Fly (Wild Love Book 2)

by Red L. Jameson

  Fly (Book 2 of the Wild Love Series)

  Red L Jameson

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Want to read more by Red L. Jameson?

  Also by Red L Jameson

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Copyright © 2016 by Lanita Beth Joramo

  All rights reserved.

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  1

  “This is a complete invasion of my privacy,” I shriek into my cell phone at my mother as I walk across an icy, dung-colored, snow-drifted parking lot in Ennis, Montana. Thank god no one is close enough to hear me or see me. This is pathetic. I’m an adult woman whining at my mother like a petulant teenager.

  My mother’s quiet for far too long. I’m about to grind my teeth into ashes when she says in a cool tone, “Deidra Alexandra, that’s precisely why I invaded your privacy. That’s why I went through your phone, found where you were running away to, and booked the lodge instead of the little cabin you had reserved. You need a big bath. You need a big bed. You need these things for that baby. Don’t you understand the responsibility you’re carrying now?”

  That’s why I’m acting like a sulky child. My mother has a knack for forgetting I’m twenty-seven. You’d think I was a toddler from the way she speaks to me. And apparently I forget I’m an adult too. However, before I made this trip, I had called the local OB/GYN, to ensure that if anything happens, I would have help.

  Here’s the thing: I have ridden along with Green Berets in Afghanistan, an IED blowing apart the road only a thousand feet from me. I’ve taken pictures of heroin manufacturers, survivors of hurricanes, and, twice now, the dead from genocide. Although I don’t have a job now, I was a finalist for the Pulitzer for photography when I was twenty-five. But my mother reduces me to a puddle of a human being, complete with runny nose, tear-stung eyes, and my belly so upset I’m not sure if I’ll vomit in my mouth.

  My brother, Tim, had affectionately called our mother The Ice Queen. And, yes, it was affectionately, because she, the great and mighty heiress, Margaret Emory, widow to my father, a Wyoming senator, is much colder than ice.

  Angling into my Wrangler, I’m thankful some of my Jeep’s heat remained while I’d been inside discovering my mother changed my reservations at The West, the sprawling estate where I was trying to take a vacation from said mother. “I suppose you want me to thank you for renting the gigantic lodge?”

  “Well, a little gratitude would be appreciated.” My mother’s voice is short. Curt. And I have to shudder even though I am warm in my Jeep. “It wasn’t easy figuring out the code to get into your phone, finding your reservations, and changing them to accommodate my grandchild. Honestly, Deidra, if you’re going to run away, the least you can do is take care of that baby.”

  I want to scream. She insists on calling me by my full name when I’ve asked her repeatedly to call me Dee. She’s insulting me by making it seem like I’m not taking care of my pregnancy. And to boot, she’s not merely insinuating but telling me that I’m running away.

  There’s no point to arguing with her, my brother would say after he’d ruffle my hair. I can picture my beautiful brother, the golden boy, smiling and shrugging, telling me how arguing with our mother is as effective as yelling at an iceberg. God, I miss him. Tim was my best friend until he died two and-a-half years ago. I’ve been lost since his death, mindlessly roaming the globe as if that might help me find him again.

  “What the hell am I doing that’s so terrible?” I shout. I’m not sure where this moxie is coming from because I’ve never really argued with my mother. She’ll always win. She’s more cruel than I could ever imagine, more belittling, and if I fight her, I know I’ll end up bleeding in a million different places. Maybe I should blame my hormones, because for once I’m yelling at her. “I’m taking a small vacation—”

  “You’re running away.”

  I grit my teeth and continue as if she hadn’t said anything. “—Near Yellowstone Park. I just need a little time to be alone. To think. I have a lot to think about.”

  “Are you going to abort my grandchild?”

  My heart clenches and I can’t help but look down at my stomach. I’ve actually lost seven pounds in the last two months and my belly has never been flatter. Oh, I’m not one of those thin girls. Never was. But thanks to being pregnant and needing to vomit continually, I’m at an all-time low, weight-wise. But that’s going to change. Soon. My doctor said to watch the weight loss. One more pound and I might have to be put on bed rest. Already, I’d do anything for this baby, hence taking this vacation to try to relax and regain some weight.

  However, I don’t want to tell my mother that I’d never think of an abortion. Granted, having this baby now isn’t the best of times. Not when the man who helped me make this child is dead, and I have had a rung of bad luck concerning my career, so I’m essentially making no money right now. But I can’t help but want this baby, even if I am constantly sick. And tired. And moody. And crazy. And, god, my boobs hurt so much I wonder if someone’s taken a meat tenderizer to them.

  Still, I want this baby.

  But I’m not going to tell my mother that.

  Idiotically childish to keep that from my mother?

  Probably.

