by Christa Wick
Chapter Two
It was closing in on midnight when the recovery vehicle carrying Barrett’s team approached the hangar. An M924 bought at auction, the Army cargo truck had last seen service in Iraq. The bed was fourteen feet long. Bench seats lined both sides and a canvas tarp stretched over a bowed frame tall enough that no one had to duck when moving around inside.
At that moment, after ten plus hours of sawing, swinging axes and digging at hard ground, Barrett’s men weren’t thinking about whether they needed to duck. They were sprawled on the floor of the bed, their heads propped against their re-folded parachutes or their buddy’s shoulder. Only Barrett and Lake, the driver, remained awake.
His muscles and the tired buzzing in his head told him he should be sleeping, too. He was certain he would have been near comatose if not for the woman. He didn’t even know her name, but she had occupied his thoughts in the quieter moments of the mission. For all the fires he’d help put out, it was the first time he had a face to go with the property—a knockout face and a body that had him growing hard by the dashboard light.
Even standing in the middle of the road waving his arms to get the woman to stop, he had noted in a flash how beautiful she was. Fresh-faced, she had dark auburn hair that disappeared down her back. The big, thick-lashed eyes proved to be a chocolate brown when he got a closer look. From there, his gaze had swept down the graceful curve of her neck to the soft shoulders and abundant breasts. A discreet glance at the round swell of her stomach, plump thighs, and full hips, had birthed an immediate desire to see her naked so he could study every curve in detail.
Barrett shifted in his seat, grunting over the fact that he could remember so much about the woman but had so quickly forgotten his manners. He hadn’t even told her he was sorry about Jester passing. The omission was made worse by the fact that Jester wasn’t just some old man on the mountain. He’d been a lifelong friend to Dorothea Turk, Barrett’s grandaunt.
Reaching the hangar, he cast his gaze around the vehicles until he spotted the one he was looking for. At midnight, the sight of the woman’s pickup shouldn’t have made him happy.
The hangar had cots and a bathroom with showers. There was a galley kitchen, a coffee machine and vending machines for both snacks and drinks. But it wasn’t a place for women, especially considering some of the pictures Charlie, the twice-divorced pilot, liked to keep up on the walls.
Thinking in particular about the picture taped to the back of the bathroom door, he put his head in his hands and groaned.
“You should be sleeping like them boys back there,” Lake chuckled. “Guess you still have too much adrenaline rushing through you.”
“Something like that,” he agreed as the vehicle rolled to a stop. Grabbing his gear from the floor of the truck cab, he nodded at Lake. “Wake them up for me.”
“Sure thing,” he answered. “You need a ride back to your place? Heard you sheared an axle.”
“No. Winston will probably crash here. I’ll head back with him in the morning.”
Barrett carried his gear into the hangar and placed it on the cot furthest from the coffee maker and all the noise that came with the machine when a dozen caffeine deprived males descended on it all at once. Slipping into the restroom, he turned the water on in the sink and washed the soot from his hands and face so he didn’t look a complete mess.
He checked his phone one last time. Still no signal. He guessed the same was true for the woman’s phone. That likely meant she hadn’t contacted Siobhan, his cousin at the sheriff’s station in Willow Gap. He would have to break the news that Jasper’s cabin had burned to the ground.
Feet dragging, Barrett headed for the truck. There was just enough light from the hangar for him to see inside the cab. The woman slept stretched across the bench seat, her feet down by the pedals and her head by the passenger door. She had a sleeping roll under her head as a pillow. A jacket covered her torso.
The door windows on both sides were cracked an inch, but there was no sound coming out of the cab. She was a quiet sleeper, then—at least when she was camped out in a truck.
He tapped lightly at the window.
“Ma’am, can I talk with you?”
Barrett tapped again. “Ma’am.”
He really wished he’d gotten her name before he left. It would make it less like a complete stranger telling her the bad news.
