by Bec McMaster
Thou shalt not read someone else's private communications.
Eden always obeyed the rules. Hell, most of the time she made the rules.
But....
Maybe it was private—maybe it was information she needed to know about. His reaction when she'd seen it had been just weird enough to make her want to look.
Don't you dare.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against her curiosity. She needed to know the truth about Cane. She needed to know why Colton's betrayal had hurt her so badly. She'd spent years avoiding relationships, because she couldn't trust a guy. Years trying to control every aspect of her life, so it couldn't blow up in her face.
She was screwed up, and she knew it, and if she could just work out the knotted mystery of Colton's why, then she might be able to move on.
One glimpse to see what it is, then you put it back.
Easing the paper open—it was a folded letter by the look of it—she caught a small photo that fell out of the center. What the hell...? The shock of recognition she felt when she saw the image cut all the way through her.
Because it was her.
A photo of her, taken many years ago when a photographer came through her parents’ town. The only photo she'd ever had taken.
And suddenly Eden knew she wasn't going to put the letter back.
She couldn't even fathom where Colton might have gotten it. The last time she'd seen this photo it had been in Adam's— Adam. Of course. It had been in Adam's wallet in his riding bag, which Colton had stolen when they parted ways after the escape from Rust City. She could vaguely recall Adam muttering something about "the bastard" stealing it, when he'd finally ridden north with Mia at his side.
But why did he still have it?
And why was it tucked in his pocket, right over his chest?
A weird little feeling went through her. Eden sank onto a log near the fire, swiftly unfolding the letter.
Dear Adam... it began.
Her eyes swiftly scanned the words of greeting. One of many she'd written to him during his year of exile following the revelation he was a warg.
Which was, once again, courtesy of Johnny Colton. If he hadn't shot Adam in the chest, she wouldn't have had to remove Adam's amulet and force him to go warg in order to save his life. Her brother wouldn't have been forced out of the town he built and—
—And he'd have never met Mia.
Eden frowned, her hands crinkling on the paper as she got to the end of the page.
...I write to you today to let you know I'm getting married. I always dreamed you'd walk me down the aisle, but now I have to concede I shall do this alone.
She flipped over the page, knowing what was coming. She'd been tired and frustrated and lonely, and she'd written this letter in the heat of the moment and sent it along with CJ to track her brother down after three months of not hearing from him.
Ha. Had you fooled, didn't I? Let's be honest; there are no men in the Wastelands who are interested in me, and vice versa. But I wanted you to think what it would have been like if I was getting married, and you missed it.
Missed it because you were being stubborn.
Missed it because you're hundreds of miles away from me right now.
Missed it because you're dead in a ditch and I don't even know.
Please don't be dead.
I miss you so much. I wish you'd come home. Your place is here, and I'm keeping your room ready for you in the hopes that one day I'll turn around, and your shadow will fill the door....
It rambled on, but Eden slowly lowered the letter, her heart skipping a beat. She knew every line of it by heart anyway.
What did this mean?
Johnny Colton had been keeping the letter she wrote to her brother in his pocket, and from the frayed edges it had seen heavy use.
And she didn't have a damned clue why.
CHAPTER TEN
HIS CHEST ITCHED LIKE A BITCH.
Johnny sat up slowly, prying his bandages away from the claw marks. The skin beneath was slick and whole, the bandages matted with rusted flecks of blood. He could still feel the pull of the wound deep inside, however, lingering with malignant fingers. That sensation would be gone by tonight, but it made him feel slightly vulnerable.
A couple of inches to the left... hell, not even that, maybe an inch and a half, or a twist of the angle of the strike, and he wouldn't be here.
Wargs were difficult to kill. Not impossible. And that bitch had been packing some serious vindictive urges over the loss of her kits.
Lucky. You were lucky.
No, you were careless. And the reason for that was wearing a white tank that revealed tanned arms, and a tight pair of jeans. He could feel that flash of desperation again as the shadow cat launched itself off the boulder, and he'd known Eden wasn't safe. Something had come over him. Something he hadn't really felt before. Something that lingered like a snarl of rage in the back of his mind.
Rage? Or another emotion? He poked at the feeling, but there were no answers there.
"Good morning," Eden said, eyeing him with what could only be described as a dangerously female look.
It asked questions, that look. It kept secrets. And it promised a world of trouble, though he wasn't quite certain how to interpret what type of trouble.
When it came to Eden McClain, it could be anything.
"Morning," he muttered, looking about for his bloody shirt. "You were supposed to wake me."
"We made do."
The shirt was folded neatly nearby, and his stomach suddenly dropped to zero gravity as he remembered the letter he had in the pocket. Her letter. The one she'd been curious about yesterday. Not that she knew her own hand had written it.
Stupid. There was no reason for him to have it still. He should have burned it long ago, but—
But.
Johnny stretched and hauled his shirt toward him, relief slamming through him when his fingers crushed the stiff paper in its pocket. He turned the move into something natural, as though he'd only been reaching for his shirt.
Eden returned to her task of frying breakfast—the smell of which had woken him. The way she leaned over the fire gave him a healthy view of her cleavage. "How are you feeling?"
