Dearborn

by Jenni Moen

  We were all spread out, each on our own separate mission. I hadn’t seen or heard anything from the other guys since Tim had unlocked the gate and assigned us our positions, mine being in the remotest corner of the property.

  My equipment was outdated. Nothing like the modern weapons they had. My bow had no sight on it, leaving me with nothing but a pair of good old-fashioned binoculars and my own eyes to watch for my target. I’d worked under worse conditions.

  I pulled the binoculars to my eyes and peered out through one of the screened windows, looking for any movement. It was one pine after another for as far as I could see.

  The enemy was hidden and quiet. Evasive fucker that he was. My patience was wearing thin. I wanted to unfold myself out of this coffin in the sky and go get a beer somewhere. I needed something to take off the edge.

  I was scoping out the thickest portion of the forest when the first gunshot sent me scrambling. Equipment flew around the small enclosure. I covered my head with my arms but still took a few hits, one to the face.

  I was too high and too exposed in the blind. I threw myself through the small doorway, diving for the ground six or seven feet below. My body bounced and rolled across the rocky terrain.

  I’d heard only the single shot, but I didn’t waste time getting my bearings, crawling instead with one leg dragging behind me. My eyes were set on the area I’d just canvased. It would be a good spot to lay low and wait it out.

  Once there, I hunkered down and assessed the damage. I’d lost my weapon, and I was reasonably certain I had at least one broken bone. I tried to stand just to verify my suspicions and was disappointed to discover I was right. My ankle was broken. It would be the second time for this ankle.

  Something warm trickled down the side of my face. My hand instinctively found the cut on my forehead and found it to be sticky. Based on the amount of blood alone, I needed some butterfly stitches. I emptied the pockets of my jacket in hopes I might find a first-aid kit, but then coughed out a laugh. I was hunting deer, not terrorists. I hadn’t packed for injuries.

  Another shot rang out and I went flat again. Covering myself with leaves under a low-lying pine, I prepared once again to wait but blacked out instead.

  MY HAND WAS WET. IT was the first thing to come to mind as I woke up. The sky was darkening and my hand was wet.

  “Dearborn,” a voice called.

  I puffed out a breath. Whoever it was, he was too far away to help anyway.

  Something nudged my hand hard enough to move it, and my eyes flew open. I blinked as they adjusted to the darkness. Two large brown eyes blinked back at me.

  She’s beautiful.

  She was nestled into my side, almost on top of me, in fact. Her warmth seeping into me even as the cold ground fought against her presence. Something scurried through the underbrush nearby, and her head turned suddenly. She snorted and her large ears perked up, intent on not missing a thing.

  After a few minutes, she turned back to me again and met my eyes. I wasn’t dreaming. The doe was the most beautiful, graceful creature I’d ever seen, and I was instantly in love with her big brown eyes.

  I couldn’t imagine any man who’d come into the forest with the intention I had—the intention of killing one of her kind—ending up in the position in which I found myself.

  She stuck her wet nose in my hand and snorted again, this time just for me.

  I smiled despite the pain. “What are you doing here, beautiful girl? You’re going to find yourself in a whole world of trouble if you stick around.” She rewarded me with a lick to my palm.

  “Dearborn.” The voice was closer now.

  “They aren’t looking for you, but you’d better get out of here just the same.”

  She blinked slowly, unmoved by the situation.

  “Dearborn.”

  Suddenly, she let out a bleat and bolted up on four legs. With one last long look, she was gone.

  WHEN I WOKE UP AGAIN, there was no warm body lying next to me and no reassuring nose pressing into the palm of my hand.

  The room was artificially cold and a less than melodic beep rang in my ear.

  “Mr. Dearborn has a broken ankle, but I’m more worried about the possibility of a head injury.”

  “First Sergeant Dearborn,” a melodic but mighty voice corrected.

  I loved that voice.

  I have a head injury? I tried to focus on the ceiling because it seemed like an appropriate test.

  “He’s awake,” Willow said, rushing to my side. Her hands were in a hundred places at once as if she needed to make sure I still had all my parts. “Doctor, he’s awake.”

  Another shadow fell over me, this one larger and not as welcome. “That was quite a tumble you took, Sergeant Dearborn.”

  Based on his tone alone, I didn’t feel any need to answer.

  A tumble? I didn’t remember it that way.

  “I’m going to do a quick check of your vitals, and then I’ll let you rest for a while.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but found it was filled with invisible cotton.

  Willow leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I’m so glad you’re okay. You really scared me, Quinn.” Her lips brushed across my forehead and then she laid the side of her face against the side of mine. “I’m going to step outside so he can do his examination. But I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She ran her fingers down my arm and across the top of my hand before stepping reluctantly toward the door.

  “It’s after visiting hours, Ms. Ryker, but you can come back tomorrow after nine.”

  “The hell,” I said, finally finding my voice. “I’m going home.” I threw my legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. My head felt like it split wide open and my ankle throbbed. Standing suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “You have a concussion, Mr. Dearborn. Please lay back down.”

