on. A smart man accepts help when he needs it. This is a tough job to try alone.”
“I’m not alone,” he pointed out dryly. “I’ve got you.”
That made her fall silent for a while, long enough to eat half her hamburger and most of the fries. Then she looked at him again, wearing the expression he was coming to recognize as her stubborn, not-gonna-give-up look. “Aren’t you at all curious about him? About how he left home? About where he’s been and what he’s done these past nineteen years?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, gee, that hurts my feelings.”
“He’s your brother.”
“Like that means something. These are good burgers, aren’t they?” He dipped the ragged edge of his hamburger in ketchup, then took a big bite. Food was one of the few pleasures he’d found since returning from the war. Endless months of MREs—the prepackaged “meals ready to eat” that were the mainstay of combat troops’ diet—and the periodic hot meals they were served while in camp had left him craving old favorites like pizza, hamburgers and doughnuts. He’d lived off junk food for the last six months and could probably do it for the rest of his life.
Being the stubborn, naive type, Bailey didn’t get the message that he was through with the conversation. “It means something to Brady.”
He slowly chewed another bite while scowling at her. “You’ve got a sister.”
“Three, actually.”
“And you’re just the best of friends with all three of them.”
“We’re close.”
“Goody for you. You wanna be best friends with ’em, fine. It’s none of my business. I don’t wanna be best friends with Brady, and that’s none of your business.”
Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. “I just don’t understand—”
“You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”
“What about your nieces? Aren’t you the least bit interested in them?”
He considered that while he polished off his burger. He’d never been a kid-friendly person, not even when he was a kid himself. Back then, pain, shame and the fear of discovery had kept him and Brady from getting close to other kids. As he’d grown up, he’d come to view kids as nuisances best kept at a distance. They started life crying, smelly and needy, before turning into a whiny, troublemaking subhuman species. Given a choice, he would never deal with anyone younger than eighteen. At least by then, they’d reached the point where they stood a chance of becoming a real person.
His silence brought a bit of hope to Bailey’s expression that he dashed when he finally answered. “No. Not the least bit.”
She scowled at him as she crumpled her wrapper with enough force that she was probably imagining it was his throat. “You’re a jerk—you know that?”
“A jerk,” he repeated, amused. “Now that really hurts my feelings. Is that the best you can come up with?”
Shoving her chair back so hard it would have fallen if not for the table behind them, she stood up, then leaned toward him. “No. You’re a selfish, self-centered, rude, cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard who doesn’t deserve to have someone like Brady, Lexy and Brynn in his life. You could go straight to hell for all I care, but I made a promise to Lexy, and you made one to me, and by God, we’re both going to keep them or I’ll kill you myself.”
With that, she turned on her heel and strode to the door. He watched her go as he finished his fries. If he was lucky, she would find her way back to Pineville, pick up her car and get the hell out of his life.
But he hadn’t been lucky in a long time.
He wasted another ten minutes before clearing his table and heading for the motel. As he rounded the back corner, the first thing he saw was Bailey, sitting on the sidewalk outside their room. It was hard to tell from her stony expression whether she’d cooled down. Not that he cared. Traveling with an unwanted companion was tough. Having her too pissed off to talk to him, though, just might make it bearable.
He unlocked the door, went inside and left it standing open. He was pulling back the covers on the bed nearest the door when she finally came inside.
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” she commented.
“You can tell time. Good.”
“You can’t be going to bed before eight o’clock.”
He bunched up the bedspread to one side, then untucked the sheets from under the mattress before facing her. “I got about three hours’ sleep last night and I’ve been dealing with a major pain in the ass today. I’m tired. I want to sleep. You can watch TV or read the Good Book—” he gestured toward the battered Bible on the night table “—or twiddle your thumbs. I don’t care. Just whatever you do, be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”
She yanked the pillows free of the spread on the second bed, mashed them against the headboard, then plopped herself down and switched on the television.
After securing the locks on the doors, Logan emptied his pockets on the nightstand, including his car keys. Bailey’s gaze instantly went to them, then away. Would she hide them as soon as she judged he was asleep? Probably. It didn’t matter. If he left her, it would be someplace a hell of a lot more remote than Dallas.
He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, then stripped to his boxers. When he turned to slide between the covers, he heard a gasp that started loud, then choked off, as if she’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Scowling, he turned to look at her and saw that was indeed what she’d done.
He held her gaze a long time, daring her to ask, but she swallowed hard, lowered her hand and said nothing. Satisfied, he eased into bed, shut off the lamp on his side of the center table, rolled over and went to sleep.
Bailey kept the sound on the television low so it wouldn’t disturb Logan, but she couldn’t concentrate on the show. He’d undressed so casually—something of a surprise considering that they were practically strangers while at the same time not surprising at all considering what an ass he’d been. She’d been trying not to watch—not an easy task when he was all smooth brown skin and hard, sinewy muscle—but when he’d turned his back to her…
His back was striped with scars, some no more than thin, pale lines, others thickened and white. They’d stretched from side to side, from shoulder to opposite hip, some disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers, and they’d looked…horrible.
She could think of only one way to get scars like that: torture. He’d been beaten with a strap of some sort, beaten until his skin was torn, raw and bloody. Her first thought was the war—the enemy wasn’t known for treating prisoners humanely—but he hadn’t been taken prisoner. Besides, these were old scars, existing prior to his time in the Army.
Which left his parents as the most likely source. That explained his hatred for them, his utter lack of interest in whether they lived or died. But why did he hate his brother?
