by Gina Kincade
“Rosie.” He gulped out her name. Blood stained his teeth and ran down his chin. Punctured lung. If he aspirated, he was a dead man.
“Don’t talk.” She cupped his face with her hands. Beard scruff scratched her palms. Oh God, don’t die. Don’t die. “Let me help you.”
“Too…late.” Jack knew as well as she did his wounds were fatal, but he didn’t know she could heal. Fuck the medicine box. She needed to concentrate. Forget the brutal agony every breath produced. Screw the way her vision wavered in and out of focus. Just concentrate.
She closed her eyes. The glow. Tap the blue fire within. Make it come out of your hands. Fix Jack. Heal him.
Her hands heated, but didn’t sweat. She dared not open her eyes as she called forth the wellspring of her power. Lodged deep inside her, it roared to life at her call and beamed from her palms onto Jack.
He stopped choking out her name. Probably unconscious, but she couldn’t open her eyes yet to make sure. See the light. Feel it healing his punctured organs, closing up the gaping holes in his flesh.
Don’t faint. Do. Not. Faint.
Nausea gripped her and shook her like a wet, smelly rag. She grimly held back the vomit burning in her throat and tried not to think about how numb her body was growing. How cold.
How…dizzy…world shaking. Don’t open eyes. Oh, the heat. The blue flame. Don’t fa – The world went dead black.
Chapter TEN
Jack groggily opened his eyes. Ugh. God, where the hell was he? Horrified realization swept through him. He grabbed for his stomach, expecting pain, a boatload of it, but encountered no wet blood, no sucking, open wound, and only a superficial soreness as if his muscles had been stretched.
He took a breath. The awful sludgy wheezing had disappeared. No more blood in his lungs. What the hell?
Ice traveled down his spine, and he squeezed his eyes shut in denial. Dead. He was dead. He had to be.
Rosie’s sweet face flashed before his eyes, and he sat straight up yelling her name. Had Rico managed to finish her off?
There she was. Crumpled in a heap on his right. Her blonde ponytail obscured her face. Her throat puffed out, laced with terrible purple bruises. That bastard Rico.
Tears stinging his eyes, Jack reached out a tentative hand expecting it to pass through Rosie’s flesh. Instead he encountered skin. Warm skin. Alive skin.
He bent closer and felt the reassuring, wonderful flutter of Rosie’s breath upon his cheek. Jesus, she was breathing. She wasn’t dead.
He couldn’t be either, not if he could touch her, but what the hell had happened to his wounds? Using his mad man’s strength, Rico had managed to stab him three times. Once in the shoulder – Jack paused to rotate the bone in the socket and encountered not even a vague ache. Once in the chest, puncturing a lung, and once, horribly, in his stomach. God, that had hurt. Like blazing fire raging through his guts.
Now, though, nothing but a vague tenderness.
He drew in a deep breath, part of him marveling he could breathe without pain, and reached out to touch Rosie again.
“Rosie? Sweetheart?” He moved her hair aside. Her cheekbones stuck out, lending her face a gaunt, starved look. Must be the angle.
Gently, he rolled her over onto her back so he could assess her condition. Bruised throat, hopefully not a crushed larynx, but nothing else apparent. He moved her arms, bending them at the elbows. No broken bones. None in her legs either. Her ribs seemed fine. No distension of her stomach. In fact, it looked awfully concave. Her jeans swam on her. He could have pulled them off without unbuttoning or unzipping them. What the hell? She looked as if she’d lost ten pounds. Maybe more.
“Rosie?” He took her face between his palms and rolled her head back and forth trying to rouse her. He had a medicine kit in his Jeep with some smelling salts, but he didn’t want to leave her.
A guttural groan escaped her lips as her eyelids fluttered. Blue eyes the color of the summer sky stared up at him. He smiled at her encouragingly as he watched her attempt to focus.
“Juh-Jack?” God, her voice sounded awful, poor thing. His own throat constricted in sympathy.
