Indelible (23 page)

She hung her coat and followed Trevor to the kitchen where he opened a cabinet.

“SpaghettiOs?”

“With meatballs.” He pulled a can from the half dozen standing side to side like matching soldiers.

Natalie held back, hands hovering, as Cody tried and slipped, then pulled awkwardly into a chair, singing out, “Buskettios!”

Afterward, since he was nearly dropping with fatigue, she brushed his teeth and jammied him, with a Pull-Up just in case, then tucked him into his magical tent with one of each stuffed species. She pressed a finger kiss to his mouth. “Jesus loves you. Aunt Nattie loves you. Daddy and Mommy love you.”

Thankfully that didn’t trigger tears. He just looked at her to see what came next.

“Trevor loves you,” Trevor said from the doorway.

Cody snuggled in, a smile on his lips. She rose from her knees and moved down the hall with the man who’d fit into her life like the glass with the clay—alien in nature yet blending into something new and amazing.

Just before the small living room opened out, he turned and braced her between his arms against the wall. “This has been my best day in a long, long time.”

“I can’t believe you got him skiing like that.”

“Next time we’ll build a jump.”

“You will not!”

He caught her wrists and laughed, truly happy, it seemed, then brought her fists together and stroked her knuckles with his thumbs. “Sounds weird, but he feels a little bit mine, you know?”

“You breathed him back to life.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t shrug it off. “It’s like this was meant to be—and I don’t believe in that.”

“I do. Just the fact that you were there. Right there, Trevor. How is that not God?”

Dropping his chin, he said, “If that was God, it was more about you or Cody than anything to do with me.”

“I know your dad rejected you, but God—”

“You said you never knew Mad Dog. I’m going to introduce you.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

“When I was five, a family friend, Brick Emerson, saw me ski and took on my training. We hit the slopes every day.”

“In Colorado?”

“Alaska. There’s a little skiing there too.”

“You grew up in Alaska?”

“My dad’s a wildcatter.”

“Oh.” A thrill seeker, bored with home and family. Was that the part Trevor saw in himself, the part that drove him toward adventure and risk?

“I was racing competitively at eight, breaking records by ten.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t know it was such a big part of your life.”

“Racing’s a drug. Sometimes the need for it still lodges in my solar plexus. I feel the motion, the tension of the start gate, the pump of the countdown. In my sleep I’m shooting out of the gate, feeling the fall line.”

“I wish I’d seen you.”

He stroked her shoulder. “It’s not the skiing I miss most. It’s the winning.” His voice hoarsened. “The feeling that nothing can stop me.”

“Not even a mountain lion.”

He gave a slow blink. “I quit racing when my dad left. No time to train, and I wouldn’t be anything less than best.”

In Fleur’s words,
“He didn’t like to lose.”

“After Ellis died, Brick all but dragged me back, a foot and a half taller and four years older than the last time I raced.”

“Were you scared?”

He shrugged. “Competition was tough. The team I trained with, hung out with, all but lived with were also my opponents. You’re a team, but you never forget it’s about your time, your finish over theirs.”

“The years off didn’t hurt?”

“I’d been swift and agile before. I came back with power. And a pretty big chip. Out on the runs, I could forget, I could control the outcome. In two years I was winning gold. I raised the bar on the whole team.”

“Pretty amazing.”

“It’s a grueling, aggressive sport. Mental acuity and toughness make as much difference as conditioning. Digging into the loss and rage made me fierce.”

“Mad Dog,” she murmured.

He nodded, grimly acknowledging the moniker. “I don’t remember who said it first, who called me a mad dog on the slopes, but it caught fire. I think it even found print. And it wasn’t only about racing.” His brow formed the twist her hands knew so well. “We were wild, the men’s and women’s ski teams, living hard and fast. I had no limits.” He stared at a place behind her head.

She held her breath, feeling it coming like a train in a tunnel.

“The pressure was incredible, everyone wondering if I could sweep gold. I knew I could. I was unbeatable. On the slopes and off—in my own head, anyway. I hooked up with Tanya, both of us medal contenders for that year’s Olympics. For two months, we tore up the sheets like we tore up the slopes. She’d covered it and I’d covered it, but she still got pregnant.”

Her breath escaped. “You have a child?”

“No.” He closed his eyes. “That’s the second death I caused, and the reason I never take that chance again.”

Softly, her voice came out of the silence between them. “You didn’t cause Ellis.”

“Not as directly as the abortion.” Pressure pinched the skin between his brows.

“Wasn’t that Tanya’s decision?”

“She was racing. She was training. She had everything ahead of her.”

“So it was right?”

“You know the answer to that. But I’d have gone on and taken gold and she’d have been having a baby neither of us could raise.”

“You never discussed adoption?”

“The baby was gone before the next time trials. That’s on me, Natalie.” His throat constricted. “So now do you get it? I’m no angel.”

“You’ve done everything since to make up for it.”

“Make up for an innocent life?”

“You saved Cody’s.”

He closed his eyes. “I think the accident was retribution.”

“God destroying your career for the life destroyed?”

“Not a fair trade, I know, but it was everything to me.”

She rested her hand on his chest. “God doesn’t shoot tragedy from heaven like lightning bolts.”

