Andi watched Cole stride off along the trail into the woods, the final lines in the first verse from Mr. Rogers' "Won't You Be My Neighbor" song playing through her mind.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Obviously Cole wouldn't have used the opening line of that song if he remembered those lines. Or maybe he was ignoring how the verse ended as she was ignoring the second line of the verse.
A beautiful day for a neighbor. What she wanted where Cole was concerned had nothing to do with being neighborly.
But there was a wedding ring on a chain tucked away in her dresser drawer. That he hadn't been wearing the ring on his finger could mean anything. What she feared most was that it warned her he wasn't free to be hers. And she knew how much it hurt to chase something not meant for her.
Reality. It's what had driven her out of the cabin to cut wood when the domesticity of cleaning up after breakfast had worn off. Reality was a real buzz kill.
True to his word, Cole came sauntering back ten minutes later. She was stacking wood in the cart to wheel inside. He bent for a split log on the ground.
"Don't," she snapped.
He straightened, one wedge of wood in hand. "Don't what?"
"Don't bend. Bending strains your stitches."
He tossed the wedge of firewood onto her cart, stepping so close to her she had to crane her neck to meet his sad, smiling gaze. "I think my stitches are pretty strong," he said. "If you recall, I carried you into the bedroom last night without any damage."
All of what she'd experienced the night before, all that had passed between them in the bed where they'd slept together slammed through her. She staggered back a step, breaking eye contact, grabbing the handle of the cart and tugging it toward the cabin.
"I'm sorry," he said, stepping after her. "That came out more…intimate-sounding than I meant."
#
Had it, he wondered as she ordered more than asked him to hold the back door open for her? Had he maybe meant what he'd said as suggestively as it came out, he wondered as she dragged the cart across the stoop and over the threshold into the cabin? He'd moved close to her—too close, and looked deep into her eyes as he'd spoken the words that evoked memories of one very emotional night.
And after he'd all but vowed to himself to remember enough so he could leave before he got her…killed. There was another of those feelings. Like he'd done this all before.
No. Not this exactly. And not something military. But something like this. Something that involved someone trying to kill him and… And… And… Almost unconsciously, he touched his shoulder, the one that bore the old scar from a bullet wound. What wasn't he remembering?
Andi parked the cart on the pad where she usually left it until the snow the wheels dragged in from outside melted off, shoved her mittens in her pockets, and hung up the insulated vest that had been her only outerwear. She hadn't been wearing her orange chook, either. Her bare head had been the second thing he'd noticed when he'd spotted her out by the garage splitting wood. Without the hat, her dark braids shimmered in the sunlight.
But a physical attraction wasn't all that drew him to her. He knew that.
He was grateful she'd rescued him—saved his life. He liked her capability, her savvy. He appreciated, even admired her toughness. But the vulnerable girl that had surfaced when she curled up in his arms the past two nights touched him deepest of all. That girl needed him.
She stepped from between him and the wall of outerwear and headed into the bathroom without looking at him. He shucked his jacket. It was dangerous for her to need him, yet he had the uncomfortable sense that he needed her to need him
She emerged from the bathroom, her arms laden with wound care supplies. "Come into the kitchen where the light's better and I'll check your wounds."
He hung up his jacket and followed her to the kitchen table where she'd set the supplies, waited while she washed and dried her hands…and slid open the curtain above the sink, letting in a swath of light. When she faced him, he glanced from her to the uncovered window.
She answered his unspoken question with a shrug and, "Like you said, if they were watching us, they'd have come back by now."
Pulling a chair out from the table, she sat and commanded, "Lift your shirt."
Sitting placed her eye-level with the entry wound. She removed the gauze and examined it. "No drainage. Good. I think we can leave your wound unbandaged—let the air get at it."
Discarding the used gauze, she probed the area around the wound. "Does it hurt when I press on your skin?"
"No," he said, watching her tip her head from side to side as she examined her work, her braids slipping over her shoulders making him wonder what she'd do if he spread his hands over her shoulders or plucked up one of her braids between his fingers and felt its silkiness.
"No redness, no swelling. All good signs," she pronounced.
"You did a good job," he said, drawing her eyes upward, seeing in them how his simple praise fed her soul.
He curled his fingers into his palms when he'd rather slide them around the back of her neck and draw her mouth to his.
She lowered her face as though she'd read his intent, ordering, "Turn around."
Untaping the exit wound, she said, "A bullet passed through your body. It could have punctured a major organ."
"If it had, we'd have found out days ago."
She sighed. "You were lucky." Her fingers pressed against the skin around the wound, examining. "Clearly you were stronger and healthier than you looked when I found you. You heal fast."
"Uh-huh," he murmured, caught up in the glide of her fingers across his skin—wanting to know more of their touch.
What was he, one of those guys who bedded women for the fun of it?
Even though that last thought didn't feel right to him, one thing did. Getting closer to Andi could only bring her trouble. The truth in that thought churned through his gut, a memory just out of reach. Definitely best if he kept his attraction to her under control.
CHAPTER NINE
Cole woke with a start, the bedroom in deep darkness. Was Andi having a nightmare?