She struggled to sit up, holding out her arms, and he took her into his embrace, shuddering, as she buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
“I thuh-thought you wuh-were dead!” Between her tears and bruised throat, he had to concentrate to make out her words. He hugged her, expecting to feel pain at last, as if the absence of his wounds had been an illusion.
“I don’t know why I’m not,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. “Sweetheart, I know I got stabbed. Three different times. But I can’t find the wounds. And you, why are you so damned skinny? What the fuck happened to us?”
The idea they were both dead struck him. Jesus, could that be it? It would be fucking ironic if he had to find some living person to help him over into the afterlife. He tightened his grip on Rosie. Wherever the hell he might be headed, he wouldn’t leave Rosie behind.
“Jack,” Rosie quavered in a ruined whisper. “I’m starving. Can I have some food? I need to talk to you, but I have to eat. I can’t think I’m so hungry.”
Eat? Jack blinked a few times, letting that concept sink in. Did dead people eat? Could they?
One way to find out. He stood, bringing Rosie with him. She clung to him, unsteady on her feet, and he turned them toward the cooler. Shit. At the sight of Rico’s bloody body, Jack did an instinctive step backward, nearly toppling over. Rosie grabbed at him, staggering back, and sagged halfway to her knees.
He dragged her back up, cradling her so she didn’t have to look at the mess that was Rico as he led her past.
He sat her down on one of the chairs near the cooler admonishing her not to look at Rico’s body. She kept her gaze fixed on him as he dug the cold cuts and cheese out of the cooler. Hands shaking, she ripped open the salami package and crammed salty slices into her mouth. Swallowing obviously hurt, but she didn’t stop shoving meat and then cheese into her mouth.
As she demolished a package of cold hotdogs, Jack ducked into the tent to find his phone and call 911. He wanted her to go to the hospital, and Rico’s body, as well as his ex-wife’s, needed to be taken away.
He felt morbidly sure the 911 operator wouldn’t be able to hear him, a dead man, on the phone, but she took his information and assured him an ambulance and the police were on the way. Jack backed into the cot and half fell, half sat on it. Jesus, maybe he wasn’t dead after all.
He rummaged in his backpack for the graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars they’d planned to use for S’mores, and hurried back to Rosie.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she forced herself to swallow the food. Sips of water caused as much pain as solid food, but as she ate and drank, the gaunt look faded from her face.
Wailing sirens sounded in the distance.
“Oh, man, I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Rosie told him, dropping half a bar of chocolate in her agitation. “I don’t want to leave you. I have to tell you something. About me. About why you aren’t hurt anymore.” Anguished, she grabbed hold of his shoulder and clung.
“If you think I’m not coming with you, you’re wrong.” He pressed his forehead to hers, noting how hot she felt. Did she have a fever?
“I can heal,” she blurted. “With my hands. Like a freak. If I concentrate, this blue light comes out of them, and anything I wave them over heals. Like your stab wounds. Like Audra in the traffic accident.” Tears clung to her eyelashes.
He believed everything she said instantly. Who the hell was he to question strange abilities? Healing hands. How freaking cool was that?
Jack assessed her silently. Her concave belly, her thin cheeks.
“Using this power drains you, doesn’t it? You ramp your metabolism right up into oblivion. That’s why you lose weight. Why you’re so hungry and feverish.” Jack took her face between his hands, wincing at the warmth of her skin. “You need an IV and a lot of rest. Someone ought to
look at your throat and see if there’s any damage to your larynx.”
“I don’t want to stay in the hospital. I don’t want to go. They’re going to ask questions I can’t answer and do all these stupid tests. Please, Jack. Take me to your apartment. I know how to deal with this. I’ve been doing it ever since I turned sixteen. Ten years! I know what to do.”
Jack wanted her safe in the hospital, but the terror in her eyes was too real to ignore.
“Will you let me take care of you? And if I think you need to go to the hospital, do you agree to let me bring you?” he asked. “Do you promise to go to the doctor when you’re feeling better and have your throat checked out?”
