Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (21 page)

Huh.

After he left, Jane brought the tray into the kitchen, still carrying the imprint of his body deep in her body, the echo of his words in her head.

We’re together now.
Flat. Possessive.

Like she didn’t have something to say about that.

A vague disquiet brushed wings across the back of her neck, but it could not grip and sting. Not tonight, when she was warm and sated from their lovemaking. She let herself think about today, about Gabe painting her walls and reading to her son and making her shatter on the porch swing, how wonderful he made her feel, how right.

She put the mugs in the dishwasher. Maybe at some point, a couple months or years down the road when Aidan was older, when her business was more established, when she and Gabe had known each other longer and her father had time to accept him, she’d be ready to think about tomorrow, too.

She was packing Aidan’s lunch for school when she heard tires on the drive outside and then keys at the door.

The back door eased open. Hank poked his head into the
kitchen, looking so much like a teenager sneaking in after curfew that she had to grin.

He frowned. “I thought you’d be in bed.”

“Not yet. You’re home late,” she observed.

“I had something to see to.”

Jane recalled Gabe’s suggestion that her dad could have a lady friend. “Something?” she teased. “Or someone?”

A faint red stain appeared high on his cheekbones.

Jane lowered her knife. “Dad?”

“I, ah . . .” Hank cleared his throat. “You and Aidan weren’t home for dinner. So I ate at Marta Lopez’s house.”

“Marta Lopez from work?”

He nodded.

Jane blinked. “I thought you two didn’t get along.”

“She’s a very nice woman,” Hank said. “Once you, er, get to know her. Nice sons.”

Oh
. A tiny pang, straight to the heart. Of course her father would like sons.

Jane gave herself a little shake. She was not even the tiniest bit upset by the idea that her father was dating. It wasn’t like he was betraying her mother’s memory. Mom had abandoned him. Abandoned them. Jane should take hope in the possibility that after all these years, her father was finally moving on. She should be delighted that he had a chance of finding happiness again.
Twenty years is a long time to go without sex
, Gabe had said.

Ew
.

Jane shrugged. So maybe she wasn’t ready to think about Dad and sex in the same sentence. She could still be happy for him.

“I’d like to,” she said. “Get to know her, that is. Why don’t you invite her to dinner here some night?”

Hank scowled. “I don’t know. She might not feel right, leaving the boys to fend for themselves.”

Jane ignored the implied criticism. “What are they, fifteen? Twenty?” When Aidan was grown, would she feel the same way? Like she still had to cook for him every night?

“I reckon.”

“I see Tomás almost every day already. He’s been working with Gabe on the addition. Maybe we should invite them all.”

Hank’s brows lowered. “You want to invite Tomás.”

“Tomás and Miguel and . . .” Jane took a deep breath. If her father could get on with his life, then so could she. “And Gabe.”

Your father will just have to get used to the idea that we’re together now.

Gabe had a point. In a town the size of Dare Island, there was no way she could keep a relationship between them secret. And no way the two men could avoid each other forever. At least with Marta present, Hank would have to behave himself.

“Hell, no,” Hank said.

Jane’s stomach swooped. “Daddy . . .”

“No. I won’t have that man in my house.”

Probably not a good time to tell him Gabe had been inside a whole lot more than the house.

Jane folded her hands to hide their trembling. “Dad, I’ve always been grateful to you for giving me and Aidan a home. I know I made a mistake when I was nineteen. But I’m not nineteen anymore. You have to trust me.”

“I trust you. It’s Murphy I don’t trust.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about Travis. You were right about him. But you’re wrong about Gabe.”

“I don’t give a damn about being right. I just want you to be . . .”

Her heart pounded. “Happy?”

Hank’s gaze met hers. “Safe.”

H
ANK
CROSSED
HIS
arms and leaned against the side of his police cruiser, watching the crew install the roof on Jane’s addition.

Working small-town law enforcement, you learned you couldn’t depend on another jurisdiction to come pick up their bad guys, even with an outstanding warrant. You couldn’t run somebody out of town or slap him in county jail for being a threat to public safety. You had to catch the son of a bitch actually breaking the law.

Or you could hang around, keeping an eye on things, making life uncomfortable enough that he moved on.

Gabe Murphy, damn his hide, showed no signs of moving on.

He was braced on the ladder between Jay Webber, on the ground, and Marta’s boy, Tomás, crouching on the ridge line. As Hank watched, Murphy grabbed the top of a metal roofing panel from Webber and half hauled, half shoved it toward Tomás. Murphy took the weight as they wrestled the
panel into place, the steel crackling like thunder. Murphy’s ugly-ass dog flinched. Drills whirred.

“Watch your screws,” Murphy called to Tomás. “You’re flattening the washers.”

“I think there’s something wrong with my nut driver,” Tomás said.

“Check the shaft,” Murphy said.

Jay guffawed. “Boy can’t screw if his tools don’t work right.”

Bunch of clowns.

