by Christa Wick
“Barrett?” she whispered.
“Yeah?” I didn’t want to answer, knew what was coming.
“I don’t want to keep imposing…”
Damn, there was such sweet hesitation in her voice, so much genuine regret.
Rolling toward the center of the bed, I wrapped my arms around Quinn and pulled her to me, my hand stroking her long, thick hair as she pressed her face to my chest.
Slowly, the fear running through her body subsided and we finally fell asleep.
When we woke a little after dawn, it was to a tangle of limbs. Quinn had her leg draped over one of mine and an arm across my chest. One of my big hands covered her plump thigh, securing it to me.
She looked at me, her gaze fuzzy, her smile soft. I stared back, my face marked by the same early morning ease, as if it wasn’t our first night in the same bed.
Releasing my hold on her leg, I leaned across Quinn. Resisting the urge to kiss her until she was fully awake and gasping for breath, I gently planted my lips against her forehead before sliding out of bed.
Throwing on my jacket, I tossed Quinn a wink and her jeans at the same time.
“We better get moving if you’re going to learn to shoot today.”
14
Barrett
“We should probably wait until Monday to talk to Mr. Cross about the phones,” I suggested as Quinn loaded bullets into a magazine. “That way we’ll have a good idea how the cell reception is with the new repairs.”
Momentarily positioning a bullet backward, she caught herself before I could make the correction.
I had started her on a smaller caliber weapon, a Smith & Wesson Victory 22LR. There was next to no kick and the bullets were cheap enough she could shoot a thousand rounds, build up her confidence and not crack a hundred dollars in practice ammunition. From there, I had switched to a 9mm Beretta. This would be her third magazine for the weapon. After that, I would see if she could handle my forty-five.
We would return the following day to make sure the lessons with the handguns had stuck and to get Quinn comfortable with the shotgun.
“Sounds good,” she said, seating the magazine then chambering a round.
“Remember to lean in a bit to your stance.” I curved one palm against her stomach and centered the other between her shoulder blades. “You’re still trying to lean away from the weapon after your first shot.”
Her cheeks colored, but she nodded.
“You okay?” I asked. She was doing great for never having picked a gun up in her life, but she was also handling the weapon a little too delicately at times, like it was a lit stick of dynamite that someone had told her she had to hold onto.
“Yes,” she answered a bit breathless.
Putting the safety on, she placed the 9mm on the table in front of her.
“Maybe not,” she admitted.
Picking up the gun, I dropped the magazine and ejected the chambered round before returning the weapon to its carrying case.
“I understand.”
Placing my palm against the back of her neck, I lightly squeezed as I pulled Quinn to me. She wrapped her arms around my torso.
“Someone’s watching from the barn,” she whispered.
I expected her to tense up knowing that somebody might be spying on us, but she acted as if she belonged in my arms.
And she did.
Kissing her forehead, I chuckled. “Female, dark hair, bit on the short side with boots you can see from a mile away.”
Quinn laughed with me.
“They’re lime green,” she answered.
“That would be Siobhan the Curious. The one that’s going to be a cop.”
“Oh, I still have her card.”
Quinn’s arm jiggled.
“Did you just wave to her?”
“Yes,” she chirped.
Hearing the smile in her voice, I pulled away and studied her face. All we had done was hold one another through the night, but it had a profound effect on both of us. I knew I felt less anxious, which was great because smokejumpers weren’t supposed to be the anxious sort. Excessive worry could leave a man and his team surrounded with no way out.
And Quinn looked like she finally felt at home, like I was the missing piece that made everything fit for her.
“Is she coming over?” I asked with a mock growl.
Her eyes lighting up with a smile, Quinn nodded.
Hearing Siobhan’s boots crunch gravel, I turned and opened a little distance between me and Quinn.
“Morning, cousin," I said.
The young woman rolled her eyes, reached up and grabbed me by the ears. Tugging my head down until it was even with hers, she kissed my cheek then released me and thrust a hand towards Quinn.
“I so wanted to meet you Sunday,” she said. “I’m Siobhan, by the way. Aunt Lindy supposedly put her foot down and Mama and Daddy told me I had to stay home. At least no one made me cook.”
“You got anything else you want to say,” I asked. “Or can someone else have a turn talking?”
Siobhan pointed her nose in the air but dropped it the second Quinn accepted her offer of a handshake.
“Quinn Whitaker. And I always say better late than never.”
“You should stay for lunch,” Siobhan decided. “Looks like you guys were done with practice anyway. Cassian cooked a casserole last night, made a double batch, so Mama has that heating up in the oven.”
I shook my head before Quinn had a chance to say anything.
“Much as I love it when your big brother puts on an apron, we have a standing appointment with Mama and Sage.”
Siobhan’s mouth twitched and her hands found her hips before I finished talking, but after a second’s pause, she shrugged and turned her attention back to Quinn.
“So, Aunt Dotty said you’re building a cabin and need all the hands you can get, yeah?”
“Well, sort of,” Quinn laughed. “We showed up at Jester’s yesterday evening and a bunch of work had already been done. It was a complete surprise to both of us.”
