Night Fever (19 page)

Mack picked up his locomotive and fiddled with it. He felt sick. “You're a pusher. I don't want you in my room.”

Clay started to speak, gave up, and left as quietly as he'd come. He couldn't remember ever feeling so alone or so ashamed of himself.

B
ecky was all thumbs as she prepared Sunday dinner. She was just home from church, still in the gray jersey dress she'd worn to services, her hose-clad feet in faded blue mules while she puttered around the kitchen trying to put together a meal.

She'd suspected Kilpatrick would be early, and he was. When she heard his car she ran to let him in, ignoring the gravy bubbling on the stove. But Mack had beat her to the door and was being, of all things, polite.

“She's in the kitchen, Mr. Kilpatrick,” Mack began.

“No, she's right here,” Becky returned, flustered. She smiled at Rourke, approving of the way he looked in tan slacks, a yellow knit shirt, and a trendy tan plaid sports coat.

“Go back and watch your dinner, girl. Mack and I will entertain Mr. Kilpatrick,” Granddad yelled from his seat, but the look in his eyes said a lot more, not much of it complimentary.

“You could come in the kitchen with me,” Becky said weakly.

“Nonsense. You'll burn the gravy,” Granddad scoffed. “Sit down, Mr. Kilpatrick. It's not what you're used to, but you won't fall through the chairs just yet.”

Kilpatrick stared at the old man with pursed lips. “You don't pull your punches. Good. Neither do I. Are you allowed to smoke, or does the doctor think a cigar will kill you?”

Granddad looked taken aback. Becky disappeared back into the kitchen.
Silly me,
she thought,
worrying about Rourke being savaged by Granddad.

She got the meal together as quickly as possible. Raised voices drifted over from the living room briefly, then there was silence, then muffled conversation. When she poked her head around the door to call them to come to the table, Granddad looked out of humor and Rourke was smoking his cigar quietly and smiling.

No need to ask who'd come out on top, she told herself. She put everything on the table and had Granddad say grace. Clay was nowhere in sight. He'd probably decided that the D.A. was more than he could swallow along with lunch. It was just as well, too, because it was hard enough with Granddad.

They ate in silence, mostly, except for a few kind words from Rourke about the food. Afterward, Granddad excused himself and shut himself in his room.
So much for his promise not to make waves,
Becky thought miserably. Mack went out to feed the chickens, leaving her and Rourke alone in the kitchen while she washed dishes.

She bent her head over the sink, her long hair half obscuring her face. “I'm sorry,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I thought they were going to behave. I guess it was too much to ask.”

“They're afraid of losing you,” he said perceptively, glancing down at her while he dried the plates and utensils she'd washed and rinsed. “I don't suppose you can blame them. They're used to having you around to do the work.”

She looked up at him, her eyes more eloquent than she knew. “Even housekeepers get days off,” she replied.

He reached down and kissed her gently. “You're a lot more than a housekeeper. They don't want you to fall into the clutches of a man with nothing more than sex on his mind.”

“Are you?” she asked softly, searching his eyes.

Those eyes,
he thought achingly.
Those soft, seductive eyes.
They played havoc with his nervous system. “I have law on my mind most of the time,” he murmured dryly. “Sex has its place, I suppose. But I've already told you that I have evil designs on you, haven't I?”

She laughed delightedly. “So you have. Honesty above all?”

“That's right. I plan to lure you to my secret hideaway and have my way with you.”

“How exciting. Do we take your car or mine?” she asked.

He glowered at her. “You aren't supposed to go willingly,” he said. “You're a girl of high principles and I'm a rake.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She tilted her chin. “Which car would you like to abduct me in, yours or mine?” she amended.

He whacked her over the head with the drying cloth. “Get to work, you unbalanced female.”

She giggled—something she hadn't done since childhood. “That puts me in my place.”

“Be careful that I don't put you in your place,” he mused. “Honest to God, I never dreamed that you'd try to seduce me over a sink of dirty dishes. Don't you have any finesse?”

“No. Is there a better place?”

“Certainly. I'll explain it to you one day. You missed a plate.”

“So I did.” She washed and he dried in silent contentment for several minutes. “Was Granddad hard going?” she asked eventually.

“Yes. He doesn't like having me here. I can't say I blame him. I've been instrumental in unsettling his life several times, even if it was unavoidable.”

“You were just doing your job. I don't blame you,” she said.

He smiled down at her. “Yes, but your grandfather doesn't enjoy kissing me as much as you do, so he blames me more.”

She flushed and then hit him. “No fair.”

He chuckled. “Do you know that I laugh more with you than I ever have with anyone else?” he asked. “I thought I'd forgotten how. Prosecution is a dark job. It's easy to lose your sense of humor after a while.”

“I used to think you didn't have one,” she said, grinning up at him.

“Because I baited you in the elevator?” He smiled back. “Oh, I had a ball doing that. It got to the point where I deliberately tried to run into you. It was such a refreshing change.”

“From what?”

“From having women tear their clothes off and throw themselves across my desk,” he told her with a straight face.

“I'll bet!”

“You were a ray of sunshine, Becky,” he said then, and he didn't smile. “The nicest part of my day. I wanted to ask you out the day you told me the truth about your home situation, but I didn't want complications in my life.”

“And now you do?”

He shrugged. “Not really.” He glanced at her while he dried the last plate and put it on the stack. “But I don't have a choice anymore. Neither do you, I imagine. We've gone beyond the point of no return. We're getting used to each other.”

“Is that bad?” she asked.

“I'm a target,” he reminded her. “Doesn't it occur to you that being seen with me could make you one?”

“No. I wouldn't care anyway.”

