by Kara Isaac
He lumbered down the hill and over the bridge as the boy started getting closer to the water than Jackson was comfortable with.
Then he broke into a run as the child slipped, his arms windmilling around as he tottered at the edge of the lake. Jackson reached out and grabbed the child’s arm just as he started to fall toward the water. Digging his heels into the soft ground, he tipped backward to counterbalance the weight of the boy. He so wasn’t going into the drink for a second day in a row.
He lifted the boy up in front of him and scanned him for any sign of injury. “Are you—”
His words were cut short by blue eyes bugging and a look of complete terror storming across the kid’s chubby face. Then the boy opened his mouth and let loose the kind of bloodcurdling scream that would’ve done any D-class horror flick proud.
What was his problem? Then Jackson registered his own brown-black leathery-looking arm and remembered what he looked like. Oh. No wonder the kid was howling like a hysterical banshee.
“It’s okay. I’m not really a . . . a . . .” His mind went blank. For the love of all that was good, he couldn’t remember what he was dressed up as. Meanwhile, the little banshee not only kept screaming but started thrashing around, arms and legs going everywhere.
“Hey!” The shout came from behind him. “What do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off my son!” The last sentence was punctuated with a few words that weren’t familiar, but which Jackson assumed to be a choice selection of the local cursing vernacular.
He dropped the boy back onto the ground and turned to the angry father. “I—” This time his sentence was cut off by a large fist barreling into his face and sending him flying backward.
* * *
Allie had no sooner dealt with the fallout from her resident sticky-fingered tweenager attempting to steal Bilbo’s mailbox as a Hobbiton memento when a gut-twisting child’s scream split the air from down below.
The entire group turned toward the sound. Time seemed to pause as she realized Jackson had not, in fact, caught up.
In that split second she knew—knew—she was going to turn and find that the screaming somehow involved him. Lord, give her strength.
She stayed in position for the amount of time it took to take a breath and start counting to three. Except she never made it past two, as the entire group suddenly let out a collective gasp that had her spinning around faster than a grade-five tornado—just in time to see some guy in a red T-shirt punch Jackson in his Uruk-hai face and send him flailing backward into the lake.
She took off running. Again. For the second time in ten minutes, she tried to outwit her stupid fake feet that threatened to send her face-first into the ground with every step.
First thing she was doing that evening was writing the stupid things up as a health and safety hazard. If she still had a job, that is. Because at this rate, it was entirely possible she might do bodily harm to at least one of her clients before it was time for lunch.
She made it about halfway down the hill before the inevitable happened. One fake foot snagged on the ground and she went down and over, and over a few more times, until she reached the bottom of the hill—her shoulders, behind, and pride all throbbing equally.
Staggering to her feet, she made it to the lakeside in time to see Jackson wading through the waist-deep water toward the bank like some kind of Middle-earth swamp monster.
His face was half gone. The browns and blacks Kat had meticulously painted on dripped off in patches, revealing pieces of rubber work underneath. A piece of lake weed was draped over his shoulder and across his torso like a pageant sash. His wig of matted black hair was gone; she caught a glimpse of it floating in the water a few feet behind him like a large water rat.
“What did he do?” She addressed her question to the shaggy-haired guy who’d thrown the punch and was standing on the bank, one fist clenched, the other arm holding a young boy with dark hair and big blue eyes.
“He touched my boy, is what happened.” The man didn’t take his eyes off Jackson’s slowly approaching form, his six-foot frame tensing as if readying himself to take another swing.
“I saved him from falling in the lake, you stupid idiot!” Jackson shot the words out, the visible portion of his face set in the grimace of the robot cop from The Terminator.
The guy’s expression turned from menacing to something less certain.
“You stopped his son from falling in the lake?” Allie wanted to check what she was hearing.
“Yes.” Jackson splashed to a stop at the edge of the bank, as if reluctant to get out of the water. She couldn’t blame him. “I was up there”—he gestured in the general direction of where she’d left him—“and I saw him down here by himself. And so I came down to tell him to stay away from the edge and find out who was supposed to be watching him. By the time I got here, he was about to go in.”
And for his trouble, he’d gotten smacked in the face. Now that he was closer, Allie could make out a trickle of blood tracing a path from beside his left eye down his cheek. Even through the remaining makeup, she could see his eye already starting to swell. Ouch.
“But he screamed.” The guy took a step back and shook his head.
“Of course he screamed.” Allie snapped the words at the errant father. “He’s, what, four years old? One second he’s falling into the lake and the next he’s being grabbed by an Uruk-hai. I would’ve screamed too.”
Paperwork. Oh the paperwork this was going to require. SLT demanded a treatise if a client got so much as a bee sting.
She stepped toward Jackson as he hauled himself onto dry ground. “That’s like two hours and a few hundred bucks’ makeup and costuming you’ve just destroyed there, buddy.”
Jackson peered down at his running makeup and dripping costume, trying to smother a grin. Apparently he’d just realized his dress-up day was over before it had even really begun. For some reason this just made her madder.
