Hank's sudden silence was oppressive. And Lana knew, without a doubt, without even needing him to tell her, that there was something. It was maddening to hear his answer in the void that stretched between them; she could see the shape of words without knowing what the words were.
"No one gets to go back in time," he said finally, echoing Alex. "No one gets a real second chance, Lana—especially not at the things that matter. I think we're just fooling ourselves at this point."
Lana stared at him. His words had knocked the wind out of her. She felt a surge of something unfamiliar burn through her suddenly, and realized it was anger: real, true anger, and not the disillusionment she had convinced herself to feel for years when she couldn't sustain her feelings of sadness. "What the hell was this day about, then, Hank?" she demanded. "And why did you come back to me in the first place?"
"Because I couldn't stay away from you any longer!" he thundered. He threw his napkin down and rose, but Lana didn't back down in the wake of his eruption. She rose as well, blood thrumming in her ears.
"You could have. You stayed away for years!" she replied. "Why did you decide to let any of this happen, then, if you think it's all a mistake?"
"We both wanted to get back what we had then, but we can't," he said. "It's time to come back down to reality, Lana. I'm sorry. I can't change what I did . . . and we can't change the past."
What did you do, Hank? She wanted to scream the question, but she didn't. She had asked already, only to come up abruptly on a dead end—one that Hank himself had imposed. "Hank . . ." She choked a little on his name, but persevered. "I forgive you for leaving. You know that, right?"
Hank said nothing. He hung his head where he stood, and Lana knew he heard her. Hell, it looked as if he believed her, too—or at least believed that she believed what she was saying. There was an almost patronizing quality to his acceptance that she couldn't bear any longer. "I forgive you, Hank. But I'm tired of playing games. The constant hot-and-cold, the sudden upswings before the downswings . . . I literally can't take this anymore." Tears sprang into her eyes as she spoke, but she didn't blink, or turn her eyes from him. She knew they would fall if she did. They hung, suspended, unreleased, on her lower lash line. ". . . I think you should go," she finished.
Hank's motionless posture went even more rigid at this. He had expected to leave, she realized—he hadn't expected to be thrown out. He lifted his head, and opened his mouth to reply.
Lana braced herself. Her hands settled on the table, and she waited. She didn't blink. She didn't let the tears flow.
"Goodbye, Lana," Hank said quietly.
It was only after Hank turned and left, closing the front door behind him, that Lana sank back down into her chair and surrendered.
"You should have known better, Lana," she sobbed to herself. She realized that she was twisting the napkin that Hank had left behind him. She had a momentary impulse to throw it against the wall, but she resisted at the last moment. She pressed it close to her heart.
"You know better now," she murmured.
15
HANK
Hank pulled up in front of the rental and got out. He left the engine of the truck he’d picked up for the trip back idling as he ascended the front steps in a single bound. He pulled the front door open, and, ignoring the calls of greeting from the kitchen, ducked upstairs.
Getting packed was easy enough. He had already removed all of his personal effects from the station. Now it was only a matter of shoving everything into his well-worn duffel bag. His neatly rolled shirts went first. He shoved them into the far corner of the bag, followed by his boxers, his pants, his shoes. He had brought nothing more personal with him, and intended to take nothing new with him out of Cedar Springs.
It was better this way. He was returning home. Everything he needed was in Alaska already, waiting for him . . .
An image of Lana's face reared up in his mind's eye. Hank caught a quick inhalation between his front teeth. He forced his eyes closed. He banished the last look of betrayal she had fixed him with on his way out.
But it was worse than that. Beneath the betrayal, Hank hadn't seen any evidence of true surprise. And that had been the most cutting. At the end of the day, Lana hadn't expected anything different from him. She might have placed all her hopes on them working out, but she had also counted on him leaving her alone and hopeless.
