The McClane Apocalypse Book Three (38 page)

Good grief. Her Grams is championing her,
even though she'd flip her lid if she knew what Reagan had really
been up to the previous evening. She gives John an almost
imperceptible shake of her head to dissuade any intimate contact or
talk in front of the family. He just chuffs once and smiles
knowingly.

"I know, Grams. She's a classic workaholic,"
John agrees with a sly grin. "Hey, I'm going up to our room to get
some dry duds 'cuz I gotta go over to that condo village to take
our friends the schematics for the solar panels and to check on
them."

Reagan's gaze shoots to his directly. "Are
you going alone?"

"No, I'm taking Simon and Cory. It'll be
good for them to learn the way—well, at least Simon since Cory
should remember the way there. But the boys gotta learn how to work
together as a team. It'll be a good training exercise for
them."

"But the visitors are still here," Reagan
argues as she folds Grandpa's notes and tucks them into the cargo
pocket on her leg. "I don't think any of you should be leaving the
farm until they're gone."

"It's fine, Reagan," John placates. "Derek
and Kelly are out on watch, and I'll only be gone about an hour,
maybe even less."

"I don't…"

"It's fine, boss," he repeats more firmly.
"These people all need a way of harnessing energy before winter
sets in. Remember, they have little kids in that village."

His deep voice is melting her insides. His
comments are irritating, though. His reasoning is downright pissing
her off.

"I think it's a good idea," Grams says.

"Come on. I need dry clothes, and I also
need to talk to you about something."

John motions to her with his hand as he
leaves the room. Reagan just gives him a queer look, and he motions
again like she's a damn puppy.

"Fine," she grumbles and follows him from
the room and up the two flights to their attic. John flings off his
soaking wet shirt as they enter the room.

"What the heck do you need to talk to me
about? Can't this wait? I need to…" Reagan's words are cut off as
John turns on her, grabs her into his arms, lifting her clean off
the ground and kissing her soundly.

He carries her, never breaking their kiss,
to her bed where he comes down gently over her onto the soft
mattress. His jeans are also wet, probably dampening her own pants,
but Reagan hardly cares at the moment. His mouth moves insistently
against hers, his tongue sampling from the hidden, secret recesses
of her warm mouth. Soon Reagan forgets all about the med shed, her
patients, her duties, him leaving the farm, everything.

His hands move about her face, her neck and
skim down over the center of her chest until he wraps one around
her waist. It effectively pulls her up closer to him where Reagan
can smell the outdoors, rain and… everything that makes John smell
the way he does, which happens to be sensual and intoxicating. She
hooks her leg around the back of his muscular thigh.

Finally John leans away from her, but Reagan
can barely focus and realizes her hands are at the waistband of his
jeans. "Your skin is cold," she tells him.

"Care to warm me up?" he hints with a
dazzling display of dimples.

Her fingers toy around with the button of
his baggy jeans, but John's strong hand covers hers. He
chuckles.

"Maybe later."

"Why later?" she asks with confusion. How
can his breathing be so steady?

"Honey, you need some time to recoup after
last night."

He kisses the side of her mouth once. Reagan
tries to pull him closer.

"And I have to get going. Cory and Simon
should be waiting for me."

"Then why the hell did you bring me up
here?" Reagan fumes.

John hefts his weight to a standing
position, pulling her along in one smooth motion where she slides
down the front of him.

Reagan continues with her complaints. "I
thought you needed to talk to me."

"I know," John divulges huskily.

He pulls her up against his bare chest where
she plants both hands.

John adds, "I just wanted a few seconds
alone with you, babe."

It is hardly a reason to get mad at him, but
she's not quite sure she likes this power he has over her and her
body's response to him. Of course, his skin does feel rather nice
under her fingertips.

"More than a few seconds?" she asks. His
answer is to look at the ceiling with a grin and then back down at
her. Talking so intimately with him is difficult, but not as much
as she would've thought. Plus, she does want him again which is so
strange. Again with the irrational hormones lately.

