One Night with her Bachelor (7 page)

His sister leaped back, clutched her chest and said something. He couldn’t hear her, the saw still drowning out all other noise, so he flicked the machine off and Camila wilted dramatically against the door jamb. “What did you say?”

“Jesus, Gabriel. I said, don’t cut yourself.”

He glanced down at the machine and realized how close his hands must have come when she’d startled him. “Then don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sneak? Are you kidding? I’ve been shouting your name for minutes.”

He grunted and flicked the machine back on, yelling, “Let me just finish this one joist!”

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the doorway with her hands shoved in her pockets. Once the saw had done its job and he had a joist the size he needed, he turned the machine off. Its echo bounced against the walls and died.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

“A project.”

She cocked a brow.

“A big project.”

“Looks like it. Bigger than my cuckoo clock.”

He grinned. “How’d you like that?”

“I wish it worked, but otherwise it’s really cool.”

He held up the extra bit of wood he’d just cut off the joist. “I could carve you some batteries.”

She laughed. “Sounds like a great birthday present.”

“Nah, I have something else lined up for our birthday. I’m not telling you what, though.”

“Good. I don’t want to know.”

He gave her a mock-ferocious glare. “Stop that. You won’t get it out of me, no matter how hard you try.”

“Not gonna try.”

“Your torture techniques are no match for my resilience.”

“That’s why I’m not using them. I really don’t want to know.”

He sighed. “It’s a jewelry box.”

“Ha!” she cried, celebrating with a fist pump. “I knew I’d get it out of you!”

He glowered at her. “Damn you.”

“It’s a good thing you were never captured in battle.”

“And it’s a good thing for our enemies you never joined up.” He dropped the wood with a clatter and crossed the room. Ruffling her hair, he dodged her hands as she tried—and failed—to swat him away. He squeezed past her into the hall. “What are you doing here? California too warm for you?”

“I was lying there in my bikini, surrounded by snow, and then I remembered that I live in the mountains and it’s freaking cold in late January.”

“So not too warm for you. Same question. What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

His brows shot up as he led her to the living room.

“Seriously, that’s what I’m doing. You looked like complete shit at Christmas, and it’s been eating away at me.” She sat down on the living room floor next to his fireplace. “You know, if it’s inconvenient that I drop in on you like this, you could always move to civilization so I could call you. Or send an email. Even a place that has carrier-pigeon service would beat this rat hole.”

He pointed at his arm chair, the only chair in the room. “Sit here, not on the floor.”

“Nope.”

He glanced between her and the empty chair. The floor had to be cold and uncomfortable. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts my heart that you have one chair in your living room, one chair in your kitchen. I want you to see how ridiculous this life is. If you want me to sit on a chair, buy another one and let’s sit together.”

He shrugged and sat in the arm chair. “Suit yourself.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “Gabri, look at yourself.”

He made a big show of looking down at his chest and lap. “Hey, look at that! An incredible specimen of manliness. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“When was the last time you washed your hair?”

“With soap?”

“Soap! No, with shampoo.”

“Oh. Uh, probably sometime in the nineties.”

“Ew. Do women actually let you touch them?”

Not for a very long time. But he didn’t care about that. Really. Didn’t care at all.

“I can smell you from here.”

Surely that was an exaggeration. “Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting company today, ’
manita
,” he said, hoping the
little sister
would either placate her or remind her that he might only be five minutes older, but he was still older.

He should’ve known better.

She counted his failings on her fingers. “Gross hair, even grosser beard. Is that a squirrel burrowing in it, or is it just really knotted? Dirty jeans. Plaid shirt.” She leaned forward and peered at the sleeve with narrowed eyes. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry—it’s not fresh. It’s from a few weeks ago.” And it wasn’t his; it was a fish’s. Probably wouldn’t make her any happier.

Her jaw softened, and she gave him a look so full of horror that he had a flash of déjà vu. He’d seen that look before. In fact, he’d seen it a lot recently. Every time he’d gone into town, people had looked terrified until they’d realized who he was. But then their looks morphed into something even worse.

Pity.

One reason he saved his trips for nighttime.

Mila’s expression skipped pity and jumped straight to disgust. “I have to be honest with you. If you’re going for the lumbersexual look, you’re really failing.”

“Lumberwhat?”

She ignored him, as usual. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m living every man’s dream, that’s what’s going on.” He spread his arms wide, as if they were surrounded by acres of pristine land instead of a ten-by-twelve room with bare walls and one chair. “A cabin in the woods. No one telling me what to do or when to do it. Complete freedom. I own the land. I own the house. No bank—just me. I’m off grid, so I don’t rely on anyone but myself.”

“I saw bananas in your kitchen. And sliced bread. You grow those, do you?”

“I don’t like your tone of voice, young lady,” he teased, but the underlying hardness in his voice warned her to back off.

She gave in with slumped shoulders and an unhappy face. “Fine. Be a statistic. Let yourself drown in fear—”

“Fear!” He jumped out of his chair so quickly she started, and the momentary terror on her face drew him up short, turning him into a block of ice. Coldness dripped through his veins and cracked his heart. He’d scared his sister. For one second, she’d thought he would hurt her.

For one second, he’d wanted to.

He turned away and sucked in a deep breath. “You should go.”

“No.”

“Yeah, you really should.”

