That reality hit him like a hoof to the gut.
Olivia sighed. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, and I hope you never do.”
His unease turned to frustration. He’d been so focused on the sex and the companionship that soothed his loneliness that he’d done the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do: fallen for a woman on a surface level.
The beer bubbled in his gut, threatening to come back up as he called himself ten kinds of fool. The only person he could blame was himself. Bailey hadn’t deviated from her declaration of no strings.
No wonder she understood Olivia so well; she was exactly like her.
Things had to change between them, but he had no fucking experience with how to enact that change.
He needed to distance himself from her so he could get his brain back online and out of the track that’d always led straight to her damn bed, where he couldn’t think rationally at all.
Streeter took a moment to gather himself and tuned back into their conversation.
“Do you think she’s hungry?” Olivia asked.
Wally mewed pitifully.
“Probably.”
“Should we feed her tuna?”
“It’s too rich for her. Maybe a little saucer of milk?” Bailey suggested.
“I’ll get it!”
Streeter walked in. “You’ll get what?”
“Food for my kitty.”
“Didn’t you buy cat . . . things?” he said to Olivia as he looked at Bailey.
“Nuh-uh,” Olivia answered. “Bailey said you’n me had to talk about keepin’ the kitty before I got any stuff.”
He rested on his haunches. “Tell me how Wally ended up in your care.”
“We were at Walmart and Bailey was loading stuff in the car. I saw a box movin’. I went over and Wally stuck her paw up and waved at me. She waved at me, Daddy! Like she wanted me to save her. She started tellin’ me she’s all alone with no mama cat. And I understood her because we’re exactly alike. I don’t got a mama either, so we belong together. I named her Wally—”
“Because I’ve always called Walmart Wally World,” he said.
“Yes! Then we brought her home and we gave her a bath and now we gotta feed her but we don’t got kitty food.”
“So there’s no litter box either?”
Olivia frowned at him. “What’s that?”
Streeter looked to Bailey for help, but she was trying to slip her shoes on and sneak away. He said, “Hold that thought,” to his daughter before he stood to intercept the cat co-conspirator before she escaped.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
“Home. I have a boot camp lesson plan to finish.”
“But . . .”
Bailey peered around his arm and then stood on her toes. “Streeter. Don’t be afraid of a tiny, motherless kitten that your tiny, motherless daughter rescued. The same tiny, motherless daughter who has a disconnect disorder who instantly bonded with this baby animal.” She patted his cheek. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, we both know you have a knack for taming pussies.”
“Jesus, woman.”
She said, “Good-bye, Olivia. Good-bye, Wally.”
Streeter turned to see his daughter holding up the puffball and forcing the kitty to wave its paw at Bailey. “Bye!”
“Oh, two other things you should know. Olivia climbed inside the birdcage today at the library and she’s banned from the children’s section for two weeks. And she threw an absolute screaming fit today at the Learning Center. So there was no way I could separate her from that kitten. That is your responsibility, Streeter. Not mine.”
She vanished into the storm before he could say, “I know.”
The almost clinical detachment with which she’d described her day with his daughter reinforced his decision to take a break from her.
That’s a little junior high–ish, isn’t it? Ignoring her to see if she really likes you? To see if she’ll miss you and be the first one to crack and come crawling back?
Maybe. But that was the extent of his relationship experience outside of marriage and it was all he had.
So after Olivia pitched a fit about eating her supper at the table without the cat in her lap, and afterward called him a “big meanie” because he’d refused to allow the kitten in the bathroom during her bath, and she’d sobbed when she learned that Wally would not be sleeping in her bedroom, he struggled with yielding to Olivia’s hysteria.
But when the damn cat wouldn’t stop meowing in its box in the living room, he told himself it wasn’t giving in, letting the kitten snuggle in Olivia’s bed.
He told himself it wasn’t giving in to his body’s demands when he texted Bailey at eleven o’clock and asked her to come over.
He told himself he wouldn’t beg her to stay the night after they’d fucked into exhaustion.
He told himself—promised himself—after Bailey rolled out of his bed at three a.m. that he’d be stronger tomorrow.
* * *
Since a veterinary visit had been scheduled for the trail horses at the Split Rock the next morning, Streeter had texted the veterinarian, August “Fletch” Fletcher, about examining the kitten too. Fletch agreed, which required Olivia to hand over her cat, much to her dismay. His daughter had been under the mistaken impression she could take Wally to boot camp with her.
In hindsight, he should’ve known she’d try to game the system when she went from despondency to calm acceptance of the day’s plans in about one minute.
He’d returned from morning cattle check just shy of noon when his cell phone rang and the caller ID read SERGEANT B.
“Hello?”
“Can you hear this?” The sounds of Olivia’s shrieking burned through the earpiece.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried everything to calm her and nothing has worked. Come and get her. She’s disrupted enough of everyone’s day.” Bailey hung up.
“Fuck.”
“Problems?” Fletch said behind him.
Streeter spun around. “Olivia is throwin’ a tantrum. Probably about not havin’ that damn cat with her.”
