by Hope Anika
Will walked toward her, Georgia’s book in hand. He’d taped the torn pages together and waited all day, impatient to see if she could make some sense of it. His plans to demand she decipher it first thing had been foiled by her announcement that Georgia’s ashes awaited pick up—and Rafe’s stricken look in response. Then the funeral home, the mall…and, finally, the tale Cheyenne had shared.
I told you to make you understand it can always be worse.
Will had read the police reports, the caseworkers’ accounts, even some of her medical records, but he hadn’t allowed himself to fill in the blanks. Any speculation he might have indulged in was forbidden; not because he didn’t want to know, but because it had simply served to muddy the waters. What she’d experienced simply didn’t matter. Those details were nothing more than white noise, a useless distraction and utterly meaningless to his goals. They were not something he had allowed himself to think about.
Fucking asshole.
Those details had everything to do with the woman Cheyenne Elias had become. Everything to do with who she was and why—both important factors when determining the level of her involvement in a treasonous scheme to sell semi-nuclear weapons to the scum of the international world. Everything to do with understanding her friendship—or lack thereof—with a woman like Georgia Humboldt.
He could tell himself it had been those meaningless details he’d ignored, but in reality, it was her he’d shied from. The harsh reality of her pain; the hollow eyes and distant gaze and thick, twisted scar tissue. A vision of himself in a child he was afraid to know.
Will was not proud of the realization, but it was a valuable lesson, and one he could not afford to forget. That he felt connected to Cheyenne was neither right nor wrong. It simply was. Denying it only confused things—and made him a liar. Neither of which moved him forward.
And now she was angry with him. Will knew the signs. He wondered if it was because he’d spent the entire day trying to put distance between them. To stay within the parameters of his mission; to be nothing more than a shadow in the periphery of her vision. It had worked…until she’d shared that night with them. Until the picture she’d drawn in stark lines of horror and pain had shattered his reserve. And when she’d pulled away from him—
Christ.
He wanted her to look at him, to acknowledge that what she’d shared hadn’t just been about Rafe, but about him, too. It was unreasonable, and he was kicking his own ass for it, but that’s what he wanted from her.
Sooner rather than later.
She was drawing the lighthouse that sat on the small peninsula just north of the shoreline. Will looked over her shoulder at it for a long moment, still astounded by her skill, awash in her scent.
“Can I help you?” she asked coldly.
Definitely pissed off, and he wanted to know why. So he put a hand down on either side of her and leaned over, caging her with his body. She stiffened immediately. Her hair lifted on the breeze to kiss his skin.
“Yes,” he said and placed the book in front of her.
She made no move to take it. “What’s this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
For a long moment she did nothing. Will could feel her unwillingness, the anger she felt. She nearly vibrated with it. Then she flipped the book open and stared down at the jumbled mix of letters, numbers and symbols.
“I found it in the condo,” he murmured into her ear. “But I don’t know what it is. Do you?”
She shifted away from him and bent over the book. “Not without deciphering it.”
“Can you?”
She said nothing.
“Please,” he said.
She turned to look at him, so close he could see the flecks of gold that speared her iris. Close enough to kiss—something he’d been thinking too damn much about in the last twenty-four hours. He’d dreamt of her again: dark, hungry dreams where he woke drenched in sweat, hard as stone, aching and furious she wasn’t there.
She would never be there.
“I can decipher it,” she said, staring up at him. “But then I want you to leave.”
His heart shuddered, as if he’d taken a killing blow. “What?”
“I want you gone,” she told him. “We don’t need you.”
Blood was a dull roar in his ears. “I’m not leaving. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can take care of us.”
Will stared down at her, and panic licked at his nerves. “No.”
“If we find out where the cache is, I’ll let you know. I promise. But you need to go.”
His hands fisted atop the table. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
He flinched. “Why not?”
She only shook her head. “Do we have a deal?”
“I’m not leaving,” he repeated.
