Текст книги "Tempting the Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“I need to go to the logging yard today and would like you to drive me,” he said, sitting in his chair again, scratching the stitches on his shoulder.

“You can’t drive yourself?” she asked, leaning over and using the sharp point of her scissors to gently loosen one of the stitches—which would be easier if her hand would quit shaking.

“I could,” he said, twisting his head to see what she was doing to him. “But I’m still half asleep and prefer to—ow!”

She used her fingers to pull the snipped thread out of his flesh. “That did not hurt.”

“You poked me with the scissors.”

“Only because you moved. Quit talking.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see a tree harvester in action?” he asked, ignoring her edict.

“Ow!”

She straightened and scowled at him. “You didn’t complain this much when I sewed you up yesterday,” she said, using the scissors to point at the small bandage on his right hand.

“I was numb with exhaustion yesterday,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.

Catherine moved his hand out of the way and went back to work. “Don’t watch,” she suggested. “It makes you anticipate the pain, and you tense up.”

“You know this from personal experience?” he asked softly, his breath wafting warmly over her hair.

“Yes,” she absently answered, quickly snipping three threads in a row, then leaning away when he growled.

She moved his hand out of the way again, snipped the last two stitches, quickly rubbed the sting away with her fingers, and started pulling them out. “There. All done,” she said as she straightened. “Now, stand up and lean against the table, and I’ll take out the ones on your hip.”

“I’ve a worry you’re enjoying this,” he muttered, standing up and leaning against the table.

Catherine sat in his chair, scooted it around to face him, pulled down the edge of his open jeans to see his scar, and… She stopped and looked up, realizing the provocative position she was in.

The door opened, and an old man, dressed in a long black robe and thin white collar, walked into the kitchen. “God’s teeth!” he shouted. “If ya’re needing privacy, then lock your door!”

Catherine flew out of her chair so quickly she would have fallen if Robbie hadn’t caught her by the shoulders and stood her on her feet.

The priest thumped his cane on the floor and glared first at Robbie’s naked chest and open pants, then at Catherine.

Robbie stepped between them, facing the priest, and slowly did up his jeans and fastened his belt. Catherine looked behind her, wondering if she was small enough to crawl in the oven.

“Most people knock before entering someone’s house,” Robbie said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I haven’t knocked in thirty years!”

“But you will from now on,” Robbie softly returned. “And you’ll apologize to my housekeeper for making assumptions.”

Catherine gasped and pinched Robbie’s back for speaking so rudely to a man of the cloth.

He didn’t even flinch but continued, “And you’ll start waiting for an invitation to visit rather than showing up unannounced.”

They were both going to fry in hell—she could already feel the flames on her face.

Catherine used the point of her scissors this time to shut Robbie up.

He reached around, snatched away her scissors, gave her a good glare, and turned back to the priest. “I’m waiting for that apology.”

But Catherine wasn’t. She spun on her heel and high-tailed it into the living room, tugged open the front door, and rushed onto the porch that spanned the entire front of the house. She immediately scooted between two windows until her back was pressed against the clapboards and stood perfectly still, her hands on her burning cheeks and her heart thumping so hard it hurt.

Her parents were rolling over in their graves. They’d raised her to respect religion, especially anyone doing God’s work.

The front door opened, and Catherine eyed the stairs at the end of the porch, wondering if she could reach them before Robbie reached her. The priest stepped through the door, alone, and folded his hands over the top of his beautiful wood cane.

He had wild, long white hair that was a disturbing contrast to his perfectly trimmed beard, shoulders stooped by gravity and time, and age-bent fingers covering the head of a cane that was only slightly more crooked than he was. He looked positively ancient—

except for his eyes, which were a sharp, crystal blue.

“I am sincerely contrite, Miss Daniels, for making such a terrible assumption,” he said gruffly. “Robbie explained that ya was tending his wound, and I apologize for thinking different.” He held out a gnarled hand to her. “I’m Father Daar. I live up on TarStone.”

Even though she wanted to run the other way, Catherine’s manners compelled her to step forward and shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Father,” she whispered.

“Ah… would you like a cup of coffee and some shortbread?”

His eyes sparked with interest. “Shortbread, ya say?” he asked, using her captured hand to lead her inside. “I haven’t had shortbread in ages. Did ya flavor it with lemon?”

Catherine tried to get her hand back, but he was using it to lead her through the living room into the kitchen. “With just a few drops of lemon juice,” she told him, finally escaping when he sat at the table.

