Page 5

Five

Stephanie

I’m out on the back deck, enjoying the setting sun, when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.

Assuming it’s Janey, I jump to my feet.

I left the sad results of my continued efforts this afternoon on the couch when frustration finally drove me outside. My laptop is open on the coffee table where I watched about two hours of tutorials, and still I ended up with mysterious knots and even a fist-sized hole in my knitting.

I can’t wait for Janey to show me what I’m doing wrong.

Ginger is the first to barge in when I make it to the front door and open it. Janey follows behind, carrying two massive paper bags.

“What’s all that?”

“Dinner,” she explains, slipping past me to set the bags on the kitchen counter.

Ginger is sticking close, her nose sniffing the air.

“That’s a boatload of food for the two of us,” I point out.

“It’s not just for us,” she clarifies, a guilty look on her face. “JD called just as I was leaving to pick it up. The search was halted for the next twelve hours to give everyone a rest, so he was about to head home. I haven’t seen JD in a few days and I have to head over to the ranch to look at an injured horse after dinner, so I told him to come here and eat with us. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. We’ll wait to eat until he gets here.”

Janey has already spotted my butchered handiwork and is moving toward it when she corrects me.

“ They get here. Jackson is with him.”

I was just grabbing some plates from the cupboard, when my hands freeze midair. My body reacts to that piece of news with a racing heart. For a moment I’m worried I’m having a panic attack, but then I realize I’m feeling a different kind of anxiety, one of anticipation.

There’s something mildly threatening but also exciting about the thought of Jackson in my space. I think it’s because of the way he looks at me with such intense focus. It makes me feel uneasy, a little vulnerable, but also seen.

“Is it too much?” Janey’s soft question drags me from my thoughts. “I can call JD and tell him to?—”

“No, it’s fine,” I rush to assure her, squaring my shoulders.

Cowering in a corner is not my style, and that’s what I feel I’ve been doing for a while now. Enough of that. I’m not a fan of these beaten-down victim vibes I apparently give off.

After pulling out an extra plate, I join Janey, who is plucking at my creation.

“Is it bad?” I ask.

She tries to hold back a snort but almost chokes on the effort.

“Uh…it’s definitely not salvageable.”

Brutal, but honest.

I take it on the chin, but let out a strangled squeak when she starts unravelling my stitches.

“I’m sorry, but it has to be done,” she states as she deftly rolls the untangled loops of yarn back on the skein. “We have some time before the guys get here to make a fresh start. Come sit next to me, we’ll do it together.”

For the next twenty minutes, she patiently guides me through every stitch, making quiet corrections when I fuck up, until I get the hang of it. By the time a soft knock sounds on the door, I barely even need to think about what my hands are doing.

“I’ll get it. Don’t stop until you get to the end of this row,” Janey instructs me as she gets to her feet.

I try to focus on what I’m doing, but it’s hard when I’m acutely aware of the two additional bodies entering what has become my safe space. I glance over to see Ginger greet both men with enthusiasm. Determined to make it to the end of the row, I don’t even acknowledge their presence, but doggedly plod on while Janey engages them in conversation in the kitchen.

When I reach the end of my row, I secure the last loop with a clothes pin so it doesn’t unravel itself, and blow out a sigh of relief as I put it aside. Then I get to my feet and turn my attention to the kitchen. I find three pairs of eyes fixed on me, looking amused. Jackson is the first to speak.

“What are you making?”

“A blanket,” I return, doing my best to sound normal, even though I feel a little flustered. “I was making a dog’s breakfast out of it, so Janey showed me how. I’m new to knitting.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do that with needles?” he probes.

“Would have to be some pretty massive needles to handle yarn that thick,” JD pipes up. “It’s called hand-knitting. Ma did a few of those.”

Janey, who has been unpacking the paper bags and setting out the food and some on plates the counter, claps her hands.

“Come on, guys. Let’s eat. I’ve got a lame horse waiting at the ranch.”

We fill our plates and sit down at the small kitchen table. It’s a little tight, but we manage.

I’m suddenly starving and dive into my sushi, quietly listening to Janey interrogate the guys about the search for the Argentinian ambassador’s son.

“Did Jillian come out with the dogs?” she asks.