“Then we will.” She closed the book. “And you can figure this out for yourself.”
He stood frozen as the wind lifted her hair around him, and it caught in the stubble of his beard. Her scent teased him; her heat beckoned. He wanted to lean down and press his mouth to hers, to thrust his tongue into her mouth the same way he dreamt of thrusting his cock into her, to swallow and diffuse the words she’d spoken, which lashed so deep.
“You can’t just take what you want,” she whispered, her gaze dark on his. “And leave the rest.”
One hand lifted from the table and tangled itself in her hair; he couldn’t stop it. Perched on the knife’s edge every moment he was near her; denying himself, punishing himself, hating himself for feeling anything other than the hate that drove him. She was everything he would never have. The life he’d lost; the future he didn’t deserve. A symbol of what had been stolen from all of them.
And he couldn’t let her go.
Fucking asshole.
“Cheyenne! Will! Look!”
Rafe’s cry sliced between them like a blade. Will looked over at the boy to see him headed into the surf, the kite abandoned on the sand. He was running toward him a heartbeat later, Cheyenne on his heels.
“No!” Rafe protested when Will lifted him from the water and turned back toward shore. He pointed out at the water. “Look!”
Will followed his hand to where a small outcropping of rock broke the surface of the water. On the center rock a small dog sat shivering violently.
“We can’t leave him there,” Rafe said, wiggling furiously. “We can’t. Please—”
“I’ll get him,” Cheyenne said leaned down to untie her boots.
“The hell you will,” Will snarled and shoved Rafe at her. He pulled off his t-shirt and toed off his boots and headed into the surf. “Stay here.”
The water was cold. As he dove in, the undertow licked at his heels, and he swam hard against it, the thought of Cheyenne or Rafe fighting that current waking fear in his heart. He glanced back at the shore, relieved to see their forms haloed by the setting sun, and kicked himself into gear. By the time he reached the rock—ragged and sharp and covered in slippery algae—his heart was throbbing in the back of his throat. He was out of shape; it had been too long since he’d made his heart work. He could feel the weakness in his left lung where the bullet had punctured it; breathing hurt like hell.
When he surfaced, the dog leapt to its feet and began to bark. Just a pup, with a nasty scar on its face, a golden retriever mix of some sort. The animal growled and yapped and circled nervously on its small plateau of rock.
“Hey, girl, how’d you get out here?” Will moved carefully to avoid the razor-sharp edge of the rock and not startle the dog into leaping back into the water. “Somebody dump you? Is that what happened?”
The pup eyed him, tail wagging hesitantly, small growls bursting from her throat.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” He reached out and grabbed the pup; the animal was skin and bones and trembled violently. A soft whine escaped her, and claws dug into Will’s bare chest. “Easy, girl. Just take it easy.”
Will rolled ont
o his back, keeping the dog above the surface of the water by placing her on his chest. He stroked back with his right arm, pulling them smoothly through the water toward shore. The pup whined, but stayed where Will held her, and by the time they were at the point where Will’s feet touched the lake bottom, the pup was nestled quietly against him, her tail thumping Will’s chest steadily as they got closer to shore.
Will’s heart beat with painful intensity; his lungs ached, and his right arm felt like spaghetti. The rush of his blood in his head made glints of light swim across his vision. A wet tongue licked at his chin and everything around him whirled, turned, morphed—a fraction of a second that took him back—and he could do nothing to stop it—
Heart going to burst; so much blood. A river in his wake; hands slippery with it. Left lung deflated, a leaden weight in his chest. Wheezing, burning, suffocating. Arm broken, bone piercing skin. Hip wrong. Can’t go anymore. So fucking cold. Can’t do it. Done. Over.
DEAD—
A wet tongue, the scent of dog, a furry, warm body circling him—
A soft whine, wetness at his ear, a sharp bark, and then voices arguing—he knows those words—and hands, pushing, prodding, lifting him, and the pain shears him in two, makes him scream like a child, and then—
Nothing.
