No answer.
I start toward him. "Okay, maybe you provoked me, but yes, taking off was stupid. I've gotten turned around, and I have no idea where I am."
Silence.
I keep walking. "You can chew me out later. I deserve it. For now, let's just get back to town. We've had a shitty day, and we're both out of sorts and making stupid choices. So let's just--"
I round the two trees ... and he's not there.
"Eric?"
I hear a twig crack one second too late. Hands grab me from behind, one around my waist, the other gripping my chin, as if ready to snap my neck. A body presses against my back and ... the smell. God, the smell.
The hands wrench me around, shoving me back against a tree. The cold of a blade presses against my throat, and when I look up at my captor, I see ...
Dalton. I see Dalton. His steel-grey eyes. His nose. His jawline. But the dark blond hair falls to his shoulders. A beard covers his cheeks and chin. Yet it still looks like Dalton, and with that I have my answer. I know what's going on, what's been going on since last night, when we were on my balcony, watching the northern lights as Dalton told me a story about a fox.
I'm sleeping. I fell asleep on that balcony, and everything that's happened since--Mick's death, the fire, Diana's betrayal, Dalton's kiss--it's dream and nightmare woven into one, and this is proof of it.
But this man is not Dalton. I see that now, beyond the hair and beard. His eyes are set deeper. Shaped differently. His cheekbones aren't as high or as prominent.
This man looks like him; this man is not him. That's all that matters.
Yet it isn't all that matters. There's a knife to my throat and my hands are free and the gun is right there, under my open jacket, and I know, beyond doubt, that I could shoot this man before he slits my throat. But I don't, because the man with the knife to my throat may not be Dalton, but he's related to him.
That's when I see his jacket. A dark military-style coat.
"Jacob," I whisper.
"You know who I am? Good." His voice is rough, the words slightly off, with an odd accent. "I know who you are. Eric's girl."
"I work with Eric. In Rockton. I'm not his--"
The knife presses in. I struggle to control my breathing.
"I saw you kissing him," he says. "I've seen you before. Together. You're Eric's girl. I owe my brother. Now I can repay him."
Brother? Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I can hear Dalton's voice talking about Jacob. Telling me he's harmless. Absolutely harmless, he emphasized.
Dalton wouldn't lie about that. Nor would he leave his brother wandering out here in this condition.
I'm dreaming. I must be.
Jacob pulls back the knife, and I don't process the move. Don't wonder what he's doing. My gut foresees the strike, and the moment he moves, my fist hits his gut and my other hand grabs my gun.
He falls back, and I kick him away, and I don't shoot. My brain assesses the threat and I do not see the need to fire. There's a moment of relief, as if I've passed some test I was certain I'd fail. It only lasts a moment, because my kick isn't enough to knock him to the ground, and he's coming back up, knife slashing for my arm as I swing the gun at him.
Footsteps thunder behind me, and I instinctively twist, expecting attack from the rear.
"Jacob, no!"
It's Dalton, running for us. The distraction slows my strike, just for that heartbeat, and the knife slashes my arm. My gun still makes contact, but his attack has knocked mine into a glancing blow, and he only staggers back.
Jacob lunges at me, and I can't fire--the angle is wrong. I kick instead and my foot connects. So does his knife, slashing my leg. We both go down. I bounce back, gun swinging up, but he's already in flight, stabbing me in the chest. Then he flies back, the knife coming free as Dalton throws him aside.
"Stop," Dalton says, gun raised, as Jacob tries to rise.
Jacob sees the gun. "You gonna shoot me, big brother?" He pulls his jacket open. "Go ahead. Can't be any worse than what you've done. Have you told her about that? Your girl there?"
"She isn't my--"
"She already tried that. I saw you kiss her. And now I know how to pay you back, brother."
"Pay me back? What the hell is going on, Jacob?"
"I've finally figured out exactly what you did to me." He starts walking backward. "I'm going to repay you, and if you want to stop me, you'd better pull that trigger."
