Every Last Secret

by Christa Wick

  Plus, I don't think Maddy will show up tomorrow. The whole idea of inviting Delia and Caiden today was providing the boy with a much smaller crowd size.

  Come to think of it, I'm not even sure why the hell Sherrilynn is even there today, unless she's with one of the ranch hands as his date. That actually does sound like Sherrilynn—getting into an event with one guy then texting to try to hook up with another.

  Right now I'm kicking myself for getting online at all to begin with, and also for not being able to go back in time and unfriend her way back when. I hadn’t wanted to hurt the woman's feelings (or incur her wrath). And now here we are.

  Wanting to get out of this conversation without accidentally setting off some nuclear reaction in the woman, I change tactics.

  Say, who are you there with?

  It takes a long minute, but she finally answers.

  Kyle.

  Kyle Peters is maybe three years older than Sherrilynn. He's a hard worker. My oldest brother hired him out of Billings two years ago. He's taking college classes on the side, which is more than can be said for me.

  He's a good man and a good roper. Wouldn't want the ranch to lose him over a misunderstanding, what with you texting me.

  Trying to cut off any counterargument, I drive in the last nail.

  Especially when I’m otherwise occupied.

  The little bubbles appear as if Sherrilynn is typing a reply. Then they disappear. Then they come back. After two or more minutes have ticked by, there's no new message.

  I’m happy to let the conversation die. But I'm not ready to go offline. The restlessness that had me opening the social media site to start with hasn't faded. If anything, it grew in severity.

  I go to Delia's profile. She has uploaded a few pictures from today. There's Dotty and Caiden in the rockers, the boy and Royce's old basset hound, one of Leah looking deceptively angelic.

  I click for more photos. Caiden has a starring role in her albums. So does Kenneth. I don't see Maddy—until I scroll down and find an album with a peculiar name.

  SWMNBP

  Every last picture has Maddy in it, either alone, with Delia or with Caiden. There are pictures of when she was a little girl, when she was in high school, college, more than a few of her holding Caiden when he was a toddler, but none when he was a baby.

  The closer I look at all the pictures of Maddy, the more something scratches at the back of my brain.

  I open a second browser window so I can look at pictures of Caiden while simultaneously looking at pictures of Maddy when she was the same age. I click back and forth, find another set to compare and another. After half a dozen sets, I look only at Maddy's photos, especially the candid ones Delia has managed to snap.

  Shit, there it is. The same turning of the head, the averted gaze, the lift of one shoulder to block the world out. It's most pronounced in her younger pictures, but I can see it even in the newest ones.

  I knew I was missing something. I even correctly, although jokingly, assessed the issue that first time Maddy came to me about the boy. She warned how he might act as if he didn't like me, how he might never meet my gaze. I thought then how much he sounded like Madigan.

  And now I know why.

  Question is, what the hell do I do about it?

  A mission briefing seems as good a place as any to start. I begin with the notes Delia sent me about Caiden. She already warned me that not everything I might read about Asperger Syndrome will apply to the boy. She and her husband worked hard on developing his motor skills. His language skills have always been good, he just thinks more than he speaks. But he does have sensory processing issues. That's why she told me not to worry about giving his shoulder or hand a solid squeeze when I'm interacting with him. Anything softer is irritating.

  Is that it? Did I read Maddy right but kiss her too softly?

  I shake my head. That line of thinking is dangerous. It's certainly not a theory I want to test. I need to get her to talk to me first and ask her if she has Asperger Syndrome. If she does, then I need to nut up and tell her how I feel in case she still hasn't read it in my behavior around her.

  A chuckle escapes me as my pulse kicks up a notch. I've jumped out of planes, been shot at by everything from a pea shooter wielded by a boy to mortar rounds. But I'm afraid to tell a woman—to tell this woman—that I have feelings for her.

  Playing the potential conversation through my head, I see a field of landmines. The biggest possible blow up on my side of the conversation is if she asks me what kind of feelings I have.

  I'm not certain that I know the answer. Am I in love? Is there some other reason I've been deliberately celibate since I met her?

  Of course, we may not get that far. I may tell Maddy that I have feelings for her and her response might be nothing more than a shrug and a few clipped words that my feelings aren't reciprocated.

  With a sigh, I shut my computer. Putting the laptop on the coffee table, I swivel in my seat, rest my head against a throw pillow and close my eyes.

  In the roughly two years since I met the woman, three of my brothers have gotten married. None of them knew their wife for any real amount of time before the chemistry was obvious.

  Hell, I saw how completely smitten Walker and Barrett were within the first twenty-four hours of them meeting their wives. And it didn't take long to realize Ashley and Quinn were falling just as fast.

  Is it really that hard for Maddy?

  Or is she just plain not interested in me?

  9

  Sutton

  In my sleep, I keep making the same mistake of trying to brush my lips along Maddy's. In some of the repeating nightmare, she screams at the attempt. My entire family rushes in, even my dead father and sister. One time, it's Emerson who handcuffs me. Another time it's Siobhan.

  What made you think she wanted you to do that?

  Everyone turns their back on me as I try to explain, my words coming out fumbling and sleazy.

