Texas Blaze

by Jean Brashear

  Her, he’d all but ignored except to glower now and again.

  Then the manicurist moved to his feet, and he nearly came off the chair.

  Pen bit her lip and zipped out of the room before she could start laughing. Or maybe apologizing. But he was in too deep to stop them now.

  Please…let him get to the point where he likes it. That would be the massage part, though, and she realized how much she did not want another woman’s hands on him.

  She barged back in. “There’s been an emergency. I just got a call,” she told the women doing the work. “We have to go. Please finish up right now.”

  “What?” Bridger snapped to attention. “Who is it?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re alone. I’ll be in the room.” She escaped.

  I cannot believe I just did that. Acted like a jealous fool. Nonono, this is not me.

  Bridger charged into their room only a couple of minutes behind her, wiping his face with a towel. “What happened? I’ll get the truck as soon as I’m—”

  Oh, dear. What had she done? She grabbed his arm. “Bridger. We don’t need to go.”

  “Of course we do. You can tell me on the way—”

  “No. We actually don’t. There’s—it’s—everyone’s okay, as far as I know. Nothing’s happened.”

  “Then why—”

  She couldn’t look at him. “You hated it, and it wasn’t fun anymore. And I—” No. She wasn’t telling him she’d balked at the massage.

  “I didn’t hate it…exactly. Or not any more than you hated the field of dirt.”

  “I’m sorry. I—” She cleared her throat. “I—” Don’t know what to do with someone like you.

  “I’m fine, Penelope. Seriously.” He shrugged. “Trust me, BUD/S was way worse. This wasn’t running with a telephone pole over your shoulders through ice-cold surf. It was nothing like Hell Week. Damn sure was better than combat.” His easy cheer was back full-force.

  You are too nice for me, Bridger Calhoun. But to him, she smiled. “I can still give you that massage. I might not be a professional, but—”

  “I’d rather it be you, anyway.” She glanced up in surprise. “Felt weird, having those women’s hands on me.”

  Good. She wouldn’t have to admit it had been weird for her, too.

  “We can take turns.” He winked.

  “Oh, no, sailor boy. When you have your hands on me…”

  His grin went wide. “Have a little trouble concentrating, Legs?”

  She couldn’t help her shiver.

  Then he sobered. “I seem to have the same problem. You are something, Penelope. Something pretty special.”

  Voice husky, she walked over and pulled back the covers. “Lie down on your stomach, Bridger.”

  He hesitated, then moved, but as he passed her, he cupped her cheek and pressed a light, sweet kiss to her lips. “You are softer than you want to let anyone see, honey. But you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t hurt you.”

  Oh, but you will. Not because he meant to, but simply because he was making her want him in ways that were as far-fetched as the moon.

  She wasn’t that soft, sweet woman he was after, and she didn’t want to be. Didn’t dare to be.

  But sometimes she did want…what?

  He took off the robe and ranged that magnificent big body over the mattress.

  Pen took a minute to let her gaze linger over every powerful, masculine inch of him.

  He glanced back. “You okay?”

  “Of course,” she said, tucking away foolish thoughts.

  When Bridger felt her naked flesh straddle him, he had to clench his jaw not to roll and grab her. Thrust inside her. He was ready again—he always seemed ready for her, in a heartbeat, in a whisper, in one single look from those Caribbean blue eyes.

  “Think you could relax a little?” she asked.

  How? But he tried.

  Slick oiled hands slid over his back, working slowly up his spine and making him groan with pleasure.

  Legs was a woman of many talents. She continued to ply them on him as to his surprise, every tense muscle eased.

  Well, except one. Down, boy.

  When she bent low to slide her hands over his shoulders and down his arms to his fingers, her soft breasts brushed over him.

  His hips thrust against his will.

  She pressed a kiss to the center of his shoulders. “We’ll get there,” she said, both strain and smile in her voice.

