He wondered what her story might be. Something troubled her, even before her brother had shown up.
Why does it matter? You’ll never see her again.
It didn’t. Hadn’t he long ago learned to cut off thoughts that led him to bad places, to keep his head in the moment and to be ruthlessly practical about any situation?
You wound up dead otherwise.
Of course, sometimes people died, anyway.
The comset crackled the coordinates.
Bridger, less than a click away with his squad, recognized the location.
What the hell did they want with an orphanage?
Two groups converging. Spot five RPGs, two south, three west.
“No!” Bridger was up running before his squad could scramble behind him.
“Calhoun, what the hell—?” his lieutenant barked.
But Bridger wasn’t stopping to explain. Innocent kids lived there, children who’d been promised lives in other countries where they could grow up free and happy.
He could hear the screaming from two blocks away. Smell the cordite, see the flash of RPGs.
The earth shook beneath his feet and the concussive effect knocked him to the ground.
He was back up in seconds, running toward a horror he’d never forget in a million years. Body parts, rubble…one child without an arm wandering dazed…
“Doc!” his teammates yelled. “Doc they’re coming back—don’t—”
But he had to reach that boy, had to save—
The night sky flashed yellow-white—
Something landed on his back and he went down hard.
“Get off me,” he groaned, shoving at the body that had slammed onto his. Scratching at the rubble—
An owl hooted.
Bridger’s eyes popped open, his chest heaving—
The truck bed beneath him registered. The cool night. The stars.
No cordite. No rubble. No screams.
Except in his head.
He shoved to sitting, his heart racing. Then he lunged to a stand and vaulted over the side. With quick strides he covered ground, seeking—
What?
He halted, hands on hips, staring at the grass.
Those children were long dead, and he was alive.
And he couldn’t make sense of either. He glanced around at the sleepy little town thousands of miles away from his nightmares, and he wished he could stay in this sleepy, tranquil village.
But what was wrong was inside him, he knew. He had ghosts—all of them did. Such was the lot of a warrior.
Such was the life he was trying to leave behind. He’d lived on adrenaline for years, and he was…weary.
So who is she?
I haven’t met her yet.
But soon…please, God, soon.
A sound filtered in, a soft bubble, that tinkling sound of water falling seeped into his consciousness long enough for his heart to slow a little.
Wanting more, he turned into the trees and found the spring that shared its music with the night. It sat in a clearing overhung with trees, and if ever there was a spot for fairies to inhabit, this fit the bill.
Bridger sank to his heels and simply…observed. As he did, his breathing slowed, his mind calmed.
And he heard a soft humming. Felt someone approach.
His head whipped around as he leaped to attention—
Whoa. Surely this couldn’t be…
The woman, sweet and sad, smiled and reached out. Stay.
How he wished he could.
You always go, she said, but she was staring past him, into the distance.
He felt silly but he finally asked. “Who? Who goes?”
She gazed with pale, shimmering eyes. I asked him to stay, but he left me. He was a soldier.
Even as his rational mind told him he clearly needed sleep, the Celtic in his soul shivered with recognition.
She wasn’t talking to him, but her loneliness was painful. He knew how that felt.
“What can I do?” he found himself asking.
Stay. Love strong enough to stay. Her expression was grief-stricken.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
She shook her head. Looked at him, really looked. You are not ready. Her smile was wistful. Neither is she.
Bridger’s eyebrows flew upward. She? Who was she?
“Who?” He asked and took a step closer.
But the woman…vanished. He turned in a circle but no sight of her.
You are not my one, came the disembodied voice. But you are hers.
Then the night sounds returned as though none of this had happened.
Bridger sank to a fallen log and stared at the water. He didn’t believe in ghosts or heaven knows he’d never sleep, he had so many of his own.
But he’d heard a tidbit or two around town about The Lady of the Spring.
Had he just met her?
You are not my one…but you are hers.
He rubbed his eyes and decided to go pack up. He’d clearly lost his mind or this place was taking it from him.
He shoved to his feet and strode from the clearing.
But not before he’d swear a soft touch brushed his hair.
Chapter Five
Blast her East Coast internal alarm clock. Pen opened one eye and stretched. Yawned. It was the dark side of dawn, and she had nowhere to go, no schedule to keep.
She sighed. It was one of the more aggravating parts of her makeup that once awakened, she could never go back to sleep, however short the night that preceded.
I slept well, though, Bridger. So there. Hope you tossed and turned.
It didn’t matter. He was leaving this morning, and she would not see him again. Their lives were too different, and whether or not she stayed in D.C., she was highly unlikely to have any reason to visit Tennessee. Oh, he might come back to see Mackey, she supposed, toting his child bride and the brood he wanted, but she wouldn’t be here—she’d be back in her real life. She hoped he’d get that dream, though. He was dangerously sexy and all kinds of wrong for her…but he was a nice man. A kind one.
She wished him well.
Okay, a little bit she wished him to perdition for stirring her up. But she owed him too, first for the hug, the shoulder to cry on…and yes, for showing her that she wasn’t dead. That she was capable of responding to someone besides Hugh.
