The Call of Bravery

CHAPTER FIVE



“SO, LITTLE ONES,” Lia said. The day was so nice she’d brought Julia and Arturo outside, where they sat on the lawn at the edge of dappled shade. After wondering stares, Julia had become fascinated by the grass and now had her plump fingers knotted in it. “Do you miss your mama? I think you’ll see her soon. Arturo, don’t pull your sister’s hair.”

“You’re speaking Spanish to them.” Conall sounded thoughtful.

Lia jumped and swiveled on her butt to glare at him. “Don’t sneak up on us.”

“I’m a special agent,” he said in apparent amusement. “That’s what we do. Didn’t you know that?”

“You’d better tell Jeff. I can always hear him coming.”

“Heavy feet.” He shook his head in disapproval. “I’d better report him.”

She puffed out a breath. Her heartbeat was settling into something approaching a normal rhythm. Not quite normal; it wouldn’t while he was standing there, she was afraid, looking unbelievably sexy and relaxed, that smile lingering around his mouth even as he watched her. His jeans were well-worn, cupping his— No, she would not notice that part of his body. A faded T-shirt clung to powerful muscles. His feet were bare. Was he unarmed? She’d caught glimpses a couple of times of a shoulder holster beneath a loose denim or twill shirt. But surely he didn’t always carry a gun.

“Aren’t you supposed to be spying?” she asked. “Or sleeping?”

“I just woke up. Made myself a sandwich and saw you out here.”

“Oh.” Brilliant. “Did you say hi to Walker and Brendan?”

“I suggested they come out, too.”

Fat chance of that. She nodded.

“You’re fluent,” he observed.

“You mean in Spanish?”

“Yes.”

Lia shrugged. “You can’t tell I’m Hispanic? My mother’s Mexican. She came up here illegally, worked as a maid until she met my father who married her.” She winced inwardly at her tone of defiance. She should have told the story casually. She’d meant to. Lia didn’t kid herself that Conall hadn’t had her investigated, if that Agent Phillips hadn’t already done it. She needed to appear open. Nothing wrong here, nope.

“I thought you might be,” he said slowly. “I I heard you singing a lullaby in Spanish last night.” He began to sing softly in a deep, lazy baritone. “Buenos dias, buenos dias, como estan? Como estan? Estamos muy contentos, estamos muy contentos, din don dan, din don dan.”

Julia and Arturo gazed at him, rapt. Goosebumps had risen on Lia’s arms.

“Very nice,” she said. “You speak Spanish?” Dumb thing to say; his accent was as authentic as hers.

“Sí.” He smiled and sat down, grinning at Arturo. He pointed toward the pasture. “El caballo.”

The little boy bounced.

Conall pointed the other direction, toward the grazing cows. “La vaca.”

“La vaca,” Arturo agreed intelligibly.

“I didn’t think to ask whether they spoke English or Spanish at home,” Lia said. “When Arturo was so quiet, it finally occurred to me he probably speaks Spanish.”

“Insofar as a kid this age speaks anything.”

Indignantly, she said, “He’s got a good vocabulary for his age.” She touched a finger to her nose and asked in Spanish, “What’s this, Arturo?”

“Nariz,” he shouted.

His sister giggled in delight.

Lia sang “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” in Spanish and soon had Arturo touching the parts of his body with her. Julia clapped her hands and vocalized.

“I know how to sing that,” Walker said. “’Cept not in Spanish. That’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

Startled again, Lia turned her head to see that both boys had approached unheard. They looked pinched and pale as if they hadn’t seen sunlight in months, but they’d come outside willingly.

She willed her smile not to tremble. “Yes, I finally figured out that Arturo understands Spanish and not English.” Actually, she’d gotten caught speaking it to him, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

Please, Mateo, come and get these children.

“How come?” Walker asked.

“There are quite a few people in this country who speak a different language,” she said. “America is made up of immigrants, you know. Everyone is descended from grandparents or great-grandparents or great-great-grandparents who came from somewhere else. Everyone except the native Americans who lived here first.”

The boy nodded. “Mom said that our father’s grandparents came from Poland. Only…” Uncertainty entered his voice. “I think they went back.”

She nodded matter-of-factly. “Adjusting to a place where everyone speaks a different language and eats unfamiliar food and thinks differently would be hard, wouldn’t it?” She knew; oh, she did.

Both boys nodded.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Conall suggested.

They looked at each other in silent communication, then dropped to the grass side by side, maintaining some distance from the others. Brendan, she suspected, didn’t want to be here at all. His little brother had talked him into coming out. It was Walker who’d opened up to Conall at dinner the other night, too, she remembered. It was Walker who now asked, “But how come Arturo’s mom doesn’t learn to talk English, since she lives here?”

