She marched past him into the spare room where Dad stood next to the bed. “In you get,” she said, throwing back the sheets.
He responded easy as a child. Easier actually. The meds must be kicking in, coupled by exhaustion.
“You’ve had a big day, haven’t you?” She smoothed back his hair, feeling not for the first time like the parent rather than the child.
He nodded, probably not because he comprehended, but because she ended the sentence on an upward inflection. He answered every question with some sort of yes. She liked to take that as a sign of innate optimism.
“And look what we have here.” She held up the Grimm’s Fairy Tales for inspection as if she were a sommelier at a wine bar. This time there was no nod, only more staring. She turned to a story in the middle, “The Frog Prince,” and began to read about a beautiful young princess who lost her golden ball down the well. A frog promised to recover it if she would grant his wishes—let him sleep on her pillow and eat off her plate. She desperately agreed and he returned the ball. Afterward, the girl had no intention of keeping her promise, but the king shamed her into keeping the bargain, which she did with resentment in her heart. After three nights, poof—the frog became a handsome prince. Cue the happy ever after.
“Oh spare me.” She frowned at the page before glancing up, startled by Dad’s snore. The princess was mean and awful. Why did she deserve to win? Why did the prince love her?
Quinn stared at her father’s sleeping form.
She hadn’t meant to be prickly in Wilder’s room. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t afford to be attracted to anyone right now. She should go apologize. Yes. That’s it. Right now.
She rose slowly, tiptoeing into the adjacent room.
“Hey,” she called in a loud whisper. “I’m sorry about the way I acted.”
Wilder didn’t budge in the rocking chair.
“I was rude in your room and that’s inexcusable. Sometimes I say things without thinking.”
Still no answer. Tough crowd.
She crept forward and that’s when she realized his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and rhythmic. He had dozed off, angled ever so slightly toward the direction of the spare room. Had he been listening to the bedtime story too?
She leaned forward, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue in case he was kidding around.
He didn’t flinch. In sleep, his features held something gentle, an innocence, as if you could see the boy he once was, long ago. All dark hair and long lashes. A face you wanted to touch. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist before it got any funny ideas and padded into his room, plucking up the blanket folded on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t bear to wake him when he looked so peaceful in front of the dying fire—warm, safe, and content.
She lifted the afghan and placed it over his lap. That didn’t seem like enough so she lifted it to his shoulders, hesitating when he made a soft noise, almost a sigh of contentment, as if suggesting this minor act of kindness was something more.
Maybe that’s the way with all little gestures. So small and yet they can hold strange power.
She smiled at her capacity for silliness. The fairy tales must have really gotten under her skin.
The cottage was quiet with two sleeping men. What to do now? Because sleeping on the floor at this point would seem like an insult.
Instead, she went into his room, unzipped her boots and gingerly crawled into his bed. His smell lingered on the pillows, that shaving cream and pine blend mixed with the faint honey salve scent. After a few deep breaths, she relaxed, drifting to a fathomless sleep, and dreams where a man waited in a dark wood with strange longing in his eyes.
Chapter Six
WILDER WOKE WITH a start. It was the ache that took him from troubled dreams of a low, husky laugh and lean lines of a body out of reach. This wasn’t a phantom pain but a throb where the prosthetic rubbed against him. The fire had long since burned itself to coals, but here and there, a bright orange glowed beneath the ruined logs, a hidden menace, beautiful in its terribleness. He glanced down. The afghan from his bed lay draped over his chest. Quinn had done this, an unexpectedly kind gesture, and now he couldn’t curse her for haunting his sleep.
Outside the window, the dawn light was dim but growing in strength. The trees were blanketed but no more snowflakes fell from the steely skies. The heart of the storm had passed. Quinn would soon take her father and leave.
Good. That was good. Better she go before he started to like her presence around here—the scent of cherry mint ChapStick, the questions, the chatter.
But for now, for these next few quiet minutes, she was in his bed. Her skin under his sheets, her long hair spanning his pillow. Would she leave that flowery shampoo scent behind? Or the one she carried on her skin, the deeper secret that must linger beneath the shampoo and body wash. He hadn’t gotten close enough to her to catch it.
Correction. He’d never get that close.
Time to wrap up those inclinations and stuff them in a box, tie the damn thing up in a big bow of yellow “Caution: Do Not Enter” tape. Then stuff it in a locker and toss it off a bridge into a flooded river for good measure.
Quinn was like a flame. Something he was drawn to despite the fact that he knew the danger. He learned a long time ago, in the worst way possible, that it wasn’t a game. And then got a damn good refresher course last summer.
He reached into his pocket for his beeswax hand salve, opened the tin, and rubbed it over his scars. You don’t play with fire unless you want to lose everything.
He clung to what little remained. Which was what? One good leg. Two eyes that could still read. A pair of burned but functional hands.
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
Better to accept reality. The facts were cold, hard. They didn’t fuck around. He wasn’t the guy who’d get the girl.
Not now. Not like this. Not ever.
WHEN QUINN CAME out of Wilder’s room, rubbing her eyes, he was seated at the kitchen table, halfway through a cup of black coffee. A saucer smattered with toast crumbs was set off to one side.
“Morning.” She put her glasses on as her stomach audibly rumbled. She hadn’t eaten dinner last night. Bread and that pot of raspberry jam sounded mighty good.
He pointed to a pot on the counter. “Coffee?”
“Always.” She waved. “Hi, my name is Quinn Higsby and I am a caffeine addict.”
“Good.” He nodded as if her words somehow pleased him. “Folks who don’t drink coffee can’t be trusted.”
“There’s a wise life rule.” She selected a pale blue ceramic mug from the cup rack and filled it near to the brim, trying to ignore the heat radiating up her spine at the idea of being included in this man’s circle of trust.
“You take anything in that?” He eyed her cup.
She was tempted to answer straight black, same as him. It sounded sexier for some reason. Mysterious. She wanted to be that woman who drank her coffee thick and dark while staring into space with a hint of world weariness. But she opted for the unsexy truth. “Milk and one sugar. Okay, two sugars.”
“Milk in the fridge and as for sugar . . .” He frowned slightly. “I don’t have any.”
“You are lacking in sweetness, Mr. Kane.” She opened the fridge door.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Her answering giggle faded. Perched on the fridge shelves were half a dozen eggs, some questionable-looking deli meat, a couple of oranges, a six-pack of dark beer, and an empty bottle of hot sauce. That was it. “I thought you said your brothers were looking after you? Is this all you have to eat?”
“That’s because today is usually . . .” A loud knock cut him off. “Shopping Thursday.”
“Hello? Good morning.” The front door opened. “You up, brother?”
The sheriff. Quinn wished she could fall through the floorboards.
“In here,” Wilder responded, straightening his flannel collar.