Jackson slipped back inside the garage after watching Sutton present Wyatt with his Christmas present—his dream car, a 1970 V8 Plymouth Hemi Cuda. Jackson had helped Sutton locate one that wasn’t too expensive or too beat up. Wyatt would relish the chance to lovingly restore it. As much as Jackson wanted an up close look-see at the car, he knew better than to interrupt the two lovers.
As happy as Jackson was for his twin—and he was—a peculiar loneliness spread through his chest and compressed his heart. Wyatt would always be a huge part of his life, but everything was changing and changing fast.
Since his memories began, his life and times had revolved around the garage. One day had blurred into the next with nothing of great significance standing out until the day his pop collapsed. Jackson had pumped his chest while Wyatt had blown his own breath into their pop’s lungs, but he’d still died.
Jackson glanced over at the spot in the first bay. Since that day, chaos had stalked him. He didn’t like chaos. Maybe no one was comfortable with chaos and change, but Wyatt seemed to roll with it easier than Jackson did.
He trudged up the stairs to the loft. Wyatt was moving his stuff little by little to Sutton’s house. Ford was still MIA, and the bookie was breathing down their necks for the money or else. Jackson wasn’t sure what the or else consisted of, but probably not a fruitcake.
Snowflakes drifted from the gray sky, swirling in cross winds. A childlike wonder pushed away the encroaching worries and vast solitude. What was Willa doing? Was she sitting outside her trailer with River watching the snow fall over the fallow field?
A more practical thought followed. It was literally below freezing outside and Jackson didn’t recall seeing anything more than a space heater in her trailer. How did she keep warm? Maybe she didn’t. The thought of Willa alone and shivering left his insides flayed and raw.
He glanced over at the present he’d bought her. A hand-sewn quilt from the Quilting Bee. It had been mocking him for days, but the opportunity to give it to her without looking weird hadn’t presented itself. And probably never would.
Her secrets still hung between them, but damned if he could sleep while she suffered. Her pride and independence wouldn’t keep her warm through the coldest nights Louisiana had seen in a decade. He considered taking the quilt to her, but decided to bring her to the quilt.
With the decision made, he pulled onto the parish road two minutes later, the back end of his Mustang fishtailing as the melting snow slicked the roads. Her car was parked next to the trailer, white dusting the roof and hood.
He knocked on the door and heard a bark from inside. Willa cracked the door open, the layers of clothes making her appear a foot bigger all the way around. A hoodie was drawn tight so a framed oval of her face was all that was visible.
“What are you doing here?” The fact there was no anger, only surprise, in her voice counted as a win.
“Checking on you.”
“I’m fine.” She cast her gaze over his head. “Oh my goodness, it’s snowing.”
“Yep, and it’s cold. Supposed to get down into the teens tonight.”
An anxious look flashed before she forced a tight smile. “River and I will have to cuddle up then.”
“You can’t stay here. Come back to my place. Please.”
Nothing about her softened. “I told you once already I don’t need saving.”
An anger usually reserved for the racetrack welled up inside of him like a geyser he was unable to cap. “I’m not trying to save you; I’m trying to help you.” His voice roughened and rose until he ended on a near shout. “That’s what you do when you care about someone, dammit.”
Her eyes went wide and her lips parted. “What do you mean?”
He was as shocked as she was that he’d said it aloud. But the truthfulness organized the mess in his chest into something manageable, and he plowed forward. “I mean that’s why I fixed your clutch. And helped with River. And why I’m here. I’m not great with talking about”—he ran a hand through his hair, damp from snow—“my feelings.”
“What do you want from me, Jackson?”
Were those tears in her eyes? His hands twitched. He wanted to draw her close and hold her until she smiled her crooked, teasing little smile.
He considered the loaded question. If he asked for everything swirling around in his head, she would slam the door in his face. “I want to sit in a warm room, watch it snow, and share a beer. I want you to grab a few things and stay at my place tonight. You can have my room, and I’ll take the couch or Wyatt’s bed. That’s it.”
