Page 27

Twenty-Seven

Stephanie

“He’s awake?”

Jackson leans in to buckle me up. Turns out that’s not so easy to do with only one functioning arm.

“Yeah, but I don’t think he’s talking yet. He may not be able to.”

Wouldn’t be surprising, given Laine had brain matter leaking from the hole in his head, but I would want to be the one to poke around what’s left of it. So many questions remain, some of which I’m not sure I want the answers to.

Maybe it’s best if opening his eyes is all the progress he makes for now. At least until I have a chance to find answers to a few of my questions on my own.

I’m lost in thought as Jackson rounds his truck, which now has four brand-new tires, and gets behind the wheel.

I’m heading home. Not my apartment here in Kalispell, but back to High Meadow where—as Alex so sternly pointed out—I can be properly looked after while I recover. Not that I had any real desire to go back to my cramped apartment, where I’d be staring out my window at the self-storage facility across the road all day. I’d be crawling up the walls in no time. The view at the ranch is much nicer, and you can’t beat the company.

I glance over at Jackson, who has barely left my side since I was brought in five days ago. I’ve had a surprising number of visitors over the course of those days, but Jackson has been the one constant. Even when Bellinger and Wilcox stopped by to question me and indicated they wanted to talk to me alone, Jackson wouldn’t budge. He grabbed my hand demonstratively, sat down on the stool beside my bed, and stared them down until they gave up their attempts.

I spoke to them a few times this past week, first going over the order of events, and after that trying to help fill in gaps that remain. It’s a weird experience, being on this side of an investigation. I got an earful from Bellinger, who was pissed I’d meddled in an active investigation, when I was technically on leave. Even worse, I got my partner in trouble. Wilcox ended up admitting he’d been the one to run that trace on the cell phone for me, and that didn’t go over well at all.

Bellinger had steam coming out of his ears, and if I hadn’t been lying in a hospital bed, I’m pretty sure he’d have fired me on the spot. I’m frankly surprised he hasn’t done it yet, although that may change after he finds out what I’ve been holding back.

I know it’s wrong to keep potentially important information to the case from him, but this is a loose end I’m determined to resolve myself. Unfortunately, it’s going to have to wait until I’m back on my feet, because this is not something I can handle with just a phone call.

“You’re quiet,” Jackson observes, placing a hand on my knee. “Are you hurting?”

“Not really.”

That’s to say, it isn’t bad, considering I’ve passed on anything stronger than ibuprofen these past two days. The pain medication they had me on worked wonders on the pain, but it also made my mind sluggish—as if I was under the influence—which I didn’t like so much. It’s the kind of drug that could easily develop into a habit, which is why I stopped taking them.

What was pure fire before has settled into more of a gnawing ache that runs all the way down to my fingertips which, by the way, I was able to move a little yesterday when the physical therapist came by. Progress will come in small increments, I was told. Sadly, patience is not my strong suit.

Luckily, it’s an arm, and not a leg. I can walk fine, and I’m sure with a day or two recovering back at Jackson’s cabin, I’ll be able to get some things done. Like officially quit my job before anyone has a chance to fire me. I also need to find another place to live; I don’t want to continue living in Kalispell, or keep mooching off Jackson. But most of all, I need to make a little trip. Unfortunately, since I can’t drive myself, I’ll need Jackson’s help with all of those.

“Hey, have you ever been to Michigan?”

Jackson turns his head and grins at me. “Yeah, I’ve been to Michigan. Why?”

I let my eyes drift out the windshield.

“I’m thinking of paying my father a quick visit in the next week or so. Would you be able to come?”

His face immediately turns to thunder.

“You’re kidding, right? The man couldn’t even bother to call you while you were laid up in the hospital and yet you want to visit him ?”

Calling my father had been Bellinger’s doing. I didn’t know he’d talked to him until he mentioned it the first time they questioned me. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him. I imagine he was probably annoyed his daily routine was interrupted. After Mom died, the only other person he cared about was my brother, and after David passed away, I swear my dad’s heart atrophied completely.

Any contact—which was limited to very sporadic phone calls—was initiated by me. Jackson got progressively more upset when there was nothing, no note, no flowers, and no call, coming from my father.

“Look, I’m fine. Like I told you, I’m used to it. I grew up with a dad who barely acknowledged my existence and, over the years, I’ve grown calluses on my soul. I simply don’t have any expectations. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

He throws me a dubious look.

“I call bullshit.”

“No, honestly,” I insist. “It’s easier this way. Occasionally, I’ll call him to alleviate my own sense of guilt and duty, but other than that, I’m fine with this distance.”

