by LENA DIAZ,
Several hours later, the beast was purring like a cat drunk on catnip. Not long after that, both ATVs had a fresh oil change and a new fuel filter, and were shined up and ready for future treks over the mountain to check on his newest acquisition, the tract of land he’d had his eye on for years but that had only come available a few months ago. But since he didn’t want to be out of sight of the house just in case Brian—and his mother—decided to pay a visit, he spent the remaining daylight hours patching and painting over the bullet holes Brian’s last visit had made in the siding on the workshop building.
The light sensor had the bug light behind the house flickering on when he set his dirty boots on the deck and headed inside. He used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his chest and arms as he strode through the house to his bedroom to take a much-needed shower. He stepped inside his bedroom, and froze. Peyton was standing in profile on the other side of the bed, looking out the window into the side yard.
“There you are,” she said as she began to turn around. “I’ve been look—”
Her eyes widened and she pressed her hands to her throat, staring at his chest. “Oh, Colin. Oh no, Colin.”
He’d learned to expect this type of reaction from other people. He hadn’t expected it from her, though, not after everything they’d been through the past few weeks. What a fool he’d been to think that she could love him enough to overlook the physical, love him for who he was, not the scarred shell he’d become.
The urge to cover himself was nearly overwhelming as her horrified gaze traveled over the ridges and dips that covered his chest and arms. But he wasn’t about to cower and act ashamed. He’d saved two people’s lives. It had cost him dearly. But given the choice, he’d do it all over again. Life was a precious gift, worth any sacrifice. Even if it meant sacrificing the love of his life.
“Colin,” she choked out, still not looking up at his face.
He gritted his teeth. “If you’re through staring in disgust at my scars, I need to take a shower.”
Her gaze flew to his. “What? No, I didn’t mean—”
“Excuse me.” He strode past her into the master bathroom and considered it a victory that he managed to shut the door without slamming it.
* * *
PEYTON ZIPPED THE bag of freshly baked croissants closed and set them on the kitchen island. With Colin gone for several hours now, she’d filled the time baking, and had definitely gone with a chocolate theme. Three dozen chocolate fudge cookies sat in another bag. A devil’s food cake took up the middle, resting on a plain dinner plate covered with plastic wrap since she couldn’t find a cake keeper in Colin’s kitchen. Yet another sheet of chocolate chip cookies, still too warm to put away, sat cooling on the opposite end of the island.
The oven beeped, letting her know it was preheated again for her next venture—a homemade Dutch apple pie. Well, almost homemade. She’d been forced to make the crust from a few cans of ready-made biscuit dough. But she’d almost wept when she’d seen the bag of fresh-picked apples sitting on a shelf in the pantry. Not because it meant she could make a decent pie. But because she remembered how much Colin had always loved apples, green not red. And how much fun they’d had together picking them at the same orchard every summer.
She slid the pie into the oven and set the timer. Then washed her hands in the sink.
“Someone’s been busy. Again.”
She whirled around. Colin stood in the opening to the family room. His expression was guarded, his gaze flitting over the food on top of the island. He was fully dressed, once again wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that buttoned at his wrists. Only his feet were bare.
“I, ah, hope you don’t mind that I took over your kitchen. I tend to bake when I’m—”
“Upset. I know.” He leaned against the wall. “I’m sorry about earlier. I should have kept my shirt on when I came inside. I assumed you’d still be upstairs. I shouldn’t have.”
She blinked. “I don’t...are you seriously apologizing to me?”
He moved into the kitchen. “Not everyone can handle it, seeing the scars. I should have been more careful.” His hand hovered over one of the chocolate chip cookies cooling on the baking sheet. “Do you mind?”
“What? No, of course not. It’s your food, after all. Please. Take whatever you want, I...” She swallowed as he took a bite of a cookie, then closed his eyes, a look of pleasure washing over his handsome face.
He opened his eyes. “That’s probably the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve ever had. I’ll bet it was a favorite at your store.” He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and crossed to the sink.
She moved out of the way so he could wash his hands.
“Glad you liked it.”
He dried his hands on the dish towel and leaned down to look in the oven. “Is that an apple pie?”
“I hope you don’t mind. I used most of the apples in your pantry. Were you saving them for something?”
He hung the dish cloth on a hook by the sink, then rested his hip against the counter. “Not particularly. I’ve told you before, you’re welcome to use anything in the kitchen. No exceptions.”
“Thanks. Um, Colin. About before. I think you misunderstood. I wasn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it. I really should be used to that kind of reaction by now. Even my brothers give me a startled look if I take off my shirt while working outside.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Forget it. Have you eaten dinner? I took a nap after my shower and woke up starving.” He yanked open the refrigerator and peered inside. “I never did make those sandwiches earlier. I could still throw together some—”
“Stop it.” She leaned past him and shut the refrigerator door. “We need to talk.” She flattened a palm against his chest, feeling the ridges of scars beneath the material. “We need to talk about this.” She tapped his shirt.
