“Mack loved your daddy and Ry as much as we all did,” Carey reminded her. “He could be a real ally. Just like mine could, if you’d just let me tell him what the hell is going on.”
Sam shook her head, resolute. “I don’t want to involve them. Not yet.”
If Mack McDevitt or Grant Nelson found out that Rob and Ry had been murdered that long ago night, they’d take on retribution with a vengeance. They’d do it because they loved her, and they came from the old guard of protecting their own at all costs, but she couldn’t have that. It wasn’t their fight. It was hers, and the closer she kept the truth to her vest, the better it would be in the end. Even if Carey didn’t agree with her.
Besides, Carey had enough to worry about running their businesses in her absence, and with Lightner still on the lam, she didn’t want her family or her team’s attention divided.
“I know you want to tell your dad, but this isn’t your secret to tell, Bear. This is my burden and it’s my revenge,” she reiterated firmly. “I won’t share it with anyone—not even you.”
“But they would want to help—”
“I need time to figure this out,” she looked up at him. “And you made a promise to me.”
“You know I wouldn’t break it,” Carey assured her, squeezing her shoulder.
“Then give me time, Bear.” Sam leaned heavily on her cane, her back throbbing. “Respect my wishes, and give me time to sort this out on my own, okay?”
Carey heaved a sigh. “You’re the most stubborn woman I know.”
“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”
She heard the squeak of the porch door as Aunt Hannah poked her head out, the delicious scent of home cooking and the comforting sound of Delta blues on the radio wafting out into the night.
“Y’all were taking so long, I was just about to send a search party,” she teased, her cornflower-blue eyes twinkling.
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me from your enchiladas, Mama,” Carey declared, patting his flat belly.
“It’s my fault, Aunt Hannah,” Sam told her as Carey helped her up the steps onto the porch. “I’m still slow as molasses.”
“You’re trying to do too much, too fast, missy.” Aunt Hannah wagged her finger as they passed. “Alejandro told me you did three times the allotted exercises today after the physical therapist left.”
“That asshat needs to stop talking out of school,” Sam replied dryly as Carey helped her into the kitchen.
“You talking shit about me, Wyatt?” Alejo asked, his damp black hair slicked back as he stepped into the kitchen wearing freshly washed jeans and a plaid shirt, casual as can be.
“Language, all of you,” Aunt Hannah scolded lightly.
“Sorry, Hannah,” Alejo replied, not a bit regretful.
“Thought you had the night off,” Sam remarked.
“And miss a home-cooked meal? I haven’t eaten this well in years.” Alejo replied, slipping on a couple oven mitts to help Hannah lift the heavy stoneware cooking pot from the oven.
“Thank you, Alejandro,” Hannah told him. “He’s a good cook, this one,” she bragged to Sam and Carey. “Been helping me make dinner while you were in the stables.”
“Seriously?” Carey asked, glancing at Alejo in surprise.
“Years of indentured servitude to my own mama in the kitchen,” Alejo replied lightly as he placed the piping hot dish onto the counter. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it though, and Hannah doesn’t hit me with a wooden spoon, so that helps.”
“I’ll hit you with a wooden spoon,” Sam volunteered, pouring herself a glass of iced tea.
Carey smothered a laugh.
“Your nerve endings are on fire right about now, aren’t they?” Alejo commented knowingly. “You always get extra bitchy by this time of day.”
Sam’s mouth thinned to a flat line at the accuracy of his statement.
“Where are your painkillers?” Carey asked, standing. “I’ll go get ’em for you.”
“Don’t bother,” Alejo responded, pulling off the oven mitts. “She’s not taking them.”
Sam was just about to retort when Uncle Grant stepped into the kitchen.
“Well look what the cat dragged in!” He smiled, greeting his son. “Heard mom was cooking enchiladas, didn’t ya?”
“You know it.” Carey grinned as his father squeezed his shoulder.
“How’s the back, sugar bean?” Uncle Grant asked her as he dropped a quick kiss on her head.
Sam shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I’m going to get those painkillers and mash them up into your food,” Carey chided. “No reason for you to be in pain if you don’t need to be.”
“I will whack you with my cane. Just try me.”
“She will, too.” Alejo rolled his eyes. “She’s been practicing with a bokken16 daily. She’s frickin’ lethal with it.”
“I didn’t know you were doing Aikido.” Carey shot her an alert look. “Have you been cleared to practice?”
“One guess,” Alejo muttered.
Her cheeks pinked at the implied reprimand.
“Alright, everybody lay off Sammy,” Aunt Hannah declared as she carried the salad bowl to the table. “You’re just gonna make her more contrary and cross than she already is, and everybody knows you don’t tell a Wyatt what to do or how to do it.”
“Except you, Mama,” Carey pointed out.
“Only when used sparingly,” Hannah added before taking her seat next to Sam. “Now you eat up, missy, and I’ll pour you a bath with some of those Epsom salts you like. I’ll even give you a dram of your favorite bourbon. That should help you sleep a little,” she finished with a wink.