“Awfully circumstantial, you have to admit. That race out of all my races. My run out of all the other racers. The banner and me converging in a great cosmic correction.” He grimaced. “I knew when I hit it, it was over. And the first thought in my head was I deserved it.”

Her fingers touched his jaw. “No.”

“That reckless, angry person had to go. As long as I was winning, it wouldn’t happen.”

“Oh, Trevor.”

He clasped her shoulders. “I don’t know how far he’s gone. Not far enough maybe.”

She flicked him a rare full glance. “That might be who you were, but what I saw again this morning reminded me who you are.”

Her mouth on his was soft and sweet, his reaction anything but. When he’d first seen her, looking like she saw a ghost—or a god—he’d thought her weak, wistful, even a little weird. No different from anyone else. Yet here she was like a trusted rope, supple, strong, unfailing.

He stroked her silky hair, breathed the scented oil, certain it would smell different on anyone but her. In spite of himself, he found her mouth again, kissing and touching and holding on so hard.

Finally drawing apart, she sighed. “We have to stop.”

“I hear you.”

“I only slept two hours last night.”

She needed time. He needed perspective. This close, he could forget the lessons he’d learned.

He kissed her hairline, brushed her cheek with his thumb, and stepped back, their clasped hands lingering as the distance increased. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

She nodded, okay with that now, but by tomorrow? She might have a whole new point of view.

Snow had drifted down all night, and it wouldn’t clear itself, so Fleur wedged the storm door open and took down the broom. She shoved against the thickening mass, light and powdery on top but compacted beneath. She expelled an irritated breath.

She used to love the snow. But what made snow wonderful—besides what you could do on it—was how it looked, falling from the sky, fluffing up the ground and trees, the sparkles drifting in the air, a brilliant seabed of dazzle on the ground. It didn’t feel wonderful or sound comforting like rain or like anything at all unless there was wind, and no one liked a blizzard. With the cold pinching her nose, she heaved another sigh. She used to be tougher than this.

She jumped when someone said, “Hey, there. Let me get that.”

He’d taken the broom before she realized anyone was there, unusual and unsettling.

“Sorry to startle you.”

The cloud of her breath condensed below her nose. “Pity parties must dull concentration.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Snow muffles footsteps. Do you have a shovel?”

“I do. It’s just big and awkward.”

“Let’s try it.”

She backed inside, running her fingers along the wall of her outer entry until they found the hanging shovel. She took it down.

He told her to stay in where it was warm. “I’ll clear the walk.”

“I was just going to do around the door.”

“It won’t take a minute.”

“Well, then, thank you. I’ll heat some hot chocolate.”

The scrape of the shovel and squeaky clumping of the snow told her he was already at it. As she went inside, she heard the storm door close and realized he’d unwedged it to keep the wind out. She removed the gloves and set them on the shelf, hung her coat, brushing the snow dust off. She tugged one and then the other duck boot off and left them by the heater to dry.

In her tidy and organized kitchen, she scooped instant cocoa into a mug and turned on the electric kettle. Outside, he began to whistle. The melody came through in muffled riffs distorted by the wind. She pursed her lips and blew, getting a soft
whoosh
but no more. She’d never been able to capture that tight, high-pitched sound.

Brushing a hand over her hair, she felt the melted flakes. She took a brush from the drawer and drew it through the dampened strands, then replaced the brush and closed the drawer. The water was agitating in the kettle but not yet rolling. By the time she poured and stirred the cocoa, he was tapping on the tempered-glass door. She returned to it, mug in hand.

“Here you go.” She handed him the mug and reached for the shovel.

His wet, icy fingertips brushed hers.

“Didn’t you wear gloves?”

“Nah.”

The wind whirled around them. “Would you like to come in?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Ask me in.”

Her heart made a slow beat, but she smiled. “This is Redford.”

“Well, we haven’t been introduced. I mean, you’re Fleur Destry, right?”

She raised her brows. “You know me?”

“Not yet. I’m Officer Newly. Seth Newly.” From the angle and feel of his handshake, he was average height and big boned, his hand callused but fleshy.

“How long have you served in the Redford PD?”

“Couple years. I was injured last fall in the meth bust.”

“Shot?”

“Only the chief got shot. The explosion broke my leg. But that was some bust. The chief was like an action hero going through the flames, pulling me out with a bullet hole in his side. I don’t even think he knew it.”

“You like your job.” She could hear it in his voice.

“Oh, the traffic stuff’s dull and domestics are a bi——, er, a pain. But yeah. I get to do stuff like shovel your walk.”

The corners of her mouth drew up. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in the job description.”

“The chief’s big on citizen assistance. Unlike some forces where the chief only pushes paper, Chief Westfall’s out there like the rest of us.”

“Shoveling walks.”

“Well, that was kind of an analogy. The chief—”

“Wants to make me a detective.”

She heard the indrawn breath, but instead of, “You’re blind,” he said, “You know him?”

“I grew up here. We ran in different circles, though. I was straight As; he was the one mothers warned their daughters about.”

Newly laughed hard. “I’ve heard that. Mostly from him.” A long, slurpy sip. “Now he’s having a baby. Well, his wife, Tia, is. You know Tia?”

“Yes. But not from school. She was a loner back then. Like Jonah.”

“She’s really smart. Has a doctorate or something in psychology. She
does workshops for the officers, stuff the state mandates, but she makes it cool.”