Bookends (45 page)

His younger brother lifted his head. His eyes were dead. His mouth was a hard line. “The less you know, the better, Jonas.”

“Nah, that’s not how this is gonna work.” Jonas pulled out a kitchen chair and nodded at it. “C’mon, sit. We managed not to hit each other. Let’s talk it through. Figure out a solution.”

Jonas dropped into the seat across the table and nodded at the other chair again. “I’m not your dad and never was. But I’m your oldest brother and always will be.”

Nate pushed off the counter, moving not toward the chair, but the back door. “Unlucky you!” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him, rattling the walls of the little house.

The room fell silent except for the sound of Emilie’s labored breathing.

She slumped down, as if all the air had gone out of her body at the slam
of the door. With her adrenaline already beginning to subside, the pain was back in spades, and with it, more tears.

She managed three words. “Jonas. Get Nate.”

“No.” His tone was rough, but his touch was gentle. “You’re all I care about. I can’t help my brother anymore. But I can certainly help the woman I love.”

His arms surrounded her, lifting her up from the floor as if she were little more than a feather, carrying her into the living room, carefully stretching her out on the couch.

He knelt on the floor beside her. His voice was like broken steel. “Emilie, I’m so sorry.”

“Nathan’s fault.” It was all she could get out. Oh, but it hurt like the dickens to speak.
Lord, help me!
She smoothed a hand over her throat, trying to swallow.

Jonas disappeared into the kitchen for all of half a second, returning with a glass of ice water. The cold felt good—and awful—in her throat, making the muscles constrict, muscles that already ached from too much pressure.

“Say the word, Emilie, and I’ll call the police.”

She shook her head so hard it hurt. “No. Doesn’t matter now. Help Nate.”

The knock at the front door nearly launched her off the couch. Jonas was on his feet in an instant, stalking toward the foyer. Emilie watched him, grateful for his protection, and felt a tiny tug at one corner of her mouth. If he’d had enough hair on his head to do so, it would have been standing on end right now.

“Who is it?” he barked through the solid door.

Let it be Nate, Lord.
She swallowed, then winced.
Let him come back, apologize, make amends, something.
The two were brothers, not enemies. Nate had no place else to go, nowhere else to turn.

She lifted herself up on one elbow, straining to hear.
I’m not afraid, Lord. I know Jonas will keep me safe. Let this be Nate knocking on our door. Please?

But it wasn’t.

Not Emilie. Dee Dee.

She was the one who’d turned him in.

Nate staggered along the alley behind Emilie’s place, looking over his shoulder for his brother, relieved when Jonas didn’t follow him.

Not that he knew where he was going.

He couldn’t go back to Jonas’ house. Ever. Didn’t have enough money in his pocket to buy even one night in a cheap hotel. He could manage without food—his stomach was tied in a permanent knot anyway—but it was a chilly night for sleeping under the stars.

He swung his head back, which made him so dizzy he had to grab a nearby telephone pole to steady himself.
No stars.
Clouds. Rain in the forecast.

The one place he’d thought he could go, Dee Dee Snyder’s house, was now out of the question.

Dee Dee would never welcome his kisses—or anything else—again.

Nate pulled himself forward on legs that refused to walk a straight line. Maybe he wouldn’t worry about what kind of welcome he got. Maybe he’d just go there. Make her sorry she’d put two and two together and come up with four. He’d known she was smart, just not that smart.

Shouldn’t have asked her so many questions, Fielding.

Dee Dee’s house. He could walk that far. Put one foot in front of the other, cursing her all the way. Yeah, he could make it to Dee Dee’s. Knock on her door. Give her the surprise of her life.

He aimed his tottering steps in her direction, his mind reeling with all the things he could and would say to this woman who’d ruined his life, ruined everything.

Cy would come soon, knocking on his door. Or he’d send a buffoon in his stead, with an ugly face and a temperament to match.

Nate turned up another alley, grateful to avoid the main streets where he might attract attention, have somebody see him.

Somebody dangerous.

A children’s riddle came to the surface, mined from a memory long left behind for the more serious games of adulthood.

“Knock, knock!”

“Who’s there?”

“April.”

“April who?”

“April Fool!”

He snickered, stumbling into a pool of light from the streetlamp on the corner. Just as quickly as it lifted, his countenance fell.

You’re the fool, man. The biggest one of all.

“Who’s there?” Jonas called out again, leaning toward Emilie’s front door, straining to hear.

“Drew,” came the male voice from the porch.

Jonas sighed, relief crashing on him like a wave, then flung the door open. “C’mon in, man. Glad you’re here.”

Drew smiled, oblivious to the tension still hovering in the air as he stepped through the door. “I dropped Sara off at home, then realized she’d left her teddy bear here. You know her. Never sleeps without Bear-Bear.”

Jonas nodded. “Right. Uh … we have a situation here, buddy.” He motioned Drew in, took a quick look out the front door, then shut it behind them. “My brother Nate just left. I have no idea where he went, but a liquor store is the first place I’d look.”

Drew nodded, pointing a thumb toward the street. “That explains why I just saw him stumbling across Cedar. You want me to go get him? Drive him home?”

“Please!” Emilie groaned, motioning from the couch.

