Every Last Secret

by Christa Wick

  He obviously isn't close to sleep, so I softly push the door inward. Delia looks at me over her shoulder.

  "I called Sutton," I say.

  Caiden freezes.

  "If it's okay, he's going to call back in a couple of minutes. I gave him Ken's…file."

  Delia looks at her son. His gaze remains stubbornly fixed on the ceiling.

  "Might as well try," she answers.

  Caiden slowly relaxes his lower body onto the bed. I catch the glance he throws in my direction.

  It's clear from the look that he likes the ex-soldier, that he finds Sutton comforting.

  So do I.

  "Here," Delia says, handing me the simple illustration that Ken and Caiden made together to go with the poem. "Maybe it will work better with the two of you."

  Her mouth quivers. She is thinking of her dead husband, of how every other time she flipped the pages with Caiden as a voice came over the phone, it was Ken's voice.

  I nod.

  My phone rings.

  "Hello," I answer as I sit on the edge of the mattress. "Putting you on speakerphone. Everything is ready on this end."

  "Hey, Sarge," Sutton says, his voice as casual as it was at this afternoon's meeting. "Your Aunt Maddy sent me a really great poem. Did your dad write this?"

  "Yes," Caiden mumbles.

  I slide along the mattress until I'm on my side, the stitched pages open between us. I put the phone just above the book and prompt Caiden to answer a little more audibly.

  "Yes," he repeats. "My dad wrote it for me."

  "Can I read it to you?"

  I melt onto the mattress, forgetting for the moment that Sutton is talking to Caiden and not to me.

  "Yes, please," Caiden answers, his voice growing more confident.

  "Okay," Sutton says, then clears his throat.

  On the open spread in front of Caiden is an indigo-black sky with pinpoints of white randomly scattered on the pages.

  When I go away,

  No matter how far,

  I look up

  And find the star.

  Sutton's voice is warm apple cider on a chilly night. It melts my bones, relaxes my mind. For an instant, it takes me out of myself. Then Caiden nudges me, my cue to turn the page.

  Bright, sparkling,

  A silver blue,

  The same light

  Winks down at you.

  Here, there are no pinpoints of white, just midnight and one very big star. I turn to the next page as Sutton continues in his smooth, deep voice.

  When it’s time

  To say goodbye,

  The same moon

  Fills the sky.

  Next to me, Caiden relaxes. His hand leaves the wall to curl under him and his head touches the pillow, perhaps for the first time tonight.

  Sutton continues.

  The same sun

  Warms my face

  When I must leave

  Our special place.

  The picture in front of us is the small brick house that Delia and Ken raised their son in. I remember sitting in its living room, in Delia's rocker, holding Delia's infant son and terrified I would break him.

  The next page reveals an image of a boy, with red hair not unlike my own, and gray eyes like his mother.

  Don’t you see,

  Beloved child?

  In the city,

  Or the wild,

  Quietly I turn the page as Caiden's eyes drift shut.

  The sky is the ocean

  I cross each day,

  To be with you

  When I cannot stay.

  Sutton reads the last lines then goes silent.

  I slide the book onto the nightstand and ease off the bed, taking the phone with me.

  "Out like a light," I say when I reach the kitchen. "You are a lifesaver."

  His light chuckle brings a fresh flush of warmth to my entire body. Then his words follow and wash over me like ice water.

  "Anything for you, Maddy."

  Standing by the sink with a mug of hot tea, Delia hears him and winks.

  "Uh, thanks," I fumble, every ounce of my willpower focused on not hanging up before I can at least half utter some arguably appropriate goodbye. "I won't keep you up any longer."

  I don't give him a chance to say anything before my thumb mashes the screen to end the call. I slam my ass down on a kitchen chair then hang my head between my widespread knees.

  FBI agents aren't supposed to have panic attacks. They aren't supposed to have anxiety because they don't know how to have a simple conversation with…well, with anyone.

  I'm an FBI agent, but maybe I shouldn't be.

