If Ever I Would Leave You: A Montana Rescue Prequel

by Susan May Warren

  The sound, spiking into the silence, startled him. Snapped him out of his haze, and he stared at the mess, the shards of glass, the bourbon staining his carpet.

  The rank smell rose into the expanse of the room.

  “Ian—oh my gosh, are you okay?”

  The voice made him turn.

  Sierra stood in the entryway, holding two bags of groceries in her arms, the door open behind her.

  Oh no. He scrubbed his hands down his face, then nodded. “I just…” But he had nothing.

  Her expression turned grim, sad. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll clean this up.”

  “No, Sierra—” He started for her, but she rushed in, put the grocery bags on the table.

  “Stay where you are, there’s glass.”

  Not a problem. He came over the back of the sofa. Picked up the grocery bags and followed her to the kitchen. Set them on the counter.

  Wow, he was glad to see her. Something about just having her in the same room chased the shadows away, lifted the anvil off his chest.

  And, she’d called him Ian.

  “I can use this bag for the glass if we empty it.” She began to pull groceries from the bags. Fruit, lunch meat, eggs, cheese, milk, chips, more pickles—

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  She glanced at him, a container of coffee in her hand. “For what?”

  Really?

  “For everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.” And then, crazily, his eyes burned and he turned away, found a sack of potatoes at the bottom of the bag. Lifted them out and handed them to her like an offering.

  She met his eyes, so much kindness in her own, he couldn’t bear it. He looked away.

  “Ian—what’s going on?” She put the potatoes on the counter.

  There it was again. Ian. And now he couldn’t stop the flow of emotion. He’d blame it on the alcohol, but his eyes blurred and to his horror, real tears edged his eyes. Get a hold of yourself!

  So he walked away, to the sink. Pulling out a glass, he filled it with water. He had to get the whiskey taste from his mouth. He spat the water into the sink, filled the glass again. Stared out the window to the dismal gray clouds hanging low over the mountains.

  “Did I ever tell you that my wife died in Katrina?”

  She stilled behind him.

  His gaze stayed on his wretched reflection in the window. “The storm was coming and I was stuck on an oil rig in the Gulf. She begged me to come back, but…” He took another drink; the whiskey taste remained. “But, see, I couldn’t get back. We were having problems with the pumps, and I knew we’d have a spill if I didn’t stay, so she was left on her own. I tried to make her stay, but she was terrified. And she and my son Daniel got caught in the surge.”

  He turned to Sierra, and she was watching him, her beautiful eyes big, fixed, worried. “It took me ten days to find their bodies.” He rubbed his thumb over the glass, unable to bear the concern in her eyes. “I just don’t think I can go through this again. I can’t go through waiting and wondering and letting my heart hope every single time we get a clue. Hope is dangerous, and lethal and…cruel.”

  He hadn’t noticed that she’d taken a step toward him, close enough to reach out, to touch him.

  Except, she didn’t. Just stood there, her dark hair tumbling down, still damp from the rain. She didn’t wear any makeup—didn’t need to, the long lashes framing her beautiful eyes. And her expression was so unmasked it just might make him weep with the compassion in it.

  “I can’t give up, Sierra. I can’t stop searching. If I do, then none of it matters. The search. My resources—all of it means nothing if I don’t find her.”

  “That’s not true. Just because you haven’t found her doesn’t mean the searching doesn’t matter. It would matter to me.”

  “It would?”

  “Sure. To know someone loved me enough to try and find me? That would mean everything to me. And Esme knows that, wherever she is.”

  He tightened his jaw. “You don’t think she’s in the park, do you?”

  Sierra shook her head. “I think she…I think she and Dante are together. Safe.”

  He nodded, not sure why her words felt like a knife, serrating his chest. “Then, she left me.”

  “No. She simply couldn’t leave Dante.”

  Sierra touched him then, her hand on his arm. “But you’re not alone. We’ll keep searching until we find her.”

  And that did it. Maybe it was the whiskey, blurring the line. Maybe just the wretched ache inside. Maybe it was her words of faith, making him yearn for something he didn’t quite believe in.

