THE MORNING SIDE OF DAWN Read online

  He looked up, startled, as Sean reached over and snatched the wrench out of his hand.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I don't think I want you armed in your present mood," Sean said dryly, hefting the heavy wrench. "You're already biting my head off, God knows what you'd do with this."

  Dar expelled a compressed breath through clenched teeth. He was in a savage mood, he knew that; he'd been that way ever since Cassie had walked out of his bedroom. He'd spent all morning trying to force what she'd said out of his mind, but even the repairs on the off-road chair weren't enough of a distraction, not when every time his guard was down, sweet, hot memories of last night swept over him like some primal, unstoppable tide.

  "Look," Sean said, "if it's that tough, her being here, she can come stay with us. I know you're not used to having anybody around—"

  "No."

  "No to her staying with us, or no, you're not used to having anybody around?"

  "Both.”

  Sean studied him for a moment, his warm brown eyes troubled. "You want to explain that little contradiction, my friend?"

  "No."

  "Hmm." Sean tapped the wrench against his palm. "You know, right now you remind me of somebody."

  "I don't want to know who," Dar said flatly.

  "You're going to, anyway."

  "Somehow I figured that."

  "You remind me of me." Dar's head came up at that. "Me, when Rory showed up after five years. She knocked me for a loop, and I didn't know what the hell to do. I felt the way you're acting."

  Dar gave Sean a sideways look. "As I recall, our initial solution to that was to get drunk."

  Sean nodded. "Yep. Didn't help, though. So, you want to talk about it?"

  "Talk about what?" Dar said warily.

  "The fact that you lied through your teeth to me the other day."

  "I did?"

  "You did. When you said there was nothing to that stuff about you and Cassie being involved, that it was just a cover to keep from worrying me and Rory."

  "It was."

  "Maybe it started out that way, but hell, Dar, anybody can see there's more going on between you and Cassie than that."

  He started to deny it, but this was Sean, and he didn't want to lie to him. "Not anymore," he finally said.

  Sean's gaze narrowed. "Anymore? Is that what's got you acting like a junkyard dog? You two have a fight?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What does 'not exactly' mean?"

  "It means we didn't fight. I never said a word."

  "Well, isn't that unusual," Sean drawled. "So what did Cassie say?"

  "Enough."

  "Such as?"

  Dar looked at his friend in disgust. "What do you want, a word-for-word account?"

  Sean grinned. "Nah. Just hit the high points."

  "At least before you got married you knew when to let something drop," Dar growled.

  Sean's grin widened. "Rory taught me that things like this don't go away, they just hide, grow and come back to haunt you later."

  "Save me from armchair psychologists."

  "So that's it, huh? Cassie do a little off-the-cuff analysis on you?"

  Dar grimaced.

  "So come on, what was the diagnosis?"

  "My head's screwed up. And my attitude." His mouth twisted. "Oh, yeah, and I'm a jerk, too, and always have been."

  Sean nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds pretty close to me. Smart lady."

  Dar glared at him. "Thanks, pal."

  "Pal, you've been walled up in that fortress of yours so long you don't even know how to come out anymore. Somebody has to batter down a door and come in after you. You're lucky she cares enough to try."

  Cares enough. Dar looked away sharply. The rest of Cassie's words echoed in his mind, the words he'd been trying so hard not to think of all day. You've taken something beautiful and turned it ugly because you're afraid. Because you never have known how to care, have you? So you just lock yourself away, inside yourself as much as inside this warehouse, never letting the world in.

  And suddenly he was very much afraid that she had been right about the rest of it, too, that he would have messed this up with or without his legs.

  "Dar? You okay?"

  He shook his head, trying to clear away the bittersweet vision of Cassie standing beside his bed, her slender, naked body making his ache all over again, and the look on her face telling him what he'd just thrown away.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced up into Sean's worried eyes.

  "Hell, buddy, I didn't mean to… You look like…"

  "Yeah," Dar said hoarsely. "I feel that way, too."