  “People walk out of hospitals with concussions all of the time. I once drove an MRAP over one hundred and fifty miles with one. I think I can manage being driven home by my girlfriend.”

  Willow took a step forward, her face glowing. “Please lay down, Quinn. I promise I’ll bust you out of here as soon as they let me.”

  The disgruntled doctor shook his head in disagreement and then looked at the clipboard in his hand. “You won’t be going home tonight, Mr. Dearborn. Based on the dilation of your eyes, you hit your head pretty hard. You’re also running a fever, and we haven’t put a cast on your ankle yet. When did you get the scar on your forehead?”

  I ran a finger across my forehead until I found the barely raised line. “Early July.”

  “Well, it healed nicely. It’s barely detectable now.”

  “Yes.”

  “It looks like your ankle is broken, but we’ll know for sure after the X-ray. The nurses will come to get you in a few minutes.”

  “You better tell them to hurry because I’m headed home. I’m not sleeping here tonight, and I have plans tomorrow.”

  “Quinn, please cooperate. Louisville can wait,” Willow said before slipping through the curtain.

  The doctor’s expression softened. He stepped up to the bed and inserted the ends of the stethoscope in his ears. “Let’s see what we can do to get you out of here.”

  Several hours later, the doctor had relented, and we were on our way home. My head had checked out with only a minor concussion and the fractured ankle would heal in about six weeks. I could wait until Monday to get a cast. “I was thinking you could sleep in the house tonight,” Willow said. “I’m not sure you can manage the garage stairs.” She glanced down at the boot on my foot. “And I’d feel better if I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’ll be fine out there,” I promised. “Who found me?”

  “Tim and Bryson. I have your phone in my purse, by the way. It’s been blowing up with messages from them. They were at the hospital but left after I got there. Bryson said he’d check on you tomorrow.”

  I looked out the window at the blackened
woods along the highway leading to Willow’s house. “Did they tell you what happened?”

  “They weren’t exactly sure but said there was some poacher firing shots and you fell out of the deer blind. What happened out there, Quinn?”

  I slumped against the car window. “It went exactly as I thought it would. It was too quiet. My head was a mess. I probably could have kept it together, but the gunshots messed with my head somehow. It’s bow season. No one should’ve been hunting with a gun.”

  “Who knows? Maybe the poacher was hunting something else. It’s gun season for fox.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were silent for a few minutes. “Quinn?” she asked as she pulled into the driveway and stopped the car.

  “Hmm.” I was suddenly completely and utterly exhausted.

  She turned in her seat to face me. “You really scared me today. While you were sleeping, I was thinking that maybe hunting isn’t the best idea for you right now. I’m not trying to talk you out of doing it forever. Though, if you decide you’re done with it, that would be okay with me,” she added laughing. “But maybe for at least the time being, you’re better off not venturing out into the wilderness with a bunch of weapons strapped to you. After today, I’m scared you’re really going to hurt yourself.”

  Or someone else. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. I’d already thought of it.

  I had a pretty decent idea of what had happened. The gunshots had been a trigger, one that made perfect sense. One second, I had a firm grip on reality, and the next, I was lost somewhere in the past, unsure if I was in Indiana or Afghanistan. Kind of like when I was sleepwalking.

  “I agree. I won’t go out there again.”

  She sighed in relief. “Let’s get you to bed. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house? You can have my room and I’ll sleep on the couch.” She looked hopeful.

  “There’s no way I’m taking your bed. What kind of knight in shining armor takes the damsel’s bed?”

  “Umm. One who is in distress?”

  An irrational piece of my bruised psyche bristled. I didn’t like her thinking of me as being in distress. I should be taking care of her, not the other way around.

  I opened the car door and hoisted myself out of it. I hobbled my way over to the steps with Willow right on my tail. The boot banged against every step until I made it to the landing and pushed my door open. I thumped my way across the room and sat down on my bed with a huff.

  Willow’s eyes were wide. “I don’t understand why you’re mad at me. What did I say?”

  “Nothing but the truth.”

  “It was a joke. I don’t really think you’re in distress.”

  “You’d be right if you did.”

  “Quinn,” she said wringing her hands. “Please don’t push me away. I can feel you closing down on me. Please don’t. I only want to help you.”

  My rage flared again. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to help me, and I don’t want to be another one of your projects to make you feel good about yourself. Just another one of Willow’s charity cases.”

  She backed slowly toward the door, clutching her stomach. “It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.” She doubled over. “I have to go. You’re hurting me, Quinn.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the door slam behind her. She had every right to be angry with me. It had been unfair and undeserved. I wasn’t even sure where the anger had come from. One second, I was fine. The next, I was a raging lunatic. I threw myself back on the bed. However mad she was at me, I was madder at myself.

  Unbelievably, sleep came right away. I dreamed of gunshots and running through the woods. I dreamed of does with wet noses and Willow.

  Mostly, I dreamed of Willow.

  WILLOW

  “ORDER UP.” RYAN RANG THE bell and slid a plate through the window.

