Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) (19 page)

“So what are you going to do if the records don't turn up and there's no way to prove you own the mill?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Cammie answered. “I never saw anything to show that I owned it in the first place.”

There was a slowly widening gap of water between the boat and the wooden dock. The idling motor made a low hum. Wen spoke across both. “Yeah. Well, I can think of a lot of people who would like to be sure no proof ever shows up, not with you wanting to stop the expansion. Also, a lot of people besides me who won't like having their family tree chopped up for kindling wood. You be careful, now. You hear?”

Cammie lifted a hand without answering. The trolling motor changed its pitch from a rumble to a muted whine. Wen swung the boat in a wide circle in the water, then headed out across the lake, back toward the country club.

Cammie watched until the boat faded into the darkness. She thought she saw it nose into the club landing in the dim light, then heard the dying gasp of the trolling motor. Still, she stood on the dock with Wen's words playing over and over in her brain.

Could someone actually have harmed Janet Baylor because of what she had found at the courthouse? And if Janet Baylor was that much of a threat, what was she?

Cammie wished she was back at Evergreen. It felt like escaping from a goldfish bowl when she left; she'd begun to dread walking through the house at night, feeling as if someone might be lurking in the dark halls, or nervous at passing an uncurtained window where she might be watched from outside. Now the big house seemed like a refuge.

The moon had arched higher into the sky, washing the night with its pale light. There was a night breeze off the lake, a hint of coolness in its damp breath. It carried the smell of the water, a blend of fish and vegetation and decaying things. Just along the shoreline, a bald cypress lifted its moss-draped arms toward the heavens in mute supplication. Far off, there came the cry of a night bird, a mournful counterpoint to the chorus of peeper frogs and singing insects.

Her gaze moved over the shining paillettes of moonlight that lay on the dark water, following them to where the lake lapped gently against the pilings of the dock under her feet. It was just there, some five or six feet out from the end of the dock, that Reid had appeared in front of her all those years ago. It seemed possible it was that memory, as much as anything else, that had brought her out to the lake. The moment came back to her at odd times, as intrusive as an old, unsettled grief. She had the feeling there was something about it she was missing, something she should have known.

Whatever it was still eluded her. She turned away in irritation, walking back up toward the camp house.

A shadow moved near the corner of the squat building. Cammie stopped abruptly. She strained her eyes in the darkness.

The movement did not come again. It might have been a shrub waving in a stray breeze. It could have been a prowling cat or dog that had slunk away, nervous of strangers.

It might have been, could have been, any of those things, but it wasn't. Cammie was almost sure of it.

Fear coursed through her veins with the burning pain of corrosive acid. Her heart beat in wrenching surges. She could hear her pulse like a hot, feathery whisper in her ears.

The urge to lift her skirt and strike out for the back door with legs flying and arms pumping, as she used to do when she was a frightened child, was so great that repressing it made her shudder. The light from the kitchen was a golden beacon as it shone through the open door under the porch, but it only served to make the rear of the house darker. She hadn't thought to shut or lock the door as she and Wen moved outside; there had seemed no earthly reason.

It was possible, of course, that the moving shadow was Reid.

Her anger uncoiled at the thought. The heat of it gave her the power to move. She forced herself to keep on, placing one foot in front of the other, drawing closer to the house. If he was shadowing her again, if he dared show himself after giving her such a scare, she might kill him. Or throw her arms around him and never let go.

Yes, or maybe run like hell after all.

The person who had the most to gain from seeing the courthouse documents destroyed — and the woman who had found them gone — was Reid Sayers. Cammie had been avoiding that logic for the past hour. She could avoid it no longer.

The narrow wash-gravel path worn into the slope by years of footsteps going up and down to the lake seemed to stretch for miles. The grating crunch of it under her feet was noisy. She could feel the brush of ragged spring grass, wet with dew, against her ankles. Through the trees she could catch the pale glint of an outside light from the next camp house along the shoreline, but it was too far away to think of running there for safety or calling for help.

The angular patch of dark shade cast by the house roof reached out and covered her. A few steps more and her hand was on the screen door. She opened it with a quick swing, catching it as it was closing behind her so it wouldn't slam.

The dim length of the porch was empty. The inside doorway was a black hole. It took a strong act of will to move toward it.

She stopped just inside and reached for the light switch. The room, its rustic country rocking chairs draped with quilt throws, the tables flanking the overstuffed couch piled with books, sprang into glaring relief.

There was nothing, no one there. She reached for the door, snatching it shut, turning the dead-bolt lock. Leaning her head against the solid wood, she sighed in relief.

Cammie's hands were still shaking when she straightened. She thought about the glasses she and Wen had used, which were still out on the porch. They could wait until morning. She turned toward her bedroom. A hot bath to relax tense muscles and take away the chill inside her; that was what she needed.

It helped. In fact, it worked almost too well. She was overheated, her face flushed and her hair damp at the hairline by the time she climbed from the tub. She blotted the water from her skin with a towel, then smoothed moisturizer over her face. Reaching for a brush, she dragged it through her damp hair, giving herself time to cool off a little before she slipped into her nightgown of batiste with its white-on-white embroidery.

The material of the gown had once been crisp and smooth and opaque. Age and wear had made it as soft and thin as a rag, and washing had drawn up its hem from floor-length to just above her ankles. It drifted down over her with a cool, gliding motion as Cammie pulled it on. Settling it around her, she moved into the connecting bedroom.

She stopped, alerted by some half-recognized instinct. An instant later she realized what was wrong. The light was off. She knew she'd left it on.

