Sighs Matter (4 page)

“Yeah, those would sure scare me off. Now, I figure, little thorns, they’re simply for show. Medium-sized thorns, they make a guy think twice. They’re saying, maybe I’ll hurt you, maybe I won’t. Big thorns, well, they’re so in-your-face, I’d consider them a challenge. But
gigantic
thorns? They say don’t even think about it, pal, not without a SWAT team, special weapons, and a negotiator.”

Her mouth twitched and her cheeks flushed.

“This is a very safe neighborhood,” she muttered.

Opening his door, he went around to open hers. When she stepped out, she yawned, then said, “All right. You win. It’s after two in the morning. I guess I can find a motel that’s open—”

“You’re staying with me.” Slamming the door, he scowled down into her defiant eyes. “And don’t give me any more trouble. I’ve got thorns of my own, sister, and I’m not afraid to use ’em.”

Thirty minutes later, Taylor slid into bed and pulled the sheet over his naked body. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tired. But as much as he wanted it to be, the day was not quite done.

Grabbing his cell phone from the nightstand, he momentarily considered how cruel it would be to awaken his brother in the middle of the night, but the thought quickly dissipated when he considered the situation Claire was in.

After three rings, he heard a sleepy, “Soldier McKennitt.”

“Sorry, Jackson. Haul your ass downstairs so you don’t wake up your wife. We need to talk.”

In the background, Taylor heard Betsy murmur a question, and his brother’s deep voice gently answer. He rolled his eyes, but grinned when he heard a soft smack, and knew Soldier had kissed her before climbing out of bed.

Moments passed, doors opened, closed. “It’s nearly three in the morning,” Soldier growled. “Who died, and it better be somebody I care about. Deeply.”

The screech of chair legs echoed against Taylor’s eardrum as his brother obviously made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.

“Betsy doing okay?”

Soldier groaned. “Hell, I don’t know. By the end of the day, her feet look like puff pastries. She thinks she waddles like a carb-loaded duck, and she cries when she reads Victoria’s Secret catalogs.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, but for a whole other reason.”

Taylor chuckled. “Sorry, big brother. Is there any upside to a woman being eight months pregnant?”

Pause. “Uh, yeah.”

Taylor assessed his brother’s evasive tone. “But you’re not going to tell me what it is?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay, well, tell her I’m sorry I woke her.”

“No problem,” Soldier said. “She has to pee every two minutes anyway, so she was about due. Besides, she’s having trouble sleeping. The only time she can get comfortable is when I . . . uh, never mind. You were about to explain to me in intricate detail why you woke me up.”

Taylor slipped one arm behind his head. “It’s about Claire.”

“Oh?” Soldier said, his voice suddenly wary. “What happened?”

“I brought her home with me. She’s in bed.”

A pause, muttering, blustering, cussing. “You’re thirty-two years old and you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you scored with a girl? Just what am I supposed to say, way to go, dude?”

“Feign insult some other time, Jackson. Somebody tried to kill her tonight.”

His brother’s tone went dead serious. “Our guy?”

“I don’t know yet.” For the next five minutes, Taylor recounted what he knew of Claire’s story. “She asked for you, but Bobby Aranca got a hold of me instead. They’re going to do a drive-by of her house here in Seattle, and Sam Winslow said they’d do the same at the farm in Port Henry. Bobby’s supposed to call me with anything they get off the aunt’s truck.”

“Anybody check out the scene?”

“She was too tired and shaken up for me to take her back up there tonight. I figured I’d do it tomorrow when I drive her back to Port Henry.”

“I can meet you. What time?”

Taylor batted the question around in his brain for a moment. “Nah. You need your beauty rest. Until I find out more, I can do this solo.”

“You think this is related to Mortimer?” Soldier didn’t bother to stifle a yawn.

“What do you think I think?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. The question is, what’s the connection?”

“I don’t know,” Taylor said. “She was driving her aunt’s truck. Maybe whoever it was didn’t realize it was Claire until after he’d run her off the road. Maybe Sadie was the real target. Or, hell, I don’t know. Maybe it was completely random. Some guy getting his rocks off scaring women.”

