A Shadow on the Ground

by Smith, Rebecca Lee

  Morgan’s friend Ethan stood beside Peach's cot with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He hadn't glanced down once at the woman splayed out on a stretcher, fighting her way back from respiratory distress. His tranquil gaze was riveted on Morgan's face. It never wavered. But the desperation in his eyes told the whole story.

  Gage slowly shook his head. He loves her. The poor sap is in love with her.

  So he and the Hamster weren't so different after all. In the relationship department, Ethan Spannagel wasn't any better or worse than the poor sap standing beside the EMS truck, keeping his distance, watching the woman who still owned his heart comfort his son.

  Chapter 9

  “I think you ought to call your step-grandmother,” Gage said. “I know you don’t like her, but she has a right to hear news like this from you.” He tucked the chenille blanket around Morgan's legs, switched on the tiny shoji lamp beside her bed, and turned off the overhead light. Diffused blue light glimmered through the thin rice paper, caressing the angles of his rugged face. He'd claimed he wasn’t tired, but the deeply etched lines at the corners of his eyes and the rigid tension around his mouth gave him away.

  “It's too late. I’ll tell her about the fire tomorrow. But I'll downplay my part in it. She doesn't need to know the grisly details.”

  “I'm not sure I know them.” He stuffed another pillow behind her head.

  “I’m fine. Stop fussing.”

  She pulled the covers up around her neck and shivered. “The sheriff said it looked like the filing cabinet had been rigged to fall in front of the door. Oily rags had been stuffed inside the trashcan beside the desk. Peach always smoked while she worked. She must have lit a cigarette and been thrown back when the rags exploded. One of the firemen said it was a miracle she wasn't killed.”

  “You’d think she would have smelled the oil.”

  “The whole kitchen smells like old grease. Peach probably didn’t even notice.”

  “I can't believe you got her out.”

  “It wasn’t easy. She isn’t exactly petite.” Morgan shivered again. “I ca-can't seem to get warm.”

  “You're still in shock.” He picked up the crocheted afghan from the rocking chair and spread it on top of her.

  “H-how's Jeremy?”

  “Out like a light. I put him in Sean's room. I hope that's okay.”

  “Of course, that's okay.” She leaned over and reached for the juice glass of brandy he had poured for her. The dark liquid burned a path down her throat.

  “I still don't understand who would want to hurt Peach,” he said. “She's a single parent. Could there be an ex-husband somewhere still holding a grudge? There seems to be a lot of that going around these days.”

  “Peach’s ex lives in Cherokee Bluff with her two sons. She complains about him, but I think they’re friendly.”

  Gage shook his head. “Then I don't know. It does seem like she was the intended target.”

  Morgan pulled her knees up, willing them to shop shaking. “It's crazy.”

  “Jeremy said he saw the guy who was looking in your window. What’s his name—Ethan? He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”

  “He’s Ethan. I walked in on him and Peach arguing at his store today. Now, there’s a story I’d like to hear. But they both clammed up.”

  “I got the impression she was after Sean. Romantically speaking.”

  “Peach is after any man who’ll look at her twice. She has definite skank tendencies. I used to think Sean liked her, because he can be a terrible judge of character. But I’m sure now that he doesn’t want her.”

  “Does Peach know that?”

  “No. But I’m telling her when I stop by the hospital in the morning. They admitted her overnight for observation.” She shivered again and handed him the brandy. “I can’t stop shaking. You'd better take this unless you want to wear it.”

  He downed the rest of it then set the glass on the nightstand. He kicked off his athletic shoes and stood by the bed. “Scoot over. The only thing that will warm you is body heat.”

  She laughed. “I've heard that one before.”

  “I get the feeling you still don't trust me.”

  “I don't. But I'm really, really cold.”

  He peeled off his socks. “Just don't laugh at my feet. My toes look like they could swing me from tree to tree.”

  She moved to the middle of the double bed and watched as he smoothed the layers of blankets next to her and lay on top of them. He stuffed the lace covered sham pillow behind his head then gently pulled her toward him, shifting to the side so she could fit comfortably beside his hip.

  She nestled into the crook of his shoulder and curled her arm across his chest. The world drifted out to sea and back. His steady heartbeat thudded against her cheek. His arms held her tight, surrounding her with the kind of bone melting warmth she'd forgotten existed. For the first time since she’d stumbled out of Bad Moon’s door with Peach, she stopped shaking. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, spicy with a trace of sweetness that made her want to bury her face in the soft folds of his shirt. How could he smell so good after the day he'd spent? Moving Jeremy out of the winery? Fighting Finch? Handling Denny? Steadying her nerves on the phone like he was talking a jumper off a ledge? Then racing across the treacherous back roads at the foot of Blackstone Mountain to save her?

  His chest rose and fell. She found herself matching the rhythm of each breath with her own. Her limbs turned to liquid. Her breasts betrayed her, and ached for him to touch them. This was the last thing in the world she should be doing. And the last person she should be doing it with. But she didn't care. Tonight, it was all she wanted. Maybe all she had ever wanted. She snuggled against him and tried not to think. If she turned off her brain, it could work. The nearness of him would block out every painful memory she could summon, every doubt she’d ever had. Lying with Gage Kirkland could systematically obliterate everything except the pocket of heat smoldering at the small of her back.

