Chapter 37
Logan
February
“That groundhog is saying an early spring.” Mrs. Powell leans against her small porch, watching me shovel snow off her steps. “Don’t know if I believe it.”
“Sure doesn’t seem like it.” I pause to regain my breath and assess.
We had another dump of snow three nights ago, and as expected, Mrs. Powell’s son could not make the trip up to help her, so Sarah dropped me off with the snowblower and left to deliver a few nearby orders.
Every news station has been touting record-breaking temperature lows and snowfalls this year, and while I haven’t been around to compare, I believe it.
If I’m not out in the fields, dropping bales of hay for the hungry bison, I’m moving snow in wind chills that burn exposed skin.
“At least it’s warmer today.” And sunny.
And it’s the third time I’ve cleared her entire driveway.
Each time, she’s there to watch me. This time, though, she’s not hiding behind her storm door.
“Practically pleasant. Who needs Florida?”
“I don’t know. I think I could use a palm tree or two.
” I abandon my shovel and reach for the bucket of rock salt.
I’ve never been to Florida. Never seen a palm tree in real life.
I guess I’ll never get to go, not with my record.
I try not to let these kinds of thoughts weigh on me, but sometimes they do.
“Say, has there been any news about that missing girl? Holly Monroe?” Mrs. Powell asks.
It’s a question asked often. My mother’s church prays for her every Sunday. No one has forgotten about her—least of all Emery or Isla.
I shake my head. “Nothing new from what I’ve heard.” And I probably hear more than I should.
“I don’t see how she could be alive at this point.” She tsks. “What a shame.”
Our Landry truck pulls into the driveway then, and Sarah eases out of the driver’s seat with great difficulty, thanks to her ever-expanding belly. “Morning, Mrs. Powell.” She waddles forward with a paper bag, her winter coat hanging open. “Looks like you’re all set.”
“Goodness. You’re going to get sick!” the old woman scolds.
Sarah waves off her concerns. “My coat doesn’t do up anymore.”
“When are you due?”
“Officially, May.” She pauses at the bottom of the steps, sizing them up as if eyeing a mountain.
“Here.” I take the bag from her and ease up to hand it off to the elderly lady.
“Thank you, Logan.” Mrs. Powell smiles, and it actually reaches her eyes. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
“We’ll have those pot pies for you next time.” Sarah gives a half wave as she waddles back to the passenger side, her hand on her side. It’s unusual. She’s normally good for a few minutes of conversation with each customer.
I grab the shovel and nod at Mrs. Powell before trailing my sister. “You okay?”
“Sure. Great.” She struggles to hoist herself back in.
I make quick work of loading the snowblower into the back and then hop into the driver’s side. “Seriously, Sarah, are you sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like shit.” Her face has gone ashen.
“Yeah, I lied,” Sarah says through pants. “I’m going to need you to drive me to the hospital and then call Jon.”
“I don’t know how she’s going to do it.”
“Hmm?” My eyes are glazed over, unfocused.
Emery crawls up my body to straddle my waist. “Sarah, on bedrest.”
“That’s what you were thinking about while you were sucking my dick?”
She chuckles as she drags her fingertip over the curves of my bare chest. Her hair is a wild mane framing her face. I might have caused that with my excited hands weaving through, gripping fistfuls as she went down on me. “It’s a good thing the market is slow.”
I reach up to graze my thumbs over her pebbled nipples. “They’ll manage. The older kids are all in school and Egan just walks around, banging on that drum all day.” My mother’s convinced he’ll be a musician.
“What about after school? And weekends? Five kids and a useless husband when it comes to helping with them?”
My hands drop to slide over her muscular thighs. “Are you trying to kill an erection?”
She peers over her shoulder and down. “I don’t see any signs of life left.”
“Give me, like, ten minutes. And no more talking about my sister.”
Emery rolls off me and out of bed. “You could cover for her at the market. You know, wear a little apron.”
“So you can come in and laugh at me?”
“I wouldn’t have to. Isla would send me pictures.”
I admire her curves as she strolls to the bathroom, vanishing inside. She reappears a few minutes later, giving me another naked angle to salivate over. Blood rushes south. Maybe I don’t need more time.
But Emery doesn’t come back to bed, instead collecting my barn jacket off a hook and slipping it on.
“You’re drowning in that thing.” The sleeves hang down past her hands and the hem reaches halfway down her thighs.
“Am I?” She reaches up to collect the hat Jon gave me and places it on her head. Her hair spills out from the sides. “Better?” She grips the sides of the jacket, letting it slip down over her shoulders and holding it there, parted, to give me an illicit view.
She looks like a damn calendar girl. I hold out a hand. “Get over here. Please.”
A teasing smile answers me before she struts over to a nearby chair, taking a seat there instead. “Seriously, though. You need to get out, talk to people. You’re turning into a hermit.”
“You walk around like that, and I’ll go anywhere you want me to.” Every private part of her is covered and yet she’s driving me wild all the same. I’m about five seconds from getting up and taking her right on that little dining table.
Some days I wake up, still wondering how the hell this smart, successful, sexy woman wants anything to do with me after all these years.
But then I remember that this is all a secret, no one knows.
I wouldn’t have it any other way—not if it protects her.
But how long before she wants more? What then? Will she have to make a choice?
Emery reaches for the newspaper. It’s the one from Jay’s things that she asked me to keep. It’s been sitting there since Christmas. I nearly burned it more than once, accidentally.
“You still happy, Em?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she murmurs absently, her jaw resting on her upturned palm, braced on the table by her elbow, as she reads. It’s that look she gets when she’s deep in thought. “Holy shit,” she blurts.
“What is it?”
But her attention is glued to the page.
“Emery,” I press.
“I think I might know what they did.” She looks up and satisfaction glimmers in her eyes. “I think I know what Hank is after.”