by Snow, Nicole
Worse, he’s the main reason I stayed in North Dakota. A big, ugly reason why I’m even part of Jonah Reed’s post-mortem escapade.
My gut clenches when Winnie’s cold, lifeless face flashes in my mind. She’d been missing for over a fucking week when they found her. I almost puked when I went out to the morgue to identify her.
Frozen. Half covered with snow. Barefoot in fucking December.
She’d never walk outside barefoot that time of the year.
Grant Red Elk, chief of the tribal police, knew it. He suspected Dragon, too, but the place where she’d been found wasn’t in tribal boundaries, so Grant didn’t have the authority to even question the prick. It was a brand new drilling site set up for prospecting, just over the border in Montana, a skip and a jump from my hometown, Kinsleyville.
By the time the Bureau of Indian Affairs got approval to call in help from the Feds, the entire crew of the rig was swapped out. Gone like they never existed.
Winnie became one more name on the endless list of Native American girls missing. And even if her body turned up in the end, everybody knew her crime would never be solved.
I’d sworn that wouldn’t be the case.
Then another hell struck. Another frozen body.
Hellfire burns my throat. Even when I fight the memory, my ears start to itch like they’re infested with spiders. Grabbing my sunglasses off the dash, I put them on, hiding the shit I refuse to call tears trying to bleed out of me.
Crying won’t do no good. It can’t bring anybody back, so I don’t bother.
But I can’t hide the anguish, the rage, or the truth.
I fucked up. Twice. Fucked up bad.
Every life I should’ve saved, I didn’t. I thought I’d known better. Thought the worst I’d face in civilian life wouldn’t be a fraction as tough as Kurdistan and Iraq and Kandahar.
I’d told Angie that taking care of our old man couldn’t be that hard.
So what if he was losing it? He was a grown man, and she was just being selfish.
She’d said I didn’t have a clue what it took to take care of him. Not really. That she’d been doing it the entire time I’d been in the service, and he couldn’t be left alone, not even for a little bit.
She worked at the hospital, too. One more reason I wish I’d listened.
Ang was right.
But I didn’t believe her. I’d been so focused on finding Winnie’s killer, I killed him.
Our father died because of me.
I see Bella looking over at me, her green eyes big, beading with concern. She’s not wrong to wonder what’s up, watching me secretly beating myself to a pulp in front of her.
Because every time the truth hits, it comes in like a screaming hellfire missile. So do the questions I never want to ask.
Even if I give it my everything, even if I throw my body, my mind, my everything between her and harm’s way, there’s no guarantee it’ll be good enough.
Do I even have it in me? Can I keep it the fuck together long enough and save this sweet, bright-eyed girl?
11
Family Business (Bella)
I close the door to the dishwasher and hit the start button with a sigh.
It’s been about a week, but it feels like three whole months.
Another meal by myself. It doesn’t matter how early I get up in the morning, Drake has already eaten and he’s off doing something.
Yesterday, it was a brand new gutter on the backside of the pole shed. The day before, it was perfect weather to fix a few shingles on the barn. Before that, it was the shutters on the second floor of the house, and then the snarled tree branches hanging over the garage attached to the house.
Tomorrow it’ll be a week since we’d eaten at the diner and faced Mom head-on. A week since we’d kissed like we just survived a nuclear blast in his truck.
Regret churns the oatmeal I’d eaten a short time ago. I’m almost nauseous.
Drake has found something to do every day ever since. Outside. High in the air. Wherever it’s not safe for me to help.
I’m not clueless. He’s found all of these things on purpose.
And I think I know why.
He’s avoiding me because of the stupid, stupid game I’d played, trying to convince my parents there was more between me and Drake. He’d gone along with it then, in public, but privately, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me.
It started right after we left town that day. He’d grown quiet, this dark shadow slipping over his face. Probably because he realized full well how foolish he’d been.
By the time we’d arrived home, it was like he’d closed down.
I hadn’t noticed it at first. Well, I had noticed how solemn he’d become on the way home, but I thought he’d come around.
Nope.
I swear, he’s only said a grand total of about fifty words a day to me since then, and they’re always about what he’ll be doing outside, and how he’s 'fine' handling it himself.
It’s worse than living with my mother, this...whatever it is.
It’s walking on eggshells day in and day out. She’d clam up when something hadn’t gone her way, and both my father and I would pay the price.
Just like I am now. But I don’t even know what I’ve done to Drake, or why he’s turned into a human cactus.
My phone goes off, and I push off the counter, walking to the table where I’d left it.
Yep, it’s her. Mom.
So much for the eerie quiet being the only worry.
I walk away without even looking at the messages. I make it as far as the living room before I stop and look around.
Nothing needs to be cleaned, vacuumed, or washed. Because I’ve scrubbed this place up and down for the past week, right before I’d gone stir-crazy putting that beautiful kitchen to good use.
Now we’ve got double fudge cookies in the cookie jar, a carrot cake in the fridge, and two loaves of apple cinnamon bread that I’d baked yesterday in the bread box. All from scratch. Old recipes I’d found in an old dog-eared cookbook and decided to try.