She stared at him for a long time, her breath puffing white between them. With a sharp exhale, she asked with a warning in her voice, “Just for tonight?”
“For as long as you need.”
She stared at him for a long moment before nodding and shutting the door. Relief had him blowing out a breath that turned white in the air. He stomped his feet. He’d left so fast, he hadn’t grabbed a jacket.
Not five minutes later, she stepped out, holding a toiletry case and two plastic grocery bags, one with books and the other with clothes. River brushed past her to snuffle around his legs and notch her head in his hand for a pet.
She took a step toward her car, but he grabbed her. He couldn’t even feel her arm under the bulk of her layers. “Roads were already a little slick and your tires are balder than a baby’s butt.”
Her lips twitched. “You okay with massive amounts of dog hair in the Mustang?”
“I’m capable of vacuuming.” Before Willa and River, he would have never let an animal into his car.
Once they were on the road, he pointed to the bag on her lap. “Are you expecting to be so bored you need to read?”
“Library books. In the event of a natural disaster, I don’t want to leave them in the trailer. Several got ruined when the tornado rolled through a while back.”
“Doesn’t the library have an act-of-God forgiveness policy?”
“Marigold cut me a break.” She shifted to look out the window.
So many questions fought to escape, but he forced an even tone. “Marigold is a sweetheart. How’s Dave? I stopped by last week but he was too sick to talk.”
“You went to see him?” She turned back to him.
“Why are you surprised? Dave helped us convert the loft.”
“Yeah, Marigold told me that. I guess I don’t picture you having many friends. You’re always alone.”
“Seriously? Kettle meet pot.”
The sound of her laugh filled the car. It did nothing to heat the interior, but a place inside of him warmed, and he smiled.
“We’re a good match then.” Her laughter trailed into silence. Her expression was frozen into what he guessed was horror.
But the slip of her tongue bolstered his confidence. “We are. That’s why we work so well together.”
Her relief was palpable, and she relaxed into the seat, clutching the books to her chest. They arrived at the loft, and he ushered her and River up the stairs ahead of him, discreetly upping the thermostat so she would be more comfortable.
While she set the bag of books on the coffee table, he did a walk-through of his bedroom. Unlike Wyatt, he kept things tidy by habit. The bathroom wasn’t a disaster either. He set out a clean towel and washcloth. When he returned, she stood at the picture window, still wearing all her layers, but she’d pushed off the hoodie. Her hair stuck out like the spring growth from a bush.
She was chaos incarnate with her secretive, messy past and equally unconventional present. Chaos was unpredictable and scary and to be avoided. So why didn’t he want to run like hell? He stepped closer.
“I can’t remember the last time it snowed here,” he said softly, afraid to spook her. “Too bad it’ll melt tomorrow.”
“Then we’d better enjoy it while it lasts, huh?” The smile she aimed in his direction was wistful.
A clarity had risen from the seismic shifts of recent events and put him on alert. Was she referring to the weather or them?
“Did you see snow as a kid?” It was a first volley to try to hammer past her formidable defenses.
She chafed her arms even though the room was warm and she had on enough clothes to insulate an arctic explorer. “A few times. Enough to build a tiny snowman once.”
That meant farther north, but not too far. He doubted the years had chipped away her accent. Mississippi? Arkansas? Maybe even north Louisiana.
“What were your parents like?”
An internal debate seemed to be taking place. Finally, she said, “My mom died right after I was born. An aneurysm. It was just me and my dad.” She cast him a glance through her lashes. “He owned a garage.”
“Just like us.” The similarities between their childhoods were startling, yet somewhere along the way their paths had diverged, leaving Willa alone.
“Mr. Hobart reminded me of my dad so much. Your pop was a real special guy.”
“Is your dad dead?”
She shook her head, but didn’t speak.
“Is he looking for you?”
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.” Her voice cracked, and like a whip flaying his heart open, he bled for her.
No longer caring about the implications or whether or not it was a good idea, he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed before her weight fell against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.
“It wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. He’s a good man.” She trembled.
“I have a hard time believing whatever happened was all your fault either.” He would bet she’d long ago atoned for whatever sins she’d committed when she was young.
