by Vicki Tharp
Shifting clearly into my sight line, Hank settled into a loose-limbed, hip-shot stance, and hooked his thumbs into his front pockets, a contemptuous smile on his face, though no one noticed but me. “I’d worry less about what I’m going to do about it and more about what she is going to do about it. Me, I just want front seats to see another Talbot ass whipping.”
I stood up straight and braced my legs in an athletic stance, ready to do whatever I needed to do. My stomach did that crazy little flip-floppy thing at Hank’s words, at his confidence in me, at his strength to stand back and let me handle this situation. Because he knew as well as I did that if he stepped in now, and if these brothers ever found me alone again, they’d pounce without hesitation. I had to give them a reason to hesitate. A muscle twitched at the corner of Hank’s jaw and I knew he stood on a hair trigger, ready to provide backup despite his negligent stance.
“Back away,” I told Talbot. He took a step back, but not in retreat. Instead, he used the increased distance to allow a more thorough perusal as his eyes skimmed down and then back up my body, his hand still raised near my face. And yeah, I was going to need a long, hot scrub in the shower to wash away that slimy leer that polluted my pores like the Valdez oil slick.
“Make me.” He didn’t move. Not toward me or away.
“Last chance,” I warned in all fairness. As much as I wanted to deck him, I waited. He had until he made physical contact to change his mind. Until then, I could wait. The seconds stretched out, his hand never wavering.
One of the brothers must have moved because gravel ground beneath a boot but Hank and the man in front of me hadn’t budged. “Come on, Tanner. Leave ’er be. It’s gettin’ late.”
So the man in front of me was Tanner. Hank’s chin rose at the knowledge. He may never be able to tell the other brothers apart, but this Talbot, Tanner, would forever stand out in both Hank’s and my minds as if a neon target were painted on his chest.
Tanner shook his head in derision at his brother’s words. He leaned into me. “Why is the baby in the family always such a pussy?”
I uncrossed my arms, ready for the touch, then he palmed my cheek and glanced a calloused thumb across my cheekbone. Hank’s hands fisted at his side.
“So soft,” Tanner whispered.
When I smiled, his expression went slack with confusion. Then I threw a punch to the inside of his right bicep, not as hard as I would have liked considering the close quarters, but I stunned the ulnar nerve and he caved from the pain. With him partially doubled over, I grabbed his shoulders and slammed his body downward as I jammed my knee into his solar plexus. He dropped. Hard. Heavy. Like the sack of shit that he was, fighting to catch his air. I turned, ready to face the brothers, but Hank stood between them and me, and to be honest, neither one looked enthused about jumping in. I guess two of the Talbot boys had a few brains cells after all.
“Get him out of here,” Hank growled at them.
The brothers scooped up Tanner, looping an arm each under Tanner’s armpits to support him as he staggered to his feet. To give Tanner credit, he was intelligent enough not to mouth off as his brothers carried him off. I watched their retreat until the darkness swallowed them.
When I turned back around, Hank leaned against the flopped-down tail bed and scrubbed his palms down his face, his eyes dark and intent as I stepped between his legs. He settled his hands on my hips. “Jesus Christ, Army.” His voice dropped low and coarse.
I wrapped my arms around his back and he tugged me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck and breathing me in.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What for? Backing you up?”
I tipped my head so I could see his face. “No. For backing off.”
He chewed hard on my answer. Then he pushed me back a step, his hands on my shoulders and then on either side of my face. His fingers hard and calloused, like Tanner’s, but so full of gentleness and integrity I’d never mistake one touch for the other. “You’re the smartest, toughest, most resilient woman I’ve ever met. You have the heart of a warrior, and I love that about you. I really do. But so help me, Mackenzie, it will surely break me if you ever ask me to do that again.”
In his eyes, I understood what it had taken from him, as if my asking him to step back had stomped and bruised the edges of his protective soul. Not chauvinism on his part. Not disrespect or lack of faith in my ability to protect myself. Because clearly he’d had faith or a whole platoon couldn’t have held him back.