Robbie was nowhere in sight.

She found a clean mug, poured the priest his coffee, then got down on her knees and reached far into the back of a bottom cupboard. Father Daar’s laughter and Robbie’s snort drew her attention when she straightened.

“So that’s where you hide the dessert,” Robbie said from the bathroom doorway. He buttoned up his shirt, tucked it inside his belt, and walked over and set her scissors on the table. “I finished taking out the stitches,” he told her, lifting one brow. “And managed to do it without once poking myself.”

“Then you should probably remove the stitches in your hand when the time comes,” she suggested sweetly, getting two plates from the cupboard. She cut the shortbread, set it on the table in front of the men, gave them forks and napkins, refilled Robbie’s coffee, and headed to her bedroom.

But she stopped at the door when she heard Father Daar urgently whisper to Robbie,

“Ya have to go backtonight. We’re running out of time.”

Go back? Tonight? And do what, get beat up again?

Catherine turned to them, crossed her fingers behind her back, and hoped she didn’t fry in hell for fibbing to a priest. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Robbie. Your father and Libby are coming for supper tonight. I told them we eat at six.”

Robbie looked from her to the priest, then back at her, one eyebrow raised speculatively.

He finally shook his head at Father Daar. “My family obligations come first.”

Father Daar eyed Catherine suspiciously. “Ya’re making commitments for yar boss without checking with him first?”

Crossing a second set of fingers, Catherine nodded. “It seemed important to his father, and I didn’t dare refuse.”

The priest looked back at Robbie but nodded toward her. “I warned ya a woman would only complicate yar life. They just love interfering in a man’s work.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Robbie drawled, leaning back in his chair and smiling at Catherine.

“They come in handy sometimes. I think they add a certain… excitement.”

Catherine uncrossed her fingers and closed her hands into fists, smiling back at him. “I’

m sorry I won’t be able to drive you to work this morning, but I have torun into town.”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

Catherine spun around, walked into her bedroom and softly closed the door, and leaned against it and closed her eyes with a sigh.

Excitement, huh?

Oh, she’d show the man some excitement, all right—and a good deal of leg!

“Your plan isn’t working, priest,” Robbie growled, knowing it wasn’t Daar putting the bite in his voice but Catherine.

She was intending to run all over the countryside again, dressed inshort shorts and leaving a trail of ditched logging trucks in her wake. He was going to have to do something about that.

“Then come up with a better plan!” Daar snapped, glaring at him. “Just as long as ya make it happen soon. I still need to nurture that root into a sapling.”

Robbie took a calming breath and looked away from the bedroom door and tried to focus his attention on Daar. “How long has that oak been growing on MacKeage land?

Would it have existed when the Highlanders lived there? Would they know about it?”

“Nay,” Daar said, shaking his head. “Cùram’s only been living there six years now.”

“But you’re saying itis there, that I just can’t see it?”

“Aye. He’s hidden it from ya.”

“And you still won’t come back with me to unmask his spell? What would happen if he discovered you there?”

Daar hunched over his plate of shortbread, curled his hands around his cup of coffee, and spoke down to it. “Twenty years ago, I might have stood a chance against him,”

Daar whispered. He looked up at Robbie. “But only a chance. A hundred years ago, I might have beaten him.” He straightened his shoulders. “Hell, I did beat him, when I matched Judy MacKinnon to Duncan MacKeage.” The olddrùidh narrowed his eyes.

“But if ya take me back there now, Robbie, ya may as well run me through with yar sword,” he whispered. “Cùram would finish me.”

The door to Catherine’s bedroom opened, and she came striding out, dressed in shorts, a sweatshirt, and running shoes. A person could have heard a mouse sneeze as she silently walked across the kitchen, her chin held high and her fists clenched at her sides.

She didn’t even look at them. She merely opened the porch door, stepped out, and softly closed it behind her.

Robbie slowly bent the fork in his hand until the tines touched the handle, and turned to Daar. “Just tell me how to find the tree. Give me something to work with.”

Daar shook his head. “I have nothing. As it is, ya’re going to have to use yar own powers to travel back and forth from now on. My staff has grown too weak,” he said, fingering the nearly smooth cherry cane lying on the table beside his plate.

“My own powers,” Robbie softly repeated.

“Aye. Ya can no longer deny them, MacBain. Ya’ve learned the full extent of your gift, and ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

“I don’t want that kind of power!”