Hugh. Had he ever loved her?
And what did loving someone like him say about her?
“Aaargh!” She flipped over and dragged the covers over her head like a death ray shield to prevent those thoughts from taking over.
Hugh was, first and foremost, a politician, exactly the type of man she’d sworn never to get involved with once she became familiar with the breed. Washington was, sadly, chock-full of men—and okay, women—who were interested in one thing: power. How much did they have, did you have any? How could they take yours and add it to theirs and by what means? Power could be bought, sold, traded through flattery, bribery and yes, through sex.
But not love. That was the lesson she had forgotten, though she should have known it intimately. Her mother was all about love, and Pen had seen firsthand how love behaved.
Why, after all these years of careful solitude—of guarding her own power and even more, her heart—had she fallen into the delusion that what she and Hugh shared had had anything to do with love?
The sex wasn’t even that great.
Certainly nothing like the blaze Bridger stirred up with only a few kisses, the merest of making out.
She threw off the covers and rose to her elbows. If he were going to be around a few days…oh, mercy. A dalliance with Bridger Calhoun might be just what the doctor ordered. Her heart wasn’t in danger from him; he wasn’t her type and he’d been very clear she wasn’t his. She tried to imagine herself in the doorway of some sweet cottage surrounded by flowers and that white picket fence, an apron tied over her rounded belly as she gazed out at two other children romping in the yard with their
daddy.
Would they have his blond hair or her black? Would they—
Whoa.
She leaped from the bed. Stumbled over her shoes.
Stood in the middle of the little frame house bedroom.
What the—?
Wow. She snorted. Shook her head. Grabbed clothes from the suitcase she hadn’t yet unpacked and made her way to the shower to clear her obviously addled wits.
On the way, she glanced over at the ranch house where she’d grown up, saw the lights on in the kitchen. Mama was already—
No. That had been the pattern all their lives, her mother up before everyone, needing, she said, a few minutes to herself. She’d drink one cup of coffee, sometimes reading her Bible, sometimes one of the romance novels she loved but had little time for. None of them knew exactly what she did because she so clearly treasured the time that, at least when they grew older, they respected the boundaries.
We were a handful, weren’t we, Mama? Oh, how I miss you still.
Pen wiped at her eyes and turned on the water. She didn’t know if that was Rissa or her dad or the housekeeper Celia, but when she was done here, she’d go over and bum a cup of coffee. Get a feel for how things had changed, now that Rissa was married and a child slept in that house again. She could talk to her dad about how the ranch was doing, not that he’d ever spoken about anything of substance with her.
But she wouldn’t mind a few minutes of being his Princess again.
And maybe, just maybe, Jackson would be there.
I have no son.
Or not. Her twin might be gone again, but maybe he was at Ruby’s. She would find out, and if so, they would talk. She’d try not to yell, though she couldn’t help wanting to. She was torn between yelling and weeping.
But he wasn’t dead. That much of the twin bond remained, proving her right.
So why had he come back now? And why with no warning? Questions and possibilities danced like dervishes through the entire shower and while she dressed.
But as she’d learned long ago, only the facts of a case mattered in the end.
So she would go start asking questions. Since she had no answers of her own.
When she made it over to the house and walked into the kitchen, what she saw was not at all what she’d expected.
Total mayhem.
With only one person present.
“What?” Rissa snapped, brushing flour off her shirt front and smacking a bowl onto the counter. “You never saw anyone bake a cake before?”
“Is that what this is? A cake for who? Jackson?”
Rissa snorted. “Big brother is on his own. Besides, he was leaving town last night, remember?”
Pen’s heart sank. Just as she’d feared. “He really did?”
“Didn’t you hear him? Right after he shoved us aside and Dad so eloquently showed the love, he said he had to get back to Austin for business.”
“But—” She had, but she’d hoped….
Rissa glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark with grief and yet lit by fury. “I’ve decided to hate him. He sure doesn’t care about us, does he?”
Pen was too busy trying to breathe past the pain to answer.
“Sorry. Lousy greeting. As you can see, I’m in a bit of a mood.”
The enormity of the loss was more than Pen could handle right now, so she focused on the out Rissa presented her. “So who’s the cake for?”
“Eric. We’re giving him a surprise birthday tonight at the cafe.”
“You all are sure hung up on surprises around here. Wouldn’t Aunt Ruby or Scarlett make it for you?” She paused. “Though they should both be on their honeymoons, right?”
“Riiight.” Rissa rolled her eyes. “Their grooms are lucky they took time off enough to get married. Scarlett is hell-bent on getting that restaurant open, and I doubt Aunt Ruby’s taken a day off in half a century.” She went military straight. “I’m his mother, or I will be soon—no, I am, paperwork or not. I’m making his first birthday cake as part of this family.”
“You look terrified. Have you ever made a cake before?”
“No. I don’t cook.” She brushed roughly at her eyes. “I don’t like to cook. I don’t want to cook.” She glared at the ingredients assembled, the batter that looked…odd. “But I am making Eric’s birthday cake. God help us all.”
Pen couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from her. “I’m sorry.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, but another laugh threatened.