“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” Jane inquired at Hank’s elbow.

Hank glanced down at his daughter, who had come out of the bakery to check on progress. Or to check on him. “Nope.”

“I thought you were off duty today.”

Hank shrugged. “Chief’s off. Luke’s tied up with a traffic complaint. I’m just keeping an eye on things.”

Jane folded her arms, mirroring his pose. “On things? Or on me?”

Hank grunted. “Wanted to talk to you.”

“Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee?” Jane invited. “On the house.”

“Marta says I drink too much coffee.”

Jane raised an eyebrow, amused. “A brownie, then.”

“You trying to fatten me up?”

Jane smiled. Her mother’s smile, he thought with a pang. “Sweeten you up, more like.”

“I’m not one of your old folks you can stick in the corner with a cookie and the crossword puzzle,” he said. “You’re not wrapping me around your finger.”

Her dimple deepened. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

Bang bang bang.
Murphy tapped the handle of his hammer against a metal seam as Webber wrestled another panel from the ground.

“Hold up,” Murphy ordered. “Piece needs to be cut around the skylight.” He started down the ladder.

Hank glared at them, distracted. “They better not be charging you by the hour.”

“Gabe said they’ll finish today,” Jane said.

“Good. That’s good.” She deserved some good news today. Hank squinted up at the low roofline. He didn’t want to watch her face as he delivered his news. “There’s something you need to know, and you might as well hear it from me.” He took a long breath. Released it. “Prison called the department this morning.”

“I know.”

He shot a look down at her. “What do you know?”

She tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm. “I got an automated call from Victim Assistance. Lauren got one, too. Travis is being released, it said. Within five days.”

He scowled, relieved he didn’t have to break the news to her after all. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” He covered her fingers with his hand. “You’ve been taking care of yourself and Aidan a long time now. You’ll be fine.”

“Then why are you worried, Dad?”

He harrumphed. “Don’t want this to get to you, that’s all.”

“It won’t,” she said. Sweet and simple and steadier than he thought she’d be. “I’m over this. Over him. I’m not a victim anymore. We’re divorced. I got a restraining order. Isn’t that a condition of his parole?”

Restraining order wouldn’t do any damn good if her asshole ex took it in his head to ignore it. But Hank kept that thought to himself. “That’s right. He comes sniffing around you, he’s in violation of his parole and goes back to prison to serve out the rest of his sentence. Seven months.” He patted her hand. “He’s got no way to get here anyway. No call to—”

Metal rattled, clattered, and screeched. A cry. A curse.
Clang.

Thud.

The ladder—and Tomás—sprawled on the ground.

“
Tomás?
” Jane covered her mouth with her hand.

Murphy dropped his tools, lunging to the boy’s side. The dog darted in, danced back.

Hank started forward. “Don’t move him.”

Murphy ignored them both, dropping to his knees behind the boy’s head. Tomás groaned.

Hank froze. He was no wuss, but, Jesus, that was Marta’s boy lying there.

Murphy put a hand under Tomás’s jaw—
checking his pulse?
—and then braced his head on either side. “Hey, pal. You fell. Try not to move, okay?”

“Ow. Ow.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

Tomás groaned.

“Buddy, your name.” Murphy’s voice was calm. Insistent.

The boy opened his eyes. His bleary gaze fixed on Murphy’s face. “You know my name. Tomás.”

“Yeah. Good.” Murphy slid a hand under Tomás’s neck. “You remember what happened?”

“I fell. Fucking ladder. Oh God, my wrist.”

“We’ll get to that. Lie still.” Murphy glanced up. His gaze speared Hank. “Call 911.”

911. Shit. The call would go straight to Marta.

Hank grabbed his phone. “What should I tell her?”

“We need an ambulance,” Murphy said.

There were people coming out of the bakery, customers alarmed by the noise or simply curious. Some damn fool pulled out a cell phone to take pictures. Jane hurried to intercept them.

Hank jolted into action. The scene needed to be secured. The victim needed medical attention and transport. He thumbed his phone. Took a deep breath. “Marta, there’s been an accident.”

*   *   *

T
OM
Á
S
WAS
CONSCIOUS
, breathing, not gushing blood.

He was bleeding, though, from the back of his skull. Gabe explored gently. No soft spots, no deformity, no grating of bone fragments. Good.

“Ow, my head. My head hurts,” Tomás said.

“No shit,” Gabe said. He braced his hands on either side of the boy’s head, stabilizing his neck. “You allergic to anything? Any drugs?” Asking now would save the EMTs time later.

“I’m not on drugs, man.” Tomás struggled to sit. “I frickin’ fell.”

“Stay down,” Gabe commanded. “You’re going to be fine. The paramedics are on their way, and they’ll check you out and make sure you’re okay.”

“What can I do?” Jane asked.

Head wounds always bled like a son of a bitch. Gabe wasn’t putting pressure on a possible skull fracture, but something to cover the wound, to staunch the bleeding, would be good. “Towels. Thanks.”