  But when it comes to her, I never think straight. I hate looking at myself from her point of view. I always come up short. I’ll never be good enough. And, yeah, I’m sure she’s ashamed of the way I ended up pregnant from a one-night stand with a mercenary I never planned to see again, who died, not while on his job, but by getting drunk and driving when he returned from Africa to his Kansas home.

  “Look, Mother.” I try to breathe in the hopes that the frigid air of the Montana mountains might give me some kind of clarity. I’m not a child. I’m not a child. I just act like one around my mother. “I nee
d some time. I’m not running away.”

  “You’re almost two months pregnant, Deidra. I’m not sure this is good for the baby, all this thinking. Unless you’re planning on killing my grandchild.”

  I hate myself for it, but I’m envious of my baby. My mother has never wanted me as much as she wants this child.

  I swallow down my bitterness, tasting copper and resentment. I might vomit again. God, I’ve become a professional vomiter.

  “I just need a week or so,” I say, hoping the extra saliva in my mouth will subside.

  She’s quiet for an eternity again, and I put my Jeep in reverse, foot still on the brake. I’m not sure, but I feel eyes on me. It could be the clerk who checked me in to my lodge, showing me pictures of the humongous cabin. She seemed nice, the clerk, but I’d hate for anyone to catch sight of me in the grips of my mother.

  My cheeks heat and my constantly tearing eyes finally spill over. I angrily wipe at my face but then realize what I’ve done.

  Unfolding the vanity mirror from my Wrangler’s roof, I check my face. I’m white. But there are two splotches of red, exposed from where my tears washed away my makeup. In those splotches are my freckles which I expertly conceal every day. I started covering my freckles when I was twelve. In an attempt to look more like my mother—flawlessly ageless, she could be Michele Pfeiffer’s twin—I hoped the makeup would make me look more like my mother’s daughter. I have black hair to her blonde, freckles to her porcelain, hazel eyes that look like mud compared to her piercing light blue ones. I am not my mother’s daughter.

  It might seem odd to wear so much makeup and be a professional photographer. There’s this thought that I’m rugged and outdoorsy. I am. But I always need my makeup mask to cover my face. I need it as much as I need air. I can’t explain it well, because I know it means there’s something intrinsically fucked up about me. I suppose it spells out that I’m still trying to be acceptable, to be like my mother, to be liked by my mother.

  I dab and smooth my cheeks until my skin is back to what I know—creamy whiteness. It’s fake, my complexion. I’d like to think of myself as an authentic person, but my mask makes me wonder if I’m actually a liar. However, I can’t help but wonder if everyone else is a liar too. We all lie about something.

  I back away from the parking lot and begin to find my way to the lodge my mother paid for.

  “Deidra.” My mother’s voice surprises me since she’s been quiet for so long. “I—I understand, I think, why you’d want to run away from me.”

  “I’m not running away, Mother.” I shouldn’t drive while talking on my cell. I can easily switch to Bluetooth, but I don’t. I’m too wrapped up in whatever my mother will say next, hoping I can shield myself from the pain of what might come.

  “Oh, of course you are.” Her voice is so hard, like a palm against my cheek when slapped. “You’re acting like a child. A spoiled child, I might add.”

  I am spoiled, and I know it. My mother’s family is rich beyond measure. Only, I didn’t understand that growing up. I knew my father’s family always mentioned something about how easy it must be for my mother, how easy it must be for me. I didn’t understand what they meant until I was a teenager. I had a beautiful and gigantic house throughout my childhood. I had a great education; my mother insisted upon boarding academies and an Ivy League University. I had the finest clothes.

  When I realized how vastly different my upbringing was compared to others, I wanted to apologize for it. I still do. I’ve given away most of my money, ashamed I had it in the first place. Even the money I earned from my photography, I just pissed or gave away.

  But with all that money and the pretty things, I’m not sure if I ever felt the warmth of love. I know I’ve never felt acceptance.

  Poor little rich girl, right? I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. So I do my best to swallow that down too.

  “Thank you for renting the lodge for me,” I say weakly, feeling defeated and more tears form in my eyes, blurring my vision. I’m following the map the clerk gave me and as I turn a corner on the snow and ice-packed road, I see the two-story log cabin, complete with a vaulted ceiling and wrap-around porch with little fairy lights along the railing, making the expansive house look like a welcoming home.

  It’s a beautiful humongous cabin. Too nice and way too big for just me. I’m scared I’ll cry more, ruining my makeup.

  My mother doesn’t speak again. I’m used to the cold shoulder.

  Then I realize there’s static on my phone, and joy spreads through me as I realize I’m losing reception.

  “—lo? Hello?” My mother’s voice sounds as warm as a sword. “Deidra, are you still there?”

  I’m always paralyzed when it comes to my mother. I just sit and take whatever she dishes out, maybe wincing for my defense. But the phone is cutting in and out, and I do the crazy thing of just hanging up on her.

