by Christa Wick
I should have pulled out three of the all-terrain vehicles. Worst that could have happened is we left one behind because of too few experienced drivers. But I already knew Maddy could ride. And I should have anticipated at least Delia also knowing how.
But I went with two and my cock has punished me for the decision from the second Maddy slid onto the seat behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist.
I can still feel the way she squeezed at me, feel the press of her full breasts against my back, and hear the echoes of her breathing.
She sounded anxious—maybe even excited. I sure thought it was the latter by the time we stopped at the first field. But when I got off the quad and discreetly glanced her way, all I saw was a porcelain mask without so much as a flushed cheek.
And here I am with a returning erection, the flesh hardening and crawling up my stomach.
Groaning, I lean over and pop my head and the right side of my torso into the stables. Royce, the stable master, stands with his back to the door, his body hunched over the saddle he is repairing.
Hearing my unintended protest, he turns and waves.
"Lindy get hold of you?"
I shake my head as I reach behind me to pull out my phone.
"Forgot to take a radio," I explain. "And the phone's reception has been spotty for me this week. Mama say what she wants?"
I feel a little color warming my cheek over leaving the radio behind—especially after all the other preparations I made. I spent at least an hour getting the vehicles and refreshments ready before Maddy arrived with her nephew and sister. I spent twice that time deciding on my outfit. I went through four pairs of jeans before I found a pair that looked like I wasn't trying to show Maddy how much tone and muscle I've added since her first encounter with my broken body. Same for the shirt—abandoning a polo and two tees before settling on a weathered green chambray and rolling the sleeves.
"Well," Royce bounces back. "Lindy wants you up to the house when you're done. Sage is there with some papers that need your signature."
Sage is my very pregnant sister-in-law, wife to my oldest brother. She is also responsible for the new Urgent Care clinic that our family is helping bring to the small town of Willow Gap and the surrounding ranches.
I want to go home and grab a shower cold enough to wash away the sensation of Maddy's warm body pressed against mine. But it wouldn't do to make a pregnant woman, or my Mama, wait for me.
Sighing, I roll my sleeves down and thread the buttons on the cuffs back through their holes as I nod at Royce.
"Can you let Mama know I'm on my way up and put the quads away for me?"
"Sure thing," he answers, his lips remaining parted as if he has more to say.
"Yeah?" I challenge.
"How about next time I take the pretty ladies for a ride and you stay here fixing your big brother's saddle?"
"The outing was for the kid, not the pretty ladies," I tell him. "The boy lost his dad a couple months back."
Royce doesn't bat an eye at the unfortunate news. In fact, he tilts his head at a sharp angle and cocks a brow at me.
"Just for the kid?" he teases. "Couldn't help but notice the redhead that works with your brother was in the group."
That earns a snort. "If you need fixed up, Royce, I'll tell Siobhan to go to work on you."
His face warps like there's a tornado barreling down on the stables. Half a second later, he's doubled over with laughter.
"Way I hear it," he chuckles. "That little cousin of yours is too busy getting geared up for some hot shot doctor's arrival to play matchmaker for anyone. Word is that he'll be here at next weekend's fundraiser."
If true, it's good news for me. Siobhan has been chomping at the bit for me to "connect" with Maddy. She seems to have lined me and my brothers up like matrimonial dominoes, knocking us down in order of birth—even if she can't honestly take an ounce of credit for the first three getting married.
"You willing to risk being Siobhan's next project?" I ask Royce.
His tanned face pales, but then he cracks a broad smile.
"Did I mention she's up at the house? She was the one delivered your mom's message."
"You might have led with that," I groan.
His shoulders bounce with amusement but then his eyes go big.
"You know Sheriff Gamble is lettin' her go around with a pistol strapped to her hip? Scared me bad enough when she just had a Taser and bear spray!"
"Siobhan is an expert shot," I assure him.