  I jerk awake at a pounding knock on the door. Three solid hits that sound like the flat side of a fist instead of the sharp rap of knuckles.

  Rolling onto my feet, I glance at the curtains.

  They are closed, but there's not a peek of light around their edges. Night has fallen.

  The knock repeats. I rasp out a reply that I am coming.

  I am probably about to get punched in the face by my holier-than-thou baby brother. Braced for impact, I open the door.

  Maddy stands on the other side, her face in shadows because the porch light is off and my body blocks most of the light coming from the living room.

  With a stiff step to the side, I give her the option of entering. She is slow to accept, but she does. She marches past me, arms swinging, eyes straight ahead. I shut the door and move away from it, my direction increasing the distance between us.

  "You woke me," I say, voice scratchy. "I need a drink."

  Forgetting my manners, I don't ask if she wants anything. In the kitchen, I pull down a juice glass. I want to fill it with a strong shot of whiskey, but I'll save that for after Maddy tells me how much she hates me and leaves.

  I drain the first glass and refill it, then ask her if she needs anything.

  "No. I'm well hydrated."

  I slap a palm across my mouth to stop my panicked amusement. The reading that I did tonight included uncommon word choices. "Beckon" instead of "call," "return" instead of "come back." Her using "hydrated" puts a new spin on qualities I considered as nothing more than charming quirks before today.

  "Something else I need to do," I say, taking the long way through the living room to reach the hall. Going into the bathroom, I release the pressure that built up while I slept on the couch. Finished washing my hands, I splash cold water on my face and roughly rub it dry.

  Part of me hopes Maddy will be gone by the time I am done.

  Today could be one of those things we brush under the rug, never talk about as we move at the periphery of one another's lives, never quite escapi
ng the other's orbit because of mutual acquaintances.

  But she is still on the couch when I return. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her shoulders have a slight tremor running through them.

  Shame hits me.

  As hard as any kind of talk about feelings is for me, how much harder must it be for Maddy?

  I take a seat opposite her, the coffee table between us. For one flashing second, she tries to make eye contact.

  "Are you mad at me?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. The gesture is quick but complete.

  "Disappointed in me?"

  She indicates another solid "no."

  My next question is the hardest to push out.

  "Maddy, have you been diagnosed with, or do you think you have, something like Caiden's Asperger Syndrome?"

  The tremor in her shoulders spreads to her upper arms. The rest of her is still as stone.

  "Delia has an album of you on her Face—"

  Maddy snorts.

  "She Who Must Not Be Photographed."

  Now I know what the jumble of letters stands for.

  "I spent a lot of time looking at that album this evening," I confess. "I was trying to figure out what I've been missing."

  "Guess you figured it out," she whispers.

  "I take it Emerson is just as much in the dark as I was?"

  Her bottom lip slides side-to-side, her teeth torturing the flesh.

  "It's not for me to tell him," I assure the woman. "But if Caiden is going to spend more time around my family, I won't be the only Turk to piece it together."

  She doesn't answer, just keeps working that bottom lip as she looks anywhere but in my direction.

  "I think the visits to the ranch are good for him," I say.

  Her head bobs. She lifts her gaze at last, the threat of tears making her topaz gaze shine more brightly.

  "My daddy taught us it's best to get ahead of your problems."

  Her head bobs again. "That's what Emerson says, too."

  I swipe at my jaw then rub the palm of my hand down the back of my neck. The muscles have knotted up. I press at the vertebrae as I try to decide what more to say.

  I'm not a stranger to having to work at a conversation with a woman, but I'm usually busy trying to dodge feminine advances.

  "About that kiss…"

  Emotion flashes across her face. I'm certain, if she could scurry backward off the chair and out my back door, she would. But the expression disappears just as quickly.

  "I apologize," I say.

  Before I can launch a full-scale mea culpa, tears splash onto her cheek.

  Impulse urges me to close the distance between us, but I'm not going to make that mistake again.

  Despite her tears and the pain they cause me, I laugh. The sound is nervous and harsh. She looks up, the amber-gold eyes interrogating me.

  "Another thing my father would say is to not repeat your mistakes. You could make new ones, just don't make the same ones."

  She replies with another meaningless nod and then her gaze slides away.

  I bury my face in my hands.

  "I kissed you because I have feelings for you," I say, my words muffled because it is pointless to lift my head and look at her when she won't look at me. "But, also, because I thought you had feelings for me. I get now that you don't and that it's hard for you to tell me to shove off."

  Running my fingers through my hair, I have to force myself not to clench and tug at the strands.

  It's hard enough getting rejected. Doing the rejecting on the other person's behalf is pure hell.

  "I still want to help Caiden," I continue after a few more seconds of not quite pulling my hair. "And it's going to take Delia or Caiden directly telling me to stop before I withdraw. Beyond that, I don't understand why you're here."

  Looking across the table, I find her eyes closed, her body rocking slightly. If she were a grown man, I would grab her by the shoulders and shake an answer out of her, but she's not and so I can't.

  "Maddy, you have to tell me why you're here. Write it down if you have to. Pantomime it or maybe interpretive—"

  I stop before I can get any more sarcastic or cruel.