“I don’t know anymore.” Her voice was small and forlorn, but her words lit hope inside of him. He was close to earning her secrets. “I could really use a hot shower. I’m still cold and probably smell like a wet dog.”
She cleared her throat and stepped away. He let her go. They were in a constant dance of coming together then pulling apart.
River lifted her head where she was curled up in the corner of his couch. Willa went over, scratched under her chin, and dropped a kiss on her furry head. River licked her cheek and settled her head back on her paws.
“You hungry? I could rustle up some soup and crackers. Maybe a grilled cheese?” he asked.
“I’m always hungry.” She gave a little ironic smile.
Behind the smile lurked depressing implications. How many nights had she gone to bed hungry? Or cold? How many nights had she gone to bed scared or lonely or desperate?
“I left a towel in the bathroom. Make yourself at home,” he said even though there were a million other things swirling in his head. A million other things he wanted to offer her besides food and a hot shower.
She disappeared into the bathroom with one of her bags and the toiletry case. He stood and listened to the sound of the water for a few minutes. It was a small comfort knowing she was here and safe for now. He heated up canned chicken noodle soup and buttered bread for grilled cheese. The smell never failed to invoke his childhood.
They’d lived on soup and grilled cheese as kids when their pop had been too busy working to fix dinner, which was most nights. The aunts had brought over casseroles once or twice a week, but food didn’t survive long with four boys in the house.
The self-sufficiency and independence he’d gained had carried into adulthood. If the accusations of his few girlfriends were any indication, he was too self-sufficient and independent. He’d never needed them like they seemed to need him.
Willa was the opposite. She fought needing anyone—especially him. Was the compulsion a defensive habit or was that how she really wanted to live?
River sat up and Jackson stopped stirring to stare at the bathroom door. She stepped out in yoga pants and a T-shirt that read CAT HAIR IS LONELY PEOPLE GLITTER with an uneven scattering of sequins.
Without the hundred layers and with her damp hair tamed and tucked behind her ears, she looked so pretty his breath shuddered out. How had he gone nearly two years with blinders on where she was concerned? Maybe it had to do with self-preservation. Willa was a force of nature when he was used to living on placid waters.
* * *
“Smells good.” Unable to endure his examination a moment longer, Willa cracked the silence.
“You don’t have a cat.” The weirdly domestic sight of him cooking offset the rough, sexy edge of his voice.
“No, but I assume whoever dropped it off at the secondhand shop did.” She touched the rough sequins on her shirt with an eye roll, but her gaze streaked to his to assess his reaction. “After the tornado, most of my stuff was ruined, and I didn’t have the funds to jaunt off to the mall.”
Instead of reacting with pity or sympathy, he laughed. “Things are starting to make more sense.”
Her stomach felt like it was being dragged across river rocks. The dig at her wardrobe stung more than it should have. “I know I’m not fashionable like Sutton, but—”
“Not that.” He waved her over to a small stereo and handed her a CD.
It was Outkast. She shrugged and handed it back. “So?”
“You were wearing an Outkast T-shirt at Rufus’s. You said it was your favorite band. Are they really?”
She’d forgotten about that. A giggle escaped. A giggle? She stifled it immediately. “No. I do have a fading smidge of pride left. I didn’t want to admit where I bought it. Are they any good?” She handed him the case back.
“Not bad, but not my style. I was trying to figure out what you liked about them.”
The significance of his admission hit her like a slap upside her head. He had listened to Outkast to try to understand her. Who did that? No one she’d ever met before.
“That was really sweet of you, Jackson.” Where had that wobble in her voice come from?
Thankfully, he didn’t call her on it. “Soup and sandwiches are ready.”
While he doled out two bowls, she located silverware on the second try and set the table. He plopped down a box of crackers between them and sat down across from her. It was … homey and nice. Really nice. Like “she could get used to it real quick” nice.
Before she could panic, he asked, “If it’s not Outkast, who is your favorite band?”
