At First Touch (The Malone Brothers) (7 page)

“What do you think they are?” Emily said, squeezing her hand. “Secret admirer?”

Reagan lightly elbowed her. “I hope not.”

“Eh, addressed to Airman Reagan Quinn, from Mr. and Mrs. John Ansley Lockley in Idaho,” Eric announced.

Reagan’s heart skipped a beat. Her friend Jake’s parents. They’d gone through basics together. Although they’d gone separate ways, they’d kept in touch after, and any time Jake had been close to her base, he’d stop in to see her. Jake was part of an USAF combat air unit. And now she was receiving boxes from his parents.

“Rea, what’s wrong?” Emily asked quietly, and her cold hands moved to Reagan’s cheeks. “You’ve turned white as a ghost.”

Reagan knew without even cracking into one box what the contents were.

And she knew exactly why they’d been sent to her.

“Don’t open them—” Reagan said quietly, but was interrupted by the sound of a knife splitting tape.

“Uh, sorry,” Eric said. “There’re paintings, Reagan,” he said. “Don’t you want to—”

“Close it back up,” she answered quickly, fighting to keep her voice from catching in her throat. “Just leave them alone, Eric.”

Grabbing her walking stick, Reagan pushed past the Malones and headed outside.

“Reagan, wait,” Emily called after her.

But Reagan didn’t wait. She had barely heard her sister’s request.

And although the sun had dropped, and the light outside grew dim, she made her way down by the marsh, and soon onto the dock.

The boxes contained her paintings. The ones she’d given to Jake because he’d always loved her work. And now his parents were sending them to her.

Jake Lockley was dead. That much she knew. The Lockleys’ only child.

As she walked over the marsh, the tide lapped at the saw grass, and the wind brushed her cheeks, drying the tears streaking down her face. The light tone of the supper faded. Disappeared. As if it’d never even happened at all.

A twinge of guilt crept over her. She was alive. She’d survived an accident with only the majority of her sight gone. She’d lived. Jake had not.

And she felt relief.

Should she feel guilty for that? How many of her brothers and sisters had lost their lives? Countless. Yet here she was, breathing, allowing the sun to dry selfish tears. Grateful. She should be damned grateful.

Drawing a lungful of salty air, she allowed the pain to wash through her. She’d miss her friend. He’d been a brave soldier who had died protecting his country.

Pride rushed in then, and eased the pain a little.

Maybe she should stop feeling so damned sorry for herself. She had her life. And it was truly a gift.

It was worth a try.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“E
RIC
,
MAN
,
JUST
give her some time,” Matt advised.

Eyeing his older but not necessarily always wiser brother, Eric rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Emily. Her brilliant eyes flashed, her lips quirked and she gave a slight shrug. He liked Em. They thought alike.

“You give her some time,” Eric announced, brushing past his brother standing in the doorway. “Besides, she’s had a good fifteen minutes. Time’s up.”

Matt grumbled behind him as the screen door slammed shut. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself headfirst in the drink.”

Eric waved without looking, making his way down to the marsh. Yeah, he wouldn’t be surprised by that at all. Not only was Reagan upset, but she’d be mad as hell that he’d followed her. Pissed once she found out he’d looked through her paintings.

He started over to the marsh and didn’t even bother trying to hide his approach. High tide lapped at the marsh’s edge, the dock pilings, and the closer Eric came to the small tin-roofed sanctuary at the end, the louder the sounds rose. Reagan, down on the floating dock, perched near the edge, her sneakers off and sitting beside her, and her feet in the water. In a subtle move she no doubt hoped to hide from Eric, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You don’t believe in the word
privacy
, do you?” she said without looking in his direction.

Eric dropped down beside her, noticing how the fading light blended with the strawberry colors in her hair, making the strands look as though they were on fire.

Not a very dude-like thought, he knew, which is why he’d most definitely keep it to himself.

“Your sister told me to come check on you,” Eric stated.

“Liar.”

Eric chuckled. “Well, let’s just say a look passed between us. One that was...conspirator-like. So I ran with it.” He gave her a playful punch in the arm, and to his surprise, Reagan didn’t even flinch.

Maybe she was getting somewhat used to him.

“Besides,” he continued, and cast a glance out over the glassy water, “I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall into the river.”

Reagan didn’t say anything, just shook her head. Her gaze was fixed at some point across the water, and Eric knew how it must suck not to be able to see. He kept quiet, waiting for her to unload. When she didn’t, he sighed. Braced himself. And moved his gaze to Reagan.

“I looked at your paintings,” he confessed.

Reagan’s body stiffened, and a whispered swear fell from her lips. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Eric ran a hand over his head. “Probably. But I couldn’t help myself.” His eyes moved over Reagan’s features, now half cast in the drawing shadows of dusk. A muscle flinched in her jaw, and her chest rose harsher. She was angry, and holding it in. “They’re incredible, Reagan Rose. Mind-blowingly incredible.” They were, too. Scenes of people doing ordinary things, like an old couple dancing on the boardwalk, or a young girl in a beanie reading on a park bench. None of the people were detailed physically—they were more like shadows without lines, almost blurs. Yet completely alive. He’d never seen anything like it before.