“I don’t like that scenario any better.”

“Me, either.” He scratched his stubbled jaw. “I’ll let you know what I find tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m keeping Claire with me.”

“Copy. I’ll see you—”

“Hey, wait,” Taylor interrupted. “Before you hang up, one last question. Has Betsy ever said anything to you about why Claire has a thing against cops?”

“No, not really,” Soldier said as though he was considering the question. “Far as I know, she just thinks it’s risky business.”

In the background, a soft voice called Soldier’s name.

Taylor heard his brother swallow. “Uh, gotta go.”

Betsy’s voice, closer now, laughing, purring something unintelligible yet unmistakable in its tone.

Soldier swallowed again. “I have to go, Tayo. Now.”

“Is everything okay?” Taylor teased.

“Great. Uh, everything’s great. Call me tomorrow.”

The line went dead, and Taylor decided to try really hard not to imagine what was happening on his brother’s kitchen table right now.

Artery
Place where paintings are displayed.

Claire fought to free herself from the tangle of bed linens twisted around her like a shroud. With a final kick, she curled up into a sitting position. Hunched over her raised knees, she sucked in air, forcing herself to calm while she pressed two fingers against her damp throat and checked her heart rate.

Too fast, way too fast. Take a deep breath, slow it down, steady now.

Her eyes sought something familiar in the unfamiliar room, and she nearly panicked until she remembered.

Taylor’s house. Taylor. The accident, the police, the wrong McKennitt brother . . .

Clutching the thin blanket to her breasts, she fought allowing her lids to drift closed. The dream—too vivid, too stark—might come back. Even now, violent images lurched obscenely inside her skull, reluctant to fade away though it was daylight, and her eyes were wide open.

A woman’s scream still echoed through the air. Not hers, surely. She hadn’t screamed out loud . . . had she? She didn’t think she’d ever done that, yet over the last year, the night terrors had seemed so real . . .

Suddenly, her door flew open, revealing a half-naked man holding a gun. He glanced quickly around the room, then let his gaze slowly settle on her.

“You okay?” His voice was husky from sleep, his eyes laser sharp, his stance poised for pursuit, his jeans unbuttoned.

She nodded and put a trembling hand to her forehead. She didn’t want him seeing her like this, emotionally ravaged, still shaking from the after-effects of the nightmare. Her brow was slick with perspiration, and she could feel cold sweat under her arms and trickling down her back.

Grabbing the water glass from the stand next to the bed, she closed her eyes and chugged its contents, nearly drowning herself getting it down her throat. When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her.

“You didn’t have to drink it all in one gulp,” he drawled. “I have more.” He set the gun on the table near the door.

Her heart tripped inside her chest, jabbing her ribs. She kept her eyes at chest level, which wasn’t all that much better for her nerves.

“I heard you scream.” His sharp gaze narrowed, assessing her. “Was it a man or a mouse?”

“Neither. I sneezed,” she lied. “Sorry if it woke you.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. He didn’t believe her, but, thankfully, didn’t seem inclined to make an issue of it.

She considered telling him about the dream, sharing her fears. Even though it had been more than eleven months, he would understand her lingering terror. After all, the stalker who’d gone after Betsy had nearly cost Taylor his life as well. Then when Claire became the target, it was Taylor who had taken her home from the hospital, stayed the night with her, guarded and protected her from further harm.

Bottom line, she’d survived the assault and the stalker had been dispatched. If the incident wasn’t completely out of her system, that was okay. It would be. She was on the mend, and in fact hadn’t had an episode for weeks.

The accident last night, and seeing Taylor so unexpectedly again, must have stirred things up, and her psyche decided to trot out the trauma one more time.

“It’s after noon,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed. I’ll wait breakfast until you’re ready, so take as long as you need.” He picked up his weapon and closed the door behind him. Claire let out a shaky breath.

Touching the swell just above the hairline on her skull, she winced. Tender, but not the goose egg it had been last night.

