Errant Angel. Justine Davis
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decision firmly, solidly and irrevocably made, she climbed into bed, pulled the thick, bright yellow comforter over her shoulders, and settled down to sleep.
And in the morning she told herself she couldn’t be held responsible for what she dreamed, even if those dreams involved a lean, dark-haired man who looked at her with eyes so haunted that her heart—which was supposed to be immune—ached for him.
* * *
Dalton rubbed at his weary eyes, groaning at the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the windows across the room. If he had gotten even two hours of sleep, he’d be surprised. Dawn had been brightening the sky when he’d at last dropped off. If Mrs. Webster wasn’t bringing in her car—if you could call that behemoth of hers a car—for an oil change this morning, he’d roll over and go right back to sleep.
There had been a time when he’d been able to sleep only in the daylight, but he’d made progress since then. Sometimes he even managed to go a couple of nights in a row without dreaming. And sometimes as long as a week without shoving that damned tape into the VCR.
But last night he’d done both. He’d been so restless, felt so distracted, that he’d known it was coming. And it had come, the dream, and even more vividly than usual. So vivid that only the tape, the grim reality, could counteract it, and he’d spent the darkest hours of the night watching it, over and over. It never changed, but he kept on, repeating it, as if he could somehow etch it into his subconscious and erase the dream. He’d rather dream the horror than the miracle; waking up to find the horror was the reality was too devastating.
He knew what had rattled him so, even though he didn’t want to admit it. It was that woman, that teacher, the one Jimmy had brought over. Why couldn’t she have been like that sour-faced, prune-souled woman who was the principal, the woman who sniffed disdainfully every time she saw him, the woman who personified almost every teacher Dalton had had in his life? But no, Ms. Law—had Jimmy ever mentioned her first name?—was no more like that than a go-cart was like an Indy car. And even though Jimmy had told him she was a looker, he hadn’t expected what had climbed out of that classic Chevy.
A classic beauty, he thought as he rolled over and sat up, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his head wearily in his hands. Although she wasn’t, really, he supposed. Her mouth was a little too wide for classic beauty—and too soft and full for his comfort. Her nose was turned up a bit too far—and too sassy for his gloom. Her eyes were too big, too dark—and far too deep and wise for his peace of mind. Too wise for anyone as young as she appeared to be. Those huge, dark brown eyes were almost eerily penetrating, as if she saw much more than anyone thought they were letting be seen.
God, you’re tired when you start fantasizing like that, he muttered inwardly. You’ve got no business thinking about her at all, or any other woman for that matter. You’re out of that race, for good, and you’d damned well better remember that.
That’s what you get, he lectured himself, for letting that kid get close. You should have kept the walls up. Once you let one person in, they start dragging in others. Well, it wasn’t too late. He might have let the kid in, but he could throw him right back out again. So Jimmy’s got problems. Don’t we all? Let him deal with them. Nobody ever gave a damn about you, and you survived. He’d better learn to survive, too, because nobody was going to help him. And he’d better start learning now.
Dalton stood, rubbing at the scar on his temple, and feeling the ache in his right ankle where more metal than bone held the joint together. He welcomed the pain. It served as a reminder of why he was here, of what he had done. And it was only physical pain, a hell of a lot easier to stand than the other agony, the one that ripped at his insides like the jagged pieces of a race car had once ripped at his flesh.
He strode toward the bathroom, with each step forcing his right foot down harder, heightening the pain. He knew it was the only way to get past it, to work it out. It was also no more than he deserved.
And as he stood beneath the flow of steaming water, he found himself flexing the aching joint fiercely, hoping the ache would be enough to drive the memory of a pair of huge brown eyes out of his mind.
Three
Evangeline smiled at the waitress as she accepted the mug of coffee. The small restaurant was less busy now as patrons hurried off to work, and since her first class wasn’t until nine, she decided she would take this chance to speak to the woman.
“You’re Mrs. Kirkland, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Weary blue eyes sparked with interest as the woman looked at her. “I’m Maggie. You’re Ms. Law, the new teacher, aren’t you?”
Evangeline nodded. “And I live across the street from you, I think.”
“At Lilah’s. Yes, I know. I’ve been meaning to come over and thank you.”
“Thank me?”
The woman nodded. “In the two years Jimmy Sawyer has lived with us, he’s been trouble from morning to night. Angry, bitter...we can’t seem to get through to him at all.”
“He is very angry,” Evangeline agreed.
“He sneaks out at night, to hang around with those awful friends of his, older kids, real troublemakers. Lord knows what kind of things they’re up to. I know they’re the ones who set that fire at the high school last year. I think Jimmy was with them, but he didn’t get caught. If he had, he could have wound up in juvenile hall.”
“He’s been through some tough times,” Evangeline said carefully.
“Yes, I know that. It’s awful, what that child has been through. That’s why Bob and I took him on. We have no kids of our own, and we thought...well, we wanted to help. You know, an older child, who probably would never get adopted. But we got more than we bargained for.”
A hopeful smile curved the woman’s mouth, brightening her weary expression for a moment. “But he hasn’t cut class since you came. And the other night he stayed home. He was actually reading a book. For your class, he said.”
Evangeline smiled. “I’m glad.”
“I’ve never seen him reading anything that didn’t have comics or cars in it.”
“Well, there’s a lot of wonderful art in comics, you know, and there’s nothing wrong with cars. They can be a very healthy hobby, compared to some.”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “And I must say, it’s been a lot more peaceful at my house since Jimmy started hanging around that garage after school these past few weeks. He doesn’t see quite as much of those other boys, thank goodness. I’m not sure about that man, though.”
Evangeline went still. “Dalton MacKay?”
“Yes. He’s...strange.”
“Strange?”
“Oh, not like dangerous, but...unfriendly, I guess.”
“I got the impression he was more...detached,” Evangeline said neutrally.
Mrs. Kirkland considered that. “Yes, I suppose that fits. I mean, he’s lived here for over a year, but he’s not really part of the town. And that’s odd, in a small place like Three Oaks.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But I imagine he has his reasons.”
“My husband says he was famous, a couple of years ago. Some kind of race car driver or something. I don’t follow that kind of thing, so I wouldn’t know. But I suppose that’s why Jimmy’s so fascinated with him.”
Or perhaps the boy just senses a brother under the skin, Evangeline thought as memories of those painful images came back to her.
“He’s a good mechanic though,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “He’s kept our poor old station wagon going long after the dealer in Santa Barbara said we should buy a new