Errant Angel

“Well, she’s no older’n you are, and there aren’t any single women as old as you around here—”

“Thanks,” Dalton said dryly. “That’s what I get for turning thirty.”

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Dalton said, more kindly this time.

After all, he thought as he bent over the fender of the old truck to begin installing the new spark plugs, how was the kid supposed to know that the absence of available women—or anyone else his age—was one of the attractions this little, out-of-the-way town held for him? People were abandoning small towns like this in droves, but he had searched this one out, looking for peace, not to forget, but to remember.

“I like things just the way they are, okay? The last thing I need is some woman cluttering things up.”

Especially some long-legged woman with a nice little butt and brown eyes like Bambi.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, grinning widely now, “but this one drives an absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy.”

Dalton straightened up, curious now. “A what?”

“You heard me. It’s red and white, in primo shape, and is it hot!”

“Two-door?”

“You got it. Bel Air hardtop.”

One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirked upward. “Two eighty-three, V-8?”

Jimmy’s smile faded. “I...don’t know. I mean, it sounds hot, but I...”

His voice trailed off in uncertainty, and Dalton remembered how hard it was at that age, when you’d worked so hard at that “cool, don’t care” attitude, to admit there was something you didn’t know.

Dalton shrugged easily. “That’s why you’re here, right? To learn?”

The boy’s expression brightened. “I told her I liked cars, that you were teaching me about them, so she let me look at it this afternoon.”

The boy seemed suddenly embarrassed, and Dalton felt a flash of trepidation.

“And?” he prompted.

“I...”

“Jimmy,” he said warningly.

“I sort of...invited her over here today. I thought you’d like to see the car.”

Dalton smothered a groan. He’d had a feeling he’d regret the day he let Jimmy start hanging around. He’d come here to be alone, not have everybody in town casually dropping by.

“Damn it, Jimmy,” he began, but when he saw the boy’s face change, when he saw the flash of fear in his eyes before that uncaring facade snapped back into place, he bit back the rest of his exclamation; it was like looking at an image of himself at fifteen, all the walls already in place, hiding the fear that had filled him. By twenty, those walls had been nearly impenetrable. If Mick hadn’t come along—

He cut the thought off swiftly, with the ease of long practice. He heard the sound of a car approaching—one that obviously, from the healthy sound of the motor, didn’t need his attention—but ignored it for the moment. Jimmy, he thought. Concentrate on Jimmy. He hadn’t meant to scare the kid.

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s okay. I just had a lot of work to do today.” He shrugged. “But it’ll be here tomorrow. And how often does a guy get a chance to look at an ‘absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy’?”

Jimmy brightened up, and the practiced facade of indifference fell away. For a moment he looked like an average, excited fifteen-year-old boy. The boy Dalton had seen glimpses of, the boy the rest of Three Oaks would swear didn’t exist. They saw only the troublemaker, the tough-talking, rough-dressing kid, and they shook their heads and muttered about what was wrong with kids these days. Just as, in another town much like this one, adults had once shaken their heads and spoken as if the words Dalton MacKay and delinquent were inseparable.

“You’re not really mad, then?” Jimmy asked.

“No. Not really.”

“Good,” the boy said with relief. “Because here she is.”

He turned, realizing he should have guessed what the source of that healthy thrum was. He couldn’t help smiling when he saw what looked indeed like an “absolutely cherry” ‘57 Chevy, with the distinctive tail fins and the inimitable styling. The red-and-white car came to a halt, and the rumble of the powerful motor stopped. Dalton felt his smile widen; he’d always had a weakness for beautiful machinery, and this classic was all of that—perfectly straight, sleek and utterly spotless.

Then the driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever swung out. A woman stood up, a sweep of burnished auburn hair with golden highlights that danced in the sun falling forward as she tugged down a skirt that wasn’t that short to begin with, but seemed that way because of the length of the shapely legs beneath. A gold shape he couldn’t discern from here glinted against the skin below her throat.

