The Asset

by Anna del Mar

  One of the guys looked like a kid with thick glasses, despite a scruffy goatee. The tallest one hugged his arms close to his body and wore his long curly hair tied in a bushy ponytail. The guy with the high and tight sat in a high-tech wheelchair.

  “Hey,” Ash said, climbing into the cab.

  “Hey to you too.” I slid over as Neil jumped in the back and Ash took my place at the wheel. “Who are those fellows?”

  “Some old friends I hadn’t seen in a while.” Ash buckled in, waved and drove off.

  I checked out the men in the rearview mirror. “Friends from the Navy?”

  “Aye-aye, Herr Kommandant.”

  I laughed. “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

  “Of course, not, Miss Holmes.”

  “You haven’t been seeing too many people lately.”

  “These guys are different,” he said. “They’re my friends.”

  I liked the idea of Ash having friends around. Good friends could only be helpful to Ash’s recovery. They’d also be helpful if I had to leave in a hurry. My heart sank at the thought.

  “We ought to have them over for dinner,” I said.

  “Awesome idea.” He flashed his best smile. “We could grill steaks.”

  “What are they doing in this neck of the woods?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that they were looking for work.”

  “All vets?”

  He nodded. “They’re going to set up camp at the ranch and help me clear the charred ruins so that we won’t fit the county’s categories for abandoned or unsafe anymore.”

  “Great, that makes sense, although...”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He glanced at me. “You—preacher of ‘People get hurt all the time and they still have happy and productive lives’—you’re now wondering how a guy stuck in a wheelchair can be of help. Admit it. You have your hang-ups too.”

  “Perhaps I am wondering a little.”

  “Manny Rivera is the most brilliant technical mind you’ll ever meet,” Ash said. “Christ knows, the old tractor at the ranch needs all the help it can get. He can fix, rig and operate any piece of equipment, high-tech or not. Like that wheelchair of his. He drives it like an ATV. And that customized RV he uses to travel around the country? It’s a goddamn work of art.”

  “Impressive,” I said. “Where’s his family?”

  “His wife divorced him,” Ash said. “She said she wanted children.”

  “Oh.” How was that for a rotten deal? “What about the tall one with the ponytail? What’s his story?”

  “Wang Ho was possibly the best marksman of our generation until he lost his right arm in an ambush in Afghanistan.”

  “What a terrible loss.”

  “More like a national tragedy.”

  “And the one that looks like he’s fourteen years old?”

  “Will ‘Kid’ Jackson may look deceivingly young, but in his time, he could hack his way into the Ayatollah’s hearing aid if need be. He still can hack with the best of them, but a TBI left him with a disability that makes him virtually unemployable.”

  “How so?”

  “Will suffers from a very specific form of brain damage that affects only the verbal section of the brain. It’s similar to Tourette’s syndrome. Sometimes, when he’s excited or stressed, he blurts out stuff.”

  “What do you mean ‘stuff?’”

  “Rude comments, inappropriate behaviors, songs. But other than that, his IQ still rules the MENSA charts.”

  “That’s a lot of brainpower between the four of you.”

  “I think maybe we could find a way to clear a bunch of debris, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I didn’t mean to put down your friends.”

  “We all do it.” He let out a long breath. “Besides, you don’t have to tiptoe around me. I can manage my moods.”

  “Too much for one day?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “It’s good to know one’s limits,” I said. “What else did you do today?”

  “I visited with a couple of locals, set up my rehab schedule, went to the bank.” He took off his knit cap. “Oh, and I went to the barber shop.”

  “Wow.” I reached over and ran my fingers through his freshly cut hair. “Looks great.”

  Touching him released the swarm in my tummy. What was it about the way he looked at me that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside?

  Warm and fuzzy? I hadn’t been warm and fuzzy since I was fourteen and had developed a serious crush on the boys of *NSYNC. I wanted to slap myself.

  Ash’s eyes darkened. “I also went to the cemetery.”

  “Oh.” My throat tightened. “Are you...all right?”

  “I’ll live.” His eyes were fixed on the road. “She’s where she would have wanted to be, between Gramps and Dad. The groundskeeper said you insisted that’s where she had to be buried. Thanks, Lia.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m curious,” he said. “Did Nona ever mention anything to you about selling the ranch?”

  “No, we never talked about stuff like that.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “Well, let’s see, she loved to talk shop about her jewelry designs. The news, she had tons of commentary on world affairs. Her charity work. It was very important to her. But by far her favorite subject was you. She loved to tell me stories about you and how wonderful, smart and handsome you were.”

  “Really?” He flashed his lopsided grin. “And was she right about any of those things?”

  I laughed. “What are you, on a fishing expedition?”

  “I’m clearly using the wrong lure on this trout.” He grinned, then sobered up. “A lot of people in town would lose their jobs if I sold to Aenergies. Call me a fool, but that bothers me.”

  “I don’t think you’re a fool.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said, all of the sudden.

  “You don’t like what?”

