Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Z oe blinked at Connor's sudden confession. She wasn't expecting that out of him. "What happened?"

"Made a stupid mistake."

She studied him and added in what she knew about him. Her memory was like a jigsaw puzzle slowly coming together, but her gut said she could trust this man, no matter what he'd been in prison for. "What did you do?"

"I trusted the wrong people."

Obviously, he wasn't going to fill her in on the details. "Well, you're not a serial killer."

"What makes you think I'm not?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest and arching one brow her direction.

He'd done that several times, making her think he was related to Mr. Spock. She'd been a Star Trek fan since she was a little girl and watched the reruns with her Grandpa Zach. Another memory popped back into place thanks to Connor.

"Because, you rescued me, put me back together, and made me chicken and dumplings. You wouldn't do that if you planned to kill me."

"Maybe, you're too trusting and I get off on hurting my victims, healing them and then killing them."

Taking in his words, she considered him, then thought about herself. "No, I don't think so."

"You don't think a serial killer could be that sadistic?"

"No. I don't think I'm too trusting. In fact, I believe there are very few people in this world I do trust." Another thing her gut was telling her was true. "But I do trust you, no matter why you were in prison. If you don't mind, I'd like to go to the bathroom again, before I go to sleep."

Changing the subject caught him off guard. It was her intent. He obviously wasn't ready to tell her the details of his incarceration and getting him to focus on her need for his help and her trust in him, might get him to open up about it more. Besides, she really was tired and wanted to sleep. If she was honest with herself, she liked the security she felt when he carried her. For some reason, she doubted she'd experienced that much lately—security or being held in strong arms.

"You ready now?" he asked, letting the water out of the sink and drying his hands.

"Yes, please." She pulled the covers off and wiggled to the side of the bed, careful to elevate her left leg so it wouldn't bang around.

Connor lifted her in his arms once more and as she draped her good arm around his neck their gazes met. She couldn't help but stare into the crystalline green of his eyes. There was pain there, and wariness, but also something deeper. A need. That's what was drawing her to him.

He blinked first and started for the hallway to the bathroom. "Is the leg still hurting?"

"Not as much as earlier. In fact, I think the throbbing is less than before you re-splinted it," she said, resisting the urge to toy with the thick strands of his dark blond hair that brushed her fingers at his shirt collar. Had she been a flirt before the accident? She considered the idea. It didn't set right. No. No, she didn't flirt. She liked things more straight forward. That she was sure of.

"What are you thinking about?" Connor asked, still holding her even though they were inside the bathroom once more.

"It's weird," she said, once more meeting his gaze, but not as intimately as before. "Some things just come naturally to me, like I like tea and not coffee. I don't have to think about it. Other things, like do I trust people or am I wary of them? That's something I have to consider and weigh to see which fits me more. Mostly, I'm listening to my gut to decide what I believe and what kind of person I am."

He nodded as he set her down next to the sink once more, holding her by the waist while she got a good grip on the sink. "Going with your gut is usually a good thing."

"I'm glad you agree, because besides the facts I know about you and my personal observations, my gut tells me I can trust you." She smiled slightly. "Now leave me alone to get ready for bed, please."

He glanced down, then back up. "You don't need my help?"

"I can get it myself this time."

"Ok." He stepped away, his hands trailing from her waist. "Call me when you're ready."

It took some effort, and she wanted to curse at herself for not accepting Connor's help again— stubborn as two mules going opposite directions , Grandpa Zach's voice said, confirming another thing that was true about her—eventually she was seated on the toilet, washing her face with a warm washcloth.

Suddenly the room went dark. She stared into another mirror, in another bathroom. Pale pink and cream, faint parfait peach magnolia-flowered wallpaper covered the walls. The vanity was an antique dresser from centuries ago retrofitted with a porcelain sink and gold faucet. Opulent. The only room in this grossly expensive mansion she'd felt safe in.

"Here's another to clean your neck," the tall, beautiful brunette said handing her a disposable medicated wipe.

"Thanks, Abby." With shaking hands, she took the cloth and tilted her head to see her neck in the mirror. She'd gotten all the blood splatter from her cheeks and forehead. "Did Crandal survive the battle?"

Her cousin-in-law nodded. "For the moment he's alive. Katie and the medics were working on him as they loaded him onto the helicopter."

"The slimy son-of-a-bitch deserves to die," she muttered wiping the blood away. He'd caused the deaths and trafficking of hundreds of people, not to mention the ones he'd ordered killed.

"I agree, but we need to question him. We don't know if he'll survive to give us more information on his supplier." Abby leaned one elegantly dressed hip against the dresser. "You don't have any idea who it is? He didn't let anything slip this time?"

She shook her head. "Only that it was someone who was beyond the law. Whatever that meant."