  Or maybe it was just the way she’d never left his side, just like she promised.

  But he needed her. And not just her smile, the way she organized his life, or even the way she gave him hope.

  Her.

  He set down the glass, turned to her. She didn’t move, her gaze caught in his as he touched her face, lightly, his fingertips caressing her cheekbone. “Sierra. I don’t deserve you.”

  She swallowed, suddenly still, understanding flickering in her eyes. But she didn’t move away, and foolishly, maybe, he took that for a yes.

  He curled his hand around her neck, let the warning sirens fade from his brain, bent and kissed her.

  Sweetly, because it felt right. Exploring her lips, the taste of them, another wall of reserve fell when they went soft, accepting his touch. Still, she didn’t move—and he was about to get a grip on himself, pull away, when suddenly her hand touched his chest.

  Her palm, right against his heart.

  And then, she kissed him back.

  Opening her mouth, letting him in, moving deeper into his kiss.

  That’s all it took. He curled his arms around her, pulled her to himself, and dove in. She tasted sweet, as if she’d drunk a Coke on the way over, and her body melded to his. She fit into his embrace, and proved it by wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down to herself, adding a little noise of approval.

  Sierra.

  Oh, wow, Sierra. Her long hair tangled into his hands, her curves soft against the hard planes of his chest, and his body thundered, suddenly very, very awake. Alive.

  A thousand, million times better than whiskey.

  He gave himself right over into her arms, drinking her in, needing her. He bumped her up to the counter, put his arms around her waist to pull her up to it, and stepped closer, to pocket himself into her embrace.

  She didn’t resist. In fact, pulled him closer. And that’s when he realized, for the first time in two weeks, he just might survive.

  Because he wasn’t alone.

  He pulled back, breathing hard, caught her face in his hands, and met her beautiful hazel-green eyes, now filled with surprise.

  And not a little confusion.

  Clearly, he had to take this slowly.

  Especially when her eyes widened and all at once she seemed to come back to herself. “Oh no,” she whispered.

  Oh no?

  “Sierra—”

  “Oh, Mr. Shaw…I’m so sorry.” She pushed on his chest and he stepped back, trying to get his footing.

  Wait—what?

  “I shouldn’t have let myself do that. You were just so sad and—oh my gosh.” She hopped down off the counter, began to back away. “I never thought I was the kind of person to take advantage of someone when they’re drunk—”

  “I’m not drunk!”

  “Okay. Shh…let’s get you upstairs. You’re exhausted, I know that. And I’ll make you a sandwich—”

  “I don’t want a sandwich. I want—” You. Except suddenly it seemed that she didn’t want him.

  Or maybe— “Sierra, are you afraid you just came on to me?” Not to quote her, but he had nothing else. “Do you think I’m going to fire you?”

  Her eyes widened, and he’d hit the nail on the head.

  Wow, he felt like a jerk. Just like he knew he would— Shoot. “Please, don’t worry. This is on m
e.” And he hadn’t a clue how to make this better. Because yeah, she did work for him. And he needed her.

  But he also needed her. Kissing her just then might have actually saved his wretched life.

  “Sierra, this is not your fault. I kissed you. And yeah, I’m a little strung out right now, but I’m not drunk. Really.”

  “Okay, Mr. Shaw,” she said, and he heard the tone of appeasement.

  “Stop calling me Mr. Shaw!” Oops. Now he sounded drunk. And a little out of control. And, by the way she began to back away, he’d scared her.

  Nice, Ian. He schooled his voice. “Please stop calling me Mr. Shaw. It makes me feel old. And a little imperial. And creepy, since I just kissed you.”

  She bit her lip. Nodded. “Okay. Ian.” She took a breath. “But I’m worried about you. So, please get some rest, let me bring you something to eat, okay?”

  Something to—fine. Maybe he did need a little food in his stomach, help him sort out his thoughts.

  Especially when he nodded, and the room spun.

  Not drunk, but maybe a little…woozy.