She nodded, tears slipping down her wasted cheeks. “It’s bad this time because I went all the way with your healing. Normally I just stabilize and let the doctors take over at Fairhaven. But you were going to die. And I couldn’t let you.”
“Ah, Rosie.” Jack pulled her into his arms and rocked her. “Don’t you ever put yourself in danger for me again. You hear?”
“You’re not the boss of me,” she said, a touch of her old spirit resurfacing.
The paramedic squad barreled through the open gate and sped across the field, a police cruiser tailing it.
Jack kissed the top of her head, then whispered into her ear, “Why did the blonde bring a ladder to the bar?”
Rosie dissolved into weak laughter against his chest.
Jack said, “Somebody told her drinks were on the house.”
The squad drew to a quick halt and three men exited. Jack recognized two of them as one of the other Station Nine paramedic teams. The third man was Captain Tremaine.
Jack came to attention. Curious, Rosie turned in his arms.
“Cap,” she whispered. She glanced at Jack. “He knows about me.”
That was all she had time to say before the three men approached. Two police officers, one male, one female, left their cruiser and moved toward Rico’s body.
“Heard the call come in over Dispatch,” Cap said as the paramedics tried to pry Rosie away from Jack. “Thought I’d tag along to make sure you two were okay.”
“Rosie doesn’t want any medical attention,” Jack told them. “I can take care of her.”
“Looks like someone tried to strangle her. We should really look at that,” the blond paramedic said as his partner gazed at the food wrappers and empty water bottles strewn around the chairs.
“I can do it,” Jack said. “I’m a paramedic too, you know.”
“Yeah, we know.” They kept their distance after Captain Tremaine gave them a pointed look.
“Go wait in the squad,” he suggested, and they melted away.
“Which one of you knifed this guy?” the male officer called as he crouched near Rico’s body.
“One minute please!” Cap held up his hand, and Jack watched in astonishment as the cop shrugged and turned back to the corpse. The female officer walked back to the cruiser to call in.
Cap turned his attention to Jack. “Can I have a moment with Rosie please?” If the idea of one of his firemen turning into a psycho wife murderer shocked him, Jack couldn’t tell. The man had a poker face straight from a Vegas tournament.
Rosie put her hand on Cap’s arm. “It’s okay. He knows everything.”
Cap stared at Jack for a long moment. Jack met his gaze squarely.
“Rosie has a gift,” Cap said. “I suspect she used it on you. You’d better be grateful. If I hear anything – anything contrary to that – I’ll run you out of town, Grady. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Jack answered, and before Cap could turn his attention to Rosie, he added, “Just so you’re clear, Rosie’s special to me, and I will never, ever hurt her or betray her. Are we clear?”
Cap flashed Jack a smile – the first he’d seen from the man since he’d hired him.
“Rosie, are you okay to go home with this guy? You sure you won’t go to the hospital?”
“I’m sure.”
Cap winced at the hoarseness of Rosie’s voice. “You take care. Call out if you have to. Keep Jack with you. We’ll manage.”
He turned to walk back to the squad, but when Jack called him, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Cap, will you do something for me?”
Cap inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing to help.
“Estrada’s ex-wife is buried about half a mile away – just off route seven before the turn to the lake access. The shoulder’s a little wider there, and he left tire tracks with his SUV. She’s about six feet into the trees. I saw what looked like a grave, and I dug it partway up. Will you please make sure her kids are okay? I’m worried about the kids.” Jack’s gaze never wavered from Cap’s.
Again with the poker face. “No sweat,” Cap said, raising a hand. On his way to the squad, he stopped to speak with the female cop. Whatever he said caused her to dive for her radio again.
“Now will you tell me which one of you stabbed this guy?” The male officer called after Cap climbed into the squad, and it drove back toward the road.
***
Rosie jerked awake from a nightmare. Rico was stabbing Jack over and over again while she watched, choking and unable to breathe or move.
“It’s okay, Rosie, I’m right here.” Jack turned on the nightstand light before rolling to take her in his arms.
“When did you come to bed?” Rosie wrapped her arms around him. Thank God, he was safe.
