“Yes. Much better.”
She was lying. He could tell by the lines of pain that bracketed her mouth like sagging fence posts.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Positive. I’m fine. I appreciate all your help, Chief Harte, but I’m sure you have better things to do than baby-sit me.”
He couldn’t think of a single one, especially if he stood half a chance of coaxing more than that sad little smile out of her. But she obviously wanted him gone, and his mama hadn’t raised her kids to be rude. Well, except for Matt, maybe.
Anyway, he’d have another chance to see those green eyes soften and her soft, pretty mouth lift at the corners. And if an excuse to see her again didn’t present itself, he’d damn well make one up.
“If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll leave so you can get back to the supper I dragged you away from. It’s probably cold by now.”
She grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s not much of a meal, hot or cold. A frozen dinner.”
It broke his heart to think of her sitting alone here with her solitary dinner. If he thought for a second she’d agree to go with him, he’d pack her into his Bronco and take her down to the diner for some of Murphy’s turkey-fried steak.
But even though he had willingly left the ranch work to Matt, he had still gentled enough skittish mustangs in his time to know when to call it a day. He had a feeling he was going to have to move very slowly if he wanted to gain the schoolteacher’s trust.
Asking her to dinner would probably send her loping away faster than the Diamond Harte’s best cutter after a stray.
No hurry. He could be a patient man, when the situation called for it. He would bide his time, let her know she had nothing to fear from him.
Meanwhile, he now had two mysteries on his hands: Corey Sylvester and whatever mischief he was up to. And Sarah McKenzie.
The pretty schoolteacher had scars. Deep ones. And he wasn’t about to rest until he found out who or what had given them to her.
Chapter 4
The nightmare attacked just before dawn.
She should have expected it, given the stress of the day. Seeing Corey Sylvester’s bruises, the visit to the police station that had been so reminiscent of the extensive, humiliating interviews she had given in Chicago, and two encounters with the gorgeous but terrifying Jesse Harte.
It was all more than her still-battered psyche could handle.
If she had been thinking straight, she would have tried to stay up, to fight the dream off with the only tool she had—consciousness. But the sentence diagrams she was trying to grade worked together with the exhausting stress of the day to finish her off. After her fourth yawn in as many minutes, she had finally given up. She was half-asleep as she checked the locks and turned off the lights sometime around midnight.
Sleep came instantly, and the dream followed on its heels.
It was as familiar to her as her ABCs. Walking into her empty classroom. Humming softly to the Beethoven sonata that had been playing on her car CD. Wondering if she would be running on schedule after school to meet Andrew before the opening previews at the little art theater down the street from her apartment.
She unlocked her classroom door and found him waiting for her, his face hard and sharp and his eyes dark with fury.
She hadn’t been afraid. Not at first. At first she’d only been angry. He should have been in jail, behind bars where he belonged.
The detective she had made her report to the afternoon before—O’Derry, his name had been—had called her the previous evening to let her know officers had picked up DeSilva. But he had also warned her even then that the system would probably release the eighteen-year-old on bail just a few hours later.
She knew why he had come—because she had dared step up to report him for dealing drugs and endangering the welfare of a child. She imagined he would threaten her, maybe warn her to mind her own business. She never guessed he would hurt her.
How stupid and naive she had been in her safe, middle-class world. She had taught at an inner-city school long enough that she should have realized anyone willing to use a nine-year-old girl to deliver drugs to vicious criminals would be capable of anything.
“How did you get in?” she started to ask, then saw shattered glass from the broken window all over the floor and the battered desks closest to it. How was she supposed to teach her class now with cool October air rushing in? With the stink and noise of the city oozing in along with it?
Before she could say anything more, he loomed in front of her. “You messin’ with the wrong man, bitch.”
Still angry about the window, she spoke without thinking. “I don’t see a man here,” she said rashly. “All I can see is a stupid punk who hides behind little girls.”
He hissed a name then—a vicious, obscene name—and the wild rage in his features finally pierced her self-righteous indignation. For the first time, a flicker of unease crawled up her spine.
He was high on something. He might be only eighteen, but that didn’t mean anything on the street. Punk or not, a furious junkie was the most dangerous creature alive.
She started to edge back toward the door, praying one of the custodians would be within earshot, but DeSilva was faster. He beat her to the door and turned the lock, then advanced on her, a small chrome handgun suddenly in his hand.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he growled.
She forced herself to stay calm. To treat him coolly and reasonably, as she would one of her troubled students. “You won’t use that on me. The detectives who arrested you will know who did it. They’ll arrest you within the hour.”
“Maybe. But you’ll still be dead.”
“And the minute you fire a shot, everybody in the place is going to come running. Are you going to kill them all, too?”
He squinted, trying to follow her logic, and she saw his hand waver slightly. Pushing her advantage, she held out her own hand. “Come on. Give me the gun.”
For several long moments he stared at her, a dazed look on his face as if he couldn’t quite figure out what he was doing there. Finally, when she began to feel light-headed from fear, he shoved the gun back into his waistband and stood there shaking a little.
“Good. Okay,” she murmured. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water?” And maybe slip out and call the police while I’m at it, she thought.
“I don’t want a glass of water,” he snarled, and without warning he smacked her hard across the face.
The force and the shock of it sent her to her knees. The next thing she knew, he had gone crazy, striking out at her with anything he could reach—the legs of her wooden chair, the stapler off her desk, the stick she used to point out locations on the map during geography.
She curled into a protective ball, but still he hit her back, her
