He blinked furiously, to no avail. Prince Charming rescued his princess, something Tate wouldn’t be able to do. Not with cancer to fight instead of a dragon or an evil stepmother. A single diamond tear rolled down the side of his nose before he brushed it manfully away. “Champagne,” he said, his voice tight. “I owe you your first sip of champagne, and I intend to deliver.”
She nodded. “Yes. Champagne. Maybe chocolate covered strawberries too.”
That broke the tension, but then he stood, and he was leaving, and her frightened heart clamored up high in her chest. “Don’t go!” blurted of her mouth. Winslow sobbed. Just once. Saying goodbye was so hard. Too hard. “Please, Tate. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Mom, make him stay. I don’t want him to go yet. I...” I love him and I need him and if he leaves I’m afraid I’ll die today.
Her mother didn’t offer any kind words, but he sat back down at her side again, the tenderest light on his face as the mattress squeaked beneath him. He brushed her tears away with his thumb, his body blocking her mother’s view. “Hey, you, listen up,” he murmured confidentially. “I told you I’d be back, Winslow, and I will. I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep. You rest now, and trust me to do what’s best for you, okay?”
She felt like a little girl being tucked in bed for the night and promised a treat if she’d be good and go to sleep. The man had mad skills. It worked. She gave him all she truly had to give, her heart and her soul and every lost wish on a star. “I do love you, Tate. Believe it or not, I know I do, and I promise I’ll be here. I will.” I won’t die. I’ll wait for you.
He leaned in closer. “I believe you, Winslow, and…” He closed the deal with a warm, wet kiss that darn near incinerated her. She lifted her fingers to the nape of his neck and held on tight, holding her one light in the darkness while the rest of her world fell apart. If cancer was bad, letting go of this man was worse. A thousand times worse. This was goodbye.
Of course, good old Mom made one of those rude, grating grunts that echoed through time and eternity like fingernails on a dry chalkboard. Tate swept his tongue over Winslow’s lips one last time before he eased back and let her go.
She tried to be brave. He patted Pepe’s butt and stood, his back straight and his shoulders squared. He made a handsome sight facing her mother like he was, like he could take on her and the world. He stuck one hand out to Joyce like a gentleman. “Thank you for letting me visit your daughter, Mrs. Parrish. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mom had the nerve to wrinkle her nose at him like he was beneath her instead of shaking his hand like a lady. She jerked her head toward the front door. “We’ll see about that.”
With his gut screaming to run back to Winslow, Tate forced his feet to the ride he loved, his Jeep, a restored 1948 Willey’s four banger with a better than decent layer of Clear Coat over the gloss black paint job. Four bald eagle decals posted each corner like sentinels, and an American flag graced the entire back window, its colors unfurled. Read ’em and weep, my fellow Americans. This man was a Marine come hell or high water or war, but at that precise moment, he couldn’t have cared less about his ride or his allegiance. Something rare and damned painful was happening. His son-of-a-bitchin’ heart was breaking over a woman he’d just met.
It made no sense. How had he gotten in so deep with Winslow? Why her? Why now? It hadn’t yet been twenty-four-hours, and the callused heart he’d brought to the game had all but cracked like an egg on the edge of a sizzling hot griddle.
He placed both palms on that glossy hood, fighting for composure. Ky’s garage queen, the Corvette, was back in its stall on a patch of USMC navy-blue carpet Ky had actually spent good money on. But Tate had bigger problems this Saturday morning. Not only was he leaving Winslow behind, which was killing him, but he had a mission at the crack of dawn Monday that would take him to the southern tip of California. That left him the rest of today and Sunday—if he could get back into that house to see her.
He glared over his shoulder at the Parrish home. How could he go? But how could he stay? He slammed his ass into his ride, his gut screaming to march back in there and steal Winslow away for that flute of champagne. Instead, he tucked his dark glasses on and turned the ignition, his heart torn between helping Winslow deal with her last days on earth and his job. At least Winslow had his phone. She might be sleeping already, but he couldn’t wait.
