Hidden: Part 1 Page 10

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He was accustomed to quick, hot sex in his cramped camper. Most of the time he didn’t even bother to shed his clothes, or his lover’s. He just focused on the driving force of lust. Being with Avery was different. Holding her close, skin to skin, was the most lush, sensual pleasure he’d ever known. Wanting to thank her for her kindness, he took his time, kissing and touching her gently as though she was the one who was wounded. She in turn was sweet and soft and mindful of his injuries and his limitations. He did his best to give her pleasure. His senses filled with her womanly scent.

  Afterward, lying in the dark flushed with contentment, Justin understood for the first time the difference between carnal lust and making love, and the pleasure a man derived from taking care of a woman’s needs before his own. He marveled at how long he lasted when he wasn’t just trying to get to the payoff. Riding a bull until the buzzer sounded now seemed like a cruel metaphor. Finding Avery had been a miracle—an older, experienced woman who wanted more from him than a cowboy conquest to gossip about with her girlfriends. Exhausted, grateful for a comfortable mattress, he spooned Avery from behind, holding her damp body close to his, lightly caressing the soft, round bowl of her belly until her breathing turned into quiet snores. He slept deeper than he had in months.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sully tried to get his bearings as he merged into the fast-moving traffic on the parkway. He had to get used to this concept of freedom, being his own boss, hopping into his truck and driving anywhere, anytime, on paved roads as smooth as silk. He glanced at his fellow Americans speeding by in their well-maintained cars with only an occasional patrol car keeping the peace. In Afghanistan, he traveled on rutted trails in an armored Humvee beneath tiers of ancient houses carved into stone cliffs, passing women dressed in burqas and goat herders dressed in baggy kurtas who barely concealed their looks of contempt. No one could be trusted. Villagers who acted as friends by day could be harboring Taliban by night. Most villagers wanted the Marines gone, dead or alive.

  As he remembered the tension he felt when riding in a vehicle vulnerable to an IED, he felt his stomach tighten, his hands started going numb, his heart started racing. He yanked his thoughts away from the past and studied with intensity the lead-bottom clouds hanging in the steel-wool sky. Another snowstorm coming in. Focus. Breathe. His heartbeat crept back down to normal.

  Sully pulled off the parkway and wove through side streets until he found his mother’s small rental house, barely visible through a stand of juniper trees. Mist rose through the boughs and smoke curled from the chimney. A peaceful scene. Still, his eyes scanned the yard looking for any small disturbance on the ground that might be concealing an explosive. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he might get a leg blown off walking up to a strange house.

  The world was a dangerous place. Sully didn’t like his mother living on her own, away from the safety of the ranch, and he didn’t like the added expense of supporting an extra household. Hopefully, her separation from his father would be short-lived now that Sully was home. He didn’t relish the conversation they needed to have about her neglecting the bills. What had gotten into her? He’d called her from the hospital in Germany last week. She didn’t expect him home until next week but an opportunity came up to get home fast on a cargo flight and he grabbed it. Now he was thankful for the last two days at the ranch alone. He’d had time to process horse theft and murder, and assess the state of the ranch. He was still working on getting his spiraling emotions under control but at least he could sit down with his parents and have an honest conversation about their finances. He strode up the walk and spotted Ronnie vigorously sweeping pine needles off the front porch bundled in a red parka and fuzzy wool hat, her breath steaming in the frozen air.

  “Mom!”

  Ronnie froze for a moment and turned slowly as though not trusting what she heard. Her eyes opened wide when she saw him. Sully flew up the stairs and pulled her into his arms. Her head found the curve of his shoulder, his chin rested on the crown of her head, just like old times. When she pulled away, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home early? My heart’s about to burst.”

  “A chance came up to get home fast and I took it. I barely had time to pack a bag.” He fondly refreshed his memories of her worn, beautiful face; the strong cheekbones, wide mouth, high forehead. Worry lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened. Instinctively, he wanted to protect her.

  “Thank God you’re all in one piece, Michael. Look what they did to your face.” With a look of tenderness, she touched the scars on his cheek. “You were too handsome for your own good. This adds character. I don’t like how close this one came to your eye. Can you see okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “The rest of you?”

  “Good as new,” he said, ignoring the pain in his arm.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cooked all your favorite foods. At least cinnamon buns.”

  He could almost smell her cinnamon buns hot from the oven, walnut and sugar glaze, butter dripping down the sides. “I’m home for good, Mom. There’s plenty of time for cinnamon buns.” He pulled a small, gift-wrapped box from his pocket. “I got you this in Kandahar.”

  “Thank you, son,” she said, beaming. “Come in. Come in. Let’s get out of this cold.” She opened the door and something small darted at his heels and clamped onto the cuff of his jeans. He shook his leg but the creature held on tight. “What the hell?”

  “Butch, no.” Ronnie scooped up the squirming animal. Big brown eyes gazed at Sully through a tangled maze of blond curly hair. “Say hi to Butch.”

  “Is it a dog?” he teased.

  “Of course it’s a dog. A toy poodle. He needs a haircut.”