Dalton's fingers flex, and I know he's thinking fast, thinking of what else he can do to stop Jacob, because he can't shoot him, not his brother. But if he lets him walk away and he attacks someone else?
I stumble backward and fall, gasping, hand clapped over my chest wound. Jacob takes off as Dalton runs to my side. Yes, I faked the fall, but when I try to rise again, blood gushes between my fingers and pain rips through me. Dalton yanks off his jacket and pushes it against the wound, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. It'll be okay. Everything will be--"
"Radio," I manage, and he curses at needing the reminder. He did bring it--like me, he doesn't cross the line between reckless and stupid. He calls Anders. When there's no answer, his eyes widen, as he frantically pushes the Call button. Then we hear the hum of an ATV.
"I can ... I can walk," I say, but he picks me up, pressing my hand against the jacket to hold it to my chest wound, and I feel blood rushing from my arm and my leg, but I say nothing, because he's already panicked enough, apologies rushing out on an endless loop of "I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry."
He runs, carrying me, as fast as he can manage. When he stumbles and I gasp, he slows, but that only makes the apologies come faster, and I tell him I'm okay, even though I know I'm not, the blood streaming, consciousness fading, my body shaking. I tell him anyway--I'm fine, just fine--and he keeps running until he staggers right in front of the ATV. Anders shouts, "Shit!" and brakes so fast he nearly vaults over the front.
As soon as the ATV stops, Dalton races over and lays me in the back seat.
"Holy shit," Anders says. "What--?"
"Gotta get her back. Now."
"She's bleeding, Eric."
"I know!" Dalton snaps, and tries to shove Anders into the passenger seat, but the deputy pushes back, saying, "I mean that we need to staunch the bleeding first," and from the look on Dalton's face, you'd think I'd already bled out and it was all his fault. Curses and more apologies as he helps Anders get me out onto the ground.
"I've got this," Anders says.
"No, I--"
Anders holds him back, saying, "I've got it. You want to help? Give me your belt, your shirt..."
Dalton strips them off as Anders's gaze runs over me, assessing.
"Left thigh, right arm, upper right chest," I say.
"You're still with us," he says.
I nod. "Conserving energy. Chest worst. Didn't go in deep. Just..." I hiss in pain as I inhale.
"Relax and let me look."
I lie back. Dalton's tearing his shirt into strips as Anders pushes mine up over my ribs.
"There's water in the back," he says. "Eric--"
"Got it."
"Can I ask what the hell happened?"
Dalton hesitates. "It's my fault. I--"
"We got separated," I say. "I was attacked by a hostile."
"Shit. This close to town? We need to do something about them," Anders says grimly. "And we might need to reconsider the possibility our killer isn't from Rockton after all."
Dalton falters, the guilt and fear so strong it seems to paralyze him, as if he's back in that moment, facing his brother.
Facing his brother.
I haven't had time to make sense of that. I still don't. I only know that something is wrong with Jacob. Whatever Jacob says, Dalton's sin against him cannot warrant this level of vengeance. It just can't.
"Eric?" I say, and he snaps out of it, mumbling more apologies as he hurries over with the water.
Anders cleans and binds my wounds as best he ca
n. With every light-headed dip toward darkness, I shake myself back, and I manage to stay conscious until they load me into the ATV. Then I lose the battle.
FIFTY-FIVE
I wake in bed. My bed. Beth is checking one of my dressings. Dalton's sitting on a chair he's carried up from downstairs. He's lost in thought, startled when I croak, "How bad is it?"
"Could have been worse," Beth says.
I chuckle, which sends pain stabbing through me. "Damage report?"
She rattles it off matter-of-factly. Diana can call that cold, but it's how some of us process and deliver data best.
The leg and arm were both shallow cuts. They hadn't required stitches and shouldn't scar, but hell, it's not like I'd notice a few more anyway.