  “Okay. But please, don’t leave. Promise me you’ll stay so we can talk this out.”

  She looked at him, and then, silently, nodded.

  “Oh, Willow, what have I done?”

  Sierra sat on the front porch, the cicadas buzzing around them, the sky dark overhead, the air soggy from today’s storm. Her driveway resembled stew, and not far away, toward the center of town, the Mercy River thundered.

  Willow sat beside her, wrapping a sweater around her. “So, let me get this straight. You were standing there one second, the next—kissing him.”

  “Yeah, I think he kissed me first, but I certainly didn’t stop him. He just smelled so good, like he’d just gotten out of the shower, and his hair was tousled and curly around his ears. I just kept looking at it and wanting to twist it around my fingers and… Oh, Willow, he looked at me as if he might cry and all I could think of was putting my arms around him. And then he kissed me. Or maybe I kissed him, I don’t know—we were just standing there, and suddenly, my hands were on his chest, and his amazing arms were around me and…I’m such a terrible person.”

  “Uh, pardon me, but I don’t see the problem here. The man you’re in love with has finally kissed you? Cry me a river.”

  “Stop—don’t you see? He was vulnerable and tired, and drunk, Willow. He didn’t know what he was doing!”

  “Oh, c’mon—Ian Shaw? Drunk? Wrestling an alligator, I’m all over that, but drunk?”

  “I’m serious. I’m not sure how much he had to drink, but he’d barely eaten, was exhausted, and frankly, I don’t know how he was even standing. And yeah, he might have kissed me, but I certainly didn’t stop him. He kept talking about how alone he was, and I said something about having faith, and then—I just wanted to be in his arms. To have him tell me that it was going to be okay. That we would find Esme.”

  Willow tucked her hands between her knees. “So, then he kissed you.”

  She sighed.

  “And clearly, your head exploded.”

  Willow had a way with words.

  “Fine. Yeah. I’ve never been kissed quite like that before. Like we’d dropped from a plane, holding onto each other, falling together. He kissed me like he needed air, and I was it. And his arms—oh, Willow, the man has arms. He picked me up, put me on the counter without breaking stride and for a long moment, I completely forgot who I was. And why I was there.”

  “I feel like I should avert my eyes.”

  Sierra laughed, but it fell into a groan. “And then, of course, I remembered. Because there I was, in Ian’s arms, and he was staring at me like I could save him and I realized—I’d just taken advantage of my boss.”

  “And that’s a statement you don’t hear every day. But, Sierra, you hardly took advantage of him. Ian has six inches and about a hundred pounds on you. Besides, when have you known Ian not to know exactly what he’s doing.”

  “This was it. The man has barely slept, he’s desperate, out of his mind with worry, and even if he wasn’t intoxicated, he’s vulnerable. And now he’s going to wake up in the morning with a headache and this dark, fuzzy nightmare of kissing his assistant.”

  “Nightmare?”

  “Yeah, because if he remembers anything, it’ll only mean I’ve managed to put a big A for Awkward in the middle of our business relationship. I should probably quit before he fires me.”

  “He’s not going to fire you.”

  “I don’t know—he said he wanted to talk, but by the time I made his dinner and brought it up to his bedroom, he’d fallen asleep. Just, out cold.”

  “Oh.”

  “See what I mean? So I cleaned up the glass—”

  “Wait—what glass?”

  “He threw a bottle of whiskey across the room. It shattered.”

  Willow stared at her, eyes wide. “Was this before or after the kiss?”

  “Before. See? Not himself. And trust me, when he wakes up, he’s going to want me to forget what happened.”

  “Or not.” Willow turned to her. “Remember when he came over and asked you out for dinner?”

  “He didn’t ask me out for dinner. He asked me to Esme’s birthday dinner. Big difference.”

  “Says you. But maybe that was a romantic cry for help?”

  Sierra closed her eyes. And Ian was right there, his blue eyes roaming her face a moment before he kissed her. She could still taste him—and yeah, whiskey, but something else, deeper. The sense of longing realized, maybe. A hunger that spiraled out into his touch, the way he wove his fingers through her hair, the angle of his head as he deepened his kiss.

