Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  Coco had tried to talk to him that first night. He saw her standing outside the den where he was giving an interview with the photographer.

  An interview that probably looked very much like a date, with the woman sitting too close to him.

  Shoot, and him letting her.

  Then he looked up and saw Coco standing there, and everything—everything—that happened between them rushed into his head.

  Coco, it’s not—

  She walked away. All the way back to Russia.

  But she was here now, and he might never, ever get another chance, so—

  “I’ve been trying to find you for a year. Ever since you came to Montana—I’m sorry. I know I was a jerk that weekend, but…you vanished.”

  He didn’t want to move too far from her.

  Especially since the elevator was moving toward their floor.

  She said something about her living in Moscow, about her job, talked about the game, maybe, but he wasn’t listening.

  Just scraping through his brain for a way to make her stay.

  The doors opened.

  Right then, yes, the panic hit full stride.

  “Don’t leave. I…”

  His first thought. His only thought. Behind him, the music from the party in his room drifted down the hall. Just a few of the guys, some women they’d met during the tournament.

  Not even his idea—thanks, Deke. But his agent liked to cultivate this image of him as some sort of playboy. Apparently, it sold covers. And made him a most-wanted celebrity for paparazzi.

  He wasn’t a player. Had never been. But he did like to be liked.

  Coco looked past him, as if she wasn’t sure, and it sparked the tiniest flare of hope.

  So he took her hand.

  It was just as soft and fit so amazingly well into his strong, chipped grip. He wanted right then to tug her to himself, the stir of longing so deep it rocked him. I love you. “Please don’t go.”

  He held her beautiful eyes, not daring to breathe.

  She nodded. His heart restarted, and he practically sprinted down the hall to kick Deke and the rest of the party out of his room.

  He’d lost his mind after that. Barely remembered their conversation. Probably he tried to explain the weekend on the ranch. He knew he’d made her laugh. And called her too skinny—shoot, she’d always felt a little small around him and his family.

  But she was skinnier than she’d been a year ago, as if she’d had a hard year, and while she said nothing, his heart broke a little to know that she might not be okay.

  With everything inside him he wanted to protect her.

  He did remember telling her she was pretty…a sort of spilling out his heart that followed him leaning forward to kiss her.

  Oh, he’d been aching to kiss her.

  More even than that first time, two years prior, in the barn.

  He still wanted to choke Ford for finding them. Poor Coco nearly ran from the barn in a full-out sprint.

  Her kiss then had ignited something inside him he couldn’t douse. And a month later, when he came home for Christmas break, it flashed over. He’d known it was wrong. Known he was taking advantage of her, maybe, but…

  She hadn’t seemed hesitant, and he was just as afraid as she was. And not just of getting caught but…

  He knew that Coco was the only girl he’d ever love.

  Ever give himself to.

  Shoot, holding her in his arms had practically turned him into a baby. He might have even cried.

  The first time between them had been awkward and rushed and not at all what…well, and how could it be? He was a little ashamed of the fact that it had happened at all. That he’d let his emotions trample over everything his father had drilled into him.

  But he wasn’t his father. Didn’t want to be. He’d long ago walked away from the Marshall family expectations.

  He wasn’t really a Marshall, and he knew it. He just carried the Marshall name.

  Not the Marshall family hero and honor genes.

  Besides, nearly all the guys on his college team had girlfriends. The kind who stayed overnight.

  So he’d followed his heart and…

  Shoot, it hadn’t been at all how he’d imagined it. They hadn’t talked about it either. But that night she’d walked inside his heart and never left.

  And despite the press and the games and the after-parties, that was still true. She was his one. His only.

  His Coco.

  Tonight…tonight would be exactly what he wanted for them. And yes, maybe he was still stepping over his moral upbringing, but he’d saved himself for her. Only her. And hadn’t broken that internal vow since.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Coco.”

