by Christa Wick
Just as I did with Emerson, I follow Maddy's line of sight.
The exercise brings me to the same general spot—Mama's table and the row of chairs. But Dotty isn't the only one in a rocking chair now. Completely ignoring the center ring, Caiden sits next to Dotty, his chair clearly pulled closer than it was originally set up. He's showing Dotty something—something hand drawn and stitched together like a book.
It takes me maybe a second to realize he's holding the poem I've been reading to him over the phone. I glance from the boy to his mother. She wears a wide, disbelieving smile, her eyes shining like she's close to tears, but happy ones.
I look back at Madigan just in time to see her nearly double over.
Like she wants to puke.
I don't understand it. She loves the boy and the way he is behaving with Dotty is apparently a big deal judging by Delia's expression. So why is Maddy's response almost violent?
She takes a step back and disappears into the stables, staggering as she leaves. I race over and slip inside the cool, dark interior. Maddy sags against the door of an empty stall, her arms folded atop its edge to cradle her face.
"Madigan?" I have a strong feeling I shouldn't be here, that she doesn't want me to see her falling apart. But I can't stand idly by knowing that she's in distress.
She stiffens when I say her name, then a little sob breaks past her self-control. I move close, not quite touching her despite how much I want to pull her over to a nearby barrel, haul her onto my lap and hold her until she feels better.
"Madigan…"
With no idea what to say, I trail off. I can't fathom why seeing Caiden's reaction to Aunt Dotty is affecting Maddy more strongly than it affected the boy's own mother. There's something I'm not seeing, not comprehending, but I only have my own wits to go by because neither Maddy nor Delia will tell me. Of that I am certain.
When she starts to shake like a loaded pickup with a flat tire, I forget how dangerous it might be for me to touch her. I grab her arm, pull her toward me. She moves with me, surprising me to hell and back when she throws her arms around my shoulders and buries her face against my neck.
My pulse kicks into high gear. My body threatens to betray me. Two years of wanting this woman, going without the relief of other women—the reaction to her curves molding against the hard planes of my body is so swift it squeezes the air out of my lungs.
"Thank you," she sputters. Her hold around my shoulders tightens, reminding me of all the muscles hiding beneath the soft, beautiful shell of her body. "Caiden is going to make it out and it's because of you."
I get enough space between us that I can tilt her chin up and get her gaze to meet mine.
"I don't mind hogging a little credit," I tell her. "But it's the hard work you and Delia are putting in every single day, all day."
She blinks. The splash of tears against her cheeks turns me stupider than I already am. My fingers slide. I go from supporting the tilt of her chin to cupping the flesh, my thumb glossing once across her full lips.
Feeling her body melt further into me, I angle my head and gently press my mouth to hers.
The change is immediate. Maddy is gone. Agent Armstrong is back. She rears away from me, topaz gaze hardening as her hands come up.
I lift my hands in turn, trying my best to signal that I realize my mistake.
"Maddy, I'm sorry, my mis—"
Her head shakes left to right at a furious speed. Her hands wave in a "stay away" gesture, their movement fast enough that the fingertips slap against the palm.
"Do you want me to leave?"
She nods, the gesture vehement. Once more, I realize there's a lot more going on than I am aware of. I want to ask her if someone has hurt her in the past. I need to understand the force of her reaction, but Maddy's breathing is on the point of hyperventilating.
"Okay," I say, backing toward the exit. "I'm going. Please know I would never hurt—"
Once again, her actions cut me off. She throws her hands up to cover her face. All the oxygen leaves the room. It's all I can do to make those last two steps and stumble from the stables.
Back in the sunshine, I draw a ragged breath and wonder.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter Seven
Delia finds me within minutes of Sutton leaving. I am still breathing hard when she walks into the cool interior of the stable. I'm sweating, too, and a tremor runs through my body.
For two years, I have fantasized about kissing Sutton, being kissed by him. And the first time it happens, I turn it into a shit show.