Being profoundly protective of those who mattered to him? That was his heart. That I mattered enough to have that effect on him? Well, schnick, schnick—a couple more pieces of my own shattered soul found their way back home.
Chapter 12
Back at the cabin, the front door snapped closed behind us as I collapsed against it. My bed, a few steps away, a mighty oasis in my desert of exhaustion. I stared at it. It might as well have been a mirage on the far side of the Sahara because I couldn’t take one more step.
It had to be getting close to midnight. Jenna ended up trailering Angel to a friend’s house where she’d be spending the night after a little post-rodeo bonfire the local kids were throwing. Quinn went with her. Which accounted for the scowl marring Hank’s face as he headed to the coffee maker to prep it for the morning.
My head fell back against the door with a whispered thunk and my eyes drifted closed on their own accord. The friction between the leather soles of my boots and the roughhewn wood floor kept me from sliding to the ground.
Hank clunked and clattered about in the small kitchen. Somehow, even the scooping of ground coffee sounded loud and grating as he stewed in his agitation.
“It’ll be okay,” I tried to reassure him. “I don’t think Quinn can talk her into doing anything she doesn’t want to do. She’s pretty level-headed.”
Hank merely grunted. My eyelids would need a chain hoist to open them and judge his expression, so I didn’t try. “Besides,” I continued, my voice sounding slow and garbled like an old forty-five record set at the wrong speed, “they’re with a group of friends.”
I must have dozed for a second, because the next thing I knew, Hank’s lips brushed across mine. If my synapses hadn’t been too exhausted to fire, I would have been startled. His hands came to rest on my hips and he nibbled on my earlobe. A few hours post shave, I could already feel the faint scrape of his new stubble against my neck, and why I found that so arousing I’d never understand, but I did. Even through my exhaustion, a slow burn developed deep within.
“You ever let that stop you?” he asked as he kissed his way down my neck, along the ridge of my collarbone, until his tongue dipped into the groove at the base of my neck. Frustration edged his touch, not aggressive and not as if he were taking his mood out on me, but not tender either, as if he didn’t fear sharing his turmoil with me, that he knew I’d shoulder the weight of it with him. That he trusted me with that was a bear hug to my heart.
“At that age, when hormones were running hot. Did ya ever let a level head, or a pack of friends, stop you, Army?”
I blew out a huff of laughter as I guided his lips back to mine. Even at my age now, with the rolling boil of hormones brewing in my veins, if the Talbots hadn’t interrupted us beneath the stands, the fact that hundreds of people sat above our heads probably wouldn’t have stopped me, so I got Hank’s point. I deepened the kiss in acknowledgment.
Then I yawned.
Not a petite, lips-sealed half yawn, but an mouth-open, jaw-cracking yawn of a satisfied tiger lying in the shade after eating its fill. Hank muttered an oath and embarrassment rushed up my neck and my face, all prickly heat and clammy skin. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Christ, Mackenzie, don’t apologize. You’re dead on your feet. I shoulda taken you home ages ago.” He scooped me up in his arms and carried me over to my bed, then his leg partially gave way, pitching us
onto the covers. He ground out a few choice words through gritted teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his sore thigh.
“You okay?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away, as he breathed through the agony. Then he straightened and wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead. “Yeah.”
He hesitated as if checking to make sure he spoke the truth. “I’m good. Just aggravated it a bit tonight.”
Yeah, jumping across the chute and landing with all his weight on it to help the bull rider probably wasn’t a doctor-recommended move. He hadn’t thought about the consequences to himself before he’d jumped. His concern for a fellow rider trumped his need for self-preservation.
I cupped the back of his neck and drew his mouth down to mine, kissing him lightly on the lips. “You’re a good man, Hank Nash.”
