Found at the Bookstore

by Christi Snow

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes, but there’s really nothing they can do.”

  Stig considered the article open on his computer right now. “I’ve been doing some research into his condition. I’m not so sure that’s the case.”

  She stilled and tilted her head in question. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a specialist in St. Louis who’s doing amazing things with prismatic glasses for head trauma. If I could get Ryder an appointment, do you think he would go? Could you take him?”

  She blinked a couple of times. “I’m not sure. St. Louis? Maybe...” She rubbed unconsciously at her belly.

  “Let me call them. I know you’re not feeling the best right now. I’m sure Tommy could take him when he gets back from their honeymoon. One of us could get him there, if you think he would go.”

  “Stig.” She shook her head. “Right now, his head is so messed up, we could tell him we were going to the moon, and he’d just accept that as fact especially if he thought the trip might help. Honestly, I’ve never seen him this bad.” Her voice lowered. “It’s scary. What if he gets lost inside his head and doesn’t recover again? He always has before, but I’ve never...” Her voice choked up on a small sob. “Sorry...pregnant...emotional.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She had enough stress right now just with her pregnancy and her job taking care of Ryder. He didn’t need to pile onto it, but damn he hated this helpless feeling. He needed to do...something. “Give me your email, and I’ll send you the information I have. If he gets to feeling better, maybe you could give it to Ry. I’ll also send it to Tommy when he gets home.”

  “Okay.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a business card, passing it to him. “You know, normally I wouldn’t butt in, but the emotion in those.” She nodded at the paintings. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but he might do better if he could see you. Maybe...” She shook her head. “I just don’t know. It actually might be worse, not that I can imagine much worse. But I have to get back to him now. Bye, Stig.” She turned and rushed out the back door of the gallery.

  He reset the alarm and locks on the door behind her and then turned toward the worktable. The canvases were large, all three of them wrapped in brown butcher paper to protect them. He approached the table on shaky legs, knowing that Ryder’s art always had an emotional punch when he’d seen it before.

  But somehow, these pieces were tied to him. That terrified him. What would Ryder create in his art with an element of Stig in it? Would it make this never-ending pain worse? Stig wasn’t sure he could handle much more. But he also couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing what was below the brown paper, so he carefully peeled it off the first piece.

  The Vegas skyline from the veranda of their hotel. While the memories from their glorious trip usually punched him in the gut, this wasn’t so bad. From an art perspective, the piece was phenomenal...full of life and vitality. The skyline and far-off lights had a life all their own. But then he remembered when Ryder took this photo the night after the wedding after they’d made love, which gave him an idea of what was to come in the next two paintings.

  He ripped the paper off them both before looking at either of them. When he did get the courage to look, his legs went weak and he had to clutch at the edge of the table so he didn’t fall to the floor. Tears filled his eyes. He gently ran his fingertips over the planes of Ryder’s face in the portrait of the two of them. They’d been so happy.

  Fuck.

  In love.

  The emotion rang out from their faces as they gazed at one another.

  Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

  His heart clutched inside his chest. He’d thrown this love away, but he’d done what he had to do. He hadn’t heard from Peter in the past week, but he was still out there somewhere, just waiting for a chance to hurt Stig. Ryder would be the perfect target. Hurting Ryder would wound him way more than anything else Peter could ever do. He had to make sure to protect Ryder from that.

  In the meantime, he had to make sure Ryder didn’t spiral to a place he couldn’t recover from. He grabbed the painting of the two of them and took it with him as he bound up the stairs to his office two at a time.

  He went over to a table in his office that faced his desk and propped the painting there, so he’d see it when he looked up. When he got the chance—definitely before he went home today—he’d hang the entire series of three painting together. They gave a message.

  His breath caught as he stared at the painting, finally making out a detail he’d missed before. His heart swelled even more. Painted in the lights of the Vegas skyline was a single word.

  Hope.

  Stig clenched his fists as he fought the need to leave right now and go to Ryder.

