From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 29 Apr 2002 15:57:40 -0000 Subject: NEW FIC: "TRAVERTINE SPRING" (1/11) by MeridyM (R/NC-17) by MeridyM Source: direct Reply To: meridym@attbi.com TRAVERTINE SPRING (REDEMPTION), 1/11 By MeridyM meridym@attbi.com Distribution: Just let me know where. Disclaimer: Hey, these characters *are* mine, except for John Doggett and Monica Reyes (if you blink, you'll miss her!), who are the property of 1013 Productions. Rating: Mostly R, with sections of NC-17 here and there. Classification: Doggett fic. Angst. A love story. A mystery. Summary: If someone could see into your heart, what would he find? And what would happen if your lover found out? This story is the fourth in a series. It may be read on its own, but reading it after the others ("Intuition," "Empathy," and "Obligation") is ideal. Chapter 5 originally appeared in a different form, as the story "All Saints Day," written with David Stoddard-Hunt. Thank you, David, for the beautiful prose you contributed to this chapter, and for some good suggestions for a couple of other scenes as well. Many thanks for the support of everyone who has waited so patiently for this story. Special thanks to the wonderful gang at IWTB. Long may you wave! And I owe sincere thanks and kudos to the wonderful Abra Elliott, whose astute and sensitive beta has made this a much better story. Hugs and kisses to the fabulous Jenna, who provides my stories with a beautiful home at http://www.einini.net/incantations/ "Some things need to be believed to be seen." -- Ralph Hodgson CHAPTER 1 Brooklyn, New York, February 1990 He puts his foot up on the ottoman and yanks at his shoelaces, tying them hurriedly. Snatching the red striped tie from over his shoulder, he snaps it around his shirt collar, doing a quick four-in-hand knot in front of the hallway mirror, straightening his collar. He lifts the coffee cup from the table under the mirror and takes a sip, studying the tie in the mirror. It's okay. It'll do. He slips his suit coat off the chair back and slides it on. Kate stands in the doorway, watching him, smiling. She extends an old wool cap to him. "I'm partial to those goofy ears, you know," she says, her Upper East Side voice soft. "Keep 'em warm. It's freezing out, Johnny." He rolls his eyes but smiles, pulls his overcoat out of the hall closet and puts it on. He knows she's right. It's late February, when the New York cold seeps into your bones and takes up residence till spring. He watches Kate as she walks over to him. As long as he's known her, he's loved watching her, the way she moves, her ease and strength. Sometimes she makes him feel like the most important man in the world, and other times--times when he just looks at her--he feels like his rough edges can never measure up to her smooth grace. He still can't quite believe she's his--not even after three years of marriage to her, sleeping next to her, warming her frozen feet between his legs on cold nights in their drafty apartment. She pulls the cap down over his brown hair, puts her hands on his face and kisses him goodbye. "Be careful," she says, as she always does. "I will," he replies, as he always does. He slides his hand into her heavy robe and touches her newly swollen belly, so warm and smooth. "And you rest today," he tells her, his voice a little hoarse from the cold he's been fighting. She nods. "I will. You go now. You're late." She straightens the cap on his head just a little and smiles up at him. He kisses her quickly and heads out the door, carrying with him her gentle scent and the love in her warm brown eyes. October 2001 The phone was ringing in the kitchen, an insistent jangle that Mo Dannah could hear out in the yard. She pulled off her leather gardening gloves and tossed them onto the grass beside the herb bed, then jogged up the back steps of her house and into the kitchen. She lifted the phone from the hook. "Hello?" "Mo?" Mo smiled at the sound of the woman's West Texas accent. Memories flooded over her in a rush of laughter and scents and snippets of song. "Leila! Hi, darlin'!" "Mo, sweetie," the woman said, "I got your message, and we have everything set for you." "Really?" Mo pushed her curly black hair off her forehead, her smile broadening. "Tell me!" "Okay, you have your own cabin adjacent to the hot pool--great stuff, as you know," Leila said. "The cabin's very private--and it a little kitchen, bedroom, bath." Mo sighed. "Leila, that sounds perfect." "You can hole up there with your guy and not come up for air for two days." Mo smiled. She found that she couldn't say anything. "Mo? You still there?" "Yeah," Mo said. "I'm here." "Is there something wrong?" Leila asked. "He's still coming with you, right?" "No," Mo said softly. "I mean, there's nothing wrong. He's still coming with me." "Mo," Leila said quietly. "You know there's nothing wrong with just having a good time, just enjoying yourself, right?" Mo smiled a little. "I know." "It's not selfish, Mo," Leila added. "I know," Mo said again. "You really could afford to be a hedonist now and then." Mo laughed. "You *would* say that, Leila." "So this guy of yours, doesn't he like to have fun?" "Ah, um--" Mo smiled. "Well, yeah. He does." "If this guy can make you inarticulate, Mo, he must be something." Leila laughed. "Well, you have the room from Friday through Sunday, the whole weekend," Leila said. "If that's okay with you, Leila," Mo said. "We won't be able to get there till Saturday." "It's fine," Leila said. "Just get here when you get here." "Leila, thanks so much. I can't wait to see you." "We have a lot of catching up to do. . .that is, when you come up for air," Leila said. Mo could tell that her old friend was thoroughly enjoying this. "We'll make the time," she said. "See you in a couple weeks, Leila." "Bye, sweetie." Mo hung up the receiver and stood in the kitchen for a moment. Then she smiled and walked back out to the yard. Leila McElfish hung up the phone and looked at the two people sitting in her living room. "She will help us?" The woman with the white-streaked hair asked from her perch on the sofa, her voice furred with a soft lisp. "I think so," Leila said. "You vouch for her, then?" the woman asked. "She is suggestible?" The slender Asian man lounging next to her on the sofa smiled. "Don't even consider it, Vaia," he said. The woman sat a bit taller on the sofa and looked down her thin nose at the man. "I was only asking if she would be amenable to training." "Mo's her own person," Leila said, frowning. "And she's stronger than she appears. You'd be well-advised not to underestimate her. But, yes, I think she'll work with us." The woman raised her brows but said nothing as rejoinder. "I can't guarantee anything," Leila added. "But Douyen and I have known her for a long time, and she'll do the right thing." Leila stood up, indicating to her visitors that it was time to go. "That'll have to be enough for now." * * * November 2001 Thursday, 7:17 p.m. John Doggett checked his watch. Jesus Christ. He'd sworn to himself that he'd drag his ass out of here at a decent hour, and it was already a quarter after 7. He rubbed his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger, and then looked down at his desk with a sigh. There were still too many files and papers piled there. Well, they'd just have to wait till morning. Monica Reyes glanced over at him, hoping he wouldn't catch her watching him. She watched him rub his eyes, heard him sigh. Then she looked down at the file open on her desk, telling herself to mind her own business. She looked at her own watch. Drummed her fingers on the desk. Finally she took a breath, looked at the ceiling, and stood up. "So you're going away for the weekend, John?" He looked up at her and blinked. "You're getting out of town?" she tried again, smiling. "It'll be good for you, you know." She sobered a bit. "I know this is a tough time for you." He looked as if he were about to say something but had changed his mind. "Yeah," he said, sorting through the folders and pulling one, then two, then half a dozen more out of the pile and laying them to the side. "Thought I'd do some fishing- -if I ever get this stuff figured out. If *we* ever get it figured out," he amended. "Fishing, huh?" Monica stood up from her chair and walked over to his desk. "You know, I can take care of this." She skimmed her fingers along the edge of the desk. He looked at her sharply. "It'd be okay if you just took tomorrow off, John," Monica added. "Well, thank you, AD Reyes," he said dryly. "You're my supervisor now? I'm sure Skinner'll be interested to hear it." He set his briefcase on the desk and loaded a thick stack of files into it. Monica crossed her arms over her chest. "You know what I mean, John." "Look, Monica, there's enough goin' on around here as it is, without you havin' to pick up my slack." "Everything will be all right, John. From what I hear, everything ran pretty well long before you worked down here. And I *can* pick up your slack, if any needs to be picked up." Doggett held her gaze, studying her dark-hazel eyes. Damn, she was a stubborn woman. He was beginning to wonder if he knew any women who weren't. But she was a friend, and he knew she cared about him, that she understood--probably better than anyone else. "Monica, I appreciate it," he said, more gently. "But I'll see you in the morning, okay?" He walked over to the coat rack, slid on his trench coat. He picked up the briefcase and turned to the door. "Okay, John," Monica said. "Have a good time. . .fishing." She smiled, watching him as he stopped and shook his head. Then, without turning to face her, he raised a hand and walked out the door. * * * Friday, 5:53 a.m. He watches Kate walk toward him, the white nightgown billowing as she moves. It is translucent, erotic as hell, and reveals all her secrets to him--if, after three years of marriage, there are any secrets left. It doesn't matter. She excites him. He thinks she probably always will. He reaches out and grasps her wrist, pulling her down to him, on top of him. She laughs her throaty laugh, and he quiets her with his kiss, running his hands over her bare skin, the silk of the gown. She curves herself over and around him, tangling her bare legs with his. He slides the straps of the gown off her shoulders and hides his face against her fragrant golden skin, pulls her heavy waves of dark blonde hair around his neck, binding them together. He presses his mouth to her throat and draws in her vitality, breathes back his. He pulls the nightgown off her arms and slides it down and off. As he rubs his hands down her back, across her rounded backside, down the tops of her naked thighs, she shivers and whispers his name. She opens her brown eyes and smiles at him, and he kisses her again. Laughing, she helps him get his jeans unbuttoned, unzipped, pulled down and off. He