First and last time, I think, as Delia gets close enough to see that I am an emotional mess.
"Oh, baby," she says, throwing her arms around me and putting all her strength into the hug. "What's wrong?"
I hate that she was happy until she crossed into the barn. I saw the joy in her eyes as she stood over her son and Dorothea Turk, watching the way he seemed to take instantly to the old woman.
I felt the same joy, too, until I felt something else—felt the hole inside me.
"Tell me," she insists, squeezing me tighter and tighter until the shake running through me from head-to-toe begins to ease.
"Nothing." Not only am I lying, I am doing it badly. A two-year-old could tell a lie better than this.
"Don't make me sit on you," she teases. "And don't tell me it has nothing to do with Sutton because I saw him walk out of here like you'd just kicked him in the balls."
"Not literally," she corrects before my brain can twist what she said inside out.
"He kissed me," I tell her.
"You didn't want him to?"
I shake my head. I was practically melting into the man when he did it. Heat and need flushed my body in equal measure. My nipples pinched with a growing ache. Everything flashed so suddenly from the hole I had felt inside me to finding Sutton filling that hole.
"But you didn't react well to the kiss despite wanting it?" she prods.
"You know me too well," I scratch out. A fresh thought seizes me and I close my eyes. "And now Sutton knows me too well."
"No," Delia softly assures me. "He hasn't seen the real you at all…not more than a glimpse. The real you is far more amazing than you may ever allow yourself to believe."
She leads me to the edge of the stable doors. A peek around the corner shows us that Caiden is still in the rocking chair next to Dotty. Sage Turk sits in the chair on the other side of the old woman. Jake Ballard, Sage's brother and Leah's father, stands behind her. Leah is trying to find a spot on the lap of her very pregnant aunt.
"I think it's the eyes," Delia muses as we both watch Caiden interact with Dotty. "He and Ken used to watch that desert movie all the time, the one with the weird blue eyes. Every time it came on television, they plopped down on the couch."
"Dune," I murmur.
Dotty Turk certainly has striking blue eyes. Unlike a few of her nephews who have a dark blue gaze, hers is pure neon.
"Think we can get everyone at the school to wear contacts?" I ask.
Delia laughs, looks at me, then realizes I am serious. "I don't think so. Let's just see how Monday's visit turns out before we float the contacts idea to the school's administrator."
Remembering that Sutton is supposed to go to the meeting with Delia and Caiden, I rub at my face in agitation. I have undoubtedly screwed that up.
"He'll be there," Delia says, reading my mind. "I don't doubt that man will jump through hoops of fire to please you, but he's going to the school on Monday for Caiden whether it pleases you or not."
With a rough swallow, I nod and pray she's right.
"Come on," she tugs at my arm. "Whatever mojo Dotty Turk has going on with my boy, I want to take some notes."
My feet stay planted as my gaze sweeps the area between the stables and where Dotty sits in her rocking chair.
"I'm pretty sure he left for the day," Delia assures me. "And no way am I going to let you hide in here even if Sutton is still around."
"Why would he leave?" I ask.
Her lips shape the sweet smile that has comforted me since childhood.
"Maybe so you wouldn't?"
The scene at the rocking chairs changes by the time we get there. A small edge of tension sharpens the pitch of Caiden's shoulders.
It's easy to see why. He is highly sensitive to the people around him even if he acts like they don't exist. And Leah is upset, her round cheeks reddened and her delicate mouth quivering with the need to cry.
"There's too much baby," the preschooler protests as she slides off Sage's lap. "No room for me!"
The mouth quivers a little harder and the green gaze glistens with tears waiting to fall.
"Just a couple more weeks," her father soothes, "and the baby will be born."
His words exacerbate the little girl's distress.
"Then Sage will be the baby's mom," Leah chokes out as the first few tears begin to tumble down her cheeks.
"Oh, sweetie." Sage reaches out but Leah turns her back on the woman.
