Depth Perception (19 page)

Regret swelled inside her when she realized they hadn't accomplished anything except, perhaps, arousing Travis Ratcliffe's suspicions. The last thing she and Nick needed was more suspicion.

"Our only involvement was finding that boy's body," Nat said. "Both of us have lost children, so it was a difficult, emotional thing to contend with. We just felt the need to follow up.  That's all."

Travis didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "All right. You've followed up. Now I'm asking you to--"

“What is that woman doing in this house?"

Nat's heart did a single sickening roll at the sound of Elliott Ratcliffe's voice. She looked up to see the evangelist descend the stairs. He struck her with a glare so full of hatred that for an instant she thought he might forget who he was and follow through on the violence she saw in his eyes.

She took his measure as he crossed to them. At fifty-nine years of age, Elliott Ratcliffe was in his prime. He was tall and barrel-chested and carried himself with the self-assurance of a man who knew his place in society--a place that was at the very top. An almost tangible aura of power surrounded him, a force that radiated outward like heat from a fire. In the three years since Nat had last seen him, his hair had gone from salt and pepper gray to pure white. His bushy eyebrows were still black and rode low over eyes as hard and colorless as steel.

He entered the foyer, staring at her as if she were vermin. "How dare you come into my home."

Travis stepped forward. "Dad—"

The elder Ratcliffe cut off his son's attempt to intervene by slashing his hand through the air. But his glare never left Nat. "What ungodly business could you possibly have here?"

"We were just leaving," Nick said.

"Elliott, I just needed to speak with Travis," she said.

"My son has nothing to say to you. My family wants nothing to do with you." He looked at Travis. "I want this evil woman out of his house.
Now.
”

Vaguely, she was aware of Nick stepping between them. The room had gone silent. Her own heartbeat was deafening. She could hear the roar of it in her cars, feel her blood pumping outrage and adrenaline through her veins. She knew better than to do battle with Elliott Ratcliffe. He hated her too much for her to ever convince him of her innocence. But knowing that he believed she was capable of something so heinous, that he blamed her for the very thing that had destroyed her life, inflamed her.

"You—" Choking on the emotion that had crowded into her throat, she raised her hand, pointed at him, and was surprised to see it shaking. "You have no right to blame me for what happened."

"You took my son from me," he said with barely concealed rage. "Now you have the nerve to walk into my home? You are not welcome here. You were never welcome here."

Nat's heart was beating so hard that for a moment she thought she might pass out. "You have no right to speak to me that way."

"This is my house, and I will speak to you in any fashion I see fit."

"Dad. Hey. Come on." Travis crossed to his father and gently took his arm. "She was just leaving."

"Get your hands off me." The elder Ratcliffe shook off his son's hand, but his eyes never left Nat. Eyes that shone bright and hot with a hatred that was so deep and black that it chilled her. "I didn't believe your lies three years ago, and I don't believe them now."

"That's a hateful, insane thing to say." She'd intended the words to come out strong, but her voice was shaking so badly she barely recognized it.

"You killed them for the insurance money. When the police got too close, you tried to commit suicide, like the sinner you are."

Nat's breath left her lungs in a rush. Shadows crowded her peripheral vision until she saw only Elliott Ratcliffe's face. The hatred burning in his eyes, the bitterness etched into his face. The dark emotions gathering in her own heart. "I'm not going to defend myself,” she said in a shaking voice. "Not to you."

"You're not going to defend yourself because your actions are indefensible. You committed the ultimate sin, then you played upon the sympathies of a community that is far too compassionate."

"Nat. Easy. Let it go."

The voice was Nick's. Vaguely, she was aware of his fingers wrapping around her arm, pulling her back But there was no way she could retreat now that Elliott Ratcliffe had flung open this Pandora's box of pain. She was too angry. In too much pain. She would not let him win this battle, even though she'd long since lost the war.

Shaking off Nick's hand, she stepped toward Elliott. "You don't know anything about me," she said breathlessly. "You're blinded by hatred and bitterness—"

"I know you seduced my son: First with your body, then with a bastard son."