He plucked her hand off him, his eyes darkening. “Turns out I’m not as hungry as I thought.” He moved past her and strode out of the kitchen.
She hurried after him. “Colin, please. Stop.”
“Good night, Peyton.” He passed the stairs, heading to his bedroom.
She spotted her book bag by the couch and grabbed it. Colin shoved his bedroom door open. In desperation, she lifted the bag into the air and flipped it upside down. The letters tumbled out, thumping against the coffee table and plunking onto the hardwood floor in a sea of white, like flat, rectangular snow.
He stopped and looked over his shoulder. His gaze traveled over envelope after envelope, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”
She tossed the now empty bag onto one of the couches. “They’re from you, the letters you sent me after the fire. All sixty-two of them. Until my father’s death, until I found these hidden in the attic, I never knew you’d tried to contact me after the fire. My father refused to let me call you. He took my phone away. And he swore you never once tried to even send me a text.”
His face reddened as he turned to face her. “And you believed him?”
She felt her own face flushing with heat. “He was my father. I had no reason not to believe him.”
“No reason except that I loved you. How could you think that I wouldn’t try to contact you?” His hands fisted beside him. “I laid in the burn unit for weeks and all I thought about, other than the pain, was you. I prayed you’d come back, that I’d open my eyes one morning and see you bending over my bed, feel your hand brushing the hair out of my eyes. But you never came. Not once.”
Her throat tightened. “Colin, I didn’t—”
“I came to see you. Did you know that? In Memphis, after I built this stupid house for you.”
She blinked. “You built this house for me?”
“Every board of the wraparound porch I knew you’d love, the swing you’ve always wanted, the ginormous kitchen. D
id you think I cared about having state-of-the-art appliances and an island? I can barely cook.” He waved his hands in the air, as if waving away his words. “Doesn’t matter. None of it. I went to Memphis to tell you about the house, use it as a bribe to try to get you to come back. But you’d moved on with someone else.”
She stared at him, shocked. “I’d moved on? What are you talking about?”
“Your marriage. Obviously, it didn’t last. You’re not wearing a wedding ring and you sure haven’t mentioned a husband since coming back. But you had no problem finding someone else. Your father told me all about it.”
She took a step toward him, shaking her head, anger over this latest example of her father’s lies tempered only by her grief and dismay. “And you believed him?”
He stared at her, confusion crinkling his brow. “You never got married?”
She clutched her hands together, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “No. I didn’t.”
This time, he took a hesitant step toward her. “You didn’t...find someone else?”
“How could I? No one I’ve ever met compares to you.” She slowly moved closer, then stopped. There was still far too much space between them, literally and figuratively. “I don’t know what was going through my father’s mind when he lied to both of us. He told me your burns weren’t that serious, that you were released from the hospital that same day. And he forbade me from contacting you, said it would jeopardize my brother’s trial, that he could end up in prison and it would be my fault.”
Colin stared at her, but didn’t say anything.
“Looking back, it’s easy to see that it was foolish of me to believe him. But I was young, and naive, and terrified that I could be the reason my brother’s life was ruined. That’s hard to understand, I know. But back then, it was our family against yours. We were trying to keep Brian out of prison. You were going to testify against him. That’s probably why Daddy kept the letters secret. He wouldn’t have wanted me to read them and be conflicted between working to help Brian and being by your side.”
She swallowed, hard. “I’d like to think that he felt guilty, that he realized he’d done both of us wrong by hiding your letters. That’s the only reason that makes sense for him saving them all this time.”
She took another step toward him. His intent gaze followed her as she slowly crossed the room.
“I read them in Memphis before I came back, half a dozen times. You were in so much physical pain, far more than I ever imagined. I had no idea how badly you were burned. I didn’t even know you’d ended up in a burn unit. I’m surprised it wasn’t mentioned during the trial.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t want to pile it on, to make things any worse for your family than it had to be. If Brian went to prison, I wanted it to be because of the arson, and almost killing two people, not for what he did to me. So we asked the prosecutor to keep the information about the severity of my injuries out of the trial. But I still thought you’d at least ask about me.” He opened his eyes, raw pain staring back at her. “You never did.”
“Oh, Colin,” she whispered, her throat tight.
Six feet away, five. She stopped directly in front of him, so close that she could feel his heat reaching out to her.
“What do you want, Peyton? Is there even a point to this, now? If you can’t stand the sight of me, there’s no way we could ever heal the mistakes of our past.” His voice was flat, his expression blank. But there was no hiding the warring emotions in his stormy eyes. There was pain, so much pain. Frustration, anger. And something...else. It was the something else that gave her courage. And hope.
“What I want is to explain my earlier reaction to seeing you without a shirt on.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s not necessary.” He started to turn away, but she grabbed his arm.
“Wait.” She dropped her hand. “Please.”
He faced the doorjamb a moment, before turning back. “What?”
“The earlier letters, the handwriting wasn’t yours. Who wrote them?”
