by Pippa Grant
“Blake?” Hope says, gripping my thigh through my jeans like a lifeline.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you so much. For being here and…everything else.”
It kills me that she feels the need to thank me for being a decent human being, and that she didn’t have the love or support every kid needs growing up. But it means the world that she’s opening up and letting me into her thoughts.
And into her heart…
“Anything for you,” I say. “Anything.”
She leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek that warms me all the way to my core before she hops on the phone to call Ryan and tell him the latest. “Okay, sounds good,” she says after she gives him the update. She nods my way as she points straight ahead. “You guys head to the north boat ramp and we’ll take the south. Touch base soon.”
I push the pedal closer to the floorboard, racing past the first entrance to the river port toward the second nearly a mile away. Since the Army Corps of Engineers shifted the locks on the Chattahoochee to an appointment-only basis, this port doesn’t get nearly as much action as it did in the heyday of the big river barges. But there are still an abundance of smaller boats that don’t need the locks to ferry people and product up and down the river, and farmers who prefer to move their crops and animals via water.
Hopefully one of them isn’t loading up a stolen alpaca right now…
We’re almost to the south entrance when Hope’s phone dings again.
“It’s Olivia,” she says. “Dean must have tossed the dogs steaks to keep them from barking. She found T-bone remnants in the kennels. What a bastard!”
“You don’t like the dogs to have steak?”
“Yes, but only I’m allowed to give it to them so they like me best. Oh! Blake! Look!”
She points through the trees as they open up to reveal the riverfront and largely abandoned docks. A lone tugboat is rumbling at the end of the closest pier, and there he is—Dean dragging a clearly reluctant Chewy up onto the boat and tying him to the railing.
We careen around the last corner and I pull right up to the edge of the pavement before slamming on the brakes, holding a hand out to protect Hope, even though she’s in her seatbelt, until the truck’s fully stopped.
And then we’re both flying out of the cab.
“Dean Finister, unhand my alpaca!” she shouts.
Chewy shrieks in what sounds like a mixture of terror and excitement to hear his mama’s voice, and Dean whirls around, bracing himself on the railing, which whines audibly under his weight. God only knows where he dug up this boat, but it looks about two hundred years old, with peeling blue and gray paint, a window broken out of the wheelhouse, and black smoke belching from the top pipe.
Chewpaca wails again and strains at his lead, but the creaking railing where he’s tied holds. For now.
“Stop!” I order as I race onto the pier, Hope on my heels.
“Stay back, or I’ll toss him in the river!” Dean lifts both hands into the air. “I’m sorry to do this to you nice folks. It’s not personal, but I need the cash.”
“You were a cop!” Hope cries.
“Cops have gambling debts too, honey, and I’d like to live to see my next birthday.” He kicks the plank off the boat, and it starts to list away from the dock before we’ve reached it.
“We trusted you,” Hope sobs. “Blake!”
“He’s not getting away!” I assure her. I’m close enough.
I can make it.
Sprinting hard across the last few yards of the pier, I take a flying leap, soaring across open water for a heart-skipping moment before I roll onto the deck of the boat.
The wood planks let out an ominous groan and one board snaps in half beneath my knee as I rise to my feet.
Fuck.
How old is this thing?
I start toward Dean, but am frozen in my tracks by a war cry sailing through the air behind me. A beat later, Hope lands next to me with a thump before tumbling onto her hands and knees.
“You okay?”
“Just fine,” she assures me, clinging to my arm as I help her up. Her eyes narrow as they fix on Dean, who’s untied Chewy and is dragging him in the other direction. “Push that animal overboard, and you’re heading over next.”
“How about you let me borrow him for a few months,” Dean bargains, grip tightening on the lead. “You’ve got plenty to keep you busy.”
“You’re scaring him, stop it,” Hope insists as we advance on the older man and the clearly distressed animal, who’s prancing in place while emitting a warbling, bird-like cry.
“It’s over, Dean,” I growl. “Hand over the alpaca and take us back to shore, and the authorities will go easy on you.”
I have no idea if that’s true, but the truth comes second to getting Hope and Chewy safely back on dry land before this death trap falls apart in the water.
“Get off my boat!” Dean pushes Chewy into the wheelhouse. “You’re trespassing on private property!” He slams the door shut behind him.
Hope props her hands on her hips and shouts at Dean through the shattered window. “And you came onto my private property and stole my friend, you asshole. I can’t believe I felt sorry for you! I almost brought you coffee!”
I grab the wheelhouse door handle and tug, only for it to come off in my hand. I curse, but a broken handle won’t stop me. “Open up.” I pound my fist on the door, which rattles loosely in its frame. “Last chance, before I come in there and throttle you with my bare hands.”
Dean makes an “ah ah ah” sound and warns me to “watch that temper, son,” and I put my boot through the door, which is crazy easy to do.
Shouldn’t this thing be made of metal?
I kick the door again, higher this time, and it swings open, revealing a wheelhouse in even worse shape than the rest of the boat, complete with rotted floorboards on one side and an insane number of rabbit feet dangling from the wheel. The fact that whoever hung them thought superstition was a viable option for keeping the vessel seaworthy makes me even more eager to get the people and animals I love off of it.