Siobhan nodded through every word Quinn said.
“Yeah, that’s Aunt Dotty. It’s hard to get her off her homestead, but when she comes out, she comes all out. Anyway, what do you think about a ‘Hammers and Heels’ day? All girls, or mostly all girls. We might need a little male direction for what we’re doing.”
“That doesn’t exactly sound safe,” I said.
Siobhan waved my objection aside, her focus remaining on Quinn. “We won’t drink until after we’re done. Or, at least, we won’t drink much before then.”
“I still don’t think it sounds safe. And if word gets around what you’re doing, there’ll be more than a ‘little’ male direction. You’ll have half the ranch hands showing up, and not just from one ranch.”
Siobhan smiled a canary-eating grin, her dark gaze blazing with mischief.
“Maybe we can table that idea for the time being,” Quinn suggested. “See how the work is lining up with the weather. It’s going to get really muddy up there with even a light rain. There would be a lot of heels stuck in the ground.”
“It sounded good, though, didn’t it?” Siobhan asked, the edges of her mouth straining to gather into a fresh pout.
“Brilliant marketing,” Quinn agreed. “I could really see that going over very successfully on one of the Habitat for Humanity days in L.A.”
Siobhan’s grin widened. “Hey, I like her!”
I draped an arm around Quinn’s shoulder while I shot a stern glance at my little cousin.
Siobhan ignored the warning.
“We should have a girls’ night soon, you, me, Sage, Ashley…I’ll even let my annoying big sister show up if she can tear herself away from her telescope.”
“I have a ten o’clock curfew.”
Looking down, I noticed the forward push of Quinn’s bottom lip a second before it disappeared.
Siobhan waved her hand. “I haven’t met a curfew I couldn’t get around.”
>
“You haven’t had a curfew with any real consequences,” I growled. “Now, if you want to be helpful, we’ll be practicing again tomorrow. You can assist. I figure if she can still load and shoot while you’re jabbering away a mile a minute, she can do the same with a bear or a mountain lion kicking up a fuss.”
“Rawr,” Siobhan countered, her hand up and her nails out. “It’s a date.”
She skipped back toward the barn, her lime green cowgirl boots kicking up gravel as she went.
“Sorry,” I mumbled once my cousin was out of earshot.
Quinn wrapped her arms around my waist, her body pressed against mine as she seemed to peer deep inside me.
“I like her,” she protested. “But you’re absolutely right—the curfew comes first.”
15
Quinn
The rest of the week passed quickly. The cell reception stayed strong. Barrett put up field cameras to get a sense of the local four-footed predators. The mountain lion showed up on the cameras, but didn’t disturb us again.
In between picking up some work from Sage on the clinic and the ranch, I put in a lot of target practice with the 9mm. I still couldn’t bring myself to shoot the forty-five or shotgun for more than a few trigger pulls. Just holding those two weapons felt like I had a grenade in my hand, pin out and only the perfect placement of my fingers keeping it from exploding.
On Monday, we visited Mr. Cross at his office. The attorney didn’t yield on the check-in, but said he would explore some tracking options. Barrett waited until we were in the truck before grumbling about the man just wanting to pad his billing time.
Work on the cabin progressed. Concrete was laid and cured. Walls were getting framed, so was the roof.
Barrett got together with his mother and his oldest brother Adler to schedule a big push for that Saturday, with a dozen ranch hands and all of Barrett’s fire team agreeing to show up. In the meantime, Sutton figured out how to get water to the house. Half the men were going to work on that project while the others worked on the roof and walls. Lindy and Siobhan were going to keep the food and cold drinks coming.
“What team am I on?” I asked Saturday morning when we returned from a quick trip to Barrett’s house.
Looking a little guilty, he walked around to the back of his truck where a big blue bin had made its way sometime between arriving at his house and when I had finished my shower. When I had queried him on its contents, Barrett told me I would find out in due time.
“Grab your gun,” he said, putting the tailgate down and picking up the bin.
I rubbed at my cheek before a scowl could settle in place then opened up the portable gun safe and took the 9mm out. I slid it into the clip-on holster and attached the holster to my belt.
“Bear spray, too,” he added.
“Why does this suddenly seem ominous?” I joked as I grabbed the canister.
Half-joked, really. Barrett telling me to bring my gun and the bear spray made me nervous. So did the hint of worry I had spotted fleeing across his face.
“Just a precaution,” he said, putting the bin aside long enough to sling the shotgun across his back. “Follow me.”
He started down the side of the hill to where the trees had been saved by the rocky divide. Beyond the trees, I knew the pond waited. But he turned and followed the tree line west.
Crossing one of the two streams that ran through Jester’s property, we entered the woods on the other side of the water. While the first leg of the walk had been downhill, we started uphill after passing the stream.
Reaching a crest, the trees dropped away, yielding lower down to a meadow and the fat thumb of a lake I had only seen on a map until that moment. A thick forest bordered the opposite side of the meadow and the lake’s shoreline.