Hank cursed. He laid his hands on his duffel bag, but it was already packed, and he didn't want to risk having to do it all over again. Instead, he grabbed the pillow off the bed and hurled it at the far wall. It took the bedside lamp with it, knocking it to the floor into (thankfully repairable) pieces. He hadn’t broken anything here before now. But he was in too much of a state to regret his actions. Let someone else deal with it.
He hauled his bag up over his shoulder and stalked downstairs.
None of the men who called after him in jovial parting were his own. He knew where his squad would be. Hank headed across town, fists gripping the steering wheel like he could wring an answer from it. He needed the open road, sooner rather than later. But he couldn't just leave his men behind without a word of goodbye.
He parked the truck in front of Alex's house. The Alaska squad's loaner truck was already there, as well as Garrett’s rental car. This time, he didn't leave the engine idling; he got out, ramming the keys into his pocket. He didn't intend to stay long.
By the time he made it to the front door, Alex was already there. "Hank!" she said in surprise.
"Alex," he returned. "I assume by their cars that everyone is here."
"Not everyone." Alex's brow furrowed, but she held the door open for him, and Hank slipped by her. He knew what name was on the tip of her tongue, and was grateful when she said nothing.
In the kitchen, gathered around the table, he saw his men: Chance, Landon, and Garrett. Chance lifted a casual hand in greeting as the other two rose.
"At ease," Hank said. There was a murmur of laughter as the over-attentive members of the squad sat down.
He saw his sister, Sookie, leaning against the kitchen counter by the oven, bottle of soda in hand. She returned his raised eyebrow with one of her own. "What?" she queried. "Some of us still have a job in Cedar Springs."
"You don't have to rub it in," Chase informed her.
"I'm glad you're all here." Hank ignored their banter as easily as he ignored the festive atmosphere.
Alex passed by him and pulled open the fridge. "Beer, Hank?" she asked him.
Hank put up his hand. "No thanks, Alex. I decided to head out a bit early."
"What—like now?" Chase asked incredulously. "In what vehicle?"
"I bought a truck," Hank said. "But the department's still on the hook for the other one. Make sure you return it in one piece."
"You just got here," Landon said. "At least sit and celebrate a little."
"I'm anxious to be on my way," Hank said. "Just wanted to say my goodbyes on my way out of town."
The sooner he got back to Alaska, the sooner all this would just be a distant, bittersweet memory.
Chase and Landon exchanged looks. Again, Hank hated the sensation that they knew what he was thinking.
"All right, Chief. If you're sure." Chase sounded unconvinced.
"You had dinner, Hank?" Alex asked him.
"At Lana's."
Fuck. He regretted the admission, the second it left his mouth, but there was no taking it back now.
"You say goodbye to Dyna?" It was Sookie, of all people, who saved him from answering to Alex's incredulous look.
Hank paused for a long moment; then he lifted one shoulder. "Say goodbye to her for me," he requested.
"You're a traitor to your people, Hank," Sookie said. "You know this is where you belong. Why not stay a while?"
"Hell, everyone who even remotely likes you is here," Chase pointed out. "Why the big hurry?"
Hank avoided Alex's eyes. "Take care of yourselves," he said. He moved back out into the hallw
ay. Maybe dropping in on them had been a mistake. At least it was a misstep he was in a position to correct.
His hand found the doorknob, and a light hand alighted on his shoulder. Hank turned. He did not expect the person who’d stopped him in the hallway to be his sister.
"Hank." Sookie's pale face, framed by her accustomed dark fringe of hair, was still so impossibly youthful to him. He couldn't help but see the little sister he had left behind, the tiny shadow who had once flanked him everywhere in Cedar Springs. Most days, he hadn't been able to shake her.
Most days, he hadn't wanted to.
"Sook."
She threw her arms around him.
Hank stumbled back, but planted himself before he could crash into the door. He huffed a little laugh of surprise, then hugged her ferociously close in turn. It was what he had never expected, and suddenly all he wanted.
"Don't go," Sookie whispered urgently. "Please. There's so much for you here."
"There really isn't, Sookie." Lana's face flashed before him again. "I made sure of that."