throws them onto the floor and reaches for her again. And her brown eyes are now pale green, her burnished gold hair now short and shiny black. She is smaller, thinner. . .older, with crinkles of amusement at the corners of her eyes. He takes her face between his hands and covers her soft mouth with his, and her lips open to his kiss. His hands, older too, caress her white skin, roving from shoulder blades to curve of waist, to thighs. He covers her nipple with his mouth and hears her sigh. As he loves her, she holds him tight and hides her face against his neck, whispering his name over and over, a soft chant, a prayer. Suddenly awake, Doggett rolled over, tangled in the bedclothes. "Jesus," he breathed. He sat up and ran his hands down his face slowly. He tugged at the sheets to loosen them and drew his legs up, put his hands on his knees. He was the last person in the world to put stock in dreams, but it really wasn't too hard to figure *that* one out, now was it? Kate. He hadn't dreamed about her in so long, and now he'd been thinking about her, dreaming about her, most every day. He'd never dreamed about her like this, though, never like this. . . Kate had loved him, had borne him a son, and he'd loved her with all his heart, deep in his gut, had carried her with him in his very substance. But it couldn't save them, not in the end. He knew that the other woman loved him too, and he wanted to be able to reach out to her, to have his life back again, the way it used to be. He wanted to feel again, the way he'd felt when his wife had held him close, the way she'd made him feel just by being in the same room with him--by smiling at him, rolling her eyes at his jokes, touching him in all the places that made him shiver. Safe, cherished, wanted. Loved. He wanted that again--to love a woman and to be loved. To know that he belonged to something more than himself, his grief, his guilt. * What was he afraid of? That he would find it, that he would want to keep it. . .and that it would all go to hell too? * CHAPTER 2 Friday afternoon Mo stepped out onto the back porch, down the steps and over to the herb garden. She bent over and cut some chives and then some oregano. Looking at the herb bed, she realized that the garden was nearing its end. The morning glories twining through the redwood trellis had been dry and brown for weeks, despite the oddly warm fall. She'd cried the morning she'd found them limp and shriveled from the cold. She straightened up and shaded her eyes against the glare of the overcast sky. The snow had already whitened the tops of the mountains off to the west. Even the Flat Irons had been dusted the night before. There was a chill in the air and an unrelenting cold wind. She was glad she'd told John to bring warm clothes; it wouldn't be long till it snowed at the lower elevations too. Winter was coming, and she didn't want to let go of the long warm days and cool nights. But John would be here soon, so what was she doing standing around thinking about fading gardens and the coming snow? She had to finish getting dinner ready. And she wanted to change into something, well, nice. She hadn't seen him in more than three months, and she missed him with an ache she'd never thought she'd feel again after her divorce years before. She knew it was silly to feel this way. It wasn't like he was going to arrive at her house and sweep her off her feet and carry her away. Real life being what it was, she figured he'd probably arrive at her house, eat dinner and fall asleep on her sofa. She'd have to see what she could do to prevent that. She smiled, thinking about what she was planning to wear. It wasn't new, but he'd never seen it, and she knew she'd look nice in it. She'd gained back the weight she'd lost around the time of her father's death the summer before and was a bit more rounded than she'd been for a while. Her sister Maeve would say she was still too thin, but she felt good. Mo breathed in the cool, moist air and walked back up the steps and into the kitchen. She ran some cool water in the sink and rinsed the herbs gently, then put them on the cutting board and chopped them. She stirred the herbs into the pot simmering on the old stove and replaced the lid, turning the gas burner as low as it would go. She looked around the old kitchen. It was clean and tidy except for the cooking mess, but one of these days she was going to have to remodel. Maybe when she won the lottery, she thought with a wry smile. She left the kitchen and walked into her bedroom. She went to the closet and pulled out the red sweater, fingering the soft, stretchy material and then holding it up to herself, pulling it into place and looking in the mirror. * She is a little girl, maybe 8 years old, standing on a chair wearing a dress her mother is sewing for her. Her sweet-faced mother is kneeling in front of her, carefully placing pins in the hem of the little dress. * * "Morgan, honey, you have to turn slowly, now." Her mother's Carolina voice drawls the words softly, and little Morgan Dannah turns slowly and carefully on the chair, while her mother pins and pulls and straightens the fabric. * Mo grimaced: Her curly hair was coiled up and held in place with two mother-of-pearl picks, she had a sauce stain on one cheek, and the sweater, pulled taut over jeans and a black T- shirt, looked anything but sexy. She sighed and tossed the red sweater onto her bed. ~~~~ Doggett pulled his bag out of the trunk of the car and slung the strap over his shoulder. He walked around to the front of the house and stood looking up from the bottom of the steep staircase to the porch of the old Victorian. The old sign was still the same: "Boulder Center for Energy Medicine." It still needed a coat of paint--but then, so did the house. The front gutter was full of leaves and was starting to come loose from the roof of the house. Doggett smiled and shook his head. He had to give Mo credit for doing her best to maintain the place-- it was her home and her business, and he knew it took a lot. But the house really needed some work. He readjusted the bag on his shoulder and walked slowly up the steps, his feet scraping heavily on the concrete. Matted leaves came loose and stuck to the soles of his boots. He climbed the last step to the wooden porch and looked around. The place looked almost exactly the same as it had the winter before, but it wasn't the same. Nothing was the same. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. ~~~~ Mo pulled her T-shirt over her head just in time to hear the doorbell ring. "Damn," she breathed. She grabbed the shirt and slid back into it, smoothing hasty fingers over her hair. "Be right there!" she called out to whoever the hell it was ringing her doorbell. UPS man? She checked her watch as she walked to the door. 3 p.m. It was too early for John to be here. Mo walked to the door, seeing the figure on the other side outlined through the sheer curtain at the window. She stopped in front of the door and pulled the curtain back, looking out at the man standing there. His eyes met hers through the glass and he slowly smiled, his pale blue eyes filling with warmth, his tired face softening. She opened the door. A swirl of yellow aspen leaves blew into the living room on the wind as John Doggett stepped into the house. He set his suitcase down and carefully placed a paper bag on the side table. Mo shut the door and turned to him. "You can close your mouth now, Mo," he said to her softly. She smiled at him, confused, happy. "But, how--" "I didn't have to work today, so I got an earlier flight," he said. "Didn't see much point in hangin' around waiting for the 4 o'clock." He wondered what she would say if he told her the truth: that he'd taken the day off and got a morning flight because he couldn't wait any longer to see her, that she'd been naked in his arms all the way from Dulles to Denver International. She reached up and picked a small heart-shaped leaf out of his hair. He studied her face, frowning gently. "This a new beauty treatment?" He touched a finger to the orange spot of sauce on her cheekbone. "Oh, um--" She held her fingers up to the spot, and he licked his thumb and rubbed it gently over her cheek. She held her breath. He slid his fingertips from her cheekbone to her chin, still looking at her intently. He pushed his fingers back through her hair, then pulled gently. The picks came out of her hair and landed on the tiles of the entryway with quiet clicks, one of them bouncing away behind the door. Her hair came loose, and he tangled his fingers even more deeply into the thick black curls. He'd never seen it so long. "You didn't cut it," he said softly, searching her eyes. She put her arms around his waist, under his leather jacket. "No, do you like it?" "I do," he murmured. "How are you, sweetheart?" She smiled. "Better now, you know?" "Yeah," he said. "I know." He bent his head and kissed her gently, feeling her hands move up under his jacket to hold him tight. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her again. Her body was soft and yielding against him, and she smelled like fresh air and herbs and home. The last time he'd visited her here, she'd made dinner for him, and it had gone cold in the kitchen while they'd made love on her sofa in front of the fire. After a while, their hunger had caught up to them and they'd eaten the cold dinner in front of the fire, unsure of themselves, a little drunk on wine, and sex, and the newness of each other, the headiness and fragility of it all. A lot had changed in the months since then. He no longer felt that what was between them was fragile. But feeling her hands on his back and her mouth under his, he had a feeling they might not make it to dinner this time, either. Then he remembered something. He lifted his mouth from hers, and she made a little noise of protest and slowly opened her eyes to see him smiling at her. "I have some things for you," he said. He released her and picked up the paper bag from the end table. "This is to go with dinner," he said, handing her a bottle of wine. "Mmm, good choice," she said, scanning the label. When she looked up again, he was fishing something out of his jacket pocket. A small jewelry box. She looked from the box to his face, her eyes widening. He opened the small white box and pulled out a delicate silver chain, holding it up so she could look at it. Dangling from the chain was a tiny crescent moon, inlaid with some kind of pearlescent stone. "The guy who sold it to me said it was moonstone." He looked at her, wanting her to like it, not knowing what she'd say. He'd never bought her a gift before--well, not unless you counted flowers. But when he'd glimpsed the necklace in the Georgetown shop window a few weeks before, it had reminded him of her in a rush of scent and sensation. He'd stopped and stared at it, and then he'd gone inside and