“Not by everyone you lost.”
“By the one who mattered.” He put his half-eaten breakfast on the porch floor and turned to her. Leaning one arm on the post, he said, “I need to know if you’re in this with me.”
“Or what? You have someone else?”
His face darkened. “Yeah, Tia. I have them waiting in line.”
She looked down. “That’s what Liz said.”
He grabbed her chin and raised her face. “The only women in my life are that four-legged one and you.” His eyes pierced. “If there’s no chance—”
“I wouldn’t be here.” The words wrenched her emotion out with them.
He searched her face, then buried his hands in her hair and kissed her. Eyes closed against the tears, she kissed him back with nine years of loss and longing.
They both stiffened at the snarling growl, and Jonah’s fingers slackened, coming to rest against her cheek. “Don’t panic.”
She tried to look around him at the coyote.
“Hold still.” He slowly lowered his hands, moving back inches at a time from her.
The animal’s hair stood like a spiny ridge, her hackles quivering.
Jonah said, “Easy,” to the dog, then, “Tia, look at me. Don’t challenge her.”
“Challenge her?”
The snarl rose in pitch.
He took a half step back and pivoted, his back to her, facing the animal. “Easy now.”
Hard to say which of them he addressed, but she drew a long breath through her nose and dropped her shoulders. Slowly, slowly he went down on one knee, his hand out, fingers curled under. He held his hand there for three long beats, before the curl left her lip and she stretched her neck to butt his hand with her nose, then sniffed.
“She’s taking your scent with mine.”
“Lovely.”
“You’re the first female she’s had to accept.”
Tia cleared the fear from her voice. “What about Liz?”
“Liz only had contact when Enola first came, too injured to strike. I lock her up when Sarge’s nurse comes over. She and Sarge can get contentious.”
“The nurse or the dog?”
He chuckled. “Both.”
Tia looked into Enola’s hard golden eyes. “Does she like anyone but you?”
“Jay.”
“Who’s Jay?”
Giving the dog’s head a slow stroke, Jonah looked over his shoulder. “We have a lot of talking to do.”
“Didn’t we do that last night?”
“About ten minutes. Then you dropped off midsentence.”
She sighed. “I drove twenty-one hours on four hours’ sleep.”
“That’s why I didn’t send you back out on the road.” He stood up.
“You could have driven me home like a responsible officer.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled. “I could’ve.” He looked at his watch. “Speaking of which, I have guys on surveillance I need to relieve.”
She hadn’t even thought about the time. And then suddenly, “Miles!”
Twenty-Five
“Forget thee?” If to dream by night and muse on thee by day;
If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet’s heart can pay;
If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven’s protecting power….
If this thou call’st forgetting, thou, indeed, shalt be forgot.
—JOHN MOULTRIE, “FORGET THEE?”
Piper excused herself from the couple sampling her morning special and pushed open the bakery door. “Miles.”
Dressed in pressed khakis and a crisp white shirt that hurt her eyes in the morning sun, he turned from Tia’s door. “She said nine o’clock.”
“I just talked to her, and she’s on her way. Come in and have something while you wait.” The brisk morning air had brought in an early rush eager for hot rolls and coffee, but the crowd had thinned now.
When she’d left the house before dawn, Tia’s door had been ajar, her room empty. In her brief call, Tia made it clear she had merely dropped from exhaustion in Jonah’s recliner. Piper was just glad they’d made it through the night without killing each other. She served up the couple’s to-go order and thanked the three that got up from their table to leave.
In the doorway, Miles looked back over his shoulder. “I told her the shop didn’t open until ten, but she wanted to meet at nine, before she had customers.”
“Things happen.” Piper moved back behind the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Surprise me.”
Smiling, Piper slipped on a glove and used a parchment to hand him a sour-cream cinnamon puff. He paid her with four crisp single-dollar bills. None of the bills in his wallet appeared to be hundreds, and she wondered if the ten he’d given Tia had wiped him out.
He said, “Keep the change. Some places have a tip jar.”
“Thanks, Miles.” She pocketed the extra dollar and ten cents.
“What happened to Tia?”
Before she answered, Bob Betters pressed the door with thick, gold-bedecked fingers. “There she is, a vision of loveliness.” In his lavender shirt and white tie, every blond hair and smile in place, he looked like a spanking new Ken doll.
She did try to smile. “What would you like?”
“One Piper to go.” His chuckle was high and nasal. “Excuse me,” he said to Miles still standing at the counter.
Miles didn’t move.
“You’ve been served, mister. Go have a seat.”
Miles took a bite of his puff, chewed carefully, and announced, “Needs more cinnamon.”
“You think?” She watched it register in Bob’s face that this was the guy who had gotten the last fig roll and held him up last time.
“The sour cream is nice.”
She turned again to Bob. “Are you ready?”
“Honey, I’ve been ready since you brought your pretty face to town.” He looked again at Miles. “You mind?”
Miles took another bite. She had the crazy feeling he was trying to protect her.
“You can sit down and wait, Miles.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Okey-doke.”
