She nodded, turning to run up the stairs. It wasn’t until she was rummaging through his T-shirts, wondering if it made a difference if they were colored—of course it didn’t!—that she realized she was crying.
“Stop it,” she whispered fiercely to herself, wiping her face with her sleeve. The last thing Sam needed was her going into hysterics. She took a breath and dashed back down the stairs.
Sam and Becky had Doc on the futon in the spare bedroom. They’d removed Doc’s boots and Sam was cutting off the right leg of his jeans.
Sam didn’t look up as she entered. “Put the T-shirts there.” He jerked his chin at the table next to the futon. “Becky, I’ve got a bottle of rubbing alcohol in my downstairs bathroom cabinet.”
Becky left without a word.
Maisa stood there, staring at Doc’s bloodstained leg, feeling completely useless.
“Didn’t hit the artery at least,” Sam muttered. Carefully he raised the leg, ignoring Doc’s groan. “Looks like the bullet went through.”
“That’s good, right?” Maisa said.
Sam didn’t answer her.
Becky came back in with the bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“Okay, Doc,” Sam said, sure and steady. “We’re going to disinfect the wound as well as we can here and patch it up until we can get you to a hospital.”
He unscrewed the bottle cap and poured the rubbing alcohol directly in the bullet wound.
“Fuck!” Doc gasped. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Turn a bit so I can get the exit wound,” Sam said, ignoring him.
Doc complied.
Sam repeated the process on the back of his leg.
Doc grit his teeth and then exhaled hard. “Son, I’m rethinking that promotion I was pushing you into.”
“I bet you are,” Sam said, his voice firm but his hands gentle. “Worst is over now.”
He took two T-shirts, made them into pads, and bound them tight to Doc’s leg before pushing a couple of pillows under the leg to raise it.
By the time he’d finished, Doc was half asleep and Maisa could see the weariness in Sam’s eyes.
She looked at Becky. “Can you stay with Doc?”
“ ’Course,” Becky said, her chin lifted.
Maisa smiled at her in gratitude. “Come on.” She took Sam’s arm. “You need to wash your hands.”
She led him back into the outer room where Ilya had collapsed on one of the chairs by the kitchen window. Dyadya was in the other, talking quietly to the Russian.
Sam went to the kitchen sink. He turned the faucet on and thrust his hands beneath the running water.
The water turned pink in the sink.
Maisa watched him for a second and picked up the bar of soap by the sink and put it in his hands. “What happened, Sam?”
“Beridze showed up at the police station.” He was rubbing the soap between his hands. “Demanded Ilya. We were outgunned so I said we ought to make a run for it, but…”
His hands were clean so Maisa turned off the water. She picked up the towel hanging by the sink and carefully dried his hands.
Sam suddenly looked up. “It was my fault.”
Her heart twisted, but she kept her voice steady. “How do you figure that?”
“I didn’t see anyone out back, but they must’ve been waiting for us to run. They shot Doc.”
Maisa threw aside the towel and silently wrapped her arms around Sam’s waist, giving comfort. She knew how important Doc was to Sam.
“What would’ve happened if you’d stayed?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She pulled back to look at him. “You already said you were outgunned. Sounds to me like you didn’t have much choice.”
He shook his head and pulled her back into his arms. She felt Sam bury his face in her hair and exhale. “We lost them pretty quick outside of town, but then the Silverado got stuck on a back road. Took me a couple hours to get her shoveled out.” He raised his head and looked at her and she saw that his eyes were hard. “I need to go back out and find Beridze.”
Tears pricked at her eyes again. No. Oh, no. “That sounds like a real good way to get killed.”
His mouth tightened. “There’s no telling what Beridze and his men are doing in town. I—”
Maisa placed her palm on Sam’s cheek, feeling the chill of the outside air, the end-of-the-day rasp of stubble. “Have you eaten since breakfast?”
He frowned. “No, but—”
“I found some ground meat in your freezer and a couple of cans of black beans in your cupboard. Do you like chili?” She used the cuff of her shirt to swipe at her eyes.
“May—”
“We all have to eat,” she said firmly. “You can’t leave us, Sam.”
“I can’t just leave them in my town.”
“I know.” She patted his chest, blinking back tears again. “I know, but it’s dark and there’s only you. Can’t we wait until morning? Until the other policemen show up?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “We don’t know where Tick and Dylan are—the radios are down and none of the cell phones work.”
“All the more reason to wait until morning,” Maisa said, her voice calm and steady, as she led him into the kitchen. If he went out now, tired and hungry and with the light almost gone, he might not return. “Sam, if we lose you, we’ll be all by ourselves. They need you. I need you.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He frowned as he caught sight of Otter attempting to eat the entire bag of abandoned dog food in one go. He squatted and scooped the terrier up in his arms, ruffling his ears absently. “But in the morning I’ve got to go out, May.” He looked up, and she wanted to weep at the stillness in his eyes. “It’s my town and I have to protect it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sam sat at his kitchen island and wondered how he could eat a second bowl of chili when Doc had been shot. ’Course, this wasn’t the first time he’d eaten or slept or pissed or otherwise went on living when someone he knew—someone he’d liked and respected and… cared for—had been hurt.
