City of the Lost (46 page)

“Thank you,” he says.

“I’m hoping it’s not easily fixed.”

“Yeah, it is, but no one else knows that. I’ll get Val out here, show her the plane’s not starting, and tell her I’ll fix it before morning.”

“And in the meantime, while it’s still light out, you should comb the forest for the guy who attacked me.”

“Yep, I should. You up to coming along?”

I hesitate. “Physically, yes, but…” I look up at him. “You don’t want me out there, Eric. You know how I react to a threat. If Jacob came after you—”

“He won’t.”

“But if he did…”

“He
won’t
, and if he did and you pulled your gun, then that’s what happens. You can’t worry about that, Casey. You almost got killed worrying about it. You should have had your gun out the moment we got separated in the forest.”

“So shooting your brother would have been better?”

He puts his hand on my elbow, and I realize my arm’s shaking. He tugs me over to him, his grip too firm to escape.

“You need to trust yourself more,” he says.

I stare at him. “I’m sorry, but that is the stupidest damn thing you have ever said to me. Trust myself not to kill someone who presents a threat?”

“Blaine didn’t present a threat.”

I jerk back as if slapped. He moves forward, and I try to get out of his path, but he has me trapped between him and the plane.

“We’re having this conversation, Casey. Yes, you react to threats instinctively. Yes, that’s dangerous. But the only person you’ve actually killed
wasn’t
a threat. He was a fucking coward who turned his back on you and let you get beaten in a way I don’t even like to imagine, because it makes me want to hop in that plane and track down those bastards and do the same thing to them, and I don’t care if they’ve cleaned up their act and become pillars of the fucking community, I’d beat them within an inch of their lives. And if Blaine was still alive? I’d beat him, and I
wouldn’t
stop when he was within an inch of his life. But you didn’t go there thinking, ‘I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.’ You lost control, and to you, that’s worse. But you were reacting to what he’d already done to you. So unless you’re telling me that you’re afraid you’d shoot Jacob for what he’s done to you—”

“Of course not. What he did to me isn’t important.”

He makes a face but seems to decide this isn’t the time to lecture me on why it
should
be important. “Then you’re not going to shoot him, are you? At least not lethally.”

“If I fire a gun—”

“Then it’s a good thing you also have that knife. Now we need to speak to Val.”

Val takes our story at face value, without so much as a glance in the engine, and she accepts Dalton’s decision to spend the rest of the day searching for my attacker, to avoid a lynch mob.

As we walk, I ask about his brother. Yes, I’m freaked out over the possibility I’ll shoot Jacob, and I’m hoping that putting a face on him will stay my hand. It’s a scattershot discussion at first, mostly me asking questions and him giving basic answers. I get the feeling I’m prying, but as we walk deeper into the forest he begins to relax, and to talk—honestly talk—about his relationship with his brother.

Jacob blamed Dalton for leaving him. He went to Rockton and never came back. It was only after their parents died in a territory dispute with hostiles that Jacob found Rockton and his brother.

When they were reunited, Jacob had expected Dalton to return to the forest. Dalton had expected Jacob to come to Rockton. Each was furious that his own brother understood him so little.

“We were kids,” Dalton says. “I was seventeen, Jacob fourteen. You can’t see the other point of view then.”

So their early relationship had been fractious. They’d go months without seeing one another. That changed as they got older.

“What you heard the other day?” he says. “He hasn’t said those things in ten years. He hasn’t acted like he
felt
them in ten years.”

They came to accept each other’s lifestyle, if not fully understand it. For Jacob, it seemed more selfish—he wanted his brother out there with him as a companion in his solitary life. With Dalton, well, it was exactly what I’d expect. He wanted to help his brother. Not bring him into Rockton—he got that now—but smooth out the rough edges of his life.

“He doesn’t need to live in town,” he says. “I just want … I want more for him. More options. Steady trading, a place to stay when the weather gets bad or the game dries up.”

