One More Knight

front again, and his whole body pulsing and pounding like an overheated steam engine. He sat there staring through the windshield, trying to focus his eyes and get his mind functioning again-and all he could hear was that damn hillbilly band across the street.

That must be it, he thought, feeling dazed and jangled, like a man who’d just come within an eyelash of walking over a cliff. There was something about a honky-tonk bar and a cheap motel that sure could make a man lose sight of the paths of righteousness.

He didn’t know when he’d ever felt so lousy. He could feel Charly shivering in the seat next to him and knew that in another second she was going to say something-ask him what was wrong, or maybe suggest they go inside. If she did, he didn’t know what he was going to tell her. He didn’t know what was wrong, and he sure as hell didn’t want to go inside.

Which was hard to figure, considering he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her, not in his whole life. If it was possible for a man to die from an overdose of desire, then he was surely a goner. But-and this was what didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him-he didn’t want her like this. Not a repeat of last night, mind-blowing as it had been. That had been then. This was now. The closest he could come to explaining it was that there’d been a lot of water under the bridge since, and for him, at least, it had brought them to an entirely different place. Much as it surprised him to realize it, mindless sex just wasn’t going to do it for him. Not tonight. Maybe never again.

It was then, as he sat there with the cold shakes of adrenaline withdrawal crawling through his insides, that he heard it: his brother Jimmy Joe’s voice.

You’ll know.

And he felt something inside himself shift, as if his own personal compass had just spun around and the needle was pointing steady and true at due north, and for the first time in a long time he knew exactly where he was and where he was going.

Still staring straight ahead, he cleared his throat and said tensely, “You want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Her laugh was dry, sardonic. And not entirely steady. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

“Don’t try to snow me,” he snapped, “because it ain’t gonna work.” He wasn’t angry, but he didn’t care if she thought he was. What he wanted was to break through that brittle shell of self-control she’d wrapped herself in, and if getting her angry back at him was what it took, that was fine with him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a voice just a little too breathy for the icy disdain it was trying to portray.

“You’re wound so tight I can hear you squeak. Look, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you-”

“Jeez, my father just had a heart attack!”

“Don’t give me that-this isn’t about your father. Not all of it, anyway. Maybe you and your dad have some issues-”

“Issues?” She said it on a note of mocking laughter, as if it was a word she hadn’t expected to hear out of a Georgia redneck like him.

“Hey,” he said, “you’ve been in this shape ever since I met you. You think I can’t see it? Lord, woman, what kind of fool do you think I am?”

For a change she didn’t lash back at him but sat instead in hunched and sullen silence. He touched her shoulder and felt her flinch.

He took a breath and said more gently, “Look, we both know what happened last night was…I don’t know, some kind of escape thing. You as much as told me so, remember? You said you’d had a hell of a bad day, and all that. And I can understand that. And today hasn’t been so great, either. I understand that. But let me tell you, if you think you can…if you think I…” He stopped there, his hand clamped across his mouth, realizing finally that no matter how he said it, it was going to come out wrong. That any way he did it, it was still going to be a rejection.

“I didn’t hear you objecting.” Her voice was soft and dangerous.

He gave a huff of painful laughter. “No,” he said through his fingers, “I didn’t have any objections. Then. And just so we understand each other…the only thing I’m objecting to now is your motives.”

She muttered something both sarcastic and profane under her breath and lunged for the door handle. He caught at her arm, but not in time. She twisted out of his grasp and wrenched the door open.

“Where do you think you’re gonna go?” he asked quietly. “Room keys are in my pocket.”

For a long, tense moment she stayed poised there, like a bird about to launch herself skyward. Then she slammed the door shut and jerked herself around, tense and shaking. Bubba, finally roused by the noise and the hope of freedom, came to snuffle inquiringly at her hair. She twitched it angrily away from him and said, “Stop it!” in a choked whisper, then gave up and sat with her eyes closed in silent misery while the dog expressed his sympathy and concern for her in the way that dogs generally do.

Troy watched while strange sensations-aches and tuggings, softenings and tightenings-followed one another through his chest. Finally, taking pity on her, he barked, “Quit it, Bubba.” And then, gently stroking her wet cheek with the backs of his fingers, he said, “Look, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on? All I want to do is help.”

Oh, God, Charly thought, please don’t do this to me. She could take just about anything except his gentleness…that damn… kindness. First the dog and now him.

Please God, don’t let me break down. Don’t let me start to cry. If I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

“Who was that in the hospital?” His voice was soft, inexorable. “The kid I saw talking to Dobrina? Somebody you know?”

The pressure in her chest was terrible. In desperate need of air, she caught at a breath-but there was no place to put it, and she had to let go of it unsatisfied.

“No,” she whispered, “I don’t know him.”

“Seemed like he knew you,” Troy persisted, staring ahead through the windshield. “Whoever he is, looked to me like he hates your guts.”

Pain stabbed her like a knife. She gave a high squeak of laughter. “Well, he probably does.”

His head jerked toward her. “But you don’t know him.”

“Nope.” She met his gaze defiantly, eyebrows arched, ironic little smile firmly in place. But she couldn’t hold it. The instant before it crumpled, she turned her face away.

“I only saw him once before,” she said, in a voice that ripped through her throat like claws. “That was on the day he was born. The day I gave him away.” She listened to stunned silence for a moment, then produced a laugh that tinkled in her ears like things breaking. “He’s changed a lot in twenty years.”

“You mean to tell me-” he had to stop to huff out air “-that was your son?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m telling you. That was-is-my son. Colin…Stewart…Phelps.” She drew the name out, then added, “They call him Cutter,” pronouncing it the Southern way: Cuddah.

“Good Lord,” Troy whispered. He shook his head like a dazed fighter. “But, hold on a minute, didn’t you tell me you gave him up for-?”

“Adoption. Yep,” said Charly, “I surely did. Signed the papers right there in that very same hospital, as a matter of fact. Then I…hopped on a Greyhound and skipped town.”

“Charly, why-?”

“Why? Well, see, there wasn’t really much use in my stayin’ around here, was there? Not after I drove my child’s father-who also happened to be the only son of the town’s oldest and most beloved family, not to mention my best friend-to commit suicide. Was there? My father sure didn’t think there was, and most of the townfolk agreed with him, Kelly Grace bein’ just about the only exception. Oh-and Dobrina, of course. Like I said, I think she loved-”

“Come on, Charly.” His voice was harsh as a slap. “Why are you doing this?”

She swiveled her head toward him. It seemed to take all her strength, as if the moving parts had rusted. “Doing what?”

“Talkin’ like this. Tryin’ to pretend like it doesn’t-”

“What do you think I’m doing?” The sound of her own voice shocked her. It sounded like the cry of an animal in pain. “Lord, what I’m tryin’ to do is survive! ”