She crawled into the bed with her clothes on and huddled under her new quilt, not seeking warmth as much as stability. Without Jackson to anchor her to the here and now, her dreams meandered into the past.
* * *
Two hours later, Jackson eased back into the loft. The first thing he did was verify Willa’s presence. The lump under the covers settled the lump that had risen in his throat. River hopped up from the corner of the couch she’d claimed and stayed on his heels into the kitchen. He gave her some water and kibble and grabbed some OJ for himself.
Mack had been more than drunk; he’d been obliterated. His ramblings had covered their pop’s death, his worry over Ford and the garage, and even concern over Willa and her intentions regarding Jackson. He’d mostly listened, suppressing a sad rawness at times and a smile at others. Mack kept everything pent up, his grief, his worry, his anger.
Honestly, it had been good to hear Mack unpack his feelings, no matter how painful they were. Jackson had left him covered up on the couch with a glass of water and two painkillers on the table by his head.
A mewling cry came from his bedroom. He shoved the OJ back in the fridge and ran-walked to his bed. Willa thrashed as if something in her dreams were attacking her, childlike whimpers coming from her throat.
He pulled the quilt back and climbed in beside her, trying to calm her with nonsense words and shushes. Her hair was damp with sweat, and she tugged at the collar of his borrowed sweatshirt as if it were strangling her. He whipped the sweatshirt off, the beauty of her naked torso giving him pause, but he ignored the base desire and instead pulled her close and rubbed her back.
She calmed in his arms although her breathing remained fractured and gaspy.
“I don’t want to.” The words emerged on a pain-filled moan.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or someone in her dream. “I’ll protect you, Willa, I promise.”
After what felt like an eternity, the hand curling around his neck signaled her wakefulness.
“Jackson.” His name fell from her lips like an endearment.
“I’m here and not going anywhere.” If only he could extract the same assurance from her. He wasn’t after a grand declaration or commitment, only the knowledge she would be around when the sun rose in the morning.
“I had a bad dream.” Her arm tightened around him.
“Want to tell me about it?”
She hesitated before saying, “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”
He wanted to believe her, but he didn’t. A nightmare like that wasn’t nothing. He’d battled enough of them when he was a kid to know. After two years working side by side and the mind-altering sex, she still didn’t trust him and it hurt like an ache he couldn’t ice away.
Her grief and guilt were living, breathing gremlins that hunted her even in her dreams. Her confessions the night before rang true but incomplete. What else was she not telling him?
“How was Mack?” she asked.
“In a rare talkative mood. He’s snoring on the couch. I’ll check on him in the morning. Speaking of tomorrow, the aunts host a Christmas Day dinner. Do you want to come?” Although Hazel and Hyacinth would no doubt be bursting with questions, they were too old-school polite to ask during the breaking of bread.
“Marigold invited me to her house ages ago.”
“You could send your regrets and come with me.”
“I’d like to be with you, but I’m not sure I’ve got the gumption to face your aunts after today. Anyway, I promised Marigold I’d help with her car.”
“Tell her to bring it the shop. Easier to work on here.”
He could feel her hesitation. “She can’t afford it, Jackson. Dave’s medical bills have been piling up. He can’t work and their son is a year away from college. It’s been a strain.”
“I didn’t realize … We could do it free of charge.”
“She’s got too much pride for that.” She turned and scooched until her back fit to his front, her head pillowed on his arm. Like a contented cat, she sighed and went boneless against him. Darkness had fallen, and with her in his arms, he followed her into sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Jackson sidled into the Cottonbloom, Louisiana, police station as if he were turning himself in after a crime spree. And in fact, guilt ate away at his stomach like battery acid. Not because he had robbed a bank, but because he was about to do something worse. Betray Willa’s trust.
Yet was he really? Because he obviously hadn’t earned her trust. Lies and omissions hovered and the longer she stayed silent the heavier and more devastating the potential fallout grew.
His mission was to put his mind at ease. He had her plates and Gloria would run them. Her car could be stolen. If that was the case, he would help her make things right and give her a new car. The problem was his imagination was going wild with possibilities, each one worse than the last.
Afraid she would pull away—or even worse, run away—if he outright asked, he was getting sneaky, and his conscience paid the price. He liked absolutes, but with Willa he found himself toying with murky justifications. The situation was as uncomfortable as it was unusual.
Willa was complicated and skittish and unforthcoming, yet her heart was good and strong and pure. He’d bet his stake in the garage on it. Which is why he was taking drastic measures to get at the truth. Not to confront her or accuse her, but to help her. She wouldn’t see it that way though. She had spent too long with only herself to count on. How could he convince her that she could count on him too?
“Jackson Abbott, how are you doing, young man?” Gloria, a deputy, the unofficial office manager, and his former Sunday-school teacher, waggled her fingers at him from her desk before continuing to file her long fingernails.
“Slow day?”
“Same as usual which means, yep.” She grinned. “Are you ’bout to liven things up?”
“I need a favor.”