  “The way people look at you when they think there’s something wrong with you. Like Jack. He doesn’t think I’m the same guy as before.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “I feel like I have to prove myself all the time.”

  “Don’t fall into the temptation then,” I said. “You don’t need to prove anything to anybody. Speaking of Jack.” I pulled out the key from my purse. “He asked me to give you this. He told me that Wynona said you’d know what it was for.”

  “Hmm.” He fingered the key in his hand. “Mind if we take a detour?”

  I didn’t like detours. They messed with my head. They messed with my resolutions, my plans and my heart too. But Ash accelerated around a curve and veered right instead of left at the junction.

  Within a few minutes, we turned into a private road that opened up to a striking valley surrounded by derelict pastures. Beyond the pastures, forests of aspen, spruce and lodgepole pines spread over hills that grew into ragged mountains. As we went around the bend and sighted the river, the charred remains of the Hunter house came into view. Autumn’s splendid colors couldn’t soften the terrible sight.

  I waited by the truck, granting Ash his space while he surveyed the outbuildings. Neil stuck to him as if his fur was made out of Velcro. Together, they approached the ruins. My heart fisted in my chest.

  The fire had consumed most of the home, leaving only a crumbling section of the chimney and a pile of rubble strewn over the foundation. Gas leak, the fire chief had said. Wynona had probably passed out well before the place burned down.

  When it first happened, I’d wondered if it was my fault. She was my friend, and, God knew, bad things happened to my friends. I made all kinds of i
nquiries, but Jack had hired a high-profile investigative team that confirmed the chief’s conclusion and the sheriff agreed with their findings. He’d assured me it had been an accident. I’d been heartbroken. I could only begin to imagine how Ash felt.

  Ash circled the house and got lost behind the pile. I heard the hollow sound of metal hitting metal and a crash. Worried, I followed his tracks and found the cellar’s trapdoor thrown open and Neil fidgeting at the top of a set of questionable stairs, ears swiveling in all directions.

  “Ash?” I peered into the dark. “Are you down there?”

  No answer.

  “Come back,” I said. “I don’t think that’s such a hot idea.”

  Something rustled in the darkness. I heard tugging, dragging and then another crash. A cloud of dirt and ashes blew out of the trapdoors.

  Neil whined.

  “Don’t worry,” I muttered to the dog. “You wait here. I’ll go find him.”

  I worked my way down the rickety stairs, avoiding the carbonized wood piles and stepping around the collapsed sections. I groped for the little flashlight I kept on my keychain, only to remember it had no batteries.

  Darn it.

  I floundered about, tripping on stuff, clambering over a collapsed ceiling beam. A sound caught my attention. A light bounced off a wall around the corner. Groping like a blind woman, I went toward the light.

  Ash crouched next to the safe lying on the floor. The little key Jack had given me protruded from the lock. He was reading a piece of paper. Two or three high-powered hunting rifles and three handguns were neatly stacked in there, along with some ammunition. Wearing a blank expression on his face, Ash folded the paper, tucked it in his pocket and looked up.

  “You shouldn’t have come down here,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

  “Yep,” I said. “You shouldn’t be here either.”

  “The safe is fireproof,” he said as a way of explanation. “Catch.”

  His flashlight landed between my hands. I held it up, illuminating the scene. He grabbed one of the guns and, pointing it safely away, checked it to ensure it wasn’t loaded. He tested each weapon methodically, before tucking them into a case that had also been stowed in the safe. When he was done, he slung the case over his shoulder and stood up with the help of his cane. Lugging the heavy load, he came to stand beside me.

  “What was in the safe?” I said. “I mean, in addition to the weapons?”

  “Old pictures,” he said. “Some small things Nona wanted to preserve for me. And this.”

  He pulled the paper out of his pocket and showed me what was written on it. Remember to trust your instincts.

  “She used to tell me to trust my instincts all the time.”

  “She was right,” I said. “You’ve got a good brain.”

  “I’m glad you think that’s the case.” He refolded Wynona’s note and tucked it in his pocket. “Because you don’t trust your instincts at all, or anyone else’s for that matter, which leaves the guesswork up to me.” He fixed his eyes on my face. “Lia,” he said. “I need to know. For sure.”

  “Know what?”

  His eyes gleamed under the flashlight’s beam. The scent of him rose above the smell of ashes and soot. His face gave nothing away, but his intensity ratcheted up. I was suddenly very aware of him, of how close he was, of how much closer he got to me when he leaned over, until the glow became a tiny circle reflecting the minute creases on his leather jacket.

  His mouth found my lips without trouble. His lips brushed against mine with exquisite gentleness and yet the contact struck me like a jolt. The glimmer reflected in his eyes became my only point of reference. Then I closed my eyes and needed no light, because even with my eyes closed, he lit up my world.

  It shouldn’t be, couldn’t be. The flashlight fell out of my hands. It clanged on the ground, but I didn’t care. He deepened his kiss, savoring my mouth, lending me a taste of his body by way of his tongue and challenging my resolutions. He never touched me. He did nothing to prevent me from bolting and yet I couldn’t move. My feet melted into the ground. I had a vision of my body combusting from the heat flaring in me, bursting into ashes, joining with the soot clinging to the walls.

