Page 17

Seventeen

Jackson

She’s understanding, but it would almost be easier if she was straight-up pissed at me.

I would’ve deserved that more than the gracious way she welcomed me.

I take the steaming mug from her hand as she sits down beside me. She seems comfortable with the silence as she carefully sips her hot tea and stares out at the creek. It takes me way too long to think of the right words to say.

“I spent the afternoon digging a hole on top of a hill at High Meadow. An eight by three foot hole, about six feet deep. Sometime tomorrow I’ll be putting the dirt back, except Thomas will be in that hole.”

In my peripheral vision I see Stephanie put her tea down and I feel her eyes on me, but I keep mine fixed on the view.

“I barely remember my father’s funeral. I only have vague memories of uniforms, a lot of pomp and circumstance, and a ton of strangers wanting to shake my hand. But I do recall being angry. So damn angry. It was my coping mechanism at thirteen years old.”

I snort at myself, thinking of the shit I put my mother through. Not only back then, but as recently as a few years ago when, once again, rage was my go-to response to pain.

“I was still in the hospital and missed the funerals for my fallen brothers, but I was angry then too. I guess at the unfairness of it all. But this time, with Thomas, I can’t bring myself to be mad. He lived a long, good life, he loved fiercely, and he died on his terms.”

My eyes burn when I turn to look at Stephanie.

“It’s easier when I’m angry. Somehow, it hurts less.”

The next moment her arms are around me and I bury my face in her neck. All the rioting emotions that have been ripping at my insides these past few days erupt. I toughed through the death of my father, those of my best friends, and yet I lose my shit over an old man who left this life glad at the prospect of seeing the love of his life again in the hereafter.

I’m not sure how long we sit like this, arms around each other, my hot tears leaving a wet spot on Stephanie’s shirt. When I lift my head, I notice hers have left tracks down her face.

I probably should be embarrassed for the meltdown, but I’m not. Not even when she lifts her hand to my face and wipes the wetness from under my eyes.

“Thomas may have triggered them, but something tells me these tears held a lifetime of repressed emotions,” she whispers, pressing her lips to mine.

“Probably,” I concede in a hoarse voice.

“They say purging is good for the soul.”

I bark out a dry laugh and joke, “That may well be, but it’s hell on the reputation.”

She smiles. “Your reputation is safe with me.” Then she tilts her head to the side. “How do you feel?”

I shrug. “Exhausted, a bit empty, but lighter.”

Stephanie slaps both hands on her knees before getting to her feet.

“You probably haven’t had dinner yet. Let me put something together.”

“I came prepared. Picked up a couple of brisket sandwiches at Foxy’s but forgot all about them in the truck when I saw Vallard’s vehicle out there. Let me go grab them.”

The outside air feels good on my face, and I take a few deep breaths in as I walk to my truck.

Only to find all four of my tires flat.

What the fuck?

I bend down to inspect one of my front tires and notice a deep slash in the rubber. The other three received the same treatment.

Un- fucking -believable.

Pissed off, I snatch the bag with sandwiches from the passenger seat and stalk back inside.

“Your buddy Vallard slashed my damn tires,” I snap, walking in.

Stephanie looks surprised. “What?”

She darts passed me outside, where I find her crouched beside my truck.

“Stay back,” she orders.

I observe as she pulls her phone from her pocket and starts taking pictures of the tires and the dirt around my truck.

“What are you doing?”

“Shoe prints.” She points to the ground. “These smaller ones are mine. I believe those belong to you; see how your right shoe leaves a flatter imprint than your left? That’s because your weight distribution is different on the prosthetic side. But these…”

She indicates a full print next to a partial one right beside the rear passenger side wheel.

“Someone crouched down here. I’d say a men’s size twelve. See the deep treads? Looks like a hiking boot to me.”

She’s right; the shape and pattern of ridges and grooves suggests the prints were made by hiking boots.

“Vallard was wearing dress shoes,” she volunteers. “Plus, this isn’t his style.”

I visualize the smug bastard standing in Stephanie’s living room in his suit and tie, wearing brown leather lace-up shoes.

“Maybe he changed and came back,” I suggest, though it sounds lame even to my ears.

It would be so much easier to blame it on that jealous piece of shit. The alternative is much more ominous. Who would go to the effort of slicing all four of my damn tires? Why?

“Do you want to call triple A?” Stephanie asks.

“Nah. Sully’s wife, Pippa, owns an auto shop just up the road. I can get it towed tomorrow after the funeral.”

I watch her walk toward me, her blond hair glowing gold in the setting sun and her features cast in shadows.

“That is,” I add when she stops in front of me. “If you don’t mind me staying the night.”

Her brown eyes blink up at me, a soft smile on her lips. “I don’t.”

“And if you could maybe give me a ride to the ranch tomorrow?”

She lays her hand on the middle of my chest.

“I can.”

“And if you’d come with me to the funeral?” I ask.

“You bet,” she returns before steering me back inside.

* * *

Stephanie

I’m at the sink, staring out of the window as I quickly wash the last of the dishes.

The trailer has a small dishwasher, but I prefer washing by hand. It’s therapeutic in that it’s mindless and allows my thoughts to flow freely. Historically, those thoughts would be associated with one or another case I was working, often leading me into new and unexplored directions. I’ve even solved cases with my hands in warm water.