  Sean went down on his artificial knee with a swiftness and smoothness that belied its construction, so that he and Dar were almost at equal eye level.

  "I'm sorry, man. If I'd known it was that bad, I never would have joked about it."

  "She's right, you know," Dar said, staring at the bloody patches on his knuckles. "I … don't know how … to care. About anybody, not really. I never did. I've always … felt alone. My old man, he…"

  His voice trailed off. Until Cassie, he'd talked more to Sean than anybody in his life. But it was still hard. Every word felt as if it had edges like shards of glass, slicing him to ribbons as it came out. But at last, because it hurt more to hold it in than to let it out, he went on.

  "He was always … apart. He never let anyone close. Not even my mother. About the only thing I remember about her was … she was always begging him to just … talk to her. But he never would. You had to earn his attention. I did everything I could to do that, and when that scout signed me, I thought I'd done it but then—" he gestured at his legs "—this happened, and I knew I'd never be good enough. Not for him."

  "God, Dar—"

  He held up a hand, cutting off Sean's words. "Don't. My father is ancient history."

  "Is he? Seems to me he's still here, still dogging you."

  Dar shot him a sideways glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You said he was always apart. That he never let anyone close." Sean paused before saying very quietly, "Remind you of anyone?"

  Dar shuddered. It was true. God help him, it was true. He'd become that man, that cold, distant man whose approval he'd been so desperate to win. Whose approval lunged on performance, and nothing else. Who said love had to be earned, and then made it impossible for a mere human to do it. The man who couldn't accept anything less than perfection, especially in his own son.

  And he knew Cassie had been right about that, too. His legs weren't the problem; he'd become an expert at holding off the world long before his accident. His father had made sure of that. If his own father couldn't love him, even whole, who could? Losing his legs had just made it easier to stay apart, had given him an excuse the whole world understood.

  "She was right," he whispered, his voice sounding as shaken as he felt. "God, she was right."

  "I think," Sean said, "you need to tell her that, not me."

  "She won't listen."

  Sean lifted a brow. "Why not?"

  Charity, maybe? His own words rang painfully in his ears.

  "I … insulted her. Badly."

  Sean's gaze narrowed, as if he were speculating on exactly when and how that might have happened. But then he shrugged. "So did I, when I practically accused her of just playing with you. But she forgave me."

  Dar looked at his friend sharply. "When you what?"

  "Never mind. But I don't think Cassie's the type to hold a grudge. Especially not if she cares about someone. And I think she really cares about you."

  "God knows why," Dar muttered.

  "You said it, not me," Sean retorted, sounding suddenly quite cheerful. "Good luck, buddy. She may not hold a grudge, but that doesn't mean she's going to make it easy on you."

  Sean stood up, and although his real leg did all the work, it was so smooth Dar doubted if anyone who didn't already know would ever guess there was anything different
about him.

  "I've got to get back. Rory has a doctor's appointment in an hour."

  Dar shook himself out of his absorption with what the hell he was going to say to Cassie. Just because he'd become his father didn't mean he had to stay that way.

  "Is she okay? Or still getting sick all the time?"

  "It's not getting any worse," Sean said. "Small comfort. Being pregnant is hell." He sighed. "I think she's doing better than I am."

  Dar managed a smile as Sean left, but his stomach had gone into a gut-wrenching free-fall.

  Pregnant.

  They had done nothing last night, taken no precautions. He hadn't even asked her about it. It had been so long since he'd even had to consider the possibility that it had never even occurred to him. But Cassie hadn't said anything, either. Surely she would have, would have stopped him, if there was a chance she could get pregnant. Wouldn't she?

  Cassie, pregnant. With his baby. The image that leapt to his mind terrified him. And, he realized with growing panic, awed him a little, too.

  What the hell would we do?

  That automatic linking in his mind, the assumption that there was a "we," only added to his panic; after this morning, he doubted very much that Cassie would want to be linked to him in any way, despite what Sean thought.

