Gabriel's Honor. Barbara McCauley
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I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
“Please don’t hurt my mommy.”
Gabe froze at the sound of the tiny, frightened voice that came from a dark corner of the dining room. He felt the breath shudder out from the woman underneath him, heard her small choked-back sob.
A woman and a child? Hiding in the darkness in an empty house? What the hell was going on?
“I’m not going to hurt your mommy,” Gabe said softly to the child as he released the woman. “She just surprised me, that’s all.”
He stood, then reached down and took hold of her arm to help her up, but she shook off his touch and moved quickly into the shadowed corner of the room to join the small figure huddled there.
“It’s all right, baby,” Gabe heard her say. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
They stood there, all three of them, without speaking, letting the darkness smooth a quiet hand over the tension. Gabe drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I’m going to turn on a light now. Are you going to run again?”
A long pause. “No.”
He didn’t believe her for an instant. He kept his gaze on the shadows as he ran his hand along the wall by the doorway, found the switch and flipped it on.
Light from a crystal chandelier poured into the room, but it still seemed dark. Dark wood paneling, dark green drapes, cherry wood dining-room table and buffet. The room had all the cheerfulness of a cave.
Wearing a long-sleeved, black turtleneck sweater and black jeans, and with hair the deep brown color of sable, the woman would have completely blended into the shadows of the room if not for her pale face and wide, thickly lashed eyes. For one brief moment, his gaze rested on her lips: wide, curved, slightly parted.
Damn, he thought, then quickly shook off the twist in his gut.
She stood in the corner, her shoulders stiff and straight, with her child behind her. He guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid-to-late-twenties. Her wary gaze lifted to his and held, and he could see that she indeed wanted to run, was merely waiting for the opportunity.
He moved between the two doorways in the room, effectively blocking her, but carefully keeping his distance.
“Who are you?” she demanded suddenly, catching him off guard. “What are you doing here?”
Gabe lifted one dark brow. “Funny, that’s what I was just going to ask you.”
“I’m a friend of Miss Witherspoon’s.” Her chin went up. “She was expecting my son and me.”
Gabe glanced down and watched a sandy-blond head peek out from behind the woman’s legs. Short, stubby fingers clutched tightly onto her slender thighs. Four or five, Gabe guessed the kid’s age.
Gabe looked back at the woman. “I didn’t see a car out front.”
“I parked it in the garage out back,” she said, placing a hand on the side of her son’s head. “I needed the overhead light to unload.”
Maybe, Gabe thought. Maybe not. He looked back up at the woman. “When?”
Her brow furrowed. “When what?”
“When was Miss Witherspoon expecting you?”
“Oh.” She blinked quickly. “Well, actually, we weren’t due to arrive until Friday, but I didn’t think she’d mind if we were a couple of days early. It seems, however, that she’s away at the moment.”
That was an understatement, Gabe thought.
“I didn’t think she’d mind if we waited for her,” she added. “The last time we spoke, she was looking forward to our arrival.”
The woman’s voice was smooth, Gabe noted, with rich, deep tones, still a little breathless from their scuffling. “When did you speak with Miss Witherspoon last?” he asked.
“When did I speak with her?” she repeated hesitantly. “I’m not sure. Several days ago. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. But I really don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“And that was last week, you say?”
“Give or take a day or two.” Her eyes flashed as she shook her thick, dark hair away from her face. “Look, I don’t appreciate your attitude. My son and I are invited guests here, and you’re the one who broke in and frightened us half to death.”
There was some truth in the woman’s words, Gabe believed. But there were lies, as well. Especially the part about speaking with Miss Witherspoon the previous week. That would have been quite a conversation, considering she’d died two weeks ago.
But anyone who knew Mildred Witherspoon, also knew that the woman had never, in the ninety-two years she’d lived in the town, ever, invited anyone into her home. Other than the monthly meetings and Sunday services she attended, Mildred had tucked herself away as tightly as the bun on top of her head.
Which most certainly meant that the woman standing ten feet away from him was lying through her pretty white teeth.
“Look, mister, it’s been a long day.” The strain was apparent in the woman’s thin voice and the tight press of her lips. “My son and I are tired. If Miss Witherspoon is out of town, then I’ll just leave her a note and we’ll be on our way in the morning.”
He supposed he could just let it go, let her stay here with her child without questioning her. He seriously doubted that she’d come here to steal anything, or that Mildred Witherspoon even had anything worth stealing. What did he care if this woman stayed here and was on her way in the morning? Who was he to begrudge her a night’s stay in an empty house?
But there was something in her eyes, something beyond the wary defiance. Something as quiet as it was fierce. Something desperate. And whatever that something was, it closed around him like a fist and squeezed.
Dammit, Gabe, just walk away.
Lord knew he didn’t need or want any complications in his life. He should just do what he came here to do, then turn around, walk out the front door and go to Reese’s tavern where he could toss back a beer or two. Not think about the frightened look in this woman’s eyes. She’d be gone in the morning, and they could both forget they’d ever seen each other.
That’s what he should do.
But he couldn’t, dammit. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.
“Miss Witherspoon died two weeks ago,” he said evenly. “Now do you want to try it again and tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
Her breathing seemed to stop, and her eyes closed with what appeared to be genuine concern. She drew in a slow, shaky breath, then opened her eyes again.
“How?” she asked quietly.
“She just went to sleep and didn’t wake up,” Gabe replied. “We should all be so lucky at ninety-two.”
“She seemed so much younger on the phone,” the woman said thoughtfully. “So full of life.”
“That’s one way to describe her,” Gabe replied. He could think of several other descriptions he’d keep to himself.
“I’m sorry about Miss Witherspoon,” the woman said abruptly, then straightened her shoulders. “And since it now appears that we’re imposing, my son and I will be on our way.”
She reached behind her, took her son’s small hand in her own and started for the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going to leave now.”
Gabe blocked her way. “You haven’t told me who you are.”
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said coolly and tried to step around him.
He stepped in front of her