LOGAN (The Innerworld Affairs Series, Book 5) (7 page)

As Logan considered the bits of information he'd learned, another question came to him and he sought Hans out again.

"I'm curious about something, Hans," Logan said as he pulled a piece of fruit off a branch and dropped it in the basket at his feet. "I can see how important it is for you fellows to do your work. How is it so many of you were standing outside of the barn when we came out?"

Hans's smile broadened a bit. "Because it was locked."

Logan could tell that was supposed to explain everything and took a stab at what he meant. "And when the barn door's locked... new people arrive?"

Hans nodded. "Sometimes. Not often. Usually it just means Duncan's fairies are at work."

"At work doing what?"

"Trading."

Logan reined in his frustration and forced himself to use the same easy tone Hans used. "What is it they trade?"

"We give them some of the fruits and vegetables we grow, and they leave us things we need but can't make ourselves." Hans caught sight of some ripe fruit on another tree and started dragging his nearly full basket toward it.

Logan picked up the basket and carried it for him as he asked, "What sort of things?" Hans cocked his head at him with a totally vacant look in his eyes as if he had no idea what he was talking about. "You said the fairies leave you things you need. Like what?"

Hans's smile came back. "Tools, clothing, sugar. Things we need. Sometimes we put a drawing with the crops so they'll know what we'd like. Other times they surprise us."

Logan wanted to hear more about the fairies, but Higgs chose that moment to do some more fretting.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, looking nervous enough to throw up.

Logan let Higgs lead him out of the others' hearing range.

"I just want to make sure there's no hard feelings," Higgs said, not quite meeting Logan's eyes. "You know, between us. I mean, I was just doing my job, you know. It's not like I had anything to do with your court martial."

"Forget it, Higgs. We were all just doing our job."

"Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know, you and the major have my support if you need it. My guess is, Wilkes and his pals aren't the only ones who might cause trouble."

Logan smirked. "Thanks for the news flash." He stopped himself from taking his frustration out on Higgs. "Just pass on anything you get wind of. This situation's bad enough without us fighting amongst ourselves." He was about to return to Hans when Higgs stopped him.

"Do you think they're androids?" he asked glancing at Hans. When Logan furrowed his brows, Higgs added, "You know, robots that are really close to being human but are still just computers? Or maybe they're aliens that have taken our shape to gain our confidence."

Logan didn't want to hear why Higgs thought the aliens needed to gain their confidence. "I don't know any more than you do, Higgs, but I'll tell you this much. I'd lay odds that these guys aren't the ones we need to worry about. They're just puppets. What we've got to do is find a way to reach the ones who pull their strings."

Higgs glanced from side to side as if expecting to see an eavesdropper. "If it's aliens we're dealing with, I should be able to help. I've read thousands of science fiction novels, you know."

"Thanks, Higgs," Logan said, giving him a pat on the back. "I'll keep that in mind."

As he made his way back to Hans, Logan rubbed his temples.
Damn
! He was getting a headache. Considering the tension he was holding inside, it wasn't surprising that one was coming on. All he needed now to make his day complete was a killer migraine—a blinding, five-day cluster type ought to about do it. Especially since there probably wasn't an aspirin in the whole friggin' place.

What the hell had possessed him to step forward and help the major? He knew when he did it, he'd regret it. The welfare of the men was no longer his concern. The army had spit him out of its womb and forgotten him, much like his own mother had. But he just hadn't been able to stand there and let an ass like Wilkes get the upper hand.

So here he was, back to being the one everybody was counting on to make the right decisions and keep them safe.

Well, almost everybody. Wilkes wasn't counting on him for anything but a hard time. Though even that was something he'd have to live up to.

Then there was Tarla. She certainly wouldn't count on him for anything. Not if she could help it. In fact, he'd done such a good job of putting her off, she'd probably refuse to ask him for help, even if her life was threatened.

Logan was accustomed to life being one kick in the teeth after another, but this little turn of events sure beat the hell out of anything that had come before, including the court martial. It was the typical sort of trick fate always played on him. He had been spared from life in one prison, only to find himself being held captive in another in which his wardens were either fairies or aliens.

And the only woman in the entire universe capable of twisting him into knots with nothing more than the sound of her voice, was there to make sure he didn't have a moment's peace.

As he had a hundred times before, he drifted back to the moment when he first realized that Tarla was neither an angel nor a hallucination...

* * *

He squinted his eyes in an attempt to focus on the woman looking down on him. Either the concussion or whatever drug they'd used on him for the surgery still had him feeling disoriented and drowsy, but the throbbing pain in his thigh assured him he was very much alive.

"Welcome back, Logan."

Her voice sent a shiver up his spine in spite of the numbing narcotic. The way she said his name suggested they'd known each other forever and the way she smiled at him made it seem as though they really had.

Her fingers combed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm Tarla. How do you feel?"

He wanted her to touch him again, but he didn't dare ask aloud.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" She lightly stroked one of the scars on his shoulder. "But it looks like you've been through this before."

"Slovenia," he mumbled hoarsely.

Her fingertip traced the scar along his jaw, then his forehead.

"Detroit."

"Is that where you're from?" He nodded once. "Too bad about the Chevies, huh? I thought they were a shoe-in for the championship this year."

