Broken Honor (27 page)

He started to get up, but she stopped him with a look. “Just once let me take care of you.”

He decided that was a reasonable request.

She spread out the bread and cheese. There were also a couple of pieces of roasted chicken kept chilled by the ice. The strawberries were a little wilted, but she put those out, too. Then she opened the wine with the corkscrew he'd thoughtfully dropped in the ice chest.

He took a piece of chicken, amazed at how hungry he was until he realized they hadn't eaten since this morning. He hesitated before taking a sip of wine. There was no way anyone knew they were here. There hadn't been time for anyone to follow them. Still, one glass would be his limit.

The bread and cheese were good, more than good. Or else he was more than hungry. But once that ache went away, the others amplified. They shared the bounty with Bo, whose dog food had been blown up with the cottage. Among the three of them, they ate every crumb.

“Go to sleep,” she said.

“There's only one bed.”

“I know. I plan to share it with you.”

“I'm covered with salve.”

“I know. I put it on you.”

He was too tired to argue. A good night's sleep, and he would be better. Still, he tried again. “We should take turns watching.”

“I looked all the way,” she said. “There was no one following us, and no chance for someone to plant one of those gizmos.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Gizmos?”

“Or whatever they're called,” she said.

Her voice was light, and he knew she was trying to reassure him. It seemed strange to be on the receiving end of reassurance. But he liked it.

He slipped off his jeans, which left only the swimming trunks. He would have dearly liked taking those off, too, but he was in no shape to make love, and he had a feeling that come morning he might damn well try. No matter what.

But he held out his hand. She sat next to him, her fingers caressing his in a sure, rhythmic soothing way. He closed his eyes.

Amy woke up to Bojangles' frantic nudges.

She lay there for a moment, her fingers tangling in his fur.

Then the events of the last twenty-fours flooded over her.

Every moment. The sun, the sea, the kiss. Then the explosion. The blood. The fear as she drove away. The pain she felt in his pain. She felt the warmth of his body beside her. He'd been a quiet sleeper. She touched his forehead. It was cool. And she knew the sleep was good for him. His body was demanding it after all the abuse it had taken.

Still wearing the new T-shirt she had slept in, she slipped out of the bed and pulled on her jeans.

They both needed new clothes, but their money was getting dangerously low. She would have insurance money from the house, but that would probably take weeks, and then there was the problem of getting it.

She knew one thing. Returning to Memphis was now on hold. She was not that foolish. She realized that her decision yesterday had been based partly on fear of Flaherty and the feelings he evoked in her.

How long was this nightmare going to last?

It
was
a nightmare, and yet she was beginning to understand the appeal that danger had for some people. She'd tasted the adrenalin, the heightening of senses, including the terror and then the relief. Everything was more vivid. The senses, the sights, the colors.…

How much vivid could she take?

She pulled on her sneakers, found the room key on the chest, then quietly opened the door and slipped out with Bo at her feet. She hadn't asked whether the motel permitted dogs; the privacy of the room, she thought, would allow her to walk him without being seen from the office. If they stayed the day, she would put out the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

Thank God, Bo was not a barker.

A couple with a dog was easier to find than a couple without one
.

After scanning the parking lot for anything unusual, Amy walked Bo behind the motel, along the edge of a weed-infested field. As usual, he quickly tended to his needs and was ready to go inside. He was not an adventuresome dog, and preferred the safety of an interior to the dangers of the outside.

Amy took him back to the room. Flaherty was still asleep. She felt his forehead, worrying about him, and thought about waking him.
No
. He'd had precious little sleep this past week.

Instead she wrote him a note, telling him she would be right back. She put the time on the note, so he wouldn't worry.
Eight a.m
.

“You stay here,” she whispered to Bo, “take care of him.” Then she slipped back out, this time taking the car keys.

She'd seen a fast food restaurant a block away. She drove there and picked up two large cups of coffee, two orange juices, four sausage biscuits, four steak biscuits, some French toast bits, and two orders of potatoes. She also bought a newspaper from a machine.

He was awake when she returned. She heard the water running in the bathroom, and she set the two bags down.

The door to the bathroom was open. He wore only his bathing suit, and she watched the muscles in his back move as he washed. He turned and gave her a wry smile. “No toothbrush. No razor.”

“But food,” she said as the aroma of coffee filled the room.

He came into the room and slipped on his jeans, then took a cup of coffee with a grateful sigh. “You have no idea how much I hoped you were bringing this.”

She watched as he gulped down food. She ate not quite as quickly, sharing hers with Bo. “What do we do now?”

“Get some clothes, first of all,” he said. “And something to shave with. Then I have to make some phone calls. After that I think we had better leave the area.”

“I think you need more rest,” she said, looking at the burned spots and scrapes on his body. The wound that had opened had bled onto the bandage, turning it a bright red.

“We won't go far,” he promised.

“Some doctoring first,” she said. “Sit down.”

“Yes ma'am.” He took one last sip of coffee and placed the cup on the table.

He looked devilishly attractive despite bruises and cuts. The new bristle of his beard gave him a rougher look, and his blue eyes were as vivid and bright as she had ever seen them. His body, despite old scars and new burns and scrapes marring it, was really quite … marvelous. Wide shoulders, muscled chest and arms. He was all muscle and power, with the grace of an athlete. She wondered whether he had played baseball or some other sport.

It made her realize once more how little she really knew about him.

And yet she knew everything she needed to know.

She went to the bathroom and tried to find something to use to attend his wounds. Unfortunately the towels—all a pinkish color from tending him last night—lay on the floor. The two plastic glasses had been used for the wine last night.

