Miss Emmaline And The Archangel Part 11

"I know that," she admitted. "You aren't the one who hurt me. It's just ...sometimes...""I know. Sometimes it hurts too much to bear."She nodded and allowed herself to relax against him."I've got a great idea, Em," he said a few minutes later."Hmm?""Why don't you just go to sleep? If you have any nightmares, I'll be right here.

And tomorrow things will look better. Or so they keep telling me."

"But what about you?" She was feeling drowsy, drained by the day's events andall the emotional turmoil."Red, I'll be a happy man if I just don't have to move again until dawn. Especially if I don't have to climb the stairs.""I'm sorry you hurt," she said sleepily."I'm sorry you hurt, too, Emma. Now go to sleep."

*** During the night, Gage awoke in a state of flaming arousal to find himself and Emma tucked together like spoons. Her bottom nestled warmly against his aching loins, and his arm was wrapped snugly around her as his hand cradled her bare breast. In fact, he thought sourly, the only part of him that wasn't aching and throbbing was his back, for once. The light was on. He had left it on in case Emma awoke, because he didn't want her to come awake from a nightmare in the dark with a strange man holding her. It illuminated her hair, catching the gold highlights and setting them on fire.

Such beautiful hair, as soft as silk. It brushed his chin and chest like wisps of dreams that could never be. He sighed and tried to relax his internal tensions. The nights were always the deadliest hours for him. Things had a way of creeping past the strongest guard and pouncing without warning. On the nights when sleep eluded him, he walked hard and fast, just as hard and fast as he walked when pain flogged him.

But tonight he didn't want to leave Emma alone. He knew what it was like to be afraid to sleep because of the nightmares, and he knew what it was like to awaken alone and have to struggle your way back to reality without the anchor of a familiar voice. Tonight, at least, Emma wasn't going to have to face that.

He owed her one, he thought. Maybe he even owed her a couple. For the last several days he had avoided thinking about Miss Emmaline Conard and his response to her, but here, alone in the night, with her close and warm in his arms, he could scarcely avoid it.

Her generosity of nature wasn't something he was used to. If Miss Emma hadn't dragged him into her house for brandy the night he walked her home, he could have kept her safely pigeonholed as one of the local characters-odd, amusing, but not someone he would have gone out of his way to become acquainted with. Since coming to Conard County he'd gone out of his way to become acquainted with very few people. Micah Parish, Ransom Laird, Jeff c.u.mberland ... just a very few men who knew what it was to face the abyss.

And now Miss Emma. Miss Emma, who hadn't known him from Adam but had dragged him into her warm kitchen and offered him brandy because he hurt. Miss Emma, who had let him fall asleep in her living room and then served him the best dinner he had eaten in years. Emma, who forgot all her caution and wisdom every time she thought he might be hurting.

Like earlier this evening. Even in her own pain she had reached out in response to his. Surely that made her more unusual than rubies and diamonds? More precious than gold? Even his oldest and closest friends got uneasy and eager to get away when they were reminded of what had happened to him. It was one of the reasons he'd packed up and accepted Nate's invitation to come to Wyoming. He couldn't stand the way gazes slid away from him and conversations suddenly became brittle whenever somebody said the "wrong" thing. People had been tiptoeing around him as if he were some kind of time bomb. Or some kind of unpredictable invalid.

Out here, he pretty much got left alone. Mahoney would pour him a couple of shots without trying to a.n.a.lyze him. Nate gave him enough interesting cases to keep him busy and never hinted that maybe Gage wasn't up to doing something. Folks on the street nodded politely when he limped by, and they'd even gotten used to his disfigured face finally, so they didn't notice it one way or the other.

The good ladies in the Good Shepherd Bible Study Group t.i.ttered that he looked like h.e.l.l's own archangel, but even that seemed purely amusing to him- especially since they giggled and blushed like young girls whenever he spoke to any of them. And Maude, who owned the diner, always made sure there was a fresh wedge of pie for him when he stopped in.

It was as close to normal as he had come in a long time. As close as he could ever get, he supposed. A man who had spent fourteen years of his life working almost continuously undercover eventually forgot how to really be part of anything. Survival demanded that you appear involved without actually getting involved, that you partic.i.p.ate while always remaining an observer. It meant changing personalities like a chameleon changed colors. In the end, maybe it meant losing yourself.