“For two days,” Jackson responds. “Not even a hint of a scent.”

“Weird. You’d think there’d be at least some trace left behind. So what’s next?”

JD is the first to answer that question. “Next, we set up camp farther downstream. Given there is no detectable scent for Jillian’s dogs to pick up on, we’re now convinced he was swept away by the water.”

He goes on to explain how they’ll set up their communications tent just west of town, where the creek meets up with the Kootenai River, and will backtrack north to search.

“We think he may be hung up in the creek somewhere. You get clusters of fallen branches and downed trees in the creek during the melt. Wouldn’t be the first time a body gets tangled up in those.”

“So, this is a recovery operation now?” I question, sitting back to give my full stomach a little space.

“Yes. That’s the assumption,” Jackson confirms.

Janey shoves her chair back and gets to her feet. JD follows suit.

“So sorry to dine and dash, but I should really go see to Wolff’s horse.”

She starts collecting the remnants of dinner when I firmly stop her.

“Go, I’ve got these,” I urge her.

“I don’t wanna leave you with the mess.”

“You were responsible for dinner, so cleanup is mine.”

Jackson—who hadn’t budged from his spot—abruptly gets up as well, volunteering, “I’ll give you a hand.”

Before I have a chance to object, JD says his goodbyes while Janey collects her dog. I watch the three of them disappear out the front door.

When I turn back to the kitchen, Jackson is still standing by the table, his eyes fixed on me.

“Do I make you uneasy?”

* * *

Jackson

I have a hard time getting a proper read on her.

Last year she was confident, capable, determined; all qualities that attracted me to her. What I’m seeing now is insecurity and vulnerability, but the determination is still there. Oddly enough, I find myself equally attracted to this version of her.

Of course, it’s always possible she was all of these things all along, layered on top of each other. Something happened to peel some of those stronger traits back to reveal her softer underbelly. The difference between last year and now is, she doesn’t have her job to shield her.

“Why would you say that?” she answers my question with a question of her own.

A common evasion technique I’ve used myself on occasion.

“Do I? Make you uneasy?”

She stares at me for a moment, definitely uncomfortable under my scrutiny, when she suddenly drops her eyes to the floor.

“A little,” she admits in a soft voice, before adding more forcefully, “I think it has more to do with me than you though.”

I gently push. “How so?”

She shrugs, moving past me to the sink and turning on the faucet to wash the dishes. I grab a towel from the hook and step up beside her. She darts me a quick glance and sighs.

“I had a bit of a health scare a little over a month ago and ended up in the hospital. It wasn’t as bad as it initially looked,” she rushes to clarify. “But, apparently, serious enough for my boss to pull me off the job until things have stabilized.”

That confirms what I’d suspected when I first saw her over a week ago.

“What happened?”

She hands me the first dripping plate before answering.

“We’d just chased down a suspect and I was putting him into cuffs, when my chest got tight and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack. Next thing I know, I’m in an ambulance, hooked up to monitors as I’m being rushed to the hospital, and scared out of my brain.”

I know I must’ve made some sound, when her head turns and those hazel eyes lock on me.

“I lost my mom when I was twelve. One minute she was at the stove, cooking us Sunday morning breakfast, and the next she was on the ground; dead of a massive heart attack at barely forty.”

“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath.

“Anyway…” She turns her attention back to the dirty dishes. “That’s what was going through my mind at the time. It turned out it wasn’t a heart attack but a panic attack. I was also diagnosed with hypertension and was put on medication for both. Then, to top it off, I was placed on indefinite leave. It’s all been a bit much to wrap my head around, so if I seem a bit uneasy, it’s probably because I feel like I’m still trying to adjust.”

Her head is down and I can’t see her eyes, but I could hear the barely contained emotion in her voice. I reach over and put my hand on her neck, squeezing gently.

“That’s tough. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I understand only too well what it feels like to wake up in a hospital and have everything in your life changed, including your sense of self.

She shrugs her shoulders, and I’m not quite sure whether it is in response to my empathy or my hand on her neck, but I remove it anyway. Shouldn’t have my hands where they’re not wanted.

A moment later I break that rule already, when she says, “I shouldn’t complain. It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.”

I toss the towel on the counter and grab her shoulders, turning her to face me.

