her. She didn’t want him to see her as someone who
needed
help.

All of a sudden she froze. On her door a white piece of paper fluttered, seeming to almost glow in the darkness.

Craig’s voice came from behind her. “Looks like someone was here.”

Esther didn’t want to take another step. She was as afraid of that sheet of paper as if it were a doorway to hell.

Craig stepped up beside her. “Maybe one of the deputies was by and left a note so you’d know he was here.”

Esther suddenly realized that she’d been holding her breath. Letting go of it in a great gust, she seized the possibility he offered. “Yes! That has to be it. Beau must have stopped by again.”

Stepping forward, she took the paper down, unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house felt chilly and damp, and so very empty without Guinevere. A pang of renewed loneliness struck her as she limped through the house to the kitchen, switching on lights as she went.

“Why don’t you throw your clothes in the dryer again,” she suggested to Craig. “You’re still wet.”

“Thanks, I will.”

But he didn’t move and she realized that he was waiting for her to read the note in her hand. His questioning glance in the direction of the paper and her reluctance to even look at it spoke volumes. Slowly, fearfully, she raised it.

It was from her father.

C
raig built a fire in the living room fireplace while Esther huddled under the quilt on the couch, her braced leg stuck out in front of her. She couldn’t seem to get warm, and she shivered even inside the cocoon of the quilt.

The fire was soon burning brightly, and Craig disappeared down the hallway. Before long she heard things rattling in the kitchen. He was probably making them something hot to drink, she thought.

Like a drowning victim clinging to a straw, she was trying to focus on the ordinary and mundane. Anything except the note from her father that said he had been there.

Craig returned eventually with a plate of turkey sandwiches and two mugs of hot chocolate. He held the sandwiches toward her. “Help yourself.”

“I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

“Try to eat something anyway, Esther. Put some fuel in the system. You’ll think more clearly and you’ll probably warm up.”

Obediently she took half a sandwich and bit into it. Much to her surprise, when the delicious flavors of turkey and tomato touched her tongue they awakened her appetite. She devoured what she had in her hand and reached for another half sandwich.

Craig watched her with smiling eyes. “Are you always difficult?”

She looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I sometimes get the feeling that if I said the sky was blue you’d argue that it was green.”

Color heated her cheeks. “I’m not contrary.”

“No, but you sure as hell don’t want me to do anything for you. Even something as small as making a sandwich. Why? Are you afraid it’ll give me power over you?”

She was embarrassed to realize that his assessment was quite close to the truth…and equally embarrassed to realize that his having power over her sounded…intriguing. Tempting. What would it be like to be totally at the mercy of Craig Nighthawk? Not that she would ever find out.

“Is it just me?” he asked her. “Is it something about me? Maybe those stories you’ve been hearing about my checkered past? I didn’t hurt that little girl, you know. I never laid a finger on her.”

Horror washed over her. “I know that! Do you think I’d have ever let you into my house if I hadn’t known that?”

They stared at each other from opposite ends of the couch, and Esther suddenly felt as if they were at opposite ends of the world.

And that was her fault, she realized. She’d been so preoccupied with her own problems, with the scars from her own past, that she had never once considered that Craig Nighthawk might have some problems of his own. That he might have some tender scars of his own.

“Forget it,” he said before she could think of anything to say that would close the gap between them. “I’m just getting edgy because I’m so tired. You must be exhausted, too. Finish that sandwich, then curl up and go to sleep.”

But now she really had lost her appetite and put the sandwich back on the plate. “You go ahead and sleep,” she said. “I don’t know if I can.”

“There was nothing threatening in that note, Esther. All he said was he was sorry he missed you and would call you.”

“But he put it out there sometime between one and three in the morning! That’s hardly unthreatening. Would you go to visit someone at that time of night?”

“I might if they were family and I’d just pulled into the area after a long drive.”

She stared at him with utter hopelessness, feeling that she was losing her only ally in a hostile world.

He shook his head finally. “I’m not saying you aren’t right to be afraid. I’m just trying to put it in the best light possible. Don’t worry, you aren’t going to be alone at night until this is settled one way or another. I plan on staying here every night.”

