CHAPTER 43
Frankie
I start packing.
The first step is to sort through all the storage bins of stuff Special K brought up here. I need to decide what, if anything, I should take with me. But there’s a problem: I have no fucking idea where I’m going!
And I’ve already learned what happens to women who run blindly into the night not knowing where they’re headed.
They don’t bring the right clothes.
They buy marshmallow Fluff thinking it’s peanut butter.
And then they’re discovered by the world’s sexiest cowboy, a big bear of a man who belongs on the cover of “Hot Rancher Monthly,” who makes it too easy for the woman to fall in love with him because he’s so sweet and funny and generous and can go all night and half the next day.
Oh, Frankie. You’re falling in love with him.
“Uuuuugggggghhhhhh!” I spin around in the cabin with my hands in my hair. I double over and rest my palms on my knees. I have to start thinking clearly. That’s the first thing I should be packing—my damn common sense.
“Mrrrreeeewwp.”
I look up at Pussy. “Yes? You have an opinion about something? An observation? Criticism?”
“Rrrrp.”
I fall forward onto the mattress and grab Pussy, clutching her to my chest. Immediately she purrs.
I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
I’ve said far too much to Special K, and now he’s probably down there on the ranch making “plans” to help me disappear.
I’ve also said too little, and because of that, he can’t comprehend the nastiness that sticks to me, how horrifying these men are.
Sure, I think I called Niko a “psycho killer,” but that term has lost its punch.
Just last week I heard one Lynx frat bro insult another because he ordered the wrong beer.
“Bro, I said Heineken—not Corona— you fuckin’ psycho killer! ”
Of course, Special K doesn’t have a good grasp of the situation.
I’m lost. I’m so sad. I’m so incredibly fucking angry – at myself.
It’s time. I have to dip.
I kiss Pussy’s forehead and put her back on the down comforter. I wish I could take the memory foam mattress. I’ve really enjoyed this bed. Mostly, I’ve enjoyed having Special K in this bed with me.
I jump up and get back at it.
With the days growing longer, I’ve got a few hours still before nightfall. I’ll make a few trips to the Toyota and back. And then I can come back for Pussy.
I throw my toiletries in the duffel bag. I grab one of the lighters. A flashlight and a lantern. Cat food and the can opener.
At least now I know men like Kevin MacLaine exist. Maybe one day I’ll find someone like him—as gentle as he is strong. As adorable as he is masculine.
Right.
There’s only one, and I’m putting him in my rear-view mirror.
Not despite my feelings for him, but because of my feelings. I want him to be okay, and he can only be okay if I’m not with him.
I ball up the sweater. Hell yes, I’m taking his Bulgari-infused sweater. And I have no choice but to wear Summer’s hiking boots on my way out. Maybe after I’m settled—what the fuck does that mean? —I’ll mail them back.
I hoist the duffel off the floor and slip the strap over my back. “Be back in a bit, Pussy.” I double-check the latch so she’s safe.
From the feral hogs.
I go back, snatch my gun, and recheck the latch. And I start walking.
I think about Dad. When I was little, he used to tuck me in at night with a story.
He’d tell me that if there was ever a day when he couldn’t be with me, he’d be sure to send the right people at the right time to be with me until he could get back.
That way, he said, I’d always be safe, loved, and taken care of.
He called these temporary stand-ends “earthly angels”.
It was a sweet story and it did comfort me. And since it was always accompanied with a kiss to my forehead and his careful attention to tucking me in under the blankets, I asked for that story every night.
When he was ripped from me, I stopped believing in pretty much everything, including his bedtime story. I hardly ever feel my dad’s presence these days, not that I seek him out. I don’t remember the last time I talked to him, as a matter of fact.
I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind.
I reach the Toyota, take off enough branches so that I can open the back passenger door, and empty everything into the seat. I slip the strap of the empty duffel over my back and head up the trail for another load.
The sun is warm on my face as it filters down through the pine needles and cottonwood leaves. I decide that there’s no harm in asking. It can’t hurt.
“Dad,” I say out loud. “I’m in a really bad place and I’m not gonna lie—I’ve never been so scared in my life. If you’ve got any of those earthly angels hanging around where you are, I sure could use some help. Now might be a good time.”
The wind rises, lifting my hair, and it makes me smile to think that maybe he was listening. It’s a comfort, and I’ll take it.
About ten minutes later, I crest the back path and start walking toward the camp. But then I stop. I hear the crunch of leaves. Someone’s here.
I’m about to grab my gun when I hear a voice.
“Boots.”
I spin around—totally unprepared for what I see. Special K’s in his usual jeans and denim jacket and is leaning against a thick pine, Pussy in his arms. But his cowboy hat is on the ground and his face is etched with heartbreak and worry. He swallows hard.
His glance shifts to empty the duffel bag and then back to my face. I close my eyes and feel my shoulders sink in embarrassment. He knows. He went inside the cabin, so he’s seen the disarray.
It must look like a crazy woman was in there pulling out her hair, talking to herself, and throwing random crap around all while trying not to cry. Which about sums it up.
I dare open my eyes to look at him.
Special K pushes away from the tree and walks to me, slow and steady, his gaze locked on mine. The agony is fading, and something else is taking its place—cast-iron conviction. He’s absolutely sure that whatever comes next is the right thing.
And that’s when it hits me…
My earthly angel is already here.
My angel’s even blessed with the stereotypical blond curls and unearthly violet eyes. Here I was, asking Dad to send the right person to me before it’s too late, and he was standing right in front of me.
Special K says nothing. The duffel strap slips off my shoulder and the empty bag lands in the pine needles. And when he reaches me, I feel my knees buckle. He catches me in the crook of his arm and goes in for the kiss.
And I understand that the thing he’s absolutely sure about is me.
He clutches me tight, like he plans to hold onto me forever. He walks me backward toward the cabin. The kiss is intense but straightforward. There’s no confusion in what he’s telling me. He’s simply making a statement.
I’m his. End of sentence.
What have I done?
We reach the door. Special K lowers Pussy to the floor, releases her leash, and pushes me inside. He slams the door shut with his bootheel and keeps moving me. When my back touches the wall, it occurs to me why this feels so familiar.
This is how it started. This is how he kissed me the first time. We’ve come quite a distance since then, and yet here we are, full circle.
My face is wet. But not from my tears. His. And I reach up to cup his face in my hands.
The man is making me his while he’s planning how to make me disappear. It’s got to be hell for him, too.
I don’t know what’s worse—knowing I’ve already hurt him or knowing that no matter what I do, no matter what happens next, I’ll end up hurting him again.