One More Knight

Her hair, which was black or close to it, was mostly straight and came just about to her shoulders, and it was pretty obvious it hadn’t seen a comb or brush in a good long while. And her clothes…well, he was no expert, but hers-gray slacks and a peach-colored knitted top with no sleeves-looked like they might have been expensive, maybe even silk. Which was a shame, because it looked to him that they were going to be hard to salvage. He’d seen people on the losing end of a barroom brawl in better shape.

Though there wasn’t anything wrong with the body underneath all the dirt and wrinkles, now that he thought about it. Taller and a little less cuddly than he liked, personally, but rounded out in the right places without being obvious about it. And he liked the way she carried herself-head up, shoulders back and a sassy bounce in her step, which was not exactly what he’d expected from somebody who’d just spent several hours in a drunk tank.

Oh, yeah, Troy thought, she was trying. But it was her face that gave her away, especially her eyes. Even though he could see the burn of anger and defiance there above the dark thumbprints of exhaustion, even though the vulnerable softness of her mouth was more than offset by a certain go-to-hell feistiness to the set of her chin, he’d seen enough of the real thing to know that hers was mostly bravado. Whatever had happened to the lady, it hadn’t got her beat, not yet. But she was holding on with sheer guts and willpower.

And when he got around to figuring it all out, he thought maybe that explained all those possessive and protective impulses. He’d always been a sucker for underdogs. It was as simple as that.

She didn’t say a word as she came closer to him. Mindful of the fact that underdogs are apt to bite, Troy limited himself to a casual nod and a wary and all-purpose “Hey.”

She didn’t reply to that, either, just nodded while she watched him with a sideways look that had some resentment in it, but maybe a touch of curiosity, too. Up close he could see that her eyes were what people generally call hazel, for want of a better way to describe eyes that change color depending on the mood and the light. Right now hers were mostly brown, with just enough green in them to make him think of deep woods and soft, sweet-smelling earth.

“I’m Troy,” he said genially. “We spoke on the phone…?”

“Okay, ma‘am, I’m gonna need you to sign some things.” Officer Baylor was spreading some papers out on the countertop. He nodded in Troy’s direction. “This gentleman here is postin’ your bail. This here’s your order to appear. You might want to get yourself a lawyer ’tween now and then. Make sure you read and understand everything before you sign.”

“Where?” Her voice sounded rusty, but she didn’t bother to do anything about it.

“Right there, ma’am. And initial it here, and here.”

“You take a check?” Troy asked, reaching for his hip pocket.

Officer Baylor glanced at him. “No, sir, we do not.”

He’d been pretty sure of that answer, and was already assessing the contents of his wallet. “How much we talkin’ about?”

The officer told him. He had enough to cover it but figured he was going to have to be looking for an ATM soon. He counted out bills and handed them over, took the receipt the officer handed him, folded it and tucked it where they’d been. And all the while Charly stood in silence beside him. Not stony, though-it seemed to him he could almost feel her seething.

“That do it?”

Officer Baylor nodded. “Yes, sir. Ma’am, you’re free to go.”

As soon as he said that, she turned on her heel. She made it through two doors before Troy had a chance to open one for her. Once outside, though, she stopped so suddenly he ran into her, muttering blasphemy under her breath as an eerie howl floated toward them out of the artificial twilight. He could hardly blame her; it was enough to raise the hair on the back of Troy’s neck, and he knew what it was.

“What in the hell,” she croaked, breathing hard, “is that?”

He’d taken hold of her upper arms to steady them both. He could feel tension vibrating through her muscles, just under skin as soft as…he didn’t know what. But it felt nice. He got a sudden reprise of the image of Officer Baylor’s big ol’ beefy hand on that skin, and the feeling it had aroused in him. The night got warmer.

“That’s just my dog, ma‘am. Sorry about that. He cries when I leave ’im.”

She angled a look at him across her shoulder and said evenly, “Next person to call me ma’am is going to become a homicide statistic.”

He let go of her arms and backed away in mock alarm, holding up a placating hand. “Sorry, ma’am-won’t happen again.”

Her only reply was a snort, a sound he remembered from the telephone, as she headed off across the parking lot, taking her reckoning from the racket Bubba was making. He lengthened his stride and as he pulled up alongside her, she was shaking her head and muttering something along the lines of, “Of course he’d bring his dog…”

Troy didn’t bother to answer that; the way he saw it, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. And in case she’d forgotten, neither did she.

They’d reached the truck. Charly pulled up short and said, “Good G-” while Troy was singing out, “Hey, ol’ Bub-” They both got no further because by that time Troy had gotten the door open and Bubba was doing his best to leap out into his arms.

Charly was backing away, muttering the kinds of things they teach you in Sunday School not to say if you want to stay out of hell. “That’s not a dog, that’s a lion!”

“Ah, no…Bubba’s just a great big ol’ baby,” Troy purred. “Aren’t you, boy? You miss me? Yeah…! know.”

He gave the dog a wrestle to pacify him and managed to get a grip on his collar before he could turn his attention to the lady, who was obviously intending to make Bubba’s acquaintance from a considerable distance. Not out of fear, though-Troy was pretty sure of that. He just wasn’t sure what to make of the expression on her face. He tried to ease things by explaining to her that ol’ Bubba was still just a puppy and hadn’t even got his growth yet, but he could see she wasn’t going to be soft-soaped.

She said, “He’s got yellow eyes,” in a tone somewhere between revulsion, disbelief and awe.

“Well, sure,” said Troy, “he’s a chocolate Lab. They have eyes like that.”

“And of course his name would be Bubba.”

Troy heard the soft hiss of an exhalation, and then a muttered something he couldn’t quite hear. But he didn’t miss the note of sarcasm in it He glanced up at her, but she was gazing off into the trees, looking as if she hoped a taxi was going to happen along any minute, or at the very least, a Greyhound bus.

Now, he was generally a patient and easygoing soul by nature, and he was certainly mindful of the fact that she’d had a few things happen recently that might upset her. But she was starting to get to him-kind of like a rock in his shoe; he was willing to overlook the aggravation for just so long.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “I think maybe I ought to take ol’ Bubba for a walk. He’s been in the car awhile.”

“By all means. I’ll wait.”

While Troy was getting the leash out of the back of the Jeep, she went around to the front passenger’s seat and got in. He looked back once before Bubba hauled him out of range, and saw her sitting there staring straight ahead through the windshield, her face pale as marble. Kind of made him wish he hadn’t looked. He thought he’d never seen anybody so alone. Made it kind of hard for him to stay ticked off at her.

In the warm, gray stillness that smelled of equal parts new car and young dog, Charly was fighting for control with every ounce of strength she had left in her. Her belly jumped with every pulse beat; tremors vibrated through her muscles and resonated inside her chest. She wanted to scream and kick and tear things. She wanted to cry- great racking sobs, the kind that felt like they would turn her whole body wrong side out. But she wasn’t going to. She’d already done that. She’d cried in front of him today; she was never going to forgive herself, or him, for that. And she’d cry no more. Not for anybody. Ever again.

Oh, but I’d give almost anything to make this pain go away.

There had been a moment…just a moment…when it had dampened some. When the volume of the pain had seemed to diminish at least to a bearable level-something like what happens when you stick your fingers in your ears to shut out noise.

It had happened in her first moment of freedom, when she’d burst out into the soft June night and heard that god-awful howl and stopped dead in her tracks. And he-Troy-hadn’t been able to stop, and had run into her, and