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  a cue held in both fists. There was already blood on his face. Biff stood a few feet away, holding the remains of a chair. He was a big, bulky man with arms like cinder blocks, liberally tattooed from his stint in the marines. His face, ruddy from sun and drinking, was set in a snarl. The eyes were as Cam always remembered them, dark and full of hate.

  Oscar Roody was hopping from one leg to the other, standing out of harm's way while he played peacemaker.

  “Come on, Biff, it was a friendly game.”

  “Fuck off,” Biff muttered.

  Cam set a hand on Oscar's shoulder and with a jerk of his head gestured him aside. “Take a walk, Less. Sober up.” Cam spoke softly, his eyes on his stepfather.

  “That sonofabitch hit me with the fucking chair.” Less swiped at the blood pooling over his eye. “He owes me twenty bucks.”

  “Take a walk,” Cam repeated. He curled his fingers around the pool cue. He only had to tug once before Less released it.

  “He's fucking crazy. It was assault. I got witnesses.” There was a general murmur of agreement, but no one stepped forward. “Fine. Go on over to the office. Give Doc Crampton a call. He'll take a look at you.” He sent one sweeping glance around the room. “Clear out.”

  People moved back, muttering, but most crowded in the doorway to watch Cam face down his stepfather.

  “Big man now, ain't you?” Biff's gravelly voice was slurred with drink. And he grinned, the way he had always grinned before he plowed into Cam. “Got yourself a badge and a shitload of money, but you're still a punk.”

  Cam's fingers tensed on the cue. He was ready. More than ready. “It's time you went home.”

  “I'm drinking. Clyde, you motherfucker, where's my whiskey?”

  “You're finished drinking here,” Cam said steadily. “You can go out walking through the front, or I can carry you out the back.”

  Biff's grin widened. He tossed the broken chair aside and lifted his ham-sized fists. He'd been set to kick Less's ass, but this was better yet. It had been years since he'd been able to beat some respect into the boy. And Cam was overdue.

  “Why don't you just come and get me, then?”

  When Biff lunged forward, Cam hesitated only an instant. He imagined himself slamming the cue hard against the side of Biff's head. He could even hear the satisfying smack of wood against bone. At the last minute, he tossed the cue aside and took the first blow in the gut.

  The air wheezed out between his teeth, but he dodged the fist before it smashed into his jaw. The glancing shot to his temple had stars exploding in front of his eyes. He heard the roar of the crowd behind him, like pagans surrounding gladiators.

  The first time his naked fist connected with Biff's flesh, the shock sang up his arm and ended with a riff of satisfaction. The punches that rained on him were all but unfelt, like memory blows of the dozens of beatings.

  He'd been smaller once. Small and thin and helpless. Then he'd had only two choices-to run and hide, or to stand and take it. But that had changed. This night had been a long time coming. There was a wild kind of glory in it, the kind soldiers feel as they suit up and storm into battle. He watched his own fist slam into Biff's sneering mouth, knuckles and lips ripping.

  He smelled blood-his own and Biff's. Glass crashed and shattered on the floor. His own control shattered with it. Like a madman, he threw himself into the fight, hammering his fists into the face he had learned to fear and despise since childhood.

  He wanted to erase it. Destroy it. With hands that were bruised and bloodied, he grabbed Biff by the shirt and slammed that hated face, again and again, into the wall.

  “Jesus, Cam. Come on, let up. Jesus.”

  The breath was racing out of his lungs, hot as fire. He struggled away when hands reached for his shoulders, and turning, he nearly rammed his fist into Bud's face.

  The mist cleared from his eyes then, and he saw the white, strained face of his deputy, the huge, curious eyes of the crowd that had gathered. With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth. Crumpled on the floor, beaten, broken, and unconscious in his own vomit, was Biff.

  “Clyde called.” Bud's voice was shaking. “He said things were out of hand.” Wetting his lips, he looked at the destruction of the poolroom. “What do you want me to do?”

  The breath wheezed out of Cam's lungs like an old man's. “Lock him up.” Cam put a hand on the pool table to steady himself. He was beginning to feel the pain now from each individual blow, and a churning, aching nausea. “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly.”

  Bud cleared his throat. “I could drive him on home if you want. You know-”

  “Lock him up.” He glanced up to see Sarah watching him with both approval and derision in her sooty eyes. “Get a statement from Less Gladhill and any witnesses.”

  “Let me get someone to drive you home, Sheriff.”

  “No.” He kicked a broken glass aside, then stared down the people hovering in the doorway. His eyes were cold now, hard and cold, so that even the men who had been cheering him on averted theirs. “Fun's over.”

  He waited until the room had cleared before he left to drive to the farm and tell his mother her husband wouldn't be home that night.

  Chapter 6

  WHEN CAM SWUNG HIS HARLEY into Clare's driveway, it was just after noon. Every bone, every muscle of his body throbbed. He'd soaked in his whirlpool, tried ice packs, and downed three Nuprin, but the beating he'd taken and the sleepless night were hard to counteract.