Fletch was cuddling the kitten close to his chest. “He is a sweet little thing.”
“He?”
“Yep.”
“That’s a surprise. But the sex won’t make a damn difference to Olivia since she’s professed her love for Wally.”
Fletch stroked the kitten’s head. “I know you’ve gotta go, but can I give you some advice?”
No. “Sure.”
“Olivia havin’ a pet is a good thing. She’ll be starting school, and Tobin mentioned you’re building your new house. A lot of changes coming up for her and Wally can be a stabilizing factor in her life.”
“You got a PhD as well as a DVM, Dr. Fletcher?”
Fletch laughed. “Nope. I’ve got two kids and a wife who believes learning to take care of animals—cats, dogs, horses, cows, bunnies, pigs, goats—is necessary to a child’s development.”
“Christ, Fletch, you’ve got that many animals at home after you spend your days takin’ care of animals?”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. So how about you let me take Wally back to my clinic in Rawlins. My colleague will check him over, give him shots, prepare the paperwork. And when you and Olivia come by later to pick him up, she can watch a video we have for kids on the responsibility of pet ownership. Believe it or not . . . kids eat that shit up.”
“Buddy, I don’t know whether to hug you or ask if you can be my new BFF.”
Fletch smiled. “Oh, I ain’t bein’ entirely benevolent. I fully expect you to buy all the kitty accoutrements from the clinic. And it ain’t gonna be cheap.”
“Deal.”
Another fi
fteen minutes had passed by the time Streeter got to the conference room where the kids were eating lunch.
All the kids but Olivia, who sat with her back in the corner and glared at everyone between hiccuping sobs.
Bailey caught him peering in the window and intercepted him before he entered the room.
But it wasn’t the smiling, joking woman he knew. This Bailey was every inch Sergeant Masterson. Hard eyes. Defensive stance.
“I put up with this behavior once. There won’t be a repeat or she’s out. Are we clear?”
That clipped tone grated on him as much as her impersonal attitude. But it allowed him to follow through with his plan of them taking a break. “I understand, Sergeant. I’m sorry you had to deal with her in that state again today.”
She said nothing.
“The good news is you’re getting a reprieve from both of us. We’ll be back at the Split Rock next week. If I feel Olivia might still be a problem, I’ll pull her out of camp myself.”
“Streeter—”
He didn’t respond. He walked past her, picked up his kid and left without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bailey had her second lupus flare-up in two weeks.
When she woke at three a.m., covered in sweat, with her knees, wrists and shoulders aching, she knew this would be a bad one.
If her brain hadn’t been fuzzy, she might’ve gone into stealth mode like she had the last two times she’d had a flare-up. The first one occurred the weekend after she’d returned to Wyoming. Anxiety had kicked up a toxic cocktail. She’d convinced Harper she had tests at the VA outreach in Casper that required three full days. Nonmilitary personnel never questioned mysterious military requirements, especially during outprocessing. So Bailey had packed a suitcase and checked into a hotel in Casper with room service where she could sleep through the pain and avoid questions from her family on why she’d taken to her bed.
The last flare-up had been the weekend after she and Streeter had run into his former mother-in-law. She’d been lucky the full flare-up happened after the trail ride and after she’d found a hotel in Rawlins. Streeter had thought she was with Harper; Harper had thought she and Streeter had gone away for the weekend.
It was too late for her to escape now. She should’ve paid attention last night when that last orgasm had left her with a flash of tunnel vision and an instant headache. But no, she attributed that reaction and the tinges of joint pain in the aftermath to the very hard, very thorough and very creative way Streeter had fucked her. She shivered in remembrance of his intensity, his utter dedication to her pleasure and his smugness that he’d given her three orgasms in an hour.
Tears flowed down her face and dampened the pillow she’d curled into. How was she supposed to tell him about her autoimmune disease now? She revisited that list of reasons for keeping her lupus to herself, needing something to distract her from the aching hot spots in her body—even for a little while.
If she hadn’t told her sister Harper about her diagnosis, why would she tell him?
Theirs was supposed to be a no-strings, no-emotional-attachment summer fling.
Streeter didn’t need the additional weight of her health issues.
She’d taken care of herself for years; she didn’t need anyone’s help now.
And the biggest reason, the embarrassing, awful and selfish reason that no one knew—no one except her CO, the counselors and army medical staff—would end any relationship they might’ve had. Bailey cared about Streeter too much to ever burden him with that mistake from her past.
She crawled out of bed and stood. Every step to the bathroom hurt. She popped her medication and took a shower, staying under the spray until she emptied the hot-water tank. Clean clothes on, and a jug of water by her bed, she texted Harper.
I’m so sick today I can’t get out of bed. Sorry I can’t work. Going to rest. Please don’t show up to take care of me. I don’t want to infect your family. I’ll check in later. XOXO
Hopefully Harper wouldn’t be too upset since it was the first time Bailey had missed work this summer.
Bailey didn’t send Streeter a text. He and Olivia had plans that would keep them away all day. Maybe by the time he returned she’d be able to lie convincingly about the “forty-eight-hour” flu bug.