She ought to protest. Some corner of her weary mind recognized that this was a terrible imposition to make on this man, and that she had no right to such concern from him, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to refuse his help. Not now that she knew that Richard Jackson was here and knew where her house was.

“You come with me in the morning when I get my things,” he continued. “I want you to meet Paula, so you’ll be able to call her during the day if you get scared. I also want you to feel comfortable about running over there any time you feel a need for company.”

He patted the sofa beside him. “Now curl up and sleep. Or go upstairs if you’d rather. I’ll be here.” She hesitated and finally he opened his arm. “C’mere,” he said softly.

And for some reason she did precisely that, crawling down the sofa until he could tuck her against his side and cradle her head on his shoulder. He made her feel warm and safe, and something deep inside her relaxed that had never relaxed before.

Sleep crept up gently. At some point she became aware that her head was now resting on his lap, and that he was stroking her hair with gentle fingers.

“You have to face him sometime, Esther,” Craig said quietly. “Sooner or later you have to face the bogeyman just so he can’t scare you anymore.”

Sleep captured her then, carrying her away to sunny dreams of a man with long, dark hair and eyes the color of the night sky.

It was nearly noon when Esther opened her eyes. She was alone on the couch, the fire had burned down, and there was no sign of Craig anywhere.

She sat up slowly, reluctant to let go of the cozy warmth of sleep and face the harsh reality of day. Sunlight poured through the windows, almost clear enough to hurt after the cleansing rain.

She’d kept her brace on all night and now her leg felt chafed and sore from the straps. In fact, she felt stiff all over, probably because she hadn’t twitched a muscle since she had closed her eyes. If she had turned over during the night, she couldn’t tell.

But she felt rested despite the grittiness of her eyes and the stiffness of her body. Her first thought was to wonder what had become of Craig. Her second was to check her answering machine and see if Dr. Llewellyn had called with news about Guinevere.

Smothering a groan, she stood up, adjusted her clothes and limped to the kitchen. The note from her father still lay crumpled on the table where she had left it. She stared at it with loathing, wishing she had never seen it. With one stroke the man had stolen the last vestige of her security from her all over again.

Reaching for the paper, she shredded it into tiny pieces and dumped it in the trash can. She just wished she could get rid of her father as easily.

On the counter was a note from Craig saying he would be back sometime in the early evening, but to call his sister if she needed anything.

That was all right, Esther thought. By the time she bathed, dressed and straightened up the house from last night, it would be time to drive into town to get Guinevere. Not enough time to get nervous and edgy.

Just the same she checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked before she went upstairs to bathe. Bath salts and hot water went a long way to improving her mood, and she decided to treat herself by wearing her favorite lavender broomstick skirt and matching peasant blouse with a silver concho belt.

A little talc helped with the chafing from her brace and made her feel so feminine that she indulged in makeup, a rarity for her.

Downstairs she threw the towels from last night—thoughtfully rinsed out by Craig, apparently—into the washer, then made herself a quick breakfast of an English muffin and strawberry jam.

By that point she was ready to venture outside. It was only as she began to unlock the kitchen door that she realized how much metaphorical girding she had just done, bathing and dressing to the hilt as if that would help her face the day better.

Well, maybe it would, she thought with a shrug. Did it matter? It was nice to feel that she looked her best for a change.

Outside the day was significantly cooler, as if with the passing of the storm last night had come a hint of approaching autumn. The breeze had that cool dryness that contrasted so wonderfully with the heat of the sun. Enthralled by it, Esther paused in the middle of her back yard, closed her eyes and just soaked it up.

Finally, heedful of time, she continued to the studio, wanting to check whether the storm had done any damage. The air inside the barn was unusually damp but there didn’t seem to be any flooding. The large painting of the mountains was still stretched tautly on the frame, although given the dampness in the air she decided to let it dry for a couple of days before she tried painting on it again. In the meantime she could work on one of the small still lifes that she planned.

She took the time to check all the paintings she was keeping carefully pressed in a portfolio, but they were fine, too. It wouldn’t be long before she would be shipping them to Jo who would take care of the rest of the process for her. Esther did nothing but paint. She refused even to concern herself with framing. Others, she believed, were better at those things than she, and to this day her belief had never been tested because she had never set foot in a gallery to see one of her paintings on display.