"No doubt," he agrees, snapping an oilcloth over his shoulder. "But she's a little dictator, too. Only thing Napoleon would have on that woman is a few inches in height!"
I leave laughing, the last of my tension over Madigan's visit washed away by Royce's mischief.
Fifteen minutes later, I park my pickup behind Siobhan's police cruiser. As I round the back of my truck, the front door opens. Footsteps pound across the porch.
With a happy squeal, my four-year-old niece launches herself at me.
"Sutty!"
Braced for impact, I catch Leah. She wraps her arms around my neck and plants a kiss on one cheek.
"I aint seen you all week," she complains.
"Haven't seen me," I correct.
"Yeah, that." Leaning back in my arms, she gives my shoulder a poke. "When are we finishing my radio?"
Pleased that she has become as enthusiastic about science as she is about fairy dust and magic, I give her a squeeze then put her down.
"Today," I answer. "So long as no one says otherwise."
Leah runs into the house ahead of me yelling at the top of her lungs, "No one say otherwise!"
She's still running when I shut the door. I watch her disappear upstairs before I head to the great room.
Siobhan immediately pounces on me.
"You've been a hard one to find today," she teases.
I dance out of the way, drop a kiss on my mother's cheek and then one on Sage's.
"How's my nephew?" I ask.
She waves me off. "I don't know what I'm having, so neither do you."
"Well," I say, gliding around the room as Siobhan prowls toward me. "You're carrying way to low to have a girl."
"I'm not a mare," Sage fires back as she rubs at her very pregnant belly. "You don't know if I'm having a boy or girl. Only the ultrasound tech got a peek at those bits, or their absence."
"Is he running from me?" Siobhan asks my mother.
"Sure looks that way," Mama laughs then glances at the ceiling as footsteps race overhead. "What was Leah on about when she rushed in?"
"I told her we would finish up the radio today unless one of you has a reason we can't."
"No one say otherwise," Leah chirps as she walks into the room carefully balancing an oversized tray full of pieces waiting to be soldered.
"Don't worry, love," Mama says. "I'm in charge of you today."
Leah beams a smile then whispers under her breath.
I'm in charge of me.
Mama waits until Leah clears the room then shakes her head. "I swear that child thinks I'm deaf."
"Might be old enough for a swat or two," I say, taking a seat across from the stack of papers Sage brought.
"You're the blue tabs," she tells me.
I nod but I'm not signing until I read each word.
"You realize the baby could pop out before you finish?" Siobhan scowls.
"Not when Sage promised Adler she would wait until he was back from his trip before she went into labor." Wanting to needle my cousin in kind, I pull out the resume of one Thorne Nygård, MD.
"You sure about this doctor?" I say, my gaze on Sage.
Siobhan's hands find her plentiful hips. "For the love of Pete! He's done a surgical trauma residency in Baltimore!"
Before my little cousin can get a full head of steam going, Mama stops her. "He's poking at you, dear."
Siobhan waves a dismissive hand at me. "Because he can't 'poke at' Madigan."
"Siobhan Estelle Tu
rk!" Mama exclaims.
"Just make sure you give Doctor Nygård breathing space when the man arrives," I push back.
Normally I can weather Siobhan butting her nose into everyone's love life. But having Maddy pressed up against me most of the afternoon then climbing into her car without so much as a glance back still chafes.
"Maybe," I add, voice softening as Leah returns to the room. "Maybe you stop overlooking what's been in your own backyard all along, a man already interested who not only puts up with you day after day, but can also handle you when no one else but your daddy can bring you in line."
Siobhan flips a braid over her shoulder, the lips covered with pink gloss pushing into a pout.
Catching my gaze, Sage mouths a name.
The right name.
I wink in confirmation.
Crouching down, Siobhan catches Leah's attention.
"Tell Sutty he's talking crazy, Honey Bee."
Leah marches over, climbs on my lap and cups her adorable, chubby preschool fingers against my cheeks.