Tate sent her a quick text, just three happy faces. That was all. Women liked emojis, didn’t they? He hoped she did.
No answer.
His fingertips commenced a nervous drum roll on his thigh. Damn. Damn. Damn. This would’ve been a good day for a ride. Last night’s storm had blown through, the sun was high and the weather was warm. She would’ve enjoyed the change of scenery, especially the autumn colors splashed along the Potomac, turning it into a river of golds and bronzes, yellows and reds.
But now...
He sent a thumbs-up emoji to let her know all was good, that he was thinking about her. She hadn’t seemed too savvy with all the digital toys on the market, but surely she’d get the drift when she received the notification and read the screen. He just wanted to assure her all was well. Sometimes that single gesture after an emotional breakdown made the world right.
Not today.
Still no answer. He didn’t dare sit outside the Parrish home too long, but he couldn’t make himself leave, either. He stalled until he had no choice. He had a rented tux on his back seat to return. Setting his volume high in case Winslow texted, Tate glanced in his rearview before he gave up and pulled into traffic. He could make it to the wedding rental shop and back before noon. No problem. If only his gut believed that line.
Heading southward, he turned the radio to his favorite sports station. The Chicago Cubs were playing the Cleveland Indians. Top of the seventh. The score was three to six. Go Cubs.
But he couldn’t concentrate. Joyce’s power trip had taken a scary turn. She’d gone from flirty and downright suggestive yesterday evening to nasty this morning, and he had yet to understand what he’d done that triggered it. The woman should’ve been relieved last night when her daughter was safely home, yet that was when the accusations started. Was she jealous of Winslow?
Maybe, but that didn’t explain her refusal to let him visit today. No, Joyce was already angry when he’d shown up, but again, he couldn’t put his finger on any concrete explanation. He hated to think it, but could Joyce be cracking from the strain of being Winslow’s sole care provider? It happened. Family members were often emotionally and physically drained by the time cancer took its toll.
Still…
Something in that house didn’t add up.
His cell chimed a text alert. Winslow. About time. Tate eased his Jeep into the nearest parking lot and killed the engine before he read what she’d written. No emojis, just complete sentences. Okay, noted. Drop the cutesy crap. She preferred real conversation, but—
He dropped his sunglasses to the tip of his nose to read. This was no reply to his text, it was a call for help. A digital scream. I can’t find Pepe. Anywhere!
Tate dialed his old phone. A sobbing Winslow answered. “She took him, Tate. I know she did. She’s gone and she hates my dog and she took him and—”
“Who? Your mother?” He needed to be sure.
“Ah-huh. I heard the car and by the time I got to the front door, Pepe was gone, and I’ll never see him again, and he’s… he’s…”
Tate closed his eyes, the image of Winslow sobbing tore at his heart. “I’ll find him. Trust me. I’ll find him.”
“B-but how? W-what if she... k-kills him?” Winslow melted, crying so hard he couldn’t get a word in.
“She wouldn’t do that.” Would she? Still Winslow wept, and he wished he were back with her. He tried again. “Come on, your mom knows you love him. She probably just...” What? Took the little guy for a haircut? A spin in her car? A walk? Not hardly.
Tate sucked down the dread bubbling up in his soul. If Jo
yce didn’t return home with that little dog, she’d break Winslow’s heart. There was only one thing he could do. The tux could wait.
“Hang on,” he declared. “I’ll be right there.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time she heard Tate pull up to the curb, Winslow could barely breathe. Her baby was gone and her mom hadn’t returned yet. Winslow already knew it wouldn’t make any difference when she did, not whether she cried or begged or swore or railed, either. Pepe wouldn’t be coming home.
Mom had done the same thing with a stray cat that Winslow had gotten attached to. Not fair! The second she gave her heart away, her mother spoiled everything. Winslow sank to her knees, desperately tired of fighting the world. Why’s Mom doing this?
Tate stormed through the front door she’d left open for him. “Where is she?” he asked, his eyes as black as sin. “Do you know? When did she leave?”
