Take My Breath Away

by Christie Ridgway

  “Just go away, Poppy.” He didn’t say it unkindly.

  Instead of obeying, she crouched near his feet. “Please, let’s talk. Tell me—”

  “I won’t put any of what’s in my head in yours.”

  “Ryan.” She touched his shin with light fingers, but he could feel their warmth through the denim of his jeans. “Don’t play the hero with me.”

  “No.” Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he tried to block her and that word from his mind. “Don’t say that.” God. Hero.

  “Ryan—”

  “Go, Poppy. Go away.” He felt his hold on himself unraveling. “Just get the fuck away from me.”

  “Bottling it inside isn’t working.” She moved, settling on the mat beside him and the dog flopped nearby, too. “Talk, wail, screech, whatever you need. I can take it.”

  Her shoulder brushed his, and damn him, the scent of her shampoo made him want to bury his face in her hair. But he had nothing to offer in return. He’d siphon away her sweetness and it would get lost forever in the bleak landscape inside of him. Her warm, generous spirit would be swallowed up by his ice and gloom.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “You’re a good man.”

  Her words tipped him from resignation to near-rage. “There you go again,” he said, his voice harsh. “Good man. Hero. Get that out of your brain.”

  “Ryan...” She laid a soothing hand on his arm.

  He brushed it away. “You have no idea what I am, what I became when I had to watch over my child in that hospital bed, see him with a breathing tube, a feeding tube, forty-five percent of his skin burned.”

  “Oh, Ryan.” Her voice was filled with compassion.

  It only tore at him more. “I never saw his eyes open again. They kept him in a medically induced coma because that much damage causes so much...so much pain.”

  She ducked her head.

  But he wasn’t having that. She’d wanted him to talk this out? Then she’d hear it all. Grasping her chin, he turned her eyes to his. “For thirty days I was terrified he wouldn’t wake up. For thirty days I was just as terrified he would. Do you still think I’m some kind of hero?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He made a sound of frustration. “Would a hero feel so damn helpless?”

  She stroked the hand still cupped around her face. “Of course.”

  The monster went to work inside him again, slicing, dicing, wreaking havoc. His fingers tightened on Poppy and he saw her flinch, then hold steady. So fucking brave, willing to be this close to the ogre that was him. So fucking bright and bighearted.

  And he was so mean, he suddenly wanted to lay waste to it all. He wanted to turn her into barren, frozen ground like him. Smash her hope. Crush her idealism.

  More so, even, when she fixed those big gray eyes to his and said, “I’m a parent. I know you have to be a hero to survive the greatest loss of all.”

  Destroy every ounce of her optimism.

  “Oh, yeah?” He sneered at her. “You think? You think that a man is a hero when one of those doctors approaches, coming down a fucking endless corridor, her white coat whispering, whispering, and when she stands before him and tells him that his precious son’s heart no longer beats, do you think that a hero would feel...would feel...” The word got stuck in his throat, choking him.

  He hoped to die.

  “Relief?” Poppy asked. “Did you feel relief?”

  God help him. Somebody help him. “Yes,” Ryan confessed, snatching his hand from her face and closing his eyes. “Yes. Would a hero feel relief?”

  “Oh, Ryan.” Her voice was hoarse. “You’re also human, you know. It’s human to want to spare your child such anguish.”

  “It emptied me out. There’s nothing inside me.” But the monster. Even it was receding now, too, though having exacted this year’s punishment to great effect. Exhausted, he let his head fall back against the wall.

  “Maybe...maybe something, someone, will come along. Fill you up again. Remind you what it is to love.”

  Really? He rolled his head to look at her, unsure if he should laugh or rap her skull with his knuckles to jostle some sense into her. She still was thinking in rainbows and unicorns? “Love, Poppy? Foolish girl, you’ve got to know I’ll make sure that never, ever happens.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. Then he saw the truth dawn over her face. It’s good she’s wised up, he told himself. It’s good she understands I’m a hopeless case.

