by Christa Wick
“You okay?” he asked. She was doing great for never having picked a gun up in her life, but she was also handling the weapon a little too delicately at times, like it was a lit stick of dynamite that someone had told her she had to hold onto.
“Yes,” she answered a bit breathless.
Putting the safety on, she placed the 9mm on the table in front of her.
“Maybe not,” she admitted.
Picking up the gun, Barrett dropped the magazine and ejected the chambered round before returning the weapon to its carrying case.
“I understand.”
Placing his palm against the back of her neck, Barrett lightly squeezed as he pulled Quinn to him. She wrapped her arms around his torso.
“Someone’s watching from the barn,” she whispered.
He expected her to tense up knowing that somebody might be spying on them, but she acted as if she belonged in his arms.
And she did.
Kissing her forehead, he chuckled. “Female, dark hair, bit on the short side with boots you can see from a mile away.”
Quinn laughed with him.
“They’re lime green,” she answered.
“That would be Siobhan the Curious. The one that’s going to be a cop.”
“Oh, I still have her card.”
Quinn’s arm jiggled.
“Did you just wave to her?”
“Yes,” she chirped.
Hearing the smile in her voice, Barrett pulled away and studied her face. All they had done was hold one another over the night, but it had a profound effect on both of them. He knew he felt less anxious, which was great because smokejumpers weren’t supposed to be the anxious sort. Excessive worry could leave a man and his team surrounded with no way out.
And Quinn looked like she finally felt at home, like he was the missing piece that made everything fit for her.
“Is she coming over?” he asked with a mock growl.
Her eyes lighting up with a smile, Quinn nodded.
Hearing Siobhan’s boots crunch gravel, Barrett turned and opened a little distance between him and Quinn.
“Morning, cousin.”
The young woman rolled her eyes, reached up and grabbed him by the ears. Tugging his head down until it was even with hers, she kissed his cheek then released him and thrust a hand towards Quinn.
“I so wanted to meet you Sunday,” she said. “I’m Siobhan, by the way. Aunt Lindy supposedly put her foot down and Mama and Daddy told me I had to stay home. At least no one made me cook.”
“You got anything else you want to say,” Barrett asked. “Or can someone else have a turn talking?”
Siobhan pointed her nose in the air but dropped it the second Quinn accepted her offer of a handshake.
“Quinn Whitaker. And I always say better late than never.”
“You should stay for lunch,” Siobhan decided. “Looks like you guys were done with practice anyway. Cassian did a casserole last night, made a double batch, so Mama has that heating up in the oven.”
Barrett shook his head before Quinn had a chance to say anything.
“Much as I love it when your big brother puts on an apron, we have a standing appointment with Mama and Sage.”
Siobhan’s mouth twitched and her hands found her hips before Barrett finished talking, but after a second’s pause, she shrugged and turned her attention back to Quinn.
“So, Aunt Dotty said you’re building a cabin and need all the hands you can get, yeah?”
“Well, sort of,” Quinn laughed. “We showed up at Jester’s yesterday evening and a bunch of work had already been done. It was a complete surprise to both of us.”
Siobhan nodded through every word Quinn said.
“Yeah, that’s Aunt Dotty. It’s hard to get her off her homestead, but when she comes out, she comes all out. Anyway, what do you think about a ‘Hammers and Heels’ day? All girls, or mostly all girls. We might need a little male direction for what we’re doing.”
“That doesn’t exactly sound safe,” Barrett said.
Siobhan waved his objection aside, her focus remaining on Quinn. “We won’t drink until after we’re done. Or, at least, we won’t drink much before then.”
“I still don’t think it sounds safe. And if word gets around what you’re doing, there’ll be more than a ‘little’ male direction. You’ll have half the ranch hands showing up, and not just from one ranch.”
Siobhan smiled a canary-eating grin, her dark gaze blazing with mischief.
