Shirlee McCoy - Protective Instincts

“I wasn’t hiding!”

“Butch,” Raina said. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here without permission.”

She stepped farther into the room. “Did you ask Pastor Myer if you could sleep here?”

“It’s God’s house. I asked Him,” Butch said with a sly smile.

“How about you show a little respect for the lady, Butch?” Jackson asked, giving the guy a little shake. Not too hard, though. He didn’t want to rattle fragile bones.

Raina ignored his comment.

So did Butch.

As a matter of fact, Jackson thought they’d done this whole thing before—many times—and that they were just letting things play out the way they always had before.

“You’ve been drinking again.” Raina walked to the choir robes and dug through them, pulling out an empty bottle of beer.

“Nah. I’m just collecting old bottles for the money,” Butch replied. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

“You could try getting a job,” Jackson muttered, releasing the guy’s arms.

“Who’s going to hire me? I got PTSD, a bum back, wrecked knees. Got no hearing in one ear and barely any in the other. Thank you, Uncle Sam, for taking care of your veterans.” Butch grabbed a backpack from behind the clothes, not nearly as drunk as Jackson thought.

“If you need work, I have some jobs around the house that I can’t do myself,” Raina said casually.

Jackson doubted there was anything casual about the offer.

As a matter of fact, tension lines were etched across her forehead, her skin pulled taut along her cheekbones.

He also doubted it was a good idea to have a guy like Butch hanging around her place. He’d steal her blind and not feel a bit of guilt about it.

“What kind of jobs? ’Cause I already told you, my back is bad and my knees are gone.”

“The fence needs whitewashing, and the lawn needs one more mowing before winter.”

“You still got that riding lawn mower? The one Matt loved so much?”

At his question, Raina tensed, her hands fisting. “Yes.”

“I’ll come by day after tomorrow and get that done for you. The fence might be a little harder. Probably will take me a week or more. Gotta take lots of breaks.”

Raina nodded, but didn’t speak.

Jackson wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her husband that had thrown her or if it was the fact that Butch had taken her up on her offer of work.

“See you then, Raina.” Butch waved and would have walked out into the hall, but Jackson wasn’t done with the guy.

“How long were you in here, Butch?” he asked, and the old vet paused on the threshold, his gray hair falling in a ratty braid down the middle of his back.

“Awhile,” he finally muttered.

“You must have heard the gunshots earlier.”

“Could be that I did.” Butch turned slowly, his black eyes blazing in his gnarled face. He looked older than he probably was. Seventy or more when Jackson suspected he was in his early sixties. Life hadn’t been kind to him, but then, Jackson doubted the guy had been very kind to life.

“Did you hear anything before that?” Jackson pressed.

“Who wants to know?”

“Me. Probably the police. Raina.”

“Here’s the deal, soldier,” Butch responded. “I don’t deal with the police, and I don’t like you. For Raina’s sake, I’ll tell you this—I heard a car pull into the parking lot a couple of hours ago. You tell the police that, and I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

“Butch—” Raina started to say, but the guy raised a hand, cutting her off.

“You’ve always been good to me, but I’m not getting pulled into trouble. Been there too many times to count, and I’m starting to realize I’m getting too old for it.”

“You didn’t just hide in the choir robes and let whoever was in the parking lot do what he wanted to the church, Butch,” Jackson said. “You went and looked out a window, right? This is your space. You were ready to protect it. You looked out the window, and you saw something. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the police what that was.”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t help. I’m an old, drunk vet who’s been wandering around these parts sleeping in churches and abandoned railroad cars and under overpasses for more years than either of you have been alive. I’ve got a rap sheet a mile long. You think the police would listen to a word I said? Even if they did, my word is worth squat.”

“It’s worth something to me,” Raina cut in, and Butch frowned.

“Could be I looked. Could be I saw an old Jeep. Could even be that I saw someone get out of that Jeep and walk into the woods, but even if all those things are really what happened, ain’t one person around here who’s going to believe me.”

“You need to tell the police what you saw,” Raina suggested, and Butch scowled.

“I owe you, Raina, and I owe your husband. I even owe your little boy, but I’m not talking to the police.” He hitched the pack onto his back and walked out into the hall.

Jackson could have stopped him, could have forced him outside and brought him to Officer Wallace. He didn’t. Butch was obviously a well-known figure in the community. If Wallace wanted to interview him, he could track him down easily enough.

He followed Butch into the hall, watching as the guy limped to the exit, opened the door and disappeared outside. Cold air wafted in, the scent of rain and wet leaves hanging in the hallway after the door closed.

“Poor Butch,” Raina murmured, her arm brushing his as she stepped past. She smelled like flowers, the scent feminine and alluring. She’d chopped her hair short, the thick strands just reaching her nape. On some women, the style would have been harsh, but on Raina it worked.

Everything about her worked.

The faded jeans and flannel nightgown. The unadorned fingernails and scuffed boots. She looked natural, and he found that beautiful, but he didn’t think she saw Butch for who he was—a guy who’d take what he could, use who he could and never feel a bit of guilt over it.

“He’s made his choices,” Jackson responded. “Those choices brought him to the place he is.”

“Maybe if he’d had a family who cared about him, he would have made different choices.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I’d better get back to Samuel. I really do want to get him home.”

“Let’s go, then.” He cupped her elbow, as ready as she was to leave the church and get on with things. “We need to talk to Officer Wallace. Let him know what Butch saw.”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t see much.”

“Not much that he’s telling us, but he may be more open to providing details when the police bring him in for questioning.”

“I really hope Andrew doesn’t do that to him. He’ll probably resist and end up being arrested for it.”

“Andrew?”

“Officer Wallace.”

He nodded, leading her back down the hall into the sanctuary and telling himself that it wasn’t his business that Raina was on a first name basis with Wallace.

* * *

Pull away! Raina’s brain shouted as she and Jackson stepped into the quiet sanctuary, but her body refused to obey.

There was something...nice about having his hand cupped around her elbow, his fingers curved along her inner arm.

She let herself be ushered to the pew where Samuel still sat. She’d given him a pen and an old church bulletin that she’d found, and she’d told him to stay put.

He’d listened.

Thank the Lord.

She didn’t think she could take any more drama. After six months of living quietly, of going to work and returning home, of going to church and returning home, of quiet dinners with friends and quiet evenings trying to forget just how alone she was, she’d stepped into a world of chaos.