  Her gaze still on his face, she got to her feet and Grimm clambered up, as well. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

  “Yeah. I guess this is.”

  As she turned and headed for the stairs, her dog at her side, Ryan’s future descended. One of bleak silences and endless nights. A life empty of Poppy’s smiles, her blushes, her spring.

  The last he saw of her was a flutter of the sunny yellow ribbon tying off her hair.

  A new record, he thought dully. Worst March ever—because this time he’d hurt someone besides himself.

  * * *

  POPPY STOMPED UP the stairs, angry at herself. She ached for Ryan’s misplaced guilt and irreparable loss, but she should have played out the scene better. What she’d wanted was to comfort him, to ease him, but instead she’d forced him into a declaration.

  Love, Poppy? Foolish girl, you’ve got to know I’ll make sure that never, ever happens.

  She understood that he felt empty, but it was a much bigger problem if he welcomed it, even wished it for himself. Yanking at her braid, she stood at the top of the stairs, torn. Think. Think!

  Would it work if she marched herself back downstairs to confront him once again? And then what? Tell him she’d lied the night before and that she’d love him in April and in summer, in autumn and when winter came again?

  He didn’t want love.

  And he didn’t want her.

  A sharp pain pierced her breastbone. Pressing her fist there, she breathed through the waves of hurt. No, she thought, refusing to surrender. No. I’m not giving up just yet.

  She’d been wrong to lie to him the night before. And she’d be wrong if she left now, she decided, heading for the kitchen to find her purse and her phone. After a quick check on Mason, she’d call her sister and postpone the pickup. Then she’d find her way through this.

  The French doors to the terrace opened, and Mac, Shay and Brett moved inside. Poppy stared. All of them? And early? Damn.

  “You’re here,” she said.

  “Barely,” Mac said. “The photographers are still at the gates.”

  “More than before, now that Grant and Anabelle have arrived.”

  “We just met Granabelle,” Mac said, wiggling her brows. “Shay’s starry-eyed.”

  “I am not,” their sister retorted, frowning. “I’m not taken in by—”

  “So what’s with the family reunion?” Poppy asked, interrupting the impending squabble.

  “Always the peacemaker,” Brett murmured, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “We thought we might need an entire posse to rescue you from the clutches of your desperado.”

  Poppy narrowed her gaze at her brother. “He’s no villain.” Would a hero feel so helpless? Ryan had asked, his voice rough, his expression desolate. Would a hero feel relief? Remembering, hot pressure formed behind her eyes.

  Shay stepped up and put her hand on Poppy’s shoulder. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “S-sure.” Pushing the back of her hand under her nose, she managed to suppress the tears. “I’m fine.”

  Brett cursed under his breath. “You knucklehead,” he said, exasperation and affection twined in his voice. “What has your soft heart gone and done now?”

  Be honest with them. Ryan’s voice, again in her ear. Tell them w
hat you want.

  Mac’s brows drew together. “Little sister, what is it you need?”

  Tell them what you want. “What I need, what I want, is all of you,” Poppy said, her gaze traveling over their faces. “I need you at the resort, with me, behind me, beside me, helping me make it something our family can be proud of.”

  Brett groaned. “Poppy—”

  “I may be a soft-hearted knucklehead,” she said, glaring at her brother. “But I’m your soft-hearted knucklehead, your cock-eyed optimist. I’m the glue who’s willing to go all the way to hold this family together.”

  “We’re already a family—”

  “That three out of four of us share a cynical streak as treacherous as a black diamond ski run doesn’t make us a family.”

  Her brother frowned. “Hey—”

  “That three out of four of us are unreasonable Negative Nellies—”

  Mac elbowed Brett. “She called you Nellie, big guy.”

  “—doesn’t make us a family.”

  He scowled. “Fine. But we don’t need that land—”

  “We need that land,” Poppy insisted. “We need those cabins. We need to work together to be the Walkers. We have a legacy, and I’m holding on to it with every stubborn bone in my body.”