  Delia takes a seat next to me. She places her mug on the table then slides it in front of me. "Perhaps you should talk to your boss."

  I shake my head.

  "I know you, baby sister." She rubs at my back, her touch firm. "You won't tell Sutton what he needs to know—what you need him to know—because his brother is your boss. But Emerson is going to find out anyway. It's a wonder he didn't figure it out when we were all in Boston."

  I rub at a cheek, wiping away tears because I'm both panicking and a crybaby.

  "No," I say. "Emerson thinks I'm a good agent. Wishes he had more like me."

  Pulling my head out from between my knees, I sit up straight and scoot the chair away from my sister. My hand goes to my ear. This time I know I'm tugging at it, but I cannot stop.

  "I can control myself," I protest. "Just not around Sutton."

  Delia doesn't give me my space. She slides right up next to me, grabs my offending hand and holds it tight.

  "Baby, you have to forget the past. Sutton isn't some stupid college freshman. He's disciplined, and a gentleman. He likes you…the way you want him to like you no matter how much you protest otherwise."

  I jerk my hand from her grip.

  "No," I argue. "I'm happy being your sister and Caiden's aunt. Anything more is unrealistic."

  For the first time in forever, my sister gets mad at me. Her face colors an angry red. Her gaze grows bigger and her nostrils flare.

  "Are you going to tell Caiden that same nonsense when he gets old enough for a girlfriend?" she huffs. "Are you going to tell him he has a mom and an aunt and that's all the family he needs? That a girlfriend is unrealistic?"

  I shrug and answer.

  "Would it really be so wrong if I did?"

  5

  Sutton

  Setting down a tray of lemon cakes, I pull a face as my mother gestures for me to move the treats to the opposite end of her massive dining room table.

  "Mama, how is it I have to keep showing up for the Willow Gap Women's Planning Committee meetings?" I ask. "As I recall, you changed my diapers enough times to know I don't qualify."

  She smiles sweetly. Green eyes that match my own sparkle with mischief. "Go to school or get a job and I'll find someone else to torture."

  "I don't need a job," I tell her. "And it's not like I'm bone idle."

  She releases a puff of air in my direction before turning away and flapping her hands. "Look, MacGyver, making radios with Leah doesn't count as being busy."

  I can't help but give a little poke back. "I didn't say I was busy. I said I wasn't bone idle."

  She shoots the kind of glare only a mother can fire off.

  "There's all kinds of community business to discuss today and Sage needs an understudy," Mama explains. "She's perfectly healthy now, but having a baby isn't like making a radio. God willing, nothing goes wrong, but you have to be informed enough to take over if she needs you to."

  Properly chastised, I offer a contrite bow.

  Mama rolls her eyes. "Besides, if the ladies see you at least once a week, I don't have to spend the rest of my time answering their busybody questions."

  Her phone chirps before she can get a full head of steam going. She pulls it out and snickers softly. I can just guess who is texting.

  "Betty Rae has arrived. Go help her with the mint water and crepes."<
br />
  Yep, exactly who I thought it was.

  I plant a kiss on Mama's cheek, then gird my loins for Betty Rae. I find the woman parked next to my truck. She has her trunk lid up and a tray of crepes in hand. There are three one-gallon jugs of her famous (if only locally) mint water.

  "Take two inside," she directs me. "The other is for you to take home."

  I thank her like I always do. She waits while I transfer one of the containers over to my truck.

  "Did I hear that pretty redhead your brother works with has a sister?"

  I wonder just how I'm supposed to know what Betty Rae has heard. I have radios that will pick up Europe and Australia, but not a single one is set to pick up my mother's nearest, dearest, and nosiest friend.

  And I don't really want to talk about Maddy. I haven't spoken to her since Saturday night. That was a disaster. Not the part with my reading to Caiden. I quickly reached the point where I want to help the boy for his own sake. But afterward, when I screwed up, let my emotions leak into my voice and sounded too eager to help Maddy in particular, that's when things went sideways with the woman. And things between the two of us were hardly straight to begin with.

