Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  At the rear of the building, he met up with Mabe in a small, dismal courtyard. It was filled with broken flowerpots and an upturned trike. Hardy didn’t want to think about the child it might have belonged to, knowing that, in all likelihood, they were dead.

  Mabe jerked his shaggy head. “Clear on this side. I checked the barn too. No one’s been here for months.”

  Hardy sighed. It was time to batten down the hatches. “Let’s get Foster and the women inside.”

  15

  Georgina was too agitated to wait while Hardy and Mabe settled Foster. She left them to it and quickly worked her way through all the rooms to see if there was anything useful. Besides, she wanted some separation from Hardy. Her chest was heavy and cold when she contemplated leaving him to find Janie and that didn’t make any sense at all. She barely knew him and had her sister to find. Even if events had delayed that somewhat, her priorities were clear. Or at least they had been.

  She headed into the master bedroom, focusing on the orange frilled polyester coverlet circa 1970 as a distraction from her complicated heart. Good grief. She blinked, her retinas stinging from the brightness. A small, white bathroom led off the room and she left, grateful for the calmer color. A mirrored cupboard was secured to the wall above the sink. Georgina scanned the shelves, knocking bottles into the sink in her hurry.

  Damn. Nothing useful. She placed the bottles back on the shelf.

  When she slammed the mirrored door shut, she inadvertently caught sight of herself. She was a mess; her hair elastic had been torn off in the chaos. Her face was black with soot and her cheek was grazed and swollen.

  She turned the tap, wincing as her injured shoulder protested. A few spurts of water hit the ceramic. Mopping them up with a wad of toilet paper, she attempted to clean her face, although when she was finished, she only seemed to have made it worse. She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands for a few seconds, wishing she could just disappear into the inky blackness. What was she doing? What did it matter what she looked like?

  She dropped to her knees and opened the under-sink cabinet. Bingo. Several packets of Panadol and Advil. She pocketed them.

  “What you doing?”

  Georgina banged the cabinet shut. Natalie was watching her from the doorway, her eyes dark, dead ear buds hanging round her neck in a loose loop.

  Georgina patted her pocket. “Painkillers. Foster.”

  “Do you think there’s any point?” Natalie sagged.

  Georgina rubbed a sore spot between her eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

  Natalie turned, pressing her shoulder blades to the doorframe. “We’re not going to make it, are we? We’ve lost the others. We’re marooned here with a vehicle on its last legs with no food, and no medical supplies, and a soldier with a broken leg. Doesn’t take a genius to work this one out.” She swiped a tear from her eye. “Crap.”

  Fatigue dragged at her, but Georgina grabbed Natalie’s upper arms. “Don’t ever speak like that. That kind of talk will only get you killed. We are getting out of here. I’m not dying in a depressing hole like this. I still have to find Janie. We will survive, and that’s final. Do you hear me?”

  A nod, but Natalie averted her face.

  Georgina sucked in a low breath, willing her thudding pulse to slow. Shit. She’d been brusque. Janie would have told her off for that. This was so unlike her. Normally, she was unflappable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

  She touched the other woman’s elbow, and Natalie sniffed loudly. Despite her watery eyes, a tremulous smile was fighting to stay on her lips.

  Georgina continued. “We have our strengths.” She tucked a loose strand behind Natalie’s ear. “Look at the way Mr. Not-very-talkative got you out of the base with your sprained ankle.” Or the way he powered through that man today.

  “He scares me a bit.” Natalie’s bottom lip wobbled.

  “Yeah. Well.” Georgina exhaled a slow, shaky breath as an image of Hardy blazed through her mind. He was hard and big. Inked skin flowing over roped muscle. Every inch of him looked dangerous. Primal.

  “Me too.” She paused then focused back on Natalie. “I think he genuinely wants to make sure we’re okay, even if he’s not very good at showing it.” She stroked Natalie’s cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. “We’re going to be fine.”

