Chapter 3
Gunner
Thank Christ it’s not snowing yet.
It should be. We’re only a couple weeks from Christmas and we generally have a couple feet by now, particularly up in the mountains.
But this year has been dry so far. Cold as the devil’s balls, but so little moisture that it hasn’t turned into anything.
Just a bone-numbing cold that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how many fires I build.
None of which matters right now.
It’s just a good thing there’s no snow, is all, or I wouldn’t have made it down out of the mountains so quickly. And Taryn didn’t sound like she had a lot of time to waste.
Taryn Matthews.
The name takes me back to the thought spiral I was having before I started thinking about snow, and I shift the truck up into fifth, change lanes, and step on the gas. I’ve been driving for three and a half hours now, and the signs that fly past tell me the city is only a couple miles away.
A couple miles until I see Taryn again... and save her from whatever trouble she’s managed to get herself into.
A set of images fly through my mind at the thought of the girl, and I smile to myself.
Blonde hair that never sat quite right. Wide hazel eyes that were always glowing like honey, and a full mouth that loved to smile.
Quick laughter backed up by a truly devious streak of mischief and a willingness to try anything once.
I laugh outright, remembering the first time Gabe and I tried to teach her to cut wood, but cut myself off quickly.
The girl was all sunshine and rainbows then, a warmth you couldn’t quite put your finger on, and she’d moved into my cabin and immediately made herself at home.
She fit into our world—the trees, the animals, the never-ending views around us—like she’d been born to it. And God, I’d loved her.
Loved her like she was my own, like she was my flesh and blood and mine to keep forever, though she never was. She’d been another man’s daughter, transplanted into my life by her mother, who I married on one stupid, drunken night in Atlantic City.
Helen Matthews.
That name doesn’t bring a smile to my lips.
The opposite, actually, and I quickly turn my thoughts back to Taryn. I don’t want to remember Helen or the way she blew through my life like a hurricane, leaving nothing but wreckage and broken hearts behind her.
I do, however, let her memory color my mental train of thought.
Taryn called me hours ago, talking so quickly I could barely understand her and begging me to come to the city to pick her up.
She didn’t give me any details, and honestly, I didn’t ask for them.
Now that I’m slowing down, though, I’m starting to wonder.
Why the fuck did she call me when we’re not even blood?
Surely she could have called her own mother.
Unless Helen has deserted her again.
I scowl at that, my blood chilling even further.
Because I saw how Helen treated the girl when they lived in Hawke’s Wood.
I noticed how Taryn’s eyes dimmed whenever her mother was in the room, and how Helen’s ire always managed to land on her daughter.
It was hard to pinpoint, because it was never as obvious as you’d expect, but Helen had always found a way to downplay Taryn’s talents.
Pretend the girl wasn’t quite right in the head.
Imply that she wasn’t good enough for anyone to love her.
Hell, I’d even heard Helen ‘compliment’ Taryn by telling her that she’d done a lot better in life than Helen had ever expected her to.
I grip the steering wheel hard at the thought and feel the truck shimmy in response, the asphalt under me cold and dangerous.
Releasing the pressure in my hands, I finesse the truck, waiting for it to calm down, and then turn my focus back to the road in front of me.
It’s still cold and dry out but that doesn’t mean I can stop paying attention.
One wrong move, one twitch too many, and I’ll end up in the ditch at the side of the highway.
And Taryn will still be on her own.
Not on my watch.
I might hate her mother with the heat of a thousand suns for what she did, but that wasn’t Taryn’s fault. And the last time I saw the girl, she’d still been one of the only people I knew who could make me feel as if the world was worth the effort.
Is it selfish to hope she still can?
I pause, wondering, and narrow my eyes. The last few years have been harder than I expected, and things aren’t going the way I want them to. Those sunshine days when Taryn lived with us are long gone, replaced by the cold, hard reality of a business that’s failing.
A son who barely talks to me.
The goddamned cold that’s invaded my bones.
One phone call from Taryn, though, and I feel warm all over.
And that’s not the reason I jumped in my truck and ran for her, I tell myself firmly. That has nothing to do with it. I came because I made her a promise that I always would, and that’s all this is.
A promise kept to a kid I used to know.
Hard stop.
I pass a sign that tells me I’m only three miles from the city and lean harder on the accelerator. I don’t know what sort of trouble Taryn is in—she wouldn’t tell me on the phone—but she was very clear about needing to get out of there quickly.
I just hope I get there in time to save her from whatever she’s done.
A small voice in the back of my head whispers that I need to think further than that, about what I’m going to do with her once I rescue her, because this entire situation could get complicated.
She’s not my kid and I’m no longer on speaking terms with her mother.