Silence seethed behind him for several long moments until he heard her shift. He felt her presence grow closer, his nerves lighting up like an animal sensing danger. She moved until she stood in front of him and stared up at him with eyes so like his own he could never look at her without wondering how much she saw into his thoughts and how much he just assumed she knew.

Her voice soft and serious, she said, “I’m not giving up on you. You’re better than this, Gabri. So much better.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mila. And don’t you dare pity me.”

She drew back, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Pity? No. Sympathy, yes. You’re dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress. You think I haven’t been there? My events might not have been as dramatic as yours but, buddy, you know I was there.”

Yeah, he did. He’d lived every step of it with her until she’d self-destructed so badly she’d needed a complete do-over.

And she’d done it, too. She’d dragged her life out of the trash heap and started caring about herself. Now she was running the camp she’d inherited from their dad about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. She spent her summers helping kids out of emotional maelstroms like the one she’d been caught up in. And during the rest of the year she helped former soldiers, sailors, and airmen like him screw their heads back on straight.

“Step one,” she said, patting his chest in gentle encouragement, “wash yourself. Step two, come into town and find me at Mom’s. I’ll be there the next few days. Please show up before sunset.”

She left and he became hyper aware of his own stink. He’d never had an issue with unwashed bodies before. Hell, as a PJ, showering had hardly been his number-one priority. But she was right. He hadn’t stopped looking after himself because he was too busy running through a hail of bullets to rescue fallen airmen. He’d stopped washing when he’d stopped giving a shit.

When had that happened?

Around the time the adrenaline had worn off from rescuing Josh and he’d realized he’d just lived the best moment of his life all year.

He’d called on all his personal resources, all the best parts of himself, and he’d saved a kid’s life. He hadn’t been able to do it in a way that saved the kid’s spine, but he knew he’d done the right thing. If he’d waited for civilian rescuers to show up, Josh would’ve been buried alive by the time they got there. He didn’t carry any guilt over the way the rescue went down. Second-guessing his decisions had been trained right out of him at Lackland. So why did he feel as if he couldn’t face anyone? Why did the thought of entering town in broad daylight make him freeze?

Because you enjoyed it.

He’d been useful again.

Maybe that was what drove him to carry gas canisters to Molly’s house two nights a week. Maybe that was why he was about to load up his truck with pressure-treated pine and western red cedar and wait for the cover of darkness so he could make one last trip to her neighborhood. And maybe that was why he locked himself away.

No civilian career would give him the same thrill or satisfaction.

Deep down, he feared he’d served his purpose, and he wouldn’t find another one.

‡

“M
ikey said I
could come stay with him when the rodeo’s in Boulder, and I told him I would. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

Molly split her attention between the snowy road and the excited boy next to her. Driving back to Boulder anytime in the next forty years was not high on her wish list. But she was so full of nervous excitement about having Josh back that she was willing to be a horrible parent and give him anything he asked for. Taking him to visit his new best friend, a boy he’d met at the physical therapy clinic, might mean a very long drive, but she would do it in a heartbeat. “Sure. I think. I mean, I’ll have to check my calendar. When is it?”

He told her and chatted nonstop for several minutes about Mikey and the rodeo. She tried to keep her focus on him, but it was tough when so many problems nagged at her.

She’d worried about the steps on the whole drive to Boulder and ended up calling a guy she worked with to ask if he would meet them at the house today. Blake taught fifth grade and was the school’s head of P.E., so he was one of the most athletic people she knew.

Except Gabriel.

Yeah, but she couldn’t exactly call Gabriel and ask him to drive down the mountain to lift her son up three stairs. Crumb, he didn’t have a phone, so she couldn’t call him period.

As soon as she turned onto their street, she saw Blake’s truck parked in her driveway. He’d parked closest to the front door, leaving a space for her to park to the left of him, which irked her a little. Couldn’t he have figured out that parking there wouldn’t give her enough room to set up Josh’s wheelchair and help him out of the truck? There would barely be enough space to even open the passenger door.

She parked on the street and slid down from the truck. Blake wandered over and gave her a friendly smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, closing her door. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t really know what to do. This is all stuff I’ll have to figure out, but on his first day home I wanted everything to go smoothly.”

“Yeah, no problem. What do you need me to do?”

“Help me get him into the house.” She walked to the bed of the truck and opened the tailgate. She’d collapsed the oversized wheelchair and strapped it down before covering it with a tarp so it wouldn’t get damaged by any rain or snow they encountered on the journey. She uncovered the chair, unhooked the bungee cords and pulled it out the back.

She hated this chair. Not only was it difficult for Josh to maneuver, but it swallowed him up so the first thing anyone noticed would be the chair, not his beautiful, bright eyes or friendly smile. Just the chair. Her heart filled with sadness that she couldn’t get him something better, a child-sized chair she could adapt as he grew. But they were expensive, and her first priority was to make sure he had a roof and heating.

She set it up, slammed the tailgate and rolled it around to Josh’s door. He’d opened it and unbuckled his seatbelt, waiting for her to get there. “Hi, Mr. Margate.”

“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”

“Good. Long drive but I’m glad to be back.”

Molly blinked at her son. What a… grownup-sounding thing to say.

“We’re all glad you’re back too. Need help down?”

“I can do that,” Molly said. Getting him down wasn’t much of a problem, though the truck was pretty high. She’d learned from the rehab clinic that two-door cars were easier for wheelchair-bound people to get themselves into and out of, since the doors were bigger than those on four-door cars, and they were closer to the ground than trucks. She might have to trade her truck in and get a car.