Winter's Daughter (7 page)

The woman who slipped her scooter into a parking space near City Center Park at five minutes before noon wore a faded, shapeless dress, three pairs of mismatched socks, and a pair of man’s shoes several sizes too big for her. Over the dress, in spite of the balmy temperatures, she wore a sweater in a bilious shade of green, and a too–large, once–stylish coat. Wisps of thin gray hair that had managed to escape the confines of a purple knit cap hung lank on her neck and forehead. The hands that nervously clutched a large, shabby shoulder bag were encased in brown wool gloves. She’d gotten a few funny looks, driving a yellow Honda through the streets and boulevards of Los Padres in that getup, but Tannis didn’t care. She was filled with excitement, anticipation, a strange, effervescent joy.

All of which had nothing to do with having met Councilman Dillon James, she told herself. Or if it did, it was because he’d listened to her, because she’d actually gotten through to him, and because someone was finally going to do something about solving the real problems of the homeless. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his enigmatic eyes, or the smile that seemed to burst across his austere face like a sunrise, or the tingling sensation she felt on her skin wherever he touched her.

No, she insisted, she was happy because she had a feeling this meeting with Dillon was going to make wonderful things happen. And besides, it was such a beautiful day!

I must be a winter’s child, she thought as she settled herself at the base of the statue of Father Junipero Serra, the founder of California’s Spanish missions. She’d always loved winter, the California kind, anyway, which was the only kind she’d ever known. She loved the anomalies, contradictions, the infinite variety of California winters. She loved experiencing the full spectrum of seasons, sometimes in the space of a few days. She loved the fact that she could drive to the mountains and find snow and go skiing even on warm days like this one; she loved cold clear nights and radiant days. She loved the parks, where the grass smelled young and fresh, where flowers bloomed in beds beneath the winter–bare branches of deciduous trees.

I love
this,
she thought.
Sitting in the sun at high noon with a soft breeze blowing, feeling neither too hot nor too cold, waiting for something magical to happen…

A hand touched her arm, then encircled it with a firm masculine grip. In that instant, as her heart cried
Dillon!
in joyful recognition, Tannis knew for the first time that her heart really was a mechanism—a pump, a faulty one, obviously in dire need of repair. It seemed to operate in surges and falters, sending too much blood here and not enough there.

"Dillon," she said faintly, turning toward him.

She felt her heart conk out completely; she felt herself go bloodless and cold. It wasn’t Dillon’s face that looked down into hers, but the dark, dangerous face of the derelict.

The wino in the baseball cap towered over her, reeking of sweat and alcohol. He was swaying and coughing and holding a handkerchief to his mouth as if he’d just been, or was about to be, violently sick.

Adrenaline assumed command of Tannis’ functions, kicking her heart into a smooth, accelerating rhythm. "Please," she cried, wrenching her arm from his grasp. "Leave me alone!"

The derelict attempted to recapture her arm, and instead managed to clutch the shoulder of her coat.

"What do you want?" she asked in a high, ineffectual voice, shrinking into the collar of her coat like a turtle trying to disappear inside its shell.

"Hey," the wino wheezed, "I jess wanna know why you hadda go an hit me. You didn’t haf t’do that. You know, you hit me right in the—"

Holding herself rigid, Tannis said staunchly, "Let go of me, or I’m going to start screaming."

"An’ that hurts!" the man finished indignantly, ignoring the threat.

"I’m surprised you could feel anything," Tannis muttered, and was instantly sorry. The man obviously wasn’t as far gone as she’d thought, not too far gone to take offense anyway. Above the handkerchief his eyes took on an ominous gleam. Strong fingers crawled over her shoulder and fastened on her collar.

Until that moment Tannis had been more startled and dismayed by the unexpected reappearance of the wino than anything. But now fear gripped her, seizing her without warning, as it had the day before. Still trying to disappear inside the coat, she darted a quick look around, searching desperately for some source of help. Where in the world was Dillon? Where was anyone? It was high noon. This was City Center Park! Where was everybody?

The answer was clear. Everyone—the shoppers, the city employees and downtown office workers on lunch break, all the well–dressed, well–fed people—were giving them a wide berth, not at all eager, it seemed, to involve themselves in a sordid and unpleasant scene between a couple of skid–row derelicts.

But the police! Where in the world are the police?
Weren’t they supposed to be in the middle of a big "sweep of downtown streets?" Why weren’t they sweeping right here, and now? Why was it there was never a cop around when you needed one?

Where is Dillon?

It came to her then like the calm that follows a clap of thunder:
No one is going to help me. I’m on my own.

She stood for a moment, listening to the quiet voice of reality. Then, without giving herself a chance to think about it, she hauled off and kicked the wino in the shins.

"Ow!
Shit!
"

But the man didn’t quite relinquish his grip on her collar. So while he was hopping on one foot and rubbing his shin, Tannis simply wriggled out of her coat and left him holding nothing but cloth. As she darted away across the grass, she could hear him swearing.

And then she heard another sound, one that gave her a new infusion of adrenaline. Running footsteps, pounding hard. Without looking back she stepped out of her too–big shoes and ran for her life.

"Tannis! Wait!"

She heard her own name, but it didn’t register, not then. Panic was governing her mind. The derelict was right behind her, gaining on her. She could hear him breathing, feel the heat of his body.

When she felt hard hands grip her arms from behind, she fought with the strength that comes from sheer terror. But the wino was stronger—and evidently soberer—than he looked. In a matter of seconds he had her arms pinned to her sides and her body locked tight against his. She felt heated muscle, quivering sinew, and the thump of a hard–working heart against her back. A bony chin bit hard on her temple. Knowing it was pointless to fight anymore, Tannis pressed her lips together, shut her eyes tightly, and listened to the sobbing sounds of her own breathing and the heavy rasp of his.