She nodded, face pale, and ran into the bakery.

Tomás shifted his legs restlessly. Not paralyzed. More good news.

“Hold still,” Gabe said. He looked up and found Hank. “Can you hold his head?” He was a cop, he should have some first aid training. “I need to check his spine.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Hank asked.

“Combat lifesaver,” Gabe said.

Hank nodded and kneeled down, placing his hands correctly over Gabe’s.

Removing his hands, Gabe shifted to the left. “On three.”

“Steady, now, son,” Hank said.
To which one of them?

Gabe positioned his grip at shoulder and hip, rotating the boy toward him to do a quick visual check of his back. No wounds, no bleeding, no protrusions. All good.

“Right. Let’s roll him back.”

Tomás moaned.

“You’re doing great.” Gabe pressed Tomás’s shoulders and hips. Collarbone and pelvis, fine.

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Some moron started videotaping as Jane ran up with a pile of towels.

“Here.” She set down the towels and took video dude’s arm. “Let’s move out of their way, okay?”

“Thanks,” Gabe said. He made a pad, applying it to Tomás’s bleeding skull.

“My wrist,” Tomás said.

Gabe looked. His forearm was puffy, swelling, his wrist hidden by his work glove. “Let’s take a look. You in pain?”

“
Mierda
, yeah.” His voice slurred.

Gabe began to peel delicately at the glove. “What kind of pain?”

“I don’t know, man. It—
Ow! Ow, shit
.”

“Hang in there, son,” Hank said.

Broken wrist. No bones protruding through the flesh. “Can you squeeze my hand?” Gabe asked.

Tomás complied weakly. The sirens blared, closer now.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Tomás moaned.

If he threw up lying on his back, he could aspirate chunks.

“Not a problem,” Gabe said. “I’m going to rotate you on your side like I did before. Hank’s going to hold your head.” He looked at Hank. “Ready? On three.”

Tomás puked on Gabe’s knee as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot.

Two EMTs, one male, one female, came at a run.

“What do we have here?” the woman asked Hank.

Hank looked at Gabe, ceding control of the scene.

“Fall from this ladder, head wound, broken wrist,” Gabe reported. “Patient alert and responsive. On a scale of one to ten, pain’s at ‘fucking hurts.’”

The guy grinned. “You an EMT?”

“Marine,” Gabe said.

“Nice job,” the woman said. “Okay, we’re going to transport.”

They went to get the cot and backboard while Gabe wiped puke.

The guy crouched beside Gabe, taking Tomás’s hip and knee as the woman positioned the backboard. “Let’s roll him. Hank, you’ve got the head.”

The old cop nodded. “On my count. One, two, three.”

Gabe helped the male EMT lift Tomás, now secured on the backboard, onto the cot.

“Thanks,” the guy said. “We’ll take it from here.”

There was nothing else Gabe could do. He took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

A late-model sedan bumped over the curb and into the lot.

The car door flung open and an attractive older woman got out. Gabe recognized her from the police station—Marta, Tomás’s mom. She started forward, her high heels slipping on the gravel. “Tomás?”

“He’s okay,” Hank said.

She pressed her hand to her chest. “So much blood . . .”

Tomás raised his uninjured arm in a wavering salute. “Hi, Mami.”

She burst into tears. Hank took her in his arms.

“We’re ready to roll,” the female EMT said. “Marta, we’ll see you at the hospital.”

“Can’t I ride with him?”

“No room. You can ride up with me,” the guy said. “In the cab.”

“We’ll take the squad car.” Hank lifted Marta’s chin, smiling reassuringly. “Lights and sirens all the way.”

*   *   *

T
HE
AMBULANCE
AND
the police car pulled out, orange and blue lights flashing.

Jane watched them go. Or more accurately, she watched Gabe watch them go, hands in his pockets, profile taut and strong against the sun-dappled trees.

This Gabe was a stranger to her. An attractive, competent stranger in a familiar fatigue jacket and ripped, filthy jeans.

She knew he was tough. She had admired his perseverance, his work ethic, his cocky humor. But his utter certainty in dealing with Tomás, his total command of himself and the situation . . . This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. Confident. Compelling.

And, she admitted, very, very hot.

Not that she should notice that now.

The sirens faded. The action over, his rigid stance relaxed, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. She watched his certainty leach away and weariness take its place. Staring after the departed vehicles, his face was almost . . . lost.

A terrible tenderness seized her chest. He had so much heart. So much strength. So much pride. He didn’t deserve to look that way, like something precious had been snatched from him.

Lucky crawled out from under the porch and slunk to Gabe’s side, nudging his arm. Gabe glanced down, his expression lightening. He turned his hand out, petting the dog.

“Some Lassie you turned out to be,” he said affectionately. “You’re useless.”

“You were wonderful,” Jane said. “Thank God you were here.”

Gabe shrugged. “Your dad could have handled it.”