bought it without another thought. She turned the necklace over in her fingers, rubbed it, studied it as he waited for the verdict. She looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He frowned and put his hand on her cheek. "Hey, don't cry," he said softly. "I came here to see you, to have a good time. I didn't come here to make you cry." She smiled. "No, no," she said. "It's okay. It's just so sweet-- and it means a lot to me." She wiped her eyes. "Thanks, darlin'. I think maybe I'm just a little hormonal." Doggett smiled. "Well, it's been a hell of a long time since anyone told me *that*," he said. She undid the silver clasp and looked up at him. "Could you--?" He took the necklace from her and fastened it around her neck, his big fingers awkward on the delicate clasp, finally settling it in the hollow of her throat. He caressed her neck and put his hands on her shoulders. "It looks good on you," he said softly. "So, happy birthday last week." "Thanks, darlin'," she said. "The flowers you sent were beautiful--such a surprise." "Well, never let it be said that I don't rise to your low expectations of me." She flushed. "I didn't mean it that way." She put her hand atop his, heavy on her shoulder. "We've just never had a very, well, normal relationship." "That's true enough, I guess," he admitted. "How are you, John?" she asked softly. "How are you feeling?" "I'm okay," he said. "Completely mended, they tell me." "But how *are* you?" she asked again, looking straight into his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You want the truth?" "Always," she said. "I'm tired, Mo." He pulled her close, and she lay her head against his chest where his heart beat steadily. "I'm frustrated. I'm worried about people I care about." He kissed her temple. "But mostly, I'm just tired. I'm glad to be here." She looked up at him. "You can rest here." He touched her face. "I know." * It's why I come to you. * But he said nothing. He kissed her instead, which seemed to be enough. CHAPTER 3 Doggett sat at the kitchen table while she worked at the stove. A cold rain had been falling for about a half hour, and it felt good to be there in the warmth of the kitchen, with the scents and sounds of someone cooking supper. If he closed his eyes, it would take him back years, miles. He raised the cold Red Hook to his lips and took a long sip. He watched her stir the bubbling sauce, stopping to take a quick lick of it off the wooden spoon, and then bread chicken breasts and put them on a baking sheet. She wiped her flour-covered hands on her white apron and brushed a stray curl away from her face with the inside of one wrist. Then she opened the oven and put the baking sheet inside. As the heat from the old oven washed over him, he smiled. It felt like home. He looked around the kitchen, into the dining room, the living room, a little surprised at the memories her old house stirred in him. They'd drunk their morning coffee at this same kitchen table the weekend he'd spent here with her the winter before. She'd worn a T-shirt and sweats, her legs drawn up to her chest, talking to him quietly, listening in turn, jumping up now and then to refill their coffee. As the weekend passed, they'd slowly gotten to know one another, and she'd made him feel comfortable and at home. She'd made him realize how lonely he'd been. He remembered soaking in her old clawfoot bathtub one night while she sat on the rug next to the tub in tank top and panties, painting her toenails fuchsia. He could still see the look on her face as she'd held her feet up so he could admire her handiwork, could still hear her laughter, and his own. He remembered the taste of her mouth when she'd leaned over the bathtub and kissed him, how he'd taken her by the arms and pulled her against him, drenching her--and how she hadn't cared. And he remembered the tender and passionate lovemaking in her big bed. How she'd shivered and moaned as he'd loved her, how she'd touched him, kissed him, giving him the kind of pleasure he'd missed for so long. She'd made him feel loved and wanted in the most fundamental of ways. But her house was also where she'd been dragged away into the night through a shattered door by a monster who'd done unspeakable things to her. Doggett had played that scene over and over in his head, knowing it wasn't healthy, knowing he'd never have the chance to confront the man who'd done it. Scully had done that, irrevocably, with a gun. As the months had passed and he'd grown to care more and more for Mo, what he'd almost lost that night was brought painfully home to him. "John?" He looked up at her. She had a quizzical look on her face, and he realized that she'd said something to him that he hadn't heard, too deep in his own thoughts. "Sorry," he said. "What?" "I was just saying remind me to check the chicken in about an hour." He nodded, reached for her and pulled her close, burying his face against her breasts. "John, my apron is filthy," she protested, but she wrapped her arms around him gently, one hand tracing the hard muscles of his back, the other feather-light on the side of his face. She felt his fingers on her back and realized that he was untying the apron strings. It came loose, hanging in front of her from the loop around her neck. He pulled her down onto his lap and lifted the apron over her head. It caught in her unruly hair, and he gently worked it free. He laid it on the chair next to him. Turning back to her, he put his hand on her cheek, his fingers sliding down her neck. He tilted his head a little to one side and looked at her. "What is it?" she whispered. He shook his head just slightly. "It's you," he said. "It's just you." And he covered her mouth with his. "Oh, my," she sighed when he finally lifted his face from hers. He tasted of beer and some vague mint and that indefinable tang she associated with him. "The sauce is good," he said, licking his lower lip. "You said about an hour?" His hot breath tickled her cheek, and she leaned away from him, studying his face. "Mmm. Why?" "We have plenty of time, then," he said, smiling. "For what?" she smiled a little herself, feeling a rush of heat flood through her. "What do you think?" he replied, standing up and gently easing her to her feet. He tilted her face up to his and kissed her again. "It's just that it's been a long time," he said simply. He held his hand out to her, and she looked at it, then back at his face. She put her hand in his and walked with him through the living room and into her bedroom. "Close the blinds," she whispered. As he went to each window and slanted the blinds down, she kicked off her shoes and picked up the red sweater she'd left on her bed, laying it on her nightstand. She knelt on the bed, tucking her legs under her. He sat down on the bed next to her. He took her face between his hands. "I've been wanting to do this since I got here," he said, his voice soft. "I want to--" He brushed his lips against hers lightly. "--kiss you, all over." He tangled his fingers into her hair and kissed her, his tongue exploring the soft inside of her mouth until she whimpered. She ran her hands up the warm back of his sweater, feeling muscle and spine and wonderfully broad shoulders. He continued kissing her, gentle, small kisses that covered her eyelids, her cheeks, her neck. His breath was hot on her face, and she felt desire overcome her in a crashing wave. She wanted him to take her, to do whatever he wanted with her. He slid his hands up under her T-shirt, pulling it up, and she ducked her head and lifted her arms so he could peel it off. It landed on the floor. He took her gently by the arms and lowered his face to her neck. He inhaled, his mouth against the soft skin there, and she folded her arms around his neck and held him close, her fingers gentle in his hair. He eased her back onto the bed, and she felt his hand fumbling at the button of her jeans. He pulled the zipper down and eased the jeans over her hips. She hitched her hips up, and he pulled them off, dropping them on the floor next to the T-shirt. He knelt over her, and she lay there looking up at him, smiling, in her rose-colored lace bra and panties, as he took in every inch of her. "God almighty, Mo," he breathed, putting his hands on her waist and sliding them slowly down her thighs. Her nipples were peeping through the sheer lace of the bra. He moved his hands to her breasts, the heat of his palms warming her skin. His thumbs circled her nipples, and she closed her eyes, her lips parting. He watched her face as he caressed her breasts, smiling at her growing arousal. Then he bent his head and kissed her, catching her bottom lip between his teeth gently and sucking it into his mouth. He felt her fingers in his hair, and he groaned. He buried his face in the hollow of her throat, breathing in her scent, intoxicating himself. He pressed his mouth against the white skin of her neck, feeling her pulse beat against his lips. His jeans had become uncomfortably tight, and he shifted his body slightly, trying to relieve the pressure between his legs. She pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans, and he gently pushed her hands away. "No, not yet. Just let me touch you. Let me taste you." "All right," she murmured, puzzled. He smiled, slipping the bra straps off her shoulders. He pulled the lace away from her breasts and kissed his way across the top of one breast to the top of the other, then licked the white skin above a nipple. He cupped her breasts, pushed them together and moved his mouth from one nipple to the other, until they were almost painfully swollen. She moaned, her hands on each side of his face. He slid a hand down to her belly, slipping his fingers under the elastic of her lace bikini and into the dark curls there, and, gasping, she arched her body up against his hand. He found the bud of her clitoris and caressed it gently, circling around it, sliding his fingers a bit lower, to her warm wetness. Her arousal always jump-started his own--not that he needed that right now. Sliding off the bed, he kneeled at its side and pulled her toward him until her hips were at the edge of the mattress. He slid her panties down and off her legs. He opened her thighs, draped her legs over his shoulders, and buried his face against her mons. His tongue explored its way through her black curls until it found the spot he was seeking, and he focused his attention there, gently insistent. She put her hands on his head and pushed herself against his mouth. "Oh. . .oh. . ." The syllable escaped from her lips over and over again. He moved his hands over her thighs, squeezing her hips, holding her body still. He slid his hand down over her hip, between her thighs. He eased two fingers inside her, just an inch or so, tenderly, gently, trying to find that other spot. . . "Oh God!" She clutched spasmodically at his hair, his ears. Found