God, she hated lying. But telling the truth would lead down paths she wasn’t ready to travel with anyone.
Stretching out on top of her covers, she turned on her white-noise machine and succumbed to oblivion.
At some point, she dreamed. Fevered dreams. Ugly dreams. Dreams that crushed her hopes for the future. She rarely remembered more than snippets. But when she awoke it was as if a boulder had settled on her chest, preventing her from escaping. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to recall specifics of the dreams so she could understand the sense of futility, the lingering feeling of sadness that clung to her every thought. Her head throbbed, which she took as a sign to stop peering into the dark edges of her mind, expecting them to make sense.
On a better day, Bailey would bounce out of bed and chide herself not to wallow.
Today was not a better day.
She was too exhausted and in physical pain to do anything more than shuffle to the bathroom, refill her water jug, eat a carton of yogurt and return to bed.
Rinse, repeat for day two. Or maybe it was day three.
Day three—or was it four, she’d lost track—persistent shaking dragged Bailey out of slumber. She’d dreamed of bombs and darkness, so it took a moment for her eyes to focus. In the light. On Streeter.
Why was he in her tent in Iraq?
“Bailey. Wake up. Aren’t you supposed to open at WWC?”
Her thoughts cleared. She wasn’t deployed. She was at the Split Rock. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“It hurts.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
A big hand rested against her forehead. A cool hand. She sighed.
“Baby, you’re burnin’ up.” He pushed her damp hair from her face. “Have you been like this all weekend?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because there’s nothing you can do.”
“Bullshit. I can haul your stubborn ass to the damn doctor.”
“No one can treat me without my consent.” She tried to turn over and give him her back. “Now go away.”
His hand on her shoulder held her in place. “Like hell I will.”
She kept her eyes closed but the tears leaked past her defenses anyway.
Those rough hands cradled her face so tenderly she had to grit her teeth to keep from sobbing. “I get that you don’t want me to help you. So I’m gonna go get Harper.”
Bailey opened her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Tough. Your choices for help are me, your sister or I call an ambulance.”
“Streeter.”
He got in her face. “Choose.”
She managed to raise her hand and touch his cheek. “You should’ve stayed an aloof asshole with me.”
“Bailey.”
“Fine. It’ll be easier if you call an ambulance.”
His beautiful green eyes narrowed. “Easier because they can’t legally tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“If I tell you I’ll be fine”—eventually—“would you leave?”
“Nope. I’ve watched one woman I love hide herself from me. I’ll be damned if I’ll let it happen with you.”
Her heart, her lungs, her brain all froze.
Love.
Streeter turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Yeah, that’s my clumsy way of sayin’ I love you.”
Oh god. He deserved so much better than her; how could this have happened?
“I love you,” he said again, “and I�
��ll sit right here all day until you decide that I’m not blowin’ smoke just to get you to talk to me.”
“Where’s Olivia?”
“With her babysitter.” He rubbed his cheek against the base of her hand. “That’s just another reason why I love you, by the way. Because you care about my daughter.”
I care about you too. More than I should.
“Do you wanna talk here? Or are you feelin’ up to sittin’ in the living room?”
“Don’t you have to work today?”
His quirked eyebrow expressed his annoyance with the question.
“Okay. I’ll get up.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
Streeter bent down and bussed her forehead, then pressed a soft kiss to the spot in front of her ear. “Take your time. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He stood and walked to the door, pausing inside the doorway to look at her. “But I will haul your butt outta that bed, babe, if you think you’re gonna hide in here. Don’t test me on this.”
Okay, then.
After she heard him rustling in the kitchen, she shuffled to the bathroom. A shower helped, as did brushing her teeth and donning clean clothes. Tempting to call on her last reserves of energy and sail into the room as if she already felt one hundred percent better, but with the way her knees ached, it took effort just to hobble to the couch. Feeling Streeter’s eyes on her, she glanced up at him. She bit back her automatic response of I’m fine.
“Do you want food too?”
She shook her head. “Coffee is good.”
Streeter filled her favorite U.S. ARMY mug and set it on the coffee table. The pushy man didn’t plop in the easy chair; he mirrored her position on the other end of the couch. He didn’t immediately demand she talk; he lifted her feet onto his lap, stroking the section of skin above her ankle, showing her a simple, loving touch.
Bailey sipped her coffee and tried to order her chaotic thoughts. She finally opted to start at the beginning. “Two and a half years ago, after spending a week outdoors working on a community service project, I developed a rash across my face. It lingered for weeks. Then I discovered white blisterlike bumps in my mouth. I’d also been tired, achy, feeling feverish, and the doc diagnosed me with strep. Antibiotics, bed rest . . . I’d be as good as new and back on duty.” She ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “The antibiotics cleared up the rash, but the other issues had worsened. Next treatment was a steroid shot. That helped for a month. But the extreme joint aches, exhaustion, and headaches continued. My hair started to fall out in clumps. At that point my doctor told me my symptoms were likely the result of stress. I didn’t disagree and opted to go on antianxiety medication.”
Spun Out Page 25