No mention of dad; in Walker’s world, kids didn’t have a father.

Lia smiled at him. “She might not have been here very long. Or she spoke English when she was at work and Spanish at home. She might have wanted her kids to grow up bilingual. Speaking two languages,” she translated.

“She might even be here illegally,” Conall remarked. He’d stretched out on his side and his head was propped on his hand. It was her he was watching, not the boys. Although his tone was still lazy, his eyes weren’t.

“But if the children were born in this country,” Lia shot back, “they’re American citizens.”

He murmured wordless agreement, but she didn’t like the sharp way he continued to watch her.

“I don’t actually know much about their parents,” she lied to the boys, trying to focus on their faces and not his. “They’re only supposed to be here for a week or two. There was some kind of family emergency.” She shrugged.

“Like their mom is dying?” Brendan asked, in the same tone another kid might have said, Like their mom went to the grocery store?

Pity leapt to her throat. “No, honey. No, their mom will be back.”

“After she wades the Rio Grande,” Conall said sotto voce.

Dear God, he knew. Somehow he knew.

“Do they have a dad?” Conall asked.

“Yes,” she snapped, knowing her cheeks were flushed. “Actually…I’m not sure. It was the mom who…had something happen.” Got deported.

He nodded.

“Mr. Henderson said he has kids,” Walker reported. “Only I guess he doesn’t live with them.” The faintest quaver in his voice said, Why doesn’t he? Do any kids have a dad who cares?

Oh, dear God, how did she answer the unspoken?

She was surprised when Conall sat up and reached for Walker. “Come here.” He handled him with ease, man to boy, scooting him over so they were hip to hip. He kept an arm slung over his shoulder. Not cuddling exactly, but…holding him the only way an eight-year-old boy would accept.

Brendan stayed, stiff and frozen, where he’d been, watching Conall as if he were a timber wolf, creeping through the grass toward Pepito, the Shetland pony.

“Jeff does live with his kids,” Conall told the boys. “He really loves them. You know when we’re upstairs, it gets pretty boring.” Even Brendan nodded. “He talks about them all the time. His wife and kids. He misses them.”

“Then how come he’s not with them?”

“Because this is his job. Sometimes it means being away from home for a few weeks at a time.”

“Do you have kids?” Walker asked.

“No.”

“So you don’t have anybody to miss.”

Conall got the strangest expression on his face for an instant. Not long enough for her to pin down. It was as if…he’d been shocked by some realization.

“No,” he said, a little huskily. “I guess I don’t.”

“That’s good.” The boy’s throat spasmed. “Cuz… Cuz…”

Lia was appalled to realize that her vision had misted. She wasn’t sure she could have said anything, and was grateful when Conall nodded.

“It hurts when you miss someone. I know.”

“How do you know?” The boy looked up at him in entreaty. “If you don’t have anyone? Is it cuz of your parents going away?”

She could see him choking on that one. Over the top of Walker’s head, Conall’s eyes met hers. Bail me out, he was demanding.

“Even if Agent MacLachlan doesn’t have anyone right now… A wife or kids or—” Best let that go. “If you’ve ever loved somebody, you’ve had times you missed them. Like his mom and dad. I miss my parents because they’ve moved to Arizona and I don’t see them very often anymore. That’s not the same as the way you miss your mom, because I know I’ll see them again. But…sometimes I really wish my mom was here, so I could tell her something.”

Walker bent his head. “Oh.”

Conall ruffled his hair. “Hey. It’s getting hot out here.”

It was unseasonably warm, but Lia wouldn’t have described a day in the upper seventies as hot. She was enjoying the feel of the sun on her face.

“You got a sprinkler?” he asked her. “I’m thinking Walker and Brendan need to get wet.” Then he grinned. “Maybe you do, too.”

She gaped at him. “You think we should run through a sprinkler?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Why not indeed?

“What do you think, boys?” he asked.

“I guess,” Walker said uncertainly. His gaze strayed to his brother’s. Again there was that moment of silent communication. “It might be fun,” he said doubtfully.

Conall had them organized before she knew it. He hauled a hose and rotating sprinkler out of the barn, where they’d been since last fall, hooked the hose up to the faucet on the side of the house and had the sprinkler merrily turning in no time.

“But we’re dressed,” Brendan objected.

