Kathleen Creighton - One More Knight

“Right there, ma’am. And initial it here, and here.”

“You take a check?” Troy asked, reaching for his hip pocket.

Officer Baylor glanced at him. “No, sir, we do not.”

He’d been pretty sure of that answer, and was already assessing the contents of his wallet. “How much we talkin’ about?”

The officer told him. He had enough to cover it but figured he was going to have to be looking for an ATM soon. He counted out bills and handed them over, took the receipt the officer handed him, folded it and tucked it where they’d been. And all the while Charly stood in silence beside him. Not stony, though-it seemed to him he could almost feel her seething.

“That do it?”

Officer Baylor nodded. “Yes, sir. Ma’am, you’re free to go.”

As soon as he said that, she turned on her heel. She made it through two doors before Troy had a chance to open one for her. Once outside, though, she stopped so suddenly he ran into her, muttering blasphemy under her breath as an eerie howl floated toward them out of the artificial twilight. He could hardly blame her; it was enough to raise the hair on the back of Troy’s neck, and he knew what it was.

“What in the hell ,” she croaked, breathing hard, “is that?”

He’d taken hold of her upper arms to steady them both. He could feel tension vibrating through her muscles, just under skin as soft as…he didn’t know what. But it felt nice. He got a sudden reprise of the image of Officer Baylor’s big ol’ beefy hand on that skin, and the feeling it had aroused in him. The night got warmer.

“That’s just my dog, ma‘am. Sorry about that. He cries when I leave ’im.”

She angled a look at him across her shoulder and said evenly, “Next person to call me ma’am is going to become a homicide statistic.”

He let go of her arms and backed away in mock alarm, holding up a placating hand. “Sorry, ma’am-won’t happen again.”

Her only reply was a snort, a sound he remembered from the telephone, as she headed off across the parking lot, taking her reckoning from the racket Bubba was making. He lengthened his stride and as he pulled up alongside her, she was shaking her head and muttering something along the lines of, “Of course he’d bring his dog…”

Troy didn’t bother to answer that; the way he saw it, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. And in case she’d forgotten, neither did she.

They’d reached the truck. Charly pulled up short and said, “Good G-” while Troy was singing out, “Hey, ol’ Bub-” They both got no further because by that time Troy had gotten the door open and Bubba was doing his best to leap out into his arms.

Charly was backing away, muttering the kinds of things they teach you in Sunday School not to say if you want to stay out of hell. “That’s not a dog, that’s a lion!”

“Ah, no…Bubba’s just a great big ol’ baby,” Troy purred. “Aren’t you, boy? You miss me? Yeah…! know.”

He gave the dog a wrestle to pacify him and managed to get a grip on his collar before he could turn his attention to the lady, who was obviously intending to make Bubba’s acquaintance from a considerable distance. Not out of fear, though-Troy was pretty sure of that. He just wasn’t sure what to make of the expression on her face. He tried to ease things by explaining to her that ol’ Bubba was still just a puppy and hadn’t even got his growth yet, but he could see she wasn’t going to be soft-soaped.

She said, “He’s got yellow eyes,” in a tone somewhere between revulsion, disbelief and awe.

“Well, sure,” said Troy, “he’s a chocolate Lab. They have eyes like that.”

“And of course his name would be Bubba.”

Troy heard the soft hiss of an exhalation, and then a muttered something he couldn’t quite hear. But he didn’t miss the note of sarcasm in it He glanced up at her, but she was gazing off into the trees, looking as if she hoped a taxi was going to happen along any minute, or at the very least, a Greyhound bus.

Now, he was generally a patient and easygoing soul by nature, and he was certainly mindful of the fact that she’d had a few things happen recently that might upset her. But she was starting to get to him-kind of like a rock in his shoe; he was willing to overlook the aggravation for just so long.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “I think maybe I ought to take ol’ Bubba for a walk. He’s been in the car awhile.”

“By all means. I’ll wait.”

While Troy was getting the leash out of the back of the Jeep, she went around to the front passenger’s seat and got in. He looked back once before Bubba hauled him out of range, and saw her sitting there staring straight ahead through the windshield, her face pale as marble. Kind of made him wish he hadn’t looked. He thought he’d never seen anybody so alone. Made it kind of hard for him to stay ticked off at her.

In the warm, gray stillness that smelled of equal parts new car and young dog, Charly was fighting for control with every ounce of strength she had left in her. Her belly jumped with every pulse beat; tremors vibrated through her muscles and resonated inside her chest. She wanted to scream and kick and tear things. She wanted to cry-great racking sobs, the kind that felt like they would turn her whole body wrong side out. But she wasn’t going to. She’d already done that. She’d cried in front of him today; she was never going to forgive herself, or him, for that. And she’d cry no more. Not for anybody. Ever again.

Oh, but I’d give almost anything to make this pain go away.

There had been a moment…just a moment…when it had dampened some. When the volume of the pain had seemed to diminish at least to a bearable level-something like what happens when you stick your fingers in your ears to shut out noise.

It had happened in her first moment of freedom, when she’d burst out into the soft June night and heard that god-awful howl and stopped dead in her tracks. And he-Troy-hadn’t been able to stop, and had run into her, and suddenly she’d felt his body, solid against hers, and his hands, strong and sure on her arms. Then for a moment, just a moment, as his masculine heat and smell had enveloped her, she’d felt a flash of warmth and comfort, an instant’s surcease of pain.

Then she’d made some smart-ass remark and he’d removed his hands from her arms and stepped away from her, and the moment was gone.

She thought about that moment as she sat watching the man-shape and the dog-shape playing hide-and-seek with the shadows of the woods at the edge of the parking lot. She remembered the way he smelled of warm male and clean clothes and soap and aftershave-she wasn’t up on masculine scents enough to know the name-and just enough of a hint of dog to call to mind the way he’d looked, tussling with that golden-eyed monster. The way the muscles pulled taut across his back and shoulders and rippled down his arms, bunching beneath smooth, tanned skin.

And this was Troy Starr. Mirabella’s about-to-be brother-in-law. Jimmy Joe’s big brother. Perfect…just perfect.

What, she thought, did I ever do to deserve this?

Oh, there was no doubt that he was a magnificent specimen of masculinity-broad of shoulder and narrow of hip and with pecs and abs that were, as she could personally attest, as closely akin to steel as you’d ever want human flesh to be. He had dark blue eyes with both squint lines and thick lashes, a jaw and chin Dudley Do-Right would envy and a mouth with a long upper lip that turned up at the corners, as if it enjoyed smiling. His hair, right now roughly the colour of those famous amber waves of grain, would probably have golden highlights if he ever let it grow out to a decent length. And to lend just the right touch of character and maturity to what might otherwise have been too much perfection, his hairline appeared to be receding just a bit, while his nose looked as if it had been broken, probably more than once.