Besides the legs and that incredible hair, the rest of her seemed to live up to Jimmy’s advance billing, as well; she was petite, barely five-three, he guessed, but the womanly curve of hip combined with an eminently cuppable derriere was a potent combination. And speaking of cuppable, Dalton thought a little numbly, aware he was staring but somehow unable to stop, her breasts were more than nice, they were—

They were none of his business, he snapped at himself, straightening the fingers that had involuntarily started to curl at his thoughts, angry at his unexpected reaction. But she was, as Jimmy had said, awesome-looking.

Then she raised her head, looked straight at Dalton, and his heart slammed to a stop as his gut contracted fiercely. This was no fawn-innocent woman, despite the huge brown eyes. Those eyes had seen much, and held a bone-deep wisdom and gentleness he’d seen only once before in his life, in the eyes of the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The man he’d killed as surely as if he’d taken a gun and blown his brains out.

Two

It was him, Evangeline thought, her breath stalling oddly in her throat. He seemed to be as stunned as she was. The moment their eyes had met she’d felt a rush of reaction from him, so confused and powerful she hadn’t been able to sort out the emotions. Then he’d shut himself off, and she hadn’t been able to read anything. Or perhaps it had been because she’d been dealing with an unexpected response of her own.

She didn’t understand it. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. Her vision that rainy night had been quite clear, so why was he so much more...more everything, in person? And why did she feel this strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had suddenly lost its rhythm and was trying madly to find it again?

He was taller than she would have guessed from what she’d seen that night, his dark hair not as shaggy-looking now that it was neatly combed, and he didn’t seem quite so thin now that she was standing face-to-face with his leanly muscled body. But those incredible green eyes were unmistakable, although they were shuttered now, unreadable, even to her. This man had had a lot more practice than Jimmy at putting up walls.

When the boy had first mentioned Dalton MacKay, she’d thought it must be the man she’d seen; he did live over the garage, after all. And when Jimmy had told her more about him, she’d been nearly certain.

“About the only guy between eighteen and fifty in the whole damn town,” the boy had said. “It’s weird that he wanted to come here. Everybody else bails out of this pit stop as soon as they can.”

Just like I’m going to.

The boy hadn’t said the words, but he hadn’t needed to; the words, the need, were clear in his eyes. As, she realized, was the hero-worship. She’d noticed it the first time the boy had begun to talk about Dalton MacKay.

It was the boy’s talk about cars, and about the man whose name had once been known by thousands, that had prompted her to decide on the classic car. The quickest way to the boy’s heart, she’d told the bosses. They had, somewhat to her surprise, agreed rather easily and produced the replication.

She’d known it was the right move the moment Jimmy had seen the Chevy; he’d lit up at the sight of it. His uncaring facade had fallen away, and he’d become uncharacteristically voluble in his enthusiasm. Then he had launched into extolling the virtues of the local mechanic—who was, it appeared, much more than he seemed.

“He drove at Indy, in the 500, can you believe it? Nearly won it as a rookie four years ago, and held first place up until his engine blew ten laps from the finish the next year. If it hadn’t been for that crash...”

“Crash?” she’d asked, remembering the scar she had seen on the forehead of the man whose pain had overwhelmed her on that rainy night.

“Yeah. In the 500, two years ago. Dalton was hurt, and couldn’t race anymore. It really stinks, because he would have won, I know he would.”

And if he had, she thought as she looked at Dalton now, what were the chances that he’d be here, in this quiet little town, to become the idol that kept one angry teenage boy from blowing up entirely?

She knew the answer to that: zero.

She glanced at Jimmy; the boy’s gaze was flicking from her to Dalton, somewhat uneasily.

“Er...Dalton, this is Ms. Law,” he said finally, awkwardly. “The teacher I was telling you about.”

Evangeline felt a tiny spurt of triumph. If the boy had been talking about her to his idol, then she was getting through. She hadn’t expected results so quickly.

“I gathered,” Dalton said.

