Sawyer climbed the outside stairs and walked in. The blue and gray reception room was formal, although a built-in salt-water aquarium added a note of tranquility. Credentials and diplomas hung outside of each counselor’s office, along with a photo. Gin had a photo of her in the kitchen making cupcakes. Jacob’s photo was of him fly-fishing. Humanizing the counselors, Gin had told him.
Chatting with the receptionist, Gin turned with a smile. “Sawyer, it’s good to see you.” When she’d been his counselor in prison, he hadn’t wanted the sessions, but sure as hell had liked hearing her slow Southern drawl.
“Gin. How are you?” Actually, he could see she was doing well. For a good month after she’d been kidnapped, she’d been jittery and wan. Now, she glowed with health.
“I’m doing just fine, thank you. I wanted to catch you before your appointment, since Atticus and I hope you’ll come to supper tonight. He has a craving for steak.”
His brother could grill a fine steak. However… Sawyer hesitated. Would Mallory want to make their relationship public? Although she saw him differently, most of the town saw him only as a convict.
He frowned. Would the town judge her for being hooked up with an ex-con? Surely, such a reputation wouldn’t be good for her. And yet, although the nymph might note what others thought, her own opinion of herself and her actions held priority. If she was comfortable being with Sawyer—and she was—she wouldn’t fret over what anyone else said.
And, admit it, Ware, these were his own insecurities, not hers. Only a handful of townspeople remained who looked at him and saw simply “convict”.
In fact, for all he knew, the nymph had already told her buddies. “Would you mind if I brought Mallory?”
Gin didn’t even blink. “Of course not. We’d love if she could join us. Say around six or so?”
“We’ll be there.”
After a quick heads-up text to his woman and getting back a text: Tell Gin we’ll bring dessert, Sawyer headed into Jacob’s office.
Two tall windows facing snow-topped mountains provided light. The wall behind the walnut desk was covered with bookshelves, unfortunately, filled with psychology texts rather than fiction. Oversized photographs of quiet forest streams hung on the wood-paneled walls. A dark red and blue Oriental carpet warmed the hardwood floor.
Mallory would have approved of the tall plant in one corner. Much like her home, this office conveyed a sense of comfort.
“Sawyer.” Jacob rose from behind his desk to shake hands. “Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
An old golden retriever rose from his dog bed and padded across the room.
Sawyer bent down. “Hey, Freud. How’re you doing?”
The dog had dark, calm eyes—much like Jacob’s. As Sawyer ruffled the soft fur, he got an interested sniff followed by a reproachful look. Where’s the puppy?
“Sorry, boy. Achilles got dog-napped by a little girl.” The two dogs had made friends the last time Sawyer had come.
“Have a seat.” Jacob handed him a heavy mug of coffee, black, as Sawyer liked it, and refilled his own.
The corner farthest from the door held a rich brown upholstered armchair and matching couch. Sawyer was grateful for the warmth from the adjacent small brick fireplace. No matter the temperature, damned if he didn’t feel cold every time he walked into the office.
As Sawyer tossed his hat on the table and took the well-cushioned chair, Jacob settled on the couch, moving aside the golden pillows and blanket.
“Does anyone ever lie down on your couch?” Sawyer asked, voicing a question he’d wondered about since the first day.
Jacob grinned. “Now and then. If someone wants to cry, it’s nice to have a place to curl up. Fewer people use it now Virginia’s taken on our younger clients.”
Gin did love kids.
One end table held a bowl of small, rounded river rocks. The other had a bowl of various sized squishy balls. Sawyer chose a green squishy ball and tossed it from hand to hand. “Gotta say, sometimes this feels like being back in a SERE—survival school—interrogation.”
An amused glint in Jacob’s eyes warned Sawyer. “Today, you might well feel that way, Captain. It’s time to look further back in your life.”
Sawyer stiffened. “What?”
“Let’s talk about your stepfather.”
*
After putting the cake she’d baked into the carrier, Mallory leaned against the counter and studied Sawyer. He’d returned from town in an odd mood—somewhere between sad and angry. “Sawyer?”