“Don’t you dare—” Rissa’s mouth twitched, then she, too, started giggling. Her laughter increased until she was bent double, and Pen herself could barely breathe.
“If you could see yourself—” Pen exploded again. “You have egg in your hair.”
Rissa seemed to find that absolutely hilarious. She smacked her hand on the countertop and managed to catch the edge of the spoon that was stuck in the batter, flipping the entire bowl onto the floor.
Pen’s sides hurt as another shriek of laughter hit her.
“Don’t…laugh.” Then Rissa doubled over again.
“What in the hell is going on in here?” her father thundered.
Once they would have snapped to attention and sobered immediately. Instead, Pen grasped for Rissa’s shaking shoulder and gasped out “Rissa’s… baking… Daddy.”
Which sent them into another paroxysm of giggles.
“Why isn’t Celia here, cooking breakfast—never mind.” He grabbed his hat off the rack and clapped it on his head. “I’m going to Ruby’s.” He stalked out the door.
That did sober them. A little.
But at that moment, Mackey came downstairs, and the expression on his face was priceless.
Pen wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Mackey at a loss for words.
“We’re…baking—” Rissa snorted out another laugh, grabbing Pen around the waist. “Me and Sissy.”
“I…see.” He glanced from one to the other, his response very slow and cautious for the ever-clever Mackey. “Um…need some help?”
For some reason, that sent them over the edge again, and Pen held herself up by grasping the counter while Rissa snickered into her shoulder. “I…think…we’ve got it. But where is Eric?”
Relief and worry and confusion fought for dominance on his face. “He’s at Celia’s. She agreed to keep him for the morning.” He looked around. “I don’t really cook, but I guess I could…”
“Come here and kiss me,” Rissa said between giggles.
“Oh, babe…really?” He glanced down at his clean shirt and jeans. “Oh, what the hell. I’ll let the horses lick it off.” Manfully he waded into the disaster zone, grabbed Rissa around the waist and laid a solid kiss on her.
Then backed away as if from a dangerous predator. “Um…you sure you got this, honey? Pen? I was headed to Ian’s, but…”
Pen was finally getting her laughter under control, and she could see Rissa starting to panic again. “We’ve got this. Tell Ian hi.” She waved him away.
He beat a hasty retreat.
Rissa heaved a deep sigh. “Wow.” She looked completely at sea again. “Guess I’d best start over.”
“I could help.”
“You used to cook with Mama. She said you had the makings of a good one. Are you?”
Pen shook her head. “I doubt it. I don’t ever cook anymore.” She never did anything that would remind her of her mother.
Rissa straightened. “Well, doesn’t matter. I’m doing this by myself, come hell or high water. Grab a cup of coffee and enjoy the show.”
“If I help clean, that doesn’t count as cooking.”
Rissa shot her a grateful glance. “I guess not. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
They waded in.
After more than a little muttering and stomping around, an hour later three slightly too-brown layers of cake were cooling.
“It’s terrible, right? I have to start over.” Panic was grabbing hold of Rissa again.
Pen stopped
her as she reached for one pan. “They’ll be fine once they’re iced.”
Rissa’s eyes wheeled like a spooked horse. “Icing. Oh, God.”
If her sister’s panic wasn’t so sweet, Pen would burst into laughter again. Instead she grabbed Rissa. Hugged her quickly. “Calm down. Better yet, call Mackey and let him talk you down off the ledge. Coo and say stupid sweet nothings.”
“Please.” Rissa rolled her eyes. “I leave the cooing to City Girl and Ian.”
“Oh, that’s right. You and Mackey prefer playing Tarzan and the Slave Girl.”
Finally Rissa laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m a little mental over this.”
“A little?” It was Pen’s turn to roll her eyes. She shoved Rissa’s phone into her sister’s hand. “Call him.”
While Rissa made the call, Pen busied herself finishing the cleanup, then looked into the refrigerator to see if there was anything she could use to make them a basic breakfast. No bagels, her breakfast of choice, of course—this was Sweetgrass, not the East Coast. But she spotted eggs that would be easy enough to scramble—
A sound behind her made her whirl.
Rissa stood there, eyes huge, face pale.
“What is it?”
“It’s Jackson. He’s still here. He’s with Mackey and Ian at the bluff.” She shook her head. “Mackey wanted us to bring them breakfast.”
Pen was still trying to process that her twin hadn’t abandoned them again.
Yet. “What did you tell him?”
“You want the clean version or the truth?”
Pen found a smile. Closed the refrigerator door. “Yeah, dream on, Mackey.”
“I’m calling Celia to tell her the cake is cooling and not to let the kids come over here. You ready?” Rissa was already making long strides out the door.
Not really. Pen wiped her hands on her jeans, amazed to think that seeing her twin again, the other half of her heart, could make her this nervous.
But he was mostly a stranger now. Her heart had long ago learned to live on its own.
Rissa drove like a crazy woman, all the earlier hilarity gone. “He is not leaving again,” she vowed through gritted teeth. “If I have to tie him to a chair.”
Texas Blaze Page 8