Her breath caught again at the sound of his voice. And she didn’t understand that any more than she did her other reactions to this man. In all her years in this work, nothing like this had ever happened to her.

“Isn’t the car great?”

Jimmy’s enthusiasm bubbled over, and satisfaction rippled through Evangeline at his innocent delight. This had been the right approach. The car had gotten her close to the troubled boy faster than anything else could have. Maybe at last she was getting the hang of this work. Maybe she could avoid a stern lecture on her sometimes chaotic methods this time.

“Yeah,” Dalton agreed, turning his attention to the car. As she watched him, Evangeline was sure she had only imagined that sensation of relief as he had turned away from her. She had to have imagined it, because if she hadn’t, then she was stuck with the problem of determining which of them it had come from, and she was having a little problem with that at the moment.

She heard Jimmy’s excited chatter about the car, but her attention was fastened on the man beside him. She stared at him, reaching out with her senses; she had to know if he meant well by Jimmy, or had some ulterior motive for letting the boy hang around all the time. It was something she’d sadly learned over the years, that ulterior motives were often the norm rather than the exception, and she didn’t like the idea of anyone using an already troubled boy—barely more than a child, really—for some reason of their own.

It wasn’t working. She was blocked. She couldn’t get through his formidable defenses, not from this distance. Those walls of his were too high, too thick; it was going to take more to read him. She was, she thought, sucking in a quick breath as the realization came to her, going to have to touch him. Only then could she find out what she needed to know. The idea disturbed her, and she wasn’t sure why. But she knew it was the only way.

She moved toward them.

“...love the red-and-white tuck-and-roll. And wait until you see the motor,” Jimmy was saying, running around to the front of the car and moving as if to reach for the latch.

“Jimmy,” Dalton said warningly, glancing at her.

The boy looked blank for a moment, then color tinged his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked at Evangeline, his eyes pleading. “Can I show him?”

“Of course you can.” Good Lord, she thought. The town mechanic teaching the wild boy manners. Much of her wariness about the man’s motives faded, but she still needed to be sure. She came up beside him as Jimmy fumbled with the hood latch.

Concentrating on thinking only of Jimmy, to screen the information she would get, she casually, as if accidentally, brushed against Dalton’s arm. Her breath caught as skin touched skin; something seemed to leap between them, something hot, vivid and alive. For an instant she felt him stiffen, then, as casually as she had, he moved away. But it had been long enough.

For a moment the flood of images confused her; she thought by some glitch she was getting Jimmy directly instead. It seemed altogether too possible that she’d messed it up, as much trouble as she was having getting Dalton MacKay out of her thoughts. Then she realized it was only that the situations had been so alike—a temporary home with frustrated foster parents who were spread too thin and an abandoned boy who hid his fear behind a front of anger and sullen indifference.

She knew in that instant that Dalton MacKay had opened a tiny gap in his solid protective walls for no other reason than to try to help a boy whose feelings he understood all too well. And she knew, as well, how very hard it had been for him, to open up even that little bit.

But underlying everything she’d picked up from him was a vicious, draining sense of guilt, so powerful she could feel it tugging at her even now, after the contact had been broken. It almost overwhelmed the memory of that odd, electric little jolt that had raced through her at the touch of his skin against hers. Shaken, she had to turn away for a moment. Then Jimmy managed to release the latch, and she automatically looked up, following the movement as he lifted the hood.

She saw Dalton’s eyes widen, and a low whistle escaped him. “Factory fuel injection!” he exclaimed. “These are really rare.”

“I told you it was hot.” Jimmy was grinning again.

Dalton glanced at Evangeline, hesitated, then asked, “The tranny’s a four-speed close ratio, then?”

She saw the flicker of doubt and guessed he wasn’t sure she could answer the question. She gave him a wry look.

“Yes. And it’s all mine,” she said. “Not borrowed from some husband or boyfriend back home.”

He blinked, startled, then had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was being that obvious. And I didn’t mean to assume.”

