by Melissa Tagg
Which meant she didn’t have to deal with the litany of questions she knew he’d only barely held back last night—probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been interrupted before knocking on her bedroom door.
Yeah, she’d heard him out in the hallway. Had held her breath until Dad had pulled him away.
She dragged a rolling yellow mop bucket into the locker room, its creaking hinges echoing off the cement walls. This was her least favorite task, but it came with the territory. Usually she could make a good time of it—stick in her earbuds, let Frank Sinatra’s crooning convince her she was dancing across a ballroom rather than lugging a heavy, wet mop over a slippery floor.
But today all she could think about was last night. She hefted the mop from its bucket and plopped it against the floor.
Was it the storm or the height that had caused the attack? Or both? Or neither? She’d had plenty of panic attacks in the past that seemed to bruise their way in without cause. But they usually hit the fastest and hardest when she was already feeling fearful. Or lost. Or hurt.
Or any barrage of unwanted emotion.
It was why she worked so hard to stay upbeat. Secure. Surrounded by familiarity and comfort. Why she stayed in Maple Valley. Why she avoided travel. Why . . . so many things.
“Rae?”
She stilled, standing stiff beside a row of rusted old lockers as the red door clanked to a close. Bear? “What are you doing here?”
He stepped farther into the room, his dirt-stained jeans and tee evidence of the work he must’ve done out at the ranch today. His sun-kissed skin couldn’t hide the pale circles under his eyes. Had his night been as sleepless as hers?
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that, this being a men’s locker room and all?”
“Cleaning duty.” She tapped the mop bucket with one foot. “Every employee has to take a turn each week. Today’s my unlucky day.”
“You ever worry you’re going to walk in on some guy taking a shower?”
She dunked the mop into the bucket, then squeezed its water free. “I always wait ’til public hours are over. There’s an all-female senior citizen water aerobics class in the pool now. I’m safe.” She plopped the mop onto the concrete floor. “But I did once accidentally walk in on Lenny Klassen in only a towel.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. He hasn’t been able to talk to me without turning fire-engine red since.” She swished her mop over the floor in a figure-eight pattern, her hair flopping over her face. This was good—light conversation. Maybe Bear hadn’t sought her out to ply her with questions.
“Speaking of . . .”
She sloshed the mop into her bucket again. “Of fire engines?”
“Of people not being able to talk to people.”
So much for that.
She brushed her hair over her shoulder and for the first time all day, met his eyes. But only for an instant. “What about it?” She moved backward, angling around the row of lockers until she lost sight of Bear.
But he grabbed hold of her rolling bucket and followed her to the other side of the room. “You’re avoiding me.”
Concrete turned to tile where the men’s showers began. “No, I’m working.” She mopped harder, faster.
“You’re feeling awkward or embarrassed or something about what happened last night.” He stepped over her wet floor to reach for the mop’s handle, his fingers closing just above hers.
“Don’t tell me how I feel, Bear McKinley.”
“I just think we should talk about it. Rae, seeing you like that, it scared me half to death. You were as white as a ghost. You went from barely breathing to hyperventilating.” She tried to jerk the mop away, but he held too tight. “I thought you were going to pass out.”
“Well, I didn’t. And it’s over now. I don’t see why we have to talk about it. You didn’t need to come find me for some big curative conversation. You should be with Jamie and Erin.” She glanced at his dirty, rumpled clothing. “Or maybe taking a shower. Just not here.”
“Jamie and Erin are having a grand time with Beckett and Kit at the orchard. They’re fine. You’re the one who’s not.”
Her glare was enough to make him loosen his hold on the mop. She yanked it away, retreating into the one private shower stall at the end of the room. The pungent scent of the mop bucket’s bleach rose up as she heard Bear let out a frustrated exhale. She heard his heavy footfalls rattling the lone, long bleacher that lined the aisle in between the lockers.
Good, he was leaving.
So why did she feel even worse than before? Why the tears pricking her eyes? She stood with both arms curling around the mop’s handle, shoulders slumped. One tear escaped and then another and with the third, a sob she couldn’t hold back.
“Rae?”
She sensed Bear’s presence the moment he ducked into the shower stall behind her. He didn’t even hesitate to gently pull the mop free and turn her to face him. She wilted against him without argument.
“I . . . I kept hoping it wouldn’t happen again. I counted the days and then the months and the years.” She clung to his shirt as his arms closed around her. “I th-thought I might make it two years. I thought I was b-better . . .”
There was no stopping her tears now. She let them fall, felt them soaking Bear’s shirt as she shook against him, quiet cries expelling the noisy tumult of her heart. Hushed minutes passed, the tick of the clock hanging on one wall, the faint voices from the pool, all fading into the background as Bear breathed into her hair.
Until, finally, slowly, she began to still. Her trembling dwindled, along with her tears. She clasped Bear’s shirt and used it to dry her eyes. She sniffled again, freed a raspy laugh. “I-if your shirt wasn’t ruined before, I think I just finished the job.”
“They’re only tears, Rae.”
