Protective Instincts. Shirlee McCoy

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      Someone lunged from the robes, darting out so quickly Jackson barely had time to respond. He dove toward the scurrying figuring, bringing the person down to the ground in a hail of fists and kicking feet. The music stand fell, clanging onto the ground with enough noise to wake the dead.

      Jackson grabbed a skinny arm, tried to grab another, a man’s hoarse cries filling his ears.

      “Cool it!” he said as he finally managed to snag the guy’s flailing hand. He looked down into a grizzled face and hot black eyes.

      “Let me go, worthless VC!” the guy shouted.

      “You’re not in Vietnam, man,” Jackson tried to assure him, still holding his arms in a tight grip. “You’re in the States. In Maryland. In a church.”

      He was rewarded with spit in the face.

      He didn’t bother wiping it off.

      He’d experienced worse, heard worse than the stream of curses coming from the man’s mouth.

      “Tell you what, buddy,” he suggested, hauling the guy to his feet. “How about you put a sock in it?”

      “Give me a sock and I’ll—”

      “What’s going on?” Raina peered in the open door, her face pale. She looked like a dim reflection of the happy young woman in the photo he’d seen, and he felt exactly the way he had when he’d seen her in Africa. Worried. Determined. Willing to do whatever it took to get her home safely.

      Only they weren’t in Africa. They weren’t even in danger. Unless a hundred-pound sixty-something-year-old man who smelled like the inside of a beer keg could be considered a threat.

      “I found this guy hiding in the choir robes,” he responded, turning his attention back to his prisoner, because he didn’t want to look in Raina’s face. He didn’t want to see the loss written so clearly there, didn’t want to know that her pain was the same pain he felt when he remembered Charity. Because there was nothing that could be done about that kind of pain. No magic pill that could be taken, no barrier that could be put up. Nothing but time could ease it, and even that only dulled the sharp edge of grief.

      “I wasn’t hiding!”

      “Butch,” Raina said. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here without permission.”

      She stepped farther into the room. “Did you ask Pastor Myer if you could sleep here?”

      “It’s God’s house. I asked Him,” Butch said with a sly smile.

      “How about you show a little respect for the lady, Butch?” Jackson asked, giving the guy a little shake. Not too hard, though. He didn’t want to rattle fragile bones.

      Raina ignored his comment.

      So did Butch.

      As a matter of fact, Jackson thought they’d done this whole thing before—many times—and that they were just letting things play out the way they always had before.

      “You’ve been drinking again.” Raina walked to the choir robes and dug through them, pulling out an empty bottle of beer.

      “Nah. I’m just collecting old bottles for the money,” Butch replied. “Gotta make a living somehow.”

      “You could try getting a job,” Jackson muttered, releasing the guy’s arms.

      “Who’s going to hire me? I got PTSD, a bum back, wrecked knees. Got no hearing in one ear and barely any in the other. Thank you, Uncle Sam, for taking care of your veterans.” Butch grabbed a backpack from behind the clothes, not nearly as drunk as Jackson thought.

      “If you need work, I have some jobs around the house that I can’t do myself,” Raina said casually.

      Jackson doubted there was anything casual about the offer.

      As a matter of fact, tension lines were etched across her forehead, her skin pulled taut along her cheekbones.

      He also doubted it was a good idea to have a guy like Butch hanging around her place. He’d steal her blind and not feel a bit of guilt about it.

      “What kind of jobs? ’Cause I already told you, my back is bad and my knees are gone.”

      “The fence needs whitewashing, and the lawn needs one more mowing before winter.”

      “You still got that riding lawn mower? The one Matt loved so much?”

      At his question, Raina tensed, her hands fisting. “Yes.”

      “I’ll come by day after tomorrow and get that done for you. The fence might be a little harder. Probably will take me a week or more. Gotta take lots of breaks.”

      Raina nodded, but didn’t speak.

      Jackson wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her husband that had thrown her or if it was the fact that Butch had taken her up on her offer of work.

      “See you then, Raina.” Butch waved and would have walked out into the hall, but Jackson wasn’t done with the guy.

      “How long were you in here, Butch?” he asked, and the old vet paused on the threshold, his gray hair falling in a ratty braid down the middle of his back.

      “Awhile,” he finally muttered.

      “You must have heard the gunshots earlier.”

      “Could be that I did.” Butch turned slowly, his black eyes blazing in his gnarled face. He looked older than he probably was. Seventy or more when Jackson suspected he was in his early sixties. Life hadn’t been kind to him, but then, Jackson doubted the guy had been very kind to life.

      “Did you hear anything before that?” Jackson pressed.

      “Who wants to know?”

      “Me. Probably the police. Raina.”

      “Here’s the deal, soldier,” Butch responded. “I don’t deal with the police, and I don’t like you. For Raina’s sake, I’ll tell you this—I heard a car pull into the parking lot a couple of hours ago. You tell the police that, and I’ll tell them you’re lying.”

      “Butch—” Raina started to say, but the guy raised a hand, cutting her off.

      “You’ve always been good to me, but I’m not getting pulled into trouble. Been there too many times to count, and I’m starting to realize I’m getting too old for it.”

      “You didn’t just hide in the choir robes and let whoever was in the parking lot do what he wanted to the church, Butch,” Jackson said. “You went and looked out a window, right? This is your space. You were ready to protect it. You looked out the window, and you saw something. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the police what that was.”

      “Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t help. I’m an old, drunk vet who’s been wandering around these parts sleeping in churches and abandoned railroad cars and under overpasses for more years than СКАЧАТЬ