“Will?”
A hand touched him, warm and strong. He knew that voice; he wanted something from that voice, but he wasn’t sure—
“Will.”
He stumbled back and slapped the hand away with such force, Cheyenne staggered.
He was on the beach with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Cold water streamed down his back, over his belly, into his eyes; his jeans were heavy, sodden and cold. The animal in his arms squirmed and whined, and Rafe watched him with big eyes.
Will put the pup down, his heart beating so hard he thought it might bust his damn ribcage.
“Will,” Cheyenne said again, softly, and she looked at him as though she knew exactly what had just happened to him.
Fucking pity.
“Decipher the book,” he told her harshly. “And then I’m gone.”
He picked up his shirt and his boots and left them standing on the beach, staring after him.
Chapter Nineteen
Rafe had never imagined a world in which he had a dog.
He was the stray—abandoned, alone, dependent entirely on others—and he’d never allowed himself to think beyond that. Wanting never got him anywhere. It was hard enough to get what he needed—clothes, shoes, school stuff—forget having anything extra.
Anything of his own.
So when Cheyenne picked up the pup Will had rescued and said, “So what are you going to name her?” Rafe had been dumbstruck.
“She’s a golden,” Cheyenne continued. “Look at that scar. Somebody hurt you, didn’t they, baby?” She brought the animal to her and nuzzled her. “Pew. Stinky. She needs a bath. And a good meal. Shots, too. A flea bath, a brushing...”
Rafe only stared at her, afraid he’d misunderstood.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Cheyenne held the dog out to him. “We’ll have to get her some food. And a collar. And a leash. Chuck is going to love her.”
Rafe accepted the little dog, which thumped its tail against him and licked his face. “Chuck?”
“My heeler. Thinks he’s a ladies’ man. C’mon. Let’s go before it gets dark.”
And she’d walked away, leaving him standing there with a warm, wet, furry body in his arms, his heart huge and painful in his chest. The pup stared up at him with dark, caramel colored eyes, and Rafe could see the same fragile hope that had taken root within him only a day earlier.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “We’ll take care of you.”
When he got to the condo, Cheyenne was already in the car. But the Jeep—and Will—were both gone.
“Is he going to come back?” Rafe asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
“I don’t know,” Cheyenne said, her eyes dark.
They found a pet store and bought food, a collar, a leash, flea and tick shampoo, a book on training, a rawhide bone, bacon flavored treats and a stuffed hedgehog. Then they’d picked up fried chicken from the local grocery store and eaten it at the picnic table on the beach while the pup growled and attempted to dismember her hedgehog.
Will didn’t return.
After dinner, Rafe bathed the pup (and ended up more wet than she was) and put on her new red collar. Then he fed her and paged through the book on training while Cheyenne worked on deciphering some crazy code his ma had left (which Cheyenne had shown him but he didn’t recognize). He watched four more episodes of Supernatural and tried to decide what to name his new friend.
Will still didn’t return.
At ten, Rafe took the pup out, urged her to pee and looked down the street for the Jeep.
Nothing.
He didn’t really understand what had happened earlier, when Will had come out of the water with the pup, his eyes blank. Flashback, Cheyenne had said. A bad memory. It’s not your fault. But that meant little to Rafe. All he knew was that the empty look on Will’s face had scared him—like he wasn’t really there—and he hadn’t responded to anything they’d said. Then, when Will shoved Cheyenne away, Rafe had realized he wasn’t there, but was somewhere else, somewhere in his own head. Somewhere bad.
Rafe knew about PTSD. He’d gone to school with plenty of kids whose parents had fought in the wars, and they’d come home all messed up. His friend Tommy wouldn’t go anywhere with his Uncle Joe, because every time a car backfired, the guy freaked out to the point someone always called the cops. Rafe wondered if Will ever freaked out that bad.
