Renegade
RENEGADE
Rose
Fionn’s sitting in the armchair, a bag of disgusting-looking dehydrated vegetable chips in his lap, his crochet project tucked at his side, his legs crossed at the ankles on the ottoman as a new reality-dating show plays on his TV. His shorts come just above the knee but they’ve ridden higher with the way he’s sitting. Since when have I been attracted to a guy’s legs? Since now, I guess. His are all tanned and muscly with just the right amount of hair that’s bleached from all his time running in the sun. I want to touch them. But of course, I don’t. I also want to tell him that it’s so fucking sexy that he’s sitting here with his yarn not even hiding the fact that he’s as into Surviving Love as I am. Why is that sexy? I have no fucking idea. But here we are.
“Val and Mitchell better win this thing, or I’m going to be pissed,” he says as his favorite couple appears on the screen.
I tamp down a grin, pretending to focus on my own crochet project, which I guess will be a sex swing after all because why not? Sandra called the other day to let me know that her husband was making me a frame, even though it’s probably not going to see much use since I’m on the driest dry spell ever. “I think Dani and are going to win.”
Fionn snorts. “ . What kind of a fucking douchebag name is that?”
“A made-up one.”
“My point exactly. He deserves to lose for the name alone.”
“Hate it all you want, Doc. He’s still going to win.”
Fionn gives me a piercing glare and I grin. God, I love that expression on him, when his eyes go lethal, their blue darkening to a deeper hue. There’s a hunter in there somewhere. I just know it. I can imagine him letting that beast out to play. Chasing me. Catching me. Holding me down and tearing my clothes and—
A notification comes through on Fionn’s phone, a sound I don’t recognize. He whips it from the side table and frowns at the screen. A look of shock passes over his face and he darts to his feet, scattering his dried veggies across the floor.
“Fucking Barbara ,” he hisses.
I grab a crutch and hop up onto my good foot. “Yeah, fucking Barbara . Let’s fuck her up,” I say, whipping my knife from the sheath at my back. “Who’s Barbara?”
“The raccoon.”
I blink at him as Fionn pockets his phone and strides to the table to grab his truck keys. “Aww, I don’t want to fuck her up. She sounds cute.”
“Trust me, she’s not so cute when she’s gotten into the medication cabinet. Or the break room. Or basically anywhere.” Fionn marches to the door and throws it open, then turns to give me a questioning look over his shoulder. “Well? Are you coming or what?”
He smiles, and it’s so bright, so beautiful, maybe even just a little bit unhinged, that I feel like I’m lit from the inside. I sheathe my knife and grab my other crutch and hobble toward him. His grin grows even more magnetic, a feat that doesn’t seem possible. I pass him to step onto the landing, and before I can attempt the stairs, he sweeps me up with a strong arm across my waist and doesn’t set me down until we’re next to the truck.
“She might look cute,” he says as he helps me up into the vehicle, “but don’t let her deceive you. She’ll tear your face off to get what she wants.”
I force a mischievous grin as he settles my injured leg into the footwell, trying not to think about what it might be like for him to toss me around when he lifts me so effortlessly, or what his hands might feel like gripped so tightly to my hips that he leaves fingerprints on my skin. “Are you talking about me, or the raccoon?”
Fionn huffs. “Both, probably. So I guess you’ll be evenly matched.”
He tosses my crutches onto the back seat and jogs around to the driver’s side, throwing the truck into reverse the moment it’s started so he can peel out of the driveway with a squeal of tires.
“So, how did you come to name a raccoon Barbara, anyway?” I ask as we turn onto Main Street.
“Kind of randomly, to be honest. It just seemed to suit her.”
“Any idea how the hell she’s getting into the clinic?”
“Witchcraft is my guess,” Fionn says as we watch a pair of state troopers drive in the opposite direction. We turn off Main Street and onto Stanley Drive, the side street where the clinic is located. I twist in my seat and watch as the troopers continue on their path. “They must be opening the search for Eric at Humboldt Lake. From what I heard, that’s his favorite fishing spot.”