Except, this time I want to see him face-to-face. I want to watch his expression when I ask him about his involvement with those bank robberies.

My father may well be the only one left who has all the answers.

* * *

Jackson

“We’ll be fine here, Ma.”

From the stubborn set of my mother’s mouth, I can tell she’s not happy with my response.

She and Ama, who is back from her family visit, went ahead and made up a guest room in the main house for Stephanie. My name wasn’t mentioned, but since I’m not about to let her sleep alone when she’s within throwing distance, that would’ve meant both of us in the same house as my parents.

Why, when we have a cabin with some privacy and a lock on the door just steps away? We’ve just spent five days in a hospital room with a constant flow of people in and out.

I want some time alone with her. Slow the rest of the world down so we can catch up. No way we can do that with my mother or Ama hovering around all the time.

“What if something happens when you’re out on a search?” Ma persists.

“Then she has a phone, or she can use her two healthy legs and one arm. She’s not helpless.”

“Leave them, Alex,” Jonas urges her as he walks up behind her, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Let those kids catch their breath.”

“At least let me pack you up some food,” Ama offers.

Since that’s what I came in for in the first place, I agree to that.

“Oh fine,” Ma finally gives in. “But you’d better make sure my number is programmed in her phone, just in case.”

Again, an easy concession on my part, since I did as much already when I picked up a new cell phone for Stephanie yesterday. Apparently, her old one ended up at the bottom of a rain barrel.

It seems to appease my mother, who walks away with what she perceives to be a win. If I want any peace in the coming days, I’m not about to disavow her of that illusion.

Jonas claps me on the shoulder, while Ama starts filling up containers from the pans she has going on the stove.

“She’s rattled,” he explains. “Has had bad dreams every night since it happened. Your ma is a tough cookie, but she walked in on a brutally violent scene, the kind of which she’d never been exposed to before. Not like you, me, and even Stephanie, in her line of work. The reality it could’ve easily been one of her loved ones lying in a pool of blood hit home hard. Be patient with her, and if she’s a little invasive, it’s only because she needs to reassure herself you’re both okay.”

I’ve been so busy looking out for Stephanie, it didn’t even occur to me that what played out five days ago must’ve left its imprint on my mother as well.

“ Shit . I didn’t think of that,” I admit.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze before dropping his hand.

“You don’t have to. I did, which is my job. Yours is looking after your woman, which I’m glad to see you doing.”

It’s funny, I can almost hear Thomas in those words. I miss him. Every time I walk up the porch steps now, my eyes are drawn to the empty rocking chair.

When Jonas turns to follow my mother out of the kitchen, I call after him.

“Hey, Dad…you gonna be around after dinner for a drink and a stogie on the porch tonight?”

All I get is a grunt and a nod before he disappears down the hallway, but when I turn to Ama, I catch her dabbing the corner of her eyes with a tea towel.

“Onions,” she blurts out when she catches me looking.

I grin at her to let her know I’m not buying it. Onions, my foot.

“Whatever,” she grumbles. “Take your food and get outta my kitchen.”

She shoves a stack of containers in my hands. I lean in to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks, Ama. You’re the best.”

* * *

“Oh my God, that feels good.”

Bending down I drop a kiss on her lips. Her eyes blink open.

“I’m serious. You are so good at this; it could be a post-retirement career for you. Instead of handing out carts and welcoming customers at Walmart, you could work part time at a salon as a hair washer. I’m serious; you’d rake in major tips with those agile fingers of yours.”

I scrunch my nose and continue to work the conditioner in her hair.

“I’ll pass. No desire to put these ‘agile fingers’ anywhere but on you.”

Her eyes drift shut again as a smile spreads on her lips.

She’d crashed hard after dinner last night. I remember that, feeling pretty good in the hospital, but getting knocked back on your ass once you get home. This morning I was cooking bacon for some breakfast sandwiches I could bring her in bed, when she came stumbling out of the bedroom, demanding coffee.

Over breakfast she complained about feeling grungy. Since she still isn’t allowed to get that shoulder wet until after her checkup with Dr. Littleton next Wednesday showers are still out. The harvest site on her leg had healed nicely, but the larger incision on the back of her shoulder was still oozing a little. So bath it is, and since she only has one working arm at the moment, I offered to give her a hand.

We’re in the bathroom and she’s sitting on a kitchen chair leaning back against the vanity, with her head tilted back in the sink. It was the best way we could think of to keep that shoulder dry while I wash her hair. I’ve got the tub filling for her bath after.