“Do ya think Iasked to be adrùidh? It’s not exactly something ya wish for. Providence decides our destinies. Yar own mother understood this, and it didn’t stop her from having you. It’s not a curse, boy,” Daar snapped, leaning forward. “It’s a gift. Yar mama not only gave ya life but the gift of yar calling. Embrace it. Use it! Explore the full extent of yar abilities, and thank God that ya have the means to protect those ya love.”

Robbie carefully set the destroyed fork by his plate and stared down at the tiny bandage covering the dagger cut on his right hand. Aye, he had seen his calling in the midst of the violent storm, and it had scared the holy hell out of him. He’d come face to face with his mother, as the beautiful mortal woman she’d once been, and she had shown him his destiny.

“It was Mary who revealed my powers to me,” he whispered, still staring down at his hand. “She showed me everything.”

“Aye,” Daar said softly. “And ya saw that guardians even have power overdrùidhs, didn’t ya? Mary showed ya how she saved her sister’s life by using my own staff to protect Grace from the freezing waters of the high mountain pond.”

“Aye,” Robbie said, still not looking up.

“It’s what keeps everything balanced,” Daar continued. “For as powerful asdrùidhs are, providence has given the world an army of knights to protect it as well.”

“Then what’s your role?” Robbie asked, looking up. “Why dodrùidhs even exist?”

“To nurture the knowledge. To grow our trees and keep the continuum moving forward.”

“And blow things up in the process,” Robbie muttered, standing up and carrying his uneaten shortbread to the counter. “Four days from now, I’ll be on the summit at sunset, and I’ll have Ian MacKeage with me.”

“What! Nay! Ya cannot.”

“Aye, I can,” Robbie told him, glancing toward the porch, then back at the priest. “Ian has asked me to take him back, and I have agreed.”

“But the continuum. You’re going to upset the energy. He knows too much of the future.”

“He’ll not mess with the magic,” Robbie assured him. “He only wants to go home and be with his wife and children.”

Daar also stood, but he snatched up his uneaten shortbread and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Then may God have mercy on us,” he whispered, walking to the door. “Because if that old goat manages to upset the continuum, we’re all doomed.”

“That didn’t seem to be a worry when you cast your spell to bring them here,” Robbie pointed out, walking onto the porch behind him.

Daar stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked back. “They would have woke up back in their original time, not minutes after they’d left,” he explained. “And probably finished trying to kill each other. It was already part of the original spell, that they wouldn’t remember this time.” He pointed his cane at Robbie. “But it only works if they go back by way of my first incantation,” he said. “You and Ian are going back ten years after that, to after Cùram arrived.”

“Ian will give me his word not to upset your energy,” Robbie promised. “He only wishes to die in the arms of his family.”

Daar stared at him in silence for several seconds, then finally nodded. “Aye. If Ian gives his word, that’s enough,” he softly agreed. “Then I’ll meet ya on the summit in four days,” he confirmed, turning toward the woods, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a piece of shortbread as he walked away.

Robbie looked up at TarStone and blew out his breath. Aye, only four days before Ian MacKeage walked out of their lives.

Catherine ran downhill toward town, setting an easy pace for the first mile to let her muscles warm up. She tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her feet hitting the ground, but thoughts of Robbie and Father Daar kept interfering. What in heck were they up to?

She did know the priest was part of whatever Robbie was doing up on the mountain, though she’d caught only enough of the conversation to realize that whatever it was, time was running out.Just as long as you make it happen soon, she’d heard Father Daar say in an angry whisper. But then he’d lowered his voice, and the conversation had been muted by the solid door of her bedroom—even pressing her ear to it hadn’t helped.

Makewhat happen?

And darn it, why did she even care! Just because Robbie MacBain appeared to be one of the good guys, and just because she was starting to trust him, wasn’t enough reason to get huffy over his refusal to confide in her.

She was his housekeeper. She cooked and cleaned for the man, and when he got beat up, she sewed him back together and fibbed to his father. Robbie was under no obligation to explain his nighttime adventures to his hired help, even if she could work up the nerve to ask him outright.

An air horn suddenly blasted behind her, and Catherine screamed and nearly fell into the ditch. She scrambled off the road and up the bank, turning to see a huge logging truck barreling down the hill. The driver kept his hand on the deafening horn and used his other hand to wave at her. He even shot her a wink before suddenly giving his attention back to the road when his front left tire hit the gravel of the opposite ditch. The ground under her feet actually shook as the man wrestled the overloaded truck back into his lane and disappeared around a curve, once again blasting his horn.