The words echoed like gunshots in her ears. Fury poured through her veins, like a scream trapped inside her body, its shrill ring powerful enough to shatter bone. Her vision tunneled on his face. She could feel her pulse beating inside her head, a giant hammer clanging against her skull until she thought her head would explode. The last of her control fled. "You son of a bitch!"

She launched herself at him. A terrible sound that was half scream, half roar tore from her throat. Her first punch went wide and glanced off his shoulder. She heard a shout, then her second blow struck him squarely in the jaw. But his head was as large and solid as a boulder, and the impact barely fazed him.

Dully, she was aware of him stepping back, dodging her blows. His hands flying up to protect his face. "Get her off me!"

She landed another blow to his chin. Pain exploded in her hand, zinged all the way to her elbow. She could feel her teeth grinding together. Rage igniting into a violent blast inside her. Intent cemented in her brain. She wanted to hurt him. Rip the terrible words from his mouth.

"Call the police!" Elliott said. "She's out of control!"

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind and swung her around. "Knock it off."

Nick, she thought vaguely. But she was beyond reason and twisted away. It was as if all the emotions that had been trapped inside her for the last three years came pouring out in a single, violent rush. "Let go of me!" she screamed and tried to lunge at Elliott again. "Don't you dare speak of my son that way!"

Locking his arms around her waist, Nick pulled her back. "Nat! Pull yourself together."

The elder Ratcliffe raised his hand and pointed at her. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord."

"Dad ... " Travis stepped between her and Elliott. "Let it go. This has gotten ugly enough."

Nat struggled, but Nick's arms were like steel bands around her. "Let go of me," she choked.

"I don't have the cash to bail you out of jail,
chere
." Grasping both her arms, he turned her toward him and gave her a small shake. "Get ahold of yourself."

But Nat had already lost her grip. She could feel the last remnants of her control peeling away. She could hear herself sobbing, and the thought struck her that she sounded like a crazy woman. She could hear the shuffle of their shoes against the floor as Nick forced her toward the door.

Travis stood in the foyer with the door open. His hair was mussed. He looked shaken and angry and shook his head at her when she passed. "You'd better not come back," he said.

"Your father is wrong," she choked as Nick muscled her past him. "I'm going to prove it!"

He slammed the door without responding.

Chapter 16

Nick was no stranger to ugly emotions. In the six years he'd spent in prison, he'd seen just about every emotion known to mankind. Hatred. Rage. Grief. Despair. He'd felt varying degrees of those emotions in his own heart. He'd seen those emotions come to fruition in terrible acts of violence, rape and murder and suicide. He'd witnessed almost every vile thing a man could do to another man.

But the ugly scene that had played out between Nat and Elliott Ratcliffe got to him in a way nothing else could have. She'd been like a lioness protecting a dead cub and willing to fight to the death to do it. Old man Ratcliffe had known just where to strike, and in the minutes she'd been out of control, consumed by grief and rage and God only knew what else, the man had seemed to draw some sort of twisted satisfaction from hurting her.

Nick had wanted to deck the son of a bitch. But he knew an assault charge would only land him back in Angola, so he'd settled for getting her the hell out of there.

The tension in the truck was palpable as they sped toward her house. She sat in the passenger seat, her hands in her lap, staring through the window with all the animation of a mannequin. He glanced over at her several times, but she didn't meet his gaze, didn't even acknowledge him. It was as if she'd gone to a place deep inside herself. A place that was quiet and dark where the pain couldn't reach her. He figured she'd spent quite a bit of time there in the last three years.

The need to reach out to her was strong, but Nick resisted. He wasn't quite sure how to do it. He didn't know what she wanted, what she needed. He wasn't even sure what he wanted--or if he should risk getting any more involved than he already was.