  I stomped my way to the back of the restaurant. Stomping had pretty much been my only mode of transportation all day. I didn’t have to worry about anyone else’s emotions playing with my mind. My own were causing enough havoc.

  “Geez, Willow. You’re running off the customers.”

  “I am not.”

  “No, you really are.” I looked at him sideways and glared. “Here,” he said, sliding an order ticket at me. “Maybe this will help.”

  “I take it this isn’t our thing anymore. I always knew somebody would steal you away eventually, and he even took my note, too.”

  I read it again and the floodgates opened … again. Silent tears streamed down my face.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Willow. Go talk to him. Clearly, he wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m working,” I sobbed.

  “Les and I can handle the place for thirty minutes. Walk your sad ass across the yard and talk to him. Fuck him while you’re at it. It will do you both wonders.”

  “Ryan!” If only it were that easy. For the first time, I’d began to understand why Quinn was so hesitant to take our relationship to the next level. Aside from the fact that we’d only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said his head was a mess. And he couldn’t possibly comprehend exactly what dragging me into his problems meant. If he wasn’t ready for a relationship, we would both suffer. And I would suffer enough for the both of us.

  “I vote you don’t do that,” Les said, bringing me out of my own head and back to the dilemma at hand. “Save yourself, pretty woman. Save yourself for me.”

  I rolled my eyes and pointed at the plate still sitting under the warmer. “Will you please deliver this to Clive Hansen at table six?”

  Les’ come-ons hadn’t let up during his two days working at the diner. To the contrary, they were getting more and more bold. If he kept it up, I was going to start worrying about his safety. Quinn would pound him into the ground if he heard some of the garbage that came out of his mouth.

  If he still wants you. If I still wanted him.

  Did I?

  I’d known what I was getting into. The rainbow surrounding him was an emotional billboard. I couldn’t really claim to be surprised he’d exploded last night. It had been a long time coming. I just hadn’t expected him to direct it at me.

  “Come on, Willow. Cut the guy some slack,” Ryan said. “You know how it works. You lash out at those you love the most.”

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  “How could he not?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “And you’re stubborn. Go see him.”

  “Fine.” I reached around behind my back and untied my apron. I threw it through the window at Ryan and swooped up the note.

  “You’ll need this,” he said, tossing a pen at me.

  I paused momentarily to consider the pen I held in one hand and the note I held in the other and decided I already knew my answer. I checked the box for the third time and slid out the back door so no one could distract me. It would only take one person asking for something for me to lose my nerve under the guise of being distracted.

  I crossed the yard, making a beeline for the garage, and ran up the steps. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. One more time and still nothing.

  I made the trip down the stairs. His truck was sitting in its usual spot, but it wasn’t as if he could drive it with the boot on his foot. I ran across the yard and threw the back door open. I was nearly to the front door, thinking he might be relaxing on the front porch, when I heard banging coming from the second floor.

  He was on a ladder, installing a ceiling fan in the only finished bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” My voice echoed my incredulousness. “You shouldn’t be on a ladder. You’re going to kill yourself.”

  He grunted a response, and my gaze fell on his injured left foot. “Where’s your boot?”

  “Somewhere in the garage,” he said with a shrug.

  “You have to wear it for six weeks.”

&n
bsp; “It doesn’t hurt today.”

  I walked a circle around the ladder, eyeballing his tennis shoes. “What do you mean, it doesn’t hurt?”

  “When I woke up this morning, I tested it out. It felt fine, so I took off the boot. Weird, I know, but I’m certainly not complaining. I can get a lot more done without that thing on my foot.”

  “But that’s not possible. I saw the X-ray. You had a hairline fracture right there.” I walked closer and pointed at his foot. “Seriously, I saw it.”

  He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I must have really unphotogenic bones because this has been happening my whole life. I can’t tell how many times I’ve been misdiagnosed.” As if it finally hit him I was actually there, he turned bashful on me. “Umm, Willow—”

  “I have something for you,” I interrupted. I thrust the note at him.

  He took it and smiled while climbing down the ladder. “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  He folded the note and then pulled out his wallet and stuffed it inside. “I don’t deserve it,” he said, looking at me with downcast eyes.

  “Of course you do.”

  He scrubbed his hand down his face in apparent frustration. The effect was to scrub the room of its color, shading everything gray. “But I was so mean to you and it wasn’t even the truth. It’s not that I don’t want your help. It’s that I don’t want to need your help.”

  “I imagine it’s a new concept for you—needing help—but Quinn, you are not just another charity case. You are helping me just as much as I am helping you.” I raised my arms up and turned in a slow circle. “Look at what you’ve done for me, and I haven’t paid you a dime.”

  “And I wouldn’t take your money if you tried. This is good therapy.”

  “But is it your only therapy?”

  I reached for his arm. “Even though you’ve done this for me and I owe you more than I could ever repay, my need to help you has nothing to do with this room. I wanted you to stay in the house with me last night because I need you close to me. Even when you’re too much for me, I need you close. When I lose you in a fog of despair, I need to feel the moment you emerge on the other side.