It reminds me of what Beth said about Dalton and her quest to get him to go south, lead what she considered a fuller life. The difference is that Dalton realizes it isn’t fear or timidity holding Jacob back, so he has stopped asking and accepts that this is his brother’s chosen life. He re-channels that frustrated urge toward those in Rockton who need and accept his help. Like Anders. Like me.

In those few hours in the forest, I’m not sure whom I get to know better: Jacob or Dalton. Once he starts talking about his brother, his fears and his frustrations pour out, and I don’t think he’s ever told anyone else this, and I appreciate it all the more for that.

We don’t find Jacob, and after a couple of hours I’m clearly flagging. We head back to town. Dalton will go back out with Anders after he’s eaten and grabbed flashlights. Which means he’ll have to tell Anders about Jacob, but he’s decided he needs to take that step. For his brother’s safety, he must bring someone else in on the secret, and the person he trusts most is his deputy. He’ll just say Jacob is his brother and let Anders conclude that Jacob voluntarily left Rockton years ago.

Talking about his brother hasn’t put Dalton in the lightest of moods. Not finding him makes it worse. So after we grab my bag from the hangar, I tell him I’ll just head home, but he stops me with, “Can you come to my place?”

“In the morning?”

He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Now. I should get something to eat. Would you come back with me?”

“Of course.”

I haven’t been in Dalton’s house. We hang out at my place, and he seems to spend relatively little time at his. I’ve seen it, of course. It looks exactly like mine, also on the edge of town. The first thing I notice are the books. It’s hard not to. The only living room wall that isn’t a bookcase is the one with the fireplace, and even it has shelves on either side. They’re arranged by subject, and I swear there’s something on every topic imaginable.

“I like to read,” he says as he comes up behind me.

I look back at him and smile. “I know.”

“You’re welcome to borrow anything. There are more upstairs.”

“I will. Thank you.”

A moment of silence as I run my finger over a few titles. Then he says, “And thank you.”

“For what?” I glance over my shoulder and he’s standing there, hands in his pockets again, looking uncomfortable and a little bit lost.

“Everything,” he says. “Understanding and just … everything.”

I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss him. I just intend a quick kiss— I know this isn’t the time—but it’s like that’s the sign he was waiting for.

His arms go around me, pulling me into a kiss that’s careful at first, slow and cautious, his body held tight, waiting for any indication, that first signal that this isn’t where I was heading. It wasn’t, but it sure as hell can be, and I put my arms around his neck, my fingers in his hair, and that’s all he needs to stomp that accelerator, and I swear it’s not five seconds before we’re on the floor and he’s tugging off my shirt.

Then he stops. He blinks hard, breathing ragged, struggling to get it under control as he says, “Too fast?” and I want to laugh. I really do, because there’s this note in his voice, the one that says he knows he’s moving at the speed of light but he really, really wants me to say I see absolutely nothing wrong with disrobing five seconds after the kissing starts. So, yes, I want to laugh. Which would, of course, be the entirely wrong response. Instead, when he says, “Too fast?” I grin for him, reply, “Hell, no,” and reach for his belt buckle, and he hits the gas again.

We’re lying on the floor, naked. Or mostly naked, because given the speed, we didn’t quite manage to get our clothing all the way off. My shirt is still hooked around one elbow and I’m pretty sure he only bothered getting one leg out of his jeans. But despite the practically non-existent foreplay, he made up for it where it counted, and damn … I’m stretched out, happy and sated, and he’s looking down at me, grinning, obviously very pleased with himself, and when I say so, he chuckles and says, “I just liked hearing you say my name.”

“You mean saying your name while I’m coming.”

“Uh-huh.”

I laugh, and he tugs my shirt the rest of the way off and shoves it aside. Then he pulls me against him and says, “Didn’t think I had a shot.”

“With what?”

“You. Didn’t like me very much.”

“You didn’t think much of me, either.”

“Only because I didn’t know you.”

“Ditto.” I shift, getting comfortable against his chest. “I think that’s better, though. If it’s at-first-sight, what does that mean? Other than that you appreciate what you see? Better to fall for someone once you get to know him.”

“So you fell for me?”