No. Judging by the cold sweat making his tee cling to him, the cry that awakened him was his own. He'd had a nightmare.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he'd been dreaming. He got an image of a gun and a sense of being inside a car. Was this about his latest wound?
No. His fingers reached for the old scar on his shoulder, the old bullet wound. He shivered, chilled by more than a sweat-drenched tee. He wasn't alone in that car and the shooter had been outside the car.
He sat up, pulled off the shirt, and flung it aside, the movement cutting off any further remnant of the nightmare. Why? He wanted to know who he was.
But there was something in that nightmare he was afraid to see. Maybe if he weren't alone to face it.
That only reminded him how alone Andi had been all her life facing her nightmares. He had no right imposing his on her.
He ran his hands through his hair. Still, he missed Andi in his bed—missed having her to hang onto. How easy it would be to go to her on the couch and invite her into his—her bed.
But if he'd had any doubt before about how toxic he was to her, the residual terror his nightmare left with him confirmed he needed to keep his distance from Andi. At least he now knew he wasn't the kind of guy who used women.
#
In the grays of predawn, Andi slid her legs out from under the comforter and planted her feet on the floor, even the throw rug in front of the couch cold against her stockinged feet. She speed-walked to the woodstove and added a couple logs to the embers, then scooted back to the couch where she curled up in the corner of couch wrapped in her fanciful, sky-blue fleece throw.
Sleep had been long in coming to her last night. And when she had slept, it'd been restless with dreams.
But no nightmares. No excuses to run to Cole—to climb into bed beside him and sink into his a
rms. Just dreams of how his arms felt hugging her close the previous two nights, dreams of Cole looking deep into her eyes outside the back door when she was gathering wood…dreams rife with what she wanted the look in his eyes to mean as she changed his dressing for the last time.
Tuff Stuff propped her head on the arm of the couch and peered at her with sympathetic eyes.
"He's going to leave," Andi murmured and scratched the big dog behind her ears. "But you don't know anything about that yet. Right now, you're just sensing my sadness."
Tuff snuffled.
She smiled sadly into the dog's big, brown eyes. "And when he leaves, you too will mourn losing him. And he will leave. He has a life somewhere out there and, when he remembers it, he'll want to go back to it."
Her smile faded until she felt only sadness. "He could leave even sooner. As soon as I remove his stiches and they'll be ready to come out in a few days.
Tuff Stuff whimpered. Andi scooted back onto her hip and patted the space she'd made on the couch. Tuff Stuff climbed up next to her and Andi wrapped her arms around the dog's neck, holding her close.
"It's going to hurt," she whispered around the lump in her throat.
Tuff Stuff lathed her big, pink tongue across Andi's cheek.
Andi hugged Tuff closer in shared misery, even though she knew the dog couldn't possibly see the bigger picture—even though the dog would recover far faster than she when Cole did leave. Dogs lived in the moment, something she'd been trying to do for two years, maybe even all her life.
No. She hadn't done it all her life. Up until two years ago, she'd had hope and hope had kept her moving forward, seeking something better in life.
Then Theo had died, Dal had gone to prison, she'd sworn off men, and given up on any future for herself beyond what she could plan for a week. She rested her chin on the top of Tuff's head, wishing she too could live moment-to-moment…enjoy to the fullest that she had Cole in her life right now.
But she could see the big picture and her future didn't include a strong, thoughtful, caring man…didn't include Cole.
Best if she prepared herself now for his inevitable departure. Best if she stopped thinking—seeing him in any light beyond that of a patient in the process of healing.
Too late for that, a little voice whispered behind her ear.
"A few more days," she whispered so softly even Tuff barely twitched her ears. "Keep it friendly. No more."
#
To Cole's delight, Andi took him for a walk after lunch along a well-worn path weaving through the woods. The air was sweet and pleasantly crisp and the movement stretched strength back into his muscles. But the sunlight reflecting off the frozen lake through the tall, straight white pines blinded him whenever he looked toward the lake.
Maybe that's why she'd chosen this time of day for their walk, so anyone who might be watching the cabin from the far side of the lake would be blinded by the reflected midday sunlight. Even without any return visits, any sign of being watched, or even his instincts prickling at the back of his neck, the danger could still be out there.
Hell, there was no could about it. Whoever had tried to kill him just didn't know yet they hadn't done the job. And once they found out he was alive, they'd come after him. He couldn't—wouldn't—allow Andi to be caught in the crossfire again.
Again?
Where'd that notion come from? She hadn't been caught in any crossfires…yet.
Unless he was thinking of her facing down those two thugs who'd come to her cabin.
He paused, watching her stride away from him in her muted, wool shirt and insulated vest flipped to the camo side. She was being more careful than she let on, making sure she, as well as he, blended into the forest.
But there was no camouflaging the sway of her hips below the edge of her quilted vest. Even beneath layers of insulated jeans and long johns there was no mistaking womanly curves, even lean ones. He may not be able to act on his wants, but he could still look…enjoy.
A moment passed before he realized she'd stopped walking. He brought his gaze up and found her peering over her shoulder at him.