"You aren't crazy, Sutty. You're a wizard!"
Chapter Four
Delia staggers wearily from Caiden's room. I catch her gaze, my brow lifting with a questioning arch. She shakes her head. Caiden resumes tapping his knuckles softly on the wall, his restless mind demanding more stimulation.
"I just need a quick pee," Delia says. "Then I'll try again."
I wait for her to disappear into the bathroom before I begin to pace. It is half past eleven at night. We started putting Caiden to bed at nine.
The toilet flushes. I shove my hands in my pockets and step into the hall.
"Did you try Ken's poem?"
"Yeah, but he started chewing on his lip," she answers, her mouth turned down as she heads into her son's room.
Lip biting is a bad sign. It can quickly escalate to more damaging self-stimulation.
Kind of like yesterday at the summer program Delia wants Caiden to attend.
She can't just sign him up and drop him off. Before he can be enrolled, there's a very formal interview process that encompasses both the would-be student and immediate family. As Delia's emergency contact and Caiden's legal guardian in the event of her death, that meant I should go with them.
Caiden knows when his mother feels rushed. So I scheduled the full day off from work. The morning started with the three of us slowly shined to perfection. Delia dressed him in Dockers and a polo shirt. Then she stuffed me into one of her more feminine outfits so I would appear "less intimidating" to the program's staff.
We arrived a few minutes before our scheduled time. Half an hour later, we were still stuck in the waiting room. Caiden put aside his iPad and began to kick at the furniture. Our attempt to control the stimming caused the situation to spiral out of control. He started flapping his hands, then he smacked them on the furniture.
Then he tried to crack his skull on a side table.
We took Caiden home, the two of us rotating periods of tightly holding him until he fell into an exhausted sleep. As soon as he did, I raced to Sutton's in a desperate panic.
Now, it seems we have to pay for a great day at the ranch with an equally challenging night.
Going into the kitchen, I wake my computer and navigate to Facebook. I have most of the women in the Turk family on my friends list, but none of the males. As a "friend of a friend," I can see Sutton's profile and timeline. The most recent post is today on the results of a basketball game. The Billings Yellowjackets lost badly and Sutton is poking at his older brother Walker, an alumnus of the school.
Sutton posted his last comment fifteen minutes ago. Because we aren't friends on the site, I can't see if he is still logged in.
I bring my hand up to my mouth, fingers closed in a fist, and blow through the hole. My right foot jiggles up and down. The gestures seem like a normal amount of nervous energy. They are not. They are acts of self-control.
They are me passing for normal, passing for neurotypical.
What I really want to do is bang my head against something hard.
"Screw it," I murmur as I dig into my back pocket and pull out my cell phone. Thumbing through the contacts list, I find Sutton's information and tap to call. I wait through the first ring, but don't count it. The first ring is only for the callers, to keep us from questioning if the call is going through. I know because I've tested it on multiple phones.
When it rings the fourth time, my finger slides along the screen to disconnect.
"Maddy?"
The sound of Sutton's phone voice is sexy as sin. I exhale the breath I was holding in, but my tongue is frozen.
"Did I lose you?" he asks, a drowsy quality tinting his words.
"No," I manage to answer. "I'm so sorry for the late hour…"
"Do I need to put my boots back on?"
Even worried about Caiden, my brain flashes over to an image of Sutton stripped of a lot more than just his boots. Seeing him in nothing but shorts and gym shoes yesterday, muscles pumped and glistening, just about killed me.
Realizing I have been quiet too long since his question, I blurt an ill-conceived answer.
"No, I just need your mouth."
Oh, hell! Did I really just say that?
I am equal parts mortified and excited.
"O-kay," he says, drawing the word out. "Want to explain?"
I don't want to explain. I want to crawl into my closet and hide for a month, but that's not an option.
"Ken joined the Army after Caiden's diagnosis," I begin. "Between the signing bonus and healthcare benefits, he thought it was the best way to make sure Caiden got all the treatment he needed."
