Rage Factor (4 page)

“It’s okay, boy.” Dixie nudged him gently aside to reach her crutches in the backseat.

“Hang on,” Parker said sharply. “I’ll come around and help you.”

On the long, quiet ride from the hospital, Parker’s few words had been brusque. Grouchy. Whatever he was chewing on, Dixie wished he’d spit it out.

“I’ll be okay. The sooner I start using these sticks, the sooner I’ll quit feeling clumsy.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to practice.”

Four to six weeks, according to the doctor.
“Lucky girl,” he’d announced, teeth gleaming in his wide smile. “It’s the foot that’s fractured, not the ankle.” Ten years younger than her and calling her “girl”? She’d felt like tweaking the twerp’s nose.

It was after the doctor’s pronouncement that Parker turned quiet. But Dixie’s questions had elicited only terse replies, capped by, “I’m not angry, Dixie.”

The foot wasn’t her first broken bone, probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was her first time on crutches. Already she hated the handicap. How the hell did you climb out of a car and manage the damn sticks at the same time?

A brisk January wind whistled around the car as she leveraged herself off the seat. Mud sniffed the rubber-tipped crutch, then sat back on his haunches to observe. Sliding her injured left foot awkwardly, trying not to bump it, Dixie hopped back to clear the car’s threshold—and a stab of pain in her battered ribs caused her to drop a crutch, nearly doubling her over. She swallowed back a yelp. If Parker knew about the bruised chest, he’d get even surlier.

After retrieving the crutch, she turned to find him and Mud standing side by side, two anxious faces in the yellow porch light. The sight made her smile.

“It’s
okay
, guys. Bones heal. I’ll be fine in no time.”

“Until the next job,” Parker said. “The next cut, scrape, broken bone, gunshot wound—”

“I’ve never been shot.” She maneuvered the crutches under her arms and took her first step toward the house.
She’d never realized 120 pounds of human flesh could be so heavy.

But she could do this. She could.

Parker slammed the car door and walked behind as she approached the porch. Mud sniffing worriedly at her splint. She hadn’t a clue how to get up the steps.

“Why don’t you put your car in the garage?” she suggested. Carl had offered to drive her Mustang home from the hotel, but it wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.

“The car’s fine.”

“Didn’t you just wash it? The wind smells like rain.”

“Dixie, if you fall, you’ll break another bone.”

“I’m not going to fall.” I
hope.

Mud tramped up the stairs ahead of her, as if to show the way. Then he turned and studied her misshapen foot again.

Approaching the first step, Dixie hesitated.

“Go ahead and unlock the door while I figure out how to do this.” Did she put the crutches on the step and swing up? Or try to lever herself up, pulling the sticks behind her? Maybe she should just sit down and scoot up backward on her butt.

“Crutches are useless going up stairs,” Parker said. “You have to hold the rail and hop.”

“Hey, that’s right. You’ve used these things before.” As a kid, after a tractor accident. She grinned at him, hoping for a smile back. No dice. “So what do I do with them while I hop?”

“Both in your left hand, hold the rail with your right. Or just
hand me
the friggin crutches.”

“Parker, I’d rather practice the whole thing while you’re here to coach me.”

He nodded grudgingly.

Balanced on her good foot, the unwieldy splint crooked behind, she transferred both sticks to one hand and grabbed the stair rail. It was awkward, but she managed to mount the three steps to the porch, then reposition the crutches and clump to the door.

Inside, she suddenly noticed how much furniture Kathleen
had squeezed into the cozy living room. When her adoptive parents died within two years of each other, Dixie had inherited the house along with the family pecan farm. Amy, less nostalgic and more practical than Dixie, received the summer home in Maine. Dixie adored the old Texas farmhouse, loved every dusty collectible inside it, but at the moment it looked as inviting as an obstacle course for combat training. On a side table, one of Kathleen’s miniature needlepoint maxims framed in ornate silver had never seemed more appropriate: A
Worm Is the Only Creature that Can’t Fall Down.

Parker moved ahead, clearing a path, while Dixie eased tentatively forward.

“Ow!” She’d misjudged the jutting edge of a table and cracked her splint against it. Hurt like a sonofabitch.