She showered, brushed her teeth, dressed. Then, plopping onto the bed, she picked up her comb, but before she could untangle the damp mess on her head, she noticed a large oil painting on the wall above the desk by the window. She’d been too tired last night to check out the place, but now, by the light of day, she realized the room was much larger than she’d realized, was wonderfully decorated, and what she had assumed was a dime-store print was, on closer examination, anything but.

Rising, she moved closer to the painting, drawn to the color and composition like nothing she’d ever seen outside a museum.

It was lovely in its understated power. An incredible interpretation of a storm at sea, exquisite in its detail, and beautifully executed. How had Taylor been able to afford such an obviously expensive painting on a detective’s salary, and why on earth did he keep it buried in the guest room where very few people probably saw it? Perhaps it had been a gift. Maybe he hated seascapes.

Then she noticed a smaller painting on the wall near the door. This one was a portrait of an adorable little girl. She looked very serious holding a kitten and a balloon, as though she was terrified of losing one or both of them. Her brown eyes gleamed with youthful energy, and her shaky smile . . . was somehow familiar.

Claire compared the two paintings. They had to have been done by the same artist. Even though the topics were vastly different, both canvases were strong, painterly, vibrant with life.

She finished combing her hair, made the bed, and with one last glance at the wonderful paintings, closed the door behind her.

More oils lined the hallway upstairs and followed the staircase as it descended to the first floor. Splendid paintings on every subject imaginable, from a bowl of lavender hydrangeas, to a schooner sailing the sea. All were powerful, all breathtaking.

At the foot of the stairs, Claire glanced into the living room and nearly dropped to her knees. Dear God, the room looked like a frat house on a Sunday morning. Empty bottles, crumpled cans, newspapers, and discarded neckties littered the coffee table. A pile of clean socks waiting to be matched and put away sat in a plastic basket next to the recliner, and books of every kind and color were scattered on the end table and floor. A pair of boots had been shoved under the coffee table, and a bowl stacked high with pretzels and chips rested on the floor near the chair facing the TV.

She was about to turn away from the clutter, when she raised her eyes to the fireplace, and her breath caught.

Above the mantel hung a large oil painting depicting a runaway cattle drive. Dust blurred the bawling cows while wranglers with ropes and rifles, atop galloping horses, tried to turn the herd. The colors, the movement, the enormous energy of the painting held Claire in thrall. She searched until she found it, then felt her lips curve into a smile.

Seeking out the kitchen, she entered and looked around. By comparison, the living room had been as clean as a hospital surgery.

“You are a slob,” she said to Taylor’s back.

He stood at the sink, rinsing out a couple of brown earthenware bowls. On the counter, amid the rubble of empty coffee mugs, teaspoons, stacks of plates, and a baseball glove and ball, the coffeemaker burbled and popped as the rich scent of coffee filled the air.

Without looking around, he said, “
Slob
is such a harsh word. I prefer creatively disheveled. Besides, only boring people have immaculate houses.” He yanked a dish towel from an open drawer and began drying the bowls.

“Not into calling a spade a spade, I gather.”

“Sure, when I’m playing poker. Other than that
sneeze
,” he said, pronouncing the word as though he’d never heard it before, “did you sleep okay last night?”

“Great,” she fibbed. “Like a baby.”

With a barely concealed look of doubt, he opened a packet of apple-cinnamon oatmeal and poured it into her bowl.

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically, placing her open hand over her heart in a dramatic move she’d seen Aunt Sadie perform a hundred times. “You’re going to make some woman a
wonderful
husband.”

“Was once.”

Claire immediately regretted her remark. She looked up at him, but he avoided her gaze. “Right. Sorry. I’d, um, I’d forgotten. You’re divorced.”

He shrugged and opened four oatmeal packets for himself. “I’m working on forgetting it, too.”

She gave a little sort of I-see nod, pressed her lips together, then slid into a chair.

To Taylor’s credit, the table was clean and devoid of hazardous waste. He’d set down two fresh plastic placemats, and the fact his said “Merry Christmas” in elaborate script did nothing to diminish the realization that he had obviously tried to make things nice for her.