He shrugged off my compliment as if it were a shirt too uncomfortable to wear, and even though we both knew I’d been referring to his helping the rider, that wasn’t where his mind had shifted. I know he fights his conscience over his decision to leave Jenna with her grandparents while he rode the circuit to support her. I know that decision made him question how good of a father he’d been to his daughter. I also know that the self-doubt and worry proved what a good man he was. A bad father, a bad man, wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.
I felt more than saw his mental shift as he temporarily shelved his negativity. Reaching over, he dragged my legs across his lap, hooked his hands behind the heels of my boots, and yanked them off. He peeled my socks off next. I expected my dress to follow close behind, but instead he laid me back against my pillow and pulled the quilt up, tucking me in. Then he braced his hands on either side of my shoulders and leaned down, placing a kiss on my forehead.
That was so not what he’d promised he’d do to me when we got home. “You said—”
“Trust me. I know what I said.” His voice drifted across my skin rough and somehow soft at the same time. “I know what I promised, but you can’t even keep your eyes open and I’m not sure my ego could stand it if you fell asleep while we made love.”
Made love. I kinda liked the sound of that. It flooded my senses with the warm fuzzies. Not that I loved him or he even loved me. I liked him. A lot. Probably more than I should. Somehow, as good as I knew being with Hank would be I also knew a connection existed between us that went beyond pure lust, beyond mere sex.
That’s what worried me.
I’m not what Hank needs.
What Jenna needs.
What that family needs.
His smile had shone through in his words, but for the life of me I couldn’t open my eyes to see it, so I guess I could see his point about my exhaustion, though that did nothing to alleviate the hum of awareness the memory of that promise had kept at a low rev all night.
He patted my thigh as he stood to leave, his stride asymmetrical as he favored his leg. He didn’t pull the curtain and I didn’t ask him to as he turned out the lights and stepped to his bed. The last thing I remember hearing before my brain succumbed to the sleep deprivation was the sound of his clothes hitting the floor and the rustle of his sheets as he climbed into bed naked.
* * * *
Sometime in the night, I drifted into that crazy sleep realm where you tumble into a recurring nightmare, knowing full well you’re headed for an ass-cracking bad fall—like when your ice skates slip out from beneath you, you know the pain is coming but you are powerless to stop it. In this dream realm, the dry Iraqi sun heated my skin even as my disjointed mind registered the goose bumps on my arms where I’d kicked my covers free. The irony that Dreamland was the nickname for my former base was never lost on me.
Even though my throat was dry, I managed to produce enough saliva to wash the sand from between my teeth and spit. The sun practically evaporating the moisture before it even had the chance to hit the ground. Not surprising since I figured we were only a few degrees south of the steel melting off the Humvees and all the ammo and ordinance self-igniting like one epic Middle Eastern Fourth of July.
Sweat drizzled into my perpetually wet waistband as I tugged up on my body armor to keep the edges from scraping and digging into my hips. The constrictor-like squeeze the armor had on my breasts I could do nothing about as I strode toward the command tent already a few minutes late for my briefing. Mentally I geared up for the ass chewing my commanding officer, my CO, would undoubtedly hand me.
A motorcade of five Humvees and a supply truck rumbled by, kicking up a choking cloud of sand and almost obliterating the sound of three muffled shots of suppressed gunfire. Thwap, thwap, thwap. I froze in place for a second, maybe two, even as I palmed my M9 Beretta sidearm. It was rare to not hear gunfire, either from the firing range or farther in the distance outside the concrete blast walls, but my brain scrambled to come to terms with the sound of someone shooting a gun, with a silencer no less, so close to the tents where my meeting had been relegated. Sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eyes as I tightened the grip on my pistol.
The tent had a wood door. Beyond it, a short alcove opened directly into the tent. Once I opened the door, there’d be no cover. Someone groaned. Then another thwap.
Then nothing.