Sookie drew back. The light was off in the hallway, but he could swear her eyes looked wet. "How can you be so stupid, Hank? Everything you ever wanted is here. You've got roots here. And so do I. I'm frankly embarrassed at how long it took me to realize it."
"Don't beat yourself up about it." Hank settled his hand on the crown of her head.
Her dark eyes became suddenly steely. "Let's just say I'm not the one I want to beat up right now, big brother."
"Some things never change," he said as he turned to go.
"Some things never do," Sookie agreed quietly.
This time, there was no hand that stayed him as he went.
16
LANA
Lana barely registered the knock that came at the door. She was sprawled stomach-first on the couch, head pillowed in her arms, hot tears coursing down her face as she muffled wrenching sobs.
The knock came again, and she sat up. She scrubbed at her eyes and blinked dully.
She couldn't fathom who might be dropping by for a visit now. Hank was so totally—and completely—gone again that it only vaguely occurred to her the person on her doorstep might be the same person responsible for her current state.
She rose and shuffled to the door like a zombie. She pulled it open, not caring who it was. Or what she might look like. It was call and response: Someone knocked, she answered. Ever the consummate host. Hell, she might as well grab the pitcher of tea and pour drinks.
"Yes?" Her voice cracked despite how hopelessly lubricated everything else felt.
"Lana!" Alex sounded as if she had just discovered a wretched case that was beyond even her ability as a nurse to diagnose. Lana stared, registering her friend's startled face—and the equally disturbed expression of Landon, standing directly behind her friend. "What the hell happened?" Alex demanded.
"Oh, you know." Lana tried to wave off her concerns in the same gesture that waved her visitors in. It was an awkward, almost robotic move. "Same old, same old." How devastatingly true her deflection actually was. "I'm fine now. Really."
"You're not fine!" Alex exclaimed. She grabbed Lana's arm and led her back into the living room as if Lana were a weakened patient of hers and liable to fall over.
Lana wanted to shake her off, to prove that she really was all right on her own, but she couldn't. When she was directed back to the couch, she sat down wearily. When the tea was brought out, she wasn't the one serving it. She could barely keep up with what was happening. Her head swam.
"Hank," Alex said by way of explanation to Landon. "You see? I told you. This is exactly why he bolted."
"The chief would never bolt from anything," Landon argued, though he sounded suddenly uncertain.
Alex sighed—which came out as more of a frustrated growl—and knelt down in front of Lana. "Lana, tell me what happened. Please. We still have time to fix this."
"You can't fix anything, Alex," Lana said bitterly. "Not this time. Please, I know your heart is in the right place. But maybe it's time for me to just let things go."
"How can you say that?" Alex asked incredulously. "Lana, that baby is coming! Even if you and Hank can't settle your differences in time, for your child's sake, you have to . . ."
"Baby?" Landon echoed. Both women looked up at the sharp tone in his voice. His eyes were so round it would have been almost comical . . . but this was Landon. He was as levelheaded as the Alaskan squad got. Fear tugged at Lana's heart suddenly, now that she realized that Alex had just let her secret out. "What baby?"
"I'm pregnant." It was Lana's turn to own the news. The fuzzy world of despair she had mired herself in began to solidify around her. She straightened, still gripping Alex's hand. "Hank is the father."
"You told him?" Alex said.
Lana shook her head. "No. I . . . I kept putting it off, thinking there was a better time. But now . . ."
"You didn't tell him, Lana?" Alex gasped. Lana hated feeling like she was about to lose her only ally in all this, but she nodded an affirmation. Landon sucked in a breath and turned away, raking a hand through his hair.
"No," Lana repeated. "No, I haven't told Hank. If Hank needed to leave, then that's what he had to do. I'm not going to anchor him to a place he hates. It's better this way."
"Lana, you can't really believe that." Landon rounded on her again, and Lana could tell by the tightness of his expression that he was only barely keeping his temper in check. "This isn't just your child. It's Hank's. He has every right to know the full story." His phone buzzed, but he ignored it.
