He went for broke and lifted the red crystal vase filled with bright red Columbines from beside the front door where he’d hidden them. Flowers like these grew wild near his place in Alaska. The original plan was to surprise Winslow and take her for a ride. Get some fresh air. Maybe tell her what life was like for a kid growing up in the outlying reaches of the Yukon. Maybe get her to open up too, but now… “Here. I brought these for you.”
Joyce blinked at the bouquet, then opened the door and did a quick grab-and-slam. There he stood with his mouth open, wondering what happened. She certainly moved fast when she wanted to.
Gulping down what was left of his pride along with his plans for the day, Tate was halfway to the sidewalk when Joyce called out behind him, “Five minutes. I’ll give you five minutes. No more.”
The door was now wide open. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other on the jamb, and the flowers nowhere in sight. Tate hightailed it back to the porch where he could see straight through to the kitchen and back door. He searched for one peek of Winslow, but no. The flowers sat in the center of the kitchen table though. How damned nice of him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely, needing to stay on Joyce’s good side.
That same musty whiff of antiseptic, garlic, and dog assailed his nostrils when she closed the door behind him. “Go on. You’ve already been in her room. You know where she is.”
He felt the need to make it very clear that nothing improper took place the night before. “You need to understand that I’ve only been in your daughter’s room twice and both times very briefly. Once when she first went missing. I checked for evidence of foul play, remember?” While you faked being overwrought. “Second, when we came back and found the front door locked.” He didn’t remind Joyce who’d locked Winslow out or who’d jumped to the conclusion she’d been kidnapped in the first place. That still bugged him. “I couldn’t leave her, could I?”
He could almost hear the clank of hackles lifting off Mama Bear’s back. “Are you saying I locked my own kid out of her house? Is that what she told you?”
Touchy, touchy. He raised both palms to placate Joyce. “No, ma’am, I’m just stating the facts as I saw them. The door was locked. I had to get Winslow in out of the cold, so I climbed through her window to unlock the front door. We waited for you to get home. End of story.”
Her nostrils flared like no matter what he said, she wasn’t going to believe him.
See, this crap right here was precisely why he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding people. Verbal communication, at its best, was a poor method of, well, communicating. People always jumped to conclusions. They looked for the worst in each other. They over-reacted or said what they thought you wanted to hear, or they outright lied to your face. A man had to be pretty damned astute to understand, much less process, what another guy meant instead of just what they said.
And then there were women... Talking with them was another language entirely. Using words to express what was on your mind sucked boulders, and no, the-more-words-the-merrier rule didn’t apply with men or women. Who needed this bullshit merry-go-round?
“Four minutes,” Joyce said slyly.
He flexed the growing aggravation off his shoulders with another, “Thank you, ma’am,” then ducked down the hall.
The repugnant odor of sickness grew heavier with every step. Winslow’s door wasn’t closed, but there he stopped, one foot in the hall and the sweetest sight of her in her room. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she’d crashed face down on her bed, her pillow clutched under her chin. A tall stack of books climbed up the corner between a messy closet and the window. The prom dress she disliked last night was now hung on a wire hangar in the door-less closet. Her crazy, furry boots stood at the bottom of her bed like sentinels waiting to run off on another risky adventure. The blankets were half on Winslow, leaving one leg extended, one delicate foot bare.
Pepe’s tail started waggling the second he spotted Tate, but Winslow didn’t budge. The scent of garlic and dog were stronger in her room. She must’ve been real sick.
Tate went swiftly to her side. A pink bandana covered her head, and it hit him. How could he have missed a detail so obvious? All that silky black hair was a disguise, a wig. He should’ve known, but he’d been distracted. Make that enamored. The tangled mass of hair she’d worn last night now rested on a Styrofoam head in her closet, alongside another of wavy reddish-brown.
Damn. Losing her hair must’ve been tough on Winslow. A guy wouldn’t have minded as much, but women loved to fuss over their styles and gels and colors and such. Damn this cancer. It had stolen everything from Winslow, her self-esteem along with her health. Poor thing.