The small talk calmed her impulses, and she dipped the corner of her grilled cheese into the soup. “Music isn’t really my thing. I like the classic rock that you guys play in the shop okay. The radio in the Honda was broken when I … got it.” She stumbled over the words, not quite a lie, but not the truth either. She forced a smile. “I guess you’re a big Eagles fan?”
“They’re all right. Pop liked the classic stuff. It would be weird to hear anything else in the garage. Around here, I listen mostly to country. Some Southern rock. I’m a simple man with simple tastes.” He smiled and his dimples flashed.
Simple, her butt. He was the most complicated of all the brothers. “You keep telling yourself that, stud.”
The shift in mood was immediate and tangible. Even though she’d said it with a certain amount of tease, there was no denying the sexual undertones. Or overtones. All sorts of tones were blaring like tornado warnings. She concentrated on her soup as a potent silence spread.
“I wish you’d told me your trailer got trashed during the tornado.” His voice was low and rumbly. “I would have helped.”
That day was imprinted on her memories, but not because of the loss of her trailer. The time she’d spent huddled in the back storage room of the garage with Jackson had cemented her infatuation with him. She hadn’t been working at the garage more than a couple of months, still feeling out the brothers and Mr. Hobart and always on guard in case one of them got any ideas.
The roaring wind overhead had forced her to abandon her position of aloofness. The fear was raw and primal and acute. Different from the gnawing anxiety she grappled with on a daily basis. She had latched on to him, the one warm solid thing in her existence at the time. He’d been stoic and calm and exactly what she’d needed in the dark.
“I hadn’t been working at the garage long and my experience with people—men in particular—is that help isn’t free and the price is usually more than I’m willing to pay.” She kept her voice light, but his expression turned stormy.
“I’m not like that. None of us Abbotts are.” He shrugged, and his face cleared of most of the darkness. “Except for Ford. He probably would expect something.”
“Yep. He’s one reason I tried to stick with you at work at the beginning.” She grabbed a cracker and stuffed it into her mouth. The defense mechanisms that kept her silent had obviously been shorted out by the snow. At this rate, she’d spill her life story before the soup got cold.
“And here I thought it was because of how good-looking I am.” The self-deprecating edge to his voice made her want to crawl into his lap and do things she’d only dreamed about.
Yes, he enriched her fantasy life, but no way was she going to confess that. Instead, she forced a tease into her voice. “Well, you are the pick of the litter, but that’s not why I like working with you.”
“Then it’s my extraordinary skill under the hood?”
That was true too, and at his side, her expertise had grown leaps and bounds. She could certainly claim his mechanic prowess as the reason she preferred working with him over his brothers. But, in this at least, she could offer a partial truth.
“After the tornado, I felt safe with you. Wyatt and Mack are nice and all, but they’re not…” special. Her brain finally clamped off her mouth.
“Willa.” The way he said her name was both heartbreaking and hopeful.
The longer they stared, the more fractured her breathing became. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she stood. “I’ll clean up.”
“Not a chance.” He took the bowl out of her hands, stacked it on top of his own, and put them both in the sink. “Dishes will keep. How about I make some hot chocolate and we enjoy the snow while it lasts?”
Thankful for the chance to escape for even a few minutes to compose herself, she retreated to the window. The flurries had lightened, but enough had already fallen to dust the ground and decorate the trees as if Mother Nature had sifted powdered sugar over Cottonbloom.
Her reflection wavered indistinctly in the window, as if she were a ghost. And wasn’t she close? She was living a half-life between past and present, truth and lie. She was tired. Tired of being strong and silent. The loneliness was like hauling around chains that added links every year.
Jackson joined her and handed over a mug with a few floating marshmallows. His reflection somehow seemed more solid than hers. She took a sip, the rich sweetness recalling the simplicity of her childhood.
“That hat you wear. For a long time, I assumed it was an ex-boyfriend’s, but it’s your dad’s, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s his.” Both good and bad memories were connected to the hat. “He was straightforward and honest. Taught me everything he knew. I worked in the garage from the time I became useful. Worked the register at first, but he had always let me tinker. Bought me an old engine when I was ten and taught me how to take it apart and put it back together.”