  In his heart, he was hers, for life. So, he’d reached out and kissed her and she sort of melted into him like she, too, had missed him. She tasted of home and the piece of himself he’d been missing, and the little sound of surrender she made could make him weep again as he picked her up, drawing her closer. She slid her arms around his neck, and the smell of her skin wound through him, and he lost himself.

  Not that he wanted anything but to find himself in her arms again.

  But maybe she didn’t want that, and for a second, after he’d brought her over to the bed, the thought that…well, that maybe they’d made a mistake the first time pierced him enough for him to raise his head. Meet her eyes, stir up the courage to ask—“Are you sure?”

  She nodded her answer just as he got the words out. “I’ve missed you too, Wyatt.”

  Oh, he wanted her. And not just physically, but her heart. Wanted to tell her about the craziness of playing goalie for one of the best NHL teams in the league, to hear about her life in Moscow, and to trace out his dreams for them.

  He wanted to stay right there, holding her, and not come up for air.

  Except, he had early practice. So he’d left her in their warm bed, tangled in the sheets, with a kiss and a promise to return. We have to talk, Wyatt.

  Yes, they would. About all their tomorrows.

  He’d even brought a couple of coffees back to the room.

  The empty room.

  She hadn’t even left a note.

  If it weren’t for the fact that she’d shown up in the Blue Ox fan forum a few months later, or the fact that his publicist made him answer postings, he might have never found her again.

  The forum certainly wasn’t the place to bare his heart.

  You should just forget about me.

  Not hardly. But he couldn’t take her walking out of his life again.

  Except, something about the way she’d kissed him, looked at him…

  Coco is in trouble, and I’m not going to let anything happen to her.

  His words to Roman came back to him, solidified in his chest.

  The train jerked, and he opened his eyes. The early afternoon sun hung high in the window, heating the red vinyl seats. The train swayed, and out of the window, they passed tiny blue or green farmhouses with ornate windows and coal smokestacks. The occasional cow or goat wandered dirt streets.

  He’d traveled back to World War II or 2, into a different world, a different time.

  Deke was snoring.

  Wyatt got up and opened the door of the compartment, not sure where he was going, just that…

  Well, the burning in his chest wouldn’t let him sit.

  “Oy, look at who showed up.”

  He glanced down the corridor, and leaning up against a window, her arms braced on the railing, was the brunette reporter from the bar. Nat?

  He tried out her name, and she smiled. “You remembered.”

  She was wearing a pair of black jeans that might have been painted on and a T-shirt printed with some Russian band on the front.

  “You’re traveling with the team?” he asked, and obviously, but he didn’t know how else to account for her presence.

  “A girl’s gotta make a living.”

  He didn’t know what to say to
that except…

  “Wait. Are you really a reporter?”

  She made a face, looked away. “Yeah, sure.”

  Oh.

  He stared out the window. “Have you ever heard of Belogorsk?”

  She nodded. “It’s a village west of Khabarovsk. About a six-hour train ride, the other direction.”

  In the distance, another tiny town rose from the horizon. “Are we stopping here?”

  “Probably. Not long, but long enough to get something to eat and—”

  “Wanna make some money?”

  She looked at him, raised an eyebrow.

  He held up a hand. “No. Not like that. I mean…”

  And the crazy thought appeared out of nowhere, formed, and took possession. “I need to get off this train. And on a train to Belogorsk. And…I could use a translator.”

  She made a little noise that sounded like disbelief.

  “Really. That’s all.”

  She considered him. Glanced down the hall. “How much?”

  “I have five hundred dollars, cash—”

  “Not rubles.”

  “Dollars.”

  “Vso. Done. Get your stuff.”

  And now he was back in a le Carré novel. But he wasn’t leaving Russia without one more shot at saving the girl he loved.

  Even if he ended up in gulag.

  She couldn’t leave this child.

  Coco stood in the play yard of Orphanage 23 at the end of the slide, watching as Mikka climbed to the top, his teeth gritted.