“What’s a little water?” Conall strode to the porch steps where he stripped off his T-shirt. If she hadn’t been watching closely, she wouldn’t have seen him pull an evil-looking black handgun from his back waistband and slip it under the shirt. That distracted her—although only momentarily—from the sight of his lean muscles and the dark hair on his chest. “No shoes,” he said, shaking his head as the two boys looked at the sprinkler as if they didn’t know what to do with it. “Gotta have bare feet. No shirts, either.”

Uncertainly, they pulled their matching, striped T-shirts over their heads to expose skinny, fish-belly-white torsos. Both sat to take off socks and shoes. “But our jeans will get wet,” Brendan objected.

“Do you have another pair to change into?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Does Lia mind if you get these wet?”

Smiling, she shook her head. She now held baby Julia in her lap. Both the little ones were watching wide-eyed as Conall dashed recklessly through the spray.

Shaking his head like a wet dog on the other side, he grinned at Brendan. “Dare you.”

The solemn boy nodded, gulped as if for courage, then ran through the water. He let out a squawk as cold water fountained over him. Laughing, Conall called, “Now you, Walker.”

“Is it cold?”

“Yes!” his brother exclaimed, skinny arms wrapping around himself.

“Do I hafta?”

“You hafta,” Mr. Special Agent MacLachlan told him, that utterly irresistible grin turning his face into one guaranteed to make any woman’s knees weak.

“Okay.” The boy squeezed his eyes shut. His hands knotted into fists at his side. Then he ran right through the sprinkler, screaming all the way.

On the other side, Conall hoisted him triumphantly into the air. “Now wasn’t that fun?”

“Yes!” For the first time since Lia had had him, Walker smiled. Really smiled. “It was fun, wasn’t it, Bren?”

Conall grabbed the older boy’s nape with rough affection, said, “Let’s do it again,” and all three of them bolted through the water laughing.

Laughing. Two boys who had hardly talked in the weeks they’d watched their mother die and in the days they’d mourned her. And now this amazing man had reminded them that there were still reasons to laugh.

Oh, blast it. She was crying now, and she never cried.

She sniffed, swiped away the moisture, and found all three of them arrayed in front of her, soggy jeans clinging to their legs, the laughter still on their faces.

“You, too,” Brendan said.

“Yeah!” Walker grinned at her. “I bet even Julia would like it.”

Julia liked everything. She was babbling and bouncing.

Conall scooped up Arturo then grimaced. “He’s already wet. What’s a little wetter?”

“I can’t take off my T-shirt,” Lia protested weakly.

Conall’s smile became wicked. “Ever hear of a wet T-shirt contest?”

“I’d lose.”

His gaze lowered to her breasts and there was a glint in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he murmured.

She glowered at him, but let the boys pull her to her feet, Julia on her hip. She was kicking off her flip-flops when Conall swung Arturo onto his shoulders, made sure he was gripping his hair, then raced through the water. Arturo chortled the entire way. The boys were right behind them. Resigned, Lia followed. The minute she discovered how really, really cold the water was, she squealed and sped up.

“Like a girl,” Conall told her when she emerged from the spray.

“It’s cold,” she said indignantly.

Conall’s gray eyes strayed to her breasts again. Very quietly, for her ears only, he told her, “You win.”

She looked down. Oh, heavens! She’d gotten soaked. Worse yet, her bra was not doing its job. Her nipples were poking out. She wanted to believe it was because of the cold water, but couldn’t be entirely sure she wasn’t reacting to that very sexual appraisal.

From a man who was a threat to her. She couldn’t forget that. More of a threat than ever, now that he’d hinted he knew.

Even so… The boys were laughing and cavorting, darting in and out of the sprinkler, letting Conall roughhouse with them. They were having fun, when she hadn’t been sure they ever would again. Arturo had Conall’s sopping wet, too-long hair gripped tightly in two fists, and he was laughing in belly-shaking delight. Julia strained toward the sprinkler, her babbling gaining in volume.

“Oh, all right,” Lia muttered, and raced through again. This time, it almost felt good. She’d forgotten the pleasure of wet grass slick beneath her toes.

It didn’t last long; it couldn’t, when the day wasn’t really hot at all. Pretty soon the boys were shivering and Lia announced that they were all going inside to dry off and change clothes.

Conall turned off the water and moved quickly to grab his T-shirt and the weapon it concealed before the boys could reach the porch steps. They groaned loudly as they climbed, trying to pluck the wet jeans from their legs.

“Take them off before you go inside,” Lia told them. “Then use the downstairs shower.”

They did, leaving on only their white briefs, their jeans in a sodden heap on the porch. Conall lifted his dark eyebrows. “What about me? Should I take mine off, too? What about you, Lia? Are you planning to drip all over the floor?”

Heaven help her, she was blushing. “I’m not getting undressed in front of you.”