Samantha smiled wearily. She knew she’d been difficult and hard as hell to live with, but God help her, she loved her family for putting up with her the past couple months. Every day felt like a new ordeal—a fresh struggle as she waited impatiently for her body to heal. But as her family crowded around the table, and Carey reached out to grasp her hand just as her Uncle Grant led the short grace, Sam knew they had her back, no matter what.
While the family broke bread and shared news of the day, Sam’s mind kept returning to the question Carey had asked her, pulling at it like a loose thread.
What is it that you want?
She wanted revenge. She wanted the truth.
But was that enough?
In that moment, she wished she had Carey’s uncanny ability to live fully and unequivocally in the moment, but Sam seemed perpetually condemned to the purgatory of the past. Was it self-inflicted penance, or had she really taught herself how to live without happiness?
Was that why she couldn’t forgive Wes? Why she couldn’t get over her anger at Jack?
Sam thought about the letter Jack had sent her, sitting folded in her bedside table. She thought about the calls Wes made to the house nearly every night, checking in on her.
I want to be free of all this hurt and anger.
I want to be okay again—
“You alright, Sammy?” Hannah asked gently. “You’ve hardly eaten.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Because she wasn’t—not yet.
But she would be.
*
March—Late Night
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
A few hours later, Sam sat at the edge of her bed near midnight, frustrated beyond belief that she couldn’t do something as simple as walk across the room without her goddamn cane, her back was seizing so bad. This wasn’t her first rodeo when it came to getting hurt. She’d suffered many injuries in her life, especially in the military. But even after numerous surgeries, not only did her back still hurt like hell, but her ability to move independently was still woefully limited. She could barely get out of bed on her own steam when her back cramped up like this.
It was just part of the process, doctors assured her—nerve endings growing back, the musculature still recovering
. It could take a year or longer to get back to normal. She’d heard it all before. But that common sense didn’t mean shit to her when each painstaking step felt like walking on glass shards. She’d gotten halfway across the room before she’d tripped over the chaise and her back locked up.
“Shit,” she hissed, dropping her cane. It clattered across the wooden floor, making a racket. She cringed in frustration, trying and failing to reach the cane as she clung to the chaise like a life raft, her muscles seizing and locking as she tried to breathe through the worst of it.
Her bedroom door swung open, the overhead light flicking on as Alejandro loomed in the doorway, holding a Beretta in one hand. He was wearing an old Army t-shirt and pajama pants, his dog tags glinting as he quickly surveilled the room, alert and ready though he’d obviously been asleep.
“Why the hell are you up?” he asked, reaching down and nimbly scooping up her cane.
“Am I not allowed to get out of my own bed now?” Sam snapped, angry at herself for not being able to do something as simple as walking on her own and angry at him for witnessing it.
“Depends on where you’re trying to go. You need the bathroom?” he asked unceremoniously.
Sam pushed herself up, gritting her teeth. “I can make it on my own.”
Alejo crossed his arms. “That so?”
“Stop giving me side-eye,” Sam huffed. “I can do it.” Easy to say, hard to do—especially when those twenty feet looked like the longest walk of her life right about now. Hell, if Alejo wasn’t looming over her, she’d have crawled it.
“You can barely stand,” he pointed out. “Your back is cramping, isn’t it?”
Sam flipped him the bird. He ignored her, picking up the walker that the hospital in Germany had sent with her when she’d checked out after her last surgery. He unceremoniously plopped it down in front of her.
“Use it.”
“Fuck. Off,” she gritted out.
Alejandro just rolled his eyes. “Use it and I’ll rub your back.”
“Like hell you will, and I’m not goddamn using that grandma walker,” she stated vehemently, staring him down.
“Oh, yes you fucking will,” Alejandro replied, holding the walker in place so she’d have no other option but to use it if she couldn’t maneuver around it. “Doctor’s orders, Wyatt. You’re still not healed enough to be doing half the shit you’re doing every day, and you know it. It’s no wonder you can’t sleep. You need to listen to what your body is trying to tell you,” he added.
If she had any form of telekinetic power, Sam would have set fire to him with her eyes.
“Use the damn walker, Wyatt, or I’ll carry you in there myself,” he threatened—the perfect taunt to make her just this side of pissed-off crazy.
Her chin came up of its own volition. Hot tears of frustration pressed up against the back of her eyes, but she’d be damned if she ever let this sonofabitch see her cry—she didn’t care how much pain she was in.
Alejo crossed his arms. “I’m waiting.”
“You can wait all goddamn night for all I care.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re so freaking slow these days, that’s a near certainty, Wyatt.”
The look Sam shot him would have sent any sane man running, but Alejandro just stood there, waiting patiently for her to get a move on.
“Well?”
Sam set the cane on the chaise and leaned heavily against the walker, careful not to make a sound, though just the act of standing was excruciating. Alejo didn’t help her—he knew better—but he stood near enough, just in case she tipped over as she slowly pushed her way to the en-suite. Sam would rather be raked over hot coals than admit it, but she was a teensy tiny bit grateful for de Soto’s refusal to treat her with kid gloves. These days he was the only one who didn’t treat her like she was fragile. He sparred with her verbally just like he had in college, sharp as a tack and utterly relentless, and despite the fact that she thought daily about beating him about the head with her cane, a small part of her was relieved.