"Okay," a soft, out–of–breath voice said, "that’s better."

It was a moment or two before Tannis realized it wasn’t the wino’s voice she was hearing. Her body stiffened.

"Tannis?" Sensing her stillness, he went on cautiously. "I’m going to let go of you now. Okay?"

A warm breath smelling of nothing more offensive than cinnamon gum sighed past her ear. His rigid muscles relaxed. His hands, gentle now, gripped her arms and slowly turned her.

"Tannis? Hey, are you okay now?" The voice sounded rusty and concerned.

Tannis found herself staring fixedly at a dirty gray sweatshirt and a chest that was still moving rapidly in and out. Strong fingers touched her chin and pulled it up, and she looked into thick–lashed eyes that were narrowed to a frown and shaded by the visor of a baseball cap.

Now one had ever accused Tannis of having an even disposition. She had a temper, as all of her family and friends knew very well, the kind that ignites in an instant, burns quick and hot, and as quickly shimmers into nothing, like fireworks in a summer sky. Her loved ones were used to it, and so was she. But at that moment her fury was so real, she’d have sworn that she’d never known even a hint of anger before.

"You—
bastard!
" she hissed. Somehow, she managed to grip the shoulder bag in her hand. With all her might she swung it, and heard a most satisfying "Whap!" as it connected with the side of Councilman Dillon James’s head.

Without so much as a glance or a pause to assess the damage, she whirled and stalked away. She moved as rapidly as she dared under the circumstances, trusting providence to keep her from disaster, because, as always, the firestorm had passed quickly and, as always, in its aftermath came the tears.

For the second time in a very few minutes Dillon said, "Ow!" And then, with a great deal of feeling, "
Shit!
" He reflected ruefully as he nursed the tender place on his head that it was possible he’d done more swearing in the last five minutes than in all the years since leaving the department.

Well, he thought philosophically as he bent over to pick up his baseball cap, he’d gotten what he deserved for becoming involved with a beautiful woman crazy enough to go around dressed like a bag lady.

Feeling a trickle on his forehead, he made a ginger exploration with his fingers and discovered a sticky warmth. The clasp on that purse of hers, he thought; it must have cut him. One heck of a weapon, that was. One heck of a lady too—good at coming up with pretty effective weapons out of the materials at hand. First a shopping cart, and now this. He’d been a pretty tough cop in his day, but so far he was oh–for–two with this babe.

As he stood watching the "lady" in question go stalking off across the lawn, Dillon’s feelings were mixed. On the one hand, he hadn’t suffered this much damage to his physical person since the last time he’d tried to break up a fight between a hooker and her pimp. He wasn’t a masochist; his self–preservation instincts were hollering at him to let her go, leave her alone, stay away from her.

On the other hand, he’d asked for it. And once he got past the pain, he had to admit it was pretty funny: two grown people trying to outguess each other, both dressing up in disguises to try to teach the other a lesson.
She
was funny, in that purple cap, that godawful dress and sweater, stomping across the park in her stocking feet. She was funny, and after this morning’s brief glimpse he knew beyond any doubt that underneath all those shapeless clothes she had a very nice body indeed—lean, but soft enough to feel good in his arms.

But on the other hand, he’d never seen such a temper. Why would he want to mess around with something that volatile? Life was hazardous enough as it was.

But on the
other
hand—The way she looked right then, walking away from him, reminded Dillon of something. The hunched shoulders, the stiff–necked, jerky–legged walk…

Yeah, he had it, now. It was the attitude
he’d
had so often as a kid, pride–wounded and chastised, trying so darn hard not to cry.

Dillon, you’re as nutty as she is.
He sighed and went jogging after her.

"Tannis," he panted, catching up with her, "wait. Please." She slowed and stopped. He wasn’t sure what he expected her to do, but when he saw her pull a hand surreptitiously across her eyes before she turned, something odd happened to his insides. He had an impulse to put his arms around her, pull her close and comfort her. But because he understood pride, he only touched her arm and said softly, "Hey, listen, I’m sorry." He was amazed at how sorry he was—not that he’d scared her, because that had been his intention, but because he seemed to have wounded her in some way he didn’t fully understand.

"You’re
sorry?
" she said in a blurred voice, lifting her face sideways to look at him. "Why did you do that to me?"

Dillon shrugged and muttered, "To scare you, as a matter of fact."

"To scare me? Why? Because of what I did to you yesterday?"

"No!" Dillon felt a sense of shock and a twinge of guilt for that modicum of revenge that had been in his heart. "Lord, no. What do you think I am? I did it to make a point. It’s dangerous on the streets, Tannis, and I don’t think you realize that."

She sniffed. "You knew who I was, didn’t you? When I came to your office this morning. You knew I was the bag lady who—"

"No, I didn’t. Not at first."

"Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me think you hadn’t recognized me?"

Dillon frowned. "I’m not sure. I wasn’t sure at first whether or not you recognized
me
. You told me you were studying the problems of the homeless, so the fact that you’d dressed like one of them in order to do that made sense. After all, I’d just been doing the same thing, and I hadn’t wanted the world to know about it either. What I don’t understand is why you did
this.
Today. I’ve got to tell you, it came as quite a surprise."

"
You
were surprised!" She gave a watery gurgle of laughter and then was silent, her head slightly cocked, as if she were listening to something. "I wanted—" She turned abruptly. He heard a sniff and saw her swipe again at her eyes. Under the awful green sweater her shoulders lifted, then settled. "You said things this morning, but talking’s so easy. I wanted to find out what your real feelings were—deep down, gut–level feelings. People react instinctively to those who are different from themselves. I wanted to see how you responded to me as a bag lady. I didn’t know—"