Free Winter's Daughter by Kathleen Creighton

frighteningly intimate. Improvising, she said, "Somebody might see me."
    "Ah. The street people, you mean." Dillon frowned and sat forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. In an abrupt change of mood he asked bluntly, "Tannis, how long have you been living on the streets without backup?"
    "Backup?" She smiled at the term. "Now you sound like a cop. Oh, wow, do you have any idea how foolish I feel? Accusing you of observing from your ivory tower, challenging you to come down and see how things really are" — she lifted two fingers on each hand, enclosing her words in mocking quotes—" when all the time—"
    "It wasn’t my intention to make you feel foolish," Dillon said, clipping his words impatiently. "And you haven’t answered my question."
    He looked so grim that Tannis drew away from him a little. Uncertain, not quite sure what he was getting at, she murmured, "Uh, well, I started staying out right after Thanksgiving—but I went home to my folks for Christmas."
    "You went home for Christmas." Dillon dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes as if looking at her had become a strain. He muttered something under his breath, but all Tannis could make of it was the word lucky. He turned to give her a long, grave stare. "Hasn’t anyone ever told you that what you’re doing is dangerous?"
    "Oh, sure." Tannis nodded. "Everybody has—more than once."
    "Everybody?"
    "Well, everybody who knows about what I’m doing. My sister and brother–in–law. Gunner, and now you."
    "But you didn’t believe them?"
    "Of course I believed them."
    "No," Dillon said very quietly, "I really don’t think you did. I don’t think you realize that for every hard luck case and quaint character you’ve met on the street there’s probably a dozen representatives of every kind of sociopathology imaginable. I’m talking about people who live in a world populated by demons, people without even the tiniest scrap of conscience, people who’ve fried their brains on drugs you’ve probably never heard of. I still don’t think you have a clue, Tannis, not even after the scare I gave you."
    "I’m a psychologist," she said evenly. "I’m not as innocent of the human condition as you seem to think I am. And anyway—" she straightened her back and looked pointedly at the squiggle of dried blood on his temple "—I think I’m capable of defending myself."
    Dillon snorted.
    Tannis stood up and dropped the uneaten half of her submarine sandwich back into the bag. Fighting to control her temper, she shoved the sleeves of her sweater above her elbows, paced a few steps, then turned to look down at him, hugging herself. "You know," she said quietly, "you could probably screw this up for me if you wanted to. You probably have the authority to keep me from completing my research, or at the very least, to make it difficult for me. But this means a lot to me, and if you keep me from doing my research here, I’ll just have to go somewhere else. I chose this town because my sister lives here, but there are other places that will do as well." She paused. "I can always go to L.A."
    Dillon leaned back and glared up at her with eyes as hard and cold as diamonds. "The hell you will."
    Tannis glared back at him, breathing hard, puzzled by the intensity of his reaction.
    After a moment he shook his head and leaned forward again. So quietly she could barely hear him above the distant din of city traffic, he said, "Tannis, I don’t want you to stop what you’re doing. I just want you to stop doing it
alone.
" He got to his feet and looked down at her, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his ragged jeans. "I have a proposition for you. I want you to work for me. And with me."
    As she so often did when he stood near her like that, Tannis felt overwhelmed. Not liking the feeling, she put her hand out and stepped back, a defensive movement designed to put a comfort zone between them. "Work— for
you?
" she said, incredulous. "Doing what?"
    His