The Call of Bravery

CHAPTER FIFTEEN



MOST OF THE day had gone by, and Lia had had no chance to talk alone to Conall. He’d been either next door or working on his laptop. Barely glancing up when she asked, he told her, “Reports. The bane of my existence.” She was aware of traffic coming and going next door—dark, official looking sedans and SUVs, and a couple of vans.

Having Conall and Jeff both sitting down to dinner with her and the kids was a novelty. Jeff was his usual quiet self until Lia asked if he’d called his wife.

His ordinary face brightened. “She’s thrilled. I’m not usually away this long.”

“Really?” Lia asked politely. “I thought DEA agents mostly did undercover stuff.”

He shook his head. “We’re involved in all facets of drug enforcement. For example, are you familiar with the Controlled Substances Act?”

Unseen by him, Conall rolled his eyes. One of the boys suppressed a giggle.

“Um, no,” Lia admitted.

He lectured them with unmistakable enthusiasm about DEA responsibility for overseeing the manufacture, distribution and dispensing of legally produced controlled substances, all of which sounded to her as if it had come right out of a pamphlet. “I’ve become more of an analyst in my office than an active agent, and I’m considering a switch to being an Intelligence Research Specialist,” he said. “Not quite as glamorous, but safer. Once you have a family, you know.” He shrugged.

Lia couldn’t imagine Conall being content as a research specialist. All that energy, contained in an office. He seemed hardly able to stand the several hours at a time he’d had to work on his computer and had admitted to being bored with the lengthy surveillance on this assignment. She remembered, though, his hesitation when she’d asked if he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline. What was it he said?

I always have.

There’d been something strange in his voice, though, as if he wasn’t quite sure about what he was saying.

No, she thought bleakly, don’t kid yourself. He’d said exactly what he meant. I always have was unequivocal.

After dinner, he announced that he and the boys would clean the kitchen. Happy as always with anything their hero suggested, Walker and Brendan jumped up and began clearing the table. Lia lingered over coffee, chatting with Jeff for a few minutes, then went out to give the horses their evening grain.

Neither of the men had said anything, but they didn’t have to.

They would be leaving tomorrow. Driving away in that gray Suburban and not coming back.

Her grief was growing like a tumor pressing on essential organs. How had she ever been stupid enough to think she could get involved with Conall and keep it light enough not to grieve when he left?

What if Sorrel decided next week she was ready to go home? And the boys’ caseworker called to announce that she’d found a potential adoptive home for them?

Almost gasping at the pain, Lia somehow wasn’t surprised when Conall separated himself from the shadows on the front porch and stood waiting for her.

“I thought we should talk,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” She sat on the first step, and after a moment’s hesitation he came down, leaning against the hand rail instead of sitting. “Tell me what Brendan saw,” Lia said.

“No bodies, thank God.”

That shook her, even though she’d suspected. “Were there bodies?”

“One.” He sounded terse. “I shot and killed one of the men.”

“Oh.”

“Duncan shot the guy that was holding Brendan, but Bren saw Sean cuffing him and knows he isn’t dead.”

“Does he know—”

“That one of them died?” He shook his head. “He heard the gunfire, but I was evasive. I thought it was better that he didn’t know.”

“Oh, God.” Lia squeezed her eyes shut. “Imagine if he thought he was responsible.”

“I’ve imagined,” Conall said, an indefinable something in his voice. “Steer him away from newspapers and TV news for the next couple of weeks if you can. We’ve managed to keep the kids out of it for now. But you’ve got to be aware that there’s always the chance Brendan will have to testify when it comes to trial.”

“Oh, boy.”

“I think that’s unlikely, to be honest. Brendan was only the catalyst, although they’re being charged with kidnapping.”

“Did you find drugs?”

He shook his head. She could barely make out his face, since the porch light wasn’t on. “No. Illegal possession of weapons. A National Guard Armory worth of weapons.” He sounded grim. “Which opens a can of worms, of course. Where did they get the money to buy the weapons? The rumors had to be right. Sure as shooting—sorry, bad pun—someone in their organization is manufacturing meth, growing marijuana… Hell, who knows. Moving drugs one way or another.”

“Will it be your job to find out who and how?”

“Not sure yet. I’m hoping not. Chances are I’ll get absorbed in some operation back home long before anything active happens on this front. Or because of the weapons the ATF will take it over for now.”

The ATF? After a second, Lia translated: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Another arm of federal law enforcement.

