Chapter eight
Dallas
“Get down!” I can barely hear my voice over the cacophony of noise surrounding me. Bullets fly through the air, dust clouds penetrate the sky, and more yelling and screaming ring out as I take cover behind the wall in front of me.
But that’s when I see them—a woman, gripping her child, crying in the corner of the alley.
She’s basically a sitting duck.
“You need to get out of here!” I call out to her. But all she does is shake her head, continuing to cry and hold her baby. “Run!”
I vaguely hear one of my other men say something to me, but my focus is shot—it’s locked and loaded on this woman.
Disregarding the imminent threat around us, I move toward her, knowing that if I at least help her find cover, she has a chance to survive.
Twenty feet seems like one-hundred yards as I crouch down, attempting to avoid being shot myself as chaos swirls around us.
And I can sense how close I am to victory, how narrow of a distance there is between saving two innocent lives to make up for the ones I’ve taken with far too many bullets to count.
Within an arm’s reach, I close in on the woman just as a bullet pierces her neck.
“No! Fuck!”
Slamming down to the ground, I wait out the rain of gunfire filling the alley.
And then I feel it—a sharp, searing pain as a bullet slices through my side. The physical pain is excruciating, yet it pales in comparison to the searing guilt and heartache that flood in.
My vision goes blurry, the dust and red haze around me making it hard to see.
But I’ll never stop seeing her—the woman in front of me, gasping for air as she holds her baby—fighting for her life as I curse the circumstances and choices of my own.
Only this time, her face is different as I look up at her for one last glance—it’s the face of a woman who has taken up more space in my mind lately than I care to admit.
It’s Willow.
***
“Fuck,” I grumble as my eyes snap open and I stare up at the ceiling, my heart beating erratically from the dream that I haven’t had in months.
It always pops up when I least expect it, but I’ve heard that’s par for the course after serving in a war for years, and something my therapist has helped me through as well.
With a groan, I roll out of bed and brace my forearms on my knees, closing my eyes but still seeing the woman’s face staring back at me, life draining from her eyes—Willow’s eyes.
That same feeling filters through my veins, feeling the need to save this woman despite knowing it’s a lost cause, holding me captive as my body remains frozen in place.
But saving a different woman than the mother who haunts my dreams?
That hasn’t happened before.
It must be because I can’t get her off my mind. Her smart mouth, her fierceness, her body.
I’m a thirty-four-year-old man, so I’m not a virgin—let’s be honest about that.
But between my time in the service and coming home to build a business, the last thing on my mind has been pursuing a woman, or a relationship of any kind.
I dated in high school, and casually hooked up with women while in the service—but none of them ever captivated me.
Not like Willow has.
And Willow isn’t just any woman—she’s the woman who owns the house that I want, a woman that is so far from the type I see around my small hometown every day that it’s fucking with my head.
But maybe that’s the draw?
I see pain in her eyes, the same pain I fight to hide in the moments when memories and loss threaten to overtake me.
I see determination and independence, which is so damn sexy I find my thoughts drifting to what she tastes like while kissing her senselessly just to shut her up.
But like I told her, I also see someone who is lost, searching for something—and what that is, I’m not entirely sure yet.
What bothers me, though, is that I fucking care—because deep down I know I’m still a little lost too.
I want to know what she’s searching for, and I want to help her.
“Damn it.” Lunging from the bed, I make peace with the fact that I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight, glancing at my alarm clock that reads three in the morning.
Sounds about right. That’s usually the time when my brain overtakes my body’s ability to shut off, and since I can’t usually fall back asleep, I accept the fact that my nightly rest is over.
I look in the mirror above my dresser, focusing on the scar below my ribs where that bullet hit me, running my fingers over the warped skin, wondering if the internal pain will ever decrease as much as the physical has.
Scars can serve as reminders on the outside.
But the internal ones no one can see?
I wonder if those ever heal, or we just learn to deal with them.
Lord knows I have plenty of those too.
Putting on a pair of running shorts and a zip-up jacket, I lace up my shoes and then head outside for a run to clear my mind and tamp down the adrenaline running through me.
