With a muffled curse, Wilder seized the delicate, trembling body tight, somehow tugging the blanket over them as the fire’s edge passed like a vengeful angel of death. He angled his face down toward the rocks, running water bubbled only feet below, the cool damp temperature making it possible to breathe.
After a few seconds, minutes, or hours, the roar subdued to a crackle, and the deer stirred, hopping to shaky legs and tearing out from under the blanket toward the west without a backward glance.
Wilder coughed and wiped his mouth, ignoring the blood staining his blistered hand.
Bright blue fireworks shot across his peripheral vision as the womp-womp-womp sound of a helicopter closed in. More time passed and then a deep voice called his name.
He couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t sit.
Couldn’t do a damn thing but slump under the blanket, suspended in this numb semiconscious state, teetering on the edge of oblivion.
THE WORLD HAD gone white. Was this the other side—whatever came next? No. Not unless the afterlife was full of dull, throbbing pain, that peculiar hospital disinfectant smell, and voices refusing to ever shut up.
“Wilder? Wilder?”
“Did you see his eyelids twitch?” Another deep voice chimed in. “See? There they go again.”
“Come on, man.” The first male voice increased in intensity. “Wake up.”
You’ve got to be shitting me. His brothers were here. Sawyer. Archer. He hadn’t seen these two in years. Couldn’t bear their presence. Not when he’d ruined their lives.
He dragged his lids open, no small effort when each must weigh a few hundred pounds.
“Hey, you.” Archer bent down, trying and failing to execute his trademark permagrin. “Good to see those bright eyes. You’ve been scaring us all shitless.”
Wilder cracked his mouth open but no sounds emerged except for a groggy jumble of consonants, like his tongue had transformed into a cotton ball. Christ. What happened? His hands were wrapped in thick gauze, the fingertips an angry red. Last he remembered, the fire somehow left him alive. Then there was a helicopter, right? Clearly the cavalry had come.
But everything since was a black hole.
The mattress creaked as he shifted, trying to shield his eyes from the fluorescent light. Why did his body feel off? Something wasn’t right. He contracted his abdominal muscles, raised himself to half-sitting before Sawyer braced his back. “Hey, come on now, go easy.”
Wilder gaped at the lump under the sheet, the stump that ended where his left calf and foot used to be. “Where the hell is my leg?” Talk about five words he never expected to say.
Sawyer spoke slowly, getting down to business. “After the accident, you lost circulation for too long, and with the fire, the helicopter had a hard time Life Flighting you to the hospital. Coupled with a shattered leg, the lack of blood flow meant that necrosis set in and the tissue damage was irreversible.”
Wilder couldn’t focus on the words. They made too much sense and this situation had taken a wrong turn to the land of fucking insane. His windpipe went on lockdown. He pushed to the edge of the bed, toppling an IV tower.
“Let’s call the doctor in,” Archer said, glancing to the door.
“Wilder. Listen to me. You can’t stand up,” Sawyer ordered. “Take it easy, we’re going to sort this out. You’ll get a prosthetic soon and with some work and time, you’ll be able to resume most activities no problem. It’s amazing you’ve survived given what—”
“Stop. Stop talking.” Wilder buried his face in his hands. He could kiss his career goodbye. Jumping was out of the question. His only way to cope had gone up in flames.
“This has to be a helluva shock.” Archer rapped his knuckles on the side of the bed. “But don’t forget one thing—we’re family. No matter what happens, Sawyer and I have got your back. Always have, always will. We’re not giving up.”
“Look at me.” Wilder signaled to the empty space in disgust. “I’m half a fucking man.”
“I don’t make a habit of judging a book by its cover and neither should you,” Sawyer said quietly. “We’re here to help—”
“Help. You want to help?” Wilder growled, fighting for equilibrium but losing the battle to vertigo. He might be the oldest brother, but right now he felt ancient.
Sawyer’s chiseled features froze a moment before he gave a small smile. “Anything. Say the word and it’s as good as done.”
Wilder used the last of his reserve strength to lift his head, struggling to bring their faces into focus and level a hard stare. He’d reached the end of his rope and was in a free fall to hell.
“Get me a gun or get out.”
Chapter Two
Four Months Later . . .
THE LES MIZ soundtrack tested the limits of the bookstore’s rinky-dink boom box. No customers were around so Quinn Higsby joined in, belting out along with Fantine and her broken dreams. Big, fat snowflakes spiraled past the plate glass window, ferried along by the strengthening wind as a looming cloud wall replaced the normally heart-stopping view of rugged Eastern Sierras’s peaks. Right at the crescendo, the phone’s shrill ring cut in, ruining the moment. She turned down the volume, cleared her throat, and answered, “Good afternoon, A Novel Experience, the place where you can read yourself interesting.”
“Hey, honey, it’s me. Listen, I’m not going to be able to get into the store in time for close. The Weather Channel is saying tonight’s storm will be a doozy.” Quinn’s boss, Natalie, was visiting her new boyfriend up in South Lake Tahoe.
“That’s okay, the store’s been deserted all afternoon. Book club got canceled. You just worry about keeping snug and warm.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be any problem.” Natalie let out a mischievous giggle. She was fifty years young and had found real happiness with a blackjack dealer and Johnny Depp look-alike ten years her junior.
“You’re so bad.” Quinn glanced down at her solitaire game on the counter, grinning from ear to ear. Her former job had made it hard to believe any decent people remained in the state. This assistant bookseller position might pay peanuts and lack glamor, but she was happier than she’d ever been in Hollywood.
“Bad is the new good—you’ve got my permission to stick that on one of your t-shirts.”
In addition to her faith in humanity, Quinn had also left behind high fashion in Los Angeles in favor of vintage denim and funny slogan shirts. Today’s choice was a grey hoodie that read, “I love to party, and by party I mean read books.”
Which was the actual truth, no shame. She had a thing for older men—much older men to be exact. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, and Captain Wentworth were all excellent boyfriend material, and the magic of literature meant it didn’t matter if they clocked in at well over one hundred years old. Those guys still had it going on.
“Quinn, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
She snapped to ramrod straight posture. “Of course.”
“You’ve drifted off with the fairies again, haven’t you?” Natalie said fondly. “I said that you should leave early too, beat the storm. Oh, and shoot, there’s that package to mail, I meant to—”
“Stop. Breathe. Think about your blood pressure. I’ll handle it no problem.” After all, handling was what Quinn did best, at least until that unfortunate night in Beverly Hills a few months ago when her career as a celebrity handler came to a fast and furious end—fired for having a pretty face and a lecherous client. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, smoothing the ends. “Now listen, I want you to get back and enjoy, er, whatever dirty deeds you are enjoying.”
“I love you, peaches.” Natalie planted a loud, affectionate smooch on her receiver.
“You must be getting treated right in that love nest.” Quinn chuckled. “Remember how just last week you called me a pinecone after I advised that one customer where to find a title online rather than offering to order it into the shop. Which, for the record, was totally boneheaded of me.”