Lia analyzed Conall’s tone. He sounded neutral. Almost…flat. As if he didn’t have strong feelings either way, or as if he was suppressing what he did feel. Did he want to pursue this one to the end and was disappointed about returning to Miami? Or was he glad to be done with this mess and everyone concerned?

“I see,” she said.

They sat in silence for seconds that crawled into a minute or more. Finally Conall asked how Brendan was, in her opinion.

“Okay, I think,” she said slowly. “He was pretty shaken up last night—well, this morning. But he didn’t have any nightmares that I know about. He’s on an adrenaline high—” she winced at the reminder of the conversation with Conall “—but, of course, it was scary and exciting, too.”

“Exciting?” He sounded incredulous. “I’ve never been so freaked in my life.”

“Really?”

“Don’t tell me you think it was exciting.”

“No. Heavens, no.” She wrapped her arms around herself to contain a shudder. “But me, I hate horror films and I don’t read anything meant to make me start listening for the creak of a footstep on the stairs. I’m a coward.”

“No.” His voice was a caress, astonishingly gentle. “That’s the last thing you are, Lia Woods. You have your own kind of courage. Loving these kids and letting them go, over and over.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Her eyes stung. So softly she wasn’t sure he heard, she whispered, “I don’t know how I do, either.”

There was a long, long pause. “You know we’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

Thank God he wouldn’t be able to see the tears that now dripped down her face. “I figured,” she said steadily.

“I’ll…miss you.”

Lia had to swallow several times before she could tell him, “You know we’ll all miss you, too.” But me most of all.

“Yeah, listen. Would you mind if I stayed in touch? Maybe called the boys, sent them postcards? At least until—” His voice, already hoarse, seemed to break. “Until they’ve moved on? And, uh, I’d like to hear what happens with Sorrel. You know.”

“I know.” She couldn’t wipe the tears away without him knowing they were falling. “Of course. Of course you can stay in touch. They’d like that.”

This silence was appalling. A deep, dark abyss.

“God, Lia!” he said explosively.

Holding in the agony, she said, “Would you— If you wouldn’t mind, I think I’ll stay out here a little longer.”

He pushed himself away from the railing, stared down at her for a moment, then took a few steps across the porch without saying another word.

Until she opened her mouth, Lia hadn’t known she was going to do it or what she was going to say. “Conall.”

Even without turning she knew he’d stopped.

“My bedroom door will be open tonight.”

His exhalation was audible and might even have been painful.

“I get bedroom privileges again along with the bathroom?” he said with unmistakable bitterness, then kept going.

Curled over, face pressed to her knees, Lia discovered that hearts didn’t break; they tore.

* * *

CONALL LAY IN BED raging at himself, as far from being ready to fall asleep as it was possible to get. How could he have been such an idiot? He’d had a chance to spend another night with Lia. There was nothing in life he wanted more than to make love with her again. And he’d blown it.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hurt by her accusation that he’d seen her as merely one more convenience to make his stay tolerable. He was still outraged when he remembered. How could she think that? Had he ever treated her in any way to suggest he didn’t value her?

God, that sounded anemic. Like her? Want her? Better, but still inadequate.

The house was quiet. He’d left his own bedroom door partially ajar, painfully aware that Lia’s wasn’t. He supposed that tomorrow night, once he was gone, she’d resume her usual habits. Tonight, she was sending him a signal.

You had your chance. Jerk.

Or maybe she was thinking something stronger.

Conall should have been tired. He was. His eyes were gritty and his head throbbed. The two-hour nap he’d taken today was the only sleep he’d had since the previous night. Sleep usually came easily for him. He’d learned to take advantage of any opportunity. He could sleep in the heat of the Mexican desert, wedged beneath a rock outcropping, one ear tuned for the rattle of a diamondback. A small boat, ripe with the smell of fish guts? No problem. A room in a hacienda where maintaining his cover was a daily balancing act and discovery would mean a certain and gruesome death? He could close his eyes, picture a velvety black sky studded with stars, and fall asleep as gently and certainly as a baby.

He was good at turning his mind off. What wasn’t so easy, he was discovering, was quieting this crackling static of emotions.

The truth was, he wished it wasn’t time to go yet. Eventually, sure, but…not yet. A few more weeks would be good. Long enough to see that Brendan was okay, that his misadventure hadn’t left any lingering terrors. Conall would have liked to keep working on his pitching technique, too. And Walker… Had Lia noticed that he’d bent his glasses last night? Those glasses had made such a difference to him. Conall still thought baseball wouldn’t be his sport; either he still wasn’t seeing real well when he was up to bat or he was worried about breaking the glasses. He had the timing down well enough to swing at more or less the right time, and sometimes he connected, but there was still something blind about the way he swung even though his eyes were open. He was better at soccer, a natural.