  Why shouldn't she give in to it? He was there. In her bed. And as surreal as that felt, she knew better than to question a dream coming true, no matter how old and self serving it was.

  He moved his fingers idly up and down her arm, leaving a trail of white-hot sensation in their wake. She shuddered and opened her eyes. His gaze was waiting for her to find his, and he smiled, deepening the dimple on the left side of his face.

  “You look like you want to say something,” he said.

  “Thank you for tonight. On the phone, hearing your voice. Well, it got me through.”

  “Lady, I keep trying to rescue you, but you won't wait for me.”

  “I think they call that irony, don’t they?” She laughed softly. “All those years ago, all I wanted was for you to rescue me. And now, you can't seem to stop doing it.”

  “Everything in its own time, I guess.” He propped up on one elbow. The shadow from the shoji lamp moved across his face. “I used to say I believe things happen when they're supposed to. It kept me sane, helped me cope with disappointment.” He lifted a stray curl and gently smoothed it back from her face. “But I don't think I really believed it until now.”

  “So, you’re a PI and a philosopher?”

  “No matter what happened—what we did, what we didn't do—it's all lead up to this moment. I've spent years thinking our time had come and gone. But I was wrong. Our time is here. It’s now. And even though you don't believe it, or even want to believe it, I—”

  She covered his lips with hers.

  Her brain emptied like a spinning vortex. Every sensible thought she'd ever had flew out of her head, one by one, like demons unable to hold on to a revolving wheel.

  Morgan had always prided herself on being cautious, the no-nonsense girl whose feathers few people could ruffle. But this man brought out something exotic in her. Something that fueled a streak of sexual desire that eclipsed her better judgment and caused her not to give a damn what she did, as long as she did it with him.


  His hands stroked the contour of her cheeks. She moved her lips against his, sending her heartbeat into overdrive. Her tongue found his, and for a moment, she thought she was going to levitate. As the kiss deepened, he slid his fingers around the nape of her neck, then threaded them through the mass of thick curls suddenly loose from their clasp and cascading around her shoulders. “Very smooth,” she murmured. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “In my head. If you fantasize about something long enough, it becomes second nature.”

  His lips found hers again and again, teasing them, exploring them, claiming them with a hunger that took her breath away. She rubbed her cheek against the soft stubble along his jaw and moaned. “I’m not usually a moaner,” she said, and moaned again. “But it’s been a while. A really long while, and—oh, God, that feels good.” She leaned her head back and laughed. “This is definitely taking the edge off the last two days.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t start channeling the voice of reason now.” She raked her mouth along the underside of his chin. “Later. Be reasonable later.”

  “But a lot has happened. Later, you might regret this, and—”

  “I’m going to keep interrupting until you hush.”

  “You’re feeling vulnerable right now, and—”

  “Time to regroup.” She pushed herself up, flung the covers back, and crossed her legs in a half-lotus. She pulled him to a sitting position, facing her. “Sometimes it's better with your head off the pillow and your eyes wide open. Keeps you from getting woozy and sentimental.”

  “I never could resist a woman in red flannel shorts.”

  “They're cranberry.”

  “Cranberry,” he drawled. “I knew that.”

  He skimmed his lips inside the scooped neckline of her cotton t-shirt, then slowly trailed kisses along the column of her neck. Each one sent a shudder racing down her spine, across her abdomen, inside her thighs. She held onto his broad shoulders and arched her back as his lips traced a lazy path along her throat, hitting every nerve ending she possessed. Maybe sitting up hadn't been such a great idea. Two more minutes, and she would be reduced to a puddle in the middle of her great-grandmother's sleigh bed.

  “Is this hurting your arm?” he asked.

  “I don’t feel anything.” She kissed him. “And everything.”

  “Baby, are you sure you—”

  “Stop overthinking this.” She unbuttoned his cotton shirt and pulled it apart, then kissed the tiny indentation at the base of his throat, nuzzling the soft patch of dark hair curling against the collar. Her lips stopped at a circle of knotted flesh above his collarbone. “What's this?”

  “A scar.”

  She ran her lips along the ridge. “This is one hell of a scar. How'd you get it? Bobcat bite?”

  “Gunshot.”

  “Mom! Mom!”

  Gage let go of her and bounded off the bed. In seconds, he was out the door and down the hall.

  “Mom!” Jeremy shrieked. “Mom! No!”

  “I'm here, son. Wake up, Jeremy. I'm right here.”

  Morgan pulled on her robe and stood in the doorway, listening.

  “I want my Mom,” Jeremy whimpered. “I want her here.”

  “I know you do,” Gage said.

  “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen.”

  “You were dreaming,” Gage said gently. “It was only a dream.”

  “She was mad I wouldn't give her the keys. Then she grabbed them out of my hands. I wanted you to stop her. You saw her. Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “I tried to, son. But I thought you needed me more.”