Even though it’s still dark outside, I’ve never worried about running here alone with nothing but a few streetlights and the moon illuminating the dark sky. Like I told Willow, there are perks to living in a small town, and this is one of them for me.
Willow.
I wonder if she’s awake, if our interactions are running through her mind as much as they are for me. I’ve caught her staring at me more than once since she came back into town, so I’m fairly certain that this attraction I feel isn’t one-sided. But with her, there’s no telling.
Her fiery spirit is addictive. She has me yearning to see what she’ll say next. But even throughout our conversation yesterday, I could tell that she uses her snark as a defense mechanism. And maybe I can see that because I do the same thing.
After I kill four miles beneath my sneakers, I return to the bar just as the sun is cresting over the horizon on the water, lighting up the sky in soft yellows and oranges, making the water appear more turquoise at this time of day.
And I hate that at that moment that I’m wondering if Willow is watching the sunrise too—sitting in the chair that I built for her, rocking with a cup of coffee in her hands, absorbing any sort of peace that the sight before me is offering, hoping she finds some too.
***
“Mom?” I softly shut the door behind me, balancing the cups of coffee I picked up on the way over here.
Call me a momma’s boy, but sometimes just getting a hug from her and some of her hard-earned wisdom can help calm the demons inside.
I’ve always been closer to my mom than my dad, for reasons that she tried to stay out of.
But once Dad died, that overprotective need to keep her safe and free from worry multiplied.
She’s all I have left, the one person who I’ve always felt supported me no matter what and cheered me on despite the risky decisions I’ve made.
I wish there was more I could do for her, to show her how much I appreciate her and love her, but there’s nothing I can do to take away her grief—just like there’s nothing I can do to let go of the resentment I still harbor toward my father.
Setting down the cups of coffee on the kitchen counter, I peek outside to see if maybe she’s watering her garden.
The woman has the greenest thumb I know of, so much so that other residents of our town will seek her out for gardening tips.
But the yard remains empty, eerily quiet at this time of day.
A soft cry pulls my attention down the hallway and kicks up my heartrate in the process. I slowly push open the door to my parents’ bedroom, not sure what to expect to see on the other side of the door.
But the image I find is not one I’ll soon forget.
Curled up in a ball on the bedroom floor, my mother clutches one of my father’s shirts to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes are closed tightly as she hiccups between sobs, holding onto one of the last lifelines she has to my dad. A piece of paper rests on the floor beside her.
The grief pouring out of her takes hold of my heart and pulls me toward her instantaneously.
“Mom?” I question softly, not wanting to startle her.
But my effort was in vain.
She shoots up from the floor, wiping under her eyes as I slowly walk toward her and crouch down to her level. “Dallas? What—what are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see you. I brought you coffee.” Gently, I pull her into my chest, sliding down to sit on the floor beside her bed. I wrap my arms around her and lean back against the bedframe, inhaling deeply. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she says through a sniffle, shutting her eyes again as she clutches the shirt in her hands tightly. “No I’m not. And I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Mom.” I press a kiss to her temple as moisture builds in my eyes.
Fuck, it’s been months since I’ve cried, but the sight of my mother completely broken is something my emotions just can’t ignore. “It’s okay to be upset.”
“I was fine this morning, feeling like today was going to be a good day. And then I started opening the mail from yesterday, and I broke.” She reaches forward to pick up the piece of paper, bringing it closer to my face. And as I take in the words, my heart plummets.
“The veterans’ dinner.”
She nods, her face scrunching up in agony.
“This is the first year he won’t be there for this.
” Inhaling deeply, she shutters as she exhales.
“I’m trying to be strong, like he wanted, like I need to be for you kids.
But sometimes…” she trails off, shaking her head as fresh tears stream down her face.
“No one expects you to be strong all the time, Mom.” I pull her in closer as she rests her head on my shoulder. “You lost your husband. We lost our father. We have every right to be angry and sad.”
“I know. I just miss him so much.”