"Understandable," Sutton says. "But I imagine the boy didn't take well to his dad being gone so long for training."
"And deployments," I add. "So Ken wrote a poem. Whenever he was away but had access to a phone, he would call at bedtime and read the poem to Caiden. The other nights, Delia would do it. But it hasn't worked since the funeral. He knows his dad is never coming back."
My throat seizes, clutching at an emotion I have never known how to express.
Sutton waits quietly while I get my shit together.
"He's been doing okay most nights," I continue. "And he was doing so great today. It really did him good to have some guy time with someone like you."
Gah! I am in danger of gushing over Sutton. It's not that I don't know how to gush—I don't know when to stop. I never know if I'm going too far. Safer to not get started.
"I'm glad it helped," Sutton fills in when my pause stretches on too long. "Sounds like tonight might be a bit of backlash for you."
"Exactly," I agree. "Can I send you the text of Ken's poem?"
"Sure," Sutton says as a friend request from him pops up on Facebook. "You can put it in a direct message or I'll give you my email address."
I accept the request then hit the file icon, find the file containing Ken's poem and send it to him.
"Give me a bit to read it," he says. "Can I call you back in about five minutes?"
"Yes!" My cheeks color as I blurt out the answer. I don't understand what the hell is wrong with me—or more wrong than usual.
"Thank you," I hastily amend, somehow keeping control of my voice. "I'll let you go."
He's halfway through saying "goodbye" when I hang up.
Wringing my hands as I pace, I make three trips the length of the kitchen before I realize I need to tell Delia what I've done. I rush to the room that used to be my office and peek through the thin gap between the door and frame. Caiden is rhythmically flexing his legs, his hips lifting off the mattress at the same time his toes dig into it.
He obviously isn't close to sleep, so I softly push the door inward. Delia looks at me over her shoulder.
"I called Sutton," I say.
Caiden freezes.
"If it's okay, he's going to call back in a couple of minutes. I gave him Ken's…file."
Delia looks at her son. His gaze remains stubbornly fixed
on the ceiling.
"Might as well try," she answers.
Caiden slowly relaxes his lower body onto the bed. I catch the glance he throws in my direction.
It's clear from the look that he likes the ex-soldier, that he finds Sutton comforting.
So do I.
"Here," Delia says, handing me the simple illustration that Ken and Caiden made together to go with the poem. "Maybe it will work better with the two of you."
Her mouth quivers. She is thinking of her dead husband, of how every other time she flipped the pages with Caiden as a voice came over the phone, it was Ken's voice.
I nod.
My phone rings.
"Hello," I answer as I sit on the edge of the mattress. "Putting you on speakerphone. Everything is ready on this end."
"Hey, Sarge," Sutton says, his voice as casual as it was at this afternoon's meeting. "Your Aunt Maddy sent me a really great poem. Did your dad write this?"
"Yes," Caiden mumbles.
I slide along the mattress until I'm on my side, the stitched pages open between us. I put the phone just above the book and prompt Caiden to answer a little more audibly.
"Yes," he repeats. "My dad wrote it for me."
"Can I read it to you?"
I melt onto the mattress, forgetting for the moment that Sutton is talking to Caiden and not to me.
"Yes, please," Caiden answers, his voice growing more confident.
"Okay," Sutton says, then clears his throat.
On the open spread in front of Caiden is an indigo-black sky with pinpoints of white randomly scattered on the pages.
When I go away,
No matter how far,
I look up
And find the star.
Sutton's voice is warm apple cider on a chilly night. It melts my bones, relaxes my mind. For an instant, it takes me out of myself. Then Caiden nudges me, my cue to turn the page.
Bright, sparkling,
A silver blue,
The same light
Winks down at you.
Here, there are no pinpoints of white, just midnight and one very big star. I turn to the next page as Sutton continues in his smooth, deep voice.
When it’s time
To say goodbye,
The same moon