“You must have enjoyed it.”
“I did. Plus, I got to hang out with him, which sounds totally geeky, I know. When I got on up in high school, things changed.” One of her biggest regrets. If she’d spent her spare hours at the shop fixing cars instead of trying to fit in, would everything have worked out differently?
“How so?”
“He remarried.” It was an old story. The wicked stepmother. Except she hadn’t been. Not really.
The snow petered out as they stood and watched darkness stretch across the sky. The world was preternaturally quiet. She felt like one of the kids from the Narnia books after they’d stepped out of the wardrobe into an enchanted land.
He slipped the mug from her hands and set it down on the coffee table. She kept her gaze on his reflection as he paused behind her, not touching her but close enough for his heat to radiate.
After a near eternity, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, one low on her waist, the other heavy and solid over her chest. She should step away and distance herself from the spiderweb of entanglements. Instead, the elephant-sized weight on her heart ambled to the corner of the room, not gone but ignored.
She leaned back into his chest and reveled in his strength, both physical and emotional. Was it so wrong to take comfort in his arms? She wouldn’t let it go too far.
His heat was near incinerating. She would never be cold in his arms. To someone who’d spent more than her fair share of nights shivering in a ball under scant covers, it mattered. She turned her head and nuzzled her forehead into his neck, the stubble at his jaw rasping across her skin. Shivers erupted.
She took hold of his arm across her chest. His forearm was a thing of beauty. A part of his body worthy of being sculpted by a famous artist. Now instead of visually admiring it, she took her time exploring the crisp hair, the soft skin of the underside, and muscled ridges with both hands.
He coasted his lips along the shell of her ear to her jaw and tightened his arm around her waist, fitting them together. Good thing, as her knees wobbled and weakness flooded her system. Or was the heavy, sugared feeling pure arousal?
Her experience with men varied from quick teenaged grappling in the back of cars with Derrick to pinches and grabs inflicted when she least expected it. Whatever tender alchemy Jackson performed was foreign and intoxicating.
She turned her head enough to detour his wandering lips to hers. A gaspy moan escaped her when his mouth found hers. She didn’t have time to get embarrassed. Urgency thrummed, and he bypassed the coaxing preliminaries of their last kiss. His tongue pressed for entrance, and she didn’t hesitate to open for him.
His grip on her hip had a slight bite, but in concert with his tongue and lips, it only fed her arousal. Heat coiled in her lower belly. She arched her back and pressed her bottom into his pelvis, trepidation and excitement warring.
He switched his hold and scooped her into his arms, moving so fast her head swam. She squeezed her eyes even tighter, wanting to stay in her semidream state. Any light behind her eyelids was snuffed out and she peeked. They were in his bedroom, the king-sized bed against the wall getting closer. His profile was unreadable in the darkness. She leaned forward to press kisses along his jaw.
The world tipped again as she made contact with the mattress. A portion of his weight settled over her, but he held himself over her on his elbows. He speared his fingers into her hair and held her still while he resumed dominating her senses with his lips.
He rocked his hips slightly, and her legs spread to accommodate him without an order from her brain. His erection ground against her. After so many years of forcing her desires dormant, her body was slick and begging.
She slipped her hands under his shirt and explored his back with fingertips and nails. He hissed in a breath and arched into her touch. Power zinged through her like a lit fuse. She moved her hands ever higher. He propped himself up, grabbed the back of his shirt with one hand, and jerked it off in a less-than-graceful motion.
Instead of coming back over her, he slid his hand under the hem of her T-shirt and stroked the bare skin of her stomach. Her muscles flexed in response. He lifted the edge of her shirt, and between the two of them, her shirt joined his on the floor.
She wrapped her hands around his biceps and tried to pull him back over her so he wouldn’t have time to evaluate and judge her cheap white very nonsexy bra.
“You’re amazing. Everything I’ve dreamed about,” he whispered.
The words shot ice into her veins. He brushed his lips over hers, but she was frozen and unable to respond with an answering fire. She wasn’t amazing. She was a liar and had lived a nightmare, not a dream.