  Brett shook his head. “It’s a shame that the ones who lack common sense are always the most mulish.”

  Mac shoved his shoulder with the flat of her hand. “Knock it off. Are you serious, Poppy? You’ve been Miss Prickly about this and everything else. Miss Independent.”

  “Because...because when Mason arrived I had to prove to everybody, including myself, that I could handle the situation I got myself into. I’m a good mom, I know that now, so I don’t have to be afraid anymore to ask for help.” She looked at Brett. “Help.” And then at Shay. “Help.” Finally, she turned to Mac and reached out her hand. “Help me do something about our heritage.”

  Her older sister stared at Poppy’s fingers. Then her own hand rose. “I—”

  Charlie burst through the French doors. “Poppy!” A leaf was caught in her short hair and her eyes were saucer-wide. “Poppy, we can’t find Mason!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AT THE SOUND of slamming doors upstairs, Ryan’s head lifted from his knees. Then heavy footsteps pounded down the stairway to the basement and the cloud of gloom hovering over him drew lower. He slowly stood, moving through its inkiness as his brother ran into the room with disheveled hair and distress written all over his face.

  Fear clutched at Ryan’s belly. “What is it?”

  Linus panted. “Mason’s lost.”

  “What?”

  “He was out on the lawn with us when you went inside, then Poppy and Grimm. I swear, Ry, he was there one minute and then...he wasn’t.”

  “Shit.” His mind leaped to the worst possible scenario. “Did you check the lake—”

  “First thing. Grant inspected the water, the dock, the boat. We don’t think he’s been that way.”

  “Okay.” Ryan told himself to stay calm. Kids had a way of wandering off in the blink of an eye. “C’mon,” he said, but when he made for the stairs, he started running.

  In the office, he flung open the security cabinet doors and keyed up the images on the monitors. Front gate, paps gathered there. Dock, the boat bobbing up and down. Camera focused on the woods to the south, showed no boy. North woods, the same. “I wish I’d set these up to record,” he muttered, then his gaze went to the video feed of the lawn, where Poppy and everyone else was fanning out toward the trees. “Go get Poppy, will you? Make her come inside.”

  “Me?” Linus said. “At this moment you can’t tell that woman anything.”

  Instead of arguing, Ryan went back to running. He tore along the hall to the terrace and raced down the stone steps. If her son was hurt...or worse, he didn’t want her to be the one finding him. Under the soaring kites, he caught up with her. His hand grasped her arm and turned her toward him.

  Her pale cheeks and the wild expression in her eyes hit him like a blow. She stared at him. “Ryan, he’s missing,” she said.

  “I know, baby.” He cupped her face in his hands. “We’ll find him for you. Go inside until we do.”

  She shook her head, golden tendrils dancing over her wide brow. “I have to look for him.”

  “No—”

  “He’s my everything,” she said, her voice tight. “He’s my only.”

  Ryan closed his eyes, her desperation squeezing his withered heart. Didn’t he know this pain all too well? “All right, sweetheart,” he said, taking her cold fingers in a firm grip, lacing them with his. “We’ll find him together.”

  “Ry.” Grant stood at his elbow. “Let the paps help.”

  He glanced over. “What?”

  “Unlock the gates. Let ’em in. They can search, too.”

  Poppy was already tugging on him, straining for the trees. “Okay,” he said over his shoulder. “Keep them to the front, though, will you? Take Linus or Brett for backup. Watch them like hawks.”

  “Come on,” Poppy urged. “The women are going to the other side of the woods. This one’s ours.”

  It was cooler in the shade of the conifers. Poppy shivered and he slid an arm around her shoulders. But she shrugged free as they worked their way around tall trunks and looked under deep sweeps of evergreen branches. “Mason!” she called. “Mason, come to Mommy!”

  Grimm seemed up to the task, as well. Instead of his usual exuberant gambol, he crisscrossed the area with purpose, sniffing at piles of leaves and around tumbled boulders. Squirrels skittered up trees. Birds flew to higher reaches.