Drew turned toward her and the color drained from his face. “My word, Emilie! Your neck. What happened here?” He turned toward Jonas, a scowl on his face. “Somebody better start talking, and fast.”

Jonas sketched out only the necessary details, watching as Emilie leaned back against the cushions, one hand lightly rubbing her throat.

You did that, Nate.
He’d never thought it possible to feel such loathing for his own brother.
I trusted you, Nate. I loved you.

They had not come to blows, but their words had cut like knives.

When Jonas finished, Drew let out a low whistle. “Thank goodness I came by for Sara early by mistake.”

Jonas exchanged glances with Emilie. “No mistake there, Drew. That was God’s provision for her safety.” The thought of Sara being witness to Nate’s cruelty made his stomach clench.
Thank you, Lord, for sparing her.

Drew finally asked the question on all of their minds. “What are you gonna do, Jonas? Press charges? Issue a warrant? Have him arrested?”

“I can’t.” Jonas dropped his head, the weight of such hard options bearing down on his shoulders like a heavy wooden cross. “He’s my brother.”

“Your brother in blood, or in Christ?”

His head snapped up at that. “I wish it were both. He arrived in town,
saying the right words. An hour into it, it was pretty obvious Nate was putting on a good show.” He exhaled, standing to pace the floor again. “The kid always was a good liar.”

“Liars have to face the consequences sometimes, Jonas. You can’t rescue your brother like you did Trix.”

Jonas turned sharply on his heel, feeling a flush of heat rise from his chest. “He’s not a dog, Drew. He’s my flesh and blood.”

“Yeah, but he’s not your responsibility.”

“Who’ll look after him, then, if I don’t?” He heard the anguish in his voice, tasted it in his mouth, felt it in his soul. “C’mon,
who?
”

“God.” Drew waited one beat, then two. “Face it, Jonas. Nate is God’s responsibility. Always was, but even more so now. He’s dug a hole so deep even you can’t pull him out.”

Jonas sank down on his knees, wrapping his hands around Emilie’s. She sneaked one free and stroked his hair, offering comfort and solace with her touch, if not her voice.

He bowed his head almost to the floor. “Father … please …” His words came slowly, drawn from a place where surrender lived, a place deeply buried and seldom visited.

Help me, Lord. Help me let Nate go.

Behind him, Drew lowered himself onto one knee and laid a supportive hand on his shoulder.

Jonas began again. “Lord, forgive me for trying to save Nate when we both know I can’t. Only you can.” His voice failed him. He gripped Emilie’s hand harder. “Nate’s in pain and he’s in trouble. He won’t even tell me what it is. It’s … it’s so hard to stand by and watch.” His heart felt crushed to breaking. “Help me, Father. I would suffer for him if I could.”

I have already suffered for him.

Tears clogged his throat. “I love my brother, Lord …”

I love him too, Jonas. More.

His forehead pressed against the hardwood floor. His words were a hoarse and tortured whisper. “What will happen to him, Lord? What am I supposed to do?”

Let him go, son. Let him find his way to me.

It rained on Good Friday.

The gray, weeping skies and coolish air suited the mood of the day. Melancholy and solemn, a day of sorrows.

Emilie’s neck was stiff and striped with bruise marks. The purplish spots were noticeably worse this morning. The painful memories remained equally vivid.

Nathan lunging through her door. Grabbing her. Hurting her. Jonas bursting through her door. Saving her. Soothing her.
Bless you, Lord, for Jonas.
Within the hour he’d be knocking on her door again.
Quietly, this time.
Emilie smiled at the thought.

Stepping from the tub, she patted herself dry, avoiding the mirror, dressing quickly. The weather gave her a perfectly good reason to swathe her neck in an oblong, paisley scarf.

Though her skin was bruised, Emilie was surprised to find her heart was not. She felt no bitterness toward Nathan. If anything, she felt pity. He was a
broken man, without a friend in the world, it seemed. Except Jonas, whose love Nate no longer wanted.

As she applied a bit of cosmetic color here and there, Emilie again asked herself the question that had nagged at her incessantly since last night: How could two brothers who shared the same parents and upbringing, much the same looks and intelligence—how could they become such different men?

One a rebel, the other a hero.

One who resorted to physical strength, the other who turned to spiritual strength.

Emilie knew only this: Jonas Fielding wasn’t like any man she’d ever known. Her love and respect for him had grown threefold over the last few days. Now she longed for some way to communicate that love. Not merely with words and affection, but in some tangible way.

Show me, Lord.

Jonas rang the doorbell, once and briefly at that. Emilie opened the door with a frisson of anticipation—for the afternoon’s meaningful reading service, yes, but even more for the man who would sit by her side, the man who filled her doorway as completely as he filled her heart.

His smile—all boy, all man, all hers—covered every inch of his rugged face. “Hello, pretty girl.” His dark, dancing eyes swallowed her whole.

“Jonas.”

She was in his arms before he made it inside the house, covering his face with kisses even as the gentle rain covered them both.

“Emilie Getz, what will the neighbors think?” Jonas easily maneuvered them both inside without dislodging her arms around his neck, then kissed her soundly.

For the first time since last evening’s painful ordeal, she tossed back her head and laughed. “The neighbors will think I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

His lips pressed against her exposed neck, kissing one sensitive spot, then another, bringing a lump to her throat, one she realized he could feel.