He blew out a breath. “Duncan most of the time. Adam some of the time. Even Ian pitched in on one or two. My hands were bandaged. Everything was bandaged from my neck to my naval. I couldn’t hold a pen.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. “You dictated the letters?”
He gave her a crisp nod and stared over the top of her head. “Is that all?”
“Later, the writing changed. It was messy, hard to read. That was you, wasn’t it? In spite of the pain, the difficulty, you pushed through. Even though I never replied to your earlier letters. You kept writing.”
“Oh for the love of...enough, Peyton. There’s no reason to go through all of this. I was eighteen, nineteen by the time I was out of rehab and back home. Young, in love, in pain. But life goes on. Time passes. We grow up. Let’s leave the past in the past.”
“You still love me, Colin. That’s not in the past.”
He opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it without saying anything.
“You love me,” she repeated, knowing her heart would shatter if he denied it.
After an eternity, he finally replied. “Doesn’t matter.”
She let out a shaky relieved breath. “I love you too.”
He stiffened, as if she’d hit him. “Doesn’t. Matter.”
“Why not?”
He laughed, but there was no humor to it. “We’ve both been fooling ourselves thinking that this, that you and I, could ever work out. Even if your brother didn’t start the barn fire, he’s guilty for the death of Officer Jennings. And I’m the one trying to put him back in prison. He’s likely to face the death penalty. You’ll never be able to forgive me for that, in spite of everything you’ve found out about him since coming back. And I couldn’t blame you. I can’t imagine being in your position. If something like that happened to one of my brothers, it would destroy me. So I’m okay with you not being able to forgive me. I understand. But it will always be there between us.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing to forgive. Brian made his own choices. You’re doing your job and what’s right. I wouldn’t be here trying to help you catch him if I didn’t understand that.”
He dropped his head to his chest before meeting her gaze once again. “The deck is stacked against us. I’ve been hoping, all this time, that I was wrong. That we could make this work. Somehow. But aside from everything I already mentioned, if my scars are a barrier between us, there’s no hope. That’s not something I can change. It’s out of my hands.”
“Oh, Colin. Sweet, wonderful Colin. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. You misunderstood, earlier. Disgust is not what I felt when I saw you without your shirt. And it isn’t what I feel right now.”
She stepped closer and pressed both of her palms against his chest. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. She slid her fingers to the top button of his shirt. He grabbed her hands.
“Peyton, don’t. Seeing the scars across a room is one thing. Up close is far worse.”
She looked up at him. “Let me. Please.” When he didn’t move, she added, “Trust me.”
His brow furrowed. But he slowly dropped his hands to his sides.
She went back to work on the button, beneath his wary gaze.
“I didn’t feel disgust.” She slid the button free and gently pulled his shirt open a few inches. “I wasn’t horrified.” She opened another button. His shirt gapped a good six inches now, revealing a crisscross of puckered scars over an otherwise incredibly well-defined chest that would have made most men envious, most women hot. She was no exception.
Another button freed. More scar-covered muscles bared to her hungry gaze.
And her touch.
She leaned forward and pressed her mouth against a particularly savage-looking scar, and kissed him.
He jerked at the contact. �
��Peyton.” His ragged whisper was a mixture of confusion and wonder.
She kissed him again, while freeing the remaining buttons. His pulse leaped in his throat and his skin heated at her touch. Her own pulse rushed in her ears. She slowly pulled his shirt completely open, then watched his face as she reached up to slide the material down his arms.
Once again, he stopped her, his hands pressing hers down on his shoulders. “This is madness.” His voice was husky. “When I carried those people out of the barn, their clothes had melted onto their bodies. They were burned far worse than me. That’s how my chest was burned, from their clothes pressing against mine. But I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which gave me some protection. But not my arms. There wasn’t anything between their melted clothes and the skin on my arms as I carried them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“The scars on your arms are much worse than on your chest. I understand, Colin. And it doesn’t change anything. Let me do this. Please.”
He searched her eyes, then slowly dropped his hands and turned around so she could pull his shirt off his shoulders, apparently giving her a chance to change her mind before seeing the worst of the damage the fire had done. She wasn’t changing her mind.
She bunched the fabric, then pulled it off and let it drop to the floor. His back was smooth and well defined, even sexier than she’d remembered, with only a few small white lines on the sides showing where the burns extended from the front.
Then he turned around.
She drew a sharp breath. “Oh, Colin.”
He stiffened. “I knew this was a mistake.” He grabbed for his shirt, but she put her foot on top of it. He looked up at her, his hand still clutching the fabric.
“You don’t need to cover up,” she told him. “Haven’t you been listening? When I spoke just now, it was out of guilt and regret. The only disgust I feel is for myself. There’s sorrow too, of course. When I see the scars, I see your pain, think about how much you suffered. I wish I could have somehow saved you from that pain. That’s what you see in my face. That’s what you hear in my voice. Shock, yes. Because even after reading your letters, I still had no idea just how badly you’d suffered. Now, seeing it for myself...” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Colin. Regardless of who is responsible, I’m so sorry that you were hurt. And I’m so, so sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me.”