by Kayn, Debra
Chapter Thirteen
"Get in the truck." Trace held out her paper bag she'd forgotten in the donut shop.
"No." Joan snapped her sack out of his hands and crossed her arms. "I can't take this anymore. One minute you're nice and I think you're the perfect guy and the next, you're mean and well, you're coldhearted. You're not the only one in the world with problems, Trace. That girl is…she's a baby still."
"Joan, get in the truck." He softened his voice. "Please."
If it weren't for the fact that she needed this job, the money, she would have left him there standing on the sidewalk. She opened his door and waited for him to climb in. She was probably making the biggest mistake of her life, but when it came to Trace she found it hard to refuse him anything.
The silence inside of the truck thickened, threatening to choke Joan. Pity for the man who'd shied away from her at the pool mixed with the gentleness Trace displayed with the little girl. Her anger simmered below the surface for the injustices of the world, where fathers were always around, and kids were safe and loved. Why some people ruined another person's life would always remain a mystery.
"Savannah is not my daughter." Trace's confession came softly.
"The little girl? Her name is Savannah?" She glanced at him. "Whose child is she then?"
Trace shrugged. "Some lowlife who beats his child, and on a good day ignores her completely."
"You need to tell someone." Joan gripped the steering wheel. "She needs protected."
"Maybe in your world, but on the reservation things are done differently." Trace gazed out the window. "No one wants to get involved, because the family unit is sacred to the Lakota. We all bide our time, the best way we know how, until we can escape…or repeat the abuse with our own children. It's a deadly cycle that goes on for generations in some families."
She shook her head. "No, I don't believe it. She could go to a foster home…a shelter, or I don't know, somewhere safe. You could bring her to the ranch. Oh Trace, she'd be so happy there. She could swim, ride horses, and receive so much love. Most of all, she'd blossom with all the attention from you and the other guys. I saw the way you looked at her. You do care."
"No. She can't live with us. She's got a father." His hand fisted.
"Why not? You're rich enough. Offer her father money…buy them a new home, whatever it takes." She flipped the turn signal on and exited the highway. "It's obvious the man—I hate even calling that bastard a man—can't even afford to fix up his house."
"I told you, the Lakota take pride in their family. It would be an insult, and Savannah would be the one who pays the price for my charity. Do you want to know what her father will do to her? I'll tell you. He'll starve her, and when he's used all his money up on alcohol, he'll take his anger out on her when he doesn't have a way to buy his next bottle. Do you know what it's like to see bruises and split lips on an innocent child?" He swung his arm and hit the side door. "Trust me. Savannah won't thank you for that."
"He'll hurt her?" She whispered. The donut rose in her stomach.
"She's nothing to him, but someone to get in his way and blame his own failings on," Trace muttered, looking out the window. "It's a fucked up mess."
"Oh God…" She pulled to the side of the road, shoved the truck into park, and rushed out.
Dry heaves brutally attacked her, until she lost what little she had in her stomach. Tears wet her cheek, and she gulped air into her depleted lungs. Savannah's smiling face came to her, and she pushed away the ugly nightmare Trace created for her. It wasn't fair, and she wanted more than anything to do something to right a wrong.
The night Trace struck out and cowered in front of her at the pool mixed with her imagination. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the truth. He had been one of those forgotten children on the reservation, left to survive on his own with no one to care for him, no one to tell him he mattered.
No wonder he lived on Lakota ranch with the others, away from his nightmares. She wiped her arm across her mouth. The other guys, his best friends, supported him and accepted his need to keep everyone from getting too close to him. How many times had they stood beside Trace, watched over him, and encouraged him while he suffered through his recent broken bone?
Her heart cried for Trace and Savannah, and the many more children who had to live a life of fear. She wished Trace could see how much he had to offer a child. She squeezed her eyes shut. Living a life of abuse was not normal.
Pulling herself together, she climbed back in the truck. Emotionally and physically drained, she didn't know the right words to say to Trace. In this instance, maybe saying nothing was the best approach.
"Are you okay?"
She swallowed and nodded. No.
She wanted to scream about how unfair life was and until this moment, she hadn't realized how much worse the world could be for some people. Even losing her dad before she was ready didn't compare to what Trace had gone through, and continued going through every day. At least her father had loved her, and she had happy memories to see her through the sad times.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away. A physical ache seized her stomach. None of the higher education she'd received had prepared her for the emotional toll of knowing someone personally who bore invisible scars.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" She glanced at him. "Then I promise not to mention it again."
"You may ask anything you want. Doesn't mean I'll have an answer, or I'll like you asking." Trace's posture relaxed.
"Why do you give Savannah money?" She glanced at Trace, before turning her attention back to the road.
He rubbed his hands along the length of his thighs, and took a long time answering her, as if he had to come to terms with his actions. "When Savannah grows up, I want her to know there was a man who never gave up on her. That I believed she was worthy of being loved."
That was the most honest, endearing, thing she'd ever heard and tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. She reached over, slipped her fingers in his hand, and muffled her cry when Trace grabbed on to her.
A simple sign, but it was there. He felt it too. They had a connection that went beyond nurse and patient, they were friends.