Sighing again, he pressed his face to Emma's neck. Her scent was hypnotic, fresh and womanly, totally natural and utterly erotic. The comforter that coc.o.o.ned them caught the aroma and surrounded him in it. Her breast was warm and satiny beneath his palm, and he had the worst time convincing himself not to take advantage of the fact. Emma was sleeping, a sign of trust he couldn't betray.

Cautiously he moved his hand to safer ground, on her tummy, and then he closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. The gripping, clenching, burning pain had for the moment let him go, and now would be a great time to sleep.

Except that he couldn't seem to sleep. He didn't feel especially drowsy, but he didn't feel especially like getting up, either. Instead his mind drifted, for once, into safe channels, carrying him back to his youth, when his refuge had been the city library. He could stay warm there on the coldest winter day, get cool there on the hottest days, and escape entirely on the worst ones.

In retrospect, the librarian hadn't been a dragon at all. Mrs. Scott had insisted on quiet, common courtesy and respect for the books, and on a couple of occasions she had spoken sharply to him for forgetting where he was. Overall, though, she had encouraged his love of reading. Looking back, he could see that when he had finished one book, she had been ready to hand him another. She had started him on the Hardy Boys, led him on to Monte Cristo and the Three Musketeers, and helped him to wade through Walter Scott. Even Captain Blood and the Scarlet Pimpernel-whom he held responsible for making him think undercover work was romantic-even they had been introduced to him by Mrs. Scott.

Mrs. Scott, he sometimes thought wryly, was therefore ultimately responsible for Gage Dalton and his funny notions of honor and duty and loyalty. Responsible for his even crazier notion about making the world a better place. Boy, he'd lost that one the hard way. There was a real war out there, and a few DEA operatives sure as h.e.l.l weren't going to win more than a couple of skirmishes. Battling drugs was like battling Medusa. Every time you lopped off one snake head, there was another one right there. And in the process something inside you turned to stone, because there was just so much ugliness a man could stand.

And the fact that he could even make that comparison he owed entirely to Mrs. Scott of the vast bosom, the overwhelming perfume and the orthopedic shoes. In retrospect Gage even allowed she might not really have hated him after all, despite her frequent frowns and sharp reprimands. But never in a million years would he have envisioned himself with the hots for a librarian. Or have imagined lying in bed holding one like this. In his mind librarians had been pigeonholed with nuns and Attila the Hun.

Well, that was just so much hogwash, anyway. Most of the preconceptions he had developed in his youth had blown away with time and experience. This was just another one. Emma had a few dragonish, stereotyped librarian characteristics, but beneath all the defenses he had found a shy, generous, warm, loving and very pa.s.sionate young woman. One who deserved something a h.e.l.l of a lot better than h.e.l.l's own archangel.

Besides, he wasn't ever again going to sign on for that roller-coaster ride. Once was enough. No man in his right mind would take risks like that a second time. No way. h.e.l.l's own archangel had safely locked up his heart and thrown away the key.

Another sigh escaped him, a heavier one this time. He opened his eyes to fill them once more with the enticing flame of Emma's hair and the pale satin of her cheek, and then he gave himself up to sleep.

The knife glittered evilly, coldly gold, threatening, the blood-drop ruby like a malevolent eye. Voices whispered, laughing, fractured, a steady background to a lost, frightened whimper. Slowly, so slowly, the dagger lifted. Higher and higher it rose, then plunged downward in a swift, destroying arc.

"Emma!"

The scream rose from so deep in her that it left her insides raw, then erupted from her throat with shattering force.

"Emma!"

She sat bolt upright. Her eyes snapped open and stared uncomprehendingly at the familiar sights of her own bedroom. Grandma's room. The judge's room.

"Emma?"

That ruined voice was now as familiar to her as her own, and it was a lifeline in the darkness of her soul and mind. She turned and threw herself into Gage's waiting arms.

"It's okay," he whispered achingly. "It's okay, Emma."

If she had been alone, eventually she would have calmed herself and restored her self-control. But she was not alone. Now, right now, someone was there to take care of her, and it was like permission to give up the struggle. For just a few minutes she could lean on someone else.

And she did. Before she could gather her wits or her resources, she was clinging to Gage, and huge, silent tears were running down her cheeks. "I can't stand any more of this," she whispered brokenly. "I can't."

There wasn't a d.a.m.n thing to say to that, Gage thought. He'd been at just that point more than once himself, the point where one little thing more would shatter you like gla.s.s.

"I know the feeling," he said rustily. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Slowly, she leaned back a little and looked up at him from big, wet eyes. "Get out of here?"