"I didn't want to keep the truth from him!" she exclaimed. Her eyes darted between them. She felt pinned, like a wild animal cornered in a cage it had accidentally stumbled into. "I didn't want to deceive him. But I couldn't stand the thought of him staying out of obligation, trapped in a situation he never wanted!"
"You never gave him a chance to make that decision," Landon said. "You withheld all the information he would need to make that decision."
Lana hung her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the venomous look Alex sent in the firefighter’s direction, but her friend didn't rise to her defense this time. She didn't need to. Landon was right. Lana had tried to navigate the rocky terrain of truth and dishonesty, and she had steered wrong. She had put off telling Hank the truth until it was too late.
Alex wrapped her arms around her, and Lana fell into the offered embrace. She breathed raggedly, quietly, trying to stifle any more displays of her utter despair.
Landon's phone buzzed, and he turned away from them to answer the call. Alex smoothed Lana's hair and murmured to her quietly. Lana wasn't sure what her friend was saying, but she appreciated the gesture.
God, she was tired of feeling alone.
"What is it?" The concern in Alex's voice made Lana raise her head.
Suddenly, she wasn't the immediate center of the drama in the room. Landon's expression was stretched so taut that his clenched muscles caused new shadows to overtake his face.
"That was the Cedar Springs chief," he said. "The storm veered. The heat wave came up from the south, and the winds kicked up and pushed the fire over the firebreak. Just like Hank suspected it would. Damn it."
"What does that mean?" Alex whispered.
"Exactly what you think it means. We have to start evacuating the town. Now." Landon moved toward the door. Lana rose, Alex with her. The women exchanged alarmed looks. "They need all hands on deck."
"Where is the fire now?" Lana asked him.
"It's here. The south side of town. We all need to head north immediately."
"I have to get to the hospital." Alex's own pocket was buzzing now. She looked to Lana, possibly fishing for a signal that Lana understood, and Lana nodded.
"Go," she agreed. "I'm right behind you."
Alex squeezed her hand once more in parting, then released her. Landon held the door open for her, and she ducked beneath his arm with a backward glance. Lana nodded again.
"Get to safety," Landon said. "We'll find you as soon as things settle down." And we'll finish this conversation, his tone seemed to promise.
Lana nodded a third time. As soon as they were gone, she rushed to her room. She started packing.
God, Hank. She couldn't stop the thoughts racing through her mind. I wish you were here. But you aren't. Now it's up to me to look out for myself.
And it's up to me to look out for this baby.
17
HANK
He was an hour down the road when the call from Chase came.
Hank almost didn't answer it at first. He watched his cell phone ring on the dash, vibrating its way around the tray. He glanced out the window at the scenery retreating behind him. The further away from Cedar Springs he got, the more the blackened trees, stripped of their life and leaves, reared up to greet him.
The fire had already passed through this area. His was one of the only trucks out on the road, and that was how he preferred it. Let this dead, winding road lead him home—or whatever it was he was running back to.
Because that's what it was. Running. He wasn't chasing anything. And it was the thought of the chase that was continuing to elude him that drew him back to the Chase who just wouldn't leave him the hell alone.
"Hank here." He pressed the phone to his ear, letting it be known by his tone that he wasn't in the mood for Chase's horseshit. If the other man thought he could convince him to return to Cedar Springs now, he had another think coming.
"Hank!" Chase's tone, in contrast to what he had been expecting, was urgent. Hank pressed the phone closer to his ear to catch the agitated stream of words. "It's the fire, Hank! It blew into town!"
"Where?" This was the last damn news he had wanted to receive, especially now that he was already headed out of town. That fucking county commissioner should have listened to him . . . no, Hank should have insisted that he listen. Now the fire had done exactly what they’d all feared, and there was no one to blame but himself. He had let his intuition be drowned out. He had been so preoccupied with Lana . . .
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