  No, she couldn't be pregnant, he assured himself. She was a sophisticated woman, for God's sake, a supermodel who roamed the world—surely she was on the Pill or something.

  I know what some people assume about me, because of what I look like, and what I do.

  For a second time her words came back to him. And he told himself yet again that making assumptions about Cassie Cameron was a very foolish thing to do.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall in the workshop area. It was nearly noon. Cassie had left just before nine, after taking a shower so long Dar had wondered if she'd meant to make sure he had no hot water left. But the moment the thought had come to him he'd discarded it; that wasn't Cassie's style. She'd skin him alive face-to-face, but she wouldn't resort to that kind of petty action. It was much more likely, he'd realized with grim honesty, that it had taken her that long to feel that she'd washed him away, to feel clean again after what he'd said to her.

  He'd wondered if she was leaving altogether, but he'd seen her duffel bag was still on the floor, and he hadn't heard her car start. He knew she'd gone rambling across the hills outside before, when he'd been gone for his workout, and assumed that was where she'd gone.

  He didn't go out at all. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he skipped a scheduled workout day. This morning he had come face-to-face with the knowledge that somehow this woman had gotten through all the barriers, that she had burrowed her way in until she was closer than he'd ever let anyone get in his life. She'd dug her way into his heart, and all he'd been able to think was that when she left—and she would, he knew she would, everybody left—she'd take it with her. And he'd panicked. And in his panic, he'd done the instinctive thing, he'd struck out, gone on the offensive, hurt before he could be hurt.

  As he'd always done. He could see the pattern now, and it went back to long ago, to the child who had insisted he didn't miss his mother at all, to the young teenager who had left his girlfriend before she could leave him, to the college baseball star who chose only women who required nothing more of him than his larger-than-life presence, as if it somehow made them more important to be seen with him.

  And it had culminated in the man who had left his father's funeral swearing that he would never fight for anyone else's approval ever again. Needing anything from other people was a fool's game, it put you at their mercy. And he was out of that game. Forever.

  He'd let Sean in only because he understood. Their missing limbs had been a bond that had made the connection safe. And Stevie and Chase were safe, too; they understood, because of Sean and what they themselves had been through.

  And Katie. Little Katie, with a world of charm, and that innate and sometimes brutal honesty…

  The honesty that seemed to run in the family. Whatever gene combination had given it to Chase, and through him to Katie, had also given it to Cassie. She'd never been less than honest with him, even when it cost her embarrassment. And her guileless and sometimes sideways way of looking at things had been a breath of fresh air in a life he hadn't realized had become so stale.

  Sean was right. He needed to talk to Cassie. To say he was sorry for that uncalled-for insult. To tell her she was right about him. Always had been right. He didn't expect it to make any difference, but he owed it to her. She'd given him the sweetest, most incredible night of his life, and in return he'd verbally slapped her in the face.

  He wheeled over to the window by the front door and looked out. The lagoon sparkled, the road was empty and there was no sign of Cassie anywhere.

  Knowing Cassie, she'd come back when she was good and ready. He'd just have to wait her out. He went back to the workshop, and back to work on the off-road chair. He'd replaced the tire on the front wheel, and its mountings; the wheel itself had been undamaged. The handlebar was next, and that took only a matter of a half hour to replace and double-check that nothing else had been damaged. He replaced the seat with one he'd been wanting to try, anyway, one that rode even lower and made it less likely that he'd go over backward on an uphill slope. He'd already moved the rear wheels back a couple of inches for the same reason, but figured a little more help wouldn't hurt. He didn't want any more tumbles like yesterday's; he might not be so lucky next time.

  Cassie might not be here to bail you out, you mean, he thought gloomily.