After the arms dealer Bricker was arrested, she'd quietly followed the trail of his buyers until she came in contact with a mid-level member of Crandal's gang of criminals. Crandal was a particularly vile man who liked to hurt women and daily doses of cocaine. But what he really liked was the money he got for running drugs into the states and guns back into Mexico, and any cartel in Central and South America. His home, this house, in Houston, mirrored the hacienda he had in Mexico.

She turned her head to the side to view the color changing around her eye and down her cheeks. "It's going to be black and blue for days."

"We'll get you checked out at the hospital and then you can spend a week at one of Castello's safe houses until it clears up," her cousin Luke said coming to stand behind her. With both him and Abby at her side, she felt safer than she had in months. Family. That's what you could count on.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

"You okay in there?" Connor asked, plunging her back into the present.

"Yes, just a minute," she said, hurrying to clean under her arms and her private areas.

"A PTA bath," her cousin Sami, a petite girl with tawny blonde hair said, handing her a wet washcloth on a family camping trip.

"PTA?" she asked.

"Pits, tits and ass."

They'd both giggled as they washed.

Another pleasant family memory from her childhood.

Finished, she laid the cloth on the edge of the sink, managed to stand and wiggled her panties back into place. At some point they were going to need washing. Which made her wonder where her own clothes were.

"I'm done," she called.

?

Connor opened the door to find Zoe once more standing with a death grip on the pedestal sink, by the look of her white knuckles as she held on.

"Ready?" he asked just to watch her glare at him, which she did. It must be his self-induced isolation beginning to wear thin on him, that he enjoyed irritating the only female his age he'd had contact with in more than a decade just to enjoy the sparks she seemed to give off.

He lifted her into his arms, a very familiar feeling now, and carried her back into the main room. Once she was settled, he grabbed another packet of medicine and a glass of water. "Hopefully, you'll rest better tonight."

"Is that why you ended up in the bed with me last night?" she asked after she'd taken the pills.

He shrugged, going to the door and grabbing his coat and hat. "You were thrashing about. I didn't want you to make any of your injuries worse."

"Thank you," she said, then drew the quilt up to her chin. "Where are you going?"

"Not far, but I'm letting Duke run for a bit before bed." The hound came and sat at his feet, his tail wagging in anticipation. "You're safe here."

Zoe studied him with those beautiful eyes. "I know."

Without answering her, he opened the door and walked onto the porch, closing the door behind him and Duke.

"Heel," he said, motioning for Duke to join him and the walked out in the direction of the road.

The path he'd shoveled was filled with about another three inches of new snow. But it had stopped and the night was clear. As he walked, he inhaled the crisp air, hoping it would ease the tightness in his chest. He stopped and stared up at the clear half moon and stars in the midnight blue sky.

Zoe trusted him. Without hesitation.

That's what had his chest hurting.

The day he was arrested, his world had turned upside down. The country he loved and put his life on the line for framed him for a crime he didn't commit. His friends turned their backs on him as if he were a traitor. The only person who believed in his innocence was Grandpa Mac. The heartbreak that nearly toppled the old man in his seat on the day he'd been found guilty was too much for him to see. He'd asked him not to come to see him in prison. It was too much stress on him physically, emotionally and financially.

His grandfather's letters asked him to call him, but he couldn't. He wouldn't put more burden on him, same as he refused to let him sell the cabin and land to raise money for his lawyer. Three years into his ten-year sentence, he received a letter from Grandpa's lawyer, Mr. Caruthers, that he'd passed away. That was the darkest day he had in prison, the day he considered just ending it. But in that letter was another letter, from Grandpa.

"Despite your conviction, I believe you are innocent of the charges. You are an honorable man. I know, because I raised you. I don't have many days left. When you get this letter, it will be because I've gone on to meet your Grandma in heaven. Everything we had I leave entirely to you for when you are free. Caruthers is the executor of the estate until you are released. He will see that all bills and taxes are paid out of the estate. I love you, son."

Grandpa always called him son. He was the only one who believed in him. The only one who trusted him. Until Zoe.

When he was a kid, Grandpa Mac read an old Chinese proverb he'd gotten when he went into the Army. "If you save someone's life, you are responsible for it." When he asked Grandpa if it was true, the old man laughed and said, "I hope not or no one would ever save someone in need.

So, why did he feel responsible for Zoe? He'd carried her down that mountain and into his cabin before she died of starvation, her injuries or the blizzard that whipped through the holler. Yes, he cleaned and cared for her wounds, but then he'd do that for any injured person, or animal for that matter.

No, there was one big reason he felt he needed to help her. She was vulnerable. Not just her gunshots and broken leg. The amnesia made her situation worse. Because with her memory still sketchy, whoever tried to kill her could try again and she wouldn't even see them coming.

Yep, saving her might not have made him responsible for her, but her trust in him cemented the idea in his head. Like it or not, he was going to have to stick with her until she was safe or had her memory back.

He shoved his hands into his coat pocket and whistled for Duke.