  Bridger endured her ministrations with both abject pleasure and unbearable strain. She was killing him, inch by merciless inch, over his buttocks, down the backs of his thighs, loosening his tight calves, continuing down—

  He nearly came off the bed as she stroked her thumb up the bottom of one foot.

  “A little ticklish, are we?” He heard the smile.

  And flipped over, grasping her by surprise.

  Lifted her by the waist—

  And plunged her down on him as he slid home.

  Their gazes locked.

  For once in her life she didn’t have a quick retort. Instead she rocked her pelvis, and he went out of his mind, gripping her hips and holding her to him as he drove inside, over and over, as though he could reach the place where—

  Where what? Where she lived? Where her heart dwelled?

  Stop thinking. You don’t belong together.

  Enjoy the fun.

  But fun wasn’t enough anymore. With a growl, he rolled them and mounted her, man to mate. Male to his female.

  Mine.

  Not for long, he knew.

  But for a little while longer, at least.

  The heat was intense, the smoke thick and endless.

  Bridger felt his way up the stairs as the radio crackled with shouts from outside.

  And he heard screams from within.

  “Help me! My baby! My children—”

  I’m coming. I’ll save you. I won’t let you die.

  He reached for the doorknob. Turned. Shoved against a weight.

  A child. Oh, god. The woman in the window, back turned to him.

  “Kyle, take this one.” He pointed to the child. “I’ll get the mom.”

  His buddy nodded, and Bridger turned to the woman whose arms held a bundle. She climbed into the window.

  “No! Wait!” he yelled. “I’m coming. Don’t—”

  The woman turned, face filled with fear.

  It was his mother. “My baby,” she cried. “Save her.”

  Then she turned back. Leaned out.

  But not before he saw the child’s face.

  “Molly!” He shouted as his mother leaped to their deaths—

  Bridger shifted restlessly on the mattress beside her. “Molly!” His cry was hoarse.

  Pen lifted to one elbow. Reached out to him.

  “Molly, no! Mom, don’t!”

  “Bridger.” Every muscle in his body was tensed.

  “No! Oh God no! I can’t—” His voice held such agony.

  Pen touched his arm, and he rocketed out of bed. Came to a crouch beside it, his chest heaving, his eyes unfocused.

  “Bridger, it’s okay. You’re dreaming.” She started to rise, to go to him.

  “Don’t!” he snapped. “Get back. I don’t—” His jaw clenched. He wheeled away toward the window.

  Leaned against it, his muscles bunched for a battle.

  “Bridger,” she tried to soothe, “It’s okay—”

  “It’ll never be okay,” he snapped. “Go back to sleep.”

  How was she to do that, watching the misery in his frame? He looked so alone. So locked in painful memory.

  Who was Molly?

  Sleep was impossible, and they only had this one room. Maybe she could go sit in the bathroom until he—

  What? Got over it? Was there any getting over something so clearly agonizing? Gone was every last trace of the playful traveling companion, of the breathtaking lover.

  This was a man in pain.

  I’d really a
ppreciate your help, Mackey had said. Bridger saved my life more than once—he saved all of us.

  But how could she help when every line of his body said Stay away?

  She had to try. To buy herself time, she rose and slipped on his shirt, wondering if even that was too much intimacy for him. Then she approached his back.

  “Penelope…” he warned. “Please.”

  He was big, really big. And strong.

  But he would never use that strength against her, she was certain. Still, she took it slow. “Bridger, I care. Who’s Molly?”

  For an endless span, she thought he wouldn’t answer, and she didn’t know what to do next. Leave him alone as he’d requested?

  Not talking about her problems hadn’t helped her.

  And he had ghosts. Mackey had told her as much. Long before the fire where he’d risked his life, Bridger had lost plenty, she already knew.

  “She was my sister. The youngest.”

  “Was? She’s…dead?”

  Another endless wait.

  “I hope not. God, if after all that—” Bridger shook his head. Glanced down. “I don’t know. She’s lost to me.”