“Aw,” he complained. He was laughing at her, but his eyes were warm, too. Usually even when he smiled, those gray eyes stayed cool, but not now. He was attracted to her, and letting her know.

And she did not dare do anything about it.

“I,” she announced, “claim the upstairs bathroom. Julia and I are taking a shower, too. I think the hot water tank can handle two showers running at once.”

“Wait. What about me?” His smile became cajoling. “What about Arturo?”

She made her own smile evil. “Wait your turn.”

“But…”

Lia paused on the doorstep then turned back. “Thank you, Conall. That was…really nice of you.”

Between one second and the next, he shut down any real emotion. What was left was practiced charm, and she didn’t like it at all. He was still smiling, but it wasn’t the same.

When he didn’t say anything, she nodded and went in, leaving him dripping on the porch with a happy little boy riding his shoulders.

* * *

TRYING TO PRETEND that Henderson wasn’t there, thirty feet away, sitting in profile to him at the window, Conall lay in the dark and stared up at bare rafters. That stupid display he’d put on this afternoon kept running through his head.

From the minute Lia had thanked him, panic had clenched in his gut. He still didn’t know what had gotten into him. Yeah, he’d figured he could be nice to the boys; what would that hurt? But when he had looked up at them standing there, stiff and awkward and sad, some alien force had overtaken him.

He didn’t like that he’d acted so out of character. Sure, he’d spent time with kids before; sometimes when he was playing a part he had to. But this was different. It hadn’t been intentional. He’d been friggin’ possessed.

At a rustling sound, Conall turned his head and saw Henderson stretching before he hunched forward again.

Conall had eaten dinner up here. Brendan had delivered his meal, knocking on the door at the foot of the stairs, the covered plate held with self-conscious care.

“How come you can’t eat with us?” he’d asked, craning his neck to see past Conall.

Conall had forced a smile. “It’s Jeff’s turn. Not fair to shut him up here 24/7, is it?”

“No, but—”

“It’s my job,” he’d said gently.

The boy nodded, turned and walked slowly away.

Conall squeezed his eyes shut now and contrasted that slow, mechanical gait with the joyous run through the sprinkler.

He pictured himself running through it, and for an instant thought he was identifying with the kid. But, no. He was the kid. Scrawny, shorter than Brendan. Laughing, feeling the sensations of hot summer sun, freezing cold water, short spiky grass under tender feet unaccustomed to going barefoot. It was extraordinarily vivid. Niall was there, too, not any huskier but way taller, and Duncan, soaking wet in shorts that clung to his hips and thighs. He was taunting his brothers, chasing Niall, turning back to grab Conall and hold him as the water caught them.

The feelings inside him were powerful. His brothers were including him, doing something because they thought he’d have fun. For that brief hour, he’d been happy.

Oh, man. Conall had a lead weight on his chest. Now he knew who he’d channelled today. Duncan. The ghost of what had been, too rarely. The brother he’d loved so desperately, emulated even as he knew he’d always fall short—Duncan MacLachlan.

Today, he’d acted out a scene from his past. He had to have been about Walker’s age, maybe eight or nine. He’d seen himself in those two boys’ hopeless eyes and he had known how he could reach them.

The weight that kept him from breathing freely grew heavier, not lighter, and the knot in his belly made him regret the beef Stroganoff.

If there was one person in the world he didn’t want in his head, it was his big brother. Conall was freaked by the idea that he had, unknowingly, taken Duncan as his role model and in so doing connected with a pair of wounded kids in a way he himself would never be able to manage.

Didn’t want to manage.

They’re not my responsibility.

What he’d done was no biggie, he tried to tell himself. He’d given them a little fun. Like Duncan had given him some fun, that long ago day. That hadn’t meant anything, either.

But that was a lie, he knew. It had meant something. It always did. Duncan had been more of a father to him than their biological father ever was.

Yeah, he’d wanted more from Duncan than he ever got. He cringed at the memory of himself, so hungry for affection, desperately soaking up what he did get.

In the end, though, Duncan had become his father in every meaningful sense. By then, he’d have sneered at the idea of running through the sprinkler on a hot day with his brothers. He was too tough for that, too alienated, too angry.

And so Duncan had done what a father should do: he’d forced compliance, he’d scared Conall into toeing the line. There were years Conall had been grimly focused on only one thing: getting the hell away from home. He’d been a shit, he realized in retrospect, still angry for reasons he no longer understood.

He hadn’t wanted to be a responsibility. He’d wanted to be loved.

Would he have accepted affection if Duncan offered it? Conall asked himself and knew the answer.

