At Close Range. Tara Quinn Taylor
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Disappointed, Brian took a deep breath. Tried to put himself in her shoes. She was a young woman with few resources and a troubled four-year-old to raise. She’d just taken one of the biggest risks of her life, moving the two of them into his home. And he’d sort of, been accused of murder.
She deserved his patience, if nothing else.
“I saw you reading the article in the Sun News when I came in,” he told her, resolving to take care of her, instead of holding her up to unspoken expectations.
“Oh.” That was all. No questions. No accusations. No rambling fears. As if she was unaware, half dead, although he knew her to be a multidimensional, occasionally intense human being.
“It’s okay, Cyn,” he said softly. “You don’t have to take me at face value. You can have doubts. You can ask questions.”
He wasn’t sure she was going to respond even then, she lay so still against him. But then, lifting her head to rest her chin on his chest, she stared up at him in the dim light coming in from the window. “I want to take you at face value.” Her voice was sweet, tender—and also laced with conviction. “I just can’t seem to do it. Every single time I’ve trusted someone, I’ve been hurt. And my son has been hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”
He wanted to interrupt, to reassure her. But knew he had to hear her out. No matter where she was going with this.
If she left before they’d really begun, he’d survive. He didn’t want her to go, but he’d survive.
And he’d watch out for her, too. He’d show her, one way or another, that she wasn’t alone anymore. He’d committed himself to this small family. For good or bad.
“I’m all he’s got,” she said with that hint of intensity that always drew him to her. “He has to come first.”
“Of course he does.”
Shaking her head, Cynthia sat up, adjusting her nightgown and hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s more than that,” she said now, her eyes wide as she met his gaze. “He doesn’t just come first, he comes only. I will do anything for Joseph. Sacrifice anything for him.”
“As would most mothers for their children,” Brian said. He heard the doctor tone enter his voice, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Where do you think the saying ‘mother bear with her cubs’ came from? It’s true. Mothers are infused with a need to give up their own lives, to kill if necessary—in a symbolic sense—to protect their young. You don’t have to apologize for that.”
“I just…” He could see in her eyes that she was trying to tell him something vital. But he couldn’t quite figure it out.
“I love you, Brian.”
There were those words again. And the timing was critical.
He couldn’t keep running and expect her to stay.
“I love you, too.” There. Offering the proclamation hadn’t been as hard as he’d expected. There were many ways to love a person. Many ways to love a woman.
“I mean it. I really, really love you.”
Brian stroked her hair, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Okay.”
He was a lucky man.
“I realize now that I’ve never really loved a man before.”
God, she was lovely. He was going to do everything in his power to be worthy of her. To give her everything he had left to give.
Lord knew he wanted to. Brian just wasn’t sure it would be enough.
Because he didn’t have more words, Brian kissed her. Once. Softly. And then again. His hand at the back of her neck, he guided her lips against his, opening to her, coaxing her to open to him.
And, as always, she was instantly responsive, as though she knew what he needed before he did. When it came to sex, this woman was a natural. Or maybe it was the loving that she was getting right.
“I…” Cynthia broke the kiss, her lips parted as she again met his gaze. “Please, no matter what choices I make in Joseph’s best interests, don’t ever, ever forget that I honestly and truly love you.”
That article again. She was struggling to trust him. Considering her past, her marriage to a man who swore to protect her and their son forever and then was unfaithful, he could certainly understand.
“I want you to remember something, too,” he said, his forehead resting against hers.
“What?”
“No matter what choices you have to make, I’ll be there for you. I won’t desert you. Whether you live here or elsewhere, whether you stay with me or not, you have a friend for life. You got that?”
For the first time in the many months he’d known her, Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears.
“The insinuations in that article are lies, babe.” Some words wouldn’t come. These would. “The reporter took a few facts and put a heinous spin on them. I did fight for stronger border laws after Cara’s death. The kid who hit us was an illegal immigrant, had come across the border with his parents when he was a toddler. But I have never received a dime from any of the volunteer work I do, not from SIDS seminars and certainly not from the free clinic. Nor would I ever knowingly harm a child—whether that child was in my care or not.”
“Do you hate Mexicans?” Her voice was uneven, and there were still tears in her eyes as she clutched at his hand.
“Of course not. I didn’t hate illegals, as people, even then. I hated the system that allowed them to live among us without following our laws.” He talked about statistics, real ones, about health-care rights. About school-system dollars spent teaching kids who couldn’t speak English. About below minimum-wage work being offered that took jobs away from those who weren’t allowed to work for less. And about the Emergency Medial Treatment and Active Labor Act that requires all U.S. emergency treatment facilities to treat anyone needing care, including illegals. Which meant that in highly illegally populated areas, centers closed down because they had to treat too many who didn’t pay for services, leaving Americans without care. Or those where American citizens waited in long lines for care—behind illegals. And about safeguards—such as the driver’s test—that were denied to illegal’s because, as far as the government was concerned, these people didn’t exist. And he talked about the money spent every year by the state to prosecute and defend illegal immigrants.
And then, as she lay there silently—his lover who usually had lots to say about politics—Brian changed the subject, telling her about the SIDS program he and Hannah had developed.
If Cynthia needed time to digest the rest, she would have it. An accusation of murder wasn’t a simple thing.
“They say that you shouldn’t lay a baby on its stomach,” Cynthia said. “They say that increases the risk of SIDS. At least, that’s what they told me when I had Joseph.”
“That’s right.”
Cynthia asked a couple more questions. He answered them. And then, when she appeared to be done for the night, repeated, “All of that aside, I want you to know I would never do anything to harm a child. Any child. For any reason.” It was crucial that she understand that, if nothing else.
Her scrutiny wasn’t light. Or easy. But he endured those moments without difficulty. And when she finally nodded, he believed she was satisfied.
4
Susan Campbell stuck her head in Hannah’s door after lunch on Friday. “You ready, Judge?”
Sitting at her desk, wearing the black silk robe of her calling, Hannah nodded and accepted the compassionate smile on the face of her twenty-six-year-old judicial assistant.
She wasn’t ready. How could you ever be ready to do something