No time for backup. I choked down the rising bile, Beretta raised as I burst in low through the door. Then in that way that adrenaline can narrow your focus and spin time in relative ways Einstein never imagined possible, I absorbed the bloodbath before me. My CO lay sprawled in an office chair, arms flung to the sides, an entry wound just off center of his forehead, the splatter of brains, blood, and bone on the tent wall behind him a dead giveaway he wasn’t one I might save. On the ground at my feet, a pool of blood lay beneath a staff sergeant. The blood had expanded so rapidly even the parched desert couldn’t guzzle it down fast enough.
The last man was Boomer, a man from my unit who operated the fifty-caliber gun mounted on the Humvee, who was still alive. Barely. A wound to his leg and somewhere else that I couldn’t see. I sucked in a steadying breath, the stale air inside the tent redolent with the bite of gunpowder, the iron tang of spilled blood and the pungent mix of urine and feces.
I leveled my firearm between the eyes of the last man standing. “Rahim?” Our Iraqi interpreter, an invaluable teammate who’d proved himself and come through for us time and again.
My boyfriend.
For lack of a better qualifier.
If the Pope himself had stood before me in his flowing white cassock and golden tiara, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. I stared down the suppressor of Rahim’s Beretta M1951 as he thumbed a flash drive into the front pocket of his pants. My own service weapon remained steady between his eyes.
Stalemate.
“W-What have you done?” I sputtered out. I didn’t expect an answer. Then, the slack already taken up on my trigger, my voice a tad stronger, I ordered, “Put the gun down.”
His lips parted. I watched the slow exhale, the softening around his dark eyes. He lowered his gun arm enough that if he fired there was a good chance my body armor would take the brunt of it and not my forehead. Somewhere a part of my brain registered the drone of engines as vehicles passed within yards of our location, the bark of laughter from a soldier as he walked by with a friend. I could yell for help, but one of us would be dead before anyone got here. If someone even heard me over the grind of the engines.
“You need to put the gun down. Now.” I fought to keep my aim steady as the tingle and burn of muscle fatigue crept in.
His arm fell to his side. I eased closer and held out my hand for his gun. “It’s okay. We’re gonna figure this thing out.” Nothing to figure, Parish. He murdered two men. Three if you don’t get Boomer a medic ASAP. No way out for Rahim. He knew that. I knew that. But with my brain on overload, for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You got me?”
Boomer groaned
, but I couldn’t risk glancing his way.
I wiggled the fingers of my outstretched hand in that universal gesture to hand something over. Then something within Rahim shifted, my brain caught the beginnings of a smile and the slow wink that somehow conveyed his internal conflict, resignation, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the tiniest hint of nostalgia mixed in. At the same time, my eyes snagged the exact moment his arm, and his pistol swung upward.
“Nooo!”
I fired.
A bullet out of the pistol on average can travel at fifteen hundred feet per second. At a distance of approximately ten feet, that meant Rahim had approximately six-thousandths of a second to react and dodge out of the path of my FMJ—full metal jacket—round. The average reaction time for a human to react to a visual stimulus is a quarter of a second.
He didn’t stand a chance.
In the recorded version in my mind, I could slow those six-thousandths of a second down, watch as the round spiraled out of my matte black barrel in a vivid flash of fire and an expanding mushroom cloud of gunpowder and arrow toward the furrowed line between his brows. One corner of his mouth tilted up in sardonic acceptance of the inevitable, his eyes soft as if seeking an apology. Not for what he’d done. No, there was no regret for that. No ounce of remorse for taking the lives of fine men. Men who had trusted him with their lives.
Perhaps his hesitation was his silent apology for using me, for betraying me. Then again, maybe his forty virgins were calling him and he’d taken this as his opportunity to join them. The radical’s version of death-by-cop.
How had I not seen this? How had anyone, not seen this?
Then fast forward. The round penetrated, obliterating the center of his brow as he pulled the trigger, thrusting his head back in a crimson spray of blood gray matter. Only, this time, the dream was different. His mouth went slack like all the times before, but I could hear him calling my name. “Mackenzie, Mackenzie…Mac!”