Witness... And Wife?. Kate Stevenson
letting the strands of her hair run liquid through his fingers. “I’ve only dreamed.”
“A poet,” she whispered and kissed his lips with gentle urgency. “I’ve fallen in love with a poet.”
She hadn’t been entirely wrong.
Because of her, poetry had sung in his heart. He just couldn’t speak the words out loud. And somehow, when tragedy had struck, the words became lost in the cadences of sorrow.
A growl of almost physical pain reverberated in his chest. Savagely he ground the car’s gears in his haste to put distance between himself and his memories.
A horn blared.
He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt a few inches past a stop sign as the other car crossed the intersection, its driver raising his hand in a one-fingered salute.
Luke grimaced and continued down the street, ticking off the names of men who could take over the investigation. Burns, Jessup, Haggerty—all competent replacements.
Competent, but unimaginative.
They’d follow the book, track down leads and patiently wait for Cassie to regain her memory.
And not one of them would worry about what she was going through.
Just as he hadn’t two years ago when they’d lost their child.
Luke pulled in at the station and turned off the ignition, trying to convince himself there was no comparison. The two situations were entirely different. He’d been going through hell himself.
Still, the fact remained—he could have done something.
Wrong, he argued, staring out the windshield. Cassie hadn’t wanted his help. Hadn’t wanted him after the baby had died. And he couldn’t blame her. After all, the entire tragedy would never have played out if Luke had not authorized a high-speed police chase.
He rubbed the back of his neck to work loose a knot of tension and climbed from the car, feeling every one of his thirty-six years. Hindsight was easy. Easy and useless. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he might wish to. And, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about Cassie’s current problems.
In an hour he’d be off the case.
Chapter 2
“I feel fine,” Cassie protested.
“And you’ll feel finer tomorrow.” Dr. Denning’s tone brooked no argument. “A concussion, however mild, is nothing to mess with, young lady. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you walk out tonight. I’ll stop by first thing in the morning, and if things check out, you can go home then.”
“So what’s to check out?” Cassie grumbled, resentful of her forced inactivity. Headache or no, it felt wrong to be lying in bed like an invalid instead of up getting things accomplished.
The doctor smiled as though he understood her impatience. “Try to get a good night’s sleep,” he suggested before leaving.
Sleep! Since when did people sleep in hospitals? Between the staff’s poking and prodding, visits from overly cheerful volunteers and the shrill demand of the telephone, Cassie hadn’t managed to nap once today. Even the painkillers she’d been given didn’t make her tired.
Woozy, yes. Sleepy? No way.
Rebelliously she stared at the white tiles marching across the ceiling. If Denning wanted her to get some rest, he should send her home.
When the phone rang, she considered ignoring it. The last thing she needed was more sympathy from her family or another round with Peter Eckhart.
Peter, her boss and editor at the Denver Tattler, had expressed the same concerns as her father and brothers, but once satisfied Cassie was all right, he’d focused on her articles. His emotions had roller-coastered from fear she wouldn’t finish on time to elation over the possibility for a dramatic conclusion to the series.
Cassie didn’t blame him. He was only doing his job. But the thought of another such conversation stayed her hand. Five rings later she decided the caller wasn’t giving up. With a sigh she rolled toward the metal nightstand and lifted the receiver.
“Cassandra Bowers?”
Cassie had always hated her given name, and no one used it but her father. No one, she amended, except Luke, and he only did when he wanted to get a rise out of her. The certainty that this wasn’t Pop or Luke cooled her response several degrees. “Yes?”
“How’s your head?”
“Okay.” Her head felt like a helium-filled balloon, although she’d be darned if she’d admit it. Easing it back onto the pillow, she began a tally of tile holes.
“Such a tragic accident. A woman isn’t safe anywhere these days.”
The slight emphasis on the word tragic caught her attention, halting her tile-hole count. “Who is this?”
“Just call me a…concerned citizen.”
The caller’s chuckle gave Cassie the uncomfortable feeling she’d missed a joke. She shifted the phone to her other ear. Wishing she’d refused the painkiller the nurse had brought half an hour ago, she tried to focus on the raspy whisper.
“A smart girl like you should be more careful.”
Why was everyone always telling her to be careful? First her father and brothers, then Luke, now some crackpot with a frog in his throat. It wasn’t as though she went looking for trouble.
“Course, some people claim there’s no such thing as an accident. They talk about being stupid, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
Borrowed trouble. That’s what her father had once called her job, and she’d denied it, laughing. I’m only reporting trouble, not borrowing it, she’d answered. She wanted to laugh now, but instead, a chill trickled along her spine.
“Play it safe. I’d hate to see more accidents happen.”
The caller’s voice droned on, scraping her nerves like a nail file against sensitive fingertips.
“…to your car some morning on the turnpike or to that cute little dog…”
A noose seemed to tighten around her neck, cutting off her air. Whoever this was, he knew far too much. About her. About the assault. About her life. An inner voice urged her to slam down the phone, slice off the rambling monologue, yet some contrary part of Cassie’s brain wouldn’t let her.
It took Luke, who chose that instant to walk in, to end the one-sided conversation. One glimpse of her frozen expression and, without a word, he pulled the phone from her numb fingers. He listened for only a minute, then carefully returned the receiver to its cradle. For long seconds he stared at the instrument, the muscles of his jaw clenched. From the hall came a burst of laughter.
“Recognize the voice?”
Cassie shivered, recalling the hoarse whisper. Mutely she shook her head.
Luke dragged a chair to the side of the bed and straddled it. Hooking an arm over the padded vinyl back, he took her limp hand in a grasp that belied the careful control of his voice. “What did he say?”
Warmth radiated into her cold fingers, giving her courage to relate what she remembered in a matter-of-fact tone. The caller had upset her more than she cared to admit. Now, reading Luke’s obvious concern, she experienced something she thought she’d long ago purged from her heart.
You’re a case, nothing more, she reminded herself. But as her fear slowly ebbed, she confronted the truth. Much as she hated to admit it, Luke’s presence made her feel a little safer.
“How many people did you call today?” Luke asked.
Puzzled, she met his intent gaze. “Dad and my editor. What difference—”
“The