it. He smiled and kept up the pressure of fingers and tongue, knowing that it wouldn't take very long for her to find her bliss. "Oh," she murmured, "oh, please. . .now. . ." She reached down and squeezed his shoulder, tugged at his sweater. He sat back on his heels and pulled his sweater and T-shirt off in one motion. Her eyes dim with desire, she watched him as he rid himself of his jeans, shoes, underwear. Naked, he lifted her up and slid her back to the middle of the bed and covered her with his hard muscles, with his need, rolling her in his arms and kissing her mouth hungrily. She caressed his back, his arms, holding him close to her. Mindful of the months since he'd last made love to her, he pressed into her as gently as if she were a virgin he was afraid he might hurt. She moaned deep in her throat, a soft humming noise. He made love to her at first carefully, and then almost fiercely, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, smoothing her hair back with both hands, holding her face and whispering words to her that she could barely understand, words he wouldn't remember later. She cried out with her climax, straining against him, gasping. He kissed her, holding her body tight against his, then buried his face in the curve of her neck, saying her name over and over as his body shuddered with his own orgasm. They lay tangled together, their breathing loud and ragged in the quiet room, the only other sound the hard rain hitting the windowpanes, the roof. Doggett rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, wrapping her up even closer to him. She slid one leg between his and put her head on his shoulder, holding him tightly. He looked at her face and smoothed her hair back with a hand that was trembling just a little. "Sweetheart, you all right?" he asked, his voice low, a little hoarse. "Warm enough?" He sat up a little and reached down to pull a quilt from the foot of the bed. He arranged it over them. "Yes, I'm all right," she said, laying her head on his shoulder and curling against his body. She touched his damp cheek. "I'm a whole lot more than all right." "You look healthier now--not so thin," he said, his hand heavy on her waist, sliding across her hip to her thigh, which was more rounded than it had been in quite a while. "I'm glad to see it." When he'd seen her the summer before, her thinness had worried him some, had reminded him of how she'd looked the winter before, when he'd been here with her in Boulder. She'd been a convalescent then, and it wasn't a time he liked to remember. "That wasn't a good time," she sighed, and he wondered if she meant the summer or the winter. She had always had an unsettling way of knowing what he was feeling, even if she rarely pressed her advantage. He realized that it didn't matter. "No," he murmured. "It wasn't." And he pulled her close again, as though he were afraid that, somehow, she would be taken from him again. * * * Leila McElfish shaded her eyes and looked northwest into the sky, up the valley. The weather was rolling in over the front range of the Rockies, up north. The snow was due anytime. She could feel, smell it, in the wind: the cold, the moisture. . .it all added up to snow. Winter. Winter was a stark time in the San Luis Valley. The high valley's beauty never diminished, but became harder, less lush. The pinyon pines grew dryer, the rabbit brush turned brown and brittle, the wind blew sharper. There was a harsh magic to it. Leila had lived here for almost ten years, and she knew how the land's enchantment must have worked on those first white settlers and the Utes, who'd been here long before the conquistadores. It was a hard place to winter, but the land and the sky and the majesty of it got in your blood. She drew in a deep breath of the cool, thin air. "You know he is coming," hissed the soft, lisping voice in her ear. "Why do you allow it?" Leila sighed and turned her head slowly to face the owner of the voice. "Vaia," she said. "There's nothing I can do to prevent it. Nothing. I can't have him arrested. He hasn't done anything against the law." The other woman's auburn eyes widened. "Then I am afraid of what might happen. You know him--what he can do. He's coming here to stop us, and someone will be hurt." Her white- streaked russet hair lifted and tossed on the wind, and she pulled her hooded cloak closer around herself with gnarled fingers. She lifted her nose to the air and sniffed in an almost feral way, and Leila knew she could smell the weather on the wind too. "Then we decide how to deal with this," Leila responded. "Because no one is going to be hurt, not if I have anything to say about it." Vaia Coyote Woman shut her eyes and drew in a long breath. "I hope you're right, Leila. For the sake of all of us." * * * It was dark when Mo awoke. She lifted her head from the pillow, feeling a shock of panic. She sat up quickly and leaned over and checked the clock on her nightstand. There was still time to rescue dinner. Sighing with relief, she lay back next to him, curling into his warmth. He was sound asleep, snoring quietly, his cheek resting on his forearm. This was what she'd been missing--just being with him, lying in his arms. She stretched experimentally, feeling stiff and sore in odd places from the lovemaking. She smiled, a little abashed. Serves you right for having sex four times a year. Reluctantly, she slid out from under the quilt and pulled it up around him. She reached out and brushed her fingers across his cheek, the lightest of touches. She wanted to touch him, to stroke him where he was warm and smooth, where he was hard and calloused. But he was tired, his face showing the strain even as he slept. Well, he could sleep while she finished dinner. They had time; let him rest. It was why he'd come here. She was dressed only in her bra, still a bit askew from his assault on it. She readjusted the bra, smiling into the semidarkness of the room. She felt around for the jeans and sweater that he'd dropped on the floor. She slipped them on and then pulled some socks from a drawer. It was getting cold in the house. She pulled the socks on and slid her feet into her shoes, grabbed a jacket off the doorknob and headed out to the side porch to bring in some wood for a fire. CHAPTER 4 "Comfortable?" Mo's voice was soft, a little sleepy. Doggett looked away from the fire and smiled at her. "Yeah," he said. "I am." He stretched and slid down even lower on the sofa, propping his feet on her coffee table. "How about you?" "Mmmm," she murmured. His gaze traveled over her. She was sitting facing him, her knees drawn up and to the side, her head back on the cushions, one hand tucked under her cheek. She looked tired, but in that way that comes from good work. Her other hand was laying relaxed on her knee, and he took it and held it in his lap. "Dinner was great," he said. "Thanks for going to all the trouble." She smiled gently. "I don't see you very often, you know. I enjoyed doing it." "Well, I appreciate it," he said quietly, rubbing her palm gently with his thumb. "I just want you to know that." "I do, darlin'," she said. He massaged her palm, the sides of her hand, the delicate fair skin of the inside of her wrist, and then laced his fingers with hers. He felt the warmth of relaxation spreading through his body, making his arms and legs comfortably heavy. She'd changed into a low-cut red sweater and a long black skirt, her sleeves pushed up halfway to her elbows. Her hair was pulled back with combs, but the unruly curls kept escaping anyway. He'd watched her all through dinner, just enjoying looking at her. It made him feel like a very young man again, and he liked it. Had he told her how lovely she was, how lovely she always was? How it pleased him just to look at her? He didn't think he had. He wondered why he hadn't told her. He wondered if she knew anyway. Now, he watched her face as her eyes closed. He ran his fingers down her cheek, and she opened her eyes and smiled at him. "What would you like to do, John?" she asked softly. "Do you feel like goin' out?" He shook his head. "No, it's nice just being here. Besides, I didn't bring a suit or anything." "Well, in Boulder, darlin', you don't need a suit to do much of anything," she replied, amused. "Though I did notice you didn't bring much with you." His brows raised. "How much do you think I need?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I just brought jeans, a couple sweaters, that sort of thing. I brought some work clothes so maybe I could do some stuff around the house." She lifted her head to look at him. "You did?" she asked in a small voice. "John, that's so sweet." "Well, I mean, Mo, how long's it been since you cleaned out your gutters?" Amusement warred with embarrassment on her face. "I'm pretty sure you don't really want to know," she said. He shook his head, smiling. "I know," she added. "It's pitiful." "It's a good house. You can't just let it go." "I know," she repeated. He propped her feet up on his thighs and slid his hands up under her skirt, over her socks, along the smooth skin of her calves. Then he pulled her socks off and dropped them to the floor, one by one. At his short chuff of laughter she looked at him curiously. "What?" When his eyes met hers they were dancing with amusement. "There's blue glittery stuff on your toenails," he said. She smiled, remembering. "Marian's granddaughter painted my toenails the other day--I forgot all about it." Doggett peered at her toes. "Well, she did a damn good job," he said. He looked up at her face again, his expression suddenly serious. He'd never pictured Mo with children before, and the image of her with a little girl was so vivid he had to blink a few times to drive it away. He turned his attention to her feet again, curling his fingers around her toes, stroking across the tops of both feet, massaging the soles. Mo tilted her head to one side, smiling. "You're rubbing my feet?" He continued to look at her feet, continued his rubbing. Actually, he was pretty good at it, and her smile widened. Finally he looked up at her again. "You think I don't know how to rub feet?" he asked. She laughed. "No, darlin', honest, you're doing fine--ow!" He stopped what he was doing. "What? You okay?" He put a hand on her knee. "I'm okay." She nodded. "It's just that, ever since. . .ever since I was kidnapped, when he. . .well, part of my legs and feet are numb, and other parts are hypersensitive." He studied her face, pretty sure she wasn't telling him everything on her mind, but he let it go for now. "Sorry," he said simply. "I'll be more careful." They were quiet for a time. He continued to rub her feet absently, his head relaxed against the sofa back. She watched him. His mood had changed. His eyes moved around the room, taking in the fire, the bookcases, the door, the trees outside the window, their tossing limbs outlined