"What'd you stop for?" she asked. "You tired? Need a rest?"
For some inane reason, he couldn't stop the smile stretching across his lips or the words falling from his mouth. "Just enjoying the view."
She faced him full on and cocked her head to one side as she looked at him. Had she figured out what view he was referencing?
Part of him wanted her to know he found watching her enjoyable. But the smart part prayed she didn't catch on—didn't let him draw her further into his danger.
"The whole stretch of land is like this," she said and he wasn't sure his released breath was relief or regret. "Beautiful. Peaceful." She stroked the scaly bark of a white pine. "Most of these trees have been here all my life and my mother's before me. Likely her father's as well."
She smacked the thick trunk of the towering pine beside her. "This big fellow probably preceded even my great-great-grandfather's life."
The muscles of her face relaxed, softening her features as she peered up the soldier-at-attention-straight trunk of the pine at its canopy of needle-like leaves. It took all he had not to go to her and take her in his arms so he could know this Andi. But he'd promised himself he'd protect her by keeping his distance.
"These trees," she went on, "have witnessed generations of my people."
"Your people?"
She looked at him, a quizzical look to her eyes. "My mother was three quarters Chippewa. You don't see it in me?"
He studied her features. Her hair was still braided from yesterday. Coupled with its dark color, the tea-stained tinge of her skin, and her high cheekbones… "Yeah. I guess I see it, now that you mention it."
She harrumphed. "Indian is about all most people around here see." She looked away, her voice low, almost melancholy. "Native American mixed with white trash."
"I just see a beautiful woman."
The words were out of his mouth before he could even think to edit them. She blinked at him, eyes wide. For several seconds, they stood looking at one another, a mere shaft of light separating them…and a chasm of reasons keeping them apart.
She was the first to turn aside. "At one time, my family owned all the land around the lake. Then my father married my mother and he sold off half."
He thought about how thriftily she lived. "He must not have gotten much for it."
She walked a little further along the trail before answering. "He sold it piecemeal." She tossed a sardonic glance his way and he stopped beyond reach of her. "My father always said it beat working."
"The land must have been in your mother's name. How could she have let him…"
She grimaced, her gaze bouncing from tree to tree. She didn't have to say aloud how her mother had let her father sell off her land—her family land. He too was remembering what she'd said about her father drinking and beating her mother.
"Seems," she said, the word drawn out like and echo, "I may have to resort to doing as my father did to pay this year's taxes."
"You're not like your father."
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a shoulder against a pine. "How can you say that? You didn't know my father."
"You don't drink and you work hard."
"Yeah, well." She pushed off from the tree, striding past him—heading back toward the cabin, her voice trailing. "My hard work doesn't bring in much money. As for my not drinking… You've known me only six days."
He could tell her that, during his search for the Glock, he'd found only a fifth of whiskey in the back of a cupboard and a bottle of cooking wine under the sink. Hardly the kind of stockpile kept by someone with a drinking problem. This wasn't a battle he felt the need to broach.
"What about getting a regular paying job?" he called after her.
"Jobs are scarce in these parts," she called back. "Not much available for a woman unless she wants to waitress, and for every waitress opening, there's
fifty women applying and just about every one of them has more experience than me." She glanced back at him. "I'm also not the most people-friendly person, in case you haven't noticed. Waitresses make the bulk of their pay off tips, and that requires being friendly."
He wanted to dispute her claim that she wasn't a people person, but she kind of wasn't. So he let that argument slide, the issue at hand being how to help her keep her land. But he didn't know the area. Didn't know what options there were.
#
After a nap on the couch, he woke with his mind still working on ways to help Andi keep her land.
He rose from the couch, stretched, and joined her in the kitchen where she sat peeling potatoes, the skins falling into a bucket. "I'd pay your taxes, if I could get my memory back. I mean, I must have resources—money."
"I know you would, Cole," she said without looking up from the potato in her hand.
He pulled out a chair across the bucket from her and sat. "You've been cooking a lot with morel mushrooms. Morels sell for big bucks."
"I know," she said tossing the peeled potato into a pot of water. "I sell them."
"In Chicago?"
"Don't want anything to do with cities," she said. "I sell them to out-of-towners who know I pick and they resell them."
"You'd make a helluva lot more selling them yourself in the city."
"I know," she said, reaching for another spud. "But my truck's not up to that long a trip." She glanced up at him with a smirk. "Had I been smart enough to anticipate how poor my cash flow would be this year, I could have partnered with another picker with a better truck."
"You're smart," he said. "You just got caught off guard."
She grunted. "I'm woods smart. That's all."
He shook his head. "The girl—the woman who's read all those books in her bedroom is more than woods smart."
"So, how is it you know about the value of morels and the Chicago market?" she asked, slicing away at the potato skin. "You remember something?"
An image of a duplex on a tree-lined street, laughing with friends over pizza and beer in neighborhood bar, and picking up macaroons and lattes for two at the corner bakery flashed behind his eyes. "I think I'm from Chicago."
Saving Andi: St. John Sibling Series: FRIENDS Page 9