A couple of times Conall had noticed Walker wasn’t wearing the glasses when he should have been. He made a mental note to say something to Lia tomorrow before he left. His initial excitement had become tinged with self-consciousness because he had to wear glasses when Brendan didn’t. Walker tried to be as much like his big brother as he could. No surprise, when he didn’t have anyone else.

Please God, don’t let them be separated.

They’d survived so much. Remembering his first impression of them as ghosts, he wasn’t sure they could survive another blow so devastating.

And Lia. He had a suspicion she hadn’t meant him to hear when she’d confessed tonight that she didn’t know how she endured loving the kids and letting them go, over and over. He hadn’t seen her saying goodbye, but he knew there’d be a smile on her face. She would hug them, and be excited for them, and cry when no one could see.

She could keep Brendan and Walker. Unlike most of the kids she cared for, they didn’t have a family to be patched back together.

Maybe she didn’t want to. Or maybe she’d be denied if she applied to adopt them. A single woman… Conall could imagine some hide-bound fool somewhere certain that boys needed a father. Never mind that they’d been raised by a mother alone.

It came to him slowly as he stared into the dark that they did need a father. Otherwise why had they latched onto him the way they had? They’d been so hungry for a role model.

So hungry, he thought bitingly, that they hadn’t seen what a piss-poor role model he was. He’d almost gotten Brendan killed. Maybe he should have been more brutally frank about it, encouraged the kid to see that Conall MacLachlan was the last man he should want to emulate.

And it was true. He’d spent twenty years or more being reckless, so cold he didn’t give a thought to anyone else’s needs or feelings, angry when he felt anything at all. God forbid Brendan should try to be like me.

He thought for the hundredth time of getting up, crossing the hall and opening Lia’s door. Would she turn him away if he walked to the bed and took her in his arms, started kissing her before she could speak a word of protest?

The old Conall would have done exactly that. He wanted her, and why shouldn’t he have her one more time?

This was a hell of a moment to make a new discovery about himself. The new Conall, it seemed, had grown a conscience. He’d already hurt her, and making love with her one more time would tear open a wound that had begun, however tentatively, to heal.

Knowing he was a bastard, wishing he was less of one, he stayed where he was even though it might be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

* * *

SAYING GOODBYE was unspeakably awful.

Jeff and Conall carefully packed their equipment in the back of the Suburban then threw in their duffel bags. Maybe with the intent of giving them a minute, Jeff went upstairs to check again that they hadn’t left anything behind, leaving Conall to face Lia and the boys.

He’d already said goodbye to Sorrel, even driving her out to the main road to meet her school bus earlier in the morning. Lia had no idea what was said, but he’d come back looking particularly blank, something she’d begun to suspect happened when he was unwilling to express what he really felt.

Now he went to the boys and stood with a hand on each of their shoulders, his head bent as he talked to them and listened to whatever they were saying. Lia stood a distance away, feeling as if she’d frozen up inside. That was a good thing; she’d melt eventually, of course, but for now this was safest. She was storing up the memory of these terrible few minutes, though, unable to look away from the man talking to the two boys. She saw the way he cradled the ball of each boy’s shoulder, his big hands careful, affectionate, strong. A lock of his wavy brown hair had fallen over his forehead. He wasn’t smiling. She wondered if he was any more capable of it than she was.

Maybe all he felt was mild regret. But she didn’t—couldn’t—believe that. How could he not have come to love those two boys, who loved him so much?

She saw him drop to his knees and take them into his arms. They clutched him and cried. When he lifted his head, his face was wet and Lia found to her horror that her own meltdown had already begun.

Not yet. Please not yet. Let him be gone first.

She heard the screen door bang behind her. Jeff’s heavy footsteps on the steps.

Conall stood, released the boys and was coming toward her. He had hastily swiped a forearm across his cheeks, erasing most of the visible manifestation of emotions he surely didn’t want to feel.

“Well,” she said.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Lia…”

“I don’t regret anything,” she whispered. “But…please go, Conall.”

She was so devastated, she couldn’t have said what she saw on his face, only that no matter how viciously he’d clamped down on his emotions they were seeping out anyway.

He stepped forward, kissed her cheek without otherwise touching her, and walked away. Jeff thanked her politely for her hospitality, said he’d miss her cooking and she somehow responded with a “Thank you. Goodbye.”

