“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t think about happiness anymore. I’m not sure I even know what it is. A good meal? A pretty sunset? The fleeting moments when life is good? I don’t think happiness even matters in our lives. It’s not something I strive for.”
He looked away from her. “I’m a decent man, Bernadette. I’m not a perfect one. I hope you’ll remember that.”
“I never asked or wanted perfection, Cal.”
“Maybe not. I’m glad Mackenzie wasn’t hurt any worse today. I know how fond of her you are. I’m sorry I was insensitive. I didn’t mean to be. She’s done a lot with her life, more than anyone thought she would after what she had to face. She blames herself for her father, you know. It doesn’t matter how much time goes by. She blames herself.”
Bernadette nodded. “I know.”
“She’ll blame herself for not getting this guy today, too. At least she wasn’t hurt any worse.” He walked over to Bernadette and touched her hair. “You’re beat – you look as if you fended off a criminal with a knife yourself.” He pulled his hand away. “We had some good times together, Beanie Peacham.”
“We did, indeed.”
“Are you planning to date once I’m out of here? I know it’s none of my business, but if you’re not, you should. You’re still an attractive woman. You have a lot to offer a man.”
She smiled coolly. “And what does a man have to offer me? I like my life right now. Don’t patronize me by suggesting I need a man to be happy.”
“God forbid anyone suggest you need anything. Maybe if you’d needed me even a little bit -” He stopped without finishing his thought. “Never mind. They’ll catch whoever attacked Mackenzie. She’s indestructible. I’ll say that for her.”
He retreated down the hall, and a moment later, Bernadette heard his footfall on the stairs. She flopped down at the kitchen table, picturing Mackenzie fighting off an attacker – and twenty years ago, at age eleven, angry, guilt-ridden, neglected and frightened. Her father’s recovery had been long and painful and uncertain, consuming all of them. He still had terrible scars from his gruesome injuries.
And poor little Mackenzie had found him, mangled, near death, his blood splattered all over the shed.
If ever a child had needed a role model and a friend in those difficult days, it had been curly-haired Mackenzie Stewart, so ebullient by nature, so filled with humor and fun, but traumatized by her father’s accident. Bernadette had never considered herself up to the task of helping Mackenzie. She was a workaholic with one divorce behind her and zero interest in children.
She wasn’t nearly as good as Cal believed.
There was a knock on the side door. Everyone had been urging her to improve her security, both here and in New Hampshire, but she never had. She got up, her hip aching from fatigue and from years of sitting in a courtroom.
She saw Nate Winter standing on the steps. Her first thought was that he was looking more and more like Gus, his uncle, whom she knew would see to Mackenzie just as he’d seen to his orphaned nieces and nephew more than thirty years ago.
Nate would know that, too. He was one of the most respected federal agents in Washington and it was no secret he felt responsible for Mackenzie’s decision to go into the Marshals Service.
Bernadette opened the door. “Nate, it’s good to see you.”
He had on a dark suit and must have come straight from work. Life was good for him right now, with a new wife, a new home and a baby on the way. But Bernadette could see the tightness around his mouth, the only hint of any emotion.
He stepped into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”
Nine
The police had released the shed as a crime scene, after finding no clear evidence that the man who’d attacked Mackenzie had been inside, although, given the open door, he must have either been inside or on his way in. She stood on the threshold, the cool evening air on her back. The wind had died down, and she could hear crickets chirping in the nearby brush. Her girls’ night out with Carine was postponed indefinitely, but it would have been a nice night for laughing and telling stories.
Rook returned her hammer to its spot among Bernadette’s tools. The police hadn’t found any obvious clues to the identity of her attacker. “I had to explain you to my chief,” Mackenzie said. Inside the shed, the air was close, smelling of dust and grease. “I told him we saw each other a few times, and I don’t know why you’re in New Hampshire. He threatened to come up here. Not because of you. Because of the attack, although I suspect it and your reasons for being here are not unrelated.”
“You talked him out of coming up?”
“Apparently, Nate did.”