“You want me to arrest someone for you?” Humor glinted in her dark eyes, and she tossed her braids over her shoulder.
“Could you run a plate for me?” He held out the card he’d written the numbers and letters on.
“Is that all?” She made a phishing sound and took the card. “Is someone trying to sell you a hot car? I can pick them up and we can question them.”
The last thing he needed was for Gloria to get on the scent and question Willa. She’d go to ground faster than a field mouse. “Nothing like that. I need to know who it’s registered to. Nothing illegal.” At least, he hoped not.
Gloria straightened and focused on her computer screen. The tap of her nails on the keyboard filled the silence.
Her gaze skimmed the screen and Jackson wished he could angle himself to see too. She hummed. “Registration expired years ago. Is someone currently driving with this tag?”
“No.” The lie hurt and he was sure Gloria would see straight through him, but she didn’t even look up.
“It was last registered to a Mrs. Wilhelmina Buchanan.”
Wilhelmina? Could be short for Willa. But Mrs.? His head went swimmy, and he grabbed the edge of the desk. She was married.
Gloria’s voice cut through the buzz in his ears. “Deceased.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The car was last registered to a Mrs. Wilhelmina Buchanan. Deceased.”
“Dead?”
“Let’s see…” Gloria ran her finger over the screen. “She died four years ago, age ninety-two.”
“What make and model was the car?”
“A Honda four-door sedan. Model year, ’91.” Gloria glanced over the top of the montior, her gaze narrowing. “You want to tell me what’s so special about a dead woman’s crappy Honda?”
“Not really, no.”
“Jackson Elkanah Abbott.” Gloria’s tone was a spot-on mimic of his aunts’.
“You’ve been hanging around Hazel and Hyacinth too long.”
&nb
sp; “You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you?” Gloria was one of the kindest people on either side of Cottonbloom, but she was still sworn to uphold the law. No matter what, he would protect Willa. Whatever her reasons for taking a dead woman’s name and car, they would be good.
“I’m not in trouble. Promise.” Jackson grabbed the piece of paper with the plate information on it before Gloria could tuck it away. Not that she couldn’t jot it down from the computer, but having evidence in his handwriting seemed a dangerous paper trail. “Thanks for your help. Appreciate it.”
He forced his mouth into a smile, but knew it must be anemic when she didn’t return one. Before she could launch into more questions, he retreated to his Mustang. The rumble didn’t soothe him like it normally did, and he sat in the parking lot debating his next move.
Getting a library card these days required identification, and Marigold was as close to a friend as Willa had in Cottonbloom.
He headed across the river to the Cottonbloom library. Running his hands down his jeans, he stepped inside and shuffled to the side of the door. The smell—a combination of ink and paper and something intangible like knowledge—cast him back to his school days and set him on edge. He’d not been the best student and books still had the power to intimidate him. He’d been lucky to find his calling under the hood of a car at a young age.
His work boots squeaked on the wood floor and drew an annoyed stare from the white-haired lady behind the desk. At least, it felt like annoyance. He approached and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Marigold. Is she working today?”
He waited for her to tell him he didn’t belong, but she only flipped the open book over on the desk and smiled a smile that only reflected welcome and pointed. “She’s shelving books upstairs in the paperback fiction room.”
After thanking her, he soft-footed to the stairs. They creaked all the way up. He found Marigold in the second room he popped his head into. Her red hair stood out like a flame against the drab spines. She stood with a book in her hand and looked out the window at the gray skies.
No one else was in view. He cleared his throat and knocked on the doorjamb.
She turned, her slow, tight smile almost banishing the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Why as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Jackson Abbott. Are you lost?”
“Not lost. Looking for you, actually.” He stepped farther into the room, the cart of books between them.
Confusion knitted her brow before she nodded with a soft, “Aha. You’re here about Willa.”
“Has she said anything about me?” He felt like a teenager for even asking. Cars he understood; people were much more difficult. Which was a big part of why he was there.
“She might have mentioned you a time or two.” Marigold raised her eyebrows, tucked a book onto the shelf, and picked up another one.
“What did she say?”
“Lots.” Marigold slotted two more books on the shelf.
When it was clear she wasn’t planning to elaborate, he said, “I care about her.”
“Good. She needs someone to care about her.”
“I need information, though.”
Marigold propped her hands on the handles of the cart and stared him down. “Why are you asking me? Go ask her.”
“I’ve tried, but she’s so secretive. I was hoping you might have documents from when she applied for her library card that would clear things up.”
“You want me to share personal information?”
The way she said it settled a cloak of shame around his insides and made him a little sick. “I don’t think Willa Brown is her real name.”
A flash of anger crossed her face, earning her right to her red hair. “If she’s keeping secrets, it’s for good reason. Have you thought about that?”
“Of course I have.” Voices outside the door had him dropping his to lower tones. “I want to help her face up to her past. I’d protect her.”
Marigold’s face softened. “Maybe she’s trying to protect you, did you ever think about that?”
“Protect me?” He couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice.