“Maybe we can table that idea for the time being,” Quinn suggested. “See how the work is lining up with the weather. It’s going to get really muddy up there with even a light rain. There would be a lot of heels stuck in the ground.”
“It sounded good, though, didn’t it?” Siobhan asked, the edges of her mouth straining to gather into a fresh pout.
“Brilliant marketing,” Quinn agreed. “I could really see that going over very successfully on one of the Habitat for Humanity days in L.A.”
Siobhan’s grin widened. “Hey, I like her!”
Barrett draped an arm around Quinn’s shoulder while he shot a stern glance at his little cousin.
Siobhan ignored the warning.
“We should have a girls’ night soon, you, me, Sage, Ashley…I’ll even let my annoying big sister show up if she can tear herself away from her telescope.”
“I have a ten o’clock curfew.”
Looking down, Barrett noticed the forward push of Quinn’s bottom lip a second before it disappeared.
Siobhan waved her hand. “I haven’t met a curfew I couldn’t get around.”
“You haven’t had a curfew with any real consequences,” Barrett growled. “Now, if you want to be helpful, we’ll be practicing again tomorrow. You can assist. I figure if she can still load and shoot while you are jabbering away a mile a minute, she can do the same with a bear or a mountain lion kicking up a fuss.”
“Rawr,” Siobhan countered, her hand up and her nails out. “It’s a date.”
She skipped back toward the barn, her lime green cowgirl boots kicking up gravel as she went.
“Sorry,” Barrett mumbled once his cousin was out of earshot.
Quinn wrapped her arms around his waist, her body pressed against his as she looked deep inside of him.
“I liked her,” she protested. “But you’re absolutely right—that curfew comes first.”
Chapter Eleven
The rest of the week passed quickly. The cell reception stayed strong. Barrett put up field cameras to get a sense of the local four-footed predators. The mountain lion showed up on the cameras, but didn’t disturb Quinn or Barrett’s sleep again.
In between picking up some work from Sage and the ranch, Quinn put in a lot of target practice with the 9mm. She still couldn’t bring herself to shoot the forty-five or shotgun for more than a few trigger pulls. Just holding those two weapons felt like she had a grenade in her hand, pin out and only the perfect placement of her fingers keeping it from exploding.
On Monday, they visited Mr. Cross at his office. The attorney didn’t yield on the check-in, but said he would explore some tracking options. Barrett waited until he and Quinn were in the truck before grumbling about the man just wanting to pad his billing time.
Work on the cabin progressed. Concrete was laid and cured. Walls were getting framed, so was the roof.
Barrett got together with his mother and his oldest brother Adler to schedule a big push for that Saturday, with a dozen ranch hands and all of Barrett’s fire team agreeing to show up. In the meantime, Sutton figured out how to get water to the house. Half the men were going to work on that project while the others worked on the roof and walls. Lindy and Siobhan were going to keep the food and cold drinks coming.
“What team am I on?” Quinn asked Saturday morning when they returned from a quick trip to Barrett’s house.
Looking a little guilty, he walked around to the back of his truck where a big blue bin had made its way some
time between arriving at his house and Quinn finishing her shower. When she queried him on its contents, Barrett told her she would find out in due time.
“Grab your gun,” he said, putting the tailgate down and picking up the bin.
She rubbed at her cheek before a scowl could settle in place then opened up the portable gun safe and took the 9mm out. She slid it into the clip-on holster and attached the holster to her belt.
“Bear spray, too,” he added.
“Why does this suddenly seem ominous?” she joked as she grabbed the canister.
Half-joked, really. Barrett telling her to bring her gun and the bear spray made Quinn nervous. So did the hint of worry she had spotted fleeing across his face.
“Just a precaution,” he said, putting the bin aside long enough to sling the shotgun across his back. “Follow me.”
He started down the side of the hill to where the trees had been saved by the rocky divide. Beyond the trees, Quinn knew the pond waited. But he turned and followed the tree line west.