"Alive. That's what counts, isn't it? How's the boy?"
She glanced toward the other set of blankets. "Dead asleep. I think you wore him out yesterday. Do you want breakfast?"
"Why? Is it poisoned?" He tossed back the blankets with a snort.
Only to feel a set of eyes glaring at him. "No. It's not poisoned. I just thought you'd like breakfast. And I wouldn't do that."
"You'd be tempted."
Eden stared into her fry pan as if it held all of the mysteries of the universe. "I'm a healer. You were hurt"—her voice dropped—"defending me. I'm trying to make amends."
This was weird. She'd been weird last night too. "Who are you, and what have you done with Eden McClain? Because I'm pretty sure the real version has been busting my balls for the past couple of days. Call me suspicious, but I'm not certain I trust this polite bullshit."
At all.
Eden tilted her closed eyes to the sky as if silently praying for strength, before she leveled a force-one glare on him. "I won't pretend I wanted you with us on this mission, but CJ was right. We wouldn't have made it this far without you. We both would have died, if not for you."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm sorry," she ground out.
"For what?"
"For busting your balls," she grumbled, looking like she'd rather be doing anything other than apologizing. "If I hadn't been such a bitch, you wouldn't have been hiding your wound."
This was territory he hadn't quite expected to stumble into. Johnny scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "It's not as though I would have told you I was injured anyway. It was just a—"
"If you say 'scratch,'" she growled, "I swear I shall commit an act of violence."
"Right." Fuck. What was he
supposed to do?
People didn't apologize to him.
Especially not her, when he'd never be able to repay the debt he owed her.
"Stop looking at me like that," Johnny muttered, as she clearly searched for the right words to say. He shouldn't have said anything about Cane yesterday, but she'd caught him at a weak moment. The second she laid eyes on his back, she'd changed.
Eden's lashes hid her troubled green eyes. "I never.... I didn't realize you weren't with him of your own volition. I just thought—"
"Yeah, I get it." We are not delving back into that again. "How about we pretend last night didn't happen?"
"If we pretend last night didn't happen," she pointed out, "then I'm back to acting like a bitch."
"You weren't a bitch." This was the most awkward conversation of his life. He scraped a palm over the back of his neck. "I've done some pretty terrible things to the people you love. You have good cause to hate me. I shot your brother a couple of years ago."
Did it matter if he hadn't wanted to do any of them? Cane had merely ground Johnny's will beneath his heel like one of his fucking cigars.
His pulse flickered a beat at just the thought.
"Don't remind me. I'm focusing on the part where Adam survived. And on the part where he was going to shoot you, but you were quicker."
Johnny stared at her tense profile. "I'm sorry," he said roughly. I didn't want to do any of it. "I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I am sorry, Eden. I never wanted to... hurt you."
Ever.
She glanced his way. "Thank you." Soft words. "I think I do need to hear that."
Silence.
A thick, awkward silence that was full of Cane, even if the questions in her eyes remained silent, as if she knew he'd refuse to talk about it.
Eden scraped chopped onion into the pan. "I've been thinking we should probably call a truce. While we're traveling together, anyway."
"Truce?"
"You know," she deadpanned. "I don't spit in your breakfast, and you don't call me 'angel.'"
"Can't say I can promise that."
Eden shot him a heated glare.
He held his hands up in surrender. "But... I can probably try." Some part of the devil must have been in him, because he smiled. "Don't pretend to be friends, Eden. I can see you're struggling with this. Don't pull a muscle."
"How about not-quite-enemies then?"
"I prefer nemeses," he replied, every sarcastic volley easing the tension within him. This he could handle.
"Sounds bloody."
"You did hold a red-hot knife to my skin yesterday."
"Contrary to popular opinion, I didn't actually enjoy it," she muttered. "Speaking of..."
"All healed over."
"Even so"—she arched a pointed brow at him—"I'd like to have a look at it after breakfast. This is not a request."
Johnny stood, suddenly desperate for a piss. Something told him arguing would be futile. She had that look about her. "You just want to get me out of my shirt again, angel."
A faint curse caught his ear as he strode off into the bushes. "I'll give you angel."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Eden muttered. "But I'm definitely spitting in your breakfast."
Despite himself, he smiled.
Johnny staggered into the sagebrush, hauling his shirt over his head and trying to surreptitiously rearrange his morning wood. "Give me a chance to wash my face and wake up."
Or more to the point, to take care of business.
He washed up at the creek, the splash of water on his face sloughing off the last remnants of sleep. Behind him, he could hear Eden dishing up breakfast.
It was no surprise to realize having her here, being around her, bothered him. It was like resurrecting ghosts he'd long thought buried, and last night hadn't helped.
"You won't ever escape me, boy," said Bartholomew Cane in his head. "Even if I die, I'll haunt you until the day you finally kick this mortal coil."
His mother's screams overtook him, thrusting him straight back into that horrific moment when Cane locked his mother inside their house—and lit it on fire.
The only reason his mother was allowed to live was because Johnny begged for her life. "I'll do anything...."
And he had done anything.