“It could also have consequences in other ways,” he continued. “The Harris boys might think Clay was feeding me information, since I spend so much time with you.”

She caught her breath. That possibility hadn't occurred to her.

“Don't brood,” he said gently. “I think Clay could convince them otherwise. But I can see things you don't. Then, too, there's the stress I'm putting on you by creating dissent in your family. Your grandfather and your brothers don't want me around. That's going to make life harder on you.”

“I have a right to go out when I like, and I've told them so,” she said firmly. “The one thing you've done is show me that people can make slaves of you if you let them. I've been a slave here most of my adult life, because I allowed my family to become totally dependent on me. Now I'm paying the price. Guilt isn't a nice weapon, but people will use it when all else fails.”

“You can bet on it,” he agreed. “What do you want to do when we finish here?”

“Well, if we try to sit and watch television, Granddad will come back in and smoulder through whatever we watch.” She finished the last plate. “I could show you around the farm. There isn't a lot to see, but it's been in our family for over a hundred years.”

He smiled. “I'd enjoy it. I like the outdoors, but I've lived in town for a long time. If it wasn't a quiet neighborhood, I think I'd go stir crazy. I feed the birds and put out birdhouses. When I have time, I look after my roses.”

“Ah, that's the Irish in you,” she teased gently. “The love of the land and growing things, I mean. My great-grandmother was an O'Hara from County Cork, so I come by mine honestly.”

“Both my grandmothers were Irish,” he replied.

“One of them was Cherokee, wasn't she?” Becky asked.

“My grandfather was Irish. He married a Cherokee lass, and my mother was the result. But she looked more Cherokee than Irish. I barely remember her, or my father. Uncle Sanderson said they loved each other very much, but my father wasn't a marrying man.” He sighed heavily. “I don't mind so much being illegitimate now, but it was hell when I was a kid. I wouldn't want that to happen to a child of mine.”

“Neither would I,” Becky replied. “Here, I'll hang that cloth up. Then we'll go out and wander around.”

“Don't you need to change first?” he asked, nodding toward her pretty jersey dress.

She laughed. “And leave you at Granddad's mercy?” she exclaimed.

“It's okay, Becky, I'll protect him,” Mack volunteered as he appeared in the doorway. “Do you like electric trains, Mr. Kilpatrick? I've got some real old Lionel O-scale cars and a locomotive that one of Granddad's friends gave me.”

“I like trains,” Rourke said, noticing again how much Mack looked like Becky. “Nice of you to sacrifice yourself on my account, young Mack.”

Mack laughed. “That's okay. Becky sacrificed herself for me a time or two. Come on.”

Becky watched them go, pleased with Mack's attitude. She went off to her room to change into jeans and a yellow knit pullover sweater that had seen better days. She didn't mind now, though. Kilpatrick didn't seem to mind what she wore, or how often she wore it.

Mack started up the trains, and Rourke sat in the chair by the table and watched them with gleaming eyes.

“They're beauts,” he told the boy. “I used to love trains when I was your age, but my Uncle Sanderson ran a tight ship. He didn't think a boy needed things to divert him from his studies, so I didn't get many toys.”

“Didn't you live with your parents?” Mack asked, curious.

Kilpatrick shook his head. “They died when I was pretty young. Uncle Sanderson was the only relative I had who wanted me. It was that or live on the Cherokee reservation. I don't know, it might have been more fun living with my mother's people, at that.”

“You're an Indian?” Mack exclaimed.

“Part Cherokee,” he nodded. “On my mother's side. The rest is pure Irish.”

“Wow! We're studying about the Cherokee! They had these blowguns to hunt with, and Sequoya gave them their own alphabet and written language.” He sobered. “They were forced out of Georgia in 1838 on the Trail of Tears. Our teacher said they were just gotten rid of because there was gold on their land and the greedy white men wanted it.”

“Simplified, but accurate enough. The Supreme Court decided in favor of letting the Cherokee stay in Georgia, but President Andrew Jackson forced them out anyway. Supreme Court Chief Justice John Marshall attacked the president publicly for refusing to obey the law. It was quite a story.”

“And President Jackson's life had been saved by a Cherokee Indian named Junaluska,” Mack added, surprising Kilpatrick with his knowledge of the subject. “Some gratitude, huh?”

Rourke chuckled. “You've got a sharp mind,” he murmured.

“Not sharp enough,” Mack said, his shoulders hunching as he absently ran the train around the tracks. “Mr. Kilpatrick, if you know somebody's doing something wrong, and you don't tell, are you really as guilty as they are?”

Rourke studied the boy quietly for a long moment before he answered. “If somebody's commiting a felony, and you know about it, that makes you an accessory. But remember, Mack, there are extenuating circumstances sometimes. The court takes those things into consideration. Nothing is truly black and white.”

“Billy Dennis was my friend,” he said, lifting concerned hazel eyes to Rourke's dark face. “I never even knew he used drugs. He didn't seem the type.”

“There isn't really a type,” Rourke replied. “Anyone can get into a state of mind that makes them vulnerable to crutches like drugs or alcohol.”

“Not you, I'll bet,” Mack said.

“Don't you believe it. I'm human, too. When my Uncle Sanderson died, I spent half the night in a downtown bar and drank myself into a stupor. I don't drink, as a rule, but I was fond of the old buzzard. I hated losing him. He was the only family I had, by that time. None of my mother's people are still alive, and Uncle Sanderson was the last of my father's line.”

“You mean, you're alone in the world?” Mack asked, frowning. “You haven't got anybody?”

Rourke got to his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets, absently watching the train run. “I had a dog, until that bomb went off in my car,” he said. “He was my family.”

“I'm real sorry about that,” Mack told him. “We were all sad when the mailman ran over Blue. He was part of our family.”