"Take a walk. Walking is great therapy, Red. Works out all the kinks, tires you out good, and gets you back on an even keel. I promise."

"It's cold out there," she said in faint protest.

"So bundle up. Don't tell me you don't have the clothes, Emma. You've lived here all your life."

Not waiting for an answer, he turned away and lowered his feet to the floor. He had to bite back a groan when his back filed a protest, but he had a lot of practice at it.

"Ten minutes, Red. If you're real good, maybe we'll drive down to the creek and walk there."

Emma glanced at the digital display on her clock radio. Three in the morning and he wanted to go for a walk along the creek bank? She glanced around the room once more as he disappeared through the door and decided that maybe walking in the dark was a more inviting prospect than staying here any longer.

She started to crawl out of the bed, and that was when she realized her blouse was still open and her bra unfastened. Oh, Lord! Emma, Emma, what's come over you? How could you have...?

And then, like a burst of light in the night, memories came to her, reminding her of how Gage had made her feel last night, how intimately he had kissed her and how tenderly he had held her. How he had insisted on coming to her despite her locked door, and had held her through the night. She remembered waking once or twice to feel him pressed so warmly to her, remembered that once his hand had been cradling her breast.

He had given her care and tenderness and the most exciting and sensual experience of her life, and she was reacting like a prude. Like an old maid. Like Great-aunt Isabel, who had told her to carry a book with her everywhere, to sit on in case she should ever be obliged to sit on a man's lap in a crowded bus. Considering there were no buses other than school buses in Conard County, the advice had been singularly useless. Emma had crowed with laughter for weeks every time she thought of it. A book, for crying out loud.

Good grief, was she actually beginning to think like Great-aunt Isabel?

The thought brought her scurrying off the bed toward her closet, where she definitely had adequate clothing for the cold night air. She promised herself not to have another prudish thought, to be honest about how much she had enjoyed everything Gage had showed her.

And to be honest with herself, at least, about how much she wanted to experience it again.

The temperature had fallen into the teens, and their steps crunched crisply on the undisturbed snow along the bank of Conard Creek. Emma's initial chill, which had come as much from the early hour as the cold, had worn off as they walked, and she began to enjoy the unearthly beauty of the night. The light from the waxing moon was strong, silvering the sparkling snow and frost.

There had been a time when she had loved to walk at night, summer or winter. The attack had changed all that. Drawing a deep breath, she forced her thoughts away from that direction.

"Feeling better?" Gage asked presently.

"Much. This was a good idea." In fact, his suggestion of a walk had yanked her out of the dregs of her nightmare faster than anything else she could think of could have. From the moment he had suggested it, the miasma of horror had faded rapidly.

"You know," Emma said a little while later, "I often wonder about my ancestor, the one who first came here to homestead."

"Why?"

"I wonder about his ego. I mean, look at it-Conard County, Conard Creek, Conard City. Do you have any idea how embarra.s.sing it was at times to grow up as a Conard?"

"Nope." He glanced down at her, a crooked smile drawing up one side of his mouth. "Where I come from, they didn't even have Dalton Street."

"There's a Conard Street on the east side of town," Emma reminded him.

"I noticed it."

"Maybe I can talk the city council into changing it to Dalton Street. Would youlike that?""No. I like my low profile.""I'd like to know what a low profile feels like. Anyhow, I figure Edgar Conard must have been an egomaniac. If I'd been the first person to settle out here, Ithink I would have given everything Indian names.""Some of those unp.r.o.nounceable words that are sixteen syllables long?"

Emma gave a small, quiet laugh. "Maybe. Anything but Conard.""I don't think you ought to be embarra.s.sed about it, Em. It took a special kind ofperson to be a pioneer. Maybe a little ego was a necessary trait for survival."

"Maybe.""You could use a little ego yourself."The remark sounded casual, but it didn't strike Emma that way. At the implied criticism, she grew defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"He stopped walking, obliging her to do the same. His hat shadowed his face fromthe revealing moonlight, but her upturned face was mercilessly exposed. "It means that you're not worthless, whatever you keep telling yourself," he saidquietly."Oh, now we get amateur psychology?"

He considered turning away right then. If he just walked into the night, Emma's problems need never trouble him again. And he sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to get involved. But he couldn't walk away, he realized, because no one else in Conard County knew what Emma's problem was, and no one but him would have the gumption to confront her about it, anyway. She pretty much had all the rest of them cowed, except for a few sleazeb.a.l.l.s who didn't have the sense to know better.