  “You were leaving us when the bombs went off,” Natalie said. Her eyes were accusing through tear-soaked lashes.

  Georgina blinked, her brow scrunching, her mind racing. “Yeah, well, I was. I still am. Just not right now.”

  Natalie tugged her hand through her hair. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. It’s okay. I understand you have to find Janie. That makes you a decent person not a bad one.”

  I really am going to go. I have to. With an effort, Georgina put all thoughts of Hardy to the back of her mind. “Right now I’m needed. Foster needs me. Needs all of us. I’m not going anywhere until his leg’s in a cast and he’s stable.”

  She gave Natalie a reassuring smile, hoping it wasn’t as paper-thin as it felt. She had no idea how she was going to find Janie. Traveling on her own had already nearly gotten her killed. Her doubts about risking another solo trip were silently proliferating.

  The Sweeper flashed through her mind’s eye. That weapon was a whole new ball game. What it had done to the Chittrix that grabbed Foster…she wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.

  Mabe had described in onerous depth on the long drive how it vaporized the Chittrix molecule by molecule. If she had that weapon, finding Janie would be a safer prospect. It wasn’t hers. But after Foster was fixed up? She released a breath, dismissing the thought. Hardy would never let her take it. It was too valuable.

  She hooked her arm into Natalie’s, shuttering away her shambolic thoughts. “Come on, I need your help.”

  * * *

  Georgina made sure Foster was settled, swaddled in musty blankets and dosed up with the painkillers swiped from the auto shop. She accepted when Natalie offered to clean him up a little. She’d procured a washcloth from the bathroom and filled a bowl with water from the small stream at the back of the property.

  When she left him with Natalie stroking the grime from his hands and arms, his face was almost relaxed.

  Almost.

  She left the house to find Hardy. Found him at the bottom of the overgrown garden with an armful of wizened apples he’d picked from the stunted trees.

  He studied her face as she approached, settling on her mouth and a flicker of heat licked in her belly. She pushed back her shoulders, ignoring the tension that rose in her whenever she was alone with him.

  “I’ve given Foster more Tylenol, but we need to get him to the hospital tomorrow. He needs antibiotics, there’s a real risk of sepsis.”

  Hardy polished an apple on his thigh and handed it to her. His voice was calm, confident. “We’ll be there tomorrow.”

  She rolled the apple in her palm. It had spent six months languishing on the branch of a dying tree. Eighteen months ago, she would’ve binned it. Now, she had pangs in her stomach looking at it. “Natalie’s cleaning him up. Keeps her distracted. I had to calm her down, she was freaking out.”

  “Hmm.”

  Georgina released a weary sigh. “After Foster’s sorted. I’m going on to Scotland, not Wales.” There. She’d said it to his face. What happened now? She was at sea.

  Muscles bulged as he worked his jaw.

  The silence was unnerving. “I can’t give up on her.”

  “I know.” His voice was soft and he scratched at his neck. “Alone is dangerous.”

  She risked a direct glance. His face was rugged, tattoos snaking up his neck. If she’d met him on a dark street before the invasion, she probably would’ve crossed over, intimidated by his sheer size and dangerous expression. But up close, his eyes were warm and golden, reminiscent of bronzed autumn light from a gentler time.

  But he was right. “Yes, alone is more
risky.”

  “Perhaps then, after this.” He gestured at the derelict building, the untamed garden. “Maybe then we’ll find your sister, together.”

  His words hung in the air between them. Together.

  She fell silent, butterflies flitting through her belly. He studied her with those golden eyes, holding her momentarily transfixed—beauty in the most unlikely of places. His perfectly shaped lips parted as if he might speak again. What would it feel like to press her lips to his? Right now, he might taste like green apples.

  “Hardy!”

  Georgina sprang backwards, her hand flying to her throat. Her neck and ears were impossibly hot. She must look like a traffic light.

  Hardy glanced in the direction of the holler.

  A trace of a smile touched his mouth. “Mabe’s a noisy bastard. I’m going to do a final sweep around the house. Will you take these in to him?”