“Right after you. Tate… I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye, and he’ll be scared, and… and...” She covered her mouth and choked, the thought of her sweet boy in some dark, unfriendly place, scared and shivering, was more than she could bear.
Tate put his arms around her, one hand on her stupid bandana as he tucked her under his chin. “Shh. We’ll figure this out together.” He swallowed so hard she could hear his throat muscles working.
“How?” She wanted to believe, but this was the last straw. The one bright spot in her life was lost to her, stolen at the worst possible time. She buried her nose in Tate’s shirt, lost and scared and so damned mad. “I hate my mom. I really do.”
Tate didn’t argue. He didn’t patronize or offer useless words either, just pressed his chin to the top of her head and let her cry. At last, she gulped back the deluge and took a deep breath. “Why is she doing this to me? I don’t understand her any more. It’s like she’s mad at me all the time.”
Winslow lifted her chin and met Tate’s gaze. His eyes were beyond black. More like molten obsidian. A fire had been lit in those smoky depths. “She wouldn’t be doing this just to get back at you, would she? To prove a point?”
“No, Mom’s not like that. She’s… she’s…” Only she was precisely like that. “She used to be kind, Tate. She used to be nice.” She used to be a lot of things.
The sound of a car in the driveway ended Winslow’s rationalizations. “Mom’s home. Let me go.” She couldn’t be seen in his arms, not after the trouble she’d caused last night or this morning. Winslow stood on her own two feet, shaky but as fierce as she could manage. The minute the front door opened, she asked, “Where’s my dog? Where’d you take Pepe?”
Mom looked at her with that innocent ‘Who me?’ expression, the one she used every time Winslow caught her in a lie. “Why, Princess, I—”
“Don’t Princess me, Mom. Where’s my dog? Where’s Pepe?”
Tate stood at her side, his hand cupping her shoulder. Lending her strength.
Her mother’s eyes swept over him, taking it all in, right before they arrowed back to Winslow. “Don’t talk to me like that just because he’s here.” She directed her pointy chin at Tate. “I told you to get lost, flyboy.”
“Mom,” Winslow raised her voice. “This isn’t about Tate. Where’s Pepe? What’d you do to him?”
She knew what was coming the moment her mother cocked her head in that coy way she had when she wanted her way. “Winslow, I did what’s best for you. I took him to the pound. I know this is hard to understand, but he’s too much work for you, baby, and look at you. You’re worn out and you’re sick every day now. It’s time to let go. Stop trying so hard to be something you’re never going to be. You can’t hold onto him forever, can you? Besides, it will break my heart to see him trotting around here after you’re gone, you know it will.”
Winslow ground her teeth, she was so mad. “You had no right!”
And the gloves came off. Joyce tossed her head and every one of those studs in her ear flashed. “I have every right. Who pays the bills around here? Who feeds that measly mutt while you’re lying on the bathroom floor throwing up every morning? Who cleans up after him and you every single goddamned day? I’ll tell you who, I do! Just me! So don’t think for one second that you can tell me what I can and can’t do!”
“But Mom, I’ve always taken good care of Pep…”
“But Mom nothing!” By now her mother was eye to eye with Winslow, and Winslow knew the war was lost. She should’ve spoken softer. She should have coaxed and wheedled, not confronted. Most of all, she never should have yelled at Joyce in front of Tate. She’d embarrassed her mom in front of a stranger, not good.
Winslow bowed her head to hide her tears and her defeat. Once more, she’d lost. She wasn’t strong enough to fight her mom. Never would be. “It would’ve been nice if you’d at least told me what you were doing,” she said, her soul beaten to a pulp. This fight wasn’t just about Pepe. It was about Tate and cancer and her mom’s father and all the wrongs ever committed against Joyce Parrish since the dawn of time. “I just wanted to tell him g-goodbye.”
“You’ve only been gone an hour, Joyce,” Tate growled, his fingers digging into Winslow’s shoulder, reminding her he was still there. But he shouldn’t have been. That was the problem, him watching the fight.