“Is that what happened, Alex? Were you going to fall in the lake and this guy grabbed you?” The kid looked at his father, then at Jackson, and gave the smallest hint of a nod.
Awesome. She’d taken a tumble down the hill for some moron who couldn’t keep track of his own child and decked the guy who saved him. Her shoulder was killing her. “Where were you? What were you doing letting him so close to the water unsupervised? If it hadn’t been for Jackson seeing him, he could have drowned!”
The man opened his mouth, but she wasn’t finished with him yet.
“And him.” She jabbed a finger in Jackson’s sodden direction, now incandescent on his behalf. “He’s wearing almost ten kilos of armor. What if you’d knocked him out? He would’ve gone down like an anchor, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t have jumped in to save him.” She didn’t even want to think about that. A client dying on her watch was unfathomable. Even an arrogant, annoying one who needed to close his mouth. Jackson’s jaw was hanging so low it was an open invitation to the native bug life to make themselves at home.
Mr. Punch-’Em-Up Father of the Year at least had the decency to look ashamed. “I just lost track of him for a second. One second we were in the Green Dragon and the next time I turned around, Alex was gone.”
She raised her eyebrows. A second, huh? She wasn’t unfamiliar with how fast little people could move, but they were a decent distance from the inn.
The guy turned to Jackson. “I’m sorry. It seems I owe you an apology and a thank-you. I was out of my mind with worry and when I heard his screams and saw you holding him, my mind jumped to the worst. No hard feelings, I hope?” He held out his hand.
Allie waited for Jackson to come back with something biting to cut the guy down to size. Instead, he took the guy’s hand and gave it a solid shake, lake glop spattering on the ground as he did. “No hard feelings. I know I must’ve given the little guy one unforgettable scare.”
He turned to Allie and opened his mouth to say something but paused, his brow creasing into little ridges. “What happened to you?”
Man, his eye was really puffing up bad. “What do you mean?”
He gestured at her, lips quivering as though fighting a losing battle against a large grin. She bristled. What was so funny?
“Why are you covered in grass?”
* * *
Jackson was one happy man. With the exception of the right side of his face, which felt like it had borne the brunt of a two-by-four, he felt great. The wonders of a hot shower and being allowed to wear proper clothes again. Even the fact that he probably wasn’t going to be able to see out of one eye for a few days couldn’t ruin his fantastic mood after getting out of spending the day as an orc-thing.
And that was without taking time to relish what he was certain had been a glint of approval in his uncle’s eye as Allie relayed the tale to the group.
“Ow!” He couldn’t help the yelp as Allie dabbed the cut on his face with antiseptic, the piercing sting bringing him back to reality in the private dining room at the Green Dragon Inn.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” She was crowding his personal space. At some point, she’d lost the wig, but her hair was still pulled back, a few errant flyaways dancing around her jawline. A faint hint of citrus wafted around his nose.
“That’s not a nice thing to say to someone who saved a life.” He meant it as a joke, but somehow it came across petulant and patronizing.
She snorted. “Stay still, Hero Boy.” Her green eyes squinted as she tended to his cut. He wasn’t going to mess with her, no sirree; the little spitfire had given that father a dressing-down. The guy was probably going to have nightmares about it for the rest of his life.
As long as he lived, Jackson would never forget the sight of her decimating a man who had six inches and a hundred pounds on her, while covered in grass clippings from the top of her frizzy wig to the toenails on her fake feet.
“Why do you do this?” The question slipped out of him. Allie could hold her own in any boardroom he’d ever been in. The more he knew about her, the less the tour guide gig fit.
“Do what?” Something undecipherable crossed her freckled face as she stepped back, threw the cotton ball into the trash can, and rummaged in the medical kit on the table beside her. She pulled out a slim packet and ripped it open. “These should do.”
Picking up a pair of tweezers, she plucked a slim sterile strip out of the packet. “Don’t move. I need to put this over the cut.”
Hmm. He might be wrong, but he was pretty sure she was evading the question. Interesting.
“What’s your PhD in?”
“English literature.” She smoothed the strip down.
He waited for more, but nothing else came. Even more interesting. He’d met a lot of people with doctorates, and every single one of them would happily talk for hours about their beloved field if asked. Even if the topic was the most boring and obscure thing you could possibly imagine. “Wh—”
“One more should do it.” She leaned forward, then suddenly jerked back and covered her mouth just as an enormous sneeze shook her small frame. “Sorry. Stupid grass.”
It was one of the spinsters who’d told him Allie had taken a tumble down the hill hurrying to get to him. Oh, how he wished he could have seen it. He struggled to contain his smile.
She sighed and paused mid-placement of the next strip. “What now?”
“I’ve heard of falling head over heels, but you’ve taken it to a whole new level. I’m flattered, though.”
“Yes, you’re a regular Casanova,” she deadpanned. Stepping back, she studied his face. “That eye’s going to hurt tonight. Take this.” She held up a bag with ice cubes. “And make sure you get a fresh one before we leave.”