And then—oh, God, then—they were driving away, Conall behind the wheel. The usual dust cloud rose, still hanging in the air after the Suburban had turned at the end of her driveway and disappeared. After she could no longer hear the engine.

A sob rent the silence and she recalled herself to her role in life. The role she’d chosen, eyes open. Lia opened her arms, and both boys flew into them.

* * *

CONALL WALKED INTO his condo on one of the cays reached by bridge from Miami and thought with irony, home sweet home. It felt like a hotel. A nice one—he’d gotten lucky and was subletting a high-end place in a development populated by young professionals. He probably would have felt more at home in Little Havana or South Miami, primarily Spanish-speaking, but here there was virtually no risk of meeting someone who’d recognize him under one of his many aliases. He was invisible to neighbors who didn’t notice when he went away or how long he was gone. He’d liked knowing he was truly alone here, in the midst of people.

He stood in the foyer and realized he hated this condo. He didn’t want to be here.

It took a minute before he could force himself to continue into the bedroom, empty his clothes into drawers—Lia had made sure he came home with everything laundered—and replaced his few toiletries in the bathroom with a Corian countertop and mahogany cabinets. He had no landline, so there were no phone messages he had to deal with. He’d paid all his bills online while he was gone, and what little mail he’d picked up downstairs in his box was junk.

A workout. Conall seized on the idea. The complex had a well-equipped gym, open at all hours. He’d go lift some weights, spend time on the treadmill. Maybe if he stayed until his muscles groaned and he was blinded by sweat, he’d get over this unfamiliar depression.

Yeah. That was a plan.

Maybe so, but it didn’t really work. He discovered he’d lost enough conditioning to alarm him, and knew he’d overdone and would regret it tomorrow, but his mood hadn’t lifted.

He’d forgotten to tell her to keep an eye out for Walker ditching his glasses when he should be wearing them. He could email Lia. That was enough of an excuse…no, it was a reason for contacting her immediately, not waiting a few days as he’d intended.

In fact, if he did it right away she might even read it tonight. The West Coast was three hours behind, after all. Yeah, he should get online now, not wait until he’d showered or made himself something for a late dinner.

The task would have been quickly done if he hadn’t hesitated for a ludicrous length of time trying to decide how to end the email.

Wish I was there with you.

He scowled.

Is your bedroom door open tonight?

God.

I miss all of you so much, I ache with it.

His throat closed.

So, okay, they’d gotten to him. But he felt sure it wouldn’t be a permanent condition. How could it be? He couldn’t picture himself as some kind of family man. Pacing the sidelines at soccer games with the other fathers, yelling advice. Well, actually, he could see himself doing that. He’d spent enough time coaching the boys, it would be hard to keep his mouth shut if he knew one of them needed a reminder.

He swore under his breath.

Sitting at the dinner table every night with his wife and kids… God help him, he’d never been happier than he was at Lia’s table, eating her home-baked sourdough biscuits and fresh-picked green beans, answering Walker and Brendan’s oddball questions, aware all the time of Lia’s gentle smile and the tilt of her head as she listened.

It was new and different, that’s all. A sort of cultural exchange program. This is how other people live.

How he’d dreamed of living when he was a boy.

He wanted that for those two boys. He wanted them to have what he hadn’t had.

Something like despair seemed to make the air thin. He was breathing too hard. He wanted to talk to Lia, but not on the phone. He needed to be sitting out on the porch steps with her, the night air cool, the country scent of manure and growing things so familiar he hadn’t noticed how much easier he breathed there.

With a harsh sound, he grabbed his cell phone. He couldn’t call her, but he could call Duncan. They hadn’t really said goodbye. He’d thought about stopping in town this morning, but his mood had been too lousy.

He dialed before he had time for second thoughts. He was a little startled when Jane answered instead of Duncan.

“Conall. I thought you’d gone back to Florida.”

“I did. Funny thing, we have cell phone service here, too.”

Her laugh was low and husky. “Okay, I admit, I thought once we were out of sight we’d be out of mind. I’m glad you called. Duncan has been prowling around tonight looking out of sorts.”

She went off to get her husband. Conall heard a baby crying, a murmur of voices, and finally his brother came on.

“Con?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He was the one prowling, too restless to sit. “I just, uh, meant to call before I left. Or stop by the station.”

“I hear the owner of the house isn’t pleased to find out what his renters were up to.”

“Hey, landlord risk. You got to expect to patch a few bullet holes in the drywall.”