Walking around to the passenger side, he tapped again, this time on the door and not the window.
She bolted upright.
Raising both his hands, he took a big step back.
“I tapped and called a couple times from the other side. Sorry I woke you.”
Rubbing at her eyes, the woman opened the driver side door. She stepped out, turning to face Barrett where he had moved to stand by the back of the truck.
He put the tailgate down and took a seat at one edge. She drifted over and sat at the other corner.
“Is your team okay?” she asked.
The question shocked him. It wasn’t the first thing landowners thought to ask. First they wanted to know how their stake fared. And if it hadn’t fared well, they forgot about everything—and everyone—else as often as not.
“Not even a splinter,” Barrett answered. “Thank you for asking. That means a lot.”
She nodded, brushed at the knee of her jeans for a second then looked at him, the building’s light at her back so that her face was all shadows.
“I wasn’t able to call your wife.”
“My what?” he asked, then laughed hard for a second before his overworked stomach muscles complained. “Siobhan is my cousin, not my wife. She works dispatch at the sheriff’s office while she completes her training for a deputy position.”
He edged closer to the center, stopping when the woman was in arm’s reach. It didn’t feel right telling her at a longer distance what had happened to Jester’s place.
Knowing he was about to crush the faint smile playing across her face, Barrett tried to stall the inevitable.
“Why didn’t you head to Willow Gap?”
She shrugged. “No hotel there. I’d have to head closer to Billings to find a room.”
Barrett smacked his palm to his forehead, his cheeks flushing with how abrupt he had been in all his dealings with the woman before hopping on the plane.
“I didn’t clarify why you should tell her you were Jester’s kin. My family’s got plenty of spare beds around Willow Gap. She would have made sure you were put up proper.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Barrett Turk, by the way. I’m sorry I had to run off on you like that. Sorry about scaring you half to death to start with.”
She slipped her hand into his, her touch cool from sleeping in the truck at night with the windows cracked for ventilation.
“I’m Quinn Whitaker,” she said. “And I’m sorry I almost ran you over and made you jump into a ditch…”
She trailed off, a long moment of silence threading between them as she withdrew her hand and folded it against her lap.
“The news isn’t good, is it?”
“No,” he rasped, the sudden anguish her voice carried twisting in his gut like a hunting knife. “Most of the timber is still standing, but the cabin is gone.”
Hearing Quinn’s sniffle, he scooted closer, his big hand patting gently against her back. Her shoulders shook with a sob. Instinctively, he pulled her to him, her face sheltered against the crook of his neck as he wrapped both arms around her.
“I know,” he whispered. “It’s like losing him all over again.”
Her shoulders shook harder. She pushed away and swiped ruthlessly at her eyes.
“No,” she answered. “I didn’t even know I had a grand uncle until the estate attorney called.”
She pulled her feet onto the tailgate, her legs tightly drawn to her torso. Burying her face against her knees, Quinn sobbed some more.
“I’m not a terrible person,” she promised. “I wish I had known about him, known him wh
en he was alive. But I didn’t—and I really needed what he left me.”
“There’s still value there.” Barrett rested his palm on her shoulder, knowing he probably shouldn’t keep touching Quinn but unable to control his need to comfort the woman. “The cabin wasn’t really worth anything. It was built before Jester was born. But the property is a real jewel. Two streams, a stocked pond.”
She lifted her head long enough to violently shake it then hid her face once more, her words muffled as she spoke.
“I only get the land and timber if I live on it every day for ninety days—starting tomorrow. I was supposed to meet the attorney there, get the keys and work out the verification details.”
With her hands wrapped around her head, she pulled at her hair. “We were supposed to use my phone’s GPS and a tracking app. The attorney would check it at six in the morning and again at ten at night. With the cell tower down…”
Barrett slid off the tailgate to stand in front of Quinn. Slowly, he eased her fingers out of her hair, his hands enfolding hers and squeezing lightly.