  I don’t know how long he kissed me. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? But I knew the exact moment when the kiss ended. My body went dark. Total outage. All the light in the world died when his lips broke contact with mine.

  He left me gasping for breath. The sound of our ragged breaths echoed in the cellar.

  “Jesus,” he rasped.

  “Ash, I can’t—”

  “Lia?” He kissed me again, another delicious, brain-melting event. “I know what you mean to say, about the danger and all of that? But it is what it is.”

  He bent down, picked up the flashlight from the floor and, after turning it back on, pointed the light in the direction of the stairs. “There’s nothing I can do about this. I won’t apologize and neither will you. Go on. Before I kiss you again.”

  I didn’t stop running until I was back in the truck, whole, hale and safe—well, maybe not exactly safe, not considering my circumstances, and especially not safe from my newest worst enemy: myself.

  Chapter Nine

  Ash didn’t say a word. He stowed his load in the back of the truck and we drove off as if we’d never detoured to the ranch. There seemed to be an awful lot on his mind. He kneaded his leg as he drove, while Neil grumbled and paced from one window to the other on the backseat, ears shifting like a pair of radar dishes scanning for signals.

  I looked out the window, running my fingertips over my lips. My lips hurt, not from the force of his kisses—no way, he’d been way too gentle—but rather from his mouth’s absence. He’d kissed me. And he’d liked it. So had I. Oh, Lord.

  Ash’s cell rang. “Hunter,” he answered and then an official “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Who is it?” I mouthed.

  “Gunny Watkins,” he mouthed back.

  “Be nice,” I reminded him.

  It was a one-way conversation, with the gunny doing most of the talking. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Ash’s contributions were limited to the occasional “yes, ma’am,” a single “thank you, ma’am,” and a final “I’ll tell her ma’am.”

  “What did she say?” I asked when he hung up.

  “She was checking on us.” Ash kept his eyes on the road. “She said she’d reviewed my chart and was pleased with my progress.”

  I gave him a fist bump. “We’ve appeased Godzilla.”

  He smiled. “She sent her regards.”

  “We should feel mighty accomplished.”

  “You should feel accomplished,” Ash said. “The gunny isn’t easy to impress. She reminded me of what a phenomenal asset you are. Now if I could only get you to believe it.”

  Me? An asset? No way. He was the asset in my life. He guarded my house, protected my animals, eased my hardships and enriched my life with company and friendship. Whereas I was a huge, walking, talking liability, even if he refused to accept me as such.

  When Ash and Neil went out for their evening walk, I slipped on a T-shirt and my old pajama pants and arranged my pillow and blanket on the couch. I was in the process of starting a fire in the living room’s hearth when they came back. Neil made a straight line for me, splayed on the ground and, pawing the air, flashed his belly.

  Ash’s stare shifted from the couch to me. He sighed, stepped to the couch and, after bundling my pillow and blankets, threw them over his shoulder and started up the stairs.

  “Hello?” I followed him. “That’s my pillow.”

  “You’re not sleeping downstairs.”

  “Who gave you the power to decide where I sleep?”

  “Reason and common sense.” He plodded to his room and, without hesitation,
added my blankets to his bed and propped my pillow next to his.

  “Ashton Hunter,” I said. “You’re definitively crossing a line here.”

  He flashed me a stoic look. “Then can we please cross it quickly?”

  I opened my mouth and closed it. What on earth was one supposed to say to that? As if I wasn’t standing right there, he pulled his sweater and T-shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, dropped his jeans on the floor and grappled with his foot brace. Wearing only his boxer briefs, he got in bed and patted the mattress next to him.

  “No way.” My defective sense for self-preservation finally made an appearance. That kiss today? It was the kind of catastrophic mistake I couldn’t afford. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”

  “Lia, sweetness—”

  “Don’t you dare ‘Lia, sweetness’ me.”

  “I’ve waited for days at a time in a cradle to take a single shot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I have the patience to stalk my target and the perseverance to stick with it for however long is necessary to accomplish the mission.”

  I wheeled on my heels. “I don’t care if you have my pillow. I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll come down and carry you back up if I have to. I’ll do it later when you’re asleep, whether my foot hurts or not.”

  It was a cheap shot. I glared at him. I wasn’t going to be swayed by theatrics. The problem was that, coming from him, it wasn’t theatrics. His foot did hurt. His entire leg hurt.

  I gritted my teeth and stomped to the door.

  “Have it your way,” he said. “By the end of the night, we’re both going to be sick and tired of that damn staircase and you’ll be sleeping right here, in this room, in this bed.”

  Everest had spoken.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” I said. “I don’t think this is wise.”

  “Lia...” He groaned. “I’m not good at bullshit. I’m not going to explain what you already know.”

  “And what is it that I’m supposed to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “That would make me the smartest woman on the planet.”