“This crest is one of your property borders,” Barrett said. He waved at the meadow in front of us and the bit of water. “That’s state land.”
I nodded then offered the bin a pointed look. As big as it was, Barrett wasn’t out of breath from carrying the container uphill at such a distance. He was strong as an ox, of course, but his breathing remained fluid and measured. So I knew there was nothing seriously heavy inside. I also knew the bin held several items because the contents rattled and rolled as he moved.
“What’s inside?”
Part of me already knew.
“Don’t get mad, okay?” he said, getting on his knees and unhooking one side of the lid.
I shook my head, not sure whether I was trying to communicate I could never get mad at him or that he was about to do something I didn’t want him to do. Probably both.
Taking a deep breath, he unhooked the other side and removed the lid to reveal a collapsible easel and chair, two canvases, a bunch of brushes and a rainbow of acrylic paint tubes.
“This maybe isn’t what you’re used to working with…”
I remained silent with the realization that Barrett had been gently interrogating me over the course of the week. In answer to his casual questions, I had told him the materials I worked with depended on whether I was painting in a studio, how much time I had and similar factors. For a live painting outdoors, I told him I preferred acrylics over watercolors or oils. Acrylics allowed me to easily execute a course correction. And the canvas was usually dry by the time I was ready to pack up and go home.
“Everyone’s going to be there,” I protested, pointing behind me at the woods. “Sweating and working for free. And you want me to sit here and play?”
I tried to take a critical tone even though Barrett didn’t deserve it. Instead, I sounded distant and afraid.
“I haven’t held a brush in over three years,” I frowned.
Ignoring my objections, Barrett set up the easel and put the first canvas on it. Then he unfolded the chair, pulled out the paints and brushes and the palette for mixing everything on. Next, he put the lid on the bin, pulled it close to the chair and transferred the supplies, the bin serving as an impromptu workstation.
Finished, he faced me, wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.
When he kissed my forehead, I wanted to growl. Or work up the nerve to plant a real kiss on his mouth. We had been sleeping together in the trailer for more than a week. We woke up plastered around one another. But the situation never progressed beyond that.
“I already talked to everyone and they agree with me,” he said. “We want to wow you today. That only works if you’re not right there with us swinging a hammer.”
A pout pushed my lips together as I offered a foot stamp of resistance.
Barrett grinned. “That’s kind of adorable.”
I gave his chest a light slug. “No, it’s not. It’s only cute on actual toddlers.”
With a nod, I pointed at the canvas. “What if I can’t do anything? It’s been so long and—”
Gently, Barrett placed a finger against my lips.
I stopped talking.
“Good,” he said, his hands moving to cradle my face. Slowly, he brought his mouth to mine.
Shivers ran down my spine as I felt the warm press of his lips. My mouth softened. A compliant groan gurgled in my throat.
Barrett cupped my face more urgently, his lips parting, his tongue teasing my mouth with a slow swipe.
I groaned again, my toes pointed at the ground as I lifted, my body surfing against his. He bit at my bottom lip, sucked it for one sweet second before letting it go.
He drifted left, planted a kiss on my cheek then another on my closed eyelid. I swayed, pressed into him, fingers clutching at his clothes to keep from falling as my knees grew weak and my thighs grew hot.
Slowly, Barrett brought me back down to earth. He turned me, his chest pressed reassuringly against my back as he pointed at the meadow and lake.
“Jasper wasn’t just giving you land and a roof over your head,” he whispered in my ear. “He was giving you all of this beauty, all of this inspiration. Use it.”
Maneuvering my way back into Barrett’s
embrace, I nodded. I might have nothing but a mess to show him at the end of the day, but I had to start over somewhere. The land around me, so recently scarred by fire, was all about starting over.
“That’s my girl,” he said, popping a kiss on my forehead. Dipping into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a walkie-talkie and handed it to me. “I’ll be working a little upstream with Sutton. Not that anything’s going to happen, just remember to keep this and the gun and spray within reach.”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I repeated. “Keep the gun, the spray and the radio nearby. Got it.”
Barrett started to turn. I caught his sleeve.
He stopped and looked back.
“That kiss…”
His cheeks fanned a soft pink.
“Yeah,” I grinned, letting him go. “Me, too.”
16
Quinn
Half an hour working with the first canvas produced a riot of dark smears that looked like a bunch of toddlers had gotten into a fistfight with finger paint. I scraped away the mess, re-primed the canvas, then picked up the spare that Barrett had so considerately provided.
I didn’t reach for the palette or any brushes. I just sat there, my gaze soaking in the landscape’s colors and shapes.
I had forgotten what it was like for painting to be hard. In part because so much of it had come easily to me.
Up until the gallery opening.
Growling, I forced down thoughts of what my half-sister had done. Naomi was in the past. All I had to do was stay off the teen’s radar—no social media with my picture or real name, no business registrations.
Out here, in the middle of nowhere, I could have a life without my mother or sister. All because of Jasper.
And Barrett, I amended, a relaxed smile spreading wide across my face.
Thinking of him, how safe he made me feel, I picked up the palette and brush and began to paint.