“Don’t do that,” I urge her, crouching down so I can look her straight in the eyes. “Don’t belittle what you’re feeling, or what you’re dealing with. It’s a lot, trying to get a grip on a reality that is abruptly changed. Trust me, I know what that’s like, and I can tell you that trying to muscle your way through can come back to bite you.”

I have no idea if she knows I tried to end things when I was struggling two years ago, but her eyes well up with tears.

“Dammit,” she mutters, blinking furiously to keep them at bay. “This is why I try to avoid you. I can’t hide; you see too much.”

I chuckle at that admission and drop my hands from her shoulders.

“Only because I’ve been in your shoes. Turns out we have more in common than I thought.”

When I turn to grab the towel and finish drying the dishes, I inadvertently put my weight on the right side. A sharp hiss escapes me when a stab of burning pain shoots through my stump and I grab on to the edge of the counter for support.

“What is it?” Stephanie asks, immediately concerned. “Is it your leg? Do you need to sit down?”

Even though I don’t necessarily advertise it; the fact I’m an amputee isn’t exactly a secret. I shouldn’t be surprised she instinctively draws the link.

“Actually, I should probably head home,” I share, not really wanting to leave.

I’d prefer sticking around, exploring this newfound connection. Now that I have a better understanding of what happened to her, I can offer her my support, a listening ear, a strong shoulder.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt a sense of purpose. Since I’ve had the ability to make a difference.

“Of course,” she immediately responds, her shoulders tight as she’s already moving to the front door.

I feel like I owe her an explanation.

“If my stump wasn’t raw from wearing this damn prosthesis too long, and I didn’t have to be back out in the field by 6.00 a.m. tomorrow morning, I’d be sticking around if you’d let me.”

She swings her head around, a smile pulling at her lips when she finds me right behind her. For a moment, she peers at me through squinted eyes, as if she’s trying to gauge my intentions. I stare right back, letting her look her fill. From somewhere inside the trailer a phone starts ringing, breaking the spell.

“Do you need to get that?”

She shakes her head, even as she glances over my shoulder. “If it’s important they’ll leave a message.”

She steps aside as I reach past her to open the door. As I step outside, I lean over to drop a kiss on her cheek.

“Go answer,” I prompt her. “I’ll be in touch when I can.”

She’s already darting toward the kitchen when I pull the door shut.

It only takes five minutes to get from the trailer to the ranch where I park the truck in front of my cabin. I curse a blue streak under my breath as I get out and start hobbling toward my front door.

“Honey, is that you?”

I groan at the sound of my mother’s voice, which stops me as I’m about to step inside. Glancing over at the porch, I see her hurrying down the steps, her silver braid flying. My mother doesn’t know what slowing down means, not even at sixty.

She’s still spry on her feet, and still works with horses every day. She gets called in far and wide to handle some of the most difficult, even meanest, horses out there. Most of the time, these animals turned mean as a result of some kind of abuse, and Ma is the best at patiently building trust with them. We jokingly call her the horse whisperer, but it’s not far from the truth. She has a gift, even though she sometimes takes risks sharing it.

“Hey, Ma.”

Despite her short stature, she gets right in my space, her hand reaching up to cup my cheek.

“Jonas mentioned your leg was bothering you, and when you weren’t showing up, I got worried.”

I suppress my mild irritation and plaster on a reassuring smile. It’s my own fault my mother still checks in on me at my age. She’s always been a worrier, ever since I followed in my father’s footsteps and enlisted, and truthfully, I’ve given her every reason.

“My stump is raw, that’s all. I just grabbed some dinner out and am heading for a shower and bed next.”

She smiles up at me and nods.

“Okay, then. Don’t push yourself too much.”

I chuckle at that. “Pot meet kettle.”

She punches my arm half-heartedly.

“Don’t be a brat. Night, honey.”

“Night, Ma.”

Leaning down, I kiss her cheek. Her scent is familiar and invokes warm memories.

Unlike Stephanie’s scent, which lingered in my nostrils and fed my imagination on the way home. The whiff of vanilla and something citrusy I caught is now forever associated with my mental image of her.

As innocent as kissing Stephanie’s cheek may seem, I can tell you it’s a vastly different experience from kissing my mother’s, that’s for sure.