Had died, in some cases.
God willing, though, it would be the last.
“Do you think Otter the Dog’s made himself sick?” May was watching the terrier worriedly. Otter was zonked out on his dog bed in front of the kitchen broom closet. His belly was distended.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “He’s got a cast-iron stomach.”
May had put together supper and served it and then had found a sleeping bag and talked Becky into lying down next to the futon in the spare room. She was taking care of them all, he realized. She liked to pretend toughness, but she was so soft, so caring, underneath it all.
God, he had to keep his May safe.
He watched as George took another beer from his fridge. The older man hadn’t said much in the couple of hours since they’d made it back. Hadn’t made any explanations. Hadn’t offered any apologies. Something about that just didn’t sit right with Sam.
“Did you know?” Sam asked.
George looked at him warily. “Know what?”
Over by the sink May stiffened.
Sam put down his spoon. He carefully placed his hands palms down on the table, bracketing his chili bowl. “Know the Russian mob was coming here to Coot Lake?”
George’s eyes narrowed. “I did not know at first.”
“Dyadya had no idea—”
“Hush, May,” Sam said gently without looking at her. “You knew he was mafiya, though, didn’t you?” He jerked his chin at Ilya, sitting in the corner, still in his red jacket, a half-eaten bowl of chili clutched to his chest. “When did you know he was coming into town?”
“Ilya and I are old… acquaintances.” George deliberately twisted off the beer bottle cap, using only the three fingers on his right hand. “He called me yesterday morning, very early, and asked to see me. So, yes, I suppose I should have realized that the mafiya might be arriving in the so-gentle Coot Lake.”
“An
d you told no one,” Sam said, hard.
“Sam!” May went to stand behind her uncle. She couldn’t have made her allegiance any more obvious if she’d screamed it.
Something dark gathered inside Sam. Her unwavering loyalty was part of the reason he wanted her, but in this she had to be on his side, not her uncle’s.
“No,” George murmured, his accent thick. “No, I did not tell anyone that my old friend Ilya was coming—and that the mafiya might be not far behind. That is what you want to hear, yes? That the suffering of the noble police chief Doc Meijer is my fault? Entirely my fault”—George’s voice lowered almost to a whisper—“and not his or yours.”
Sam stood so fast his stool fell over.
Otter lifted his head and gave a single, startled bark.
May pushed in front of Sam, scowling, hands on hips. “This isn’t Dyadya’s fault—you know that. He has as much to fear from the Russian mob as you do—more, in fact. His testimony sent Beridze’s uncle to prison.”
Sam felt his fists clench as he looked over her head at the old man. “So he’ll be after you, too.”
George just watched him, his face closed.
Which was answer enough, Sam guessed. “You sat and waited and chose to remain silent when you knew thugs with automatic weapons were coming to my town.”
“You know I am mafiya.” George shrugged. “Did you perhaps expect otherwise?”
May looked exasperated. “Dyadya!”
Sam’s lip curled. “You endangered this town—endangered May—and didn’t give a fuck, did you?”
“Sam!” May puffed up like a bantam hen. “You can’t talk to him like that.”
“Go upstairs, May.”
“No.”
“I said—”
“And I said no.” She reached up and grabbed his chin.
He looked down at her, incredulous.
“I’m not going to be pushed to the side like a good little girl,” she said low and fierce, “while you big men settle your asinine argument. This is the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages.”
Sam’s nostrils flared. “I let you get away with a lot, sweetheart, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a line.”
She blinked, but didn’t back down. Instead she crowded up against him, well within his personal space. “You knew exactly what I was like when you decided to keep chasing me, Sam West. I’m not some sweet young thing who’ll tell you your cock is the biggest I’ve ever seen. I’m a cranky bitch with a career, an education, and opinions. Take it or leave it, but don’t start acting like you had no idea who I am. What I am.” She pointed behind her, straight-armed at her uncle without looking away from Sam. “Dyadya is everything to me. If you force me to make a choice I’m going to pick him. Every. Single. Time.” She inhaled and her voice suddenly dropped as if all the steam had gone out of her. “So don’t force me, Sam.”
He stared at her a moment longer and suddenly realized that he’d already made a choice of his own—whether she liked it or not. Old George and Ilya were still in the kitchen watching, but he ignored them, because this was between him and May, and it was important. “Go on to bed, May. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Dyadya—”
“I’m not going to hurt your uncle.” Tonight.
She looked at him suspiciously as if she’d heard his unspoken amendment, but in the end she nodded and turned to the stairs without protest. Despite what she’d just yelled at him.
Not that he was stupid enough to point that out.
George wasn’t a fool, either. He waited until May was out of earshot before he raised an eyebrow at Sam. “So, that is settled, I think.”
Sam looked at him, flat. “Don’t bet on it, old man.” He jerked his chin at the mission chairs by the windows. “You and Ilya can bunk in the chairs—they fold down nearly flat. Spare blankets in the closet by the back door. Sorry I don’t have anything better,” he added without really meaning it.
George nodded cautiously anyway. “I thank you. And you, you’ll be, uh, bunking with my niece upstairs?”