in the glow of the front porch light. "Is something wrong?" she asked, knowing that something was. He finally met her eyes. "John, I don't mean to pry, but you know you can tell me," she said. "I'll keep whatever you tell me safe." "Yeah, I know that." His hands were warm and soothing on her feet as she waited, silent, for him to say something. "I've never really told you much about my past," he said at last. "About my family." "No," she said. "Neither of us have talked much about the past." He closed his eyes and ran a hand back through his hair, leaving the other one protectively on her foot. She shifted her body and leaned closer to him. She could see that he was uncomfortable, and she touched his cheek, her fingers cool against his hot skin. He looked up into her eyes and saw permission to do and say anything, and he wondered for a brief, horrified moment if he would lose it entirely, lay his head in her lap and sob like a child. "My son was killed four years ago," he said, "in August." His voice was toneless, and Mo could see how hard it was for him to tell her even this. She nodded, saying nothing. "My wife never got over it," he continued. "She seemed to lose touch. . .with me, our friends--everything. It was a long time before I caught on to what was happening to her." He paused for a moment. "And then, one day, she left." He watched Mo's eyes fill with tears, but still she said nothing, just took his hand and squeezed it hard. "It was November," he added. "It was four years ago this week. I don't know why it's hit me so hard this time. I just keep runnin' it over and over in my head. I can't seem to shake it." * He remembered that the weather in Brooklyn was cold then--not like now, here, not the turning of the season, but full-on winter. The snow was piled on the sides of the roads, gray from the street grit. He could see his breath on the air as he walked up the steps to the house that night. It was empty. * * It was always empty after that. * Her fingers soothed the back of his hand. "Tell me," she said. "I'll try to help you if I can." * * * She had lit every candle in her bedroom, and the flickering light and quiet music lent a warmth and sensuousness to a room that was already soft and comfortable, with its thick carpets and big four-post bed. Doggett let out a long sigh of relaxation as she rubbed and kneaded his back. He hadn't realized how tense and tired he really was. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had done this for him. Could it have been that many years already? His life was going by, that was a fact, and though there had been fulfilling work, important responsibilities, friendships, there hadn't been a lot of joy, not for a long time now. But this--this was a fine kind of joy, even if it was something he wasn't used to anymore. She stopped for a moment and poured some more lavender- scented oil into her palm, and he raised and turned his body a bit to look at her. Her white skin gleamed in the candlelight, and she smiled at him, rubbing her hands together to warm the oil. He reached up and touched her face, and she leaned into his palm, closing her eyes. His fingers slid down her neck to her bare shoulder. She was warm and soft and beautiful, and he wanted to touch her, hold her. He wanted to make love to her, to let her know that, at least for now, he was hers. "Come here," he whispered, pulling gently on her arm. She smiled. "I will," she said. "But right now, roll over and let me finish. We have all night, darlin'." He laughed softly and rolled over, folding his arms under a soft down pillow and balling it up under his chin. She straddled his thighs and began rubbing his back again, a curly lock of hair falling into her eyes. As she massaged away the tension in his back and shoulders, a different kind of tension was increasing. Every movement of her body, every shift of her weight over him, was an exquisite torture. He realized that she knew exactly what she was doing to him, sitting on him, naked, rubbing his back and shoulders and hips, moving her body over his. She pressed her fingers into his back at the waist and moved them up his spine slowly, stretching her body out on top of his, legs over legs, pelvis over ass, her toes pressing into the backs of his calves, her breasts flattened against his back. He groaned as she slowly kissed the back of his shoulders, then his neck. Finally her lips were against his ear. "What's the matter, darlin'?" she whispered. He could tell from her voice that she was smiling. Her warm breath on his skin made him shiver. He'd had about enough of this. He rolled over and unceremoniously dumped her on her back on the other side of the bed, pouncing on her before she could squirm away. She laughed into his smiling face, pummeling and pushing at his chest. He grasped her wrists, pinned her hands to the bed and kissed her until they were both a little breathless. He lifted his face from hers and looked down at her. Her mouth was still open, her eyes closed, her black curls tousled on the pillow. He released her and moved his mouth and hands down her neck, her chest, nuzzling her warm skin with his mouth, cupping her breasts, circling her pink nipples with his tongue, rubbing his face against her, nipping gently at her flesh. He breathed her in, as if he wanted to inhale the essence of her. He knew she wanted him. She smelled like desire. He slipped his hand between her legs and touched her where she was warm and wet. Hearing her moan, he smiled, stroking her with a slow, inexorable rhythm. When he stopped, she opened her eyes and watched as he rubbed her slippery wetness between his thumb and fingers. She shivered. "Let me in," he whispered to her. Drawing in a shaky breath, she let her thighs fall open, and he settled his body between them. Holding her hands to the flannel sheets, he pressed against her and slid into her like oiled ivory. He groaned, almost overcome by her soft heat. She wrapped her legs around his waist, arching her body up, drawing him deep inside. He looked into her eyes as they rocked their bodies together slowly, deliberately. She urged him on with her eyes, her voice, her body, but he continued his languorous rhythm, refusing to go faster. He watched her with a smile as she took in little, gasping breaths, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back on the pillow. "Oh. . .touch me," she sighed. He slipped his hand between their bodies and found the soft, moist bud of her clitoris, and stroked it with a gentle rhythm. She gasped, running her foot down the back of his leg. "Ah, that's so good. . ." Smiling gently, he lowered his face to hers and listened to her sigh. She rolled her head on the pillow, beyond any further words. He kissed her neck, trailing his lips back up to her mouth. Then he gathered her up and cradled her close. Her arms twined around him, her fingers slipping into his hair as they kissed, their bodies moving together until everything stopped and disappeared, and all that was left were hushed cries and moans. And then just the sounds of breathing and soft kisses. "Oh, my sweet darlin'," she sighed, coming back to the reality of the candlelit bedroom. She kissed his cheek, his eyelid, holding him tight. He rested his head between her breasts and let out a long, heavy breath, hot on her skin. She ran her fingers through his hair. "You know, I wonder why I always leave you," she said softly. At that, he looked up at her, met her eyes. She smiled at him. He took her face between his hands, pushed his fingers back through her curls. "I've been wondering that too," he said. "Why we leave each other." She put her arms around his neck. "Maybe it's time we figured it out," she whispered, and kissed him. ~~~~ His head pillowed on her breasts, he placed his hand carefully on her abdomen, his fingers just skimming the edge of her dark cloud of pubic hair. Her skin was soft and warm under his hand. It always amazed him a little how her body was slender and strong but somehow so soft and giving. But then, he'd always been amazed by women's bodies--that they could accommodate a man, a baby, inside them. It was such a fundamental mystery to him, maybe to all men. He closed his eyes, and it is Kate's belly he is touching, taut and just beginning to swell with the life inside it. As he holds his hand to her warm skin, the baby moves, a flutter against his palm, and the awe and wonder of it all takes away his ability to speak, even to breathe. He opened his eyes again and breathed deeply to chase the vision away. He spread his fingers and looked at his hand on Mo's belly, tawny on white. "You never did--" he started to say, then hesitated, wondering if what he was going to ask was too personal. Then he smiled to himself. * You're lying here naked with this woman, and you're wondering about asking her something too personal? * "Mmm?" Her voice was soft, sleepy. Her fingers were moving absently in his hair, on the back of his neck, giving him shivers of pleasure. "You never did tell me why you couldn't have kids," he said. Her fingers stopped their caresses for a moment, and then began their gentle massage anew. She sighed quietly. "I had an infection as a teenager," she said, touching his cheek gently, her fingertips barely skimming his skin. "My tubes were scarred, pretty badly, I guess." Her voice was very soft, matter-of-fact. "I didn't know." Doggett realized that his fingers were mimicking hers, gently tracing patterns on her belly. He skimmed his fingers along a hipbone. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected that. "Anyway, the doctors say that my tubes are completely blocked from the scarring," she went on. "So the only way I could get pregnant would be with in vitro. And even with that, I'd probably have to have surgery first." She shook her head. "It's just not something that's going to happen to me--but you know, it's all right." Doggett could tell that it wasn't all right, not really. "It's kind of nice not having to use a condom, though, don't you think?" she asked quietly. "I wouldn't mind using a condom with you," he said. "I'd be glad to." He slid his head from her breasts and pressed his lips tenderly to her belly. She laughed softly, and he looked up to see that her eyes were wet with unshed tears, gleaming in the candlelight. He lay down next to her, put his arms around her and held her close. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry," he said quietly. She looked up at him, and he couldn't read her expression. "It's all right," she said. "It's just not something we need to talk about, darlin'." Her voice was soft, her tone gentle, but her words were unmistakably final. It stung him, and he wondered why. He wondered why it bothered him so much that she could never have a child with him, and why it bothered him even more that she wouldn't talk to him about it. Then it dawned on him that maybe she didn't want to talk about it because it hurt too much, and he flushed at his own obtuseness. * * * It is almost midnight when he puts his key into the lock and turns it, pulling and jiggling the doorknob impatiently to get the sticky lock to work. He pushes the door open and walks into the dark apartment, the old wood floors creaking under his shoes. He drops his keys on the hall table and stands there in the quiet. The only light is the moonlight pouring through the small windows. He is cold, tired in every bone of his body. And here he is, getting home again barely on the same day he'd left, and for what? Another dead end. They might as well be looking for someone who's disappeared off the fucking planet for all the good it's doing them. He raises his eyes to the mirror above the table, where a gaunt, haggard man stares back at him through the gloom, his cheeks hollow, his eyes haunted. Jesus, he's only 38. He feels like an old man, and he's starting to look like one. To borrow one of his mother's favorite phrases, he looks like the walking dead. He should be so lucky. When you're dead, you can't feel anything anymore. He takes a deep, ragged breath and lets it out in a sigh. He takes off the heavy overcoat and hangs it up in the closet, pulls the muffler off his neck and winds it neatly around the hanger. If nothing else, he's tidy. What a guy. He laughs, a sharp, unpleasant sound. He shoves a hand savagely back through his hair and turns and walks into the living room, tugging his tie loose. He moves to take off his holster, then stops, still, suddenly feeling as if the floor is sliding out from under him, tipping him over. The piles of little picture books and toys are still there, untouched, and he feels the despair well up again in a hot, crushing wave. He doesn't want to think that he works the hours he works to keep it at bay, but in his more honest moments he knows it's true. He also knows he needs to box this stuff up himself. It's beyond Kate. God almighty. Kate. He makes his way up the stairs slowly, pulling his tie off, folding it and sliding it into his pocket. Bed. He'll crawl in next to her soft warmth and hold her until morning. Maybe then he'll feel like getting up and doing it all over again. He reaches the landing and sees that the bathroom light is still on. Nothing surprising about that--Kate has taken to leaving it on at night because she's had so much trouble sleeping. He walks the short distance to their bedroom, shrugging off the suit coat as he goes. The room is dark. Quiet. Not even any breathing. His arms drop to his sides, the coat slipping out of nerveless fingers and sighing to the carpet. He licks his suddenly parched lips and bends over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. The covers are turned down and rumpled on her side of the bed, cold. Empty. He turns and walks across to the bathroom, unable to go into Luke's room, not ready to face that. The door is half open, and he cautiously pushes it open the rest of the way. Kate is sitting on the bathroom floor, her head on her drawn-up knees. He approaches her quietly and kneels next to her. "Kate, baby, you okay?" His voice is hushed. He touches her bare leg, her arm. She is cold, and he tucks her nightgown around her. He sits down next to her and puts an arm around her. "Come on back to bed," he says to her quietly. She lifts her head and looks at him. It's as if she is just waking up, her brown eyes dull and watery, gradually focusing on him. "Johnny," she whispers. She draws in a little gasping breath. She's lost so much weight. The bones of her face are starkly drawn now, her body's voluptuousness given way to angularity. He gives her a quick once-over: face, arms, hands. She's okay. The adrenaline that spiked through him is dissipating some, and he lets his breath out in a tired sigh. She is clutching something tightly in her fingers, and his big hand closes over hers tenderly, coaxing her to relax her grip. She finally lets him take the object out of her hand. It is a little blue plastic dinosaur, and he feels the pain tighten his chest until he can barely breathe. Kate drops her head onto his shoulder, and he pulls her into his lap and rocks her gently, stroking her hair, staring at the wall and wondering if they'll get through this together, if they'll get through this at all. ~~~~ Doggett rolled over in bed, not sure where he was, almost expecting to see Kate lying next to him, her wavy hair spread across the pillow. The dream had been so vivid that he could hardly breathe. He blinked into the moonlight at the woman next to him and tentatively reached out and put his hand on her hair. She stirred and sighed, murmuring something he couldn't quite make out, and curled on her side to face him, tucking her hand under her cheek. He lay back against the pillows, running his hands down his face. What in the name of Christ was going on with him? Could talking to Mo about this have brought it into his dreams so vividly? He climbed out of bed carefully, quietly, reaching down to the Persian rug and feeling around for the sweats he'd left there earlier. He slid them on and walked around the foot of the bed and then stopped, looking back at Mo, illuminated just enough by the moonlight. He went over to her and pulled the comforter up and around her. Her old house had a way of getting cold at night--he'd have to talk to her about more insulation. He walked out of the bedroom, looking for something--maybe something to read, maybe a drink of something--to bring him back to the present, to help him forget. Only half awake, she rolled over and reached for him, already used to having him close. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. She sat up slowly and looked around, blinking sleepily in the soft darkness of the bedroom. The moonlight filtering through one of the windows offered the only light. He was standing quietly at the window dressed in sweats that rode low on lean hips. She saw him lift a cup of something to his mouth and take a sip. She just looked at him, something she rarely had the chance to do. He stood there at the window, so still. The moonlight bathed his skin in a cool bluish light, the muscles of his back and arms thrown into relief. She lit the candle on the nightstand and then slipped out of bed, crossing over to him, sliding her arm around him silently. He pulled her against him. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said. "Jesus, you're so warm," he added, caressing her hip. "You're not," she replied with a smile, leaning against him. "Is everything okay?" she asked him quietly. "Yeah," he said. "I think I'm just havin' a hard time relaxing." He touched his lips to her temple. "Well then, come on back to bed," she said. "I'll rub your back some more." She turned away, pulling gently at his arm. "Wait," he said softly. She turned back to him and he put his arm around her again. "I just want to. . ." He looked at the necklace that lay in the hollow of her throat, catching the moonlight. He felt a knot rise into his throat, emotion that threatened to choke him. He smoothed her hair from her forehead with gentle fingers. "I'm just glad to be here, with you." His hand slid down to her hip again, his fingers skimming across the velvety skin. She was smiling at him, just slightly. She must know. She had to. She must know what he wanted to tell her. She reached up and drew his face down to hers and kissed him. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, feeling his face burn hot. He pressed his mouth to her throat. Her hands were in his hair, and, God, it felt so good. "Come back to bed," she murmured, her lips at his ear, her breath warming his skin. "You're cold." She slid her hands down his shoulders, his arms, her fingers tracing the sinews there. "I'm getting cold too." He was in pain. She could feel it, and for once, she wished she couldn't. She wished she could just perceive things normally, that she could just love him in ignorance, in peace. But she knew that would never happen. Almost from the moment she'd met him, she'd seen the wounded man behind the FBI agent, the cop, the Marine. And for whatever reason, maybe because he knew she understood, he'd always been gentle with her. He'd let her into his heart as far as he was able. He'd taken care of her, because it was how he was made. And maybe it had drawn her to him even more powerfully, knowing that a man with a broken heart could take such care of her, could be so kind. They walked back over to the bed, and he took off his sweatpants and lay down on his back, folding a pillow double beneath his head. She lay down with him and pulled the sheets and comforter over them, curling her body around his to warm him, tangling her legs with his. He put his arms around her, and she lay quietly with him, her head on his shoulder. She moved her fingers gently down his neck to the hollow of his throat, across his collar bones and the strong muscles of his shoulders, tracing the scars there. "I've always wanted to ask you," she whispered to him, "how you got these." He smiled into the semidarkness, thinking about that. He figured, of all the people he knew, Mo would be the one most likely to believe him if he told her how he got those scars. "It was a. . ." He hesitated, still not comfortable with the concept himself. He laughed softly. "It was a creature--a bat creature of some kind--hell if I know what, exactly." She continued moving her fingers over the puckered scars. "You told me once that you'd seen some weird things, working with Agent Scully," she murmured. "A bat creature, huh?" she added, smiling. "Yeah, and it definitely qualified as weird," he said wryly. She moved her fingers across his shoulder to his upper arm, where there was a small, round scar, slightly indented, in the flesh of the biceps. "And this?" "I got shot," he replied simply. "A long time ago now." Behind his eyes, images flashed: * The man he was chasing, the gun, the searing pain of the bullet as it hit his arm and spun him around. Kate's face above his, her eyes red and puffy from crying, her mouth curved in a tremulous smile. * "Goddess," Mo sighed. She leaned over and kissed the scar, so tenderly that it made his chest ache. He ran a hand down her hair, unable to speak, and she looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. "I'm just so sorry," she murmured against his lips. "Everyone has scars, Mo," he said, smiling a little. "Not like yours, not like--" "I was a cop. I was a soldier. You just expect it," he said softly. "You know, it's just part of the job." She touched his left leg, finding the scars there with her fingers, knowing their contours by heart. She knew the wound still pained him sometimes, and she'd done some healing work on it more than once, when he was asleep and couldn't tell her not to fuss. He squeezed his eyes shut at the touch