Still, Reagan sat there, not glancing his way, just keeping her face turned toward the river. Every so often, she’d lightly kick her feet, stirring up the ripples around her knees.

Eric scratched his head. Women usually opened right up to him. Not Reagan Quinn. She was clammed up tight, back stiff, shoulders squared off and rigid, and he didn’t really know what the hell to say to her. He finally blew out a frustrated breath. “Was it a friend of yours?” he finally asked. He’d guessed from Reagan’s reaction that the parents of a friend had sent the paintings to her. When Emily confirmed Reagan had done the paintings, Eric had drawn the conclusion the person was someone she’d served with. For the parents to be mailing them back to Reagan? Not a good sign.

“I don’t need counseling, Eric,” Reagan said quietly. “Shit happens. Happens all the time.” Again, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just need to process it. Alone.”

“Well, darlin’, that’s going to be quite a large problem,” Eric said. “Because you’re kind of a Malone now. And we work things out together. So if you want me to leave you to your...processing, then tell me about your friend.”

A heavy sigh escaped Reagan’s lips. “His name’s Jake. We went through boot camp together. He went on to become a combat pilot. No, he wasn’t my boyfriend. No, we never had sex. Yes, he was a very good friend. He always loved my paintings, and I’d given nearly all of them to him.” She faced Eric. “And now he’s dead. Paintings are mine once again. Now go away.” She turned back toward the river, lifted her feet from the water, and set them down on the dock and hugged her knees.

“I’ll just sit here and—”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she interrupted.

Eric drew a deep breath and rose. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Reagan answered. “Yeah.”

Eric started back across the marsh, but halfway up the dock he paused, leaned against the piling and turned back to watch Reagan. There was no way he was leaving her on the river after dark. Not in her condition.

As he stared, it struck Eric as ironic that in the haze of dusk, she could easily be one of her painting subjects. Only a silhouette existed, nondescript with undefined lines, yet clearly there was the small frame of a woman, sitting, knees pulled into chest. Thinking. Crying. Remembering.

He understood all of that.

He’d lost people, too. Coast Guard brethren. More than one to death.

And his heart had been robbed. Robbed like hell. Yeah, he knew.

As the sun fell behind the horizon, and the moon’s glare settled over the river, Eric kept his eyes fixed on Reagan’s shadowy figure. Finally, she rose, and the light
tap-tap-tap
of her walking stick preceded her cautious steps. The closer she grew, Eric retreated, until he reached the Quinns’ front porch where Matt and Emily sat together on the porch swing. Both looked at him as he climbed the steps to the veranda, then Emily’s eyes darted over Eric’s shoulder as she caught a glimpse of Reagan.

With her head held high, Reagan climbed the porch and stopped next to Eric. “I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “I don’t.”

Then she walked into the house, the screen door creaking across the night air.

“What did you do?” Matt asked.

Eric eyed his brother. “Not too much,” he answered. “Yet.”

“You can’t push her, bro,” Matt continued. “I know where she’s at. Been there myself.”

Eric nodded, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he answered, and pushed away from the post he leaned on and started down the porch to head home. “Me, too.” He threw a hand up. “Thanks for supper, Em. Night, lovebirds,” he said, and headed toward the pathway between the Quinns’ and Malones’.

Fast, soft footfalls rustled the leaves on the trail behind him, and he turned to see Emily’s tall, slender figure jogging toward him. In the shadows, she grasped his hands with her slight ones, and the moonlight caught the shine of her eyes as she stared up at him.

“Push,” she said. “With Reagan. She’s in a dark place, Eric, and I’m scared that if she doesn’t come out soon she never will.” Her slender fingers squeezed his, and Eric smiled and nodded.

“Push it is,” he replied. “But tastefully and tactfully.”

Emily nodded fervently. “Oh, absolutely. Yes. Much taste. Much tact.” She rose on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You and Reagan click. Your...auras blend beautifully.”

Eric cocked his head. “That may very well be the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me.” When Emily giggled, he ducked his head to look at her closely. “How can you tell? That our auras...blend?”

One side of Emily Quinn’s mouth quirked up. “Because she hasn’t punched you in the face yet.” She gave him a quick hug. “Just don’t give up on her. Even if she gets mean—and she might. She has been through a lot, and I know she doesn’t mean half the things she says. She’s just frustrated beyond belief. So independent, she doesn’t like having to depend on anyone for anything. Even on me. Deep down, my little sister is the sweetest, kindest soul alive. Right now, though? She’s built a proper wall around her heart. I don’t know... I think she might listen to you. Night.”

With that, his oddly adorable soon-to-be sister-in-law turned and jogged back to her side of the path, and Eric just stood there watching through the darkness. Soon, tinny music from another time washed over the night air as Emily played one of her favorite records from the thirties, or twenties—he couldn’t tell which. He listened for a moment, wondering what it would’ve been like back then. So much simpler, as Emily claimed. Eric could easily imagine it.