Winslow turned to tell him not to engage, that it was useless, but he wasn’t looking at her. His chin was set in a hard angle and sparks flashed from his eyes to her mother. She had to stop him before he said anything else. “It’s okay, Tate, I—”
“Shut up, Winslow. It’s not okay and you damned well know it. No parent treats their kid like this.”
Winslow cringed. She wasn’t up to a prolonged battle on two fronts, not the way her broken heart felt. All she could see was her poor Pepe sitting behind the rusty bars of a concrete cell somewhere, quivering, alone, and scared of the other dogs because they were all bigger and meaner than him, and… and… He won’t last a day. A sob choked out of her. She wiped a hand over her eyes. My poor Honey Munchkin. This is all my fault. I never should’ve loved you. What good did it do you?
Tate took a step around her, standing between her and her mom, his hand on Winslow’s forearm.
“What’s it to you, Agent Higgins?” Joyce asked, her anger replaced with a haughty tone. “You’re nobody, just some guy I hired to take her on a date. You couldn’t even handle that, could you?”
“What’s it to you?” he shot back at her. “And where have you been? I’ve only been gone an hour and you left the minute after I did. That gave you a half-hour to drive somewhere and a half hour to get back. Cut that by the twenty minutes it took you to do whatever you did to the dog, and you didn’t go very far from home, did you? Wherever you dropped Pepe has to be close.”
He raised his index finger to the ceiling. “The pounds are closed weekends, so that was your first lie. Today. The Potomac’s too far and the traffic’s too busy to get there and back in an hour, so the river’s out. If you dropped him in Sligo Creek, someone had to have seen you. There are too many homes and families up and down that riverbank for something so cruel as drowning an animal to go unnoticed. Some kid might’ve rescued him and called animal services by now, for all you know. Whatever you did to him, I will find out.” Tate took a step into her comfort zone. “And if you’ve hurt him…”
Winslow couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air in the whole house. Her heart stalled. He’d just called her mother out. The room tilted and her heart stopped beating, but wow. This man was a magnificent beast all unto himself. Protective of a Chihuahua. Standing tall and brave. Fierce. She’d never had anyone fight for her and Pepe the way Tate just did.
Her mother sniffed. “You don’t scare me, Agent Higgins, so back off. I only have my daughter’s best interests at heart, but you...” Her nose wrinkled again. “You’re just some guy.” She smirked at Winslow as if she had nothing to worry about. Slapping the front door shut, she strolled down the hall. At her bedroom door, she turned around. “I’m calling the po
lice, Higgins. Want to bet who wins this fight, big shot?”
Her shoulders sagging in defeat, Winslow watched her go. “She’ll do it, you know. She’ll call the police and—”
Tate whirled on her. “Bullshit! What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you see she’s manipulating you? Shit, Winslow...” His eyes were black, his brows slanted over a dark, scary countenance. He stabbed a finger at her. “You love that little dog, I know you do, but the minute your mom shits all over you, you lay down and take it. What the fuck is wrong with you? Stand up for yourself! Fight for what you believe in. Stop kissing her ass!”
Winslow couldn’t do anything but stare, her defenses melted under the heat of his blast. The fight went out of her. She sank to her knees. “But I… I…” I what? I am too weak? I am dying? I’m afraid of my mom? Well, yeah. I need her. She’s all I’ve got.
Tate jerked her off the floor and into his arms, his hot breath in her neck as he settled on the couch with her. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. You’re sick and you didn’t deserve that.”
Breathing hard, she rested a hand to his heaving chest. She didn’t know what to say. He was right, in a way. She was sick, but she’d honestly never thought about standing up to her mother because, well, she was weak and dying, and her mother was the only one there to care for her. What he said made sense. Her mother was out of control and cruel and… Darn. Winslow had never strayed outside of her mother’s influence except for those few getaways to the tower. She didn’t know where or how to begin standing up for herself. She wasn’t that kind of a daughter, and Joyce certainly wasn’t that kind of mother.
Tate tipped back into the couch to look at Winslow. “Will you be okay until I get back?”
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