She turned toward the bed. There was a long, dark shadow lying across the turned-down sheet. It stirred.

“Lord, baby, I thought I was going to have to come in there and get you,” Keith said as he sat up.

Shock rippled over her in a searing wave. It was followed by cold rage.

The light switch was on the other side of the room, next to the door. Cammie started toward it. Her ex-husband rolled from the bed, blocking her way.

She came to a halt. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “What is it? Another bill you can't pay?”

“You got any extra cash lying around, it would come in handy, but no, that's not what I had in mind.” He eased his stance a little, propping one hand on his hip. “I thought maybe you were lonesome out here on the lake, thought you might want a little company.”

“You were wrong.” The words were clipped, a reaction to the suggestion she heard in his voice. His eyes glittered in the glow of light from the bathroom, but she couldn't tell if it was from malicious pleasure in making her nervous or lascivious intent.

He cocked his head. “What happened to you, Cammie? You used to be so soft, so reasonable.”

“I married you.”

“All right, all right,” he said, moving a slow step closer. “Maybe it is partly my fault. Sometimes men do dumb things; they just can't help it. But I'll make it up to you, if you'll only let me.”

She watched him closely, listening to the timbre of his voice instead of what he said. When he stopped speaking, she said, “I can't believe you would try this, not again.”

“Why not? I just want to make things right between us.” He eased toward her again.

“You don't have to, you know,” she said, shaking her hair back from her face. “Janet Baylor's gone and so are the records. There's no percentage in trying to hang on.”

The confusion in his face seemed real enough, though it lasted only a second. His voice dropping to a husky note, he said, “I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't care. This is between you and me. Don't give up everything we had, Cammie, please. Don't give up on me.”

The bathroom light glanced across his face as he moved toward her, picking up the yellow and purple bruising just fading from under his eye and the thickness of swelling across the bridge of his nose. She barely registered these signs of the beating he'd taken as she fought the impulse to retreat before his studied advance. He reached for her, wrapping his hand around her neck to draw her toward him for a kiss, the way he used to do, and she brought up her wrist and knocked his hand away.

“Don't!”

“Damn it, Cammie, quit being so stubborn. You've got to come back to me!”

“Oh? What about the girl who's going to make you a father any day now? Do you think you can keep us both happy — or do you intend to dump her?”

His face twisted with his frustration. “She has nothing to do with it.”

“Funny, I thought she did,” Cammie said, turning a shoulder to him as she began to edge away. “I thought she was the reason you wanted your freedom.”

He grabbed her arm, swinging her back around. “She was a mistake, all right? She made me feel big, like an important man, but she could never hold a candle to you.”

Seeing the angry guile in Keith's face, Cammie was suddenly sorry for the young woman who was going to have his child. Her anger drained away. Her tone quiet, she said, “Go back to her, Keith. She wants you. I don't.”

He cursed, and his fingers tightened into cruel hooks. He jerked her against him, his voice dropping to a rough, hot rasp against her ear. “I tried to do it the easy way, but you wouldn't have it. Now we'll do it like I started out in the game reserve, the hard way.”

She felt the thrust of his body against her hip, felt the hot, turgid length of him, and knew with sick certainty what he intended. If marital relations were resumed, forced or not, the divorce petition would be nullified. Keith had only to declare in court that they had been together as man and wife. If she could not deny it under oath, then he would have won.

Her options were few. Screaming would do no good since there was no one near enough to hear. She had no weapon. That left talking her way out of it or fighting.

“Rape is an ugly word,” she said in hard tones, “but I will report it.”

He gave her a hard shove so she stumbled in the direction of the bed. “Go ahead. It'll be my word against yours. We'll see who the guys at the sheriff's office believe.”

“I think Bud will listen to me.” He gripped her arm again, and she tried to jerk away from him, but his hold tightened, his fingers biting into her.

“Maybe, maybe not. I'm not too sure he'll want to get involved in a sleazy domestic quarrel. And I sure don't think you want everybody in town smacking their lips over the details.”

The bed was against the backs of her legs. He bent over her, his breath fetid with halitosis overlaid by the bourbon he had used to give him boldness and the breath mint he'd chewed to cover it.

Cammie swallowed hard on nausea. Her voice strained, she said, “Maybe the person I should call is Reid, then. You may not be so anxious to face him again.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His face twisted with rage and he muttered an obscenity. He grabbed the front of her nightgown, his knuckles gouging into the soft valley between her breasts. Grunting with effort, he slung her across the bed. He threw himself across her, bringing his knee up over her legs.

She twisted, punching at him. Bracing one foot, she heaved him backward a few inches, enough to try to bring her knee up between his legs.

He blocked the move with a shift of his body, then dropped his weight on her, driving the breath out of her lungs, locking her knees. Before she could recover, he levered himself up and straddled her hips. He caught her forearms, holding her immobile while he ground himself against the soft mound above her pubic bone.

Fury and disgust rippled over her. She set her teeth, wrenching one arm in a sudden backward move, yanking it free. She drew back her fist and struck hard for his nose.

Keith howled, grinding out a curse as he bent forward in pain. Then he snapped erect. His face turned savage as he whipped out a hand to seize one wrist, then snatched the other. He twisted them, grinding the bones together. She gave a choked cry. Dragging both arms above her head, he pinned them with one hand. He swung his hand back and brought it around in a vicious slap.

Crackling pain exploded against her face. It streaked along her jaw, then throbbed in her cheekbone. Her breath lodged in her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her ears rang. Before she could make more than a single strangled gasp, he drew his hand back again.