“Mmmhmm?” He pulled on his jacket and looked over.
“Are you all right?”
His brows drew together. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You have flickers of gray in your aura.”
No smile, although his lips tilted slightly. “Is gray a bad thing?”
“It’s…hmm…it can be a sign you’re unhappy. And your aura was lovely this morning. Did something happen today to upset you?”
He stiffened, and the deep blue of his eyes darkened. “You really can see something? An aura?”
“Yes. I know it sounds strange to you. It’s normal for me.” It was easier not to talk about her talent, but seeing the increased pain in his aura meant she had to speak. His reaction told her something had happened. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
He put an arm around her and murmured against her hair, “You are something. If I said no, you wouldn’t push me. Or even get upset.”
“No.” She rubbed her cheek against his hard shoulder. He’d showered on coming back and smelled of clean, piney soap. “I’d be disappointed, but you wouldn’t deny me without a reason.”
“I don’t have a good one to give you. Dammit.” She felt his chest expand with his long breath. “At my counseling appointment with Wheeler. Well. He…I…we’ve worked through the shit, the PTSD from when I was deployed. Trouble was today, he wanted…”
She felt his body tense. “Something else?”
“Yeah. Seems if a soldier was—how did Wheeler say it?—subjected to trauma as a kid, he runs into more problems with PTSD after battles. Like a double-whammy.”
“Sounds logical.” She realized Sawyer almost never talked about his childhood. She looked up at him. Although a deadly man now, as a child, he’d have been all shaggy brown hair, big blue eyes, and adorable. “You mentioned your mother had been abused. Did he hurt you, too?”
Darkness washed through his aura. “Yeah,” he said and released her. “We’d better get going, or we’ll be late.”
Oh, Sawyer. The thought of him being hurt set anger simmering inside her.
“All right, let’s go.” She touched the side of his face and stepped away. She wouldn’t push. Her job was to give him all the stability and warmth and love he could absorb. The rest she’d leave to Jacob Wheeler.
“I stopped at the store and picked up wine, beer, and soft drinks. It’s all in the truck,” Sawyer said. “If you get the dessert, I’ll grab Achilles.”
After a minute’s drive down the lane, they arrived at Atticus’s house and parked the pickup.
Mallory slid out and opened the small rear door so Achilles could jump out.
When Gin’s black Labrador, Trigger, dashed into the yard, Achilles went into a frenzy of circles. Oh boy, oh boy, I get to play with a big dog.
Laughing, Mallory detoured around the chaos and up onto the porch.
Gin gave her a hug. “Come on in. The dogs will be fine out here without us. Trigger doesn’t stray.”
In the house, Mallory set the triple-layer chocolate cake on the counter and grinned at the excited high yips from outside. “By the time Achilles finishes greeting Trigger, he’ll need a nap.”
Atticus and Sawyer stopped in the door to watch the dogs.
“Trigger’s teaching him how to play chase. I’d say they’re both going to be exhausted.” Atticus walked into the kitchen and gave her a careful smile. “How are you, Mallory?”
Mallory frowne
d at the change in his usual easy manner and then realized she and Sawyer had never appeared together as a couple. Oh, sun and stars, I have a lover. She stared at her man. My man. She was in an actual relationship—and in love—and somehow it all hit home.
Ignoring everyone else, Sawyer bent down and touched her cheek with careful fingers. “Is something wrong, nymph?”
She let her breath out, realizing she’d been holding it. “No. I just had one of those moments when the entire world seemed to move beneath my feet.” A nice moment, actually.
“Moving worlds?” His eyes filled with laughter. “There are times I wonder if we speak the same English.”
“You got it right, bro.” Taking beers out of the six-pack holder, Atticus shook his head. “You’re male. She’s female. Two entirely different languages.”
“No wonder I get confused.” Sawyer planted a hard kiss on Mallory’s lips and accepted a beer from his brother.
Atticus’s expression—and aura—held a dawning approval of a Sawyer-Mallory couple.
Gin didn’t bother to hide her grin. Opening the fridge, she pulled out two plates of appetizers.
Mallory leaned against the island. “Can we help with anything?”