“Hey. Buster. She doesn’t want you blocking the counter.”
She shook her head. “There’s plenty of counter.”
A woman came through the door holding a bald baby who was happily sliming the eyeglasses that hung on a woven lanyard around its mother’s neck.
“What can I serve you, Bob?” It wasn’t easy coming up with an innuendo-proof line.
“Hey.” He swatted Miles’s arm with the back of his ringed fingers.
With a holler, Miles flung his cinnamon puff, banging into a table that tipped over into Bob. Two chairs toppled, napkins and sweetener packets flying.
“What the—” Bob shoved the table back and raised his fists.
“No. Don’t. He can’t help it.” Piper rushed around the counter.
The baby wailed as his mother shot out the door.
Bob had the front exit blocked, so Miles burst through the swinging door into the kitchen knocking over yet another chair.
Bob hurtled after him.
Piper grabbed his suit coat. “Let me handle it.”
“You?” He spun, shaking her off. “You stay out of harm’s way.”
“No listen. He’s fine. You just can’t touch him.”
“He’s not fine.” Bob pointed a thick finger at the kitchen door. “That is not fine.”
She got between him and the door.
He scowled. “He assaulted me with that table.”
“He bumped into it.”
“I’m calling the police.” Bob pulled out a fancy phone.
“No, please.”
Bob’s finger hovered over his phone. “I won’t call, peach, if you explain over dinner what you see in him.”
She swallowed hard, but there really wasn’t a choice. “Okay.”
A broad smile pulled his mouth. “Where do I pick you up?”
>
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Peach, the ride is half the event.”
She glumly revealed her address.
“Six o’clock for cocktails.”
“I’m not old enough to drink.”
“Oh yes you are. Unless that’s a fake ID you’ve been flashing around.”
She wished it were. “Six o’clock.”
“Now I’ll have those two frosted raisin rolls.”
When he’d gone, Piper pushed through the swinging door. “Miles?” She hoped he’d run straight through, but she found him crouched in the pantry. “You all right?”
He shook his head, despondent. “No matter how hard I try.”
“You want to come out?”
He shook his head.
“Okay.”
When Tia hurried in a while later, Piper nodded toward the kitchen. “In the pantry. Bob Betters touched him.”
“Oh no.” Tia checked the place for damage.
“I straightened up. The only damage is dinner tonight with Bob.”
Tia raised her brows. “I am sorry.”
Tia moved through a kitchen scented with yeast and butter and cinnamon, to the open pantry. Miles sat in the corner, knees pulled to his chest. Even though Piper kept the place clean, a true OCD germ phobic obsessed with filth and germs would not sit on a floor. He seemed to have very specific triggers and patterned reactions.
“Miles?”
“Don’t touch. Don’t touch people.”
He’d reversed the phrase from people don’t touch. A reprimand or reminder instead of an explanation? His distress level seemed higher. Because of Piper’s involvement?
“May I join you, Miles? Or would you rather come out?”
“Don’t touch. People. Don’t touch.”
It could be a means of reminding himself of the rules as he saw them. She went into the pantry and leaned against a shelf that held bags of flour. “Piper told me what happened. I’m sorry Bob touched you. He had no right to invade your space.”
He flicked a glance, then pulled his knees in tighter.
“I know how much it upset you when our hands touched.”
He stared at the floor, saying nothing.
“You know, Miles, everyone has things that make them uncomfortable, make them feel bad or scared. That mechanism is built into us for our protection. It’s a good thing.”
He swallowed.
“Chemical or communication problems in the brain can affect that natural sensor, make it react disproportionately to the threat. One result is obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
His forehead twitched.
“Have you been diagnosed with that disorder, Miles? Or Asperger’s?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things.”
“I’m not calling names. Those are medical terms that help identify areas in people that aren’t working right.”
Miles put his head in his hands but didn’t cover his ears.
“I’m not a psychiatrist, not an MD. But I should know if you’ve had medications prescribed and whether you’re taking them. It’s part of a profile I’ll keep for our work together.”
“Not taking drugs.”
“Should you be?”
“Didn’t help. Made me sick.”
“The doctors took you off?”
He nodded. “Long time ago.”
“That might mean it’s not a chemical issue. If that’s the case, therapy might be able to resolve the root of this problem. Do you want to pursue that?”
He stared at the floor, then nodded.
“I would need to work under the supervision of another counselor. Most likely a woman named Carolyn. Would you be all right with that?”
“I don’t know Carolyn.” He put his arms up against his head, weaving his fingers in the back and breathing hard.
“We would all sit down together and decide if you want to go forward.”
“And do what?’
“We’d put together your profile, things like your last name.”
“Forsythe.”
Okay, if he wanted to answer now. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Her age, and they were both just breaking free. “Where do you live?”
“Nineteen Pine Crest Lane.” The facts. The simple facts.
“Pine Crest’s a nice area. What do you do for a living?”
“I invent things. Hardware and software solutions for companies. I got my first patent at sixteen.” His breathing slowed.