I haven’t seen the girl in four years and have no legal right to her.
And she’s in jail. Maybe we should start with whatever she did to get there in the first place.
I shut that voice down, though, and don’t look at those questions again.
Because for right now, just for a moment, I want to be the guy she called to come save her. I want to be the hero in someone’s story.
Just for a second.
Once I’ve had my fill of that, I’ll figure out whether I also need to be the villain.
* * *
The moment I pull into the parking lot, I can see that playing the hero is going to be more intense than I expected.
The lot in front of the police department is small but empty at this time of night, with only a few cars sitting next to several police cruisers.
There are people here, though not many: a man and a woman facing a younger girl, and a couple of cops behind the girl.
I park quickly, my eyes on the scene as I try to figure out what’s going on here.
It’s nearly 4 in the morning, and the last time I checked, that was outside of standard business hours, even in New York City.
Why the fuck are there so many people standing around in the freezing cold of a December evening?
I turn the truck off and stare at them for a moment, trying to figure out what to do about this.
I need into that building and they’re standing right in front of it, which means I’m going to have to interrupt them.
This is going to be awkward.
When I open the door, I realize it’s even worse than I realized, because they’re actually shouting at each other.
The woman, who has her back to me, is talking quickly, her voice high and shrill, and the girl in front of her is backing up several steps like she’s just been slapped, her mouth open and her eyes wide.
She looks shocked at whatever the woman just said, but also resigned, as if she knew it was coming.
She also looks like she’s about to turn and run.
Then the man steps toward her and runs his fingers down her cheek, his hand too familiar, his touch too demanding, and the girl freezes.
She turns those wide eyes toward him, half horrified and half furious, and I see her own hands clench into fists.
Her body tenses and she draws in on herself like she’s trying to protect something.
Like this isn’t the first time she’s been touched when she doesn’t want it, and she already knows how to get away from it by retreating into herself.
And honestly that’s all I have to see. I don’t know who these people are or why the cops aren’t doing anything about that man touching a girl who doesn’t want to be touched, and I don’t care.
I’m moving before I can think about it, my hands forming fists and my eyes on the man who’s caressing the girl.
I can hear his voice now, low and conniving, slimy and wheedling like he’s telling her all the reasons she should let him take her home, and the fury inside me grows until it’s a fire I can’t tamp down.
That girl can’t be older than twenty, and that man has to be forty at least.
What the fuck is he doing touching her like that? Why isn’t someone doing something? Why aren’t the police protecting her?
I go in swinging, my fists connecting with the man’s back and then his shoulder, and he flies to the side. I whirl on him, furious beyond reason, and am just about to go after him when I look up and see the horrified face of the woman who was standing next to him.
Helen Matthews.
My mind comes to a screeching halt. “Helen?” I ask hoarsely. “What are you...”
Wait. Helen Matthews standing here in the parking lot of the police station. The station Taryn asked me to come to because...
Because...
I turn slowly, the pieces coming together like they’re moving through cement. And when I see the girl standing there, I finally start to recognize her.
Blonde hair that has enough curl to be unruly. Wide eyes the color of warm whiskey in the glow of the parking lot’s lights. Broad cheek bones. Full lips. The glint of anger and rebellion in her eyes.
She’s nothing like the girl I last saw, and the thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
This isn’t a kid; she’s a young woman, fleshed out and sure of herself and angry as all get out.
I let my eyes slide down her body and take in a trim waist and legs long enough to give a man thoughts he should never have.
Curves that could kill you if you thought about them too long.
Glowing eyes and lush lips and sex practically bleeding out of her pores.
But beyond that, like a ghost under the siren, is the whisper of the little girl, and I would have seen it earlier if I hadn’t been so enraged at the idea that someone was taking advantage of her.
And the fact that she’s changed so much drives all the affection I felt for her right out of my body.
This isn’t my Taryn. She’s grown up, become a young woman, and my brain immediately categorizes her as one more girl who was one thing and changed when I wasn’t looking.
A lie waiting to be discovered. A trick lying in wait to ensnare me.
My heart breaks in two at this, because it feels like the ultimate betrayal from the girl who symbolized such happiness, and the fire in my veins turns suddenly to ice.
“Taryn?” I whisper.
“Gunner.”
It’s not a question but a statement, and so full of relief and longing that for a moment—for just a moment—I see the little girl again, rather than the heat of her cheeks. Those bee-stung lips. Curves that could make a man cry.
And in that second, I let the ice melt.
“Get in the truck, Little Bird,” I say quietly.
Because I might not recognize her anymore, and she might have grown up without bothering to warn me, but I made a promise to this girl four years ago. If she ever needed me, I’d come for her.
She needs me now.
And I’m not going to let her down.