“Everything is prepared,” Gin said. “Atticus felt like grilling steaks—and has informed me the grill is his territory—so all I had to do was make a salad and toss potatoes in the oven.”
“Mallory, beer or wine?” Atticus asked.
“Wine, please.”
Sawyer tipped his head. “See, there’s another one. Sometimes beer, sometimes wine?”
“Beer is for a hot, I-had-an-exhausting-dirty-construction day. Wine is for civilized conversation.”
“That makes sense.” He considered her. “Although it’s a little scary you know yourself so well.”
Meditating aided self-knowledge. He’d find out himself…because he hadn’t missed a morning. In fact, he was up to twenty minutes now, and saying he liked it.
Carrying a plate of appetizers and the container of marinating steaks, the men went out to trade arcane grilling secrets.
Selecting a cheese and cracker tidbit, Mallory nibbled as she watched Gin set out the salad bowl and tongs.
Atticus’s house was what she’d call modern cowboy. A red, brown, and white geometric patterned rug on the hardwood floor set the tone in the living room. The brown leather couch and brick red armchairs were oversized, sturdy, and looked comfortable. The lamp bases were wrought iron horses. A stone fireplace looked as if it saw good use.
In contrast, in the dining area, the cobalt-colored stoneware on a dark red tablecloth with a red and blue runner, floral napkins, and multi-sized white pillar candles were all Gin. Despite the feminine touches, the deep colors would undoubtedly satisfy Atticus’s strongly masculine personality. “I love the way you two have blended your lives together.”
Gin’s gaze followed hers, and she laughed. “It took me a while to realize he’s fine with ‘fancy’ as long as nothing is too delicate. I’ve had a lot of fun, especially since he enjoys entertaining almost as much as I do.”
Mallory glanced at the two men out on the back deck. The brothers were much alike in their strong and protective natures. Alpha guys—or as Becca would say “Dominants.” However, Atticus had an outgoing personality, whereas Sawyer was more difficult to know. More reserved. Edgier.
Darker.
Gin’s aura held blue shades for a loving, generous personality. Like Sawyer, Atticus had a red aura—strong, realistic—but with some playful, optimistic yellow. After Atticus and Gin had fallen in love, their auras had brightened. They were very good for each other.
In fact, they’d meshed their lives so sweetly, she felt a touch of envy. She and Sawyer were farther apart in some ways. Her gaze on the red tablecloth, she said absently, “I wonder what Sawyer thinks of my home. There’s not a hint of cowboy in it.”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“How did I know you’d suggest a communication solution, Miz Therapist?”
Grinning, Gin acknowledged the hit. “Still, it’s better if—”
“Five-minute warning, li’l magnolia,” Atticus called out.
“Magnolia?” Mallory choked on a laugh.
Gin rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe he says I still have a Southern accent. He’s so full of it.”
“Mmmhmm,” Mallory answered, as if “it” hadn’t been stretched to two syllables. “What could he be thinking?”
*
After the green salad, tender steaks, and baked potatoes had been devoured, Gin waved them into the living room to enjoy after-dinner drinks—and the cake Mallory had baked.
Mallory handed Atticus a slice. “I was going to make something exotic, when Sawyer saw this in my recipe box and made his preference clear.”
“Chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream is a classic for a reason,” Sawyer said, completely untroubled at bearing the blame.
“Mmm. Mom used to make this for your birthday. At least, before…” Atticus trailed off.
Gin walked in from the kitchen with the bottle of wine and refilled Mallory’s glass. “Before what, honey?”
“Before Mom married an asshole.” Atticus glanced at Mallory. “We had four years of living with the abusive bastard before he ended up in jail for assault.”
Mallory pulled in a breath. “Assault?”
Sawyer’s face had gone stone hard, and gray twined through his aura.
“I’d like to have had a crack at him. He was going to throw hot oil in their mama’s face.” Gin’s expression turned proud. “Atticus was barely twelve, and yet, he stopped him.”
Oh, Mallory wanted to learn more, but Sawyer had tensed. Time to change the subject. “Have you two seen—”
“I had help stopping him.” Atticus took a swallow of his beer. “Sawyer called the cops and then charged the bastard.”