Crossing one of the two streams that ran through Jester’s property, they entered the woods on the other side of the water. While the first leg of the walk had been downhill, they started uphill after passing the stream.
Reaching a crest, the trees dropped away, yielding lower down to a meadow and the fat thumb of a lake she had only seen on a map until that moment. A thick forest bordered the opposite side of the meadow and the lake’s shoreline.
“This crest is one of your property borders,” Barrett said. He waved at the meadow in front of them and the bit of water. “That’s state land.”
Quinn nodded then offered the bin a pointed look. As big as it was, Barrett wasn’t out of breath from carrying the container uphill at such a distance. He was strong as an ox, of course, but his breathing remained fluid and measured. So she knew there was nothing seriously heavy inside. She also knew the bin held several items because the contents rattled and rolled as he moved.
“What’s inside?”
Part of her already knew.
“Don’t get mad, okay?” he said, getting on his knees and unhooking one side of the lid.
Quinn shook her head, not sure whether she was trying to communicate she could never get mad at him or that he was about to do something she didn’t want him to do. Probably both.
Taking a deep breath, he unhooked the other side and removed the lid to reveal a collapsible easel and chair, two canvases, a bunch of brushes and a rainbow of acrylic paint tubes.
“This maybe isn’t what you’re used to working with…”
Quinn remained silent with the realization that Barrett had been gently interrogating her over the course of the week. In answer to his casual questions, she had told him the materials she worked with depended on whether she was painting in a studio, how much time she had and similar factors. For a live painting outdoors, she told him she preferred acrylics over watercolors or oils. Acrylics allowed her to easily execute a course correction. And the canvas was usually dry by the time she was ready to pack up and go home.
“Everyone’s going to be there,” she protested, pointing behind her at the woods. “Sweating and working for free. And you want me to sit here and play?”
Quinn tried to take a critical tone even though Barrett didn’t deserve it. Instead, she sounded distant and afraid.
“I haven’t held a brush in over three years,” she frowned.
Ignoring her objections, Barrett set up the easel and put the first canvas on it. Then he unfolded the chair, pulled out the paints and brushes and the palette for mixing everything on. Next, he put the lid on the bin, pulled it close to the chair and transferred the supplies, the bin serving as an impromptu workstation.
Finished, he faced Quinn, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
When he kissed her forehead, she wanted to growl. Or “grow a pair,” and plant a real kiss on his mouth. They’d been sleeping together in the trailer for more than a week. They woke up plastered around one another. But the situation never progressed beyond that.
“I already talked to everyone and they agree with me,” he said. “We want to wow you today. That only works if you’re not right there with us swinging a hammer.”
A pout pushed her lips together as she offered a foot stamp of resistance.
Barrett grinned. “That’s kind of adorable.”
She gave his chest a light slug. “No, it’s not. It’s only cute on actual toddlers.”
With a nod, she pointed at the canvas. “What if I can’t do anything? It’s been so long and—”
Gently, Barrett placed a finger against Quinn’s lips.
She stopped talking.
“Good,” he said, his hands moving to cradle her face. Slowly, he brought his mouth to hers.
Shivers ran down Quinn’s spine as she felt the warm press of his lips. Her mouth softened. A compliant groan gurgled in her throat.
Barrett cupped her face more urgently, his lips parting, his tongue teasing her mouth with a slow swipe.
She groaned again, her toes pointed at the ground as she lifted, her body surfing against his. He bit at her bottom lip, sucked it for one sweet second before letting it go.
He drifted left, planted a kiss on her cheek then another on her closed eyelid. Quinn swayed, pressed into him, fingers clutching at his clothes to keep from falling as her knees grew weak and her thighs warmed.
Slowly, Barrett brought her back down to earth. He turned Quinn, his chest pressed reassuringly against her back as he pointed at the meadow and lake.