She pushed at his chest and scooched backward on the bed, hitting the mass of pillows and trapping herself in the corner.
“What’s wrong?” He knelt on the bed, sitting back on his heels. His voice had gone wonky in her ears as her heart pumped furiously.
“I’ve been lying to you. To all of you.” Her conscience tried to soothe her frazzled nerves. Omission of the truth wasn’t as bad as outright lying, was it?
“I figured.” He moved toward her, but she held up a hand and he stopped. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“What if you hate me?”
“I won’t.” He said it with such certainty that she almost believed him. Almost.
She drew in a shaky breath and whispered, “I hate myself sometimes.”
“It can’t be that terrible, Willa. What’d you do, kill someone?” The slight tease in his voice didn’t make headway through the ominous distance that separated them.
“Yes.” The word croaked out. She grabbed a pillow and used it to cover herself. A weak sort of protection when the damage done wouldn’t be physical.
“Self-defense? Was your ex hurting you?”
Now the literal moment of truth was upon her, she found the story ready to burst from her like an infected wound needing cauterizing.
“Not my ex, my best friend. She died of a drug overdose.”
“Did you make her swallow pills or force her to shoot up?”
“Of course not.” She buried her face in the pillow and didn’t worry about whether he could make out the words. Her confession was as much for herself as him. “But I introduced her to my boyfriend. Derrick sold pot around our high school. He was funny and charming and made me feel … important.”
The high school social hierarchy seemed so unimportant now. If-onlys went on repeating as usual.
“What happened to your friend?”
“Her name was Cynthia.” Her best friend had snorted when she laughed and bit her fingernails to the quick. She’d loved pineapple on her pizza and listened to old-school R.E.M. She wasn’t a nameless, faceless, forgotten statistic. “She loved Derrick’s parties. Neither one of us had ever been popular in school. It seemed harmless, mostly pot and alcohol.”
Willa had felt so grown-up with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. She’d even considered dropping out, but Cynthia wouldn’t hear of it. She had loved school. Her dream had been to go to college and teach elementary school. So Willa had stuck it out, but after graduation, she’d drifted, lost and rudderless, while Cynthia had started classes at the community college.
“After high school, we didn’t hang out as often. Maybe I was a little jealous that she seemed to know what she wanted out of life. I don’t know.” Her feelings back then were like a faded black-and-white picture. “But she never missed one of Derrick’s parties, and he and I stayed together for a while. Until I found a stash of heroin in his trunk.”
She’d been shocked and terrified, of course. Confronting him had only confused her. He’d told her it was a one-time deal. God, she’d been so naïve.
The bed shifted as she continued to excise the story bit by bit. “Cynthia wanted one hit, she said. Just to say she’d done it. I tried to stop her, but not hard enough. Derrick said it would be fine, even tried to talk me into taking some, but I was scared.”
“Did she OD?”
“No. When she came down, she said it wasn’t even that good, and I was relieved. After that, Derrick changed, or maybe he stopped pretending with me. He could be mean.”
“Did he hurt you?” Anger roughed his voice even more than usual.
Derrick had shattered her in ways she was still understanding, but that’s not what Jackson was asking. “He broke up with me. Said I was too immature and needy. It was hard, and I pretty much shut myself off from everyone including my dad and Cynthia. At the time, I thought it was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.”
“But it got worse.”
“Way worse.” She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Cynthia still went to Derrick’s parties. I was so mad and hurt. I thought they had started dating so I ignored her calls and texts. Turns out she had tried heroin again. And again. She needed my help and I … I ignored her. Once I realized, I went looking for her and found her in his basement, high. Her arm was lined with at least a dozen needle tracks. I didn’t know what to do or who could help me.”
“Why didn’t you go to your dad?” He sounded closer, but she didn’t take her face out of the pillow.
“He’d remarried by then, and I was being a total bitch to his new wife. Dad and I were barely talking at that point. I was afraid I would get Cynthia in trouble or get in trouble myself.”
“You were still his daughter, no matter what had happened.”
