Chapter 22
T hey drove for what felt like hours, until the sun began to steal over the horizon. Maggie wanted one thing: sleep. But she had never ridden a motorcycle before. Fear off falling off kept her from giving in to her exhaustion. Occasionally when they stopped at a sign or light, Ridge patted her hand reassuringly, the one that was clasped around his middle. In return, she gave him a squeeze. If not for the terror of the last few hours, it might have been a pleasant ride.
Ridge drove through a fast food place for breakfast, which Maggie would have found funny, if she had any energy leftover for humor.
“How are we supposed to eat it?” she asked, holding the bag aloft.
“Hold it. We’ll be there in a bit,” he replied before speeding back onto the road.
A half hour of twisty, turning driving later, he pulled off the road onto a hidden drive Maggie wouldn’t have otherwise noticed. The driveway was nearly two miles long and almost as twisty as the road, winding sharply back and forth between dense forest. At last he stopped in front of a small, dark cabin.
“Here,” he said, hopping off. He lifted Maggie down, a necessity since her legs were now permanently conformed to fit the motorcycle. It took a few hobbling steps before she remembered how to walk again. Ridge was quiet as he led her up the steps and opened the door.
“What is this place?” she asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to volunteer the information.
“Safehouse,” he said, as if words were an economy .
“If there’s a mole, won’t he know we’re here?”
“There are a lot of safehouses. Only the Colonel knows which one we’re at,” he said.
Maggie stepped inside and gazed around. The cabin felt like an abandoned vacation rental, as if it had been used occasionally but left to deteriorate in the interim. It was closed up, mildewed, and dusty. Ridge set their food on the small table and held Maggie’s chair for her. She tried to catch his glance, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.
He set out their food. “Cam,” she began, but he shook his head.
“Eat first.”
She dutifully ate. Everything tasted like sawdust, but it filled her empty belly. Chewing and swallowing became her focus as she imagined the food going down her gullet like a paté goose. Toward the end of the meal, her eyes began to leak and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Unable to continue for one more bite, she pushed away her last few bites of food.
“Cam,” she began, her voice tremulous. “Samson?”
At last he met her eyes, and she knew. “He was still alive when I got there. An emergency vet came to your house. He did everything he could, but…He didn’t suffer, Maggie, I swear. I sat with him and petted his head while the vet gave him a shot, and he thumped his tail, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“I knew they shot him, and I knew it was bad. But he was so big and so healthy, I hoped…The way he looked at me, and I had to be carried right over him, as if I were abandoning him.”
“He knew you weren’t abandoning him; he knew you were in trouble,” he countered.
She nodded. “He tried to attack them. You would have been so proud. He earned his guard dog stripes, in the end.” She put her hands over her face and sobbed. He scooped her up, carried her to the couch, sat down, and held her in his lap. She cried until she was exhausted and there were no more tears while Ridge petted her head and kissed her temple, trying in vain to soothe her. Her heart was broken, and it broke his in turn. He wished he could fix it, to make a way for Samson to still be alive. Barring that, he wanted to destroy the men who had hurt her so badly.
Eventually, when she was quiet, he spoke.
“You should go to bed. The bedroom is through that door.” He indicated the doorway with a nod of his head. “I’m going to go outside and turn on the gas so we can get some heat and hot water. Maybe after you wake up, the water will be hot enough for a shower.” His hand smoothed gently over her hair a few more times.
She nodded, sniffling. “Thanks, Cam. I know we have more to talk about, and you need to do the debrief, but…”
“Maggie, don’t worry about it. Sleep, we’ll talk later,” he said. She slid off his lap and practically stumbled to the bathroom before heading to the bedroom. Ridge went outside, hid the motorcycle, covered its tracks, lit the gas, and did a perimeter check before going back inside.
Maggie appeared in the doorway. “Cam, there’s only one bedroom in this place.”
“You take it, I’ll crash on the couch,” he said.
“The couch is disgusting,” she said. “I can see the stains from here. Come to bed. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shared a sleeping space.” She turned and went back into the room without waiting for an answer. Ridge glanced at the couch. It was disgusting and tiny and hard. The bed, he knew from prior experience, was almost as uncomfortable as the couch, but Maggie was there, and that was its own inducement. He wanted to be near her, in case she needed him. Or in case he needed her. His mind was still in work mode; he hadn’t yet processed his emotions from the last couple of days.
He shucked off his shoes and headed in her direction. By the time he arrived, she was already asleep. He peeled down to his boxers and a t-shirt and climbed in the bed, turning toward Maggie who, even in her sleep, snuggled against him in search of warmth. He was too happy to provide it, slipping his arm over her waist and pulling her close as his face performed a cracking yawn.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep was elusive. He had almost lost her because he chose work over her. Was that what becoming a bureaucrat had done to him? Had he turned into such a boss-pleasing sycophant that he could so easily put filing a report over staying to make sure Maggie was okay when he clearly knew she wasn’t? The weight of guilt pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe.
Maggie rolled toward him and curled into a ball, her clutched fists touching his chest. He stared at her so long and so hard she eventually woke, blinking sleepily up at him. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“It’s not your fault, Cam. None of it.” She reached a hand up and ran it soothingly over his temple.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” he asked. “I shouldn’t have left you.”
“I’m a grownup and, despite what you might believe, you are not responsible for my safety or wellbeing. You did what you needed to do; you did your duty. There was no way either of us could have foreseen what happened.” She let her palm rest on his cheek. He turned his head into it and kissed it, taking comfort from her words .
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for office life,” he admitted. “Being in the field is so much easier, it feels more natural.”
“You’re thirty two years old. At some point age or statistics are going to catch up with you. If you want to build a future, the kind where you’re a husband and a father, you need to start somewhere.”
“It’s not what I thought it was going to be, and I don’t know if I’m good at it,” he confessed. He wouldn’t have been able to say the words to anyone else, but this was Maggie; he could tell her anything, even his deepest fears and insecurities.
“I think you’re good at it. I think you’re spectacular at it,” she said.
“I thought you said I wasn’t,” he reminded her. “Because everyone hates me, remember?”
“No. I said you had the potential to be amazing, and you’re growing into that potential. Every job comes with a learning curve, and you’re learning. When I see you enter a room, people sit up and take notice. You’re a natural leader, someone who walks into a meeting and makes everyone pay attention. You have that kind of commanding presence that makes people want to listen to what you have to say, and what you have to say is pretty great. Do you know you’re the only person in meetings who doesn’t make me want to gouge out my eyes with a pen to try and stay awake? You are good at what you do, amazing, really. And I get maybe it’s not as exciting or rewarding as being in the field or being a SEAL, but the survival rate is exponentially higher. As someone who is deeply vested in your survival, let me assure you it’s an important consideration.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she touched her finger to his lips .
“A wise person told me to sleep and then talk. I think what he meant to say is that everything looks and feels better after some rest,” she said.
He nodded and, smiling a little, licked her finger. She smiled, but the smile soon turned to more tears, gentle ones this time and, once again, he held her until she cried them both to sleep.