  “What happened?”

  He huffed an impatient breath. Chuckled without humor. “What would I have to say to make you drop this?”

  “Anyone could tell you I’m a bulldog.” She laid her palm against his shoulder. “I’ll go away if you really need me to. I just—this hurts you somehow. I can listen.”

  He turned halfway. Scrubbed his hands over his face. “Let me get some pants on.”

  Armor. She understood the need for that.

  He put on his jeans, the same ones that had gone flying when the night began. He didn’t seek out another shirt, and she was heartened. Not doing so, she thought, signaled at least a partial trust in her.

  One of these days she’d find out what that tattoo on his left pec stood for.

  He sank to the mattress and looked up. Followed her line of sight and touched the ink on his chest. Pointed around the line of it. “Molly. Kathleen. Nathan. Their initials.”

  She hadn’t noticed the lettering inside the Celtic design. “Your siblings? Did they…” Die? But he’d said Molly…

  Bridger exhaled in a gust. “My father was a bastard. He wasn’t bad when he was sober, but when he drank…” He cleared his throat. “He turned into someone I didn’t know. He wasn’t always like that, not when I was little. He was…fun. But by the time there were four of us kids, he had lost his job and still had a family to support. He tried—he worked real hard—but he never could get ahead. He drank—to relieve the pressure I can see now—and when he was drunk, all bets were off. He was liable to do anything, but over time, beating on my mother came to be his favorite.” He glanced up, his gaze shamed. “But he’d hit whoever was in the vicinity. When I was ten, I tried to stop him.” He pointed at his left forearm. “Broken in three places.”

  “Oh, Bridger….”

  His expression said he wouldn’t appreciate pity, so she pressed her lips together.

  “We learned to stay out of his way. My mother begged me not to defend her. Said it was…easier on her.” He shook his head wearily. “It’s an old story, repeated all over the world. Man is bigger, he has power to use…or misuse.”

  His jaw tightened. “That changed when I shot up six inches at fifteen. I was still skinny, but I started working on that. Pretty soon, we were more evenly matched, an out-of-shape drunk against a teenager filled with rage.” His gaze rose to hers. “I have violence in me, too. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  “You don’t wield it.”

  His face hardened. “I’ve trained myself not to anymore, but don’t kid yourself. It’s there.” The darkness in his tone made that clear.

  Maybe so, but… “I’m not afraid of you. I’ve seen you with the children.”

  Pain skated over his features. “Children,” he echoed. “That’s what I was dreaming about, only somehow the baby who—” His voice caught.

  The one who’d died, she understood. “The one you tried to save.”

  His head jerked up. “The one I didn’t save.”

  “And nearly went out the window yourself in the attempt,” she reminded him. “You saved the mother.”

  “I didn’t save my mom—” he shouted, and then she knew they were approaching the source of so much of who he was.

  When he didn’t continue, she took the risk and prompted. “What happened?”

  “My father is what happened.” Face ravaged, he raked the fingers of both hands through his hair. “One night he went bat-shit crazy and dragged out his pistol. He had the kids lined up across the room and my mother by the throat. The kids were crying and begging, and my mom was pleading—” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and for a long, charged moment said nothing.

  She didn’t know if she should push, but letting it go felt wrong.

  At last he spoke. “I walked in from basketball practice, and he turned the gun on me. Told me to line up and shut up, that he was done with all of us.”

  Oh, god. He’d said Molly wasn’t dead, but…?

  “I couldn’t see anything else to do but charge him.”

  Her breath caught.

  “While we were struggling, I told the kids to run into the bedroom and lock the door. I told Mom to go with them. The kids went.”

  Agony painted itself over his features.

  “She didn’t. She tried to get between us. To save me. He was out of shape, but he was a strong bastard, and he was crazy strong that night. He managed to knock me out for a minute or two, and he hauled my mom into the kitchen. The kids came out into the hallway, and their crying woke me up. I yelled at them to get the hell out of the house, and I went after him just as I heard the first shot.”

