But being left alone with Tex McCoy, the murderer, she
found it difficult to summon her characteristic
stubbornness. She glanced up at him and saw him gazing out
the window. With him filling it, her normally
decent–sized kitchen suddenly appeared small. It
seemed to shrink even more when his eyes slithered from the
window to her—so much so that it seemed to become
devoid of oxygen, and her breath caught in her throat. He
took a step toward her. At that point, her breathing seized
altogether. His hand came out, nearing her face. Or was he
going for her throat? She panicked and gasped for air as if
his hands were already around her neck and squeezing. Was
he going to...strangle her? She slapped his hand
away. "Don't you dare touch me!"
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans. His
eyes, if at all possible, became darker, almost black, but
his expression remained impassive. "You have dirt on your
face," he said flatly and remotely, as if he'd expected
her
impulsive reaction.
"Oh." Her hand went to her cheek, the one he had
planned
to innocently wipe off for her. She rubbed it, wondering if
she'd overacted. What was she going to do when he freely
walked around her house, took a shower in her bathroom, or
slept in the bedroom below hers? Was she going to jump with
every step he took? Was she going to lay awake all night?
And the shower—her shower. Rainey decided thinking
about Tex McCoy naked in the shower wasn't a good idea. He
was a killer. But he already served his time, right? Was
he...reformed? Wait, was she really trying to rationalize
here? It was manslaughter, not murder, right? And he did
claim self–defense. Right. Then why'd he brutally
stab Curtis Watson multiple times?
The questions swarming through Rainey's head were
undoubtedly the same questions the jury had asked. Their
answer to that question had earned Tex the maximum sentence
of fifteen years. The unanswered question that remained was
why Tex McCoy and Curtis Watson, a hired hand who'd worked
at the McCoy ranch three years prior to the murder, had
gotten into a brawl outside of the bar in the first place,
the scuffle that eventually led to Curtis's death.
For the sake of her son, Rainey had to believe Tex was
reformed. She had to trust he had no other choice and that
he had a damn good reason for killing Curtis Watson.
"Uh, I'll show you to your room," she said, diverting
her eyes from his so she could start down the hallway. She
couldn't hear him behind her. She glanced over her
shoulder. He was right there, near and looming, with all
the prowess and silent pursuit of some sly, predatory
panther. Her heart slammed into her chest wall. She
straightened her back, valiantly suffering through another
panic attack. When she reached the spare bedroom, she
opened the door and walked in. "This used to be my
grandmother's room. Nobody's stayed in here since she
died,
but it has a queen–sized bed, an empty dresser..."
She stopped and turned, practically bumping into him.
Swallowing her insistent fear, she took a step back. "You
do have clothes, don't you? I, um...well, I don't see any
luggage or a duffle bag."
"Yeah, I have clothes," he said and moved forward,
recapturing the distance she'd intentionally placed
between
them. "My things will be dropped off later."
"Oh," she breathed, backpedaling until she hit the
wall. "Good." Her body went still. He was standing just
inches from her. He wasn't touching her, but she felt
pinned against the wall just the same.
He lifted his hands and placed them alongside her head,
resting them on the wall. Now, she was literally pinned.
His eyes drifted to her mouth, and every nerve trembled
from the inside out. She wanted to run. Her breathing
seized, and her heart had stopped midbeat. Fear was winning.
He leaned forward, and his dark lashes lifted until his
eyes met hers. "You look scared," he said, in a voice so
low, ominous, and deep that it shook her insides.
She stood there, speechless.
Ever so slightly, like his menacing approach, his lip
curled up. "That's good," he said, swaying dangerously
closer. "You should be, Rainey Ann." His eyes ran over
her
face. "In fact, you'd better take that fear and hold it
real close."
His hand came from the wall, dark lashes lowering once
more. He gazed at her lips. They were quivering, but at
that moment, Rainey couldn't have cared less if he saw it.
She was terrified. Warm fingers scraped her shoulder,
slithered up her nape, and gripped around her neck. His
fingers indented her skin, and being strangled came back to
mind.
"Or," he said, tilting in toward her ear, their bodies
bordering lethal contact, "you could give in to that fear
right now and scream."