I’m trying to remind my dick she’s injured, fresh out of the hospital, but there is too much stimulation. Those little pleasure sounds she makes, the slick slide of her wet hair through my fingers, the scent of her shampoo, the fact my crotch is almost in her face. None of it helps me stave off my body’s natural response. It doesn’t help knowing that as soon as I’m done rinsing her hair, she’ll be getting naked to get in the tub, where I’m supposed to help her bathe.

I’m fairly disciplined, a result of my training, but there’s a limit to how much of this kind of temptation a man can resist.

I wrap her hair up in a towel and help her to her feet. Then I grab the kitchen chair, which is in the way in the small space, and flee to the kitchen. While I finish up the last dregs of coffee in my cup, I force my mind back to my conversation with Jonas on the porch last night.

He’d already been out there, rocking in Thomas’s chair, sipping a bourbon, and staring out at the view by the time I joined him. He was reminiscing at first, about growing up on his father’s ranch in Texas, and how disappointed his dad had been when he chose to enlist instead of staying to work the ranch. Then he turned the focus on the future, voicing a desire to take my mother traveling and show her some of the world he’d discovered during his career in the armed forces.

At some point, he asked me point-blank whether ranching was something I could see myself growing old doing, and I had to be honest with him. It isn’t. I mean, I don’t mind the work, not at all, but I’m not passionate about it, not like I am about search and rescue, the High Mountain Trackers. I shared with him that’s the part of my job that makes me feel alive and fulfilled in a way I didn’t think was possible even two years ago. He seemed to appreciate…

“Jackson?”

I instantly forget my train of thought at the sound of her voice. Setting down my mug, I return to the bathroom, poking my head inside. My mouth immediately turns dry at the sight of her. She’s virtually naked, save for the T-shirt she’s got her head and right arm tangled up in.

“I tried to get it over my head before pulling it off my bad arm, but it got stuck on the hair towel.”

My blood instantly rushes south as she pulls ineffectively at the stretchy fabric, making her tits bounce.

I brush her hand away and take over, finding the edge of her shirt and carefully peeling it off her. She loses her hair towel in the process, and her damp hair comes tumbling down her shoulders, the ends brushing her pink nipples.

With a pained groan, I turn my back and pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t know if I’ll be able to muster the fortitude to put my hands on her and not make love to her body. Almost immediately, I feel the pressure of her hand in the middle of my back.

“Get in the tub with me.”

“Hotshot, that’s not a good?—”

“Please?”

Jesus , I’m weak.

Already I’m tugging at my own shirt. I’m a fucking marshmallow in her hands.

I can feel her eyes on my back as I quickly strip, removing my prosthesis last, before turning to face her. Her eyes slide down my body and it feels like a caress, sending a shiver down my spine. Then she fixes them on my cock as she bites her bottom lip, and a drop of precum leaks from the crown.

“You first,” she insists.

“You’re injured,” I try in a last-ditch attempt to be a gentleman, knowing it’s already way past too late.

She stubbornly shakes her head. “Only my shoulder. Every other part of me is just fine.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then let me do the work. Get in the tub, Jackson.”

There isn’t a man, alive or dead, who could say no to that. Not one.

I slide down in the warm water and hold out my hand to help Stephanie in. She sinks down with a knee on either side of me, and I can’t resist closing my mouth around one of her pink nipples hovering in front of my face. My arms slide around her, holding her in place with the tip of my cock poised at her entrance, while I feast on her breasts.

“Kiss me,” she orders, as she curls her fingers in my hair and pulls my head back.

Then she immediately covers my mouth with hers as she lets her body sink down, stealing every last ounce of my breath.

I’m pinned down in a slippery tub, helpless against the slow, delicious torture she subjects me to. Her beautiful hazel eyes lock on mine as she has me groaning, nearly pleading for relief. When it comes, I band my arms around her, fusing her to my body as I buck my release up into her.

“You are a fucking dream, Hotshot,” I mumble against the soft swell of her breasts where I’ve pressed my face. “I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

She urges my head back and smiles down at me.

“You didn’t have to do anything. No sales gimmicks needed. Being you turns out to be exactly right for me.”

I lift my face to give her a kiss, when I notice her wincing.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “Just a cramp, I need to stand up.”

I help her to her feet and, standing up as well, use the hand-held shower and a bar of soap to get both of us cleaned up.

When I wrap her in my biggest towel a few minutes later, she turns around in my arms, placing her hand in the middle of my chest.

“There was a time in my life I promised myself I would never say these words again to another man. Never make myself that vulnerable again. But I didn’t know you then. I’ve never experienced someone who is as strong, as capable, as protective, and even bossy, but at the same time kind, caring, and gentle. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.”

She smiles a little as her eyes convey the message before her lips do.

“I love you back, Jackson Hart.”