  “Sure.” She reached out to take the apples, grateful for the change in topic. The skin of her face tingled as if it had been doused in hot water.

  He dropped them into her folded arms and swung the Sweeper round and across his body.

  She nodded at the boxy lethality of the weapon. “That thing packed quite a punch earlier.”

  “Julia Simmons is a clever woman.” He patted the barrel, appreciation evident in his voice.

  The image of the dark-eyed beauty sprang unbidden into Georgina’s mind. She’d met the scientist briefly when she arrived at the base—Julia wore heels and still painted her nails even though the world had ended. Georgina dipped her head and turned away from him to walk back to the house. Of course he would admire a woman like that. She was everything Georgina was not. Curvy. Feminine. Sexy.

  “Thank you.”

  She stopped and pivoted. He was still behind her, still planted in the same spot, his huge frame blending into the shadows as night overtook day.

  “For what?”

  His voice was a deep boom. “For today. Helping Foster.”

  Georgina’s heart skipped an inexplicable beat. “You’re welcome.”

  He raised a hand then turned his back to her, disappearing into the dark, and its threats.

  She stared after him for a few long seconds, trying and failing to make sense of him and the conversation they’d just had. He was the polar opposite to every man she’d ever met—

  “You going to take those apples in then?”

  Georgina gasped and nearly dropped the fruit. She’d been sure he was gone. His voice had come from her right, somewhere in the dusky night. How was he so damn quiet, when he was so big? He was still here, and he’d caught her staring after his back.

  God. Get a hold of yourself.

  She pressed her lips together in silent mortification and headed into the farmhouse.

  16

  Hardy paced most of the night.

  Every half hour, he scouted outside the building, straining his eyes and ears for any sign of Chittrix or Scutters. It was almost too much to hope that the Chittrix wouldn’t find them, but their luck was holding so far. Nothing stirred as he walked the perimeter of the small garden.

  Eventually, he wedged himself in the living room doorway where he had a view everyone sleeping. He flexed his thighs against the wood. His legs were restless and his brain raced, unwilling to let him sleep, too concerned about the fresh dangers that waited for them in the morning.

  Mabe had taken point next to Foster. The large veterinarian slouched in an overstuffed armchair, a comforter thrown over his body against the bitter night. Whenever Foster surfaced from his pain-filled doze, Mabe checked the soldier’s vitals with steady hands, his brow knotted in concentration. When he spotted Hardy skulking, he removed the washcloth from Foster’s forehead and tossed it across the room.

  Taking the cloth, Hardy headed outside, the rubber of his boots a soft scrunch on the gravel path. At the bottom of the garden he dunked the washcloth, pausing for a moment to enjoy the slicing coldness and the water’s muted burble. Briefly he closed his eyes, letting the sound and sensation wash through him, wishing the water could do the same for the blood soaked world beyond the confines of the garden fence.

  His shoulders dropped a little and he rolled them backwards. He missed the rest of his team. Worry about Foster gnawed at his gut and Georgina was twisting him up inside. Every time he was up close to her, his mind catalogued some new detail about her. The way she scrunched up her nose when she was deep in thought. The freckle, shaped like a comma behind her left ear. He was excruciatingly conscious of everything about her and it wasn’t getting any better.

  And, she was wanted to leave. On her own. It was none of his damn business, but still…

  He stared at his hands, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He hissed out a long low breath of frustration. Maybe it was for the best that she left. He had no experience of relationships. The only things he was good at were fighting and keeping people safe. If his father having shit for brains and a temper like quick-fire had taught him one thing, it was that he could look after people. Just as he’d cared for his mother when she was knocked unconscious, purple bruises darkening on her skin.

  He headed back inside and replaced the washcloth on Foster’s forehead. Mabe mumbled quiet thanks, his chair protesting as he shifted and stretched out his legs.

