Familiar Stranger (7 page)

"Okay, Ma, and can I have seconds on dessert?"

"If you eat good."

"I will," Frankie said, exiting the kitchen on the run.

He jumped off the porch and ran around the holly bushes toward the side of the house where his six-year-old brother, Davie, had been playing. But when he got there, the yard was empty.

"Dumb kid," he muttered, thinking of the dessert awaiting him inside. "Hey, Davie! Supper!"

No one answered and no little kid came running. He began to circle the house, thinking that Davie must have moved to the shade tree in front. But when he got there, his little brother was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, Davie! Davie!"

No answer. He frowned. Frankie Wilson considered himself almost grown, but Davie was just a kid, and he knew better than to leave the yard without permission.

He jogged toward the sidewalk, and as he did he heard the unmistakable cry of someone in pain. A few feet farther, he rounded the lilac bush and saw his little brother sitting on the curb, holding his knee. His bicycle with training wheels was lying on its side in the street.

"Hey, kid, what happened?" Frankie asked, as he knelt in front of Davie.

Davie sniffed loudly, then wiped a dirty hand beneath his nose.

"I fell and skinned my knee," he said.

Frankie looked. Sure enough, the kid was missing a good chunk of skin and bleeding all over his shoes.

"You weren't supposed to be in the street. If Ma finds out, she'll whip your butt."

Davie's eyes widened. Not only had his brother used the B word, but he was right about their mother. She would whip him for riding his bike in the street.

"Don't tell on me, Frankie. I don't want a whipping."

Frankie sighed. Being a big brother carried a lot of responsibilities. He patted Davie on the head and then helped him to his feet.

"Come on, kid. I'll get your bike in the yard and Ma will just think you fell off there, okay?"

Davie nodded. "Okay." Then he smiled through his tears. "Thanks, Frankie, you're the best brother ever."

"Yeah, I know," Frankie said. "Now hurry. Supper is ready and we got cherry pie for dessert."

A car backfired and a motorcycle revved before taking off, leaving a single trail of rubber behind on the L.A.street. Frank jerked in his sleep, but he didn't awake. Instead, the sound shifted his dream from childhood to Vietnam.

David came out of nowhere. The stupid little bastard. He was going to mess everything up. Then Frank's shock turned to panic when he realized the gunrunners were reaching for their weapons.

"Don't!" he yelled. "He's my brother."

"Get rid of him," one of them snapped, "or we'll do it for you."

Before he could react, David stepped between them, yanking the money out of Frank's hands and throwing it on the ground.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Frank yelled.

"Saving your stupid ass," David said. "Now let's get out of here."

"What's going on?" the gunrunner asked.

Frank spun, his eyes blazing with anger. "Leave this to me," he said, and shoved David aside as he reached for the money.

But the kid stepped on his fingers, stopping his intent. After that, everything became a blur. Before he knew it, both of the gunrunners were dead and David was staring at him as if he'd never seen him before.

Time blurred the memories of what came next. All Frank could remember was pointing a gun in his brother's face and then pulling the trigger. After that, he remembered coming to on the floor of the hut, smelling gasoline and feeling the heat of the fire against his face. He'd crawled through fire, living with one purpose only, and that was to make David pay for what he'd done. Over the years, Frank had chosen to forget that he was the one to fire the first shot. His entire purpose for living was revenge.

And that same revenge had kept him alive in Vietnam, hiding in an empty village under the nose of the Vietcong until he was healed, then smuggling himself into Indonesia and stowing away on a freighter bound for New Zealand. He strangled the man who helped him on board, stole his identity, then hid in the hold among the freight until they docked weeks later. Within a year, he was working the opal mines in Australia and saving every penny he could get his hands on. Through every tough, hungry day and night of his life, one thing had kept him going—the knowledge that some day he would find David Wilson, and when he did, he would kill him.

Finally, Frank slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. As he did, he rolled onto his back, his arms flung out. Asleep, his scars gave him a look of vulnerability, but they were deceiving. He'd gone into this vendetta with nothing to lose. His beloved Martha was dead and his only child, like his brother, had turned into a traitor. There was nothing helpless about Frank Wilson, and everything to fear.

* * *

It was three in the morning when the nightmares started. Cara woke abruptly, her senses on an all-out alert. David was still asleep, but curled up in a ball with his back to her. The muscles in his arms were jerking, and every now and then he would kick, as if fighting off an invisible foe. She reached for the lamp, quickly turning it on and illuminating their corner of the room with a soft, yellow glow. A thin film of sweat covered his skin, and the sheet that had been over his body was twisted around his ankles.

Cara got up from the bed, untwisted the sheet and pulled it up to his waist before crawling in beside him. Then she spooned herself against the curve of his back, slid an arm around his waist and held on.

He moaned.

"Ssh, David, ssh. Everything is all right, darling. Everything is all right."

The softness of her voice seemed to penetrate his subconscious. He stiffened momentarily and then ever so slowly began to relax.

Cara pulled herself closer against him, and as she did, he turned over and pillowed his cheek against her breasts. His face was streaked with sweat, his features twisted into a grimace. As she looked, she felt like crying. Instead, she held him close. Only after she heard the even tenor of his breathing did she close her eyes.

David was no longer the fearless young man who'd first gone off to war, convinced of his immortality. This man who'd come back to her had been forged in hellfire and was holding himself together by nothing more than sheer will. He was hard to the point of brittle, and his smiles were far too rare for her peace of mind. He existed by day and suffered by night. And her rage for the injuries he'd sustained grew with each passing day. The only thing she had to give him was her love. She prayed it would be enough.