of her fingers on the old scars. * The dark sand, the green hills, the blue sky so bright it hurt your eyes and made your fucking head ache. The blood soaking his desert khakis, the pain, the hospital with its dingy corridors and smells of blood and shit and disinfectant. * "And these scars--and the ones on your chest--they were from shrapnel, from the war, right?" He opened his eyes again and looked at her. "Well, it wasn't exactly a war. Not in so many words, anyway," he said. "It was the bombing in Lebanon, back in '83." "The barracks. I remember it." She nodded. "I was in college. I remember my Uncle Buddy talking about it, back home in Columbia. His son was there." "It's what got me shipped home," he said. "So in some ways, it was a blessing, I guess." She leaned an elbow on his chest and propped her chin on her hand. She studied his face in the flickering light. "I'm just glad you're safe. And here." She ran her fingers over the scars on his ribs. "It's just so odd that I've never asked you about these before." He smoothed her hair again. "You're askin' now," he said, as if it explained everything. "I think for a long time I was afraid to get too close to you," she murmured. "So I didn't ask you things I wanted to know about you. I was afraid." He touched her cheek. "And, you know," she added, "it's okay to be afraid. But you can't be afraid forever. Because when you're afraid for too long, you shut down." She smiled at him. "You fear loss, the fear becomes despair, and after a while you cut yourself off from life, and you die inside." "You sound like you know it from experience," he said quietly. "I do," she admitted. "I think you do too." He looked at her for a moment, silent. "Yeah," he said then. "I do." He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms, holding her head against his chest, his fingers moving gently in her hair. And they fell asleep, she listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, he to the soft sigh of her breathing. * * * Denver, Colorado 15th Street, LoDo The cold rain was blowing sideways as the long-haired man in the dark suit walked from his car to the old lower downtown bar. He fought with his umbrella to keep it from turning inside out, finally closing it and running the last few feet to the corner door of My Brother's Bar. He pulled open the heavy old door and stepped aside as an enormously fat woman walked out and popped open an incongruously cheery yellow umbrella. The man walked into the dark old bar, stopping just inside the door and scanning the crowd. It was late, almost midnight, and the place was at full boil, full of young professionals, blue collar types, and older people, probably from the newly fashionable neighborhood. Judging by the savory smell in the smoky air, it served good old American roadhouse food, tasty and greasy. The man's silence created its own space in the chaos, and people gave him the room he needed. He threaded his way carefully through the crowd, finally spotting the men he was looking for. He walked purposefully to their table. The two sitting in the old wooden booth both looked up as he approached. Paul Corbin, 60-ish, bulky and white-haired, slid out of the booth and stood up, extending his hand. "Victor," the man said, "it's good to see you again. Please, sit down." The long-haired man took the older man's proffered hand it and shook it firmly. "No, please," he said to the white-hair, gesturing toward the booth's seat. The older man returned to his original seat, and the long-haired man sat down next to him and studied the other two. "Victor, this is my assistant, Gene Babcock. Gene, Victor Rios," the older man said to his younger companion, who halted in mid-sip from a glass of lager. "The best political lobbyist in Colorado." At that Victor Rios dipped his head slightly and looked down at the table in self-deprecation. Gene Babcock set his glass down on the table and extended his hand across it to Victor, who took it. Gene studied the other man. There was something just a little. . .odd about him--the high planes of Rios' face, perhaps, his almost-black eyes, his long hair, or just his unsettling stillness. As Gene's hand closed over the lobbyist's, he felt something move through him, a feather touch, a faint brush. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to clear it. He met Rios' eyes, and the other man smiled at him, the barest curve of the lips. Victor Rios pushed back the cuff of his expensive cotton shirt and looked at his watch. "Gentlemen, I have to get back to Saguache County by dawn. So maybe we should get down to it." Corbin studied Rios for a minute, and then nodded. "Okay," he said. "We just need to know if the deal is going to come through for us. Is the county going to go our way?" Rios nodded, considering the question. "Yes, I'd say you can count on that." He looked from Gene to Paul. "There's one small hitch, but I think I can take care of it by Sunday." "And what's that?" Gene asked softly. Rios' eyes flicked to Gene's face, returned to Corbin's. "There's a group down in Crestone. They're going to try to stop us." "How?" Corbin asked. "By healing the earth spirits down in Saguache County." Rios' voice was soft, his face serious. Babcock laughed, a derisive chuff of sound through his nose. " 'Earth spirits'?" His tone was incredulous. "You're kidding me, right?" Rios turned to him. "I don't kid, Mr. Babcock." "You're taking these people seriously?" Babcock asked. "Yes," Rios replied. "I am." He glanced at Corbin. "There's a good chance that if these people succeed, we won't be able to divert that water up to Arapahoe County." Gene Babcock just stared at the other man. "And how are they going to stop us? Put a spell on us?" Babcock smiled at his own wit, oblivious to the warning glance from Corbin. "No, Mr. Babcock," Rios said softly. "That's not how it works." He crossed his arms over his chest. "But if they succeed, what they plan on doing will change things. They'll need to be stopped. It shouldn't be hard." Rios lifted a hand and waved the hovering waiter away. He turned to Corbin. "I can't stay. I just needed to let you know where things stood." Rios started to slide back out of the booth. He was stopped by Corbin's heavy hand on his forearm. "But you'll take care of it?" Corbin asked, his gray gaze pressing into Rios' liquid black eyes. "Yes," Rios smiled just slightly at the man's weakness. "Of course." "I don't doubt you," Corbin hastened to add. "No, I'm sure you don't." The laughter was right behind Rios' eyes as he stood. "I'll be in touch with you gentlemen after the weekend." He held up his hand. "No, don't get up." The men watched him as he made his way back through the crowd and then out the door and into the rainy darkness. Corbin gave Gene Babcock a hard look. "You have a lot to learn, son. I thought I made it clear that Victor Rios wasn't anyone to fuck with." Babcock looked at him. Then he snorted. "Oh, come on, Paul, you don't believe he--" "I've seen what he can do, Gene," Corbin said. "Trust me. He may look like a quiet kind of guy, but you don't fuck with him, not if you want to stay healthy. If Victor Rios says there are people down in Saguache who can heal earth spirits, then you damn well need to believe it, even if it sounds like total horse shit." Babcock didn't say anything, but downed his beer in one long swallow. "Yeah, it does sound like horse shit, Paul. I just hope you know what you're talking about." "Gene, it doesn't matter what *I* know--just what *he* knows." He picked up the bill from the table. "Try to remember that, will you?" CHAPTER 5 Saturday morning Yawning, Doggett stretched luxuriously, untangling himself from the soft flannel sheets of Mo's bed. He looked around the bedroom. The candles were still on the windowsill and her nightstand where they'd burned last night. Her fleece robe was hanging from the bedpost, and she'd folded his clothes neatly over the back of the armchair. He must have left them on the floor last night--not like him. The sun was still low in the sky, filtering through the half-closed blinds on the east window. A patch of weak light slanted across the foot of the bed, illuminating the lavender-green-gold of the patchwork quilt there, reflecting off the mirror of her old dresser. It was early, too early to have to worry about getting ready to travel yet. But she was already up, no longer there with him warming those sheets, warming him. He sighed and rolled onto his back, pushing the sheet and heavy comforter down. The bedding still held her scent, his, the scent of their lovemaking. God almighty, he missed her when she wasn't with him. He laughed softly. How fucked up was it when being with her made him think about how much he missed her? Maybe it was why he couldn't keep his hands off her when they were together. There was always the thought--hidden in the back of his mind, but always there--that she wouldn't be there much longer. He rubbed a hand down his face. It was too damn early to be thinking, and besides, this was the most relaxed he'd been in. . . He found he couldn't remember how long. She was in the bathroom, bathing from the sound of things. He didn't know how long she'd been in there, but he could hear her splashing, rinsing herself, and guessed she must be nearly done. The bathroom door was open slightly, and the scent of her lavender bath oil reached him on the humid air. He heard her let the water out of the bathtub, heard her move to get out. She came into view as she stepped out of the tub onto the bath mat, and he admired her body as she leaned over to pull the towel off the rack. The dark shadow under her arm lightened to a lilac along her ribs and, where the swell of her breast began, she gleamed an alabaster in the morning light, a pagan Madonna. He could worship at that shrine. He'd always been drawn to Mo, so her effect on him wasn't surprising. The surprise was his growing awareness of how much he needed her--not just sexually, though that was powerful, but in ways that were a revelation to him. It was something he'd been pushing away for a long time, like he'd pushed away so much these last few years. He still wasn't willing to own it fully. She was toweling her breasts as he came up beside her, her curly black hair veiling her face. He ran his hand over her hip, letting it come to rest heavily on her mons, and she stopped what she was doing, clutching the dampened towel over her belly. His fingers tangled through soft black curls, seeking her moist folds. He heard her moan softly at his gentle exploration. She went boneless, and he braced her with an arm around her back, lowering his mouth to her breast, moving his tongue slowly across the tender skin to the soft pink areola, finally covering the taut nipple with his mouth. She smelled of lavender and, increasingly, of sex. Wordlessly reaching over to the clothes hamper by the