But not tonight. Tonight, my mind is preoccupied with Jackson, who is sitting on the couch, watching the end of a newscast on the small TV. After eating the lukewarm brisket sandwiches he brought over, we took Ash for a walk, and settled in for an episode of Landman , which we discovered we both enjoyed.

I glance over my shoulder at Jackson, who catches me looking.

If I wasn’t half in love with the guy already, I would be now.

I grew up in a household and worked in an environment where real men weren’t supposed to show any emotion, which was considered a show of weakness. Heck, even as a girl and woman I was judged, which is how I developed a hard shell and learned to swallow any emotions, not allowing them any daylight. There might have even been a time I subscribed to that way of thinking, but not anymore.

I’ve come to believe—and today even more so—stoic endurance is not a sign of strength, but of cowardice. Hiding your feelings behind a straight mask is not a show of resilience, but rather one of fear. We need courage to express honest emotions, and gain strength when we pick ourselves up after.

The last thing I do is prep the coffee machine so all I have to do tomorrow morning is flip the switch, before I walk over to the couch.

“Come to bed?”

I hold out my hand, which Jackson grabs in his as he stands up and follows me into the bedroom.

“Be right back,” I tell him, slipping into the bathroom.

When I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a gray pair of boxer briefs, releasing his prosthesis from his leg. One look at his face tells me he likes what he sees. Deciding to walk out buck-ass naked is new for me. Seduction is not really my thing, nor is it really the objective, but I wanted to reward the trust he showed me tonight with my own vulnerability.

Sure, he’s seen me naked, in parts, but tonight I’m offering myself up to his scrutiny. I’m far from perfect; my breasts are too small, my thighs too thick, and I have swimmer’s shoulders. He can probably see the stubble on my legs from where he’s sitting, because I haven’t shaved in a week.

Yet, with the way his eyes stroke my body from the top of my head to my toes, he makes me feel beautiful. Desirable. When he motions me over, creating a V between his leg and his stump for me to fit, I don’t hesitate.

My arms instinctively wrap around his head and shoulders when he presses his face into my soft belly and his hands reach behind me to grab hold of my ass.

“ Fuck , you feel so good, Hotshot. Perfect.”

He gives my belly button a leisurely lick before tilting his head back, his dark eyes sparkling as his fingertips slide down my butt crease.

“Taste amazing too,” he mumbles as he dips his fingers between my folds, finding me already wet. “I want more. I want you to climb on my face.”

As he lies back on the bed, he pulls me with him, and I let him arrange me until I’m kneeling on the bed, poised over his head. I’m vacillating between self-consciousness and lust as I look down in his eyes. Then, as he locks me in his focus, he pulls me down on his hot mouth.

I close my eyes, drop my head back, and let myself be swept off by a tsunami of sensations, as his talented lips, tongue, and fingers make my body sing. He’s all that keeps me grounded when I come so hard, it feels like I scatter with the force.

He eases out from under my collapsed body and kisses his way up my back, until I can feel his lips pressing against the shell of my ear.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers.

I’m still on my knees, my body slumped forward—ass up and face pressed into a pillow—when I feel his hands on my hips a moment later. Then I feel a light pressure as he brushes the blunt head of his cock along my crease, before sliding inside me in a slow but firm stroke.

Still a little swollen and sensitized from the earlier onslaught of his mouth, Jackson is gentle as he makes love to me. This time when I feel my orgasm crest, it’s a rolling wave instead of a wild tsunami.

The last thing I remember is Jackson rolling us to our sides, his body curved around me from behind. I feel warm and safe, and fall asleep almost instantly.

* * *

“Wake up! Stephanie!”

Something acrid fills my lungs as I try to force my eyes open. I’m already being pulled from the bed and am disoriented as my mind tries to grasp what is going on.

“Fire,” Jackson’s voice sounds close to my ear.

Just like that, I’m wide awake, and now I can hear it, even if I can’t see a hand in front of my eyes.

“We have to go out the window.”

“Ash,” I rasp, before launching into a coughing fit.

“He’s here. You first, then I’ll lift him out.”

Jackson sounds hoarse himself as I instinctively follow the flow of cold air to the window. I grab the ledge and with his help, hoist myself outside, landing hard. That’s when I notice I’m still naked, but I don’t have time to worry about it, because already Jackson is lifting the dog through the window.

I can smell singed hair when I cradle the surprisingly calm animal in my arms, and when I crouch down with him, my brain finally registers our predicament. Everything out here is cast in a red glow as flames shoot up from the roof. The trailer looks to be almost entirely engulfed.

“Jackson!” I yell for him when he doesn’t immediately follow the dog out.

Next thing I know, what looks like a wadded up bedsheet is lowered out the window, immediately followed by Jackson’s prosthesis. Then comes the man himself, head first, as he launches himself out of the burning house.

Still hanging on to the dog, I scramble to get him to safety as an ominous groaning sound heralds nothing good. Jackson is right behind me on one leg, dragging the sheet behind him. Moments later there is a loud reverberation as the roof of the trailer collapses, sending sparks and burning debris flying.

I’m knocked to the ground as Jackson throws himself on me and the dog, covering our bodies with his own.