  He glanced at the clock again. After one. His brows furrowed. How long was she going to wander around out there? Why didn't she just come back and chew him out some more? She had to be hungry by now, if nothing else. No breakfast, and now lunch, she— Damn. What if she'd taken a tumble herself? It was easily possible. Some of those trails were barely more than animal tracks, and there were places on the edge of some fairly sharp drops where the ground was unstable. He'd been reminded of that the hard way, yesterday.

  Worry spiked through him, sharp and unfamiliar. He fought it; she'd made it more than clear what she thought of him. She would come back on her own; he wasn't about to go out looking for her.

  Pride stops being useful when you trip over it.

  "Damn," he swore under his breath. What was this penchant he'd developed for remembering every word she'd ever said to him? He went back to work on the chair, fussing with the suspension, telling himself it was silly to worry about her, when she was no doubt within yelling distance. But Sean's reminder of why she was here dug at him, and by the time he finished with the chair, it was gnawing at him too strongly to be ignored.

  He shoved his tools away and wheeled over toward the door. He looked out the window again; nothing had changed. He sat there for a moment, considering. Then he pulled open the door and rolled out onto the porch.

  He sat there silently for several minutes, listening. It sounded a bit quiet; the raucous cries of the waterfowl that frequented the lagoon were usually softened by the lighter chirping of the land birds of the hills, but today the mud hens seemed to be all he could hear. Of course, there were many possible reasons for that—a marauding coyote, the return of that red-tailed hawk he'd seen a couple of weeks ago, or even Cassie herself, hushing the birds with her passing.

  An odd tightness in his fingers made him realize he'd been sitting there with his hands clenched around the push rims of his chair. He consciously relaxed them, flexing his fingers as he looked out over the lagoon.

  He hated this. He'd never felt like this before, but he knew without a doubt he hated it. If this was what it felt like to love somebody, then you could just keep it, be thought. He yanked on the right rim and shifted his weight, spinning around to go back inside. And just as suddenly stopped.

  For a split second he thought it was the shock of what he'd just admitted to himself, that he loved Cassie, that had stopp
ed him. But then he jerked back around, peering down the road. Then he wheeled slightly to his left and looked again.

  It was there. A sliver of white, barely visible around the curve of the road, just beyond the gravel portion that served as a natural alarm. As if someone wanted to be sure he wasn't heard.

  His pulse leapt. He propelled himself as far to the left as he could go on the porch, until he could see a little more of the car. Enough to be sure that what he'd been afraid of was true—it was the same kind of car Willis had driven away from Chase's house in. He couldn't see the license plate, but it didn't matter. He didn't believe in that much coincidence. The man must have followed Sean, or made the connection with the address in Stevie's book, somehow. It didn't matter. He was here.

  Cassie. God, Cassie.

  He spun around and wheeled through the door again. He nearly knocked over a lamp in his haste, but didn't spare it a glance. He hated wasting the time, but his regular chair might not be tough enough, if she was still up in the hills, and he wouldn't do her any good if he wound up in the dirt again.

  Assuming he was in time to do her any good at all.

  The image of Willis chasing her, of him almost catching her before she'd scrambled into his van, replayed with vicious clarity in Dar's mind. In the glimpse he'd gotten of the man, he hadn't seemed very intimidating, but his intent had been unmistakable: he had wanted Cassie. Bar knew the memory of the man reaching out, almost catching her, would stay with him for a long, long time.

  He shifted into the off-road chair, sparing a half second to be thankful that he'd gone ahead and finished the repairs. He left the door open this time as he went through, and sent the chair sailing down the ramp. He took the turn at the bottom sharply, but the tough tires grabbed and held. He considered heading for the car, on the chance that Willis might be sitting in it, but quickly discarded the idea. Finding Cassie was more important.

  He propelled himself at full speed toward the base of the hills behind the warehouse, thinking quickly. There were three main trails that started there, two that wound back into the hills, and one that started back toward the main road, paralleling the drive that led to the warehouse. This was the path that led to the steep trail where he'd taken his header yesterday, and he doubted if she'd want to revisit that place.