  He was a charmer, this boy of hers. She’d stayed with him all day, through his morning classes—read aloud time, crafts, some gymnasium time—took tea with Lana and the other teachers during nap time, and now, as the sun began its slide into the far horizon, she followed him around the play yard, pushing him on the merry-go-round and swing and digging tunnels with him in the dirt.

  “Is it my birthday?” he’d asked when she gave him the stuffed lion this morning, and the question had made her want to weep.

  What kind of mother only showed up for her child on his birthdays or holidays or…

  She didn’t deserve this golden boy.

  He had Wyatt’s strong jawline, his dimple on the right cheek, those long dark lashes and brown eyes flecked with the gold that made him a prince. And when she tickled him, his laughter embedded her bones with joy.

  “Smotree!” he shouted now as he stood at the top of the slide.

  “Sidee—” Sit. She patted the slide.

  He grinned at her, eyes shining with a familiar mischief. But he sat and pushed himself off.

  She caught him at the end, picking him up, twirling him around. “You’re so brave and strong.” Just like your daddy.

  Mikka wiggled out of her arms, running toward the merry-go-round.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Lana, standing behind her. The woman stood with her arms crossed over her body. “He’s a smart boy, and he’ll understand.”

  Coco watched as he climbed onto the merry-go-round, holding onto the railing, pushing with one foot. “How can he? I don’t even understand.” She shook her head. “I hated my mother for moving us from Russia. And I was ten years old. And had recently nearly been kidnapped. I understood why my father sent me away.” She ran her hand over her cheek. “I still hated it. It wasn’t until she got sick that I forgave her. By then it was nearly too late. She died of leukemia when I was fourteen.”

  Lana touched her arm. “She did what was best for both of you. And she saved your life.”

  He was running now, trying to keep up with the spin.

  “Mikka, be careful!”

  He pulled himself onto the spinning ride.

  “Maybe I should take him with me.” She glanced at Lana. Behind her, the smells of dinner—some sort of beef soup with fresh dill and potatoes—sneaked out of the kitchen. Probably it was better than what she’d feed him. She subsisted on ramen noodles and cold cereal.

  “Where would you go?”

  The answer came easily. “Montana. Back to the Marshall Triple M. It was the last time that I…” She swallowed. “The last time I felt safe.”

  Lana said nothing.

  “They have this big family. Reuben—he’s the oldest. He left home years ago, though, to fight fires. The next brother, Knox, took over the ranch. Tate is a couple of years younger—he was in the military. Wyatt plays hockey. And then there’s Ford.” She shook her head. “I saw him last month. He’s a Navy SEAL.”

  “Spetsnaz.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which one is Mikka’s father?”

  Coco glanced at Lana. About her mother’s age, Lana wore a soft smile. “You never said who his father was, but I am guessing it’s one of those brothers.”

  “Wyatt.”

  Just admitting it felt like exhaling after being underwater.

  “I fell in love with him nearly the first time I saw him and…”

  “You still love him.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. Wyatt doesn’t know about Mikka, and he never will.”

  Mikka was hanging on now, throwing his head back, his hands and legs wrapped around the bar. Enjoying the ride.

  Reminded her of Wyatt as he skated, so much enjoyment on his face it could fill her soul.

  Or break it into pieces.

  “In my dreams, I live on the ranch with Mikka and Wyatt.” She couldn’t believe she voiced that. “But that will never happen.”

  “It sounds like a lovely dream,” Lana said quietly.

  The merry-go-round slowed, and Mikka sat up, turned, and slid off.

  “Careful!” Coco shouted, but Mikka landed hard on his backside.

  She went to run to him, but Lana held her arm. “Wait.”

  Sure enough, Mikka climbed to his feet and scampered off to the swings.

  “He is a tough boy,” Lana said.

  He’d have to be.

  “Where will you really go?” The question was innocent, she was certain, but any real answer could put Mikka in danger.