“Who is this attorney?”
She lifted her head, the track of her tears catching and reflecting the light from the building.
“Ch-Charles Cross.”
“Okay, we can work with that. I know ole Criss-Cross doesn’t want to haul himself out of a cozy bed or comfortable recliner twice a day to drive out to Jester’s. You and I will go together in the morning and talk with him. He’ll be sensible.”
He hoped his words would bring at least a ghost of a smile to Quinn’s face.
“It’s not just the attorney. The state gets the land if I default.”
“How about we worry what the state says in the morning. For now, you need real sleep, we both do. There are cots inside. No one would bother you anyway, but you can sleep on the cot next to mine if it makes you feel any safer.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t understand why you’re being so kind, but thank you.”
Giving her hands a final gentle squeeze before letting go, Barrett kept a growl buried inside his chest. There was more to Quinn’s story that she wasn’t ready to tell yet. Someone in her past had twisted her life around so much she had learned not to expect any kindness from strangers.
“I wasn’t raised to turn people who need help away, ma’am. And you’re Jester’s kin. He meant a lot to my family, especially my Aunt Dotty. That means you do, too.”
She didn’t reply, at least not with words. He heard the sob she tried to keep silent, felt it, too. For everything he had just said, it was more than how his parents raised him or his fondness for the old man who had lived on the hill. Something about Quinn Whitaker struck a chord deep inside Barrett.
“I’ll take your suitcase and bag in, give you a few minutes alone,” he offered.
“Yes, thank you. Your team has had enough to deal with. They don’t need a wailing woman.”
“I…I didn’t mean—”
Surprising him, Quinn reached out and touched his arm. “I know you didn’t, but it’s the truth. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Right, I’ll grab your things then.”
Barrett scooped the suitcase out of the back and grabbed the sleeping roll from the cab. Inside the hangar, he placed them on the cot next to his. With Quinn’s stuff in place, he walked a quick line to the bathroom, growling as he went.
“There’s going to be a lady on deck for the night, mind your manners.”
He entered the bathroom to a chorus of snickering assent and lighthearted taunts. Rolling his eyes, Barrett shut the door, ripped the poster off and stuffed it far down in the trash can before checking the stalls for more pin-ups.
Finished policing the bathroom, Barrett sat down on his cot and waited, heart galloping in his chest, for Quinn Whitaker to come inside.
Chapter Three
Quinn woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She had eaten little the day before, just a banana purchased at the gas station on her way out of Billings and a bag of chips from the vending machine in the hangar. Breathing in the delicious aroma, she stretched, arms above her head and toes pointed, her body a twisting line of graceful curves.
Remembering she had gone to sleep surrounded by the half dozen men who hadn’t felt like driving home, Quinn contracted at once, her cheeks instantly hot. Lifting her head, she looked around. The cots were empty, the men and their gear gone.
Except for one cot—Barrett’s. He was absent, but his gear waited in a tidy pile.
“Good morning,” a familiar voice rumbled.
She looked toward the kitchen door to find him standing there in the jeans and t-shirt he had been wearing when they first met. He had expanded the prior day’s ensemble to include a blue apron with white blocky letters.
Quinn squinted to make out the words.
MR. GOOD LOOKIN’ IS COOKIN’
The apron was one hundred percent accurate, she thought, her hand lifting to hide a grin.
Returning to the stove, he called over his shoulder. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
“Not in a million years,” she answered. “Do I have time to use the bathroom before that’s ready?”
He looked at Quinn, a hint of speculation as his gaze traveled over her body. She was too shocked to blush. Was he actually ogling her?
Not possible, Wool-for-Brains.
Quinn’s certainty that a man with Barrett’s face and body couldn’t be mentally undressing her wavered as he refocused his attention on the stove, a dark rose staining the tan cheeks.
“So long as you don’t mean to shower before breakfast, you’ve got plenty of time.”
It took Quinn a second to find her voice.