Duncan laughed. “Maybe in Miami. That’s not in the top ten most common repairs here in Stimson.”

Conall was smiling, finally. “No. Mom and Dad put a few holes in the wall during their fights, but Dad never liked guns, did he?”

“That was one of his few good features.”

“You ever hear from him?” Conall didn’t even know what made him ask. Niall would have said, surely, if their father had made any appearances.

“Not since the once.” Duncan was the only one to see Dad when he stopped by the house after his release from the correctional institute. “Niall told me he half expects Dad to walk up to him at some bagpipe festival, though.”

“Maybe he’s back in the joint.”

“No, I checked not long ago. Unless he left the state.”

“Do you suppose he and Mom stayed in touch?”

There was a long, long silence. Finally Duncan said, “I wouldn’t put it past them. But no. Dad was too…forlorn when I saw him. I guess he could have hunted her down through Aunt Patty, but she always hated his guts so she probably wouldn’t have told him where Mom was even if it was the next room.”

“No, probably not.”

A few times in his career, it had occurred to Conall that he could conceivably end up in the position of arresting his own father. He’d been relieved not to be assigned to the Northwest.

“You glad to be home?” his brother asked.

He glanced around. “Can’t say this feels like home. I’ve actually been away more than I’ve been here this past year.”

“The boys sorry to see you go?”

“Yeah.” He had to clear his throat. “Yeah, that was rough.” Damn. His sinuses burned.

“Lia know what’ll happen to them?”

“No.” Now his voice was thick. “No, uh, she says placing kids that age isn’t easy, especially when the agency is trying to keep them together.”

“They wouldn’t separate them?”

“I hope not.”

After another silence, Duncan asked, “You ever think of…”

No. Goddamn it. No! How could he?

“I almost got Brendan killed.”

“You know that wasn’t your fault.”

On a burst of self-directed anger, he asked, “Whose fault was it?”

“He’s a kid. They do idiot things like that. Besides—”

Conall was squeezing the bridge of his nose so hard the cartilage creaked. “Besides what?” He managed to get the words out.

“If you left the DEA, you could live a more normal life.”

He laughed in disbelief. “What would I do? Sell cars?”

“Come to work for me.”

This laugh held genuine amusement. “When hell freezes over.”

Duncan chuckled. “I guess maybe that wouldn’t work.”

“It’s a miracle Niall tolerates you as a boss.”

“That might be because we don’t actually have a lot to do with each other on the job.”

“It’s a little weird, though, you’ve got to admit.”

“Maybe.” Duncan went quiet again. “I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah.” Conall swallowed. “Listen, you might check in with Lia. Make sure…” He was hunching his shoulders, as if… He didn’t know.

“She’s okay? Sure.” Pause. “Conall—”

“I’ve got another call coming in,” he lied. “I’ve got to go.”

“All right. I’ve missed you. Don’t make me miss you again.”

“I won’t,” Conall said, and knew he was telling the truth. One good thing: he’d reconnected with his brothers. He hoped he wasn’t stupid enough to lose them again.

He ended the call, thought about checking out his freezer to see if he could find something edible, but couldn’t work up any interest. Lia had spoiled him.

In a thousand ways.

He could stay connected with his brothers long-distance and be okay with that. Suspecting he’d never see Walker and Brendan again…that hurt was unexpectedly powerful.

But knowing he’d never again be able to get up in the morning anticipating the sound of Lia’s voice, never hear her laughing in the kitchen or see her kneeling between the rows in her garden, never again stroke his fingers through the thick silk of her hair as he freed it from the braid… Never kiss her, never touch her, never be touched by her… Conall didn’t know how he’d get himself out of bed tomorrow morning, or the next, or the next.

Pictures of her tumbled through his mind. Sensations, textures, scent. The fit of her body, the feel of her smile against his lips. The extraordinary color of her eyes and the fascinating way it changed depending on light and mood. The recognition that they shared the crippling knowledge that they’d never quite belonged.

Until I took her in my arms for the first time.

Shock struck, followed by pain so acute he doubled over. He might as well have taken a bullet.

He’d been wrong. What he was feeling wouldn’t be wearing off like a bad drug reaction given a few days or, at worst, a few weeks.

Unless passionate, desperate, I-would-give-my-life-for-her love could be subdued by willpower alone.

I used to be good at believing I didn’t give a damn.

He made a raw sound he didn’t even recognize. The trouble was, now he’d figured out that he’d been faking it. After that, sincerely believing became a hell of a lot harder.

But what were his choices?