Chapter Fourteen
The chick flick ended with an orchestra of violins playing through the credits. Joan sighed. "That was a sweet ending."
Devon used the remote control to turn of the television. "That was the stupidest movie I've seen in a long time."
Joan snuggled down in the corner of the couch. "How can you say that? Any time the guy comes back, says he loves you, and never wants to leave is a good movie, even if their relationship was cheesy. True love trumps every time."
"If you say so. I prefer a little more gun action and car chases." Devon winked. "If someone dies in battle, all the better."
"The movie's a lie. No one in real life lived happily ever after. It never happens that way." Trace raised his arms and stretched.
"That's not true," she said. "There are a lot of couples in love and living happily."
The only response she got was Trace grunting. She rolled her eyes.
"So, Joan…" Devon grinned. "Anyone in your life ever scale mountains and fight the devil for you?"
She laughed. "No, every date I went on pretty much ended before it started. The two guys who lasted more than a few months…well, they weren't strong enough to hang around when I was working and going to school at the same time. They seemed to head in a different direction than where I was going."
Devon stretched his arms above his head and groaned. "I think you need to meet real men, someone who'll treat you like a lady out in the open, and a woman in bed."
"Hell…," Trace muttered. "Don't you have a date tonight, Dev?"
"Yeah." Devon glanced at his watch. "I better go shower. I'm meeting her after she gets off work at the restaurant. She wants to go dancing."
"That's what a real man would do." Joan stuck her tongue out and laughed.
&
nbsp; "You know it." Devon grinned and waved over his shoulder. "Catch you both later."
Joan waited until Devon left the room, sat up straighter and turned to Trace. "Is he always that confident?"
"Devon?" He seemed to think about her question. "Yeah. He never has a problem around women. One of these days, he'll find one that keeps his attention. He's always after the bigger and better thing he's chasing. I think that's what makes him so good at managing the ranch and making money. He's almost too smart. It likes the games and chase."
"My sister's the same way. Nothing gets her down, and if anyone gets in her way, she mows them over." Joan glanced away.
"You don't mention your sister often." Trace took the blanket from her and tossed it on the coffee table. "Would you like to go visit her? We only have a little over a week until I get this cast off, and I manage around here fine on the crutches. I think I can even do my exercises, or have one of the guys help me."
"Thanks for offering, but no…Katie lives too far away." She brought his crutches to him and set them at the end of the couch. Then she proceeded to pick up the empty glasses. "I'm going to put these in the dishwasher and go to bed. Good night, Trace."
Joan was hiding her emotions. He wasn't sure what caused that reaction from her, but he recognized it as an ability he used every single second of his life. He grabbed the crutches and hobbled into the kitchen. He'd never forget the way she'd offered her friendship to him, never asking for a thing in return. The least he could do was the same.
Standing in front of the sink, Joan held on to the counter with her head bowed. He looked away, unsure of what was expected of him. He'd never consoled someone before, and wasn't sure if she'd welcome the intrusion or not.
He cleared his throat to let her know he was in the room and hobbled to the cupboard. "Would you mind grabbing the bottle of chocolate sauce out of the fridge for me?"
She swiped her hands over her face, and moved to the refrigerator without turning around. "Sure."
Removing the bag of chocolate chip cookies off the shelf, he tossed them onto the bar. "Grab the milk and a couple glasses too. I want you to try something."
"It's almost bedtime." Joan placed the glasses on the table, filled them both halfway with milk, and returned the jug.
"Ah…but you haven't tried my secret recipe. It's guaranteed to put you right to sleep, and give you only happy dreams." He sat down on the barstool, while Joan remained on the other side of the counter.
"I think that's what people say about warm milk." She scrunched her nose. "Yuck."
"Nope, this is even better. It's an old Lakota secret." He winked. "Feel privileged that I'm sharing it with you…"
She smiled. "Since when are you old?"
"I feel old. Try hobbling around on crutches for six weeks, and you'd feel ancient too." He reached into the bag, removed a chocolate chip cookie, and then popped the lid on the chocolate. "There's a science to this. You have to promise not to tell anyone. It'll be our little secret."
She gazed at him dubiously. "They're store bought cookies."
"That's what you think." He dribbled chocolate over the surface of the cookie, taking care not to let it run off the edge. "Okay, open your mouth."
"Trace—"
"Come on. I know you enjoy chocolate. It's good. I promise." He moved the snack toward her. "Open…"
She parted her lips and bit the cookie in half. She licked the corner of her mouth where the chocolate dribbled from her lips. Mesmerized by the wet, pink tongue peeking out of her mouth, he couldn't look away.
Their eyes met and emotions he couldn't describe simmered inside of him, right below the surface. Emotions he'd never experienced before hit him square in the gut.
He handed her a glass of milk. "Take a swallow and swish it around in your mouth."
Her eyes bugged out, but she did what he suggested. He popped the other half in his mouth, chased it down with a mouthful of milk. Watching her, he grinned with his cheeks bulged out.
Laughter started slowly between them, and grew stronger. Joan covered her mouth. He swallowed and coughed. Her eyes sparkled with enjoyment and he swore, right then and there, he wanted to bring out her smile more often.