She glanced up at him. “Clearly you don’t wear mascara.”
He lowered his gaze to his shirt. Smudges of black stained his front. He smiled. “Never liked this shirt all that much anyway.”
It was the smile that made her tense just for a moment. Of course she’d needed to cry, but had she had to do it like this? In front of him? But just as quickly, she released her breath and leaned into him once more. This was no worse than last night, after all. “Sorry to fall apart on you. Again.”
He lifted one hand to brush through her hair. “I really don’t mind.”
“I guess you’re probably wondering . . .”
“You don’t have to explain, Raegan. But if you want to, if it’d help, I’m here. I’m your . . . friend.”
She tipped her head toward his. “My friend.”
The word had never felt more inadequate. She took a fortifying breath, along with a step backward, knocking into the mop bucket. His hands slid to her arms to steady her before dropping to his sides.
“It was a panic attack.”
“I figured out that much.”
“I get them sometimes. They started when I was a teenager.” The words seemed to scurry from her lips, as if she might not get them out if she didn’t hurry through the explanation. “The worst was the time after . . . after Mom. I—I was upset. I got in my car and started driving, and by the time I realized I was lost . . .” She turned away.
“Why didn’t you want me to tell your dad? If this is something that happens regularly—”
“It doesn’t. At least, it hadn’t for a long time.”
“But you’ve been dealing with this on your own? All this time?”
She didn’t answer.
“Raegan, that’s not good. You need to talk to somebody.”
She shook her head, backing away and bumping into the wall of the shower stall behind her. “No.”
“But—”
“I’m fine, Bear.” I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Why did no one ever believe her?
Because they’re not idiots. Because you don’t even believe yourself.
“You’re not fine.”
“We
ll, I don’t need fixing.”
“I’m not trying to fix you. But there are therapists or counselors or—”
“Please, just stop.”
“I care about you, Rae. I hate the thought of you dealing with this all alone. I could talk to your dad with you and—”
In a flash, she lifted her hand to jerk the shower knob and an instant shower of icy water sloshed from overhead. Bear sputtered as Raegan held herself flat against the wall of the stall, avoiding the onslaught.
“Why you—” Bear reached for her with both arms, pulling her into the stream of water.
Her shriek bounced off the cement walls. “Bear!” Her squeal turned into laughter as she didn’t even try to get away, and just that fast, her tension washed away. “I can’t believe you,” she stammered through giggles.
“You started it.” His shirt was matted to his chest.
“Only to get you to stop.”
“You couldn’t have picked the hot water knob?” Bear fumbled for the faucet and turned the water off, his laughter still mingling with Raegan’s. He shook the water from his hair, only to earn another squeal from Raegan as the water hit her. “Serves you right, Walker.” He pulled his shirt free from his chest, ringing it out.
“I think my shoes are ruined.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes, shivering. And then stilled as Bear’s attention dropped to her soaking canvas shoes before slowly traveling upward to where her shorts and tee were now plastered to her. And in an instant, all the strain from minutes before was back in full force.
Only different now.
“I just want to help, Rae. What can I do to help?”
Her breathing was still heavy, her hair dripping around her cheeks, and the question in Bear’s eyes went so much deeper than his words. His gaze strayed to her lips and stayed there even as she grasped for a reply.
“I . . . you . . .”
The locker room door slammed.
The smart thing to have done back in that locker room would’ve been to hold Bear at arm’s length—just like he’d done for so many years with her.
When that door had banged to a close and the community center manager had gasped at finding the two of them huddled together, soaking wet in a shower stall, Raegan should’ve taken it for the escape it was.
Bear had already seen her in the throes of a panic attack. He’d held her while she emotionally broke down. Wasn’t that enough?
“We don’t have to do this tonight, Rae.”
The man was a mind reader. His hand encased her own as she stood facing the scaffolding of the Hay & Feed Store. They’d gone home to change into dry clothes before driving back into town, somehow managing to avoid Dad or Beckett and any uncomfortable questions their drenched appearance might induce in the process.
Too, they’d successfully evaded any conversation about what had happened back in that shower stall. Or, well, hadn’t happened. Had maybe almost happened?
Raegan honestly wasn’t sure. Except the way Bear had looked at her . . .
“Did you hear me?” He squeezed her hand now. “We can wait until tomorrow.”
No, she wanted to do this now. Get it over with. If she had any hope of moving forward with this mural project, she needed to know whether the height was going to be an issue. Whether she could climb the scaffolding without falling apart this time.
If she couldn’t . . .
Well, better to know now. Let down Mayor Milt early enough that he had time to find another artist.
The thought tasted bitter and went down hard. When had she begun to want this so badly? It’d taken her days to agree in the first place and ever since, sagging confidence had filled her with all kinds of doubt. The final thing she remembered from last night, just before falling asleep, was the sobering conviction that she needed to call Mayor Milt first thing in the morning.
Because she couldn’t do this. Not if it meant a constant fear of a repeat performance of Wednesday night.