  Tougher yet had been his mother's reaction. She had looked at him with her big, tired, sad eyes and made him feel-as she always did-that he had somehow caused his stepfather's drunkenness and the fight that followed it.

  It was small satisfaction that at least until Monday, and the judge's ruling, Biff would be nursing his own aches and pains in jail.

  He turned his bike off and, leaning forward on the handlebars, watched Clare work.

  She'd left the garage door open. On a large brick-topped worktable was a tall metal structure. She was bent toward it, guiding a welding torch. As he watched, a shower of sparks rained around her.

  His reaction was instant and baffling. Desire-as hot and sharp as the flame she wielded.

  Stupid, he thought, as he painfully swung his leg off the bike. There was nothing remotely sexy about a woman in workboots and overalls. Most of her face was hidden under a pair of dark goggles, and her hair was tucked under a leather skullcap. And though he liked women in leather, the thick apron she wore was a far cry from a tight skirt.

  He set his helmet on the seat of the bike and walked into the garage.

  She kept right on working. There was music blasting from a new portable stereo. Beethoven's Ninth competed with the hiss of flame. Cam walked over to turn it down, figuring it was the safest way to get her attention.

  Clare glanced over briefly. “Just one more minute.”

  One became five before she straightened and switched off the flame. With competent hands she picked up a wrench and turned off her tanks.

  “I just had a few finishing touches to put on it today.” She blew out a breath and pushed up her goggles. Energy was still vibrating in her fingertips. “What do you think?”

  Taking his time, he walked around it. It looked monstrous. And fascinating. Human, and yet… other. He wondered what kind of imagination, or what kind of need, drove her to create something so disturbing.

  “Well, I wouldn't want it in my living room because I'd never be able to relax around it. It's like a nightmare you could touch.”

  It was exactly the right thing to say. Clare nodded as she stripped off her skullcap. “It's the best work I've done in six months. Angie's going to dance on the ceiling.”

  “Angie?”

  “She handles my work-she and her husband.” She pushed at her flattened hair. “So, what are you-oh my God.” For the first time, she focused on him. His left eye was discolored and swollen, and there was a
nasty gash along his cheek. “What the hell happened to you?” “Saturday night.”

  Quickly, she stripped off her gloves to run a gentle finger over the cut. “I thought you grew out of that. Have you had this looked at? Let me get you some ice for that eye.”

  “It's all right,” he began, but she was already dashing into the kitchen.

  “You're the sheriff, for Christ's sake,” she said as she searched for a cloth to wrap ice in. “You're not supposed to raise hell anymore. Sit down. Maybe we can get the swelling down. You're still a jerk, Rafferty.”

  “Thanks.” He eased his aching body into the ladder-back chair she'd set in the kitchen.

  “Here, hold this on your eye.” She set a hip on the drop leaf table, then put a hand under his chin to turn his face to the sunlight and examine the cut. “You'll be lucky if this doesn't scar that pretty face of yours.”

  The ice felt like heaven, so he only grunted.

  She smiled, but the concern remained in her eyes as she brushed at the hair on his forehead. She remembered Blair getting into fights, too many fights, over the last couple of years in high school. If memory served, a man wanted to be pampered-and praised-under these circumstances.

  “So, should I ask what the other guy looks like?”

  His lips quirked. “I broke his goddamn nose.”

  “God, I love this macho stuff.” Taking the end of the cloth, she dabbed at the cut. “Who were you fighting with?”

  “Biff.”

  The hand on his face stilled. Her eyes, full of understanding, came to his. “I'm sorry. I take it things haven't improved there.”

  “Official business. He was D and D in Clyde's-” Cam broke off and leaned back in the chair. “Fuck.”

  Her hand was gentle on his face again. “Hey, want a brownie?”

  He smiled a little. “My grandmother always gave me milk and cookies whenever Biff beat the shit out of me.”

  Clare felt her stomach clench, but she made her lips curve as she took up one of his hands. “From the looks of these, I'd say he's in worse shape than you.” On impulse she kissed the torn and bruised skin of his knuckles. He found the gesture incredibly endearing.

  “It hurts here, too.” He tapped a finger to his lips.

  “Don't press your luck.” Businesslike, she pulled the ice away and squinted at his eye. “Very colorful. How's your vision?”

  “I can see you just fine. You're prettier than you used to be.”

  She tilted her head. “Considering I used to look like a scarecrow with an overbite, that's not saying much.”

  “I can probably do better once that painkiller kicks in.”

  “Okay. For now, why don't I run over to the pharmacy and get you some first aid cream?”

  “I'll settle for the brownie.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment as he listened to her moving around the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, the sound of liquid hitting glass, the muted music from the radio in the garage. He'd never gone in for classical, but it sounded pretty good just then. When she set the dishes and glasses on the table and took the seat across from him, he opened his eyes again. He could see patience, understanding, and the offer of a shoulder to lean on. It was so easy to open the wound.