I swallow. “Where’d you hear that, exactly?”
“One of the search volunteers. He came to my clinic yesterday.” Though I’m not looking at him, I can feel Fionn’s eyes bore into the side of my face. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“The shopkeeper at Shireton. He saw me and Eric talking when Eric bought bullets and I bought my knife. He knew Eric wasn’t about to go fishing.”
“Gerald. Yeah, I know him.” Fionn’s hand is a sudden warmth over mine, and I search his face when he breaks his gaze from the road to glance at me. “If Gerald was going to say something, he would have done it by now. Of anyone who could have drawn a connection between you and Eric, he’s probably the least likely to bring that to the cops. He plays by the rules, but it doesn’t mean he has any fondness at all for law enforcement. It’ll be okay.”
I sit back in my seat. I know enough about the area now to know that Humboldt Lake is about twenty miles out of Hartford, in the opposite direction of Weyburn. That puts it at least a good forty or fifty miles from Eric’s watery tomb at the bottom of the Platte River.
By the time we park at Fionn’s clinic, the burst of adrenaline from seeing the police vehicles has subsided. Maybe it’s a false sense of security, but knowing the authorities are focusing their attention so far off course, I feel a measure of relief. I can’t say Fionn feels the same. Not with the way his brows knit together, or the momentary pause he takes when he exits the vehicle to look back toward Main Street as though the cruisers might appear. When he comes to my side to help me down, the smile he gives me is a faint echo of the one from his doorstep only a few minutes ago.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “As long as no one else realizes he was intending to hunt and not fish, he’s going to be hard to find. And even if they do, who knows where he might have gone.”
“I’m not worried.” I probably should be. I’m sure that’s what Fionn is thinking too. But something about it feels right , no matter what happens next or what consequences I might have to face. Sometimes, I think right might not be good . And wrong might not be bad . Even before I joined Silveria Circus, I’d started to question what kind of people drew those lines around our lives, and whose benefit those boundaries are really for. Because the more women I meet like me, the more I believe the rules were never made with us in mind.
With a single, decisive nod, Fionn passes me my crutches before grabbing a backpack from the rear seat. When we get to the entrance of the clinic, he brings up the app on his phone, disarming the security system before he checks each of the internal cameras. “I don’t see her,” he says as he pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.
“Is there a back entrance?” I ask, and he nods. “I’ll take the keys and go in that way. We can corner her. Or, if we’re lucky, she’s already gone.”
Fionn levels me with a flat look as he drops the keys onto my waiting palm and then slides the backpack from his shoulder to rummage through its interior. He passes me a pair of gardening gloves. “Trust me. She’s not gone. She’s lying in wait to ambush us.”
“Okay,” I say as I shift my shoulders back. “Where’s the comms device?”
Fionn’s eyes narrow as he hands me a beach towel.
“Walkie-talkie? Riot gear? Lasers? Surely you brought lasers, right? You’re not expecting we can take down an assassin raccoon with nothing more than a towel, are you?”
Fionn pulls on his own gloves and sighs. “Just … be careful.”
“Copy that.”
I grin at Fionn’s exaggerated eye roll and pocket the keys before I pull the gloves on. With the towel tossed over my shoulder, I make my way to the back of the clinic, making note of any potential entry points where Barbara might be gaining access into the building. A vent near the peak of the roof catches my eye, and though the grill looks like it’s in place, I’d be willing to bet money that she’s figured out a way to get past it.
“You might be tricky,” I say to myself as I unlock the door, “but you’re not circus-level tricky, Barbara.”
I step inside the air-conditioned building, shutting the door behind me with a quiet snick . The storage room I’ve entered is silent and dark. To my right, there are shelves with boxes of office supplies and latex gloves, masks and paper towels. To my left is an unlit hallway that must lead toward the exam rooms.