I’d surprised myself with how well everything turned out. I haven’t had time to bake like this for several years, not since I helped Gramps make pumpkin cakes and rum balls during my last visit.
Drake finally commented on the bread last night, saying it tasted 'damn good.' He’d eaten more of it for breakfast, but if I’d been hoping it would break whatever brought on his cold spell, it hadn’t.
Of course it hasn’t. A loaf of homemade bread doesn’t have anything to do with pretending to be someone’s boyfriend.
Or husband.
I have more pressing things to think about, though.
Like the never-ending phone calls from my mother. I’ve answered a few, and they never last more than a minute, but for the most part, I haven’t even listened to the voicemails she’s left.
My phone rings again.
Crossing the living room, I step into the foyer in the office.
God, this sucks.
Living here alone, which is exactly how it feels with the way Drake avoids me like a leper. I have so many wonderful memories of this ranch. Nothing close to them has happened since the diner.
It’s made me miss Gramps even more, realizing how dead and cold this place can be without him.
I’ve read through all the information Roger gave me about North Earhart Oil, too, and have called him. Maybe I’m secretly disappointed there are no fires to put out.
The exhaustive company reports prove how well-run the ship is, and Roger’s weekly update was a whole lot of nothing, which means even less to do.
Is that what Gramps wanted? For me to have endless time on my hands?
That seems so senseless and has me half wondering if I should sell out. Move on.
It’ll just be wondering, though, because I know I can’t do that.
I can’t give up on his wishes or the hopes of this town, forever shackled to North Earhart.
&nb
sp; But I can’t live like this. I don’t know what to do.
I’d tried apologizing, but Drake stopped me every time and cut it short.
I plop into Gramps’ old desk chair and pull open the bottom drawer. Just as I’ve done a hundred times over, I lift out the red folder with the marriage paperwork and wills.
I know Drake talked to the sheriff a couple days ago, but there hasn’t been anything new about those thugs. He’s left me notes saying it.
He’s left me other notes, too. Communications that say something, but also nothing at all.
Thanking me for the sandwich I’d left in the barn for him at lunch time, or the supper plate I’d left in the microwave.
Thanking me for 'making the old house smell like heaven' – his words – or telling me I looked like a 'badass' when I picked up a new pair of boots from The Crazy Shack. The shopping trip in town perked me up just a little, and so did his note, but it would’ve been a thousand times better hearing it.
Leaning back in the chair, I watch him through the window, carrying a ladder to the backside of the machine shed. Good grief.
Doesn’t he ever slow down? He’s been on top of every single building this past week. In the twenty plus years that I can remember coming here, I never remember Gramps going up on the roofs, or hiring someone to.
My heart somersaults as I watch him move, drawing my traitorous glances.
Even when he’s pissing me off, he’s a freaking magnet of hotness.
Back straight, chin up, stride long. Whatever else he is, Drake Larkin is a huge wall of muscle, carrying a ladder that’s three times his height like it’s nothing. His sleeves are rolled up today, giving me flashes of eloquent darkness branded on his flesh.
His tattoos aren’t like the Dragon man. They draw the eye without demanding attention. Fierce, but not scary.
Not meant to eclipse their big, mysterious, blue-eyed owner.
I’m not sure anything in the world could pull that off.
Heat swirls in my belly, remembering how hard his grip could be, first when he saved me from the prowlers, and then from Mom.
Then how his chest felt like a fortress, how soft he’d started in when he kissed, and how hard his tongue took mine before it was over.
Oh my gawd.
I’d never been kissed the way he’d kissed me that day.
Honestly, I’ve never been kissed like much of anything – but the difference between a boy and a man couldn’t be clearer. The few men I’d dated back in Burbank who’d offered quick pecks goodnight couldn’t win a kissing contest with Drake Larkin to save their lives.
Frankly, neither could I.
Sure, I know he’d been playing along with everything I started, but the air catches in my lungs at the thought of how alive his kiss made me feel. Drake gave me fire and wonder and something worth the memory.
It was like he’d flicked a secret key, opening this doorway I never knew I had.
That first little kiss I’d given him at the table, when my parents were across from us, had been pure impulse. I hadn’t even realized what I’d done until later.
Then Drake struck back hard.
Then he’d plundered me, and I’d been ready to let him take whatever he wanted.
Crazy talk. Let’s call it what it is. But it doesn’t mean it isn’t what I feel.
Our lips just touched, and it’d left me dizzy.
Then, that second kiss on the street, inside the truck...
Holy hell.
I’m surprised my hair didn’t blow back in a ripple.
My toes curled inside my boots. My nipples puckered. My panties desperately needed a change by the time we got home. And then my whole world got crazier than anything it has any business being.
Drake breathed something into me that day, and it’s been there ever since.
Every time I look at him.
Every time I get a whiff of his aftershave.
Every time we brush in the halls.
Every-freaking-time I dare think about more than kissing him.