  I stare at my phone, amazed at what I’ve done, and that’s when I lose control of my Jeep. Flinging the phone away, I clutch at the steering wheel as I spin sidewise toward the front of the huge cabin. Shit. Braking as hard as I can, I chide myself. I needed to pay attention to the road, where I was driving. Instead, I was transfixed to my mother’s voice. Like a moth to a flame.

  I was already driving slow. And I’m aiming to make impact into a snowdrift beside the cabin’s porch. There are a million thoughts that filter through while I’m skidding: Thank god the drift is there. Please let the crash be small. I need my baby to be all right. Shit. I can’t keep listening to my mother. She’s going to kill me.

  Then the tail end of my car softly thumps into the eight-foot drift. The impact is slight, but I’m clutching the steering wheel, trying not to cry, not sure if I’m breathing, and hoping the crash didn’t hurt my baby. Please, please, let my baby be okay.

  My Wrangler’s door is suddenly yanked open. A bearded man wearing black puffy snow gear is staring at me. For a second, I’m mesmerized by his eyes. They’re the color of the sky on a summer day—so intense, so blue. Not like my mother’s which reminds me of ice on the Antarctic Ocean, but his are the color of heaven.

  He doesn’t say a word. His beard is dark, but there’s red and blond mixed in. With such a heavy beard I can’t quite guess his age, but he wears a few lines around his eyes. He might be older than me. I don’t know. He just stares at me, his dark brows furrowed.

  I swallow. “I’m okay.” I don’t know why I say this. I’m not sure if I am.

  He reaches around me, his face inches from mine. He smells like snow and pine trees. He’s big and wild. Or maybe his beard is making me think he’s some wild man. With a click, he undoes my seatbelt then puts his arms under me. In a second, I’m out of my Jeep and in his arms.

  “Jesus, is she okay?”

  In a daze, I look in the direction of the deep voice who said that. There’s another bearded man, also wearing a black parka and black snow pants, jogging closer. The other man is darker, black beard, eyes so dark they look black too. His brows make the same pucker marks on his face as his friend’s.

  The man holding me doesn’t say anything as his companion nears. He looks down at me, glances at the Wrangler, then looks at me again.

  “I’m okay,” I parrot myself from earlier, looking from one man to the other, stunned I’m being held.

  The darker man is close now. He’s bigger than the man holding me, and he’s glancing at me from head to toe.

  “Did you get hurt?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did it look like she got hurt?” asks the taller man to his friend.

  I’m a little frustrated I’m no longer being talked to, but the man holding me hefts my body higher on his chest, cradling me closer. He shakes his head after he stares at me a long time.

  The taller man sighs. “Are you staying in this cabin?” His voice is nice. Reassuring. Smooth and baritone. He waves his arm at the lodge my mother rented for me.

  I nod.

  He nods too and looks at hi
s friend. “Put her inside. Warm her up. I’ll get her Jeep free from the drift.”

  Without a word, the man holding me turns and does as directed.

  I should be afraid. After all, two wild Montana mountain men are…what are they doing?

  Rescuing me.

  Maybe because I’m spent from the conversation with my mother, but for some odd reason I relax against the man carrying me.

  Just for two more seconds, I’ll relax. Then I’ll be scared. Or anxious. Or whatever it is I should be feeling when a strange mountain man has a hold of me. But for two more luxurious seconds, I’ll give in and let go.

  2

  I’m on a plush leather couch in the huge open space of my cabin, being wrapped in a wool blanket with a Native American tribal design on it. The wild mountain man bundling me hasn’t said a word. He’s careful and gentle, sometimes looking at me, but always glancing away quickly. His eyes are so beautiful, and the lashes around them are dark and long with blond at the tips and had ice crystals on the ends. He had ice in his beard too. But inside, it’s melting.

  “Are you staying at a cabin nearby?” My voice is a little quiet, so I try to clear it.

  He shakes his head. He’s taken off his black gloves, revealing large worn hands. There’s a jagged scar wrapping itself around his right thumb and reaches up his arm, where his coat is shielding me from further inspection. I don’t mean to stare. I’ve just never been rescued before. This is weird. But so nice.

  The other man bursts into the lodge, pounding his boots on the welcome mat, snow falling from him. He glances at me and his friend and smiles widely.

  “Luckily, it wasn’t too bad of a crash.” He takes his boots off, carefully placing them to the side, walking into my rented lodge cabin with large black-stockinged feet. “Got the Jeep out of the snow pretty fast.”

  “Thank you.” I try to smile and get up, but the blanket on me is heavy, as is the man’s hands that keep making sure I’m under the covering. “I—I should have put it in four-wheel drive. I should have put on the chains. I knew the driving up here would be bad. I’m sorry. I should have…”