“Marco,” I call out as I flip on the storage room light. I lean my crutches against a wall and shift some boxes on a shelf, half expecting the raccoon to jump on my face. “ Marco. ” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull off a glove and check the device.
Polo.
Shhh. She’ll hear you.
Loosen up, McSpicy. You’re worse than a bongo board in a blowdown.
.….
I have no idea what that means.
You know, the tent master? In a circus? During a storm that blows all the tents down?
… I’m still lost, but we’ll come back to that later. DON’T LET BARBARA SENSE YOUR FEAR. It makes her more aggressive.
I grin at the screen and pocket the device before taking up my crutches and starting toward the corridor.
And then I hear it. A rustling in the distance.
I dart as fast as I can to the mouth of the darkened corridor and lock eyes with the raccoon.
Barbara stands upright on her hind legs. Neither of us moves. She looks at me as though weighing her odds for coming out of a fight on top. And then, with her beady black eyes pinned to mine and her front paws folded against her chest, she walks on her back legs into the room at the end of the hall.
“Oh my God. That’s both creepy and adorable. Barbara, get back here. ” I chase after the sound of her chattering call, losing my momentum when the towel slips from my shoulder and tangles around my crutches. There’s a momentary clattering of tiny nails on stainless steel, but all has gone eerily quiet by the time I regain my balance and make it to the darkened threshold. When I hit the light switch and look around the staff break room, Barbara is nowhere to be seen. “What the hell …? Doc … Doc …”
Fionn’s rushing footfalls draw to a halt just behind me. “ No , Rose,” he says, his voice desperate. “She’s drawn to sound.”
I pivot to face him and roll my eyes. “Doc, you make her sound like a fucking velociraptor—”
“ Duck! ”
I turn just in time to see an angry ball of fur launching toward me from a shelf just above eye level. My crutches fall. My hands fly to my head. I dodge and spin on my good foot to watch as Barbara connects with Fionn’s face.
I toss the towel over them both.
“ Why? ” the mound of squirming towel laments.
“Sorry, Doc. So sorry,” I say, though it doesn’t sound super sincere when I can’t help but laugh. I grab what I hope is Barbara’s scruff as she growls her protests and Fionn releases a string of Irish-accented expletives. As soon as I’ve got her pulled off his face, he stumbles backward, his hair disheveled and his neck red with bloodied, crisscrossed scratches.
“What the fuck .”
“It worked,” I reply with a shrug as Barbara continues to squirm in my grip. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m going to have to get rabies shots.”
I turn Barbara toward me and she screeches and squirms, trying to take a swipe at my face. “I mean, she doesn’t look rabid. But I don’t know shit about raccoons.”
“Well, I’m not going to take my chances and end up barking at my shadow, thanks,” he says as he levels me with a stern look. When Barbara growls, Fionn’s glare softens into worry. Even though he looks like he wants to hold on to his irritation, he can’t seem to. “Let me take her for you.”
“Nah, I’ve got a good grip on her. I don’t have faith this hostage transfer would go well. She’s spicy,” I say as she punctuates my words with frustrated barks. “Just pass me a crutch and stuff one of those trail mix bags into my pocket.” I nod toward a basket filled with very Fionn-esque healthy snacks. “I’ll let her out the back while you get your battle wounds cleaned up.”
Fionn’s brows knit, a crease notched between them. “Are you sure?”
“It’s the least I can do. Thanks for taking a raccoon to the face for me.”
Fionn can’t help but snicker as he slides his gloves off and drops them on the counter. He takes the package of trail mix and hooks a finger into my pocket. Fionn Kane does not flirt with me. Or at least, he tries his best not to. But his eyes don’t leave mine as he slides the treat into my pocket and says, “It wasn’t really by choice. But I’d take a raccoon to the face for you any day, Rose Evans.”