  She couldn’t breathe.

  He stared sightlessly. “When I got into the kitchen, my mother was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I checked to see if she was still alive, but—” He dropped his gaze. Audibly swallowed. “Then he told me I was a good son.”

  She frowned.

  “Right before he shot himself.”

  “Oh, Bridger…” She went to him.

  He held her off with a hand out. “Let me finish,” he said with surprising gentleness for a man whose entire frame was rigid.

  She halted a few feet away. Sank to the carpet in front of him, wanting desperately to touch him. To comfort him.

  “The details blur after that. A neighbor called the cops, and I was dragged away in handcuffs—”

  “What?” she exploded. “How could they—”

  He glanced up, a trace of humor in his expression. “They couldn’t know. There were two dead bodies and a gun. I was covered in blood. I wasn’t dead.”

  “But—”

  His face went dark and haunted. “The last time I saw my brother and sisters, they were watching me fight the cops and get put into handcuffs. The cops told me later that child protective services had my siblings.”

  “Oh, Bridger…what happened after that?”

  “I was cleared and released, and I tried to get custody, but I was sixteen, no way to support them. My dad had lost everything, and there was no other family to take us in. I wasn’t considered a suitable guardian, so the others were placed in foster homes. I was, too, but I ran away within a few weeks and stayed gone until I was old enough to join the Navy.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t tried to find them?” Her mind was racing with angles to pursue.

  “What did I have to offer them? First I was homeless, then I was involved in covert ops most of the time, and by the time I wasn’t always overseas…it was too late.”

  “Too late? Bridger, they’re your family. You can’t just give up.”

  “I don’t know them. They don’t know me. And even if I found them, I have nothing to offer. They’re better off.”

  He sounded too much like Jackson then, and s
he was still furious with her twin. She went for the jugular. “You don’t know that. They might need you.”

  She might as well have slapped him.

  “I’m sorry—that was out of line, but you don’t know what they need. Maybe they’d just like to know you’re alive. That you still care.”

  His look was too assessing. “I’m not Jackson.” He glanced away. “And I don’t have a Sweetgrass to offer them. There’s no love to offer them.”

  “BS. I’ve seen you with children and patients and old ladies…there’s so much love in you, Bridger. You have to look for them—” She thought quickly. “Or let me try. I can do the research, and I have—”

  “No.” Implacable.

  “Why not?”

  “Leave it, Penelope.”

  She shoved to her feet. “This is wrong. You’re wrong. You should be going after them.”

  He rose to his full height. “I have nothing to offer them. Nothing.”

  “Bridger, you’re a hero. You’re their blood—”

  “I didn’t save them!” he shouted. “None of them!”

  His anguish was woven too deeply into him to pluck out.

  And he was a good man. One who was hurting.

  So she went to him. Wrapped her arms around his chest, though his body was rigid, unyielding as stone. “I’m sorry,” she said into his shoulder as she forced herself to relax, hoping to ease him. “I come on too strong. I always think I’m right.” She lifted her face to his and summoned a rueful smile. “I am right, you know…but I’ll stop badgering you. I can’t know how you feel. I’m sorry for them because they’re missing a fine man who grew from that valiant boy. If I were them, I’d want to know you.”

  He relaxed. Gave a soft chuckle. “You wouldn’t be trying an alternate approach on me, would you, Counselor?”

  “Is it working?”

  He exhaled in a gust. “You are hell on wheels, Penelope. A man would have to be on his toes every second with you.”

  She placed one palm on his cheek. “Don’t be on guard with me, Bridger. I’m on your side.”

  He covered her hand with his big one. “Too bad the Teams don’t take women yet. I’d go into battle with you anytime.” At last the grin she’d learned to adore. “But you’d have to sacrifice your stilettos, I’m afraid, and I don’t see that happening.”