Another one of her personality quirks. She vastly preferred anonymity, and her fame as a painter interested her only in that it made it possible for her to keep painting.

All of that, she knew, could be traced back to her self-consciousness about her limp and the basic insecurity a person developed when she felt unloved by her parents. Whatever the reason, she was happy with the way things were and couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than having to meet the world at large.

Satisfied with the condition of things in her studio, she locked up and headed toward town. She needed a few odds and ends from the grocery store, so she decided to go shopping before she picked up Guinevere. Thinking of her dog, she pressed a little harder on the accelerator.

What she didn’t want to think about were Craig’s last words to her. Ever since she awoke they’d been trying to wedge their way into her thoughts.
Sooner or later you have to face the bogeyman just so he can’t scare you anymore.

Her hands tightened on the wheel as she tried to force the words away once more. He didn’t know, she told herself. He couldn’t possibly understand. Richard Jackson was more than a bogeyman. He was the man who had crippled her and killed her mother.

There was no way to equate that with the fear of a monster in the closet. No way at all.

Face him so he couldn’t scare her anymore? Not likely. There was only one reason he could want to see her after all this time, and that was to kill her. Just because he was too canny to threaten her on the phone or in writing didn’t mean he was harmless.

And she was so very disappointed that Craig couldn’t see that.

She thought she saw her father as she was loading her groceries into the Jimmy. A gray-haired man stood across the street, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the lamppost. It was him. It had to be. God, he was following her!

Her heart climbed into her throat, and her hands began to tremble violently. She had to get out of here now!

Swiftly she walked around the Jimmy and climbed in behind the wheel. When she looked again, the man was gone. Shaking, the sour taste of fear filling her mouth, she sat motionlessly, trying to figure it out, but her thoughts were scrambling around like terrified mice.

Maybe that man hadn’t been Richard at all. It could have been almost anyone. After all this time she really didn’t know for sure if she could recognize him. Maybe her imagination was running wild.

And maybe he had seen her getting into her car and had gone to get into his so he could follow her. It was a distinct possibility, and one that did nothing to comfort her.

She needed to go to the sheriff, she decided finally. She should have called him first thing this morning and told him about the note Richard had left. There had to be something he could do now that it was apparent that Richard was here.

She nearly dropped the keys first, but finally managed to get them into the ignition and turn the engine over. Then, watching her rearview mirror almost as much as the street ahead of her, she drove to the sheriff’s office. There didn’t seem to be anyone following her.

The Fates must have been favoring her, because there was a parking place right in front of the sheriff’s building. She steered straight into it and parked, then waited a minute or two to see if she saw the man again. But he wouldn’t show himself this close to the sheriff, would he?

Inside, she found Nate Tate in the front office talking to Velma about some vandalism at the high school. As soon as he saw Esther he turned to her with a smile. “Sweetie, you look gorgeous this afternoon. You better stay off the streets or I’ll have to cite you for disturbing the peace.”

She couldn’t even bring herself to smile, and in an instant he was across the room, taking her elbow gently. “What happened?” Velma stood up at her desk and leaned toward her. “Esther? You okay, girl?”

“I…I’m fine, really. Just scared.”

Nate looked straight down into her eyes. “Your father?”

She nodded. “I had to bring Guin to the vet around one this morning. When I got home there was a note from him taped to my front door. He said he was sorry he missed me, and that he’d call.”

“But you didn’t see him?”

“No…but I…” She trailed off and looked beseechingly at him. “I think I may have seen him when I came out of the supermarket, but I’m not sure. It’s been so many years, but a man was standing across the street, smoking a cigarette, and something reminded me so strongly of him that I came straight here.”

“You did the right thing,” Nate told her. “Exactly the right thing. Do you have the note you found on the door?”

Suddenly feeling stupid and miserable, she shook her head. “I ripped it up. I ripped it up into the tiniest pieces I could manage. I’m sorry—”

He silenced her with a shake of his head and a smile. “I probably would have done the same thing. Don’t worry about it, sweet cakes. Now, do you think you can draw me a picture of this guy you saw?”

Esther felt a burst of hope. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Of course I can!” She glanced at her watch. “But I’m supposed to pick up Guin at four.”