“That’s amazing.”
His hands came down to his knees. “I’m not that smart. I just had a lot of time.”
“You’re not fooling me. I can tell you’re smart.”
“Not like a child genius or prodigy. I had tutors. You learn faster when you’re not in a herd.”
“You didn’t go to school?”
His knuckles whitened on his knees.
“We’ll talk about that later. Who do you work for?”
“Lots of people. Someone tells me a problem. I make a solution.”
“That’s wonderful, Miles.”
He looked up. “Why?”
“Because we’ve identified a problem. Together let’s make a solution.”
From her place between the trees, Liz had watched Tia leave, watched Jonah go inside, leaving the door cracked open for the animals. She had told Lucy, had tried to tell herself he didn’t matter. She despised him for leading her on, his thumb on her cheek branding her, claiming her. He had loved two sisters. If he’d given her the chance, she’d have explained her plight, Lucy’s plight. He’d have embraced them. Even Lucy believed it.
Liz closed her eyes. When she saw Tia’s car heading toward his cabin last evening, she had known it would be there this morning. She burned, imagining them together. Of all the men Tia could have, she had taken the only one Liz dared hope for.
Lucy would remind her that Tia had him first, that it was Jonah who couldn’t let go. Fair-minded Lucy. She didn’t understand that women like Tia were poison to men, seeping into their senses and paralyzing their wills. Clenching her hands, she groaned.
She shouldn’t be here. The less she saw and thought about Jonah Westfall, the better. The less he saw and thought about her as well. But she couldn’t walk away.
Enola had sensed her now. She would remember the scent, but that wouldn’t be enough to get close. She’d be hyperalert and guarded with the pup nosing the brush around the porch. The risk was terrible. But if he saw her, she had a plan: she would say she wanted to apologize.
She unbuttoned and put her hand into the large pocket, drew out what she needed. It would daze Enola only for a moment, so when the dog stumbled and dropped, she hurried over. Jonah’s pup was bigger and stronger than her two. He’d sucked the teats of the mother and grown fat and healthy. He’d known Jonah’s touch and grown trusting. He had no struggle, no suffering. He knew no fear.
Showered, dressed, and armed, Jonah attached his badge and peeked in at Sarge, still sleeping. He silently closed the door, got his keys, and went outside. Enola loped around the yard, swinging her head side to side, sniffing the ground. He whistled through his teeth.
She kept loping, then suddenly raised her head, the pointed ears hard upright. Just as he realized the pup Scout was nowhere in sight, she bolted into the forest. He bolted after her.
A sharp whining pierced his ears. Over a ridge in a shallow ravine, Enola nudged something that must be Scout, then raised her head and howled. He hurried down, cautiously moved her aside, and reached for the bloody pup. Cradling it, he started back, heart aching.
Enola pressed into his legs, but there was nothing she could do. He needed Liz. He pulled the hem of his shirt free and tugged it up around the pup. He closed Enola into the house, then broke every speed limit in town, hoping as he banged the clinic door with the toe of his boot that their bad blood wouldn’t keep her from letting him in.
“Liz! I need help. Liz!”
She c
ame forward, looking startled and annoyed. “I’m not open.”
“It’s my pup,” he hollered through the door. “He’s hurt.”
She unlocked the door, and he pressed through with the bleeding pup still wrapped in his shirt.
“This way,” she said.
He followed her to the surgery and laid him on the stainless steel table. The pup shuddered feebly.
“Something got him,” he rasped. “It’s bad.”
She went to the sink and started washing her hands. “Did you see what?”
“Enola must have scared it off.”
She dried her hands on paper towels.
“Can I help?”
“Scrub your arms and hands. He’s lost too much blood to anesthetize. You’ll need to hold—”
“I’ve got him.” He was weak enough it took hardly anything to hold him still. He followed the directions she gave, holding Scout still while she disinfected and stitched the gashes. The rents were not ragged, but sharp and straight, one deep enough to show white rib bones. Could claws or teeth do that? Eagle talons?
“Has he been dropped?”
“You mean from a distance?”
“Could it have been a hawk or eagle? I found him in the trees, so the branches might have broken a fall.”
“I can’t tell without x-rays, but I don’t think so.”
“The cuts are sharp, not ragged. A badger?”
“I don’t know, Jonah. I’m not really experienced with predators.” She gave him a look he would unpack later.
“Will he make it?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Can you transfuse?”
“A large veterinary hospital might have blood on hand, but I collect from donors as needed for preplanned surgeries. I’m not sure we could match his type.”
“Enola?”
“How would you get her here?”
“DOW might have a tranquilizer gun.” He hated the thought. “Her blood may or may not match, and testing would take time and a lab.”
“Your pups?” He was grasping and knew it.
“Just because they were in the same litter does not mean the same sire. We would have to test the blood or a transfusion could kill him. That’s days or weeks for results, Jonah.” Liz stroked a finger up the pup’s oversize ear. “You’ll just have to wait it out.”
Indivisible Page 24