"Yeah, maybe more than a few," he
answers.

He kisses her lightly. Reagan's hands slide
around his back where she tugs him roughly to her and kisses him
back more aggressively.

He pulls back and says, "No! We can't. I
told you that you need to recover first."

"I'm the doctor," she reminds him. "I say
when I'm recovered and I'm saying it's now."

John laughs against her mouth before sliding
his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck. Her haphazard bun
is falling sideways on top of her head.

"No," he murmurs against her lips more
decisively, even though he has not backed away. "I gotta go,
sweetie."

Reagan's had enough. "Fine!" she bites out
angrily, earning another chuckle.

"Hellion," he mocks. "I've created a
monster."

"Yeah, no shit," she returns with anger anew
and rants. "You shouldn't have done that last night because I
didn't know what I was missing and now I do, damn it!"

"Potty mouth," John teases.

He swats her bottom lightly. He releases her
and goes to their shared closet where he comes out with a dry,
long-sleeved red flannel shirt which looks sexy as hell on him. The
muscles of his back flex and move as he pulls it on.

Reagan frowns, bites her top lip and says,
"Damn."

He whips around to face her, buttoning his
shirt as he does so, leaving the top three undone.

"What? What's wrong?"

"What?" she squeaks out and then hastily
clears her voice and adds, "Nothing."

John just puffs air through his nose and
gives her a funny look as if he finds her bizarre but doesn't
comment. She'd been mentally dreaming about the ruggedness of his
appearance and had said the first idiotic thing that had come to
her brain. Damn her brain!

Without saying anything, John takes her
pistol out of her thigh holster and checks the magazine and safety
without permission. Even the frown on his face is handsome. He jams
it back into its holster, refastens the snap and takes her very
firmly by the shoulders.

"Be careful while I'm gone, ok?" he
demands.

His navy eyes are drowning her in their
pools. What is the question he'd asked? She's not sure. All she can
think about is his chiseled mouth and the strong square angles of
his chin and deeply hollowed out cheekbones.

"Reagan?" he prompts, but his thumb is
skimming over her top lip. Another few seconds pass. "Babe? Are you
listening?"

"Yeah, careful," she repeats his directive
as she leans up for another searing kiss which he obligingly gives
her.

When John pulls back again, they are both
out of breath and clinging to one another. Her hair has completely
toppled down around her shoulders in a damp mess of chaos, probably
with help from his roving fingers.

"I'll see you in a little bit, 'kay?" he
promises.

Rubbing his lips against her forehead but
not with an actual kiss, John breathes deeply. Sometimes the things
he does are a little strange, but she doesn't exactly find them
distasteful, either. All she can do is nod, so that's the answer
she gives John.

They go back downstairs but instead of
loitering, John takes off out the back door in a sprint to the
truck where Cory and Simon are both waiting in the front seat for
him. Reagan can see through the screen door that there are at least
three rifles visibly poking up inside the cab of the truck. They'll
be safe.

"What did John want, honey?" Grams calls
from the music room.

She and Hannah are watching the children
since it's raining so hard outside.

"Nothing important," she calls back, bowing
her head. "Going out now."

Reagan doesn't wait for an answer because
she doesn't want to pursue that line of questioning and instead
runs straight for the shed, splashing mud on her pants as she goes.
Kelly is standing just under the overhang of the roofline. It
doesn't seem to bother him, but to Reagan the rain feels icy cold
and miserable. She isn't much of a cold weather person. They give a
curt greeting to one another before she goes inside. Samantha is
already there, and she's making notations on a patient chart.

"Dr. McClane," she acknowledges with a nod.
"Good morning."

"Hey, Sam," Reagan returns as she picks up
the other clipboard. Sam is her usual bundle of nervous energy. At
least she finally has on clean clothing. Today she wears a pair of
jeans that Reagan had lent her and a red hoodie that reads in
yellow letters:
Fox Run Academy
. Isn't that the pricey
private school over near Clarksville?

"Dr. McClane?"