Sam looked the man in the eye. “Got a problem with that?”
George actually chuckled. “Oh, I am not the one you should worry over.”
Sam grunted and turned toward the stairs and his loft, because he figured Old George had it right: He might have May in his bedroom, but that didn’t mean he had her in his bed.
Yet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Maisa stopped at the top of the stairs. God, what was she doing? She stared blankly at the simple platform king bed. Beside it was an old wooden footstool serving as a bedside table with a small lamp on top. A massive antique chest of drawers stood against one wall next to a straight-backed chair, and that was it for the furniture. There wasn’t a bedspread on the bed, just a Hudson’s Bay blanket on top of red flannel sheets. She laid her hand on the cream blanket, stroking over the scratchy red, green, and yellow stripes. It looked warm and inviting.
Maisa shivered and stepped away.
She should go back downstairs, maybe see if there was room for her on the futon with Becky. Anything she might do up here would be very, very foolish. And yet…
And yet there’d been something in his face tonight that she was unable to walk away from. Doc had been shot. That was just—
His steps sounded on the uncovered wooden stairs leading to the loft, his pace unhesitating. She snorted to herself at the thought. Had Sam ever hesitated at anything in his life?
She took a breath and turned.
He stood just at the top of the stairs watching her. The only light was a soft glow from downstairs. She’d forgotten to flick on the light up here and his face was partly in shadow.
“He didn’t mean it,” she blurted. She wasn’t sure if those below could hear them up here, but she kept her voice low. “He likes Doc.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her, and she felt immediately angry with herself. This was why she’d vowed never to defend Dyadya: other people didn’t understand his motives, didn’t believe he was anything beyond the tattoos on his hands.
“Forget it.” She huffed an impatient breath and moved to stride past him. “I should go sleep downstairs.”
“May.” He caught her arm. His grip wasn’t hard—she could’ve pulled away had she tried—but she stopped dead.
She looked up at him in the dimly lit room. He should’ve looked sad and lonely and hurt because of what had happened to Doc. She should’ve felt sorry for his vulnerability. Should’ve felt sorry for him.
Except he looked anything but vulnerable.
The breath caught in her chest. If anyone was vulnerable it was she. “Let me go.”
“Never,” he whispered, and pulled her against him.
His mouth was hot and tasted of hops. He combed his fingers into her hair, holding her, bending her back so she felt off balance. Relying on him to keep her upright. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she heard herself moan. Her hands fisted the soft chamois of his shirt, as he angled his head and pried her lips wider. He was a winter storm, overwhelming and relentless, and she was only a woman. Only a mortal. There was no way she could be expected to withstand someone like him. She could only hang on and hope to keep her sanity in the face of such an assault.
She whimpered at the thought, and then the backs of her knees hit the bed and she realized that he’d been bearing her toward the bed all this time.
She fell, out of control, and he came down, too. He landed on her, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders, and immediately brought his mouth to hers again.
He bit her. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, gentle, but with a definite threat, and tugged.
That shouldn’t have turned her on. Only a woman with very strange tastes in bed would be turned on by that. But an electric shock shot through her, hitting that place between her legs, so maybe she was that woman.
She arched up and tore at his soft shirt as if she’d lost the ability to figure out
buttons.
He chuckled, deep in the back of his throat, and that would’ve normally made her mad, but right now it just made her want to get all his clothes off. It’d been so very long since she’d felt his skin against hers.
She gave up on his shirt and went straight for the front of his jeans instead, wriggling her fingers between their bodies, shoving, twisting, until her hand held him. Until she found the long, hard length of his penis through his clothes and squeezed him.
He stopped chuckling.
Oh. Oh, this was very nice. How long since she’d held all his strength and want quite literally in the palm of her hand? She was an idiot for refusing this. For staying away from Sam.
She ran her fingertips over worn denim, exploring delicately, blindly, panting against his teeth, until she reached the head and squeezed.
He groaned into her mouth.
She wanted more. Wanted… wanted… everything.
Tomorrow, half an hour from now, she might come to her senses. Might talk herself out of this, and she wanted—needed—to feel all of him before that time. Needed to have something of him to keep when she went back to her lonely, solitary existence.
She pushed his shoulders, and at first he wouldn’t move. That only made her frantic, and she heaved against him, shoving at his great big, heavy, male bulk until he must’ve realized she wasn’t going to stop.
He gave way and rolled off her and onto his back on the bed. “May, sweetheart, don’t—”
But whatever stupid protest he was going to make died in his throat when she climbed on top of him.
She sat on his legs, leaning over him, and went for his fly. And wonders of wonders, her fingers, which had been unable to figure out shirt buttons, turned out to be pretty swift with a zipper. She pulled it down, popped the tab, and paused to take a deep breath of greedy anticipation.
She carefully—tenderly—laid wide his fly. He wore gray knit boxer briefs. His cock was clearly outlined beneath, pointing up and to the side. She touched her tongue to her upper lip and pulled down the elastic waistband. Slowly, because she wanted to savor this, the pulse beating strong at her neck and in her ears, her thighs clenching, and because she’d named herself a bitch and in that, at least, she’d never lied: She liked to tease.