Page 49 of Love Me Dangerous

My non-answer doesn’t seem to faze him, because he guides my hand down to the sink and turns on the water. The pain makes me hiss, and though I don’t mean to, I jerk back, which sends sharp pains up my side.

Rowdy’s mouth tightens in a grimace. “Sorry.”

He dries the wound, then smears ointment on a dry square of gauze and gently presses it into place.

“Thanks,” I say.

He glances from his work rolling new gauze over the dressing, his face pinched with worry. “Think you can keep it dry for a few days?”

“I’ll try.”

Rowdy scoops up the supplies. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

He disappears down the hallway.

I splash some water on my face with my good hand, but because I can’t bend over too far, it drips down my shirt. If I had my backpack, I could change into the spare undershirt I was carrying.

The memory of what I’ve lost rips through me. I brace against the sink and breathe.

The phone is replaceable. So is my jacket and water bottle. Losing my sketchbook makes me queasy. It’s been my companion all these months, a private chronicle of my journey. There’s no way to recreate what was in those pages.

Losing the money is an unlucky break. It also means I’m not leaving Finn River anytime soon. Even with my upcoming paycheck—which Henry promised to cash for me—I won’t have enough to survive a winter on the road.

The Leatherman tool though, that’s going to hurt for a long time. It was a birthday gift from my dad. Back when everything was still good. He was alive and well. Mom was okay. We were a family. Whole.

I slip my wallet from my back pocket and thumb my one picture ofWilliam and me from one of the credit card sleeves. We had been playing catch in the field behind the house, so our cheeks are flushed. I can practically hear our heaving breaths. Behind us in the photo, Alaska’s midnight sun hangs low, turning the snowy peaks to silver and the tips of the meadow grass to a warm gold.

Thick, prickly emotions lodge in my throat. I stare at the photo and try to swallow everything back down, back to where they’re safe.

If only I could call William. Hear his voice. Reassure him that we’re both going to be okay. That we’ll be together again.

But I don’t know that yet.

And I’m done making promises I can’t keep.

Chapter Thirteen

ZACH

When I leave the bathroom,the scent of dry pine burning and the snap of a fire in the hearth draw me into the living room. Because I haven’t explored the rest of the house yet, I take a moment to drink in the simple, cozy surroundings.

The open living room is separated from the kitchen by the fireplace, which faces an L-shaped couch. To the right is a TV stand and a sliding glass door that opens to a small deck. Beyond it is the same forest view from Jesse’s room. From this angle, the tall trees rise to a rocky ridge. In the soft morning light, the exposed granite is a pale, dove gray.

Water running and low conversation from the kitchen draw me closer. When I step into the small space, both Sofie and her dad look up. They share so many similar features—same inquisitive eyes and long lashes, same thick brown hair, though her dad’s is flecked with gray at the temples.

“Coffee?” Rowdy asks, stepping to the opposite counter.

“Please,” I reply.

While he reaches into a cupboard for a mug, I take in the small space. Three placemats line the avocado-green Formica counter facing the kitchen, with three wooden stools beneath.

Rowdy slides me a cup of black coffee in a handsome mugwith a bright blue and magenta glaze, the kind one might expect in an art gallery. I cradle the cup and bring it to my lips. The coffee’s hot and not particularly strong, the kind a person could drink all day. Maybe Rowdy loads up a thermos of it for his long days in the field.

While Rowdy and Sofie buzz around each other, loading plates with eggs and sausage and grabbing silverware from a drawer, I give the adjacent dining room a quick scan. The round table in the center looks like it’s being used more for homework and storage than for family meals.

On one of the chairs is my backpack.

I lunge for it, the pain in my side erupting up my shoulders and flattening my lungs, but I don’t care. “Where did?—?”

---