The chest wound isn't as shallow, but Dalton pulled Jacob off before the blade penetrated far. It scraped my rib, which kept it from nicking my lung. I'm not going to bounce off to work in the morning, but I'll be fine. In the meantime, the fact that I am relatively unconcerned about my injuries suggests I got a nice dose of opiates while I was unconscious. Beth confirms that.
"I also did a transfusion," Beth says. "I have blood in the clinic, but since you're a universal recipient and someone was very eager to make amends for getting separated in the woods, I did a direct transfusion."
It takes a moment for me to realize whom she meant. Yep, they are good drugs. I glance at Dalton, and realize the slightly dazed look on his face is more than guilt and exhaustion.
"You didn't need to do that," I say.
He says nothing.
"You should go home," I say. "Rest."
"Casey's right," Beth says. "I'll call Will to help you home."
"I'm fine."
"Eric..." I say, and I start to insist, but I fade, slumping back onto the pillow. Beth tucks me in with, "Get some sleep. I'll send Eric home."
I wake to find Dalton still in the chair. Beth's gone and he's alert enough now that when I open my eyes, he's at my bedside.
"Didn't obey the doctor's orders, I see."
"I understand if you don't want me here--"
"No," I say. "I do. But you look ready to drop."
"I'm staying."
"Okay." I shift so he can sit on the bed. After some prodding, he does.
I say, "No one else knows about Jacob, do they?"
He shakes his head.
"Was it a long time ago?" I ask. "The separation?"
He nods and then blurts, "If I had any idea he'd ever--"
"You have a brother in the forest, Eric. One of the hostiles is your brother."
"He's not a--" He swallows the rest.
"Did it happen when you were kids?" I ask.
He nods.
"I'm going to guess he was either taken from the town or he wandered off, got lost out there, and was taken in by settlers."
He pauses so long I don't think I'm going to get an answer. Then he says, "Something like that."
"And he blames you. Maybe you were with him when he got lost or he just blames you for not coming after him."
"Something like--" He runs his hands through his hair, head dropping as he lets out a noise between a growl and a groan. "Jacob's not a hostile. He's never been-- What you saw out there-- I don't know what's happening, but that is not my brother."
"Okay."
He waits for me to argue. When I don't, he shifts on the bed and faces me. "It happened when we were kids, like you said. By the time I saw him again, we were teenagers, and I tried to bring him to Rockton, but he wasn't interested, and maybe I should have dragged his ass in here and--"
He stops, breathing so fast he can't continue. He grips the bedspread, closes his eyes, and then continues, a little calmer. "The point is that he's always been welcome here, but he's not interested, and I respect that. As for what he blames me for ... Yeah, I was a kid, and I made a mistake, and I thought I was doing the right thing, and..." He shakes it off. "Doesn't matter. He does blame me for the separation. But it's not like what you saw out there. He's not like that. Even the smell..."
"He might not have access to hot showers, but he usually takes better care of himself."
"Much better. Sure, we argue sometimes. About him being out there and me being here. But it's arguing--not swearing revenge and threatening to kill--"
That fast breathing again. Anxiety and panic, and though I've never seen him like this, I recognize the signs. This is territory he avoids, like I avoid the subject of my past. It's the trigger that flips the switch from the hard-ass sheriff to the boy who lost his younger brother to the forest and hasn't ever gotten over it.
"We argue," he says. "That's it, and not even much of that."
"You have contact with him. Like you said before."
He nods. "Plenty of contact. Social and otherwise. He trades meat and furs for things he can't get easily, like clothing and weapons. Maybe it's not exactly a normal relationship for brothers, but ... fuck if I know what is." He makes a face, frustration mingled with embarrassment. He's right, of course. Anything he knows about sibling relationships comes from books. There's none of that in Rockton. Another reminder of how different his life is, and how very aware he is of that difference.
"It is what it is," he says. "And it's not like what you saw today. At all."
"When's the last time you talked to him?"
"Two days before you got here. He seemed fine. After we found Powys, I went out to speak to him, see if he knew anything, but he wasn't around. You heard Brent. That worried me, but then you spotted him when we went caving, so ... I figured he was fine."