  After giving the head a mandatory pat, Sully stepped into the warmth of the house. As his eyes scanned the living room, he silently groaned. His mom was up to her old tricks. Columns of file boxes and plastic storage containers took up most of the floor space. Tables and chairs were fairly hidden beneath stacks of magazines and books. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace with no protective screen. “Mom, if a spark flies from the fireplace and hits some of this tinder, this house would be a deathtrap in seconds.”

  Cheeks flushed with cold, Ronnie glanced around the room as though seeing it for the first time. Still holding Butch, she pulled her mittens off with her teeth. “You’re right, Michael. I won’t put on another log.”

  She made no excuse for the state of the room. His mother always had a passion for collecting and storing printed material, which she called information gathering. He and Joe managed her “hobby” by restricting it to her office and routinely recycling, with her pecking right behind them like an angry hen. Dad negotiated a trade: they got rid of “stuff,” and she got a romantic weekend or the acquisition of a new goat or hen. It worked. Now Sully got to see what happened without intervention. The anger he felt when going over their accounts now shifted into concern for his mother’s mental health. Granted, she was a talented writer, submitting lifestyle articles to a host of web publishers, but it didn’t warrant turning her house into a living data bank. “How’d you get all this stuff since you left the ranch?”

  “Library drops it off, and folks from churches,” she said cheerily.

  “What’s in all these boxes?”

  “File folders. Packed with news articles. I clip them from magazines and the paper.”

  “Mom, I understand you need to do research, but everything can be found online these days.”

  She shook her head. “Not in great depth, Michael. I need facts, not abbreviations. I know it looks a mess, but I know exactly where everything is filed.”

  He saw that all the boxes were neatly stacked and had colored labels fitted precisely in the upper left-hand corner, clearly stating contents in alphabetical order. She’d put hundreds of hours into this. Everything was tidy and organized, yet to Su
lly it looked a little crazy.

  “Come into the kitchen, dear. I’ll make coffee.”

  “Sounds good, Mom.” Suppressing his unease, Sully followed her to the back of the house into a brightly sunlit kitchen. Smells of home cooking lingered in the air, igniting memories of childhood. The kitchen had always been his mom’s nerve center. Before meals, he remembered, Ronnie always worked her way through the garden, shaking loose carrots and onions, picking tomatoes, squash, eggplants, potatoes, kale, and spinach, then she swept into the kitchen and proceeded to transform her bounty into mouthwatering meals. He was certain that no one, even the chefs on cooking shows, made better tasting food than his mom.

  Ronnie shoved Butch into Sully’s arms and removed her jacket and hat, the static momentarily standing her short red hair on end. He noticed she had dropped some weight and her jeans and sweater looked a size too big. His concern deepened.

  “Sit, dear. Take off your hat. You know I don’t like hats in the house.”

  The table was laid out with a dozen stacks of paper that seemed to be aligned on a perfect grid pattern. He dropped the poodle to the floor but the animal attacked the hem of his jeans again, growling in a little pipsqueak voice. Sully dragged him a few feet to the table and lifted a pile of papers to clear a spot.

  “Michael, no.” Ronnie’s voice held a touch of panic.

  He froze. His mother’s eyes looked wide and anxious.

  “Please put those down exactly as they were. Those are my research papers. Let me clear away the laptop.”

  “No problem.” What the heck?

  Papers were replaced, the computer whisked away, and his mother took a breath.

  When did she become this anxious? She’d always been calm and reasonable, a steadying hand when his father was stirring up his usual shit. Sully hung his hat and jacket on the back of a chair that squeaked beneath his weight.

  Busying herself with coffee, Ronnie glanced at him from time to time as though he might be an apparition. “I can’t believe you’re here, Michael. My prayers have been answered.” She tossed tablespoons of French roast into the coffee maker. “We’ll have coffee in a jiffy. Have you seen Lilah yet?”

  “No.” He felt his face harden at the mention of his girlfriend’s name.

  “Bring her over to dinner soon.”

  He said nothing. After the letter he received in Germany before he left, he wasn’t sure there was anything left to salvage between himself and Lilah.

  “She’s come out to visit, you know. She’s too pretty to be running around on the loose. You should be thinking of marrying her.”

  Tight-lipped, he didn’t reply.

  Ronnie set a plate of coconut chocolate chip cookies in front of him. His favorite. “You’re not getting younger,” she said. “Lilah has waited a long time.”

  He wolfed down a few cookies, the thought of Lilah diluting his pleasure.

  “My goodness. You’re starving. Let me make you a sandwich.”

  “Something fast, Mom.” He dropped Butch to the floor. The dog bit into his cuff and pulled, growling for all he was worth. “I just came by to pick you up. I’m going to get Dad. I knew you’d want to come.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re taking him home?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “So soon?”

  “You said in your e-mails he’s improving. Travis said he’s walking and talking up a storm.”

  She tightened her arms across her chest and frowned. “Yes, he’s talking. But walking? Not really. A few steps with a walker, but …” Her eyes avoided his.

  “But what?” Sully shook his leg. Butch held on.

  She opened a cabinet and took her time pulling out two mugs and placing them on the counter.

  “Mom, you’re making me nervous.”