  “I started yelling, but you came to see what was wrong with me instead of going after her. It's my fault. It's my fault you came into my room instead of getting the keys from her.”

  “Shhhh,” Gage said. “It's not anybody's fault. Your mom wasn't herself that night. She hadn't been herself for a long, long time. Nothing she did could have ever been your fault.”

  Morgan quietly closed the door. She had already listened far too long. The words between Gage and his son were private, but the little she'd heard made her heart ache for both of them. Jeremy had been saddled with the kind of guilt no child should ever have to carry. She didn’t have the power or the wisdom to ease his pain—nothing could do that—but there was one thing she could do for the kid. She could let him know he wasn't alone.

  ****

  Gage rolled over and realized the fingers curled around Jeremy's arm were numb. He also realized the reason he had awakened so abruptly had nothing to do with the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. His cell phone was ringing.

  He fished it out of his pants pocket and eased himself off the bed. Then he unlocked the phone with his thumb, staggered into the hall, and pulled the door closed behind him. He looked at the name on the screen. “Shit,” he whispered, his low baritone cracking. He cleared his throat and said, “Morning, boss.”

  “So, you’re alive,” Tyson said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  “Hold on.” Gage hurried past Morgan's closed bedroom door and went downstairs. He snaked his way through the living room and dining room, then let himself out the back door. Cold from the concrete stoop seeped into the soles of his bare feet. “Okay, Tyson. Shoot.”

  “What's up? Did you get the flag?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for? Does she have it or not?”

  “She has it.”

  “So, what's the holdup? Is she on to you?”

  “No, but there have been…extenuating circumstances.”

  “Christ, Gage. Speak English.”

  “Something funny's going on. Last night, the bar she works at caught fire. The day before, she found a dead body on a neighbor's farm. Then Quillen’s son showed up and threatened her if she didn't give him the flag. And her brother's in jail because—”

  “I don't give a rat's ass where her brother is. Or if she even has a brother. Just get the godammed job done or I'll find someone who can. I gave you this job as a favor.”

  “Bullshit. You gave me this job because it’s six miles from where I’m living, and you don’t have to pay travel expenses.”

  “Listen Gage, I can't sit around waiting for the full moon. This thing isn’t open-ended. I have a client breathing down my neck. If you can't come through for me, he'll take his business elsewhere.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Gage rubbed his forehead and stared at the beds of purple asters on either side of the guesthouse. A wide slash of early morning sun fell across the backyard. The sharp scent of fresh mulch and fertilizer jabbed at his nose.

  What the hell was he going to do? He couldn't take the flag from Morgan, but if he didn't find it and deliver it to its rightful owner, Tyson would send some punk who would. Either way, Morgan was in trouble. He had to find out where the flag was hidden. For her sake, he hoped it wasn’t in the house.

  Should he talk to her? Confess he'd shown up with a hidden agenda the size of Montana? She didn't trust him. Or any man, as far as he could tell. But she seemed to be trying. The night before had been incredible—holding her, touching her. More than he’d had a right to ever hope for. If she found out he'd lied to her, she would never trust him again. Not that she was going to anyway.

  The sound of a car door slamming brought him scrambling to his feet. He edged to the corner of the house just in time to see Morgan unlatching the gate.

  “Gage?” Tyson said. “You there?”

  He couldn’t risk telling her. And he couldn't take the flag. The best he could do was buy himself more time until he had a plan. He sat on the steps. “Tyson, man, please. Give me two more days—until Monday. By then, I should—”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll give you until tomorrow. But I’m putting the word out that a job paying big bucks just opened up. Some of these guys are champing at the bit to make some fast cash.”

  “I unde
rstand. But if I can't—” The screen door hinge screeched behind him. “Gotta go.”

  Morgan stuck her head out. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Gage said, closing his phone. “My old boss called. He hadn't heard from me in a while, and he wondered how I was doing. I came out here because I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I’ve been up for hours. I went to the hospital to see Peach, then stopped by the grocery store. I hope you like eggs. It’s one of the four things I know how to cook.”

  “Eggs will work.”

  She sat beside him on the stoop. Why did women always look so damned appealing when they weren't trying to? Her oversized white shirt—probably her brother's—fell open at the neck, revealing enough creamy cleavage to drive him back into her arms. Her faded jeans hugged her curves in all the right places. She’d harnessed her long hair into a high ponytail, and smelled of some kind of scented soap that made him lightheaded. And that neck. That long silky neck. It was all he could do to keep from leaning over and pressing his lips against it, then letting them trail down it, lazy and slow. It had turned her on the night before. Big time. Sent shivers of excitement pulsing through her, then through him. Knowing he was capable of giving her that kind of pleasure had tripled his own.

  “So, how are you doing?” she asked.

  “Not bad.” He smiled at her. “It was a long night. Thanks for letting us bunk inside.”

  “I wouldn't have wanted to stay in the house alone. Not after the fire.”

  He glanced at her tiny bandaged wrist. “How's your arm?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Oh, I see how this is going,” he said, laughing. “How’s Peach?”