Sam interrupts Reagan's thoughts on that
private school and what might've happened to it in the last six
months.

"Should I start Huntley on another breathing
treatment, ma'am?"

"Just Reagan, Sam. You go calling me Dr.
McClane and I think Grandpa's in here with us. You call me ma'am
and I'm looking for Grams," she corrects Sam for maybe the
hundredth time. "And yes, let's get one rigged up. First I wanna'
give his vitals a check, though. Did he eat anything yet this
morning?"

"Yes, ma'am—I mean, Reagan. He actually ate
a full breakfast for the first time. Your grandpa said it was ok to
just let him eat what he would," Sam answers.

"Go ahead and start preparing his treatment.
Make sure you notate it on the chart so that we know the exact time
we gave it," Reagan tells her.

"Ok, ma'am—I mean, Reagan," Sam says
unsurely.

The teen goes to the back counter for
another small vial of Albuterol for the breathing machine.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Relax. You're doing a good job. We wouldn't
be able to care for them as well as we have without you," Reagan
tells her and notices a shy, hidden smile come across the girl's
features. Reagan can just barely make it out because of the mask
covering her small face, but her eyes crinkle at the corners. It's
only there for a fleeting moment, but it was there for that brief
second which is all that matters.

Huntley is alert, lying on his side and
awake.

"Hey, kiddo," Reagan greets him with a
slight smile. His hazel green eyes stun her every time. Huntley's
eyes are so startlingly different and not what one would expect
against his caramel skin that they always surprise her. "How are
you feeling?"

"Ok, I guess. Better," he replies
softly.

She'll take 'better' any day of the week
over the semi-comatose state of Jennifer and then Garrett before
her. This boy will live.

"That's good. We need to get you better
quickly. The other kids have been asking about you," she tells him
honestly. Em and Justin had nagged her at least ten times each
yesterday inquiring after their new friend.

"Really?" he asks with candid frankness that
only a child can pull off.

"Yeah, of course. They like hanging out with
you," she tells him as she takes his pulse, his blood pressure, his
temperature, which is thankfully normal, and listens to his
chest.

Reagan doesn't miss the sad expression on
his tiny face. They've found out that he's only ten years old, but
he seems small for his age. It could just be the malnutrition and
the sickness that make him appear so small and frail, but it kicks
Reagan's natural motherly instincts into high gear. She takes a
seat on the chair next to his bed so that she can be closer to him
for this conversation. She's not worried about catching his illness
because he isn't fevering and hasn't in over twenty-four hours.

"Huntley, do you like it here on our farm?"
she asks quietly. A low reverberation of thunder echoes across the
valley and rattles the building. The rain drums out a constant
tapping on the metal roof.

"Sure. I like it, Miss Reagan," he replies
softly.

His red-rimmed eyes let her know that he'll
be ready for a mild fever reducer that will also help him sleep
after his breathing treatment. Sometimes rest really was the best
medicine. Sometimes it was the soft embrace of a mother. But this
poor kid isn't going to get the latter. And he sure as hell
wouldn't get the likes from his worthless, dirtbag of a father.

"Where do you think your group is going to
go after this?" she asks him.

"Um, I don't know. Wherever my dad says
probably," he answers.

Reagan removes her latex glove and takes his
hand in her own. It feels too small and bony.

"Why is that? Is he kind of the leader of
your group?"

"Yeah, basically, pretty much," he
answers.

"Well, you know Samantha and Simon have made
a pretty big decision recently while you've been sick," Reagan
informs the boy. His interest is piqued, although he is too beat to
do much about it. "They've decided to stay with us here on the farm
when your group leaves."

His striking eyes immediately tear up.
Reagan gives his hand a gentle squeeze. He clearly doesn't want to
be separated from the two teens that have probably looked after him
for who knows how many months.

"I want you to think about this, Huntley. I
mean really think about it," she tells him as Sam comes to stand at
the other side of his cot. She has the vial of liquid in her hand.
"We'd really like it if you'd stay, too."