  Betty Rae acts like I'm not ignoring her question by breezing straight on to the next one. "And the sister has a son, I'm told."

  Grabbing the other two jugs, I smile at her like I'm deaf or mute, or both.

  "I do hope they pass through on Sunday," Betty Rae prattles on.

  The Thirtieth Willow Gap Women's Planning Committee Fundraising Event is this coming Sunday. Everything is put together on Saturday, with a big barbecue for the volunteers once the work of setting up the rides and petting zoo is finished.

  "Do you think they will?" Betty Rae presses as I manage to keep hold of the jugs and open the door into the kitchen for her. "Pass through on Sunday that is?"

  "Who?" I ask, my tone and expression perfectly innocent.

  "That pretty redhead and her family?"

  "She has a family?" I ask right before Mama swats at my shoulder.

  "He's just messing with you, Betty Rae," she warns.

  Before Mama can set me another task, my phone rings. I pull it out and smile.

  "Looks like the pretty redhead's pretty blonde sister is calling."

  I glance from Mama to Betty Rae. Mama frowns with concern while Betty Rae leans close enough she can see my phone's display.

  "Delia, what a beautiful name!"

  Not wanting Betty Rae listening in on every single word, I nod at the kitchen door. "Taking this outside."

  The last thing I hear before I accept the call is Mama giving me a fresh order.

  "Invite them for Saturday!"

  "Hello, Mrs. Mays," I answer. "Is everything okay?"

  While I haven't talked to Maddy since Saturday night, Delia and I talked on Sunday and Tuesday when she called and asked me to read to Caiden again. On Monday, he was fine to go to sleep on his own, or with her reading to him. I don't really know. I just know if Delia calls and asks, I'm happy to help, even if her sister wants nothing to do with me.

  "Oh…yes…" she answers, her voice full of hesitation.

  "Is there anything I can do to make things better?" I ask.

  "You really are one of the kindest men I've ever met, Sutton Turk."

  My cheeks heat a little at her compliment. The warmth is from a touch of shame over why I was so eager to help her son initially. But it really doesn't matter why I originally agreed to meet Caiden.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Mays," I say after staying quiet a few seconds too long.

  "In fact," she chirps. "I think the only flaw you have is not calling me Delia."

  "Sorry," I laugh. "What can I do for you, Delia?"

  I sense hesitation in the way she breathes and in the silence that follows my question.

  "This is a big ask," she tells me.

  "I doubt it's as big as you think," I assure her.

  "Well, last Friday, we went to this academy with a summer program that would be great for Caiden."

  Last Friday is the day Maddy showed up on my door looking like Summer personified.

  "Okay," I say, urging her to continue.

  "It went really badly," Delia confesses. "But they are willing to make another attempt at a tour and an evaluation."

  "You want me to go with you?"

  I wonder if Maddy will be there, too, but I don't ask.

  "Oh, you really are a sweet man," she answers. "It's Monday afternoon in Billings. Is that going to be okay?"

  "I've got all day for you and Caiden," I assure her as I catch Mama sneaking onto the deck.

  Saturday!

  Mama mouths the word at me. I nod.

  "My mother is hoping you all can come out to the ranch this Saturday," I tell Delia, leaving it to her whether she includes Maddy. "There will be about sixty other people here. There's a fundraiser on Sunday and we have the rides and petting zoo and a big barbecue on Saturday as a thank you for the volunteers. There's a full spread of food and drink, so nothing to bring but yourself."

  "And you'll be there?" Delia asks with a touch of apprehension.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Ma'am!" she laughs. "That's worse than 'Mrs. Mays'!"

  "My bad," I chuckle. "I'll be here, Delia."

  It's fun talking to Delia. Her voice, right down to the Boston accent, has a lot of similarities to Maddy's.

  But she's not her sister. She smiles a lot, laughs a lot despite the troubles she has, and she makes direct eye contact when I talk to her.