His grin returns, and he looks so pleased with himself that I can’t resist poking him a little with, “I’m speaking hypothetically. If you fall for someone, it’s better if you get to know them first.”

I’m teasing, and my tone should give it away, but there’s this flash in his eyes, dismay and uncertainty, and he goes still, searching my gaze with that look I know so well, except there’s more to it this time. There’s worry and there’s fear, as he hunts for something specific, not certain he’ll find it.

“When I was in high school,” I say, “girls always talked about falling for guys. I never understood that. I’d meet someone, and I’d like what I saw, and if he liked what he saw, then it was all good. If he didn’t, no big deal—plenty of other guys out there.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods, but there’s this new look in his eyes, one that wants me to stop talking, just please stop talking, because explaining only makes it worse.

“Then, when I got older, friends would talk about more than just girlish crushes and infatuation. They’d talk about
really
falling for a guy. Meeting someone and it clicks and he’s exactly what they want and if they don’t win him—don’t ever have a chance—they’ll never quite get over it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I never knew what they meant. I just didn’t get it, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

I lean over, put my lips to his ear, and whisper, “I get it now,” and pull him into a kiss.

It’s later. Significantly later. That zero-to-sixty first time seems to have been enthusiasm rather than preference, and I get a much slower second time around, one that makes me very grateful for those women who’d taken the time to tutor him.

Now we’re lying on the floor, still in Dalton’s living room. The evening chill has settled and when I shiver against him, he rises, saying, “I’ll get the fire going.”

I shake my head. “I’ll start it after you leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says, as he crouches naked in front of the fireplace, which is already prepped and ready to light.

I rise on my elbows. “Will’s coming by—”

“And I’ll tell him I changed my mind.” He lights the fire and returns to lie down with me. “I want to stay here. With you. I can look in the morning, before we leave.”

“As much as I’d love to say yes—please—you’ll regret it if you don’t look tonight.”

He makes a face but doesn’t argue. We lie there a little longer, but when the knock comes at the door, he says, “Yeah, okay.” He starts to rise, then says, “You’ll stay here?”

I nod. He passes me my clothes, and I dress. Then I send him into the kitchen to get something to eat while I answer the door.

When Anders comes in, he says, “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine.” I glance over my shoulder at the kitchen and lower my voice. “Eric’s a little distracted tonight.”

Anders chuckles. “I bet he is.”

“It’s not that. He’ll talk to you, and you’ll understand more then, but just … just know that he’s not himself. Not as focused as he usually is. I’d appreciate it if you’d…”

“Watch out for him?”

“Please.”

“Always.”

We talk for a few minutes. Then Dalton comes out with a sandwich in each hand. He holds one out to me. When I try to refuse, he pushes it into my hand with, “Take. Eat. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, when you’re done that, go upstairs, get in bed, and stay there until I’m back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anders shakes his head. “Damn, that never works for me.”

“It’s all in how you say it,” Dalton replies.

I laugh, tell them goodbye, and then take my duffle and my sandwich back into the living room to enjoy the fire while I eat.

As I eat, I take Mick’s file and start reading the page Isabel added on him. Dalton said Mick got caught up in dirty cop business and tried to play it straight. That, it seems, is not the whole story. While it is true Mick had to get the hell out of Dodge—or, in this case, Vancouver—when he refused to play ball with guys on his task force, it seems the trouble went a few steps further. Mick’s partner had also refused the payoffs. The drug guys had caught up with him and killed him. Then Mick tracked them down and killed
them
.

So Mick wasn’t just a cop. He was a cop with a taste for vigilante justice. And two of our victims are in his files, as killers who escaped justice by buying their way into Rockton.

Isabel thought he’d been keeping notes for Dalton. She’s partly right. These
are
Dalton’s notes—the same ones I read in his journal. But there’s no way Dalton let Mick in on his secret crusade, and he certainly wouldn’t have allowed Mick to keep a copy of his notes.

Mick must have found out about the journal when he’d been working under Dalton and known where he kept it. They’re a little out of date, and he’s added extra notations, as if he’d been investigating on his own. Bartending is exactly the kind of job that makes it easy to learn other people’s secrets.