His words resonated as only the truth from hindsight could. “Cynthia refused to go to a clinic. Said that she could quit whenever she wanted. That it was all for fun. I should have dragged her to the hospital.”
Tears crawled up her throat. His hand brushed her arm, but she jerked away, her skin as raw and sensitive as her feelings. “I found her the next night at Derrick’s. As soon as I saw her I knew but I tried to revive her. I screamed for help. Prayed. Didn’t matter. She was dead.”
“Is that why you ran?”
She shook her head. “I got mad. At myself. At Derrick. His parties were nothing more than a means of getting kids hooked and then feeding their addictions. It should have been me, not Cynthia. And if I didn’t do something, it would be another girl, another party. I took his stash so he couldn’t sell to anyone else. I buried everything in the middle of nowhere.” A sob escaped with a trickle of tears. That last image of her best friend was branded on her brain.
“I didn’t realize at the time how the supply chain worked and how low Derrick was on it. Some very pissed-off big-time dealers expected their money. Plus he had the police all over him about Cynthia. He threatened to kill me and my dad if I didn’t give him the drugs or give him money.
“Dad scared him off, but I knew he’d be back to make good on his threat. Either him or the police. My fingerprints were all over Derrick’s apartment. I promised Dad I’d tell him everything in the morning. I left that night, and I’ve been running ever since.”
“What happened to Derrick?”
“He ran too, but the police got him and found more drugs in his car. But there are men that still want their money. I thought I could keep my dad safe if he didn’t know where I was. So far it’s worked.”
“The man who showed up to collect Ford’s debt … You thought he’d come for you, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “Derrick or one of his suppliers will eventually find me.”
“You’re going to keep running? Until when?”
She hadn’t wanted to run in the first place and didn’t want to keep running. Especially now. Another sob broke free and another, a wave of grief over past and present.
“Do you hate me?” The words emerged on gasps.
A harsh muttered curse registered a second before his arms came around her. “Of course not. Jesus, you were in a terrible situation.”
She didn’t drop the pillow but allowed herself the weakness of leaning into his chest a few inches. Regret and guilt dogged her for many reasons, but one had become a recurring nightmare. “I left her, Jackson. Left her lying there, vulnerable and exposed.”
“You were in shock.” His chest rumbled the matter-of-fact response.
It sounded like a copout. “I should have stayed with her until the police got there.”
“Do you remember the day Pop died?”
The sudden veering of topic threw her. She’d been a horrified bystander to their father’s collapse. “Of course.”
“He died at 2:05 P.M., and I was on the track racing that night. Does that sound normal or rational?”
For a run-of-the-mill man, perhaps not, but he was anything but. “Racing is how you cope with … well, everything. Grief, stress, uncertainty.”
He stilled against her, not even his chest rising for a breath. “I should have been with my brothers.”
She loosened her death clutch on the pillow and turned fully into his body, her hand landing on his shoulder. “They understood.”
“Maybe.” He cleared his throat, but his voice was still roughened with emotion. “My point is that I can picture every detail of Pop’s death, but afterward, everything is fuzzy. I wasn’t making good decisions. It’s a wonder I didn’t get myself killed.”
Was he right? Had she been in shock? The hours and days after she’d found Cynthia were fuzzy. Her headlong drive into the woods to get rid of the drugs. The wait for either Derrick or the police to show up at her house. The shock of Cynthia’s death weaving through the town and the inevitable questions from her dad and Cynthia’s grief-stricken parents. Willa had borne it all without shedding a tear, ready to accept her fate. It was the threat against her dad that had prompted her into action.
Jackson’s absolution didn’t magically wash away her guilt, but the burden felt lighter now it was shared. She wasn’t aware of time passing, but eventually, he worked the pillow from between them, maneuvered them down, and pulled the covers over them.
The cold nights of fitful sleep in the trailer plus the cathartic summoning of her demons had exhausted her. Wrapped in his arms, feeling truly safe for the first time in years, sleep claimed her fast and hard. Her last thought wasn’t narrowed to the sins of the past, but a new hope for the future.