The girl's gaze lands on Caiden and burns hot with a child's pain.
"I don't have a mom," Leah cries as Jake scoops her up into his arms.
She leans away from her father's attempt to comfort her.
"I don't have a dad," Caiden says, his grip on the makeshift book wrinkling the paper.
"You have a mother," Dotty tells her great-grandniece before turning to Caiden. "And you have a father."
"Had," the boy corrects, the angles of his body growing sharper.
The old woman points at the sky, spotting something none of us have noticed until now.
"You see that feather?" she asks the children as the bit of white fluff meanders toward the ground to land at my feet.
"Yes," they mumble.
"Do you see the bird that dropped it?"
They look at the sky. It is wide and blue and dotted only occasionally by a puff of white clouds.
I bend down, retrieving what is actually two small feathers stuck together. I separate them, hand one to Leah and the other to Caiden.
Dotty beams a smile at me.
"Your parents were here today," she tells the children. "They are in Heaven and Heaven is everywhere. It's the butterfly that lands on your arm. The ripples on the lake and the sun glinting off the water. When you know where to look, you'll find your parents."
"How will I know?" Caiden asks.
"Just open your heart, sweet boy." Dotty pats his arm then turns to Leah.
The little girl's tears have dried. Her eyes are as big as when she is spreading glitter and telling everyone it is fairy dust—or when Sutton has given her a "magic" rock and shown her how it can catch voices moving through the air.
"Thank you, Aunt Dotty," Jake says as Leah relaxes in his arms. "I think this is a good time to read a story inside."
Her gaze on Caiden, Delia offers a nervous smile. "And a good time for us to head home."
Chapter Eight
Dodging the rest of the event's Volunteer Day, I leave for home. If Madigan wants to talk to me about what happened, or throw me in handcuffs for that whisper of a kiss, she knows where to find me. In the meantime, I need to get my head on straight.
Slamming the front door of my two-bedroom ranch house, I scoop up my laptop and bounce onto the leather couch. The first site I visit is the jump outfit up by Whitefish. I book the first open date, which is three weeks out.
The timing is decent. Sage is due to have her baby before then. Everyone will be too busy with the new arrival to realize I've popped out of town for the weekend.
The next site I hit is Facebook. I look for new messages. I may not want to admit it to myself, but I am praying for something from Maddy, some kind of exculpation for the mistake I made.
Not that it feels like a mistake. Didn't then, still doesn't.
How many times overseas did I face a life or death situation and survive it by reading the faces of the men around me? Dozens, certainly. I had to know who on my team was getting a twitchy finger, had to know which local "friendly" was getting ready to sell us out to the local warlord or which woman was carrying a bomb instead of a baby.
So how come I didn't read Madigan right? How come I thought, after two years of patience, the timing was right?
"Fuck if I know," I mumble as I shut the lid on the laptop and toss it like a Frisbee at the chair opposite the couch.
I want her too much—that's the simple truth. I want her so badly I haven't even looked at another woman since meeting Madigan Armstrong.
For two years, I've been a damn fool.
Snorting at my stupidity, I retrieve the laptop. I may not have a message from Maddy, but there are plenty of women filling my timeline.
My fingers strum along the keyboard, never hitting the keys hard enough to trigger a character or command.
"Two years," I repeat to myself.
I scroll through the unread messages I have from four different women. There's nothing discreet about the flirting they're attempting over Facebook.
A new one pops up. I open it to find a picture of Sherrilynn Connors pouting. She's only on my friends list because I used to run with her brother before I joined the Army and he went to work on oil rigs.
Beneath the picture is a message.
I thought you could teach me to rope today, but you're not here.
The selfie shows far too much cleavage. I wonder how much she had to contort her body, how high she had to lift her arm and all, to frame both her pouty mouth and thrusting bosom.
I text back.
Heat got to me.
She throws a wink.
It got cooler after you left, Cowboy.