He parked in the driveway behind her Mustang. He'd barely shut down the engine when she shoved open the door. She was out of the truck and running toward the house before he could stop her. For a moment he just sat there, refusing to take his hands off the wheel, and watched her bound up the steps to the porch. A woman running from her demons, he thought. If his own personal experience was any indication, she would never outrun them. If she was lucky, she might learn to live with them.

He knew better than to go after her. She was hurting; he was feeling a hell of a lot more for her than was prudent. It was a dangerous combination for a man with a weakness for vulnerable, troubled women. But Nick had never been prudent when it came to getting what he wanted, even when he knew it was going to cost him something. At the moment, he wanted Nat.

"Goddamn it."

Rapping his palm hard against the wheel, he shoved open the door and started for the house. She was standing on the porch, fumbling in her purse for the key, when he reached her.

He stopped a few feet away, shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching for her.

"I'm fine," she snapped. But her eyes belied the words; they were haunted and so lovely it hurt to look into them and see the deep well of pain.

"I can see that," he said dryly.

"I want to be alone."

He knew all about being alone, knew it was about as helpful as a bottle of whiskey on top of a broken heart. "Yeah, well, sometimes what we want and what we need are two different things,
chere.
"

She tossed him a glare over her shoulder. "I mean it. I need some time. Just ... go."

Nick held his ground, telling himself for the dozenth time he could handle this. He could handle her and her grief and all the things she was making him feel. "I don't think this is a good time for you to be alone."

"You don't know me, and you don't know what I need."

He watched her grapple in her purse for her keys. Her hands were pale and shaking. He didn't think she was going to find them anytime soon. "Let me."

She shook her head, continued digging in her purse. "I can do it, damn it."

Ignoring her protest, he eased the bag from her hands, gave it a single shake to locate the keys, and pulled them out. Brushing past her, he inserted the house key into the lock, gave it a twist, and opened the door.

Wordlessly, she stepped into the foyer. Nick hesitated an instant before following. The house smelled like a combination of coffee and some soft scent he was beginning to recognize as hers. He watched her walk into the living room and stop. She stood there for a moment with her back to him. her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders squared, chin high. An odd mix of body signals that told him she was trying hard to get a handle on her emotions. Judging from the way she was shaking, she wasn't succeeding.

"I'm sorry I lost it,” she said after a moment. "I don't know what happened. I just ... " As if not knowing how to finish the sentence she let her words trail.

"He pissed you off."

Slowly, she turned to him. "He had no right to say those things about Kyle."

"No, he didn't."

"Kyle was just an innocent little boy."

''And Elliott Ratcliffe is a coldhearted son of a bitch."

"He wasn't illegitimate,” she whispered.

Nick shook his head, felt something go soft inside him when her eyes filled. "Nat, it doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"To Elliott Ratcliffe, maybe." In the back of his mind, he wondered how a man who called himself a man of God could be so cruel.

A breath that was deep and filled with emotion shuddered out of her. "I'm the daughter of a cotton farmer. Nick. My dad had only a sixth grade education. We weren't poor, just . . . middle class." Her shoulders rose and fell. "When I got pregnant, Elliott accused me of trapping Ward because of the Ratcliffe money."

"Some people have small minds."

"I loved Ward. He was the first man, the only man I ever loved. We were happy."

Nick thought she was trying a little too hard to convince him, but he didn't interrupt. For whatever reason, she needed to say this. The least he could do was listen.

"What's really sad is that Elliott never once had a kind word for his own grandson. He never held him or laughed with him. Ward tried to justify his father's lack of affection by telling me he was a disciplinarian and didn't believe in coddling children. But I knew better." Her expression turned wistful. "Kyle was a happy little boy. He was exuberant and beautiful and loving. I never understood how anyone could not love him, especially his own grandfather." A bitter sound escaped her. "I think when he looked at Kyle, he saw me."

"Elliott Ratcliffe is a hypocrite."

Turning away from him, she bowed her head and put her face in her hands. She didn't make a sound, but Nick sensed the dam was about to break. He didn't know what to do. For several interminable moments he just stood there, wanting to go to her, knowing what would happen if he did.