  She faced him with a solemn expression. “Your father’s never going to get well, Michael.”

  Her words caught him off guard, a hard jab to his chest. “Who says?”

  “His doctor.”

  Sully pondered this, emotions lurching. “The same doctor who said he’d never walk or speak again?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I don’t believe it for a second. Dad’s as strong as a bull. Nothing’s ever kept him down for long.”

  The aroma of coffee filled the room and they listened to water dripping into the pot.

  “He’s receiving good care around the clock. You should leave him where he is.”

  His gut twisted.

  “He’ll be a burden to you.” Ronnie dry-washed her hands, a nervous gesture. “You don’t have time to be his nursemaid.”

  “Does he know you feel this way?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “When did you see him last?” he asked.

  “It’s been awhile …”

  “How long, Mom?”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’ve never been out there, okay?”

  Sully sat stunned. “You never visited Dad? In six months?”

  With a guilty look, Ronnie turned and busied herself locating the cream in the fridge.

  “Mom, don’t ignore me.”

  She placed the cream on the table and leaned back against the counter. Her face was drained of color, accentuating her freckles. “I talk to your father every day, Michael, and to his nurses. I’m managing his care just fine.”

  “By telephone?” Sully breathed deeply. “How can you turn your back on Dad when he needs you the most?” He knew he was glaring but he couldn’t help himself. “Jesus, Mom. Do you hate him?”

  “Of course I don’t hate your father.” Her Irish came up, green eyes sparking with fire.

  “Why’d you leave him?”

  “For good reason.”

  They stared at each other.

  “I know you think I’m the villain, here, Michael. I’m not. Do you think I wanted to leave my home? My garden? The animals? The life we made together?” Her chin suddenly quivered. Quick tears streaked down her cheeks and dripped off her chin.

  Alarmed, he rose from the table and put his arms around her. He felt her trembling.

  She pulled away, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she sniffed. “It’s between Joe and me.”

  He knew better than to drill her. She was stubborn as hell, and the set of her jaw told him she wasn’t going to confide in him. Sully remembered the tension that lingered in the house when his parents were at odds with each other, the two of them barely speaking for days, and both using Sully as a referee. His father especially was short-tempered, letting off steam by bullying Sully, accusing him of taking his mother’s side. Then magically the two would be back to normal, his mother smiling at the breakfast table, his father whistling while he did his ranch work, and Sully relieved to be out of his father’s crosshairs. Now here they were, living separate lives while the ranch and animals suffered. His mother’s slumped shoulders and sad expression told him something disastrous had split them up. He felt a cold chill creep along his spine. Maybe what was broken couldn’t be fixed.

  “Can I make you lunch?” she asked, composing herself.

  “Have I ever said no to food?”

  “Never. Not even in your sleep. I made pot roast last night. I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, hiding his frustration.

  Ronnie pulled the roast and condiments out of the fridge. “Everything on it? Onions, cheese?”

  “Sure, Mom. No hot peppers.” He took his seat. Butch sprang onto his lap, pressed his forepaws against Sully’s chest and licked his chin. “Christ,” Sully said, scratching around the dog’s ears. “Friggin’ mutt.”

  “He likes you. Butch is a man’s dog. He never kisses me.” She pulled a jar from the fridge. “I have your favorite pickles. When you were a little boy, you used to say Hickles Pickles was your favorite vegetable.”

  “I remember. Fried chicken, Hickles, and a side of Skittles. My dream me
al.”

  Ronnie poured coffee, added cream to both, and handed him the larger mug. He took a sip. Even in his disgruntled mood, he could appreciate a good cup of coffee. She served the sandwiches and he noticed the crusts had been trimmed off with surgical precision. He started wolfing down the sandwich, gulping the coffee. “How’s work, Mom?”

  “Busy. I’m up against five deadlines.” She picked at her food.

  “Don’t get yourself too stressed.”

  “It’s under control.”

  Yeah, right.

  “How’s the ranch?” she asked, guilt raw on her face.

  “Needs work.” This was no time to bring up Gunner and their finances, he decided. He wasn’t going to aggravate a bad situation. “Travis did a good job looking after the place.”

  “How are the horses?” She refilled his mug.

  “Well cared for. Fat. I need to start working them. Mom, why don’t you come home for a few days? Work with your mare. Help me with Dad.”

  Ronnie’s mouth tightened.

  He backed off and quickly finished his sandwich. “That was good, Mom. Well, I’m heading out.” He dropped Butch to the floor and took his time getting into his jacket, pulling his hat low on his forehead, hoping she’d volunteer to come. She didn’t.

  “Take Butch to your father. It’s his dog. He’ll want to see him.”

  The poodle stood poised to go, brown eyes eagerly watching him. “This fashion accessory is Dad’s?”

  “Surprised me, too. After Jaspers died, he went to the pound to get a ranch dog, came home with Butch.”

  Jaspers, he thought with affection. Now there was a good ranch dog.

  “And Michael …” She was quiet for a long moment.

  “Yeah?”

  “Bring Joe back here.”

  “Mom, you just said he can barely walk. How’s he gonna maneuver around your mountain of—” he almost said shit. “Boxes.”