tub, Doggett spilled its contents onto the floor, scattering T-shirts, towels, and lacy underthings across the wood. He turned back to her, and their eyes met in instant understanding. As he lowered her to the soft pile on the floor, she settled onto the clothing and towels, goose bumps rising on her arms despite the bathroom's steamy warmth. The light from the bedroom window shone from behind him as he settled between her legs, and she threw her knees carelessly to either side, making room for him. He leaned over her, a small smile on his face. "It's a good thing you don't have dirty sweat socks in your laundry," he said. She laughed. "You have dirty sweat socks in *your* laundry? I'm shocked." "I'll bet," he said, smiling. He lifted her arm and lowered his mouth to it, nibbling and sucking at the tender skin on the inside of her elbow. He leaned down, drawn to the gentle swell of her belly, and trailed his tongue over the soft white skin there. Mo sighed, her toes curling on a towel, then scratching lightly on the wood floor. She reached out to grasp the tub's clawed foot, although he wasn't sure she was aware of what she'd done. His hip grazed the old radiator. It was hot enough to burn, but he simply shifted his pelvis away from it and continued on, his lips trailing over her chest, across the pale expanse where her breasts fell away to each side. He paused and considered detouring to taste them again but continued on up her gently scented skin, past the soft hollow of her throat, finding her mouth instead. Her eyes were closed, and his mouth on hers surprised her. He brushed her lips lightly with his own, then lifted his face away. Her mouth opened against nothing, her chin rising to connect with him again. Her eyes opened in shock. He smiled at her, lines crinkling around his eyes. She smiled back and closed her eyes again, taking his face in her hands and drawing him back down to her, lifting her chin and parting her lips. They kissed, and she arched herself against him, moving her hands down his back, kneading it with her fingers. He slid his hands down her ribs to her hips, then to her backside, squeezing her flesh gently before slipping inside her. She groaned against his mouth, her body rising to meet him, parrying his thrust, melting against him. There wasn't any one way that they made love. This morning they both felt the need for quiet, for slow, for gentle. It was a still morning, the golden light from the window somehow sacred. This place where they were seemed a haven from the cold outside, from the finality of the coming winter. He watched her. Her eyes were closed, eyelids a pale mauve, her face dreamy, soft. Pale cream sunlight washed over their bodies, twined together on their impromptu bedding. They were the mixed media of a sculpture, smooth planes, slopes in marble, sun glinting off of the golden-brown hair on his arm, gleaming in her dark curls, luminous, suspended in time. As he looked at her cradled beneath him, he was struck by the generosity of her spirit in taking him into her house, her life, her bed. Time seemed to dilate in the quiet of the room, and he pressed deeper inside her heat, their bodies joining, hands clutching skin, mouth seeking mouth. The buzz of orgasm began, and his entire being seemed to be expanding with the onrush of his excitement. Suddenly it became overwhelming--too much too fast, a roaring in his ears that grew with each stroke. He withdrew quickly, his breathing ragged. It took a moment before Mo realized what had happened, and then she sat up, putting a hand on his shoulder. Doggett waved her off. "I'm fine--I'll be fine." He raised his blue eyes to hers and shook his head. "Darlin', it's all right," she said softly. "You could have, you know. I love it that. . .well, that I excite you that much." "I've got other plans for you. And they don't include this being over before it starts." Mo reached out and cupped his cheek, her fingers warm on his skin. He leaned into the caress, accepting, grateful for the respite and for the tenderness. Seeing the concern on Mo's face, he took her face between his hands and kissed her. As the kiss deepened, he pulled her close and lifted her into his arms. He carried her back to the bed and dropped her onto the middle of it. He crawled over the crumpled terrain of linens after her, and she laughed like a teenager, her curly hair in her eyes. He smiled at the sound of her laughter. It was such a simple thing, so simple he had a hard time taking it at face value: She made him happy. His eyes were drawn to the small crescent moon tattooed above her breast, an emblem of so much about her that he didn't understand, so much that drew him to her anyway, seemingly inexorable, like a tide. The push/pull of the moon, Doggett decided. He prowled between her legs, seizing her hips like prey, dipping in to taste his trophy. He explored the depths of her, feeling the silk of her sheath, tasting her essence. He drew his tongue lightly out and up over the nub of her clitoris, back and forth across it. Resting on his shoulders, Mo's hands gripped skin and muscle tighter and tighter. Her belly began to quiver, the tremors reaching her hips and then her thighs, snug around his ears. Her back arched and she pulled at his shoulders, her breath sounding something like a sob. "I need you inside me," she whispered. "Please. . ." He gathered her up into his arms, hiding his face against her neck, breathing in her scent. He put a hand on her hip and pressed into her, and she moaned quietly. He brought his hands up and tangled his fingers in her hair, closing his eyes. She drew his face down to her and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips. He pulled her body tighter against his, running his hands down her ribs, her hips. She gasped, her breath warm and moist against his face. He laced his fingers in hers. The time for gentleness was long past, and his movements became more demanding. Her hips rose to meet his in response, her eyes growing dim and faraway now, only partly focused on him. Her back arched slowly, stretched taut, quivering. As her release caught and overtook her, he kissed her, feeling his surrender to the pleasure he was giving her, and to the almost overwhelming sensations moving through his body. She held him close as he came, the explosion hot, white behind his eyes, a groan tearing from his throat and into her neck. Through the haze of pleasure, he felt her fingers, soft and soothing, on his face, in his hair. "I want you inside me, John. Always." Her lips were close to his ear as she whispered the words. When he returned to his senses, he realized that in the end he didn't know whether she'd been referring to their lovemaking or to something else, something she wanted to keep close to her heart. He smoothed her tangled dark hair away from her face, kissed her tenderly. As he drew the comforter over them both, holding her close against him, he wondered just how much it really mattered. It was still early morning. And maybe still a little too early to be thinking. He studied her face in the soft wash of light. There was a faint pinkness to the skin of her cheeks, around her lips, probably from his rough morning beard, he realized. He touched the irritated skin with a gentle finger and scraped his other hand down his cheek, feeling the bristly stubble there. She looked up at him and smiled sleepily. "Need a shave," he murmured. She raised her fingers to his cheek. "I like you scruffy." Her smile warmed. "I've always liked it." She met his eyes, and saw--what was it? concern? affection? "I know," she added, "you're not the scruffy type." He smiled. "No, prob'ly not," he said. "You know, we're really kind of pitiful," she whispered after a moment, her lips against his cheek. He looked at her, frowning. "How do you figure?" He twisted a lock of her hair around a finger. "Well, we don't see each other for months, and then when we *are* together, we act like we've just been released from prison, you know?" He shook his head, laughing, knowing it was true. "Warm enough?" He wrapped his arms around her. "Mmm," she said, nestling closer to him. He tangled his fingers into her thick curls, toying absently with the hair. "Why do you always do that?" He looked up at her. "What?" "Put your hands in my hair," she said. "You do it all the time." "I don't know." He was quiet for a moment. "It feels good. It makes me feel like. . .you're mine." He felt the tips of his ears grow warm. She kissed his cheek and settled her head back on his shoulder. If she noticed his sudden embarrassment, she didn't let on. "Well," she said simply, "I am." He closed his eyes and smoothed his fingers down her cheek. And damned if he wasn't thinking after all. Doggett rolled over, groggy from the unexpected sleep. The sun in the window was higher in the sky now, brighter. Falling asleep like that--what a typical bullshit, guy thing to do. But she was asleep too, lying on her back, her arm curved around her face, her legs drawn up and slightly to one side. He pulled the covers down a little and looked at her, while he could take his time and not make her self-conscious. She wasn't much younger than he was, so she wasn't a 20- something hardbody, but he relished her body: her little rounded breasts ("Not little, John--compact," she'd once told him, laughing), her narrow waist and prominent hip bones, her strong thighs--even her ribs. Her skin was so fair he could see the mapwork of veins beneath it, especially across her chest, the tops of her breasts. She looked so young, so vulnerable. Feeling a sudden upwelling of tenderness, he reached out and put a fingertip to the delicate skin between her breasts. He ran his finger lightly down the middle of her, stopping just above her navel. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer. The fine scars there were a soft silver now, faded with the time passed. Their interconnecting lines created a delicate web over her chest, breasts, belly, and if he closed his eyes he could still see her lying, motionless, covered in her own blood. . . Repelled by the vision, he let his breath out in a rush. Startled, Mo opened her eyes, not yet completely awake, and raised herself up on her elbows, blinking at him. He gently gathered her up and into his arms and held her close. Warm and sleepy, she put her head on his shoulder and sighed. "Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" she murmured against his neck, her fingers almost ticklish on the bare skin of his shoulder. "No," he said. "No." He looked to the window, where the sun was streaming in, warm now. He could see the clear morning outside, the field grasses long turned yellow and tan, and in the distance the brown foothills and the mountains, slate-tinted lilac. He pressed his lips to her temple. It was almost time to get on the road. But right now, it was good just to be here.