When he walked inside, Jep and Eric’s dad, Owen, were playing cards at the kitchen table. With his forearm resting against the doorjamb, Eric watched until Jep glanced up, his white eyebrows bunched together.

“You gonna watch or sit in, boy?” he asked.

Eric held his hands up. “I’m out tonight, fellas. Four o’clock comes early.” He nodded when his grandfather grumbled. “You two pirates continue on. Where’s Nathan?”

“In the shop, hopefully finishing up my chess table,” Jep added.

“How’s Reagan holding up?” Owen asked.

Eric shrugged and met his father’s eye. “Holding. Did you know she can paint like a demon? I’m talking art-gallery painting.” Eric shook his head. “Totally blew me away. Night.” Eric headed for the stairs, then paused two steps up at the sound of Jep’s gravelly voice.

“If that boy ain’t careful he’s gonna end up with that girl’s fist in his eye,” Jep grumped. “Deal me two more, Owen.”

“Dad,” his father crooned in that way he did when Jep was getting out of sorts. “Eric can handle himself just fine. Might be just what that poor girl needs. He can sure lift a spirit, that’s for sure. His own needs lifting, as well.”

“Yep, and he can sure piss a person off, too. Fist in his face, I tell ya. Paintbrush in the eye, if he doesn’t watch out. Your turn, son.”

Eric smiled and climbed the stairs. His grandpa was a damn character. He brushed his teeth, then crossed the hall to his room, pulled his shirt over his head, kicked his boots and jeans off and climbed into bed. He set his cell on the nightstand, alarm set for 4:00 a.m., and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again, staring at the blades on the ceiling fan as they went round and round. The moonlight split through the crack in the drapes, causing a shard of silver to fall over his bed.

Reagan Rose Quinn. Honorably discharged airman, blinded by a freak accident. Beautiful as all holy hell. And could paint images like nobody’s business. Not only dealing with her own recent accident, but now the death of a friend.

And she was mad. He couldn’t blame her. It was a lot to take in.

He lay there, wishing sleep to come. Begging it to come. His eyes were wide open, though, and his thoughts stayed on Reagan. He liked her fire. Her spirit. He didn’t know her, really, but he was a pretty decent judge of character. And he liked Reagan’s.

Hopefully, she’d grow comfortable with him. With the rest of the family. Open up. Try to face her new future head-on. He couldn’t imagine someone like her wilting away to nothing. Emily had asked him to push, and he’d said he would.

And he would. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. Not at all, For either of them. Because pushing meant growing closer. He’d allowed his heart to fully open to Celeste, and she’d crushed it. Thoroughly. He’d planned on a life with her, someone to have babies and grow old with. Have a big family, just like the one he’d grown up in. Celeste had taken that dream and thrown it away.

Maybe it’d been his dream only, all along?

What would happen if he opened his heart fully to Reagan, only for her to later break it? Could he handle that again?

He’d even wondered if Celeste would ever come back to him. Would he trust his heart to her if she did?

Would he even want to?

* * *

R
EAGAN
LISTENED
TO
Emily’s Jeep as the tires crunched over the gravel of the driveway, until the roar of the motor grew farther and farther away. After she’d showered and wrapped her hair in one fluffy towel, she put another towel around her body, pushed her feet into a pair of flip-flops and, deciding she could manage without that annoying stick, made her way to the back veranda. When she opened the door, bright sunlight fell against her cheeks, and she eased out, found a chair and sat. Closing her eyes, Reagan let the morning wash over her, trying to focus on the sounds of the marsh instead of the turmoil inside her head. Already she felt tired. Nothing interested her. She had zero motivation.

“Dear God, I’ve gone straight to heaven.”

Reagan jumped where she sat. “Dammit, Eric! What are you doing here?” Feeling for the edges of her towel, she made sure they were tucked in tight and her boobs weren’t hanging out.

“Funny you should ask that, Reagan Rose. See, it’s my day off. And I have come to whisk you away on an adventure.”

“I’m not going on any adventure with you,” she stated. “Please leave.”

“Have you had breakfast?” he persisted. “We could go grab some—”

Reagan inhaled, exhaled, reining in her anger. “Malone, leave. I don’t want breakfast and I don’t want an adventure.”

“You just want to sit out here naked and stare into nothingness?” he asked.

She noticed the amusement in his voice, and although he was making her madder than hell, part of her had to force herself not to laugh.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Alone. Without you annoying me.”

“Do you sit out here naked every day?” he continued.

Reagan smothered a grin with her hand. “I’m not naked, fool.”

“You are under that towel.”

She almost laughed. Almost. But she held it in. “Leave! Or I swear I’ll call...Jep.”

A low amused noise sounded close, and she watched as his dark form rose. “This isn’t the end, Reagan Rose Quinn. It’s only the beginning. Have a nice day.”