He wasn't much of a soccer fan but he was willing to discuss any topic that might keep her by his side. The drug in his system prevented him from intelligently holding up his side of the conversation, but she seemed to understand and did most of the talking.

He remembered fading in and out for a day or two. Each time he awakened, she was there, smiling, telling him little bits of news and gossip. Once the amount of narcotic he'd been prescribed was reduced, he was able to get her talking about what he really wanted to know, which was anything and everything about her.

She was from Baltimore, Maryland, thirty-four, had a large number of relatives and friends, each of whom she could relate a humorous story about. She liked children, rescued stray animals and, most important, had no husband, fiancé, or boyfriend waiting at home.

The strange part was she seemed to really like him. For some reason, she saw right past what everyone else saw when they looked at him. He even had the urge to tell her about his own life, thinking she might be the one woman who wouldn't judge him by his past, but he needed more confidence for that.

With each encounter, he grew more certain that she was feeling the same attraction to him as he was to her. And when he held her hand and she didn't pull it back, his hope rose.

His leg felt a little better by the end of the second week and her nearness was keeping him in a constant state of arousal. He could tell Tarla wasn't the type of woman he usually associated with, and normally, he wouldn't have even bothered talking to her, but everything about her had him believing his life could be different with her.

He wanted her, but he didn't want her to see him as an animal. He vowed to go slowly with her but he couldn't stand another day of only holding her hand.

That night, after it was dark and quiet and she came by to say goodnight, he shifted to one side of the cot and asked her to sit next to him.

"I know it's only been a couple weeks," he began, then stopped because her eyes were telling him he didn't have to explain. He reached up and, with his hand lightly stroking the back of her neck, he brought her head down to his. The moment her lips touched his, he
knew
, without a doubt, she could change his life—be the sweet woman who would lift his dark soul from the depths of hell and stand at his side through good times and bad.

Knowing they had no assurance of continued privacy, he controlled the desire to pull her down onto the cot and bury himself in her softness. Instead, he kept the kiss light and closed-mouth and his hands above her shoulders.

"I love you, Tarla," he whispered, and waited for her to return the sentiment. For several heartbeats, he was certain she wanted to do just that, then she sighed and slashed his exposed heart in two.

"Logan, I'm flattered. You're a wonderful man, and I'd be honored to have your love. But sometimes, a man thinks he feels something for a woman who's taken care of him when really it's only gratitude. A few weeks from now, after you've gone from here, you probably won't feel anything like you do right this minute."

"That's not true," he protested, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. "I'm not some kid fresh out of high school who can't tell the difference between love, lust and gratitude."

She touched her fingers to his lips. "I know you're not. But I've been through this before with patients and, if I believed everyone who said he loved me truly did, I'd be perpetually heartbroken. Please don't misunderstand, I really care about you, but I can't afford to love you."

She dipped her head to kiss him again but he turned his face from hers. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to feel, that to have it thrown back in his face hurt worse than any physical wound he'd ever received.

It made him remember the first and last time he'd been in love. He was fourteen and his raging hormones had clouded his mind enough to make him forget who he was and where he'd come from. When the prettiest girl in school was nice to him, he'd bragged that she was his girlfriend. As it turned out, she had only been treating him politely, as she had been taught by her upper-middle class parents. Behind his back, she told her friends what she really thought—that she'd rather kiss her dog than Dirty Logan McKay.

After that, he improved his personal grooming habits but remembered to keep his hormonal sights on girls who didn't mind being kissed by white trash.

The morning after Tarla's rejection, he wised up and started paying attention to what was going on around him. The pain in his leg was tolerable now without any narcotics, so his mind was no longer clouded by that either.

The first thing he noticed was the number of other patients in better and worse shape than he was and Tarla was sweet to every last one of them. He told himself that was her job, so it was stupid to be jealous. But when he saw her lean over one young soldier and brush his hair back from his forehead, he pounded the last nail into the lid of the coffin that usually housed his heart.

He had been a fool again.

At least she hadn't lied the night before. She just called it like she saw it... and she was probably right. He wasn't in love. He was grateful. His mind, temporarily confused by drugs and pain, had mistaken her simple kindness for what she was, rather than what she did for a living. He knew from personal experience how vastly different those two things could be.

By the time she came to visit him, he thought he had it all straightened out in his head, but he was still wrong. Just hearing her voice caused an ache inside him that no drug could fully numb. From that moment on, he did the only thing he knew to protect himself. He pushed her away. When ignoring her didn't work, he resorted to crudity to stop her from being so nice. Yet she kept coming back just as sweet and solid as hard candy, until he thought he'd go crazy before being sent back to his battalion.

And when discharge day finally came, he was sure he'd be able to forget her. As it turned out however, he had needed the fantasy far too often in the gruesome months that followed.

* * *

A tug on his sleeve yanked Logan's mind back to the present and the job at hand, but one thought lingered. Even a cell at Leavenworth was preferable to a lifetime of being within hearing range of Tarla Yan, yet knowing he could never touch her the way he did in his dreams.

There had to be a way out of this mess. If it meant taking charge of the whole damn bunch of misfits and puppet-people, he'd just have to do it.

Right after he got over the migraine.

Chapter 5