  “Christ, Slim, I wanted to kill him,” Cam said quietly. There was a look in his eyes, a dark and dangerous look that contrasted with the calm control of his voice. “He was drunk and mean and looking at me the same way he looked at me when I was ten and couldn't fight back. And I wanted to kill him more than I ever wanted anything. What kind of cop does that make me?”

  “A human one.” She hesitated, pressing her lips together. “Cam, I used to hear my parents talking about-well, about your situation at home. Why didn't anyone ever do anything?”

  “People don't like to interfere-especially in domestic problems. And my mother always backed him up. She still does. She'll post his bail as soon as it's set and take him home. Nothing he does will ever convince her that he's a worthless drunk. I used to wish he'd empty a bottle and kill himself.” He cursed under his breath, thinking of Clare's father, knowing from the expression on her face that she was thinking of him as well. “I'm sorry.”

  “No, it's all right. I guess we both have firsthand experience of how destructive alcoholism can be. But Dad-he never hurt anyone when he was drinking. Except himself.” She made the effort to shake off the mood. “You must be feeling pretty raw today. I can take a rain check on the ride.”

  “I am feeling raw.” He flexed his stiff hands. “And I could use some company-if you can stand it.”

  She smiled and stood. “Let me get a jacket.”

  When she returned, Cam reminded her to turn off the radio-then reminded her to close the garage door. With her thumbs hooked in her pockets, she studied the motorcycle parked beside her car. It was big and brawny, a spartan black and silver without any fancy work. A machine, she thought with approval as she circled it. Not a toy.

  “This is the real thing.” She ran a respectful hand over the engine. With her tongue in her cheek, she picked up the helmet he'd set on the back as he unstrapped the spare. “Rafferty, you've mellowed.”

  As she laughed, he dropped the spare helmet over her head and fastened the strap. She slipped on the bike behind him, hooking her arms comfortably around his waist when he gunned the engine. Neither of them noticed the glint of the telescopic lens from the high window across the street when they swung out of the drive and cruised away.

  She kept her hands loose and her head back. Years before, she had spent a spring and summer in Paris harmlessly in love with another art student. He'd been sweet and dreamy and broke. Together they had rented a motorbike and spent a weekend puttering through the streets.

  Then she laughed at her own memory. This was nothing like that gentle interlude. Her young lover's body had been frail-nothing like the hard solid length she pressed against now.

  Cam leaned into a turn, and she felt her heart race. A good burst of feeling, like the steady vibration of the bike beneath her. She could smell fumes rising from the muffler, grass newly mown, the leather of Cam's jacket, and the deeper, more secretive scent of his skin.

  He liked the feel of her behind him, the unabashedly sexual sensation of her thighs spread and molded to his with the steady rhythm of the engine beneath them. Her hands rested lightly on his hips or crept more securely around his waist when he eased into a turn. On impulse he turned off the highway down a narrow, winding road. They swayed like dancers beneath an arch of trees. Shadow and light threw dizzy patterns on the asphalt. The air held the cool, fragrant breath of spring.

  They stopped at a roadside store and bought icy soft drinks and huge cold-cut subs. With the picnic secured in the saddlebags, they drove farther into the woods to where a stream curved and widened.

  “This is great.” Clare took off the helmet and pulled a hand through her hair. Then she laughed and turned to Cam. “I don't even know where I am.”

  “We're only about ten miles north of town.”

  “But we've been riding for hours.”

  “I circled around.” He took the bags of food and passed her one. “You were too busy singing to notice.”

  “The only trouble with a motorcycle is there's no radio to blast.” She walked to the edge of the mossy bank where the stream was gurgling and tumbling over rocks. Overhead the leaves were still young and tender. Mountain laurel and wild dogwoods were bursts of white.

  “I used to bring girls up here all the time,” Cam said from behind her. “To fool around.”

  “Really?” She turned, smiling, and there was speculation in her eyes. He looked like a boxer who had gone the distance. Though she wasn't fond of blood sports, the analogy was appealing just then, and just there. “Is that still your standard operating procedure?” Tempted and curious, she leaned toward him. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, look at that!” Clare shoved the bag of sandwiches at him and took off running.

  By the time
he caught her, she was standing in front of a huge old tree, her hands steepled at her lips, her eyes worshipful. “Do you believe it?” she whispered.

  “I believe you took ten years off my life.” He scowled at the old, misshapen tree. “What the hell got into you?”

  “It's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I've got to have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “The burl.” She reached up, rose to her toes, but her fingertips were still several inches short of the swollen ring of wood and bark that marred the oak. “I've searched for hours and never found one this good. For carving,” she said when she dropped down to her flat feet. “The burl is scar tissue. When a tree is injured, it heals over, just like flesh.”

  “I know what a burl is, Slim.”