“That where there’s a hot car, there’s got to be a man involved?” Dalton shifted uncomfortably, and she relented. “It’s okay. I’m used to...being different.” If you only knew, she added silently.

“She likes baseball and football, too,” Jimmy proclaimed, watching Dalton. “I told you she was cool.”

Something she didn’t recognize came into Dalton’s gaze then, and incredibly, she felt heat rise in her cheeks. She was so startled she almost reached for the pendant, to ask what on earth was going on. She never blushed. It took emotions she wasn’t supposed to have to blush.

“Yes,” Dalton said slowly, answering Jimmy but looking at her. “Yes, you did.”

A feeling she had never known filled her as she met his eyes—a sudden urge to run, to flee, to escape whatever was happening here. And she couldn’t explain the impression she got that he was feeling the same way. Like two people who had opened doors on opposite sides of a room, to find the room in flames, she thought, wondering where the image had come from. But all that really mattered was this need to back away. Quickly.

“I—I have to go,” she said. She sounded peremptory, she realized, and she hadn’t meant to. Another oddity, she thought; she usually had complete control over her presentation; it was a necessity for her work. “I’m glad you like the car,” she added lamely.

He looked as if he were about to say something, then stopped and merely nodded. He turned away, his expression showing her that her words had been a dismissal much sharper than she’d meant them to be. An awkward silence reigned as Dalton walked back to the truck he’d been working on without another word. He picked up a socket wrench and went back to work under the hood of the old truck.

“Uh,” Jimmy began, obviously aware of the tension but uncertain—as she was, Evangeline thought—of the exact cause, “maybe you could bring it by again sometime. Dalton’d probably like to look closer at the motor, wouldn’t you?”

He ended on a rising note, looking over at Dalton. The man merely shrugged, not looking up. Evangeline winced inwardly at the crestfallen expression that slipped over Jimmy’s face.

“Maybe I will,” she reassured the boy.

As she drove away she looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the two of them, together, yet as alone as any two people she’d ever seen.

And she wondered what on earth Dalton could possibly have done that could make him feel so much guilt it was nearly smothering him.

* * *

Are you guys doing something weird up there?

Whatever do you mean?

I mean, I know you aren’t real happy with me, but if you’re going to change the rules on me, I wish you’d at least let me know.

There was a moment of silence from them. She always thought of it as talking to “them,” even though there was only one doing the actual communicating; it must be that ridiculous royal “we” they insisted on using. But she knew they were all listening. Especially when it came to her.

Evangeline tightened her grip on the pendant as she sat curled up in the big, overstuffed chair that took up one corner of the bedroom she’d rented from Mrs. Webster, mainly because it was across the street from the house where Jimmy lived. She waited, imagining them discussing what to tell her.

The answer came at last.

We told you that you had full freedom on this case.

That’s not what I meant—not that it’s not great, by the way, zipping that car up was the perfect way to get Jimmy’s attention. But I meant the other stuff.

What...stuff?

All the feelings.

Feelings?

Yeah. They’re really getting in the way. Besides, you guys promised I wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t what?

She was really trying to be patient, but they didn’t seem to understand. She explained again.

That I wouldn’t feel anything. It’s really very distracting.

Evangeline, you can’t be feeling anything. You know we took care of that. You’ve had the latest and best adjustments in that area. We’ve come a long way recently. And you’ve never had a problem before.

Well, I have one now. It makes it hard to concentrate, and you know you always say that’s my big problem.

We don’t always say that. It was gently remonstrating.

Well, almost always. When you’re not reading me the riot act because I turned left when you wanted right.

She sent it somewhat mutinously; she never had understood why they got so upset that she took a different route, if the destination was the same.

We’ve been through this before, Evangeline. Now, what is this about feelings? You know you don’t have them, except for—

My sense of justice. I know. Then what are all these crazy sensations I’ve been having? Ever since that first night, everything’s been confused.

A quiet rush of air came then, as if they had jointly sighed. Things tend to be that way around you, you know.