No.

Would Duncan have taken on the responsibility of his brothers, the burden, if he hadn’t loved them?

Maybe. Duncan was the kind of man to see life as a series of responsibilities. He’d never evade one.

Panic was curling tighter in Conall’s belly. He lay absolutely still in bed and his heart raced as if he’d just slammed through a locked door with gun drawn.

Hell, yes, Duncan had loved them.

Why had Niall been able to see it and I couldn’t?

Why did it still matter?

Especially now? Why did those two grieving boys make him feel as if he was being gutted? Why did he feel as if Lia was seeing more than anyone else ever had when she looked at him?

And why did she scare the crap out of him?

“You awake?” Henderson murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Our neighbors didn’t forget to take their trash out after all.”

Conall swung his feet over the side of the bed, intensely glad of a distraction. “They didn’t want to put it out too early.”

“Most people don’t wait until the middle of the night.”

“Most people aren’t worried about someone going through their garbage.” He stopped beside Henderson, who still had his eye to the scope. “How many cans?”

“Only one.”

He grunted. “As soon as he gets back, I’ll go take a look.”

They could both hear the pickup driving out to the paved road; pausing, then coming back. The pickup pulled into the garage without allowing a good look at the driver’s face.

“Damn it,” Henderson muttered, as the garage door came down. “You want me to go out there?”

“Nah, I’ll do it,” Conall said. And after sitting up here in this damn attic for nearly a week, he was desperate to take action—even if that action was digging through someone’s potato peelings and empty soup cans. In sudden amusement, he said, “I take it our neighbors don’t recycle. Tut, tut.”

Lia, of course, recycled religiously. Aluminum cans, paper and cardboard, plastic. She even cut the tops off her soup cans and ran them through the dishwasher so her recyclable goods were clean. As a result, she’d put out two containers: one garbage, one recycling. She was the first person he’d ever encountered who was so conscientious, and yet also willing to break the law.

He pulled on jeans and jacket, stuck his gun at the small of his back and slipped out of the house as quietly as possible. He carried a key so he could lock behind him. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the inhabitants of this house vulnerable.

When he got out to the corner, he had to poke through several cans before he found the right one. Fortunately, the other neighbors on the road thought nothing of throwing away advertising circulars and the leftovers of bill paying that had their names and addresses on them. Only one can had a few ads addressed to Current Resident but nothing more personal.

Not surprising—these particular residents didn’t seem to get any mail delivery that was personal. Conall knew, because he’d taken a quick look after the postal carrier came and went each day. He’d half hoped to see that his targets had bought a locking mailbox he’d have had to break into, but no. It would seem snail mail didn’t interest them.

Going through someone’s garbage was a potentially interesting but invariably odoriferous task. Conall wore latex gloves for that reason.

What he discovered was that the residents were subsisting on frozen food and pizza. Clearly they weren’t getting their daily quota of fruits and vegetables. There wasn’t so much as a carrot peeling or apple core in the can. The pizza, though, was interesting. Either they were having it delivered, or someone was going into town and picking it up. Either way, it suggested possibilities.

The pizza parlor whose boxes had been smashed flat to fit into the can must be new since Conall’s day, but he could find it. Possibly the owner could be induced to cooperate. Say, allow someone to substitute for the delivery driver, or even look the other way while a listening device was inserted in the corrugated cardboard of the box. Right now, Conall would give a great deal to listen in on even one conversation. Maybe more than that, if the box then sat in the garage for up to a week until the next trash pickup.

He put the lid on the can, then ducked down as a car passed on the road, the headlights momentarily blinding him. It kept going; no one had seen him.

Conall jogged up the gravel road, careful to keep to the weedy verge where there were no potholes. Breaking his ankle wasn’t part of the program.

He wished he’d learned more, but was energized by having any idea at all of how to penetrate the perimeter. He was usually more patient than this; a surveillance could go on for weeks or months, and rushing it could be fatal. But this time he had reason for his impatience. He needed to get the hell away from his hometown, from Duncan and Jane whose eyes were as discerning as Lia’s, from Lia herself and Walker and Brendan.

He’d spent his career playing perilous games with cold-blooded killers and rarely felt even a pang of fear. Conall felt one now. He told himself it was stupid to believe he was in any kind of danger, but the way he’d felt earlier, gut clenched and heart hammering, told him he was. He didn’t know how or why, and that made the threat all the greater.

As he let himself into the dark house, he remembered that tomorrow was the family reunion there was no way in hell he could avoid it. He winced. Brothers, their sweet wives, a herd of children. And him, in the spotlight.

If ever there was a time he’d needed backup.