“No shower,” she agreed, grabbing a small travel bag from her suitcase. “I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
I should be miserable, she thought, closing the bathroom door and catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror over the double sinks. She half looked it, but the grin was back and unhidden.
She put the hygiene bag on the vanity and dipped into one of the stalls to relieve the pressure on her bladder. Returning to the sink, she did a double take at the back of the bathroom door. Someone had taken down the large poster of a voluptuous bikini-clad model hugging her nearly overflowing chest, her elbows tucked tightly against her nearly non-existent waist.
Had to be Barrett, she decided, her smile deepening as she washed her hands and ran cold water over her face. The poster had stayed up while she was there alone with the hangar’s caretaker, an old man in his seventies. Of course, someone else on Barrett’s team could have taken it down, but they had no reason to know she would be spending the night. And she had seen the speculation in their gazes when she came in and took the cot next to Barrett’s.
She hadn’t felt threatened in the least, but she wouldn’t brand any of the other guys as enough of a gentleman to tear down the lewd photo. Plus Barrett had said her granduncle meant a lot to his family. That’s why he was being so protective of her and why he was most likely to have made sure the poster disappeared before she had to see it again.
Satisfied she had it all figured out, Quinn swished some cinnamon mouthwash around, spit it down the sink and headed for the kitchen to see what else her knight-in-sooty-armor was cooking up.
Barrett emerged from the kitchen with two plates. He nodded at the dispatcher’s desk where bottles of orange juice from the vending machine waited alongside forks and paper towels folded like napkins. For a second place to sit, he had hauled over a lidded trash can.
“You are an excellent improviser,” she laughed.
He put the plates on the desk and slid the chair out for her.
“And a gentleman,” she added.
There was more she could say. A lot more. Considerate, handsome, and off-the-scale sexy when the entire package was rolled together.
Dipping her head, she tried to conceal the blush quickly fanning across her cheeks.
“Oh, yeah, whoops,” he said, stretching his hand toward her. “So accustomed to eating alone or out with the guys that I’ve fallen out of the habit except for Sunday at my mother’s.”
She looked up, uncertain what Barrett was talking about. The hand he had extended across the table was palm up. His eyes were closed, his head lowered and the broad shoulders humbled.
Covering his hand with hers, Quinn bowed her head, grateful he couldn’t see the smile.
“Thank you, God,” she started, her voice barely a whisper because she had never prayed out loud before or even intentionally inside her head. “Thank you for putting Barrett Turk in my path. And thank you for the family who raised him to be kind to others and…”
She hesitated over the words. She really was a novice at this. The last plea to Heaven she could remember was when she was around nine, looking in the mirror, tears streaking her face as she tried to bargain with God to keep Richard, her father, from leaving, or at least have Richard take her with him.
Barrett offered a comforting squeeze, lending Quinn his strength so she could finish.
“Who raised him to be kind,” she repeated. “And to walk in your grace.”
She lifted her head, tears swimming in her eyes, to find Barrett’s calming green gaze focused on her, soothing and full of approval.
* * *
Staring at the big house of wood and stone with its long porch that disappeared out of view and the cathedral-sized window of tinted glass, Quinn had to push against her chin to keep her mouth from hanging open.
“Your mom lives here? Is it like a retirement home with staff and a lot of residents?”
Barrett laughed, the sound of his amusement filling the cab of her rental truck.
“Mom is 59,” he continued, wiping tears from his eyes as his chuckling subsided.
“Let’s keep my question our little secret,” she said.
“Alright, but the limit is three.”
Unhooking her seatbelt, she turned in the seat to study his face.
“The limit?”
He nodded, his expression only half serious. “Daddy said only two secrets. Mama said women needed at least one more on account of how they confided amongst themselves more than men do. So they settled on three and that’s what they taught us. Friends can’t keep more than three secrets between them. More than that is bound to break the friendship or cause some other harm.”