“You idiot!” she shouted after him, waving her fist through the dust billowing around her. “I hope you have six flat tires!”

Her only answer was the fading blast of his horn.

With a sigh to calm her racing heart, Catherine was about to jump the ditch when she spotted a silver pickup truck rounding the curve down the hill. It was traveling through the lingering dust at a much slower speed than the logging rig, and she could see only one occupant.

She spun around and ducked into the bushes, deciding she’d entertained enough idiots for one day. The pickup slowly made its way toward her, and Catherine squatted behind a tree, her eyes glued on the approaching truck as the silhouette of the driver sharpened.

He looked… familiar. Catherine scooted back and flattened herself to the ground, her heart beginning to pound in terror as the pickup neared.

No! It couldn’t be him. Ron couldn’t have found her!

She could finally see his features clearly through the dispersing dust—a man with thick brown hair, a darkly stubbled jaw, and tiny narrowed eyes fixed on the road ahead.

She went utterly still, oblivious to the mud seeping into her clothes, trying to convince herself that it was nothing more than her imagination running wild. It wasn’t Ron.

“You arenot Ron,” she said in a strained whisper.

The driver was too old. And definitely too weather-tanned for someone who had been in prison for three years. And his hair was peppered with gray, and there was a small white dog sitting on his lap, its nose pressed against the window. It wasn’t Ron. She couldsee it wasn’t Ron.

Now all she had to do was convince her pounding heart.

Catherine lay in the muddy grass for a good ten minutes, getting her breathing under control and trying to fight the terror freezing her in place.

The sound of another light truck came from the direction of home, and Catherine inched forward until she saw the dark Suburban coming down the hill. She scrambled to her feet with a cry of relief and ran into the road.

Robbie braked to a stop beside her, his smile vanishing the moment he saw her muddy clothes. Catherine opened the door and scooted into the seat, folded her hands on her lap, and took a shuddering breath.

“What happened?” he asked, scanning the road through the windshield before looking back at her. “Did you fall? Were you run off the road?”

“I… ah, I tripped when a logging truck went by.”

Taking hold of her chin and turning her to face him, he moved his dark pewter gaze over her body, then brought it back to settle on hers. “You’re as pale as a ghost, and you’re still trembling. Are you hurt?”

“No. Just shaken up,” she said, pulling away from his grasp and letting out another shuddering breath. “Can you take me home before you go to the logging yard?”

He hesitated, apparently undecided if he believed her or not. “Cat,” he said with a growl. “You’ve got to run on the tote roads from now on.”

She forced a smile. “What about the bears that might eat Ian?”

“I’ll get you a bear bell, so they’ll hear you coming and be gone long before you see them.” He started to reach for her chin again but stopped when she stiffened and simply lock his gaze on her.

A deep, almost electric silence filled the truck. She could see he was in his guardian angel mode, trying to convince himself that she was okay.

She was far from okay, but she wasn’t about to tell him why. Her terror was her business, not his. It hadn’t been Ron; she knew that with the same certainty that told her Robbie was about to touch her again—with or without her consent.

And she couldn’t handle that right now, no matter how sincere his concern. It had been all she could do not to run screaming from the truck when he’d taken her by the chin, and if he so much as tried to brush the mud off her knee, she would likely have a panic attack that rivaled a volcanic eruption.

“Are you going back up the mountain tonight to get beat up again?” she asked, breaking his stare by turning to look out the windshield.

“You’re worried about me?”

She looked back at him. “One of these days, you’re not going to come back. You were almost dead when I found you. And where would that leave the boys and your family, that you’re so determined to look after?”

“I’ll always come back, Catherine.”

“Are you going up there tonight or not?”

“Nay. I checked my calendar after you left, and your little fib to Daar wasn’t a fib after all. Marcus Saints is coming for a visit this afternoon, and so is Judge Bailey, but she won’t be staying for supper. Only Marcus.”

“Who are Marcus Saints and Judge Bailey?”

“Saints is a social worker who keeps tabs on the boys. And Martha Bailey is all that’s standing between them and the detention center.”

Catherine slapped her chest to catch her gasp. “They’re coming to the house today?” she squeaked, her previous terror turning to horror. “Darn it, you have to warn me about stuff like that! Turn around. I have to get home!”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle, putting the truck in gear, checking for traffic, then making a three-point turn in the road. “They won’t arrive until after school.”

“But I need to start planning for supper now.”