  "Then Caiden and I will be there, and my baby sister if your brother isn't making her work."

  "Great," I say, keeping a smile in my voice even as Mama starts to scowl for some unfathomable reason. "Kicks off at two, wraps up at nine. We'll see you somewhere in there."

  Delia chirps her thanks and the call ends.

  Putting away the phone, I raise a brow at my still scowling mother.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Were you just needling Betty Rae about Madigan's 'pretty blonde sister'?" she asks in a whisper. "Or are you starting to feel something for Delia?"

  Before I can answer, she shakes her head.

  "Because that's not something to pursue lightly. Not with her boy just losing his father."

  The question shocks me. I walk past her, open the door and hold it for her.

  If only I could hold my tongue, too.

  "Really, Mama, when did you start thinking so little of me?"

  Her eyes flash bright, a sudden moisture coating them. My head immediately drops in contrition. But she's not the only one with hurt feelings.

  "I heard a tone in your voice when you were talking to her, Sutton Lee."

  "She sounds like Maddy," I offer as a defense. "But she's not Maddy. And what I'm doing for Caiden is for Caiden. Not for his mother or his aunt."

  Mama shakes her head, not quite believing me.

  "I understand you loved what you did in the Army. But that's over and you need to get back to living," she growls as she breezes past me. "And you need to be living right!"

  6

  Sutton

  Standing alongside an empty goat pen, I show the fire chief's seven-year-old godson how to twirl and release a lasso on a roping dummy. There is a spot of catsup on the boy's shirt and he keeps one hand wrapped around a hotdog. When he releases his throw, the circle of rope lands more than two feet to the side of the dummy.

  He drops his end of the rope, his attention returning to the hotdog. When his mouth is stuffed full, he shrugs.

  "Gonna be a cop, anyway."

  I reel the rope back in, give it a twirl and a flick. A little tug and the noose tightens around the dummy's neck.

  "My brother is a cop," I tell the kid. "But he was a cowboy first."

  He wipes his hands on his jeans and holds his hands out for the rope.

  "Could he do this?"

  I nod. "Won ribbons for it at the state rodeo."

  "They give ribbons for this stuff?" the
kid asks, his gaze finally showing a spark.

  I nod again.

  "Is there money for winning a ribbon?"

  "Yes," I sigh. "Money and scholarships to school."

  The kid shakes his head at the last bit. But this time when he picks up the rope, he twirls it a little better, and his aim is a little truer, even if he is still unsuccessful.

  "Keep trying," my brother Emerson says as he comes up on my six. "No one throws perfect their first few times."

  I roll my eyes before Emerson can see my face. The subtle suggestion that anyone gets a perfect throw after their first few tries is exactly why Mama didn't task him with teaching kids at the barbecue.

  "Glad you made it," I say when he steps into view.

  My twin has dressed down for the day, but there is still a line pressed in the front of his blue jeans. I suppress a smirk and clap him on the back.

  "This is the cop," I tell the boy. "Technically, he is an FBI agent."

  The kid's mouth pops open and he drops the rope.

  "For real?"

  "No," Emerson lies. "He probably said I was his brother, too. That's another lie."

  The kid bobs his head then casts me a little shade as his gaze cuts in my direction. His arms fold in front of his thin chest and he walks away, staring at the ground as he mutters.

  "Probably don't give no money for roping, either."

  Nickering like a mare, Emerson watches the boy leave.

  When his gaze turns to me, he shrugs. "What? I thought I was rescuing you."

  Trying to stop one of Mama's scowls from settling over my face, I scratch at my jaw. "Just because you don't like working with kids doesn't mean I needed saved."

  A chorus of youthful squeals rises up, drawing our attention toward the center ring. Royce, dressed as a rodeo clown, has just clambered over the fence and landed on his face.

  On purpose, I hope.

  He jumps up just in time to avoid a young billy goat from pouncing on him. Royce wags his finger at the animal, then makes the mistake of turning his back on the critter.