With one knee to the floor, he leaned in close and rested one palm gently to her forehead. If she woke, fine. He just needed to touch her, to be there with her for however much time Joyce allowed. His thumb swept over the bright flush on Winslow’s cheek.
“I told you I’d come back,” he whispered. “Check out your mom’s flowers when you wake up, and you’ll know I was here like I promised.”
Her breath smelled strongly of garlic as if she’d eaten Italian for breakfast, maybe something with the herb in it, maybe to soothe her stomach? He remembered that much from his mom’s homeopathic remedies. Crazy, beautiful Winslow was one sick lady.
When Pepe burrowed into the blanket nearest her and grumbled under his doggie breath, Tate knew damned well Joyce was standing behind him and watching. She couldn’t give him one second of privacy.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough. Joyce glowered from the open door. A thousand questions begged answers, and he would’ve preferred a rapid-fire situation report like he’d get from his men in the field, but he couldn’t risk irritating this prickly mama bear.
“Is she sick often?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, every morning when the sun comes up.” Joyce lifted one hand to study her nails. “She gets a cramp and runs to the toilet and pukes her guts up for a couple hours. Then she crawls back to bed for half the day. Makes it real hard to get ready for work.”
He pivoted on his knee to speak eye-to-eye. “What kind of cancer does she have, Joyce? How long are we talking, months? Years?” he asked softly.
Her shoulder shrug said nothing, but the unlit cigarette poking between the two fingers at her thigh did. She wanted a smoke break.
“This has to be hard on you,” he offered sincerely. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well...” She looked over his head to the window. Tap, tap, tap went the filter end of that nicotine bullet on her thigh. “It’ll all be over soon.”
That was so not the sentiment he expected to hear from a loving mother. No tears. No hint of sorrow. Just cold facts delivered with a hard, black underscore. But that was cancer for you, and she’d been living this scenario for years, not him. What’d he know? Only that he wanted more time with Winslow. Another dance. Definitely a real date. “I’ll stay with Winslow while you take a break. Me and Pepe will keep her company if you’d like.”
Joyce flicked a pink Bic lighter up and lit the cancer stick, inhaling a long drag before she turned her head and aimed her second-hand-fumes down the hall. “That dog...” She turned and left with a grumbled, “Whatever. I’ll be back.”
Tate had the feeling she had more to say about Pepe, so he waited until he heard the back door open and close before he ruffled the stubby fur on the loyal guy’s head. “You need to keep your nose out of her way, you hear? Mama Bear might eat you for breakfast.”
Like a puppy, Pepe rolled to his back, all wiggles and grins.
Winslow stirred. “Mom?”
Tate leaned in close. “No, beautiful. Just me and your pet dragon.”
Dreamy, tired eyes peered at him. “Oh, hi, ummm…” She stretched, upsetting Pepe, not that it bothered him. He just tucked his paws up under him as he resituated his bungalow in the blankets, content to stay beside his mistress.
Winslow’s eyes widen
ed. She swallowed noisily. Her brows pinched. “Tate? You’re... here?”
He nodded. “I told you I’d be back.”
“B-but…” One hand flew to the top of her head and the telling pink bandana. “You’re... really, darn it, you’re here. In my room.” She didn’t say that like it was a good thing, more like she meant to say, oh shit.
He smoothed a hand over her trembling fingers on her head. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.” Which was true. He felt better seeing her for himself, and knowing the truth about her lack of hair didn’t hurt either of them. She was embarrassed. He got that, but she could get over that.
“Oh, God.” She buried her face in her pillow. “Now you know. I’m hideous. My… my hair...”
“Will grow back,” he finished tenderly. But didn’t he put his size-eleven foot in his big mouth with that thoughtless stab at kindness? No, her hair wouldn’t grow back. She was dying. She wouldn’t have that kind of time. Get with the program, Higgins. “I’m so damned sorry, Winslow,” he breathed, his chin to her arm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She sniffled, but turned her too big eyes to him. “It fell out months ago. I’m…” Monster tears welled up. “I’m not the person you thought you saw last night. I’m like that ugly dress. I’m… I’m bald.”