Dawn finally broke, bathing the couple in the warm fingers of light slipping through the curtains. David was the first to stir, and as he did, he realized that something of a miracle had occurred. He'd slept the entire night through without waking up. And then he felt Cara's arms around him and realized she must have held him while he slept. A great wave of peace fell over him, leaving him weak and humbled. Dear God—he didn't deserve this woman, but he wasn't going to give her up. Not now. Not when he'd finally found a reason to live again.

He shifted slightly so that he could see her. The morning light was soft, shadowing the fine lines that time had etched on her face. So beautiful. She was so very, very beautiful. He thought of Frank and knew that he couldn't put off their meeting too much longer. If Frank had even an inkling of Cara's importance in David's life, he would kill her just to see David weep.

He shuddered, and as he did, her arms instinctively tightened around him. Even in her sleep, she seemed to sense his despair.

He raised up on one elbow. She opened her eyes. For a moment, it was as if they'd seen into each other's soul. Then David cupped her face and kissed her. She sighed as he levered himself above her body. He kissed her again. She shifted, making room for him to come in. He took her there, in the early morning light with her hair in tangles and love in her eyes.

By mid-morning, Cara was in the kitchen packing a picnic lunch while David was rummaging in the storage shed out back, looking for Ray's fishing equipment. Despite his claim to the opposite, Cara suspected it had been years since he'd done something as innocuous as fishing, especially for fun.

The day was warm with a line of white puffy clouds in the distance, the wind almost nonexistent, making it a perfect day to go to the lake. She was putting the last of the sandwiches into the cooler when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands and then frowned as it began to ring again. Someone was certainly insistent. She hurried through the house, peeked through the window before answering the door and then groaned.

It was Harry Belton.

He'd been trying to court her for more than a year now. She didn't know how much plainer she could be without being terribly rude, but she wasn't interested. Masking her irritation, she opened the door.

"Cara! How are you, dear?"

"Harold?"

"I know I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood and couldn't bring myself to leave without saying hello."

She frowned. He was lying, and they both knew it. "You really should have called," she said. "I was just going out."

Ignoring the hint she had just given him to make a graceful exit, he stepped inside the door and then peered over her shoulder.

"I see by the car in the driveway that you have company. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Actually, that's what I was trying to—"

"There's the silliest rumor going around Chiltingham that there's a stranger staying in your house."

Cara's eyes flashed angrily, although she maintained her calm.

"No. There's no stranger staying in my house," she said.

He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders. "There now! I knew when Macie said it that she was just telling tales. Even though Ray has been gone these three years, you just aren't the kind of woman to—"

Cara watched his eyes widen and his mouth drop. The fact that he'd forgotten what he was saying told her that David must have come in the house.

Harold glared at her, and the tone of his voice changed from happy to accusing.

"I thought you said you were alone."

"No. I didn't say I was alone. I said there wasn't a strange man in my house. David isn't a stranger."

Harold's face turned a dark, ugly red, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"If I hadn't seen this with my own eyes, I would never have believed it."

Suddenly, David was standing at her back, his voice dark and full of unleashed anger.

"You've never seen a fishing pole?" David asked, and then thrust a rod and reel in Harold's face. "Then here, take a real good look before I shove it right up your—"

Cara stifled a grin as Harold dropped the rod and bolted for the door. Only after he was on the porch with the screen door between them did he stop and turn. It was a mistake, because David was right behind him. Now the only person still in the house was Cara.

"Don't touch me!" Harold screeched.

"Don't ever raise your voice to her again, do you hear me?" David asked.

There was a look in the man's eyes that Harold seemed afraid to challenge. He nodded.

David continued. "And you better hope I don't hear one denigrating word being said about Cara Justice or I'm coming after you."

"But what if I'm not the one who said it?" Harold muttered.

"Then I suggest you pray."

"My word!" Harold gasped, and bolted for the car, leaving dust and gravel in the air behind him as he drove away.

Cara came outside and slipped her hand in the crook of David's arm.

"My hero."

David looked at her and then shrugged. "He ticked me off."

She smiled. "I could tell."

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, suddenly aware that he might have run off someone she actually cared for.

She laughed. "For getting rid of Hasty Harold? No way!"

"Hasty Harold?"

"It's an unfortunate nickname, but one he's certainly earned. He's the first man on the doorstep when a woman gets divorced and the first one to express his sympathy when there's a new widow in town. I've been fighting off his advances for three years now. Thanks to you, I think I've just seen the last of the pest."

"You're welcome," he said, and then slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Are we still going fishing?"

"Oh, yes," Cara said. "I wouldn't miss this trip with you for anything. Let's load up before we have any more uninvited visitors."

They were on their way within the hour, and for David, everything seemed surreal. He had the love of his life at his side, a picnic lunch in a cooler in the back of Cara's SUV, along with a couple of fishing poles and tackle. The sky was a pale blue-white with a few scattered clouds upon the horizon. All they needed to finish the postcard image was a couple of kids screaming in the back seat and a dog poking his head out the window. He glanced over at Cara, who was talking about something that had happened in her past. He was so fascinated by the fact that he was actually here in the moment that he lost track of what she was saying. Suddenly, a shiver of foreboding ran up his spine. The day was almost too perfect. He shrugged it off as a hangover from the life he'd just given up and concentrated on his driving and the directions Cara was giving him to the lake.

"Look!" Cara cried, as they came around a bend in the road.

It was a magnificent buck, momentarily spellbound by their oncoming vehicle.

"Wow, a sixteen pointer," David said, admiring the rack of antlers on the animal's head.

Cara was scrambling in the glove box when the buck suddenly came to itself and bounded into the surrounding woods.

"Darn it," she muttered. "I was going to take a picture."

"You brought a camera?"

She nodded, holding up a compact 35mm camera with a telescoping lense. Her expression of joy suddenly stilled, as if she was afraid of his reaction.