Straightening her blue and green plaid placemat, she ventured, “If you don’t mind my asking, do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

“Sure.” He went to the cupboard and pulled out some paper napkins, tossing them on the table in a fluttery heap.

“But wasn’t the divorce hard on you?”

“It was a walk in the park compared to the marriage.” Reaching for the steaming copper kettle on the stove, he poured boiling water on her oatmeal as she stirred it with a spoon. “Besides, I don’t plan on getting divorced again.”

He caught her gaze and held it until she had to look away.

Angry at herself for her inability to remain as detached as she’d like, she pushed herself up from the table and went to retrieve two mugs from the hooks under the white pine cabinet.

“Did you . . . like being married?” She avoided his eyes by pretending to check the mugs for spots.

“You don’t have to get out your disinfectant, Doc,” he said, his brows snapping together. “They’re clean. Everything’s clean, it’s just that everything’s everywhere. And, yeah, I liked being married well enough. The good parts. The unfaithful-slut part didn’t set too well with me, but I plan on being a lot more selective next time.”

He doused his own oatmeal with boiling water and stirred the contents of the bowl into a steaming glop. Adding milk and brown sugar, he sat down while Claire poured hot coffee into both their mugs.

As he watched her sit and stir milk into her oatmeal, he said, “What about you, Claire? You ever plan on getting married?”

“My aunt would like it if I did,” she said lightly.

He took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, leaned back in his chair. “That’s what we law enforcement types call an evasive answer.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’ll get married when the right man comes along.”

At her words, he arched a brow. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt the color of slate that fit his athletic body like a second skin. Rubbing his open palm over his flat abs, he said, “How do you know he hasn’t already come along, but your nose was so high in the air, it blocked your line of vision?” He took his thumb and flicked the end of his own nose, then grinned.

“I don’t think you know me well enough to judge me, Detective.”

His blue eyes bored holes into her brain. Shrugging, he drawled, “Well, I guess I know you well enough to have made love to you for hours the night of my brother’s wedding. I guess I know you well enough to get out of bed in the middle of the night to help you out of a jam. I guess I know you well enough to bring you to my house for your own protection.”

Claire set her spoon on the table. In her sweetest tone, she said, “You never let an argument end until you’ve won, do you?”

He leaned toward her. With a grin Claire would have considered charming on any other man, he said, “Were we arguing just now? And more importantly, did I win?”

Claire eased herself back in her chair. “You try to be a bully, but I know for a fact you have a sensitive side.”

He sent her a wary look, as though he was trying to figure out where she was going with this. Finally, he said slowly, “I cry at sad movies, if that’s what you mean. You know at the end of
Homeward Bound
, when that old dog comes limping over the hill, and the kid runs—”

“That’s not what I mean, but thank you for sharing.” She pursed her lips. “I’m talking about the paintings.”

He blinked. “What paintings?”

“The two oils in the guest room, the paintings along the second floor hall and down the stairs, and that magnificent Remington-esque over the fireplace.”

His eyes downcast, he fiddled with his spoon. “You . . . think it’s magnificent?”

She nodded enthusiastically and sat forward in her chair. “Really, Taylor, I do.
All
the paintings are beautiful, stunning.”

He took in a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or was he blushing?

“You have an amazing talent,” she went on. “You must have had art teachers who told you so. Why didn’t you pursue it? Why didn’t you become an artist instead of a police officer?”

Taylor still didn’t look at her. With a casual shrug, he said, “It’s just a hobby. Helps me unwind.” He raised his eyes to hers. “How’d you know I painted them? They’re not signed.”

“Yes they are.”

He lifted his chin. “Yeah?”

“In the bottom right-hand corner,” she said, “there’s a tiny
TSMc
scribbled into the oil. A person could miss it if they didn’t know what to look for.”

“And you know.”

Picking up her empty bowl, she walked to the sink. “There is no way you would ever paint anything so awesome and not want to take credit for it. Soldier said something once about you being a good artist, but I thought he was just being kind.”