He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her and tell her he didn’t come there because of her hair, damn it. “Yes, you are, Winslow, but that gives me a reason to buy you a proper USMC beanie to wear.” His heart swelled in his throat. He’d just met this gentle woman. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye so soon.
She twisted out of her sheets and blanket to sit cross-legged on her bed. Swooping Pepe into her arms, she tucked him against her chest and planted a kiss on that dome between his ears. Swiping her fingers over her face, she asked, “You came to see me?”
Tate settled a hand on her knee. “Yes, ma’am, I did. It’s sunny today. I hoped we could go for a ride or something, but you look like you need more rest.”
She swallowed hard, rubbing her chin over Pepe’s head. The silly guy had his eyes closed and a smile on his furry face. “It gets worse every day.”
He believed her. The darker circles under her eyes declared it. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Can I get you a glass of juice or something?”
Her head ducked into her shoulders drawing his attention to the hollows at her neck and collarbones. She was so thin. “I’m never going to know what champagne tastes like, am I?”
He hadn’t seen that coming. “You want champagne instead of juice? I can do that.” If it makes you smile, I can do anything.
“No, Tate.” She reached one slender hand to his cheek, her palm sweaty. “I just want to live.”
He wanted that for her too. He wanted her to dance on that water tower again. With him. But that wasn’t what lay ahead for either of them, was it?
He summoned his inner Iron Man to the losing battle, needing the cocky guy’s bullshit attitude to get through the death barreling down the road at them like an out of control eighteen-wheeler on black ice. Tate offered Winslow what he could, a breath of denial to soften reality. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll come back and we’ll go to a pub I know. It’s not far. I’ll order us a bottle of the best champagne in the house, and we’ll toast to that little dragon at your side. How would that be? I hear champagne’s supposed to tickle your nose.”
Those sad green eyes widened under her pale thinning arch of brows. “You’ve never tasted it, either?”
“No,” croaked out of him, a pathetic ache in that small word. He had a future full of champagne if he wanted it, but it wouldn’t mean anything without Winslow at his side to enjoy those bubbles.
She looked to be on her deathbed, and he didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t. She’d done something to him the second he’d spied her dancing on that tower with her arms opened wide to the sky. Why her? Why did she have to die? Why not some degenerate in prison who deserved the death penalty? Why not anyone not—her? “I’ve never done a lot of things.” But I want to now. With you.
Tate gulped down a bitter dose of self-recrimination. Damn. He shouldn’t have lingered on the water tower with her last night like he had. He shouldn’t have kept her out in the cold. It was thoughtless and foolish, and yes, she hadn’t wanted to go home, but he should’ve been smarter. Her condition today was his fault. He knew better. Yes, he’d given her his jacket, and he’d put her on his lap to keep her off the cold metal, but she was still dying right before his eyes.
“I’d like that,” breathed out of her on a sigh. “It’d be nice to eat out once in my life. I could buy.”
Another off-the-charts revelation. She’d never been to a restaurant? He didn’t particularly like them, but he wanted to be the man who held her chair while she sat to dine at one of the finest D.C. had to offer. Maybe Old Ebbitt’s or Hamilton’s. “Why don’t you let me worry about that? You just dress warm tomorrow morning and plan on enjoying yourself. I’ll bring the Corvette.” Ky won’t mind.
“You seem to be taking care of me a lot since you and Pepe found me.”
His heart caught in his throat. Could he tell her how much more he wanted to care for her? How much he liked her? Was that even the right word? It couldn’t be love already, but something unique and wonderful had bubbled up from his stoic soul. Did he dare explore his feelings for this gentle spirit, the one fading before his eyes, any further?
Tate settled for, “There’s nothing else I’d rather do.”