  Hope.

  He wouldn’t lose it. He needed to keep that word foremost in his mind. Hope that this would all work out after Peter was caught. Then he would be free to go after his man. First thing he had to do was call the clinic in St. Louis.

  ***

  Three days later, Stig rubbed across his tired eyes and leaned back in his office chair, stretching his back. He’d spent the last few days alternating between paperwork and chasing down details for the St. Louis brain trauma clinic. Luckily, Cari had medical power of attorney for Ryder when he was incapacitated. With Tommy went out of town, she’d been able to handle the medical details.

  The clinic in St. Louis had finally agreed to accept Ryder as a patient. The only problem was that their first available appointment wasn’t until May. Stig had tried a bit of bribery to get them to book Ryder earlier, but that had been a no-go. So, Ryder had an appointment for five months away.

  But that was better than nothing.

  The gallery phone rang. Stig picked it up. “Minton Galleries.”

  “Why are you working if the gallery is closed?” Galleon asked. “Are you just trying to make yourself a target?”

  Stig blew out a sigh. That was exactly what he was doing. He opened his desk drawer and eyed the loaded pistol inside...just in case. He wanted this finished. The longer this went on, the more he needed to be near Ryder, but he couldn’t if Peter was still out there somewhere. And so far, there’d been no leads on where he might be lurking.

  But Stig wasn’t working. No, his concentration was too shot to hell for that. No, he’d been here making plans. Plans for a future. One he hoped he hadn’t blown all to hell. It all hinged on whether or not Ryder would forgive him.

  “Hey, if it works,” Stig said, “I’m okay with him coming after me. I have a huge security system here, and the police will be here within just a few minutes when it goes off.”

  “A few minutes when you could find yourself very dead, Stig. What the fuck? Did you at least hire bodyguards?”

  Stig ignored the question. He’d considered it—a lot—but in the end, he’d decided against it. Mainly because the idea of some strange guy hovering nearby chafed at him “You know, the sooner this is over, the sooner I can reopen and sell more of your art.”

  “Dammit, art sales mean nothing if it puts you in danger.”

  Stig rubbed a tired hand over his face and softened his voice. “Thanks, G, but it will be okay. You didn’t call just to yell at me, did you?”

  “No, dammit. I just called to make sure you’re okay. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” Not sleeping, worried about Ryder, and “fine” might really be pushing it, but he was surviving.

  The line grew quiet, and then Galleon cleared his throat. “Come stay with me in New Mexico.”

  Stig snorted. “I don’t think the post office will take kindly to me camping out there.” Even though Stig had known Galleon for years, he’d had never revealed where he lived. The only address Stig had for him was a post office box number.

  Another moment of silence passed. “I have a ranch. Right outside of Taos. It’s completely secure and secluded—gated with full security systems. You’d be safe here and you could recover...from whatever has
you so wrecked.”

  Stig’s throat tightened. He hadn’t told Galleon about Ryder, but Galleon knew him well enough to realize his unhappiness right now wasn’t just about the threat from Peter. “I appreciate the offer. I know you don’t give up your privacy lightly, but I can’t leave Denver right now.” Not when across town the man he loved was suffering through a struggle that Stig might be able to help with if he could just draw Peter out beforehand.

  The other phone line rang. “I have to go. Someone’s calling on the other line.”

  “Okay, but my offer stands. I’ll even come get you if you need some company for the road trip.”

  Stig clenched his fist. It would be so easy to settle into the warmth of friendship instead of this constant sense of hyper-awareness and stress. But no, not yet. “Thanks. I’ll call you.” He hung up that line and switched to the other one. “Minton Galleries.”

  “Hello, I’m looking for Stig Minton.” The man sounded unsure.

  “You’ve got him. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, good.” The voice sounded both relieved and stressed if that was possible. “This is Oliver Sorenson. I’m Cari’s husband. The Cari that works for your friend Ryder.”