She was damaged, certainly, but he refused to treat her as broken.
Sam eventually made it to the bathroom on her own steam, closing the door firmly as she let herself wince in private, biting her fist so she wouldn’t make a sound as she slumped down in relief. When she finally made it out again, Alejo was seated on her chaise, texting on his phone.
“If you’re reporting my every move to Carey, I’ll whip you with my cane,” Sam told him as she scooted past. Carey stayed in a room downstairs when he was in town. Alejo had taken over Ry’s old room, adjoining hers, which is how he’d been able to hear her fumble in the first place.
“I could take you,” he replied without looking up, his characteristic smirk pulling his mouth to the side. “It’s Rox,” he informed her before she could comment. “She thinks she’s got a bead on Lightner.”
“Where is he?” Sam asked sharply, standing straighter.
He finished texting before looking up. “Some guy named Avi has produced a list of plastic surgeons who are most likely capable of doing a complete facial reconstruction on Lightner. Rox is following up leads.”
Sam sat down on the edge of her bed, sweat on her brow from the exertion, though she hoped he didn’t notice it. “Makes sense that he’d do that. He’s on the watch list of pretty much every major intelligence agency. Changing his face would be the smart thing to do.”
Alejo nodded before looking back at his phone. “She says she’s paying visits now. She’ll have more for you in a couple days.”
“Tell her to be safe.”
“Rox doesn’t listen to me anymore than you do.”
Sam slumped down on the bed, wiping her brow with the sleeve of her robe. “Tell her I’m okay and that you’re heading back to Fort Bragg.”
Alejo slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I’m not just here because she asked me here, Wyatt.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Sam insisted. “I know you think you do, but you don’t.”
He looked at her silently as she arranged herself back onto the bed. “You saved my sister’s life, Wyatt. I owe you a debt whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.”
“I did that for Rita.”
“I know that,” he told her, standing. “But that doesn’t change the facts. Whether it was me who asked you or it was Rita, you saved Rox’s life when neither of us could, and as long as Lightner is still out there, I’m here. So get used to it.”
“I miss her, you know.” She looked away. “I miss Rita all the time.”
“Me too,” he admitted quietly before sliding her legs under her comforter. “You need water?” he asked gruffly, clearing his throat.
Sam shook her head, exhausted as she leaned back against the pillows.
“Get some sleep,” he said as he walked to her door.
“Quit bossing me around.”
“No one’s the boss of you, Samantha Wyatt,” he laughed, flipping off the light. “God help anyone who ever tries to be.”
Chapter 8
March—Evening
The Whitney, Chicago
J A C K
Jack stepped out of his rooftop pool, slicking his hair back as the frigid winter air hit his skin, raising goosebumps across his arms. March was still ridiculously cold in Chicago, even with spring just around the corner. But Jack relished the icy bite on his skin. He liked the sharpness—the acuity of the sensations that hit him as he toweled off quickly.
Despite the initial agony and the lingering agitation of cleaning out again, Jack had to admit he felt physically better than he had in years. The regimen he’d undertaken at rehab required extreme physical activity, clean eating and no alcohol. He’d taken to doubling, sometimes tripling, the amount of time he spent outdoors, swimming, running, boxing. When he wasn’t working out, he was working—focusing on managing the business in Chicago as Mitch handled Leviathan’s transition into Roman Industries in London.
Out of habit, Jack glanced at
the darkened windows of Samantha’s half of the penthouse, shrugging into his terrycloth robe. He missed that woman beyond all measure. More than he realized was even possible. But that ache was a longing he’d become used to—just as he’d become used to relearning how to live without her.
He stepped through the tall glass doors into his home, striding past the warmth of his fireplace and into his kitchen, where he went through the motions of preparing dinner. Cooking calmed him, a throwback from a childhood spent growing up with Italian parents who made the kitchen the fulcrum of their home. He glanced at the clock. Jaime and Maddie would be over within the hour. Ever since he’d returned over a month ago, regular family dinners had become the norm—at his house or theirs. But Jack wasn’t kidding himself: Jaime used the meals as an excuse to check in and watch him like a hawk. Despite Jack’s initial resistance to the constant attention, they’d discovered a mutually beneficial opportunity to work on the integration of Leviathan into their businesses together.
For all the heartbreak and personal agony Jack had suffered over the last few months, the Roman family empire was flourishing. He came up with new and varied ideas for Leviathan’s transformation constantly, balanced by Jaime’s head for innovation and Mitch’s pragmatism. In truth, thinking of how to leverage his latest purchase into an industry game changer was the most exciting and challenging project he’d had in years. To some extent, Jack had come to realize he’d been resting on his laurels for too long in Chicago, and the Leviathan takeover was exactly what he needed to focus on right now. Not to mention a welcome distraction from obsessing over Samantha.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 12