I shake my head. There has to be some happy medium between the woman I want running away from me and the Sherrilynns of the world launching themselves at my feet.
When too many seconds pass without my taking the bait, she throws some more chum into the water.
Will you be here tomorrow? I need you to show me how to hold the rope. Tight grip or light?
No grip, is my answer. Not by her hands, at least.
With a snort, I type my reply. My scowl slowly curls into a grin.
Just texted Siobhan. You hang tight and she'll be by to give you a lesson.
I will, of course, text my cousin if Sherrilynn gives the kind of reply I'm not expecting. But, as my fingers hit the computer keys, I can just see the woman's lips peeling back in distaste. Putting Siobhan and Sherrilynn together is like throwing a pair of irate badgers in a five-gallon bucket and putting a lid on it.
Won't you be here tomorrow?
The answer before I made things worse with Madigan was a "yes." Now I'm not sure if I'll be out in plain sight. I don't think Maddy will show up tomorrow. The whole idea of inviting Delia and Caiden today was providing the boy with a much smaller crowd size.
In fact, I'm not even sure why Sherrilynn is there today unless she's with one of the ranch hands as his date. That does sound like exactly the kind of move Sherrilynn would make—getting into an event with one guy then trying to hook up with another.
Right now I'm kicking myself for getting online and for not wanting to hurt the woman's feelings (or incur her wrath) by unfriending her before something like this happened.
I change tactics.
Who are you there with?
It takes a long minute, but she finally answers.
Kyle.
Kyle Peters is maybe three years older than Sherrilynn. He's a hard worker. My oldest brother hired him out of Billings two years ago. He's taking college classes on the side, which is more than can be said for me.
He's a good man and a good roper. Wouldn't want the ranch to lose him over a misunderstanding.
Trying to cut off any counterargument, I drive in the last nail.
Especially when I am otherwise occupied.
The little bubbles appear as if Sherrilynn is typing a reply. Then they disappear. Then they come back. After two or more minutes have
ticked by, there's no new message.
I am happy to let the conversation die. But I'm not ready to go offline. The restlessness that had me opening the social media site to start with hasn't faded. If anything, it grew in severity.
I go to Delia's profile. She has uploaded a few pictures from today. There's Dotty and Caiden in the rockers, the boy and Royce's old basset hound, one of Leah looking deceptively angelic.
I click for more photos. Caiden has a starring role in her albums. So does Kenneth. I don't see Maddy—until I scroll down and find an album with a peculiar name.
SWMNBP
Every last picture has Maddy in it, either alone, with Delia or with Caiden. There are pictures of when she was a little girl, when she was in high school, college, more than a few of her holding Caiden when he was a toddler, but none when he was a baby.
The closer I look at all the pictures of Maddy, the more something scratches at the back of my brain.
I open a second browser window so I can look at pictures of Caiden while simultaneously looking at pictures of Maddy when she was the same age. I click back and forth, find another set to compare and another. After half a dozen sets, I look only at Maddy's photos, especially the candid ones Delia has managed to snap.
Shit, there it is. The same turning of the head, the averted gaze, the lift of one shoulder to block the world out. It's most pronounced in her younger pictures, but even in the newest ones, I can see it.
I knew I was missing something. I even correctly, although jokingly, assessed the issue that first time Maddy came to me about the boy. She warned how he might act as if he didn't like me, how he might never meet my gaze. I thought then how much he sounded like Madigan.
And now I know why.
Question is, what the hell do I do about it?
A mission briefing seems as good a place as any to start. I begin with the notes Delia sent me about Caiden. She already warned me that not everything I might read about Asperger Syndrome will apply to the boy. She and her husband worked hard on developing his motor skills. His language skills have always been good, he just thinks more than he speaks. But he does have sensory processing issues. That's why she told me not to worry about giving his shoulder or hand a solid squeeze when I'm interacting with him. Anything softer is irritating.