Blush rises in my cheeks as I smile. And I know he likes it. I can tell by the way his gaze drops to my lips and lingers there. I consider calling him out on it, throwing a question or two out into the open to see what happens next as he bends to retrieve one of my crutches. But before I have the chance, there are three loud knocks at the front door of the clinic.
Fionn pats down his shorts, and that moment of unexpected playfulness vanishes from his eyes as they dart in the direction of the front of the building. “Shit. I left my phone at the front desk. I have no idea who that is.”
“I’ve got Barbara, don’t worry about it. Go ahead, I’ll be totally fine.”
He gives me a doubtful frown and three more knocks rap at the door. With an exchange of reluctant nods, we part ways, him toward the front of the clinic and me toward the rear with a single crutch and an irate trash panda. When I get to the back door, I wait until it’s closed behind me before I lean the crutch against it, using my free hand to fish the trail mix from my pocket. I open it with my teeth and scatter the contents on the concrete walkway before setting Barbara down, using the towel as a flimsy barrier between us to keep her from backtracking and chomping on my legs. She looks like she considers it too, at least until I shoo her away in the direction of the food. With a final glare in my direction, she starts picking up peanuts and raisins with her dexterous little paws.
“So cute yet so murdery,” I say, stuffing the gloves in my back pocket. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Barbara.”
She growls.
“Right. Enjoy your snack. I’m totally going to tell Dr. McSpicy you’re getting in through the vent for giving me that ungrateful attitude.” She looks up at me with her beady little eyes. “Okay, fine. I won’t. But you need to check those manners next time.”
I leave the crusty raccoon to her meal, grabbing my crutch before I reenter the clinic. I’m halfway down the hallway before a single text from Fionn stops me short.
Hide.
I dart into what must be Fionn’s office as the light for the corridor flicks on and a familiar voice booms from the direction of the waiting room.
“Apologies, Dr. Kane. I know the clinic is closed and all, but I saw your truck out front and the lights on, so I thought I’d take my chances. It’s just that my eye is a little sore, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind just taking a quick look. Save me all the trouble of driving out to Weyburn.”
“Of course, Mr. Cranwell,” Fionn says, but his voice is pinched, his tone clipped. “We’ll take Exam Room Two.”
I linger in the shadows, staying out of sight in Fionn’s office as he leads Matt to the exam room across the hall. My hand passes behind my back. I slowly pull my blade free of its sheath.
“So, tell me about what happened,” Fionn says. Paper rustles as Matt gets up on the exam bed.
“Long story, Dr. Kane. Not an entirely interesting one either. Got some cocktail sticks lodged in there.”
“You’re sure that doesn’t make for an interesting tale?”
Matt huffs a laugh, and the fine hairs at the back of my neck raise. “Maybe for another day.”
Fionn hums a thoughtful note, and then there’s silence, I imagine as he’s pulling off the eye patch and examining the healing wound. “How long has it been since the injury?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.
“About three weeks.”
“And you’re still having pain?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightens around my blade. That one simple word is delivered like a lie. I could give him real fucking pain. Take the other eye and make him beg for mercy. Realistically, would I probably puke everywhere if I did? Yes. But it would be worth it.
“How’s the farm?” Fionn asks, pulling me out of thoughts of murder and chaos. “Wife and kids?”
“Same old, same old,” Matt replies, and there’s a hidden thread of darkness in the jovial tone of his words, as though he’s telling himself a clever joke. “How about yourself, anything new and exciting in the world of Dr. Fionn Kane?”
Fionn’s reply is delivered with clinical detachment when he says, “Nothing much to report.”
Matt chuckles. My guts churn at the sound. I don’t know whether to burst out of the shadows and slash Matt’s fuck-ugly throat or chase after Barbara to hide out in her trash panda den. “That’s not entirely true, is it? I understand you’ve got visitor staying with you. Someone not from around here. A woman with a broken leg.”
“Word certainly does get around among small towns, doesn’t it.”
