Page 41 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

The period of time between Ivy showing Stevie photos of the ring and the inevitable conclusion to that particular saga was the happiest of Stevie’s adult life.

Neither she nor Angie made any comment when Angie’s mattress dried out beyond Angie’s, “We should probably give it a few more days in case, you know, it molds or something.”

Since a moldy mattress was, they agreed, a fate worse than death, and the two guest rooms had no beds, there was no choice but for Stevie to sleep next to Angie night after night after revelatory night.

Angie tacked a calendar up on the wall with a fat sharpie tied to the tack by a string and marked the days they did more than sleep to ensure they complied with the rules. Stevie made a visit to the office supply closet and borrowed some white-out from work for . . . reasons.

Nothing compared to the simple pleasure of breathing in the smell of Angie’s hair before opening her eyes, or the soft weight of Angie’s breast, leg, or arm against her body.

Occasionally, though thankfully not too frequently, Angie actually held them to the two nights a week and teased Stevie mercilessly until she was forced to get herself off while Angie laughed that low amused laugh she reserved for moments like this.

There were worse fates than playing house. For example, any fate where Angie objected to the reality that this was, by most measures, dating.

She was thinking of this when Jaq showed up in the barn, catching Stevie with a loopy smile on her face and her hair tousled.

Dammit. She bundled it into a ponytail, hoping that it wasn’t too mussed and that the kid didn’t know anything about sex hair.

She shouldn’t. She was way too young, not that Stevie had shared that sentiment at that age.

Whatever. The kid was a baby. Stevie had been a baby then, too, and just hadn’t known it.

“Good morning,” Stevie called out, reaching for the mug of coffee she’d set on a stall door.

“It sure is a morning,” said Jaq as she dumped her bag in the corner of the feed stall that had become hers. “Can’t deny that.”

“But is it a good morning, Jaq-attack?”

“How do we define ‘good’?” Jaq leaned against the wall to match Stevie’s posture. The kid was definitely mocking her by adopting her mannerisms. Stevie didn’t hate it.

“Scale of ten, one being waking up surrounded by lava and ten being someone telling you that you can go back to bed and school is canceled forever and also pancakes will be ready whenever you wake up,” said Stevie.

“Ten doesn’t exist.”

“ Au contraire, my tiny stable hand,” Stevie began in a terrible French accent, gesturing with her mug so vigorously coffee splashed down her arm, “While elusive, the ten is real and with careful planning can be achieved even by you.”

“Not likely.”

Stevie dropped the accent and considered Jaq’s posture: tense, smile present but forced, shoulders visiting their distant cousins, her ears.

“It’s called adulthood. Everything okay?” Stevie’s gaze dropped to Jaq’s wrists, remembering Ivy’s comment. The bracelets obscured her view.

“Well, I didn’t get pancakes,” said Jaq. While Stevie laughed, she clocked the evasion.

“I make great pancakes. One day we’ll do a farm breakfast, and you’ll see.”

“Humble brag, much?” Jaq cocked a dark eyebrow.

“Hardly. It’s a fact. Had to cook for my brothers, and they ate like teenage boys. I got a lot of practice.”

“Ivy told me to ask you if I could ride Olive in a lesson sometime or do some groundwork with her so I start getting a feel for different horses. But I don’t have to. She just said if I didn’t ask she’d make me ride without stirrups for the next few weeks.”

“Harsh.” Stevie considered the request. It was reasonable, but her fear of something happening to Olive bore no relation to reason.

Which was ridiculous. Ivy was a veterinarian, and Jaq was a responsible young adult who was proving herself through many a shovelful of manure.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Let me show you how to rub her leg afterward, though, and stretch her out.

” She led Olive out of her stall and after administering a few scratches and kisses, dug her palms into Olive’s hips.

Jaq tried it next, and Stevie corrected her position.

The bracelets on Jaq’s arm moved with the motion.

“Kid—” Stevie snatched Jaq’s arm and was about to pull the bracelets aside when Jaq snatched it right back. They stared at each other, Jaq’s doe eyes wide and scared and also somehow defiant. Stevie resisted the urge to demand that the girl show Stevie her wrists.

Silence stretched like summer sunlight. The glaring, angry red lines Stevie had seen were unmistakable.

“Do you . . .” What the hell was she supposed to do about this?

“It’s nothing.”

“Jaq—”

“Everyone does it.”

Angie, saying It’s ordinary. It’s happened to almost everyone I know.

“Jaq, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Small kids were so much easier, she thought for the hundredth time. Teenagers were an entirely different animal. Yeah, cutting was common, but that didn’t make it right or okay .