Chewpaca groans, his eyes wide in his head as he strains against the rope, but Dean only clings tighter to his captive. He backs into the far corner of the space, summoning a yelp of pain from Chewy as he shoves him against a rusty filing cabinet just barely secured to the wall.
“Let him go!” Hope shouts. “If you hurt him, I swear to god…”
A surge of electricity, like a lightning bolt gathering in the air, makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. A second later something on the control board pops and sizzles.
I reach out to Hope on instinct, but when my fingertips connect with her elbow sparks dance between us, like under a wool blanket in the winter with all the lights off. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel great, either, so I pull my hand away.
“Chewy isn’t a commodity,” she seethes. “He’s a sweet, innocent animal who deserves love and safety and as much freedom from pain as I can give him. I made a promise to protect him the day he came to live at my farm, and I intend to keep it.”
There’s another pop, and smoke begins to wisp from the radio.
Dean’s eyes go wide.
“Hand me his lead,” she demands. “Now.” More sparks and a moment later smoke seeps from between the damaged floorboards on the other side of the room.
“I’d listen to her, Dean,” I warn. “She’s not here to play with you. Not even a little bit.”
“I’m not,” Hope assures him in a low, husky voice that makes me want to kiss her.
Damn, she’s sexy when she’s fighting for the things she loves.
Chewy tries to lunge around Dean, but he wraps an arm around the alpaca’s neck, holding tight as he stares Hope down. “I’m not playing either, little girl. I’ve got some bad men after me, and my life matters more than some dumb animal’s.”
“He’s not dumb,” she says, hands balling into fists at her sides. “And you don�
�t get to decide which lives matter and which don’t.”
“And you don’t get to decide—”
“Hand him over!’ she shouts.
“Get the hell off my boat, you crazy bi—” Dean’s words end in a yelp as Hope jabs him with a trembling finger.
“Let. My. Alpaca. Go,” she growls.
He rears back, but there’s nowhere to go, and instead, he bangs his head on the corner of the filing cabinet. “Ow!”
Blood gushes from his head as a series of mini-explosions on the boat’s control board sends an acrid smell through the room, and I conclude that letting Hope loose might not have been the smartest move.
Not while we’re on a boat over water, anyway.
“Hope. We need to go.” I ease past her, making meaningful eye contact with Dean as I mutter, “Hand him over, okay, man? Before we’re all in a watery grave at the bottom of the Chattahoochee?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly releases Chewy, who dashes straight to Hope, licking her face and humming in relief as she hugs his neck.
“Oh, baby,” she coos into his fur. “I’ve missed you too. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“No time for snuggles, folks,” a familiar voice booms from the doorway. Suddenly a dripping wet Clint is at my side. “Get Hope and the llama off the boat. Stat.”
“He’s not a llama!” Hope says indignantly for at least the hundredth time.
Clint grins as more sparks sizzle from the control board. “I know. Just wanted to test a theory. Now get. This deathtrap is off-limits to civilians and non-criminals. Even of the superhero variety.”
“I’m n-not a superhero,” she stammers.
Clint and I both look pointedly at the smoke oozing from several corners of the room.
“That was an accident,” she says sheepishly. “Mostly…”
“And I’m mostly ready to get out of here.” I hook an arm around her as Clint stalks toward the rapidly shrinking Dean, who’s cowering into himself and covering his blood-spattered head.
I don’t know what my brother’s going to do to the man, and I don’t care.
I just need to get Hope and Chewpaca off this boat.
Unfortunately, as we hustle outside the wheelhouse with Chewpaca humming along beside us, it becomes clear that we’re too far from shore to leap back onto dry land, and the current is carrying us swiftly downstream.
“Can he swim?” I ask, studying the churning surface of the water, not liking the looks of the current.
“I think so. If he has to, but isn’t there another way?”
The river isn’t wide—but it’s still a river, and it would be easy for both Chewy and the pair of us to get into trouble. We could wait and hope we drift closer to shore, but the smells coming from the wheelhouse behind us are ominous.
As is the smoke.
“Is there a lifeboat, maybe?” Hope dashes around the edge of the tugboat, inspecting the boxes and looking over the edges while Chewpaca trots along behind her, clearly unwilling to let his savior out of his sight.
I spot a rope, but I’m not exactly the cowboy type who can lasso a tree and pull us to shore. Which means we need to steer this boat.
I head back into the wheelhouse, but before I make it through the door, Clint strides out in a puff of smoke.
“Boat’s on fire,” he says. “Faulty wiring. Gotta get off. Now.”
He’s dragging Dean, who looks like he’s had the fear of god, the devil, and my aunt Marlene put in him, which is only funny if you know Marlene. She’s sweet as pie until you insult her fried okra, and then watch the hell out.
Ryan and Jace still won’t go to her house alone.
“Agreed,” I say. “But we need to get closer to shore first. We’re not sure how Chewy is going to do in the water. Can you steer this thing?”
He shoves Dean at me. “Of course I can. Hold this criminal.”
Hope gasps as Clint heads back into the smoking wheelhouse. “No! Clint, come back.” She grabs my arm. “He’s going to pass out from smoke inhalation.”