Mud sniffed at the table, her foot, the crutch stem, and managed to stay precisely in her path as she continued toward the kitchen.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything.” What she wanted most was to sit down, but her stomach felt as hollow as a gourd. “Something simple. Is there pizza in the freezer?” She usually kept an emergency supply of frozen pizzas and Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits.

“You don’t think a broken foot’s enough to keep you awake tonight, you want indigestion, too?” Parker’s tone was as harsh as his words.

Dixie knew he was merely frustrated with not being able to take away her pain or clobber Lawrence Coombs for causing it, but apparently Mud wasn’t as certain. He nosed protectively between them, teeth sharp and gleaming, his sleek back as high as Dixie’s waist.

Parker scowled at the dog.

“Ease up, Mud. I didn’t break her damn foot.” When Mud stood his ground, Parker sighed. “I’ll make an omelet.”

Parker’s omelets were like golden slices of heaven.

“Sounds terrific.” Dixie’s mouth watered at the mere mention of it.

She scratched Mud’s ears and hobbled to the breakfast nook, a padded booth Barney had built the year after Dixie became part of the family. She still preferred eating most meals there, instead of the long dining table with its eight side chairs. But managing her splinted left foot while sliding onto the blue leather seat she usually chose proved daunting, especially when she was hungry, tired, and irritable. She switched to the opposite side, Amy’s side in the old days, Parker’s in the past few weeks.

Grateful to be off the crutches, she stroked Mud’s neck as she watched Parker move with lazy efficiency between the refrigerator and stove. Maybe cooking would warm up his chilly attitude. A big man, with powerful, densely muscled shoulders, he should look klutzy in Kathleen’s gingham-curtained kitchen. But he chopped, sliced, and sautéed as gracefully as a master chef—which continuously amazed Dixie, since she could scarcely scramble eggs without turning them rubbery. His face and arms had bronzed up on his new boat-selling job at Clear Lake. A fresh haircut had squared off the dark fringe around his collar, leaving the wavy locks thick on the top and sides, as unruly as a small boy’s except when freshly combed. As she watched him work, a tender passion curled up to nestle around Dixie’s heart.

Three weeks ago, Parker Dann had been a name in a file, a mug shot, a bounty job she’d tried to turn down because it interfered with her Christmas holidays. Most of the days since then had been spent with the two of them under the same roof, six days with Parker as her prisoner while she investigated a vehicular manslaughter charge against him. Only after proving his innocence had she allowed herself to respond to the emotions he stirred.

Now, his former neighborhood no longer appealing and his new house under construction eighty miles away on Galveston Island, he usually stayed at her place. They were exploring the boundaries of a relationship. Like chunky fruit Jell-O, it didn’t fit smoothly into a mold. For Dixie’s part, she
already knew she wanted him in her life until long after his dark hair turned white and his rakishly handsome face leathered with time lines. But neither of them had a good history for long-lasting male-female relationships. Parker Dann was a drifter; any day he might drift right out of her life. She was afraid to care
too
much.

The tempting aroma of onions, mushrooms, and sausage wafted from the stove. Moments later, Parker set a warm plate in front of her, omelet perfectly browned, folded, and accompanied by a slice of melon, another plate for himself, and a tall glass of milk for each of them. She didn’t have to look to know Mud would be scarfing up similar fare.

“Milk?” she asked. They usually had wine with dinner.

“Drink it. It’ll help that bone to mend.” He sat across from her and tucked into his meal without meeting her gaze. Grouchy.

“Parker, if I agree to discuss the missing kids thing with Carl, will you stop with the silent treatment?”

“What silent treatment?”

“Okay. Maybe ‘silence’ is not precisely descriptive. How about, ‘silence salted with terse orders’?”

His blue eyes tilted up at her from under his dark, shaggy eyebrows.

“I just don’t see where Carl’s idea is so wrong. How can chasing bail jumpers be more rewarding than finding missing kids?”

“I never said it was more rewarding.”

“Is it the challenge? A ‘liberated female’ thing? Why do you insist on putting yourself in the middle of dangerous situations?”

“Finding Coombs wasn’t supposed to be dangerous,” she pointed out.

“You knew he was charged with rape and battery.”

“The job went sour. You think a parent who’s stolen a child isn’t dangerous? Picture a mama lion.”

He looked away from her. “Eat your omelet before it gets cold.”