“How’d she run into such a spell of trouble to wind up at your house?”
“Mr. Cranwell,” Fionn says on a sigh. “You know I’m not at liberty to discuss a patient with you.”
“I’m not asking about her condition. I’m asking about how she got there.”
“Considering she’s not here to answer for herself, I’m not about to detail her circumstances to someone she’s never met.” There’s a pause. I imagine Fionn giving him a stern look. I can picture with perfect clarity the way his eyes can turn as sharp as the cutting edge of a polished gem, so beautiful but still able to draw blood. “It wouldn’t be very professional of me, would it?”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Matt concedes, though his submission is not convincing. “I’m just looking out for you. Making sure you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just never know who you might be dealing with, that’s all. Outsiders can cause trouble.”
“No more so than ‘insiders.’ Isn’t that right?” I know Fionn well enough to know that I’ve never heard him sound like this. The words are simple, direct. They’re delivered with coolness, an eerie sense of calm. But beneath them is an undercurrent. A lethality. A warning to stay away. Or else.
I might not be able to see their faces, but the tension between the two men feels ready to ignite. A curtain of unease descends, thick enough that I’m sure I could cut it with the blade clutched in my hand.
“Your postoperative recovery seems to be going well. There are no signs of infection or swelling,” Fionn finally says. His voice is still cool, but it’s lost the deadly bite in the tone. “I’ll prescribe some tramadol for you.”
“No need, Dr. Kane,” Matt says. “I’d better stay alert. You know, busy time of year and all. I’ve got to stay vigilant. On my toes.”
Fionn says nothing. I imagine the deferential nod he probably gives Matt, the way he watches and considers and gives only what he needs to in a tense situation. He’ll be careful, calm. But he’ll be roiling under that detached exterior. I know there’s another side to him, buried beneath what he lets me see. And this time I can feel it, lingering in the air like musk.
I shift farther into the shadows when I hear footsteps, coming face-to-face with a photo of Fionn and two other men who have similar features. Dark hair. High cheekbones. Shining smiles. Blue eyes, each shade unique, the color of Fionn’s the lightest of them all. They link arms over one another’s shoulders. They’re his brothers in Boston, Rowan and Lachlan, whom he’s spoken of only briefly. I step closer to the photo as a set of curt goodbyes reaches me from the entrance. Even in a moment frozen in time, I can see the love and happiness that radiates from each of them. And Fionn has come all this way, chosen to separate himself from his brothers and his home, just for a chance to heal a broken heart. Maybe a chance to hide the side of himself he doesn’t want anyone to see.
What if I’m tearing his sanctuary apart?
The front door of the clinic closes and a moment later, Fionn returns. I realize before I exit his office that I recognize him by the cadence of his steps alone. He stops in front of me, and I try to smile. But guilt is starting to chew a little hole in my heart.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed, his eyes pinned to mine.
“Yeah. Are you?”
I don’t know what I expect him to say. But I know for sure that the last thing I expect is for him to wrap me in an embrace. His arms are tense around me. Protective and sheltering. I’m so surprised that it takes a moment for me to return the gesture. As soon as I do, his heart jumps a beat beneath my ear. A little of the tension in Fionn subsides, as though he didn’t realize how much he needed this too. Something about that aches in my chest. Maybe I tighten my grip around him just a little. Press my face to his chest a little harder. Close my eyes as I take in his scent, sage and citrus warmed by the sun. There’s maybe a hint of raccoon too, but I let that slide with a faint smile.
We stay like that for a long while. When we separate, Fionn checks the front door of the clinic, making sure Matt is long gone before he beckons me to follow. He lifts me into the truck like he always does. He seems nervous to drop me off at home, where I’ll be alone, but after at least five or six reassurances that I’ll be okay, he leaves for the hospital to get his first rabies shot.
It isn’t until later that evening, when I’m lying in bed and staring into the dark, that I realize something.
He never answered my question.
I don’t know if he’s really okay.