“The way you cook?” he said as he headed back up the hill. “You could make stone soup, and Saints would be drooling all over himself. And the house is fine, Cat.” He snorted. “It’s a hell of a lot cleaner than the last time they visited. Marcus threatened to call the health department.”

Chapter Thirteen

The moment they got home,Catherine told Robbie to go to his logging yard, and she spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in near hysterics. She thawed enough beef to feed an army, scrubbed all three bathrooms until they sparkled, dusted, straightened the boys’ bedrooms and remade their beds, vacuumed upstairs and down, washed the kitchen floor, peeled ten pounds of potatoes and carrots, and threw together a double batch of yeast rolls.

In five hours, by the time the kids got home from school and Martha Bailey and Marcus Saints arrived, Catherine felt as if she had run a marathon—and had somehow managed to survive this one as well.

Not knowing what to expect but expecting the worst, Martha Bailey had surprised Catherine. She was a tiny woman, pretty in a haphazard sort of way, and genuinely warm. She had also become quite giddy and had burst into a huge smile when Robbie walked out of the barn to greet her and Marcus.

Now, Catherine was nervously pacing the kitchen porch while they held individual interviews. They were down to the last two boys; Marcus had Gunter in the living room, and Martha was talking to Rick at the kitchen table.

Nora was terrorizing the barn cats with Cody, Nathan was doing his henhouse chores, and Peter was sitting on the front porch, his nose in a book—sighing, erasing, and occasionally cursing.

Robbie was rinsing off the last of the logging-yard mud from his truck, which Catherine had told him to face toward the garage doors so their guests wouldn’t see the bug shield. He had chuckled at her command, explaining that the shield had been a gift from the boys, but hehad turned the truck inward to wash it.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer and deciding she could pretend she needed to check on supper, Catherine finally entered the kitchen, only to run into Martha Bailey on her way out. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Miss Daniels. I was just on my way to find you.” Martha smiled sadly. “I can’t stay for supper, I’m afraid. I have my own crew to feed. And from what I’ve been told and from what I’ve been smelling all afternoon, I’m going to miss a real treat. All the boys could talk about was your cooking.”

Catherine could only nod.

“Peter said that you make a tasty barley soup.” Martha’s smile returned. “Peter said a lot of things. All the boys did. Welcome to Pine Creek, Catherine. I certainly hope you’ll be staying.” She canted her head. “Although I suspect that if you try to leave, four boys and a handsome giant will hunt you down and drag you back.”

“I think they were all starving to death,” Catherine said, relaxing for the first time today.

She shook her head. “I’ve been warned the boys might be a little hard to handle, but I haven’t seen a sign of that since I came here.”

Martha patted Catherine’s arm. “It’s amazing how good food can tame the beast. Keep it coming, and I doubt you’ll have any problems. I’ll be back next month, and maybe then I

’ll get to sample your cooking. Good-bye. And good luck.”

Okay, Catherine decided as she watched the woman get into her car and drive away, Robbie was right. Martha Bailey was one of the good guys. But Marcus Saints seemed… well, the man looked as if he picked his teeth with hardened criminals.

Nathan came dragging up the porch stairs just then, holding his hand cradled against his chest.

“What happened to you?”

“Those chickens are ferocious, Mom. They pecked me.”

Catherine reached down and inspected the boy’s wound. One of the old hens had managed to draw blood, but just barely.

“You’ll live, Nathan. Come on, I’ll clean you up and put on a Band-Aid.”

“It’s a dangerous job, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Let me guess,” she speculated, pushing him into the house ahead of her so he wouldn’t see her smile. “You still haven’t told Mr. MacBain that you need grain.”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

“Nathan.”

“I hope they starve.”

“Nathan.”

“Why can’t you just tell him for me?”

“Because, young man, that’s your job.”

“But he’s scary,” Nathan whispered, looking up at her with huge puppy-dog eyes.

“He’s been nothing but kind to us, Nathan. He’s not like your father,” Catherine whispered, squatting down and taking hold of his shoulders. “You have nothing to fear from Mr. MacBain.” She brushed the hair away from his face. “Honey, if you tell him the hens need grain, he’ll see what a responsible young man you are and respect you for doing your chore. And Nathan, you’ll respect yourself if you approach him bravely and do your job. You’ll be one of the boys here. You don’t see them being afraid of Mr.

MacBain, do you?”

He thought about that, frowning. “No,” he finally admitted. “And Mr. MacBain will be proud of me, too.”