  Hardy’s attention shifted to Natalie and Georgina. Natalie was curled in the fetal position on a mattress Georgina had dragged into the room. Behind her, Georgina slept, her hair in a loose wave across her shoulders. What it would feel like to run his fingers through its length? The idea teased him, bringing a welcome flush of heat to his chilled body. He imagined it sliding across her bare shoulders like a sheet of honey-colored silk, pictured thrusting his fingers through its softness before dropping them to the smooth swell of her breast.

  He’d had never slept the whole night with a woman in his entire life. He’d always left before the awkward morning after. Before anyone expected commitment and romance. Those had always been beyond his capabilities and it was too late to change now.

  Fuck. Here and now, Hardy. Here and now.

  He shook his head, rubbing the furrow between his eyes, banishing the desire to lie down beside her and pull her into his arms and bury his face in the softness of her hair and forget the world existed. Alone, in the dark, for the first time he could admit to himself that all he wanted to do was keep her safe.

  He turned away, dismissing her slim arms and smooth skin.

  He needed to up his game. Tomorrow was going to take all his focus. Foster was depending on him.

  His energy reserves spent, he leaned against the sofa and slid into a squat, his head drooping as fatigue and the quiet of the night finally wore him down. His fingers relaxed on the barrel of the Sweeper, and sleep claimed him.

  * * *

  Hardy woke with a start. The screams of dying Chittrix followed him from the dream, through the dim corridors of his mind back to waking. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch.

  Five-thirty. He’d been out for an hour and a half. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  His hands were empty. The Sweeper was gone.

  Adrenalin punched through his system and he was on his feet instantly. Mabe stirred, muttering in the armchair, his shaggy hair a mess across his eyes. Foster still snored. On the mattress, Natalie slept alone.

  Georgina was missing.

  Fuck.

  He made a quick search of the other rooms in the house, his heart rate rocketing with every empty room he found.

  A minute later, he was back in the front room, his jaw locked, hands knotted at his side.

  Outside. Maybe she went out to go to the bathroom?

  Yeah. Right. He slipped out of the building, unholstering his handgun, not wanting to wake any of the others till he was sure.

  She wouldn’t be outside. His gut told him.

  Faint orange light was breaking in the east, the warm color a marked contrast with the icy panic in his veins. He jogged round the garden
, breathing silvery puffs as he made a swift check.

  No golden-haired nurse.

  The torrent of thoughts he’d been holding behind a psychological dam unleashed. Without the Sweeper, their chances of survival were fucked and more importantly, what the fuck about Foster? She was a nurse. How could she leave an injured man?

  A bloated, waterlogged fence, split by a gate, edged the bottom of the garden. Hardy kicked the gate open and stalked through rubbery plants with blousy red blooms. He ran to the bottom of what had once been a neighboring field. His pulse thundered in his head as he sprinted from corner to corner—she wasn’t there. At the most easterly corner, he vaulted over the fence into the next field, cold sweat soaking his back.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He stalled at the furthest extent of the field’s perimeter, his jaw clenched so hard his tooth enamel threatened to shatter. Fuck. How the hell had he let this happen? He gripped the fence, his nails gouging the wood, his heartbeat deafening him.

  The skin on the back of his neck pricked, and he spun on his heel, staring straight at a small copse of tress some distance away. There? His skin burned, honed from months living on a knife-edge of survival.

  He was being watched.

  Wood snapped to his left and he spun, his handgun automatically raised in a defensive grip.

  Georgina was standing right behind him, her eyes wide like a startled gazelle. She held the bottom edges of her sweater scrunched up in a makeshift basket, beechnuts piled inside the bobbly wool. The Sweeper hung over her shoulder, its snub nose jutting into the crisp, dawn air.

  A long second ticked between them. She didn’t leave. She’d been searching for food. Rock hard muscles in his neck creaked.

  Her voice was small. “I woke up early. I was hungry.” She inclined her head in the direction of the woods. “I found beechnuts.”

  Hardy opened his mouth to speak but the words circled his brain, fiery and incoherent.