Dixie didn’t want to argue with him. Nor did she want to go to bed with the anger simmering between them. She forked up a bite, but continued to watch him discreetly from beneath her lashes. His broad shoulders were rigid with tension, his jaw rock hard, barely moving as he chewed. Parker’s concern for her was comforting at times, but she couldn’t respond to his fears by taking a desk job somewhere. And she simply didn’t know the answers to his questions. She’d never consciously decided to become a bounty hunter. It was a thing that needed doing, so she did it. After ending her career as a prosecutor, she hadn’t really planned the rest of her life. She was making it up day by day, taking on whatever seemed to need doing. Which today had included finding an accused rapist who hadn’t appeared for trial. And dammit, despite the broken foot and painful bruises, this was a day she felt good about her job. Lawrence Riley Coombs was one devil she wanted to see burn.

Parker speared a mushroom as if to kill it.

“I just feel so friggin impotent, not being there, like there must be something I could’ve done. Almost wish Coombs wasn’t locked up, so I could go beat the shit out of him.”

“Thanks for feeling that way.” Dixie meant it. The male gallantry thing might be chauvinistic, but she appreciated his wanting to protect her.

Parker shoved his plate away. “It isn’t easy loving you, Dixie. Knowing any day I might get a call that you’re seriously injured or … worse.”

Loving
her? That’s a word they hadn’t used before.

“How would you feel if it was the other way around?” he demanded. “If I was the one in danger of coming home in a box?”

Dixie had dated a cop once. The worry and uncertainty had made her as mean as a homeless wasp at times, and she hadn’t cared half as much about the cop as she did about the man sitting across from her. She reached for Parker’s hand and linked a finger around his broader one.

“Do you have any idea how good you made me feel, showing up at the ER?”

His gaze caught hers, and his mouth softened at the corners.

“Embarrassing, wasn’t it, all of us crowded around while a doctor poked at you?”

“I wasn’t talking about Amy, Carl, and Ryan. I’m used to their mother-hen act. But Coombs … well, his kind of attack makes a woman feel … dirty. When I looked up and saw your big, beautiful, worried face, everything that happened in that hotel meeting room vanished like a bad dream.”

With his free hand, he nudged a strand of hair away from her cheek. “A bad dream that left an imprint,” he reminded her.

“It’ll heal.”

He nodded. “This time.”

“Believe me, tonight was not typical. These past
weeks
haven’t been typical.”

“No?” He touched her neck where a knife wound had scarcely healed. Then he turned her hand over and rubbed the back of her knuckles with his thumb. “Figured you’d be pissed when I showed up at the hospital. But I had to come. Make sure you were all right.”

“I was more all right after you got there.” She retrieved her hand and returned part of her attention to her food. “You know, if Lawrence Coombs isn’t convicted, he’ll go right on doing to other women what he did to Regan Salles. What he tried to do to me.”

“Which means you’ll testify against him?”

“How would you feel about that?”

“Your having to say in front of a courtroom what he tried to do? Hellfire, Dixie, the sonofabitch belongs in prison. Putting him down for the count is the
only
way to make up for those bruises and that broken foot. I want to be right there in court to hear you crucify him.”

Dixie didn’t think Coombs’ attack on her would crucify him, since he hadn’t been successful in raping her. A jury might reason that any woman figuring she had balls enough to be a bounty hunter should expect a few bruises. Juries were unpredictable. But she was glad Parker felt the same way she did about testifying. Men could also be unpredictable.

When she’d put away the last of her omelet and half a package of cookies to make the milk drinkable, she battled the crutches to lend a hand with the dishes.

“Give it up,” Parker told her. “You’re not helping.”

“Thanks.” Dixie hung up her dish towel and gimped to the living room to read the newspaper.

Later, wind whistling around the windows, they flicked on the bedroom television and prepared to snuggle together in her big four-poster bed. Kathleen’s patchwork quilt would keep them warm enough. In the past couple weeks, the ten o’clock news followed by
The Tonight Show
had become Dixie’s favorite time of day. The snuggling invariably turned serious about halfway through Leno’s monologue.

Dixie knew that wouldn’t happen tonight, when the only square inch of her that didn’t hurt was her navel. Her hands had gone numb from using the crutches, and her armpits ached as much as her bruised ribs from carrying her weight. But she still craved the comfort of curling up in bed with Parker.