  She rolls her bottom lip into her mouth, licks it, then curls her tongue against her top lip before sliding it back into her mouth. Her eyes open, the surrounding muscles stretching them wide in what looks like terror.

  "Maddy, you don't have to be afraid of me," I whisper. "Not what I'm going to say or do."

  Face contorting, she nods. Tries to smile.

  It hits me hard that, yeah, I am in love with this woman.

  Her pain is my pain.

  She sucks in a deep breath. When she smiles again, she is able to hold the expression despite the trembling lips.

  "I'm not good at telling people I like them," she says, her voice as shaky as the smile. "Things…things get pretty messed up when I try."

  Earlier in the stables, the force of her reaction made me wonder if someone had hurt her in the past. The concern returns as I absorb her words.

  "Are you…" I pause, clear my throat. It doesn't feel right asking the question that is dancing across my tongue when there is so much distance between us, but I don't want to move closer and spook her.

  "Did some man or boy misunderstand what you meant?"

  Her right shoulder lifts and holds.

  "He didn't get very far," she whispers. "Delia made sure I knew where and how to hit. And it was near the end of my senior year of college, so…the ugly harassment by him and his friends after was short-lived."

  A harsh laugh escapes her tortured lips.

  "Go for the soft bits," she says, imitating Delia's thicker Boston accent. "Eyes and balls, baby sister, eyes and balls."

  "My sister received the same lessons. Daddy used to make me and my brothers be her punching dummies. Sports cups only absorb so much of the blow."

  Leaning closer, I point at a scar near the outer edge of my right eye.

  "And Dawn took her lessons a little too seriously sometimes."

  Maddy swallows roughly, her head bobbing in understanding.

  I lean back, body and mind more relaxed now that she is opening up to me.

  Tilting my head, I hook her gaze, my spirit reveling in the fact that she doesn't immediately look away.

  Softly, I ask, "What is it you want me to understand?"

  I don't expect the blast of carnal heat in her eyes as I finish my question. Then she shuts them. Her teeth toy with the outer edge of her bottom lip. Her gloriously full breasts rise and fall at a faster clip. Her head moves as if she's arguing with herself.

  If I witnessed this much need in another woman, I would expect her to be crawling all over me by now. But, as much as she tried to downplay what happened at college, there are either more events lurking in her past or she's holding back on how traumatizing the man's actions were for her.

  She's hot, ready, but too afraid to act.

  "What if you handcuff me?"

  Her eyes fly open. Her stare is intense, but there isn't the slightest tint of outrage in the beautiful topaz gaze.

  Out of words, I slowly rise and edge my way from the room. I head down the hall, turning lights on as I go. In my room, I leave the door open and shuck off all my clothes except the briefs.

  The clingy fabric runs from just above the jut of my hipbones to a few inches below the crease of my thighs, but it's not doing much to hide the erection that grew with every step I took away from Madigan.

  I push the beast sideways to keep it under the band of my underwear. Then I roll onto the bed, stopping on my back. I put my hands up by my head, but don't tuck them beneath it.

  Heart intent on hammering its way out of my chest, I close my eyes and wait.

  10

  Sutton

  Once the blood stops rushing past my ears, I hear the many sounds of my house. Some sixty feet away from me, down the hall and through the living room, the refrigerator hums softly against the back wall of t
he kitchen. Louder, but more intermittent, the pull cord on the ceiling fan clicks against the glass light shade in the living room.

  What I don't hear are footsteps. I don't know whether Maddy is still in the chair or if she slipped out of the house while my pulse pounded too loudly for me to hear her go. The only thing I'm reasonably certain of is that she hasn't pulled out of the drive.

  The front door opens and closes. I wait for the sound of footsteps.

  For all the luscious curves Maddy has to throw around, I know she steps lightly. With her job, she has to. Just like all the linebacker-sized males on my team could move as gracefully and quietly as ballet dancers when the mission required stealth.

  A creak sounds in the hall. It's the only loose board in the house and it is loose on purpose. Trying not to grin, I breathe a sigh of relief and keep my eyes closed.

  It's hard not to look, but I don't want to spook Maddy.

  Her handcuffs clink together as she presses down on the top corner of my mattress. The metal is cold when it circles my wrist. The rest of my body shimmers with heat.

  A wiggle builds in my hips but I don't let it out.

  I can't remember the last time I had this much need coiled inside me. Probably not since the first time, probably not even then. That was teenaged lust and a pretty girl I sort of liked.

  This is Maddy. She is the only woman to ever make me feel like this.

  With both of my wrists secured, she climbs all the way onto the bed.

  And immediately palms my dick.

  My eyes fly open but I keep the gasp buried inside. I doubt she would have heard had I released it. She seems transfixed by what she's touching—or maybe by the fact that she is actually touching it.

  My balls pull tight as she smooths her hand up and down the cloth-bound shaft.

  "Can I?" she whispers, her fingers tracing the edge of the waistband.

  "Yes," I rasp and lift my hips.

  She peels the underwear down my body, her gaze trailing after the piece of cloth. For a second, she lingers over the scars, but then the briefs are off and she's coaxing my legs apart.