  No small boy appeared.

  “Mason!” Poppy called, her voice hoarse. “Mason! Mommy’s waiting!”

  Frustration mounting, Ryan kicked at a mound of dried pine needles, scattering them and a gathering of industrious ants. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mason! It’s Duke! Yell if you can hear me! Mason!”

  Poppy halted to stare at him. There was a streak of dirt on her cheek and more of it dusting her hair. Even in her worry, he didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman so beautiful. “What?” he asked, when she continued to gape. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’ve never said his name before,” she whispered.

  He frowned at her. “Sure I have.”

  “No.” Then she shook herself and started forward again. “Mason!”

  Ryan joined his voice to hers. “Mason!”

  Three minutes later, his phone buzzed in his pocket. His eye on Poppy, moving ahead of him, he put it to his ear. “Did you find him?”

  “No.” Linus’s voice. “But we found someone else who shouldn’t be here.”

  Emerging from the woods, Poppy and Grimm at his side, Ryan saw Linus, Brett and Grant on the grass, the last two each grasping one of Denny Howell’s arms. The blond man’s expression was a combination of rebellion and sulkiness. Thirteen didn’t look good on a guy heading past thirty. When his gaze lit on Poppy, he struggled against the other men’s hold. “You should have done what I said, Poppy,” he called out.

  Ryan saw red. He strode up to the asshole and fisted his hand in the guy’s shirt. “What the hell are you doing here? I made it clear yesterday—”

  “He came for Mason,” Brett said.

  Poppy gasped. “What did you do with him?” She looked about her. “Where is he?”

  “I told you I wanted him to visit my mother,” Denny said. “Or get your boyfriend to hand over fifty grand. So when he refused—”

  “Don’t you blame this on Ryan!” Poppy said hotly. She marched up and pushed Ryan aside. Now her small fingers curled in Denny’s thermal. “Where is my son?” she asked, in lethal tones.

  Her ex tried leaning away fro
m her, but she held fast. “I don’t know, okay? I was waiting in the woods, you know, looking for my chance to...to talk to him—”

  “You mean kidnap,” Grant said.

  Denny slid a furtive glance toward the guy who’d played a CIA assassin in his last movie. “I was just planning to ask him if he wanted to go for a ride.”

  Poppy narrowed her eyes until they were slices of smoke. “My son would never go off with a stranger.”

  “He didn’t,” Grant said.

  A little smile curved Brett’s mouth. “Kid’s a Walker, through and through. According to Denny, here, when he tried to snatch him, Mace punched him in the stomach, kicked him in the knee and managed to run off.”

  “Where?” Ryan demanded. “Which way?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Denny said sullenly. “It’s like that kid’s some sort of kickboxing ninja. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Good for him,” Ryan said, thinking of all the workouts the boy had witnessed in the basement.

  Poppy released her ex’s shirt. “We’ve got to get back to searching.”

  “Just one thing first,” Ryan said, and looked at Brett and Grant. “Let him go for a moment, will you?”

  They complied.

  Denny, his wary gaze on Ryan’s face took a step away, in Brett’s direction. Poppy’s brother responded by shoving the guy toward Ryan. “I don’t want any trouble,” the ex said, whining as he stumbled.

  “Too late,” Ryan replied, then punched the jerk in the face.

  Denny windmilled back and would have gone down if Brett hadn’t caught him under the arms. “I think I should have done that,” Poppy’s brother complained.

  “Or me,” Poppy said, and then before any of them could blink, she stepped up and kicked Denny Howell, wanna-be kidnapper and deadbeat dad, straight in the balls.

  Those sheepskin boots must pack more of an umph than at first glance, because the man let out a small shriek, then crumpled. Brett let him fall this time, his shocked expression saying it was more by surprise than design. Ryan loomed over the man lying on the ground, his knees drawn up. Blood oozed from a cut on his mouth and he was cupping his groin.