He'd killed people on Cane's whim, granting them swifter deaths than they'd have ever earned from Cane, and he'd called it mercy, even as something inside him shriveled up and died. He'd borne the brunt of years of abuse that would forever show on his skin despite the fact wargs healed from almost anything, when the man who called himself his uncle turned to those darker moods that afflicted him.
And when Cane decided he wanted to make more wargs, Johnny had gone out and found candidates for him. No matter what it cost.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The one person he'd never wanted to make a warg was Adam McClain, but when he'd tried to divert his uncle, it had all gone pear-shaped.
Cane could scent out weakness like he was part bloodhound.
It wasn't hard to understand why his mind was dredging up the past. Eden McClain brought with her a whole package of unfinished business, and his feelings about her were complicated. It would be easy to push her into the little box in his mind that he relegated his past to, but she kept pushing her way back out. He owed her a debt he could never repay and that was all this was, but at the same time, she also represented a whole shit-ton of confusion for him.
Want. Need. Yearning.
He'd read the letters she'd written to her brother dozens of times, when he was alone on the Rim riding a job. They called to him, luring him into a world of warmth and family and belonging he hadn't felt since he was fourteen and Cane destroyed his family. They whispered to his dreams at night, tempting him with visions of her. He'd created an image in his mind, an idol of Eden McClain that was sweet and loving, and everything a secret part of him longed for.
The reality had smashed that image to pieces.
Eden was sweet. She was loving. Just not for him. No, for him she was stubborn, infuriating, hardheaded, frustrating, and brave, running headlong into danger regardless of the risk to herself. She drove him fucking crazy. She constantly argued with him. She knew everything, even when she was wrong.
And he wanted her.
Nemesis or not. Wary ally or not.
Wanted her beneath him, wanted inside of her.... His cock roused at the thought and Johnny swore under his breath. He couldn't get those breasts out of his mind. He could picture his hands on them, his mouth. He wanted to fuck his way into her in a way he'd never felt before.
This was supposed to be about repaying a debt.
And right on cue, Eden called out, "I will eat all your bacon if you don't come up here and get it pretty damned soon. The only thing that's stopping me is the thought you're an invalid, and as a doctor I should be getting some decent food into you."
Sweet Eden McClain, my ass. Johnny growled, but he instantly felt better. He could trust this version of her. He could banter with her all day, as long as shit didn't get personal. "I'm not a goddamned invalid. And if you eat my breakfast, you're going to be doing all the dishes for the next few days."
"How are you going to make me?" She was transferring food to his plate, her back to him as he strode back to camp. All that hair was tangled down her back as if she'd run her hands through it. Seeing it out was rare enough he actually stopped in his tracks and blinked.
"I'm bigger than you," he pointed out, though he still felt like she'd kicked him in the gut.
The sun picked out golden strands in her honey-brown hair. He had this sudden, impulsive desire to run his hands through it.
Fuck.
"I fight dirty," she shot back, casting him a glance over her shoulder, dark lashes half obscuring those almond-shaped eyes. "Just to warn you."
You sure do. "I remember."
He grabbed the plate she'd made him, glaring back at her as he shoved a mouthfu
l of the hash she'd cooked into his mouth.
The taste of it exploded there like a punch. Johnny stiffened, chewing slowly. Jesus. He eyed the plate more carefully. Had it all been a carefully concocted lie? The truce. The joking about poisoning him....
"What's wrong?" Eden bristled, setting her hands on her hips, and he realized she hadn't deliberately burned breakfast. Not with that look on her face, like she almost dared him to say something about it....
"Nothing." You're a terrible cook. He ruthlessly shoved another mouthful of food in, forcing himself to chew. He needed the calories. And he was a Wastelander, born and bred. You didn't waste good food in the Wastelands.
Though the term "good food" might be somewhat of a misnomer. What had she done to it? There'd been salted bacon in his pack that had cost him a small fortune, though the end result was what one could term charred. Johnny swallowed. Maybe he should have told her to eat it, and taken his chances on an empty stomach.
Eden's eyes gave new meaning to the word "dangerous."
Maybe not. "We're running behind your schedule." He cast a swift glance at the sun as he ruthlessly shoveled the rest of breakfast into his mouth, chewing mechanically. "It's nearly seven."
"You needed to sleep," Eden said, though a flash of frustration crossed her brow. "So does CJ. He's starting to look a bit worn around the edges."
"And we've slept." He scraped the plate, crossing to where the boy curled up in the nest of blankets. "Time to get moving again."
Tomorrow he wouldn't be sleeping in.
No. He was making breakfast.
"WHERE'D YOU LEARN TO COOK?" Eden murmured, resting her head on her hand as she watched Colton stir the cornmeal for cornbread that night. Out in the dusk, birds chittered as they fluttered about in curiosity. It was early to set up camp, but Colton had taken one look at this spot and pronounced it defensible.
He wasn't budging, no matter how much she wanted to get another hour or two behind them. And CJ had backed him, collapsing with a groan on the ground, and a plea for mercy. Today had been a hard, merciless push.
Tomorrow they'd be climbing the escarpment, and end up in Confederacy territory. Butterflies whirled in her stomach at the thought. She could give CJ and Colton an earlier night.