“Only from up there,” she muttered out loud this time. Then, returning to the connection, she tried to explain.

This is different.

How, dear?

Evangeline grimaced. Ever since this patient female had become her contact, she’d felt like she’d been talking to a benevolent maiden aunt. But she was so determinedly optimistic that this mission would succeed without any of the problems of past ones, Evangeline felt guilty every time she did anything that she knew they might not approve of.

It’s really strange, she sent at last. The pain was bad enough, but all this—

Oh, my, you haven’t gotten involved with that man you sensed, have you? We told you he was off-limits, that you were to stick to Jimmy Sawyer’s problem.

I know, but—

No buts, Evangeline.

She couldn’t believe they didn’t want her to help him.

But he’s hurting so much, she sent protestingly.

No. The benevolence was gone, the message stern. You simply must behave this time.

The “or else” was implicit. She was walking an even finer line than she’d thought. She wondered if this was her last chance. If she messed up—according to their standards—again, if it really would be all over for her.

She knew then that she didn’t dare turn to the bosses for an explanation of what was going wrong. They would no doubt just chalk it up to her lack of discipline again. And maybe they were right. Maybe she had just let that horrible blast of pain unbalance her.

All right, all right. I’ll be good, she promised.

And, she added to herself when the connection was broken, I will not waste any more time wondering about Dalton MacKay. He doesn’t seem to be in that horrible pain any longer, anyway. Or perhaps he was just managing to hide it behind those formidable walls that were stronger than any she’d ever encountered before.

That doesn’t matter, she told herself, echoing the sternness of her boss’s command. Jimmy is my mission here, my only mission, and I’m going to concentrate on him from now on.

That decision firmly, solidly and irrevocably made, she climbed into bed, pulled the thick, bright yellow comforter over her shoulders, and settled down to sleep.

And in the morning she told herself she couldn’t be held responsible for what she dreamed, even if those dreams involved a lean, dark-haired man who looked at her with eyes so haunted that her heart—which was supposed to be immune—ached for him.

* * *

Dalton rubbed at his weary eyes, groaning at the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the windows across the room. If he had gotten even two hours of sleep, he’d be surprised. Dawn had been brightening the sky when he’d at last dropped off. If Mrs. Webster wasn’t bringing in her car—if you could call that behemoth of hers a car—for an oil change this morning, he’d roll over and go right back to sleep.

There had been a time when he’d been able to sleep only in the daylight, but he’d made progress since then. Sometimes he even managed to go a couple of nights in a row without dreaming. And sometimes as long as a week without shoving that damned tape into the VCR.

But last night he’d done both. He’d been so restless, felt so distracted, that he’d known it was coming. And it had come, the dream, and even more vividly than usual. So vivid that only the tape, the grim reality, could counteract it, and he’d spent the darkest hours of the night watching it, over and over. It never changed, but he kept on, repeating it, as if he could somehow etch it into his subconscious and erase the dream. He’d rather dream the horror than the miracle; waking up to find the horror was the reality was too devastating.

He knew what had rattled him so, even though he didn’t want to admit it. It was that woman, that teacher, the one Jimmy had brought over. Why couldn’t she have been like that sour-faced, prune-souled woman who was the principal, the woman who sniffed disdainfully every time she saw him, the woman who personified almost every teacher Dalton had had in his life? But no, Ms. Law—had Jimmy ever mentioned her first name?—was no more like that than a go-cart was like an Indy car. And even though Jimmy had told him she was a looker, he hadn’t expected what had climbed out of that classic Chevy.

A classic beauty, he thought as he rolled over and sat up, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his head wearily in his hands. Although she wasn’t, really, he supposed. Her mouth was a little too wide for classic beauty—and too soft and full for his comfort. Her nose was turned up a bit too far—and too sassy for his gloom. Her eyes were too big, too dark—and far too deep and wise for his peace of mind. Too wise for anyone as young as she appeared to be. Those huge, dark brown eyes were almost eerily penetrating, as if she saw much more than anyone thought they were letting be seen.