“Jasper wasn’t just giving you land and a roof over your head,” he whispered in her ear. “He was giving you all of this beauty, all of this inspiration. Use it.”
Maneuvering her way back into Barrett’s embrace, Quinn nodded. She might have nothing but a mess to show him at the end of the day, but she had to start over somewhere. The land around her, so recently scarred by fire, was all about starting over.
“That’s my girl,” he said, popping a kiss on her forehead. Dipping into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a walkie-talkie and handed it to her. “I’ll be working a little upstream with Sutton. Not that anything’s going to happen, just remember to keep this and the gun and spray within reach.”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Quinn repeated. “Keep the gun, the spray and the radio nearby. Got it.”
Barrett started to turn. She caught his sleeve.
He stopped and looked back.
“That kiss…”
His cheeks fanned a soft pink.
“Yeah,” she grinned, letting him go. “Me, too.”
* * *
Half an hour working with the first canvas produced a riot of dark smears that looked like a bunch of toddlers had gotten into a fistfight with finger paint. Quinn scraped away the mess, re-primed the canvas, then picked up the spare that Barrett had so considerately provided.
She didn’t reach for the palette or any brushes. She just sat there, her gaze soaking in the landscape’s colors and shapes.
Quinn had forgotten what it was like for painting to be hard. In part because so much of it had come easily to her.
Up until the gallery opening.
Growling, she forced thoughts of what her half-sister had done. Naomi was in the past. All Quinn had to do was stay off the teen’s radar—no social media with Quinn’s picture or real name, no business registrations.
Out here, in the middle of nowhere, she could have a life without her mother or sister. All because of Jasper.
And Barrett, she amended, a relaxed smile spreading wide across her face.
Thinking of him, how safe he made her feel, Quinn picked up the palette and brush and began to paint.
Using a fine edge, she outlined the water and the line of the trees with a greenish brown. Loading the brush up, she added in trunks, some of them massive, others scrawny from living in the shadows of giants. Switching to a fan brush, she slid it through the green and added in the foliage, then b
ack to the brown for branches, a little yellow for highlights, dark blues for the water before moving on to the meadow.
Gaze returning to her inspiration, Quinn frowned at an outcropping of rock in the meadow. A rock that hadn’t been there earlier.
A brown rock that was moving.
A brown bear that was moving—its head lifting as if it sensed her presence.
The palette and brush slipped from Quinn’s hands. She eased from the chair and started to walk toward the trees behind her, not once turning her back on the meadow.
Rough bark scratched at her shoulders. She froze, her mind taking a few terrifying seconds to recognize that she had walked into a tree and not another bear. A few more seconds passed before she realized she had forgotten to grab the radio, gun and bear spray from the top of the bin.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…
She moved forward, heart pounding in her chest because the bear was definitely crossing the meadow, its big, furry body ambling slowly in her direction.
Don’t run, she reminded herself, grabbing the gun first, then the radio and finally the spray. Barrett had told her that, if she ran, whether it was from a mountain lion or a bear, she’d trigger the animal’s instinct to run down prey.
Getting behind a tree, she peeked around the trunk as she held down the push-to-talk button.
“Barrett, can you hear me?”
Quinn released the button, her hand shaking so badly she was in danger of dropping the radio. She brought the radio near her mouth again, finishing off a five count before she would repeat the message.
Just as “four” quivered through her mind, she heard Barrett’s voice, his words delivered with a steely calm.
“Quinn, what’s wrong?”
“Bear,” she said, then realized she hadn’t pushed the button.
“Bear,” she repeated. “Headed toward me. I think he saw me.”
“Okay, you want to get behind something solid, stay quiet. You have your gun and spray?”
“Yes, I have them,” she answered, her voice shaking as hard as her hands. “I’m behind a tree trunk, but there’s a bigger one nearby.”
“I’m on my way, baby. If it’s safe to move to the other tree, do it—but remember, go slow.”