She took one of the dirty towels, ran it under hot water until she hoped she'd destroyed any germs, then returned to the room. All the salves and bottles and tape were on the table next to the bed.

Her patient looked … patient. He raised an eyebrow as he noted the soaked towel in her hand.

“It's all we have,” she said apologetically.

“I've had a lot worse wounds and a lot worse nurses,” he said.

She sat down next to him and started cleaning the burns and scrapes and abrasions. “Where?”

“South America. Bosnia. Florida.”

“Why South America?”

“I was with a drug interdiction team, training a military unit to find and destroy coca fields. There was a little objection to our assistance.”

“While you were with the CID?”

“No, I went to CID as a result. The command seemed to think I had a talent for working with my counterparts. I was transferred into the Military Police career field, attended the Police Officer Advanced Course, and did training in terrorism and counteraction, as well as other law enforcement courses. They said I had a knack for working with foreign nationals, so I was sent to Bosnia.”

She knew that but wanted more details. “And were you good at working with them?”

He shrugged. “No one was. We were involved in confiscating weapons and making sure they weren't resold to one faction or another. Most serviceman are honorable, but there's always a bad apple here and there.”

“Like fifty years ago?”

“It seems that way,” he said grimly. “What I don't understand is why anyone cares now. That report would have died a natural death, noted by a few but dismissed as old news by almost everyone. Even if I did make some queries, it shouldn't have started this level of violence.”

She gently washed the salve from the burn areas, then swabbed them with peroxide. “Maybe it wasn't you who started this … mess in motion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Jon found something he didn't share with me. Maybe
he
asked the questions that started all this. Otherwise why kill
him
?”

“Would he keep something from you?”

“I wouldn't have thought so,” she said. “We … were friends.” Her voice broke slightly. Everything had happened so quickly, she still hadn't entirely absorbed his death, or its implications.

His hand caught hers. “It wasn't your fault,” he said softly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

But she was still thinking that. She'd never stopped thinking that. If she had never given those papers to Jon.…

Her hands hesitated. What if she had done the same thing to Flaherty? He thought he was the cause of all this, but what if she had led him into danger?

Why had she never taken the time to go through those papers? And why had her grandfather kept them?

Even as doubts about Jon continued to multiply, her hands kept busy, washing one cut or burn after the other, bandaging those wounds that were still bleeding slightly. It must have hurt, but he didn't move through the whole process. Finally she finished.

“Let me help you with the shirt,” she said, handing one of the new T-shirts to him.

He winced slightly as he put his arms through the sleeves.

Then he sat still for a moment, as if absorbing the pain.

She sat down in the sole chair in the room. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. “I thought investigators just … sort of investigated.”

“So did I,” he admitted wryly. “I think I'm getting too old for this.”

“Have you thought about retiring?”

He didn't say anything. She wondered if he
had
thought about it. But he was already a lieutenant colonel, and now had been offered a command.
If
she hadn't ruined any chance he had. “What would you do if you did leave?”

“I have the ranch in Colorado.”

She hadn't expected that. But then she'd noticed his athletic grace. Maybe it hadn't been baseball, but riding. Or perhaps both.

“Did you ever play baseball?” she asked.

Flaherty looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. After a moment, he nodded. “I played some in high school, then at the Point. Why?”

“You walk like a baseball player. Or a horseman.”

“Oh,” he said. “And how is that?”

“Kind of a swagger.” That wasn't it at all, but she wasn't going to tell him he was graceful.

“Ouch,” he said. “No one ever told me that before.”

“It's not too bad.”

He grinned. “That's a little better. I think.”

“Tell me about your ranch.”

“Isn't much there now. My grandfather left it to me.”

“General Flaherty?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I spent my summers there. My mother didn't like it. She considered him a bad influence. Anything connected to the military was a bad influence. But then she married a dentist, and he and I didn't like each other much. She sent me away to keep peace in the household. But she always hated Grandfather.”

“You can't blame her,” she said. “Losing two husbands to the military.”

The side of his mouth crooked. “That's why I never married. I saw what the Army did to personal relationships.”

He stood. His hand reached out for hers, and he pulled her up. She didn't look at him. She didn't want him to see the censure in her eyes. She knew it was there. She would have done anything for her mother. She had, in fact.

His fingers went under her chin and forced it up until her eyes met his.

“You can't let anyone run your life,” he said softly, “or you make everyone unhappy. My father was a hero. I worshiped him as a boy. When he died, I vowed I would make him proud of me.”

“Wasn't that letting a dead man run your life?”

“It would have been if I didn't like the military. I'm a gypsy at heart. Always have been. The Army was all I ever wanted.”

Gypsy at heart
. He was warning her.

“But you mentioned retiring.…”

“And I will someday.” His voice was also cool.

Someday
.

Amy shook her hand loose and turned away. She started putting the peroxide bottle and tubes and bandages in the bag. She put his old bloodied shirt in the trash can.

“No,” he said. “I want to take it with us. We'll drop it in a trash bin somewhere.”

The words reminded her of how much danger they were in. For a few moments she had almost forgotten. She bundled up the stiffened cloth. Stiffened with his blood.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“Yes.” His voice was still cool. Distant.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“I will,” he said. “You keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

She didn't protest. They had lost something in these past few moments, and part of her desperately wanted it back. And yet she couldn't change it. What hadn't he said?

Don't judge until you've walked in someone's shoes
.

How often she'd heard that. Her mother had said it often, particularly when she had taken up with someone new, or invited a derelict to share their scanty meal, or after they woke and found half of their belongings gone.