Chapter Twelve
Tate stood with his back to Winslow facing the hall, his fists clenched and his shoulders heaving. Her mother wasn’t happy, like that was a shocker. He hadn’t said anything in his defense, and Winslow didn’t dare. She had no comfort to give him, but this time, her mother was right. Winslow desperately needed rest, the penance she deserved for her foolish antics the day before.
Pepe snuggled under the blankets with her, but her heart broke for Tate. He didn’t deserve the nightmare she was caught up in, and it hurt to see how broken up he was. Her mother was making it worse, chewing him out, when it was obvious his heart was breaking.
Winslow wanted him back at her side where she could get her hands on him, where she could lie and tell him everything would be okay even though they both knew it wouldn’t. Where she could kiss him. It seemed unreal how much she’d grown to care for him in less than a day. They’d only just met. They didn’t know each other, and yet—they did. Her spirit had recognized his the moment he’d reached for her on that tower. They were two old spirits lost in the stars, now found.
It felt like one of those nick-of-time stories, only it wasn’t, was it? More like ‘too little, too late.’ She winced at the awful truth. She needed more minutes and hours. More days!
“I told you five minutes, but did you listen? No, and now look at her,” her mother hissed, pointing at Winslow who actually felt better since Tate arrived. “I take a simple smoke break and she looks like death-warmed-over when I get back. What’d you do to her now?”
Death-warmed-over? Great, Mom. Boost my spirits why don’tcha?
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and Winslow was desperate to intervene. He had nothing to be sorry about. They hadn’t had time to do anything. Geez!
“It’s okay, Mom. We were just talking.”
But Mom was on a roll. “You stay out of this. It’s time you left, Agent Higgins. I’m calling your boss as soon as his office opens Monday. Rest assured. He’ll hear about this and heads will roll.” She always went for the dramatic. Who’d she think she was, Marie Antoinette?
Tate dipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and brought forth a business card. “Be my guest. His name’s Director Tucker Chase. Here’s his number.”
She snapped it out of his fingers without reading it, her eyes flashing. “Get. Out.”
Tate’s gaze collided with Winslow’s. “After I say goodbye.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. I said—”
<
br /> “Mom! What is wrong with you? It’s just goodbye. Leave him alone.”
Joyce shot Winslow the nastiest glare. “Fine, but I’m not leaving. Make it quick. You’re on my time now.” Her toes began tapping.
Winslow swallowed hard. Why did she have to make everything so difficult?
Tate turned those broad shoulders of his and came back to the bed. This time he sat at the edge as he ran a quick hand over Pepe’s head peeking out from the blankets. He was like that, considerate of the tiniest guy in the room, and Winslow could tell Pepe liked him for it. Heck, she liked him for it.
“I will come visit you,” he said with conviction. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She wanted to smile and laugh and be coy and say, ‘Ha. Where would someone like me go, to the Bahamas?’ Only no part of this conversation was lighthearted or funny, and what he’d meant to say was, “Please don’t die on me while I’m gone.” She could read the despair in his eyes, but she couldn’t promise him that, could she?
Yesterday’s slice of seemingly good health was a generous gift from the universe, a fluke that might never happen again. Death was her constant companion. Not the stars. Not luck. And now, not Tate. This life was just a dream, and a short, bleak one at that.
A sob choked out of her before she could call it back. She blinked, her eyes misted with regret. This could very well be the last time she saw Tate and the thought of him leaving was killing her.
He blinked hard, those tender lips of his pressed thin and tight, his eyes black. That was Tate. Angry once more. It seemed a natural part of him, as if he dwelled in a perpetual shadow. As if it ruled him.
“I’ve fallen in love with you, Tate,” she whispered, meaning it with all her heart.
He shook his head. “Don’t say that. You don’t even know me. It’s too soon.”
She cupped his jaw, relishing the scrape of his shaven skin in her palm, loving the brisk scent of him. She’d never look at another pine tree the same. Like there was time to see another pine tree. Yeah. This was the hardest thing she’d ever done: Find the one guy who looked at her with more than pity. Lose him a day later. “I know enough. You fought a dragon for me. You’re my Prince Charming.”
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 9