"He seemed okay the last time you talked with him?"
"Fuck, yeah."
"Taking care of himself?"
"Of course."
"How old is he?"
"Three years younger than me. Why?"
I tell him what I'm thinking. Schizophrenia. Early adulthood onset, the sudden paranoia, the lack of interest in personal grooming. Dalton's well read enough to know what it is.
"I don't know if it can come on that fast," I say. "But it might have been a more gradual deterioration than it seems. I mean, he kept himself clean enough, but..."
"Yeah, living out there, the standards are different."
"And the fact that he chooses to live out there..."
"No," he says abruptly. "It may seem crazy to you, but it's a choice, and not a sign--" A sharp shake of his head, and he loses a little of his usual confidence, faltering as he says, "If I had any idea ... I would have warned you..." He gets to his feet. "I'll take care of this. You're safe here, and you should get some sleep."
"I don't want--"
"Sleep," he says, and lowers himself into the chair. "I'm not going anywhere. We can talk later."
I stir from sleep, but not for long enough even to roll over and see if it's light out. I hear Dalton arguing with someone and think situation normal.
Then I remember it's far from normal as the last day floods back. Mick's death and the arson and the fact my best friend may have done both and she betrayed me and now she has to leave, but then there was the forest and that kiss and then Jacob and a glimpse of another Eric Dalton, a side of him that I need to understand if I ever want to get closer to him, and that kiss, and dear God, am I actually even thinking about that, in light of everything that happened?
It's not as if a kiss somehow cancels out the horror and the pain, but it's easier to focus on, and I keep thinking of a poem I memorized in school, and I don't even remember why, but it wasn't an assignment. I think it just spoke to me, somehow.
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
And I don't know why I'm thinking about that damned poem, except that I'm half aslee
p and still high from the morphine, and I'm listening to Dalton arguing with someone, and I'm glad he's feeling more himself, but I'm sad, too, because more himself means the rest has passed, and yet that's good, isn't it? Forget the kiss. It's silly. Inconsequential. I have important things to occupy my mind and no time for that.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that my best friend has betrayed me,
Say that I've been stabbed, but add,
Eric kissed me.
Seriously? Screw this. No matter how much pain I'm in, I'm not taking any more drugs. Good night.
FIFTY-SIX
I'm done with this shit. That's the thought filling my brain when I wake again. I went to sleep thinking about Dalton and that kiss, and I wake thinking about the exact same thing, but in a very different way.
He kissed me. It was 100 percent him, even as he was saying he didn't want it, and when I did the right thing and put a halt to it, how did he react? Stalked off in a snit after repeatedly lecturing me about being alone in the forest. He left me alone in the forest.
I'm pissed, and I'm going to let myself be pissed.
So when I wake and notice someone in the chair, I almost close my eyes again. Then I see it's Anders.
I rise and look around.
"Do you want me to get Eric?" he says.
"No," I say, perhaps a bit too vehemently, and his brows shoot up, and I hurry on with, "It's fine. He needs a break."
"Sure as hell didn't want it, though. The only reason he left was to tell the council they can go fuck themselves."
My brows lift.
Anders moves to sit on the bed. "They want him to take Diana tomorrow."
"I heard him arguing with someone downstairs. Was that the same thing?"
"Nah, that was Beth. She can..." He made a face. "You know what she's like with Eric. Trying to take care of him, mothering or whatever. She'd been pestering him to leave you alone and go rest, and he was already cranky about that. Then she tried telling him he shouldn't fight the council. That set him off. I feel a little sorry for her, but..." He shrugs. "She means well, but he really doesn't like her hovering and fretting over him, and she never takes the hint."
"Hmm." I shift in the bed, and I must wince, because Anders reaches for a bottle at my bedside.
"If that's morphine, the answer is no," I say. "I have work to do."
"Which you can't do if you're sweating with pain."
I wipe my forehead. It is indeed beaded with perspiration.
"Take a half dose," he says. "Then water and food."