"No amateur psychology," he said quietly. "I never read a psychology book in my life, Red."

"Then what the devil are you babbling about?"

He almost smiled. Emma, he knew, wasn't one to speak so bluntly or discourteously under most circ.u.mstances. He had her on the defensive but good.

"Working undercover," he said, resuming their walk, "requires a pretty good understanding of human nature."

"Really."

"Yes, really. My life depended on being able to size up an opponent with only a little bit to go on-the way he stood, the way he talked, a couple of things he said. I was pretty good at it."

"Indeed."

He couldn't suppress an amused smile. "Indeed," he mimicked. "The fact that I'm still alive proves it."

This time she didn't make any smart comment at all.

"It's not book knowledge I'm talking about," Gage continued presently. "It's a gut instinct for what the other person will say or do because of the kinds of hang-ups he's got. It's a knack for knowing what b.u.t.tons to push-or not to push."

"So you're pus.h.i.+ng my b.u.t.tons?" Rage began to simmer in her. She didn't like this at all.

"Nope. I don't manipulate people I consider to be my friends. I'm just trying to tell you that your self-opinion is about a hundred percent too low."

"What makes you such an authority?" she asked waspishly. He was treading in sensitive territory, and she didn't at all like it.

"The fact that I'm not you," he said easily. "The fact that I can evidently see all the good things you can't. Lady, you've got a lot of sterling qualities. Quit underestimating yourself. End of discussion."

Sterling qualities, she thought as she traipsed along beside Gage. It sounded like something her father would have said. She had a lot of sterling qualities, did she? Well, what about the not-so-sterling ones? The slightly tarnished or downright damaged qualities? So what if she had a few sterling qualities, or even a lot of them?

"Sterling qualities" sounded like something you would say to a homely girl who had once again been pa.s.sed over for a date. It was the kind of rea.s.surance a parent spouted when a child was convinced no one in the world loved her. It was not the kind of thing a man said to a woman he was interested in. It was, in short, a consolation prize.

The understanding at once relieved her and disappointed her. On the one hand, she had tasted temptation and found it sweet. On the other, she was scared to death that if Gage held her close too many more times, he would walk away with her heart in his pocket. And he would walk away. He might be perfectly kind and understanding about her sterility, but when it came to an enduring relations.h.i.+p, he would be looking for a whole woman. What man wouldn't?

Therefore, she told herself, it was far better that he think of her sterling qualities rather than her other ones.

"Emma?"

She looked up from the snowy ground she had been fiercely studying as they walked and realized that she had left Gage behind. She turned immediately. "Are you all right?"

"Every time you get perturbed you go into double-time," he said wryly. "Unfortunately, since I broke my back, I haven't been able to move that fast for long."

"You broke your back?" Forgetting her own problems for a moment, she hurried back to his side. "In the explosion?"

He gave a short nod.

"Lean on me if you need to," she offered as she reached his side. "I suppose it's a miracle you can walk at all, then."

"Maybe." He didn't like leaning on anyone, and he couldn't quite swallow the idea that anything in his miserable, h.e.l.lacious life might ever have been a miracle.

"What causes the pain?"

"Nerve damage, old muscle damage. Sometimes I think it's pure orneriness."

If that was meant to be humorous, Emma couldn't see it that way. When he didn't drape his arm around her shoulder, she began walking at a slower pace. He moved right beside her.

Emma wondered sourly if Great-aunt Isabel had been complimented on her sterling qualities.

Probably.

Emma stood before the Christmas tree, staring up into its unadorned branches as early-morning sun poured like warm honey over it. She was dressed for work but had a few minutes yet before she needed to go. Gage had been gone for hours, but she had half expected that. He wasn't a man who wanted to get close to anyone. His desire to keep his distance would protect them both.

But the distance, while it was protective, didn't answer questions, and she had at least a couple to ask this morning-What had happened to make Christmas such a time of grief for him? Why had he gone to so much trouble to make sure she had her tree, then sat here surrounded by light strings and wept the horrible, silent tears that in a man like him must spring from the deepest well in his soul? And then, she saw now, after she had gone back to work, he had forced himself to come in here and string the lights on the tree.

Once you start giving ground, lady, it's h.e.l.l to get it back.

Her memory of him saying that was vivid, and it probably explained the tree and the lights. He was trying not to give any ground. Or possibly trying to regain some he had lost.