But when she and Bear had emerged from the community center into the summer night air, with chalk-like clouds lit by soft evening colors above, when Bear had turned to her and asked again what he could do to help, she’d been struck by a desire so vigorous there’d been no denying it.
“I need to climb up the scaffolding again.”
“That’s not what I meant, Rae.”
“But that’s how you can help me. I want to do this mural. I want to make the mayor and the town and my family proud. But I can’t do it if I can’t handle working from the scaffolding.”
He’d opened his mouth as if to argue again but had apparently thought twice. He’d freed a long, patient exhale instead. “I don’t think the kids will mind an extra hour at the orchard. Last I checked in, Beck was giving them rides on a four-wheeler. If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure,” she said now. “I want to do it.”
“Okay, then.” Bear released her hand and started toward the ladder. “Do you want me to go first or you?”
“You can.”
He clasped a rung at shoulder height and stepped one foot onto the lowest rail. He twisted around before pulling himself up. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go first?”
“Bear, it wasn’t the ladder that gave me trouble last time.”
“But when you do this on your own, when you’re painting, you’re going to use a harness, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Promise?”
Despite all the pummeling emotion of the past twenty-four hours, a whisper of amusement tickled inside. “Yes, Bear, I promise I’ll use a harness. Does that make you feel better?”
He didn’t even crack a smile. “A little.” He started climbing.
The structure jostled with his movement and she waited until he was halfway up before starting her own ascent. Like last night, the climb took no more than a minute. Only this time, Bear waited at the top, his palm outstretched to help her over the edge.
He had her on her feet in seconds, but he kept hold of her hand.
She didn’t pull away.
“No storm tonight,” he said.
“No storm.” Instead, just enough sun peeked over the horizon to breathe warmth into the evening. It rippled over the river in shades of orange and cast an amber glow over the street below. A soft calm settled over her like a cotton blanket.
“Bear.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to stare at me the whole time we’re up here.” She slid her hand free.
“What if I want to?”
She spun her gaze to his face—his crooked grin, those crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had to pick now to be charming? After he’d seen her at her worst? Twice in the past twenty-four hours?
Then again, when was Bear McKinley ever not charming?
“I think we’re good. Let’s go home.”
His smile drooped. “We just got here.”
“And I made the climb and I’m fine. Clearly I’m okay with heights.” What she wasn’t okay with was the flurry of attraction currently pushing her stomach toward blizzard conditions. “So we can go. Mission accomplished.”
He crossed his arms. Stubborn man.
Handsome man.
She shouldn’t have come here with him—alone. And she never should’ve turned on the water in that shower stall. She should’ve pulled away from Bear the moment her tears ceased. Heck, she probably never should’ve invited him to stay at Dad’s. She should’ve—
“Well, my mission isn’t accomplished,” he said. “Instead of moving to the ladder, Bear padded to the edge of the platform and lowered to sit. He gripped the lowest guardrail as he dangled his legs over the edge.
“Your mission is to loiter up here?”
“My mission is to watch the sunset.” He tipped his head so she could see his wink. “Preferably with a pretty girl at my side.”
“I should groan and roll my eyes at that.”
“And yet, you aren’t.”
No, in fact, she was doing another thin
g she shouldn’t—crossing the platform and plopping down beside Bear. Although, unlike him, she couldn’t bring herself to suspend her legs over the edge. Instead, she crossed her legs, keeping a good half a foot between herself and the rim of the platform. “You shouldn’t flirt with me, Bear McKinley.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You called me pretty.”
“Stating a fact.”
“Well . . . thank you.” She folded her clammy hands in her lap.
“You’re welcome.” He kept his gaze slanted toward the horizon, the light of sunset bobbing in his dark eyes.
Jamie’s eyes. Did Bear realize how many features he shared with his nephew? Same mop of dark hair over ears that bent outward ever so slightly. Same shape of their chins. Jamie’s face wasn’t yet as contoured as Bear’s, but she had a feeling that, come adulthood, their profiles might be identical.
“Rae?”
Her “Hmm?” came out a murmur.
“Back in the locker room, you started to say something about your worst panic attack. After your mom . . .”
Somehow she’d known he’d ask. Even as she’d allowed herself to relax for a few seconds there, she’d been waiting for it. Maybe that was why she’d been so eager to call it a night, head home. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”
He turned to her. “That’s okay.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” Bear still held on to the railing with one arm.
“No one even knows about the panic attacks. I’ve never told anyone.” Except that wasn’t quite true. “Other than my mom. They started when her cancer came back the third time. She found me in my room the first time. I was terrified—didn’t know what was happening.”
When it happened a second time—and then a third—Mom had wanted to take her to a doctor.
But Raegan had resisted, ashamed at the thought of causing more trouble for her family than they were already facing. When Mom had protested her protest, Raegan had assured her that if it happened a fourth time, she’d agree to an appointment.
From then on, any time she’d felt the slightest tremor, she’d stolen away to her bedroom—or the nearest isolated location. She’d learned to spot the signs early, to make excuses for sudden absences. To return as if nothing had ever gone amiss.