  “I don’t know. Off the grid for sure.”

  “And Mikka?”

  “In a couple years he’ll go to live in boarding school. Maybe under a new name.”

  Which meant she may never find him.

  He climbed aboard a swing.

  “You are strong too, maya lapichka.”

  She didn’t know why, but the words stirred up the past, and even as she looked at Lana, she saw her mother lying in a hospital bed, holding her hand.

  You will survive this, maya lapichka. You will bloom and grow into an amazing woman. Someday, even a mother. But in all things, remember. You are strong. And you are not alone.

  Yes, actually, she was. Very alone. She gritted her jaw against the ache in her chest rising to consume her.

  “Smotree!”

  She looked over just in time to see Mikka jump off the swing into the air.

  “Mikka!” Now it was Lana’s voice that joined with her own as Mikka landed in the dirt, falling onto his hands and knees.

  Coco beat the woman to him, picking him up. His lip trembled, his eyes sheening.

  “You’re okay,” Coco said and pulled him to herself. “You’re okay.”

  “He’s bleeding,” Lana said, and Coco pulled him away. Sure enough, from his nose trickled a line of blood.

  She set him down and pinched his nose while Lana ran to the house for a towel. “Does it hurt?”

  He shook his head.

  She picked him up and carried him to the house, meeting Lana at the door. Pressing the towel to his nose, she brought him inside to the kitchen. She set him on the small, long kiddie table and crouched in front of him.

  Blood had spilled onto his shirt.

  Tears filled his eyes. “Mnye zhalka.”

  “It’s okay, baby,” Coco said. “It was an accident.” She checked his nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

  “I didn’t see him hit his face,” Coco said to Lana.

  “He g
ets them a lot,” Lana said, holding a clean shirt in her hand.

  Coco tugged up his shirt, and he held his hands up for her to lift it over his head.

  A slow horror washed over her as she saw his body. Bruises, both large and small, some gray-green, some a deeper purple. They darkened his arms, his torso.

  She looked up at Lana, who handed her the shirt. Coco took it but kept her gaze in hers. “He’s got a lot of bruises.”

  Lana crouched next to her, as if to examine him. “He’s a boy. He falls down a lot. But I’m sorry, I didn’t notice there were so many.”

  She swallowed, her throat thick. They weren’t…uh…

  She’d vetted this place, had looked into Lana and her history. Nothing suggested abuse.

  As she looked at the bruises, they didn’t seem to be pressure marks, as if he’d been grabbed, but rather bumps and bruises.

  Still, her hands shook as she pulled the shirt over his head. Then she picked him up and walked over to the sink. Lowered her voice.

  “Do you like it here, Mikka?”

  He was moving his head away as she washed his face so she stopped. Met his eyes. “Do they hurt you?”

  She really didn’t care that Lana was standing just a few feet away and could hear her.

  He shook his head.

  She finished washing his face and set him back onto his feet.

  Lana came up to her. “He is safe here.”

  Coco couldn’t read her expression, but that didn’t matter. She turned to Lana. “I’m trusting you with his life—”

  “I know.” Lana’s eyes sparked. “No one loves him like I do.”

  The statement could dig a tunnel through Coco, but she nodded. “How often does he have nosebleeds?”

  “Sometimes at night. Sometimes after he plays.”

  Mikka scampered back outside, laughing. He didn’t bear the fear of an unloved, abused, or even neglected child.

  “And how long has he been bruising?”

  “I don’t know. But sometimes he cries at night because his bones hurt.”

  A chill shivered through her. “Does he get sick?”

  She shook her head.

  So maybe it was nothing, but— “When is the last time he saw a doctor?”

  “Last fall. He got a complete checkup. He’s fine, Katya.” Lana touched her arm. “I promise. He’s just an active little boy.”

  Coco followed her back to the yard where she and the other teachers called the children in for dinner. Tried to chase the worry from her head as they ate and then as she pulled him onto her lap for a story.