  There was only one reason Cari’s husband would be calling Stig. Something had happened. His stomach sank. “Yes, what’s wrong? Is she okay? Is Ryder hurt?”

  “Yeah, um, you know she’s pregnant, right?”

  “Yes, is everything okay?” He tried to push down the panic that something had gone more seriously wrong with Ryder’s health.

  “Not really. She’s been really sick, and that’s a dangerous thing for her and the baby. She’s too dehydrated, so her doctor checked her into the hospital tonight. It looks like she’s going to be here for a couple of days while they rehydrate her and try to get her system onto a more even keel. She wanted me to call you and see if you could go take care of Ryder. He’s not in the greatest condition right now, either, and she could call a home health nurse, but thought—”

  Ryder was home alone and hurting, probably not in a good place mentally. Adrenaline surged through Stig. “No. I mean yes, of course, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, man. That will be such a relief for her. Maybe now she can concentrate on taking care of herself and the baby.”

  She’d been sick when she’d been in the gallery, but he hadn’t considered that she could be this bad off. He should have seen it and volunteered then to relieve her. “I’m sorry. I should have offered earlier.”

  Oliver chuckled low. “Yeah, that never would have worked. She never would have gone for it. She needs to get into her stubborn head that it’s not all about her now though. She says you’ll need Ryder’s key. I’ll leave it in an envelope for you at the main information desk inside the lobby of Trinity Hospital.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right there.” He’d made a contingency plan just in case he had to get to Ryder. It was a risk he hadn’t been willing to take unless absolutely necessary, but that had just happened, and now nothing would keep him from Ryder’s side.

  He hung up the phone, grabbed the mass of paperwork he’d been collecting about the clinic in St. Louis, shoved it all into his briefcase, and then pocketed the gun in the interior pocket of his leather jacket. Luckily, he’d already made plans for the possibility he might have to go see Ryder again. He just had to get back to his hotel room and put his plan into action.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Stig exited the hotel with the keys for a rental truck parked under the portico of the hotel. But instead of his normal suit, he wore a padded body suit, flannel plaid shirt, worn jeans, hiking boots, a dark beard, sunglasses, and a ball cap pulled low over his brow. He hadn’t even recognized himself when he looked in the mirror.

  Hopefully, if anyone were watching the hotel, they wouldn’t know him, either. He took the keys from the valet and climbed into the tall truck, throwing his duffle into the back seat.

  He took a deep breath and looked over the black hood. This would drive different from his low-slung sports car. He pointed the beast of a vehicle toward Ryder’s apartment with a watchful eye on his mirrors to make sure no one followed him.

  As he pulled up in front of the apartment complex, his palms grew sweaty on the wheel. He had no idea what he’d find inside Ryder’s apartment. From his discussions with Cari over the last few days, he knew Ryder catnapped throughout the day for thirty or forty-five minute stretches, usually sitting in his wheelchair in his studio. The rest of the time, he feverishly painted or just tried to get through the migraines with as little movement as possible.

  Stig approached the front door and slid the card into the card reader in the door. He stepped inside, pulling off the hat and peeling away the itchy beard. From Cari’s description of Ryder’s condition right now, the likelihood he’d recognize him was pretty slim without the disguise. There was no reason to completely freak him out. Stripping pieces of his disguise as he walked down the hall, Stig listened for any sounds in the apartment, but he didn’t hear Ryder. Hopefully, he was just asleep.

  The bed was rumpled but empty, so Stig kept down the hall to the studio. There he found Ryder. He sat slumped over in his wheelchair, facing the easel, painting frenetically, despite the exhaustion silently screaming from every pore of his body. He didn’t even notice Stig in the doorway.

  It had been just a few days over a week since Stig had last seen Ryder, and the change in him was terrifying. He wore loose, baggy sweats and an old T-shirt. The dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes made it look like he had two black eyes. His cheeks had hollowed out so he appeared gaunt. He had to have lost at least ten pounds since Stig last saw him just a few days ago, but as he considered it, that made sense. The headaches made him nauseated, too.