The cops had followed them back to Jack’s apartment and talked to him there after Jack threatened to call Captain Tremaine if they didn’t allow him to feed Rosie, clean her up, and get her settled in bed before answering any of their damn questions. Whatever hold the captain had on them worked.
The last thing Rosie remembered hearing before her nightmare was Jack’s voice, low-pitched and agitated, relating the events of the afternoon to the cops seated on his living room sofa.
“Long time ago.” Jack rubbed her back through the tee shirt he’d lent her. It hung to just above her knees, but now scrunched up to her waist, and she wore nothing beneath it. Jack had on a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms. Black checked. Rosie stared at the pattern until it wobbled before her eyes. She’d told him about her healing hands. The secret was out now for better or worse. So far he hadn’t freaked out on her. He’d looked at her with admiration and gratitude. Maybe things would be okay, but she couldn’t help wondering when the other shoe would drop. Maybe it would when she asked him the question that had burned within her ever since he’d told Cap about Darlene’s shallow grave.
“Can you sleep?” he asked, fracturing her worried reverie.
“No,” she said pensively. “I keep dreaming about Rico stabbing you, only I can’t breathe or move.”
“It’s over.” Jack kissed the top of her head. “Rico can never hurt either of us again.”
“Are you in trouble? For...for killing him?” Rosie’s throat felt marginally less sore, but she didn’t think her voice would ever be the same. She might end up with that whiskey-laced passion voice forever.
“No,” he said. “They just made me tell the same story a hundred times is all. They’re calling it self-defense. Which is good since that’s what it was.”
“Duh!” She smacked herself in the forehead. What a dummy! “Heal your own throat, Rosie!”
“Not this second you won’t!” Jack’s brows drew together ominously making him look stern and unlike the happy-go-lucky Jack she’d grown used to having around. His harshness melted into concern. “Does it hurt that much? Do you need me to take you to Urgent Care?”
“No.” She batted at his arm. “You keep suggesting that and I’ll go home, Great Eagle.”
A snicker escaped him and she hit him again. “I’m serious!”
“You’re never serious when you call me Great Eagle.” He sounded inordinately fond of her, and a curious warmth stole throughout her body. She didn’t want to blow up the easy intimacy between them, but lies stacked
on lies tended to crash down at some point. Maybe he hadn’t precisely lied to her, but he’d surely withheld something. Just as she had when she hadn’t told him about her powers. They’d been dancing around this moment ever since she’d agreed to have dinner with him last night.
“Jack?” She traced circles across his bare chest. He was one of the least hairy men she’d ever seen shirtless, except for the little treasure trail leading from just beneath his flat stomach downward. God, she’d never seen him naked. Just felt him.
“Mmm?” He seemed entranced by her touch – his breathing deepened, his body relaxed against the headboard.
“How did you know where to look for Darlene’s body?” She took a deep breath, but continued to draw imaginary circles on his chest. “How did you even know it was her? That’s why you left me in the tent, isn’t it? You knew she was out there. Just like you didn’t see the open garage door through the Masters’s kitchen window. You didn’t have to see an open door. You somehow knew those women’s bodies were in that refrigerator. And you knew that man’s body was at the bottom of the ravine. How do you know these things?”
There. She’d asked. She continued to trace circles on his chest with her finger as if their whole future together didn’t rest on his answer.
Jack grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. Shocked, she jerked her head up to look him straight in the eye. His expression wavered between desperation and relief, as if maybe a small part of him was glad she’d asked.
“I see ghosts,” he said with an abrupt nonchalance that stole her breath away. As did the words themselves. Ghosts? Like cemetery haunts? Halloween for real?
He increased the pressure of his fingers curled around her hand until she winced. It hurt. But she didn’t think he could be aware of it. He had a strange smile, but his eyes were tragic, as if he stared at some melancholy parade only he could see. Armies of the dead maybe. Marching toward the light.
She shivered.
“Ghosts?” she said.
“Ghosts.” He squeezed her hand again. This time she felt sure he knew he was hurting her, but she made no effort to draw it away from him.