Jaq shrugged. Stevie didn’t throw up her hands and scream. It was a close thing, though.

“Look, it doesn’t have to be me. Do you have someone else you can talk to? Your sister?”

Another shrug.

“School counselor?”

A derisive snort, this time. “Mr. Packer is the worst.”

“Not Mr. Packer then. In fact, fuck Mr. Packer.”

That lured a small smile out of hiding. Stevie grasped at it desperately. What else would make the kid smile? What else could Stevie throw up as a defensive barrier around the people in her life the world insisted upon hurting?

When Angie hurt, she turned on herself. Stevie’s only successful tactic was distraction, but Angie was an adult. Jaq was a child. Was she obligated to call someone? Jaq’s sister? Or did she already know since she lived with Jaq?

Angie might know what to do, but there wasn’t time to text her. Jaq needed Stevie to do something now.

Stevie might not know how to deal with struggling teens, but she did know a thing or two about abrasions. “Did you clean them?”

“What?”

“We’re in a barn, and you have open wounds. Have you cleaned them?”

Jaq stared at her, then slowly shook her head. It probably wasn’t a great character trait to feel relieved about this, Stevie reflected, simply because it gave her something to do, but relief and training took over anyway.

“Pause on work. Let’s get them scrubbed and bandaged.”

“But—”

“It will take two seconds. Come on.” Stevie walked out of the barn toward the house, not looking back to make sure Jaq followed.

Act normal , she told herself. Normality soothed animals.

Maybe it worked on people, too. When she held open the door, Jaq’s small hand took the knob and shut it behind her.

“To the sink,” Stevie directed, grabbing some first aid supplies from the box of veterinary materials in the foyer. “Could you take off your bracelets, please?”

Jaq hesitated, eyes flitting toward the floor, then the door, but she did pull them off one by one. The poor kid’s cheeks flamed as she stared determinedly at the ground instead of up at Stevie.

“Soap and water,” said Stevie instead of hissing in sympathy.

Cuts covered old bruises and older scars from previous cuts.

The newer cuts had already undergone the initial healing process, and she set an emollient wound ointment on the counter.

Sure, it was marketed for horses and livestock, but she used it on herself all the time.

She couldn’t tell if any of the bruises came from an adult’s grip.

“Dry with this.” Stevie handed Jaq clean gauze when Jaq had scrubbed to Stevie’s satisfaction. “Then dab some of this on. It will help prevent too much scarring.”

Jaq’s eyes filled with liquid, which she quickly blinked away, and Stevie made no comment as Jaq smoothed the greasy ointment over the cuts.

“You can put your bracelets back on before you leave. Take this cream with you and put it on as often as you remember, okay?”

Jaq nodded. Stevie’s panic returned with the conclusion of the activity. How the fuck did she fix this?

Morgan bought Stevie food when she was sad. That helped. Food was also something Stevie could do albeit less ably.

“I have another idea,” Stevie said. “It can’t fix everything, but it makes things better.”

Jaq waited.

“Pancakes. Come on.”

The kitchen was cluttered but clean, a few coffee cups on the counter and a plate with toast crumbs.

A lived-in kitchen. She directed Jaq to a bar stool and began gathering her ingredients, chatting about nothing in particular and trying to get those stark red lines out of her mind’s eye.

Angie had faint scars from old cuts. Had those looked like Jaq’s once? Stupid question. Of course, they had.

“I don’t bake, and I don’t like to cook, but breakfasts? I’m your girl. Do you want blueberries? Chocolate chips? Bananas?”

“You can put bananas into pancakes?” Jaq’s voice, though skeptical, sounded more like her usual self.

“Obviously you need a pancake flight.”

“What’s a flight?”

“Uh . . . it’s a brewery thing. Sampler. I’ll make you one blueberry, once chocolate chip, and one banana. If we had strawberries—Ange, do we have any strawberries?—I’d add one of those, too.”

“No, you ate them all.” Angie entered the kitchen in her work clothes with her hair in a wet braid over one shoulder. It would be up in its usual bun by the end of the day.

“Oops,” Stevie said without remorse. She loved strawberries. “Sorry, kid.”

“Hey, Angie,” said Jaq with a shy smile. Stevie’s brain produced a cartoon cracking sound to accompany the fissure that smile split within her chest. How could the world hurt people like Angie and Jaq? It made no sense.

“Hay’s for horses.” Angie tousled Jaq’s hair as she passed, and Jaq’s cheeks pinked. Clearly the kid had a thing for femmes. Which might mean she’d talk to Angie, now that Stevie thought about it.

“Pancakes?” she asked Angie.