Not that Rafe blamed him. He couldn’t even begin to imagine war. And he knew Cheyenne didn’t blame Will, either. Rafe figured it was because she might get flashbacks, too. Considering what her ma had done, how could she not?
Set on fire. That was fucked up.
But he didn’t think about it too closely, because it scared him.
So he went back inside and curled up in front of Supernatural, the pup secure in his arms, while Cheyenne fell asleep, and he waited for Will to return. It was nearly eleven by the time Will came in, so quiet at first Rafe got scared until he heard the telltale sound of Will’s boots. But even after Will laid down on the other couch, and his breathing grew steady and even, Rafe couldn’t fall asleep.
His brain was too busy. Thinking about his ma and all of her secrets, about the revelation of his pop…who probably wanted him dead…about this three half-sisters, who he would probably never meet, and who would probably hate him anyway…about Cheyenne’s ma and her scar and Haven and Will…about the animal nestled in his arms, a life he was now responsible for…
It was overwhelming. So much had happened in such a short period of time…his whole life turned inside out. But he was… hopeful. His ma was dead, and his pop might try to kill him, and he was in the care of total strangers—again—but he was optimistic. The darkness that tainted everything had lifted and he could see…possibilities.
Hope.
It was crazy. He should be scared—and he was, of his pop, of those bombs, of whatever fucked up thing his ma had left behind because there had to be something, because that’s who she was—but the freedom he felt made him brave. Cheyenne gave him courage. And Will…he liked Will. Respected him. And really, really wanted to believe in him.
But only time would tell if he was worthy.
They were leaving for Wyoming in the morning. Cheyenne had shown him the map and marked out the route they were going to take—Rafe had hoped they would fly, because he’d never flown before—but Cheyenne said hell would freeze over before she got on another “flying boat” and besides, she didn’t trust the airlines with the pup, so they were going to grab some camping gear and make a road trip out of it. She had ticked off several intriguing places as they’d poured over the map.
“There’s the Corn Palace, Wall Drug, Pipeston
e National Monument, the Badlands, the Black Hills, Devil’s Tower…”
He was going to look those places up on his Mac—his unbelievably sweet new Mac (life was good)—tomorrow morning. It was exciting, the thought of going somewhere new—anywhere that wasn’t here—and seeing something he’d never seen and—
A deep, harsh sound broke through the quiet murmur of the TV, and Rafe froze. It took him a heart-pounding moment to realize it had come from Will. That Will was dreaming.
“Go….” Will growled softly, and Rafe looked over to see him jerk on the couch, a low sound—like pain—rasping from him. “Goddamn it, fucking run.”
Rafe’s heart beat heavily against his ribs. Against him, the pup lifted her head, and a soft whine escaped her.
“Shhh,” Rafe whispered. “It’s okay.”
“No! Just go,” Will snarled. He sounded…tormented, and Rafe didn’t move, trapped by fear and uncertainty. “Too late to stop it…Hogan! Kent! Get the fuck down!” Another loud, harsh groan rippled into the air, and Cheyenne stirred on the other end of the couch. She sat up, blinking, and looked at Rafe.
“No, no, no, no, no…” A painful sound murmured in Will’s throat; grief and rage and something there was no words for. Rafe felt his own throat swell in response.
Cheyenne pushed up from the couch and moved toward Will. She was hesitant, but then reached out and touched him, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Will,” she said softly. “Wake u—”
A horrible, enraged roar shook the condo, and Rafe cried out. The pup began to bark, and Cheyenne squealed as Will grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her down, rolling off the couch to land on top of her on the floor. “Damn you,” he muttered, his voice broken and harsh, and so alien it terrified Rafe. “You fucking bitch.”
He crushed Cheyenne beneath him and grabbed her neck, and the sight of his big hands wrapping around her slender throat broke Rafe’s paralysis. He flew up off the couch while the pup barked hysterically, and Cheyenne bucked and tried to throw Will off.