Marigold rolled her eyes. “You don’t need protecting because you’re a big strong man? So was Dave, but cancer has cut him down like a sapling in a strong wind. I wager that girl has seen and dealt with more than you and me combined. Whatever else has happened, she’s survived and held on to a sense of humor. Gives me hope.”
Marigold was right. If Willa stole a car and took on a dead woman’s name, then it was for good reason. If he were patient, once she truly believed she was safe, she would tell him. She was worth waiting for.
“How is Dave? Last time I dropped by he was too tired to visit,” Jackson said.
“The days after chemo are the worst. That old saying about the cure being worse than the disease? Well, it’s true. But his doctor says he’s responding well, and God willing, he’ll beat the cancer. He gets bored and would love a visit, I’m sure.”
Jackson raised a hand to pat her on the shoulder, but ended up scratching his ear when she turned away to slot in another book. He wasn’t good at giving or receiving sympathy. The weeks after his pop had died had been a torture of never-ending, well-meaning platitudes.
“If you ever need help with your cars, we’ll fix you up. No charge.”
“I appreciate the offer, Jackson.” She didn’t meet his eyes and he was grateful, not sure he could mask his pity.
When he had a foot out the door, she said, “Willa never applied for a card.”
He half turned toward her. “How does she check out books then?”
“She would come on the weekends and spend all day reading at a table, put the book back on the shelf, and repeat until she’d finished it. We started talking, became friends, and I offered to check out books for her under my name.”
“You’ve never asked her?”
“Nope. Even if I had, she wouldn’t have told me. Just like she’s not telling you. But I trust her to return the books every Saturday morning like clockwork.” She returned her focus on the job, her back to him and softly humming. He was dismissed.
He trotted down the stairs, the creaks and squeaks not bothering him now. Picking apart what he’d learned, which wasn’t much, he resolved to quit digging, but he would keep his eyes and ears open for any hint of her past, and whether she wanted it or not, he would do his best to help her move on, preferably with him.
* * *
Willa stepped under the car on the lift, scanning the work order Mack had left for her. She felt small under the two-thousand-odd pounds of car. It could crush her like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving nothing but her work boots sticking out from under the bumper. Being put out of her misery sounded pretty good.
Jackson’s and Wyatt’s heads were close across the garage next to the break room and she couldn’t help but wonder if they were discussing her. How much nitty-gritty detail did men share about their conquests? Considering they were twins, they might be discussing things as intimate as whether or not she snored. Did she? She honestly wasn’t sure. Or maybe what she called out during sex? Some variation of oh God or more, please if she remembered correctly.
Anything they said was muffled by the grinder’s peculiar music. Mack worked in the corner on a piece of metal, sparks flying from his hands like he was an alchemist. His specialty was molding and melding metal into new, perfect shapes.
As dawn was breaking Christmas morning, she and Jackson had had sex again. This time she’d been on her hands and knees. It had been incredible and animalistic and sexy as all get out. But after their respective showers, she had to face the awkwardness of a parting. He was on the hook to attend church and the weird vibe had sent her retreating to her trailer to prepare for dinner with Marigold.
She hadn’t heard from him that night. And he’d arrived late this morning. In the fifteen minutes since he’d walked in, all she’d received was an indecipherable look. The anticipated awkwardness of their first day ba
ck to work registered at a hundred—on a scale of one to ten.
Her sixth sense registered his presence before any of her conventional senses. She spun around, her nose three inches from his chin. His invasion into her personal space made her want to surrender and lean into his strength. Instead, she took a step back, her heel landing on the handle of a tool. She teetered, and he caught her elbow, closing the distance between them once more.
“Are you okay?” His rumbly voice cut through the grinder’s noise.
“Fine. I should know better than to leave tools on the floor.” When she tried to bend down to pick up the socket wrench, he held her fast.
“I mean, us. Are you okay about us?”
“Is there an us?” She honestly didn’t intend the question to sound like a snarky ultimatum. She was curious and more than a little desperate.
“I hope so. Did you get cold last night?”
Winter in Louisiana varied wildly, and their pre-Christmas snow flurries had given way to milder temperatures. “River kept me company. And I had my new quilt.”
“I expected to find you at my place when I got home.”
“Why? You didn’t invite me over.”
Still holding her arm in a gentle but implacable grip, he ran his other hand through his hair. “I thought the invitation was a given.”
“It wasn’t, and I have a place to live.”
“But it’s…” He shook his head as if recalibrating his argument. “I’m inviting you now, okay? Will you stay with me tonight?”
Her heart quit flip-flopping in her chest like a dying fish and instead swooped like a bird in flight. The danger of loving him was thrilling and tingle inducing.
“What are we going to do?” Even before she finished the question, she wanted to stuff it back in her mouth.
His smile exposed his knowing and naughty dimples. She fanned herself with the work order. Spontaneous combustion was a distinct possibility. Except, instead of being embarrassed by her naïveté, she found herself smiling as a reel of possibilities unspooled like a porno.
When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel Page 18