With a dark frown, Sawyer shook his head. “No, I didn’t. When Reuben knocked you down—kicked you—I froze, and he swatted me across the room into the woodstove. I did shit to help.”
“What?” Atticus stared at his brother.
Sawyer stared back as a cold sweat broke out on his skin. Fear sweat. As the ghost of their shabby living room formed around him, he could hear his mother’s high screams. Feel Hector’s small hand clutch his shirt. See Reuben draw back a huge fist and punch Atticus.
Skinny, twelve-year-old Atticus.
Sawyer was nine—and Reuben was a giant. As Att screamed and fell, Sawyer jolted forward—and froze. Help Att. Run away. Hide Hector. Save Att. His feet wouldn’t move, and the phone dropped from his hand as he…just…stood there. Like a fucking coward.
Atticus hit the floor with a nasty thump, and Reuben kicked him. Right in the gut. The sound his big brother made… Everything inside Sawyer recoiled.
“Bro.” Att’s voice was soft, then sharp. “Sawyer.”
Sawyer’s head jerked up. Shit. He swiped his forearm over his damp upper lip and shook the voices—the memories—from his head. “Sorry. Been a while since I thought about that day.” A while, right. All of several hours…since Jacob Wheeler had dragged the subject of his stepfather into their counseling session. Damn shrink. “This isn’t a conversation for a dinner party, Att.”
He glanced at Gin and saw only sympathy. Didn’t she realize Sawyer had just stood there while her man—his brother—was kicked half to death?
“You don’t think you helped? You got it wrong, bro.” Eyes narrowed, Att leaned forward. “Come to think of it, the doctor mentioned you might not remember everything.”
“Why would Sawyer forget?” Mallory asked softly.
“Because…” Atticus took a hefty drink of his beer. “See, when I smashed into Reuben and knocked the pan of chicken away, he punched me.”
Sawyer nodded. “And I did nothing.”
“True enough.” Atticus’s eyes went distant. “Until the big bastard kicked me. I was curled up, not even able to fucking breathe, and my lit
tle nine-year-old brother came out of nowhere, yelling bloody murder, and attacked Reuben like a fury.” His gaze met Sawyer’s, steady—and grateful. “You got a few good punches in, too, bro, before he managed to throw you across the room. Right into the woodstove.”
“What?” Sawyer shook his head. Everything after Att getting kicked was buried in a fog. Call the police. See Att get punched and kicked. Then nothing. “I…don’t remember anything after I saw him kick you. Actually, I don’t remember him throwing me.”
“You hit your head against that fucking cast iron stove. Jesus, Sawyer, you didn’t wake up for a couple of hours. Scared the hell out of Mom. And me.” Att’s eyes met his. “The doctor said people don’t always remember the minutes—or days—prior to a concussion.”
Sawyer couldn’t get past one thing. “I attacked him?”
“Yeah, bro. You were all of nine.”
Huh. The pride in Att’s expression was like a balm over the seeping wound in Sawyer’s soul.
He hadn’t been a coward.
For those long four years, Reuben had called Sawyer worthless. Scrawny. Chickenshit. Stupid. When Sawyer’d let Att down, it had confirmed everything Reuben said was true. He was worthless, scrawny, stupid…and a coward, too.
Only he wasn’t.
He still couldn’t remember those lost minutes, but knowing he hadn’t let Att down? The revelation changed…everything.
An arm circled his waist before Mallory pressed against his side, her warmth and concern given so freely, his throat tightened. After a quick squeeze, she quietly asked Gin and Att their plans for Thanksgiving, generously moving the conversation to different subjects.
Letting him think.
The way she supported him felt like he had his SEAL team back, taking his six.
For a few minutes, he let things settle in his mind…and then slowly released the past.
Lifting Mallory, he set her on his lap.
His woman was even more warm and snuggly than her fuzzy cat. Even better, she wasn’t embarrassed by his actions. She simply settled comfortably against him and kept talking. In fact, she even pulled his arms more tightly around her waist.
Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Page 20