A grimace crossed her face as she slapped the ice pack into his hand. He realized that he’d never checked to see if her little tumble hadn’t resulted in anything more than great comedy. “Are you okay?”
She paused and rolled her shoulder a couple of times. “It’s nothing. I dislocated my shoulder in the fall, but it popped right back in so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Whoa. What? He sprang up, almost knocking her over in the process.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled a chair out. “What am I doing? What are you doing? Why aren’t you at the hospital? That needs to be checked out. Put in a sling. Strapped up. Sit down. I’m going to find someone to call a doctor. Or someone . . .” He trailed off. He was in a strange country in the middle of nowhere. He had no clue how to get her seen to.
She glared at him. “I have eight people to look after. Two of whom have already created a whole lot of extra paperwork for me tonight.” She gave him a pointed look. “I don’t have time to get it checked out. I told you, it’ll be fine.”
“Are you out of your mind? What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you care?” She made a point of looking at her watch. “It took you over an hour to ask.”
Touché. “I’m sorry. I . . .” He ran out of words. Because there were none. She was right. He’d been a self-absorbed jerk who thought the whole thing was a great joke. He hadn’t considered for a second that she might have gotten hurt.
A smile cracked her face. “Gotcha.”
“What do you . . .” Realization dawned. “It wasn’t.”
“You’re not the only one who can be funny around here.”
“That wasn’t funny. That was mean.” He sucked in his breath as he realized that somehow, in the last few seconds, things had gotten borderline flirtatious.
So, because inside he was still a thirteen-year-old boy, he stuck his tongue out at her.
Allie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s real mature.”
“I’m rubber and you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.” What was that? He hadn’t heard that saying in years—let alone said it to someone.
“What are you? Twelve?” But she was smiling. And Jackson didn’t like the effect it had on him. At all.
Alex’s dad had hit him pretty hard; he probably had a minor concussion. That was it. Now that he thought about it, he did have a bit of a headache and felt a bit dizzy. Classic concussion symptoms after a blow to the head. That was it. That was all of it.
Eleven
ALLIE ROLLED HER HEAD AND listened to her vertebrae crack. First thing after this tour, she was going to make an appointment with her chiropractor. Her entire body felt jolted out of alignment. She peered out the window of the Green Dragon Inn and checked her watch. Almost two. The group should be on their way back to the inn for a late lunch. They were going to have to eat fast and get a move on to make their flight south back to Wellington.
Between Esther and Jackson, she was sure she’d lost a good decade off her life today. Probably more. Thank goodness there was nothing on the itinerary for this evening, because she really, really needed a break from these people.
It had been a bad morning. She’d decided that as she’d stood in a steaming hot shower back at the farm and tried to scrub all the dirt and grass off.
Nothing shook your faith in your bad opinion of someone like them saving the life of a child. Actually, that wasn’t even it. She was pretty sure the only type of person who wouldn’t rescue a small child would be a sociopath. Or a serial killer. Not exactly a high bar.
It was more that then he had to go and be all nice to the father who’d given him a shiner when the Jackson she’d thought he was would’ve been a condescending git about it. And then, then, as she was struggling not to notice his ridiculous blue eyes or the fact that he hadn’t shaved for a few days and looked like a rugged movie star, he had to go and be all . . . she didn’t even have a word for it. Normal? Kind of flirtatious?
What mattered was that the day had altered the foundations of t
heir mutually disdainful relationship that had been working so well.
Plus, she knew he knew she’d tried to deflect his questions about her. Bad idea. She should’ve spun him a couple of good stories, but she hated lying—which was good, because she was also terrible at it.
She preferred to tell the truth—but leave large chunks of detail out. She was sure that if there was anything that would kill the weird vibe between them, it would be the words I’m married—even though that wasn’t the whole truth.
The only highlight was that she’d had to return to the farm to get her backup hobbit dress—yes, she had two—which gave her an excuse to send Jackson to rejoin the tour without her once she’d finished fixing his face.
“Interesting morning, Dr. Shire?” Gandalf had snuck up on her. For an old guy, Mr. Duff could sure move with stealth, especially considering the inn’s wooden floors. Where had he even come from? She looked around for the rest of the group but couldn’t see them.
“That’s one word for it.”
The older man let out a bit of a chuckle. “I have to say, when I saw you rolling down the hill I was sure we were going to be needing a new tour guide.”
Allie summoned up a smile. “Oh, they breed us pretty hardy here. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Excellent.”
“Did you enjoy the rest of the tour?” Thank goodness Hobbiton had been able to lend someone to supervise the group while she tended to Jackson.
He beamed. “Oh, it was brilliant, just brilliant. The level of detail they thought of is genius . . .” And he was gone, rattling off his favorite parts.
Allie envied him. She wished she could return to the days when she’d had the same passion for the books, the movies, all of it. When she’d earnestly believed there wasn’t a problem in life you couldn’t find an answer to in the works of Tolkien. Oh, and the Bible, of course.
Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to have a passage for what to do when you found yourself an accidental bigamist married to a lying, cheating, bottom-feeding, sorry excuse for a man.