“He won’t,” I assure her. “Marines don’t pass out. It’s biologically impossible.”
“That’s ridiculous. We have to get him out of there, and we have to jump,” she says. “If the boat explodes, it won’t matter that I love you and we saved Chewpaca because we’ll all be dead!”
“She’s got a point,” Dean says.
“Shut it.” I cut a hard look his way. “We’re going to be fine.”
“Not if we’re dead,” Dean says.
Chewpaca’s ears go back, and he spits at Dean.
“Good boy,” Hope says. “Now let’s see about—”
The boat changes direction suddenly. I bend my knees and widen my stance to maintain my footing, then look to Hope to see if she needs help. My gaze has just connected with hers when pain explodes in my left temple.
She screams.
Dean shouts something about every man for himself.
And while the world spins, he knocks into me from behind, pushing me off the boat.
Twenty-Six
Hope
* * *
“Oh my god, you killed my husband!”
I don’t think, I just charge Dean like a possessed woman, hand outstretched like I can fling lightning, which is ridiculous.
I might’ve been pissed enough in the wheelhouse that I could feel the static in my hair, but I’m not a freaking mutant superhero.
Even though I’m fairly certain I’m going to kill Dean for killing Blake.
“Wait, wait! I’m just trying to stay alive.” Dean holds up his hands and dodges, trips over a rope, and also falls off the side of the boat.
“For god’s sake,” Clint grunts behind me, “now I have to save two of them. Walk off the boat when it hits the shore in a minute, okay? And fucking stay there.”
But he grins and winks at me as he flies over the side of the boat, splashing into the water like this is all a game.
Except it’s not a game.
Dean could have knocked Blake unconscious.
And then he tossed him in the river.
“He could be drowning right now,” I sob to Chewpaca, who rubs his face against my shoulder and hums comfortingly, like he’s assuring me that Blake’s still awake and pulling hard toward shore.
But the water is choppy and I can’t see anything except waves and finally Clint’s head popping back above the surface. “Please, please,” I pray, heart racing with fear.
There’s a sudden jolt under our feet, and I spin to see we’ve run into the shore. When I turn back to the water, Clint is still swimming.
But now he’s also dragging someone behind him.
“Ohmygod.” My hands fly to cover my mouth.
It’s Blake.
A barely moving Blake who might need CPR the moment Clint pulls him onto the shore. I have to get to him. Now.
There’s a crack under my feet, furthering the urge to hurry. “Chewy! Off the boat! Come on, baby.” I lead the way down over the side, reaching back to help Chewy down onto the riverbank with tears streaming down my face.
I can’t stop them.
I just found my way back to Blake again.
I just told him the truth, told him how much I loved him.
And now he might be dead.
“Don’t be dead,” I sob as I race with Chewpaca through the bushes and bramble at the edge of the river toward where Clint is dragging Blake over the rocky riverbed. “Don’t be dead.”
“He’s fine. Just a flesh wound,” Clint says. “Better call 9-1-1 though.”
Without another word, he dives back into the river.
I drop to my knees next to Blake on the sandy part of the shore. He groans and puts a hand to his bleeding eyebrow. “Christ, that asshole has a hard head,” he says.
He’s dripping wet, his hair in his eyes and mixing with the blood still gushing out his wound, and he’s beautiful. Beautiful and alive, thank god.
I throw m
yself on him and hold tight.
“Hope,” he murmurs. “Baby. It’s all right. Shh. Don’t cry.”
“You’re okay,” I gasp.
In those few minutes when I feared the worst, my entire life had flashed before my eyes.
Lying awake in my sterile bedroom in my childhood home, more afraid to tell my parents that I’d wet the bed than I was of dragging a load of laundry down to the scary basement in the dark when I was just five years old.
My mother’s disappointment when I proved to be hopeless at ballet and violin and every lesson she dragged me to in the years before she gave up on drilling the tomboy out of her only daughter.
My father’s cool disapproval when I didn’t finish in the top ten of my graduating class.
Their utter frustration when they had to have the air conditioner repaired—again—when I got too close to it while playing in the yard.
Having to tell them both that I’d flunked out of vet school because I cried so hard when one of the pets I was caring for died that I burned out an entire row of computers in the lab.
Marrying Blake.
Divorcing Blake.
Coming home, and being forced to see him every day and fighting with him all the time because anger was the only way to keep the love from spilling over into my eyes, my voice, my touch.
Marrying him again. Kissing him in the courtroom.
Making love to my husband, this incredible man who’s taught me it’s safe to let down my walls.
I’m not done making love to him, not by a long shot.
In all ways that a person can make love—body, heart, and soul.
“Shh,” he says again, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. We got Chewpaca. Dean’s going down. Everything’s fine.”
“I just love you so much,” I sob. “I still have so much to learn about how to love you, but I love you. You’re my everything. Please don’t die.”
“I’m okay. I promise.” His arms tighten around me, a solid reassurance that he’s going to be fine, that he is fine, and I need to pull myself together and call for help. But where is my cell phone? And why can’t I quit crying?
“Sorry,” I say, sobbing harder.