  The thrum of his heartbeat under her hand before she wove her arms up around his neck and pulled his sculpted body against hers. Ignited her own heartbeat.

  I kissed you.

  Maybe. Yes.

  “I don’t know, Willow. Maybe we just go forward, try and forget it. Besides—he’s consumed with finding Esme. And I don’t blame him. The last thing he needs is the complication of, well, his love-struck assistant lurking in a corner to kiss him.” She put her face in her hands. “I am so embarrassed.”

  Willow’s arm went around her. “Okay, now we’ve left reality for Sierra-land, where everything is Sierra’s fault.”

  Sierra lifted her head. “What?”

  “Sis. This is you—something goes wrong, and you blame yourself. And frankly, take the punishment, too. Like Rhett. You poured everything into helping him land his tryout with the Blue Ox. And when he left you behind and moved on to another girl, you looked at yourself and decided it was because you weren’t enough. Not pretty enough, not devoted enough.”

  “Rhett didn’t want me, Willow.”

  “And he’s the loser there. But that’s not on you. And if Ian Shaw decides to kiss you, that’s not your fault either—”

  “But—”

  “No. He’s a big boy. And my guess is that he’s kissed plenty of women, so he knew exactly what he was doing. Even drunk.”

  The words sank in, grabbed hold. He had kissed her. And then, before she’d pushed him away, it looked very much like he’d like to pull her close and keep kissing her.

  Right then, for a moment, Mr. Shaw had vanished, and before her stood just Ian. A little broken, maybe, and needing her in a way that had nothing to do with her job.

  Maybe they could be more to each other, get beyond the titles to not just a working relationship but a relationship.

  Equals.

  Sierra listened to the splash of cars in puddles along Main Street, the night sounds rising around her, wondering if Ian had gotten up, searched for her. She promised him she’d stick around.

  That she’d never leave him.

  “I should get back there—what if he wakes up and I’m gone?” She started to get up, and Willow pulled her back down.

  “Have you lost your mind? Let him come to you.”

  “But he asked me not to leave—”
/>
  “It’s not like you’re in Siberia. He has wheels—fancy ones. And he knows where you live.” Willow leaned back on her hands, staring up into the darkened sky. “If he wants you, he’ll come for you.”

  Chapter 7

  The roaring headache could collapse Ian into the fetal position.

  But it had nothing on the blow that came as he eased his way downstairs and found Sierra’s office empty.

  She’d never once, in the two years of working for him, shown up late on a Monday morning.

  He stood there, the sun too bright in the room, his eyes burning as he stared at her vacant desk. At least she hadn’t cleared it—then again, everything in here belonged to him. The computer, the supplies, and yes, now that he noticed, her appointment calendar, the hardback one he’d given her for Christmas that always sat beside her in-box, was gone.

  He put his hand on the door frame, steadying himself.

  Maybe she’d left a text. But when he went to the kitchen to find his phone, he found only a missed call from Sheriff Blackburn.

  It gave him the smallest twinge of dark hope, a bitter weed twining through his chest. He pressed the button to return the call.

  It went to voice mail, and he hung up.

  Staring at his tidy living room. In a rush he remembered the shatter of glass, the rank smell of whiskey.

  She’d cleaned it up.

  He returned to the kitchen and got a drink of water. Listened to their conversation in his head. Clear, unforgotten, despite the whiskey. Sierra, this is not your fault. I kissed you.

  And boy howdy, had he. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel her in his arms, the way she surrendered to him. A trickle of heat went through his body at the memory of her hands around his neck, playing with his hair. How he hadn’t intended on slowing down, not at least until the look of horror came over her face. And then, Oh no, she’d said, right about the time he’d been thinking, Oh yes.

  But any spark of hope died with her embarrassment. I never thought I was the kind of person to take advantage of someone when they’re drunk—

  Yeah, well, he hadn’t been drunk. In fact, he’d known exactly what he was doing.

  And why.