  He looked like he should be in the hospital bed next to Cari.

  Stig strode over to Ryder and plucked the paintbrush out of his hand. He made a low, pained sound deep in his throat, and he sank his head into his now-empty hand. The painting was gorgeous—as always—but that mattered so little in the face of what it was obviously costing Ryder.

  He picked Ryder up out of the wheelchair. “Come on, baby, you can’t keep going like this,” Stig whispered.

  Ryder wrapped his arms around Stig’s neck. Like a child, Ryder just let him pick him up, trusting him to carry and not hurt him. He didn’t mutter a single sound. Stig inhaled the spicy, musky aroma of Ryder’s unwashed body and reveled in it. He’d missed the smell of Ryder’s scent on his skin.

  Gingerly, he strode down the hall and laid Ryder in bed, but he wouldn’t release his hold on Stig’s neck. “Don’t leave me.” The words sounded like a wail of pain coming directly out of Ryder’s chest.

  Stig sank into the bed beside him, wrapping Ryder up in his arms. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go again. Not again.” He didn’t have the strength to walk away. Never again.

  They’d have to figure out another way to capture Peter all while keeping Ryder off his radar.

  ***

  The next fourteen hours were some of the longest in Stig’s life. Thirty minutes after he put Ryder in bed, he was up and trying to get back into his studio. He never reacted to Stig being there—barely seemed to notice him—except to cling to him when Stig pushed him back under the covers. Ryder never looked at Stig and definitely didn’t recognize him. That terrified him. Ryder was completely locked inside his head somewhere. Stig could understand Cari’s fear...what if Ryder somehow got stuck in this state? The idea made him hold onto Ryder even harder as if to anchor him to this moment in time so he couldn’t slip further away.

  They did that several times—Ryder trying to escape the bed to go paint and Stig holding him down—until Ryder seemed to settle enough to slip into a deep sleep.

  After Stig had gotten several hours’ worth of snuggling with the man who mattered more to him than life and he was sure Ryder would stay asleep, he got up. He had to piss, and his stomach was maki
ng enough of a racket that it just might wake Ryder up if he didn’t take care of it soon.

  In the kitchen, he scrounged together several peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He made a couple of extra for when Ryder woke up, hoping his headache would be settled enough to accept the much-needed nutrition. Then, he wandered into the studio.

  Cari had told him Ryder had been painting more than normal, but that in no way prepared him for the piles of canvases in the room...or for the subject matter. Stig’s face or profile was featured as the focal point in almost all of them. Despite looking at his face—which made him extremely uncomfortable—he could see the incredible artistry of the pieces. But coming in here last night and finding Ryder looking like a walking corpse had ruined any beauty he might have been able to appreciate. He wanted to put them all in a huge pile with all of Ryder’s painting tools and create a bonfire.

  Knowing how much it cost Ryder physically to create them made Stig slightly ill. Ryder’s single-minded focus to create these pieces was slowly killing him. What drove his mind like that, to create when he was feeling at his absolute worst? It made no sense.

  A shudder of revulsion shook Stig, and he turned from the art, shutting the door behind him. He needed to be with Ryder, even if he wasn’t aware. He needed the reassurance of Ryder’s live, warm skin next to his. Nothing else mattered right now but getting Ryder better.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ryder

  Ryder came awake slowly, snuggling into the warm, hard chest below his head. By smell, he knew it was Stig. A soft smile lit up his face. This was the best way to wake up.

  But as he became more aware, reality broke into his sleepy euphoria. Every part of his body ached—his head most of all—signs of a powerful migraine in the recent past. He tried to remember, but that was futile. He’d have to get fully awake before he could piece together what had happened over the last hours.

  This was his reality, living with a persistent brain injury. Fuck. It was much more tempting to lie here within the warm, secure circle of Stig’s embrace and not know.