"You're right. That's really, really good." She brushed at her chin. "Not sure about the good dreams, but my stomach's content and happy."
"Now you know the secret. You can dream about chivalrous men on white horses, coming to give you their heart." He leaned over the counter and used his thumb to wipe the chocolate smear on the top of her lip.
He chuckled softly. "It seems I'm always cleaning your face."
She sucked in her bottom lip, and he froze. Tracing the curve of her mouth, he held his breath. His hand shook for how much he wanted to kiss her.
Her cheek pressed into his hand. "Trace…"
That's all he wanted to hear. The acceptance and permission in her voice. He stood up on one foot. His hand curled around her neck, into her hair, and pulled her over to meet him halfway. He wanted her more than he'd wanted anything in his life. That fact scared him to death.
He leaned his forehead against hers. "You better run to your room if you don't want me to kiss you."
"I don't want to run." Her whispered voice curled around him.
Trace kissed the side of her mouth and inhaled. "You smell sweet."
"Chocolate," she whispered.
He captured her lips, teasing, tasting, exploring. She tasted of chocolate and warmth, making him dizzy with hunger. She opened her lips and kissed him back. Giving him permission, and giving part of herself in return. He wanted to keep on kissing her, but he was losing control. If he didn't stop now, he'd have her right here on the counter. Rough, hard, and fast.
He pulled away, gasping. She stared at him with eyes half closed, waiting for more. Dazed and shaking to the core, he sat back down. His fingers dug into the cushion on the stool.
"Trace?" He heard the need in her voice.
"It was kiss, Joan. Nothing more. Go to bed."
Chapter Fifteen
The air crackled with the intensity of an overcharged electric fence. Trace leaned over the railing and peered up into the clouds. The sky boomed, rocking the porch underneath him, and he waited for the first sign of a summer rain.
He had a love of storms since he was small. The power rolled through him, giving him strength and the knowledge that there was something in the world larger and more authoritative than simple men.
The energy coursing through his veins came not from the approaching summer storm, but from the fiery redhead in the house. She was what his people called a heyoka, or a healer, who heals through laughter, and can see deep inside a person's soul more than a normal person. It's often thought that lightning strikes created heyokas.
The air grew thicker, and he was glad he only had on his shorts. With no breeze and the high humidity, he could feel the sweat running down his back, the light film of perspiration on his bare chest. He challenged himself to stay outside to wait for the rain that was coming. A cleanse from the elements bringing relief to the muggy day would be the best medicine since the last time he rode Thunderbolt.
He gazed out over the fields. Soon the grass would straighten and reach for the sky, refreshed and thankful for the blessing given.
Thunder shook the ground, and the first sprinkles of rain hit the roof of the porch. He held his hand out and let the drops gather in his palm. Another flash of light lit up the front yard, quickly followed by a rumble. The clouds opened and sent down a pounding rain that bounced off the dry land. Using the handrail, he hopped down the two steps until he was standing fully under the sky.
He leaned his hip against the end of the railing, raised his arms, and tilted his face to the sky. Cool splashes of water dotted his body, and rolled down him. He breathed deeply, letting his body rejuvenate. His worries ran with the droplets down his torso.
Soon, his hair was soaked and sticking to his back. His shorts glued to his body, and he wished he
could strip and accept the gift from the sky with nothing between him and the elements.
"Trace!" Joan called.
He remained standing and smiled. Maybe he was right, and Joan was a heyoka.
Not wanting to go inside, he ignored her. The storm too seductive to waste.
"Are you crazy? You're getting your cast soaked. Get up here out of the rain and—" She screamed as a bolt of lightning shot across the sky. "You're gonna get yourself killed!"
He lowered his arms. "Come out and join me."
"Why would I want to do a stupid thing like that?" she said.
"Scared?" He gazed over his shoulder. "Live a little, heyoka."
She narrowed her eyes. "N-no."
"Come here." He raised his brows in challenge.
She shook her head. "You're crazy."
"Yeah, probably." He shifted his position, so he could face her. "Come here…for me. You've forced me to take medicine, do my exercises, and I've put up with all your coddling. It's your turn to do something for me."
"Lightning will strike me and what are you going to do when I'm dead?" She glanced off into the clouds.
"Mother sky wouldn't dare harm one single red hair on your head." He held out his hand. "It feels good out here. You'll see."
She unfolded her arms, rolled her head on her shoulders in indecision, and finally held out her hand. "If I die, it's going to be your fault."
"Sh…" He pulled her down the steps, until she was standing out in the rain beside him. "Nobody's going to die."
She lifted her shoulders and scrunched her face up against the pelting rain. He lifted her arms out to the sides.
"Close your eyes and tilt your face up to the sky," he said over the pounding rain.
Ten seconds later, her shoulders eased, and she smiled. He couldn't help staring. Release was sweet, and she was a beautiful woman.
Her hair fell down her back, exposing her slim, pale neck. He stared hypnotically as water pooled in the V of her neck and ran down her chest to disappear in the valley between her breasts beneath her T-shirt. To torment him further, she gasped.
