The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [92]
“With you there.”
“I would only suggest that you be sure. Sure that this woman is so very bad. You are drawn to her for a reason—I believe that. And the reason isn’t simply to torture yourself. So you must find out who she really is.”
“Okay. How do I do that?”
“Ask her?”
“Ask her?”
“Could you do that?”
“Well, not in so many words. Not like, ‘Okay, level with me—did you steal those horses?’ ”
“She stole horses?”
“She mighta.”
“Isn’t that—a hanging offense?”
Shorty chuckled, such a warming sound, and Molly slid lower in bed, stretching her legs. “Prob’ly not anymore,” he allowed. “But if she did steal ’em, I might string her up myself.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. No. I think you are . . . quite a gentle person.”
“You do, huh.”
“I do.”
“What if I told you . . . Nah, forget it.”
“What?”
“What if I told you I did something real bad. Once.”
“I would say, welcome to the world. The human race.”
“I’m not talking about a mistake,” he said, and the sudden harsh anger in his voice made her sit up. “I’m talking about somebody dying. You hear that? Because of me. My fault.”
She kept her own voice calm and steady. “In what way was it your fault?”
“ Aw, hell.”
“In what way, Shorty?”
“It was—bulls. A rodeo. Everybody liquored up. My—best buddy, somebody I cared a lot about, but I was drunk, and—hell, I’m not getting into this.”
“That’s all right.” She could easily imagine foolishness and drunkenness, a reckless dare, a calamity. An accident. “You were young, yes?”
“No. Twenty-eight.”
“Oh, Shorty.”
“Bullshit. Young, that’s—sixteen. I was a goddamn grown-up.”
“All right. All right.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got me started on that.”
“It’s on your mind.”
“Not really.”
“Always. Just under the surface.”
A pause. Then, “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.” He tried to snarl the words, but there was so much pain, Molly’s heart felt pierced.
“I say it’s time. I don’t know how long ago this happened to you, but it’s time. It’s mean of you to hold on to it this long.”
“It’s what?”
“It’s unkind. If this awful thing had happened the other way around, you’d have forgiven your friend by now. Long ago, in fact.”
Silence.
“Wouldn’t you? Admit it.”
“That’s sorta beside the point.”
“It’s exactly the point. Why are you being so cruel? This is not like you. You are going against your own nature. You are not a hard, unforgiving person. You’re not. Shorty? Talk to me.”
“Where’re you gettin’ all this?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“You don’t know me from—Adam.” From shit, he’d been going to say, but he wasn’t angry anymore. If nothing else, she’d talked him down from that. She wanted to do more than that, though. But how? Did she even know what she was talking about? No, but she knew a good man when she met one. Psychic-schmychic, as Charlie would say. She knew a good man when she met him.
“It’s such a waste of your spirit, this self-hate. This bitterness inside. It stunts you. How can you forgive anyone else, of anything, until you forgive yourself?”
No answer, but he was listening.
“It’s a kind of pride, isn’t it? Not to accept that you can make mistakes? That you can be just like everyone else?”
“I can make mistakes. Oh, believe me. I got no trouble accepting that.”
“You just can’t forgive yourself for them.”
“Forgive and forget, no. I can’t do it.”
“I didn’t say anything about forgetting. That’s easy. How much harder to forgive and remember.”
The quiet between them was easier this time. She listened to his slow exhalations of breath, moved by them somehow, and wished she knew better words.
“Dear one,” she said very quietly. “Listen. This is important. Have mercy on yourself.”
Shorty made some sound.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I know it’s impudent, but important also. Listen.” She had to whisper past the lump in her throat. “I forgive you.”
Utter silence. Not even breathing. She’d gone too far.
Then he said, “So you’re a priest now?” with a shaky laugh, and the tension broke.
She