A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

“You think I don’t know that? It doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

“I don’t want you hurt.” Her voice was thick. “By me, or by anyone else.”

“You let me worry about myself,” he advised her. “You think about Ian, and that cold, gray waiting area you both hate so much. Think—think about seeing your mother again.”

She seemed to catch her breath; Dean didn’t even want to think about whether she breathed at all.

“I have to go,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

But she’d be back. At least a few more times. Their gazes locked for a long, silent moment. Dean read his own emotions in her eyes.

And then he was alone.

He muttered a curse and scrubbed his left hand wearily over his face.

“Dean?” His aunt appeared in the doorway, watching him with loving, worried eyes. “Are you in pain, dear?”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “It hurts, Aunt Mae. It hurts like hell.”

He wasn’t talking about his arm. Since she didn’t know that, she fussed over him, insisting that he sit down and put his feet up. He refused another painkiller, but accepted a fresh cup of tea, which she hurried to get for him.

Dean leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, wondering what he had ever done to deserve this.

“I’VE GOT to talk to Bill Watson,” Dean said flatly that afternoon after he’d told Mark all his suspicions about the murders of the Cameron twins and the bootlegger named Buck Felcher. He’d added his theory that Gay-lon Peavy had then killed Stanley Tagert, the only surviving witness to the shoot-out.

Mark had heard him out with an open mind, though he couldn’t quite hide his skepticism. “It all sounds like the plot of a bad gangster movie,” he said when Dean had finished.

“I know,” Dean agreed. “But this really happened.”

“And you think Bill Watson knows something incriminating about the Peavys? Even if he’s coherent enough to tell you?”

“I think he might. Tagert’s grandson made it clear that he thought Watson had something on the Peavys. Why else would they have supported him all those years for doing so very little in return?”

“Do you know where Watson is?”

“No. But I’ll find him.”

“I’m going with you when you talk to him.”

In response to Dean’s lifted eyebrow, Mark nodded toward the bandages. “You’re in no shape to drive yourself for a while. And if there is any danger in your pursuit of this crazy quest, you need someone around who’s on your side.”

Dean smiled, touched. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it.”

“Just one thing. If Watson denies any knowledge of this, will you drop it?”

“I don’t know that I have any other choice,” Dean said grimly. “He’s my last resort. As far as I can tell, I have no other way of proving my suspicions unless he knows something.”

“And after we talk to him, you’ll tell me what put this bee in your bonnet in the first place?”

Dean agreed.

He’d have to think of something to placate the too-perceptive journalist. He wasn’t sure their friendship would survive the ghost story Dean would have to tell if he couldn’t come up with a more plausible tale.

Two DAYS LATER, on February 13, Dean was in the passenger seat of Mark’s sports car, headed for a nursing home in Little Rock.

Dean hadn’t seen Anna since she’d left him in the sitting room. He suspected that this time she was deliberately staying away from him. He saw the wisdom in her actions, but, God, he missed her.