“Jesus,” I whisper to myself, turning away from the window, doing a quick whirl in the chair.
I set the folder on the desk, having no idea why I’d even pulled it out. I won’t find anything new there, or any answers.
Gramps may have put a lot of things in place. A lot of backups inside backups so I’d inherit everything. Too bad he didn’t include a stipulation that Drake Larkin has to make love to me. Or at least talk to me like a human being again.
I’m crawling in my skin, and this strange, smirky cowboy man is way too good at driving me flipping crazy without even trying.
There’s no way I can live like this for the next six months.
No earthly way.
The most frustrating part is, I brought it on myself, didn’t I?
I’m the fool who started a game I knew I couldn’t win. I hadn’t thought of the repercussions.
My mind was on my parents, and nothing else, when I’d absentmindedly decided to play up my nonexistent relationship with Mr. Bodyguard.
I’ve never had ammo to use against them before. Then Drake happened. The lifeline I’ve needed to stand up against them. To win like Gramps wanted.
Not just for me, but for North Earhart Oil, for my grandfather, and for the whole town of Dallas.
Huffing out a breath, I sit up and turn on my laptop. When I’d talked to Roger on the phone yesterday, he’d sent a company memo out, announcing how I don’t plan on making any drastic changes to North Earhart Oil.
He said it’d be a good way to introduce myself to the entire staff. He told me the communications department could use it to write press releases for the local papers and our partners, too, as long as I gave them some direct input.
So I’d started it after talking to him, but got sidetracked.
No, not sidetracked.
Drake-tracked.
He’s the only thing my mind can focus on for more than two minutes. Ugh.
If I have any hope of making it through the next six months, I have to change that fast.
Logging on to the computer, I click on the document I’d started yesterday and then flip open the three-ring binder Roger gave me so I have things to reference in my letter.
A while later, I’m rereading the two pages I’ve written for the umpteenth time, making small changes when the front door slamming startles me.
Huh? Drake has never slammed a door before, not even when he’s mad.
My heart leaps in my throat.
I push away from the desk, wheeling the chair back so I can see out the open office door. I’m half afraid I’ll see him bleeding, staggering around, hurt from falling off the ladder or something.
But my fear turns into a panicked dread as I hear a familiar clip of heels.
A second later, my mother appears in the entryway, with the same scowl I think she had since the day she was born plastered on her face. Today it’s paired with a navy and white dress, matching shoes, and fresh fury.
She twists, sees me, and marches toward the office. Crap.
There’s not a hair out of place on her head, and her makeup seems as flawless as ever.
I wonder if that’s one of the things she’s always hated about me. That I’d rather wear jeans and cowgirl boots and pony up my hair, with nothing more than a little moisturizer on my face.
Back when I was little, really little, she’d enroll me in beauty contests. The makeup she used to cake on my face stung. My face would burn for days sometimes.
I’d hated the dresses too, and the shoes, and all the hairspray and perfume and pomp and pressure.
Even way back then, as small as I’d been, I knew what a calendar was.
Gramps gave me one every year for Christmas, with the days circled that I’d be here at the ranch with him. I’d look at it every day, knowing I wouldn’t have to go to any pageants on the days that were circled in red.
She enters the room with her heels still snapping against the tile floo
r, and I remember her anger when I’d come home after spending a whole happy summer here. Gramps asked me about the pageants, because he’d been sent pictures of me all dolled up.
I’d told him I hated them.
He hadn’t said anything to me, but must’ve called her and worked his magic. I was never entered in another one. She’d told me it was because I’d never win and that there was no sense putting so much effort into an ugly duckling.
Not even being called ugly diminished my joy at never having to participate in another pageant.
“This foolishness is over, missy.” She slams her purse and a file folder on the corner of the desk. “I’ve had enough, and since you think you’re no longer taking my calls, we’ll do this in person.”
I hate when she calls me missy. I consider standing up, but that might be the reaction she wants. Instead, I just stay seated and cross my arms, grateful for Gramps’ huge wooden desk and the leather chair, which at least lend an illusion of power.
“Did you hear me?” Mom breaks the silence first.
“You’re shouting. How could I not?” I say, keeping my voice far lower than hers.
Her eyes narrow to squints. “Don’t get smart with me. I’ve already said I’ve had enough of this shit, and I have. Jonah Reed has been controlling our lives for far too long, and now that he’s gone, this ends here. You know what I’m talking about, Annabelle. Your father and I are the rightful heirs of anything he left behind.” She slaps a hand on the file folder she’d set down. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to sign these papers sent over from our attorney back home and put an end to his spitefulness. Then we’re going to talk to Mr. Briar again and leave Hicksville before one of us loses a tooth.”
I open my mouth to answer, but her finger shoots up. Another weapon in her arsenal I despise.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not done yet! Don’t fight me on this, Annabelle. You know it makes sense. As our daughter, you owe us this much. We’ve dedicated our lives to taking care of you and raising you as best we could with a crazy, controlling, vile old man in the way. Where would you be right now if we hadn’t bailed you out of those houses in California?”