Catherine sighed. “Nathan, you do your chores for yourself. Not for Mr. MacBain and not for me. I want you to see that you can deal with people, especially men, and not be afraid. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone but yourself.”

“I understand,” he whispered. “I know you’re scared I’ll grow up to be like Daddy. And I’m trying not to.”

Catherine felt a sharp stab to her heart. When had her beautiful little boy realized her greatest fear? “Come on, let’s tend that vicious old hen wound.”

Peeking toward Gunter and Marcus in the living room, Catherine lifted Nathan onto the counter, got the first aid kit from the cupboard, and started cleaning his wound. Robbie came in from the yard, walked past her and Nathan to the stove, lifted the lid on the huge steaming pot, and started stirring the stew.

Catherine took the spoon away from him and shooed him upstairs to change his wet shirt. She headed back to Nathan, replacing the lid on the stew as she walked by, but turned when Nora came running into the kitchen, screaming bloody murder.

She ran to her daughter. “Nora, what is it?”

“A monster!” Nora wailed. “Daddy’s in the barn!”

Just then, Cody slammed through the door, looking frantic and hysterical himself, and Nora whimpered and tried to run away.

Catherine froze in shock, clinging to her daughter. Ron was here! He was here!

“Daddy’s in the hayloft!” Nora cried again, burying her face in Catherine’s stomach.

“It was me,” Cody said, drawing her attention. “I was just playing. I forgot. I’m sorry!”

Gunter tore past her with a deadly, feral growl and dove toward Cody before anyone had time to grasp the situation.

“You bastard!” Gunter shouted, his fist aimed at Cody’s shocked, bloodless face.

Catherine finally came out of her stupor, realizing what was happening. “Gunter!” she yelled.

As if in slow motion, Catherine could only watch as Gunter’s fist connected with Cody’s face, sending the defenseless boy reeling into the wall behind him. His head hit with a solid thunk, suspending Cody long enough for Gunter to connect again, this time with Cody’s stomach. The battered boy slid in a boneless heap to the floor.

Catherine rushed straight into the fight and stood between the enraged young man and his fallen prey.

Her eyes glaring at Gunter, she didn’t see Marcus Saints start in their direction or see Robbie grab him by the shoulder and stop him.

“You son of a bitch!” Gunter growled, trying to move around Catherine.

“Gunter! No!” she shouted when he tried to take another swing. She moved with him, blocking his way. “Enough,” she said more calmly. “You will not hit him again.”

Gunter turned his anger on her. “You heard! He scared Nora,” he growled. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No, you’re not,” Catherine said firmly, flinching when he tried to shove her out of the way but managing to keep her body between him and Cody.

He grabbed her shoulders, and Catherine lifted her chin. “He made a mistake,” she whispered. “Cody would never scare Nora on purpose. He was only playing.”

“How can you know that?”

Catherine set her hand on his heaving chest. “Because I trust Cody, Gunter. He just wasn

’t thinking.”

“Then I’ll teach the son of a bitch to think!” he snapped, pushing her away, trying to get to Cody.

Catherine stepped between them again, getting a bit angry herself. “How, Gunter?” she hissed, shedding her sweater and pulling up the right sleeve of her shirt, exposing a three-year-old scar. “Is this how you’re going to teach him?” She lifted the hem of her shirt enough to expose another scar, this one running from her waist up to just under her breast. “Or maybe like this!” Catherine turned her back on the stunned man and parted her hair at the nape of her neck, exposing yet another scar about two inches long.

“Maybe this would teach him to think!”

She turned back to Gunter. “Will giving Cody a beating make Nora feel safe?” she asked through clenched teeth, taking another step forward, causing the suddenly pale boy to back up. “Did spending three weeks in the hospital so my children’s father would be sent to prison solve my problems?”

Catherine stopped and blinked through blurry eyes, her anger suddenly deflated. “Don’

t you see, Gunter?” she whispered. “I’ve frightened Nora so badly that an innocent game of hide-and-seek scares her.”

Gunter stared at her, his chest heaving and his eyes clouded with uncertainty. “How do you know, Catherine? How can you know Cody wasn’t being mean?”

“I trust him, Gunter. The same way I trust you.”

Catherine reached out and touched his chest again, gently this time, and quietly spoke to the young man she’d come to care so much about. “You acted without thinking, Gunter. You’ve lived with Cody longer than I have. Would he purposely scare Nora? Is he really that malicious?”