Page 18 of Recurve Ridge

A steaming mug of tea sat on the bar top where he worked.

Though some of us were further along the road to recovery than others, we all had our own Band-Aid fixes to help us deal with the world we’d fallen out of favor with. I reached for the tea, but Alan batted my hand away with a quick shake of his head.

“Not for you.”

“Fine.” I pressed my lips together, then ran a hand over my hair and attempted to answer his earlier question. “I have no idea. She seems chipper enough for a woman who’s been abused to the edge of her sanity. Is that something to worry about or a sign of healing? I’m not the right person to assess her for this. Maybe she’ll crash, or maybe she won’t be able to leave the room. She needs medical attention at the absolute least and psychological support we can’t provide from here. But she seems like she’ll survive, at least at a surface level. I didn’t scare her as much this time. I don’t think.”

I shot a look sideways to where Jon leaned out the cabin door, his back to me as he stared into the silent depths of the winter-blanketed forest beyond.

“The boys should be back soon.” Jon gripped the lintel harder beneath thick fingers that suited his oversized frame, still staring after Miller. “When’s our little ray of sunshine waking up?” He stepped back into the cabin, dwarfing me as we stood side by side.

Alan twisted away from us and whistled an obscenely jaunty tune as he pottered about between the bar and kitchen.

I elbowed Jon in the ribs as my easiest target. “Tell me you’re not sweet on her too.”

“Oh, hell no,” Alan answered for him. He ran a hand through his hair, a grimace twisting his features.

I was used to hearing the end result of his ideas; by the time a thought fell out of his mouth, he’d already either approved or discarded it.

“She needs therapy, but not here. Which….” His grimace became more pronounced, baring teeth and gums at his hatred of the idea he voiced.

“Means either bring someone in or send her away. Yeah,” I groused, the same thought whirling about my head. “I’m not a fan either.”

Jon growled behind me, and Alan turned his attention in my woodsman’s direction. All at once, my bartender’s easy facade dropped away to be replaced with cold eyes and a tight white slash of a mouth.

What did Miller call him—a creepy little fucker? He sure as hell wasn’t wrong. A groan left my lips as my gaze swung between them, waiting for the next crazy to fall from someone’s thoughtless mouth.

Alan’s eyes turned predatory when the big man didn’t back down. Some of the color returned to my bartender’s face. “Oh, yes. He’s got eyes for the little darling. And speaking of, here she is. For you, sweetcheeks.” Alan passed the waiting mug of steaming liquid out of my line of sight.

I spun on my heel, almost knocking Jon on his ass. No small feat in itself, that. But then I turned and took in Mari.

She’d dressed in the compression running tights Will had handed over upon request with no small dose of reluctance and a black long-sleeved thermal top Miller had donated, his slight build being the closest to her smaller form, though he topped her by a good half a foot.

But Miller wasn’t who I thought of when I looked back toward my bedroom.

The slinky black material covered Mari from head to toe and clung to every curve of her breasts. The thermal draped over her ass in a gentle swell that invited a perfect one-hand grip. Clean and damp, her hair was knotted in a messy bun on top of her head. She wore a wary smile that appeared to be her default setting, and as predicted, she weighed in well above stunning.

“Mari—” I started, but Alan cut me off.

“Mari! What a pretty name,” he all but cooed, bracing his forearms on the bench and leaning forward, not quite invading her space. “I’m Alan Dale, pole dancer extraordinaire, and you’ve already met our most gracious host. The big blond one is Jon Littleman. Will and Miller are about somewhere.” He tweaked her nose in slow motion, and she giggled.

Giggled.

“How come he can make her laugh while I get a crazy woman who seesaws between hysterical and mute?” I asked the room, unable to pry my eyes off her.

“Because you’re the size of a mountain, and he chats people up for a living,” Jon replied out of the corner of his mouth.

Alan was the closest thing we had to an intelligence officer, though he hadn’t started out that way.

“Fair call.”

We both folded our arms and stared forward.

Two heads whipped our way at the movement.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Subtlety is not your strength, Robe. Jon, samesies. Waffles, sweetcakes?”

Mari smiled behind the tea mug she clutched to her chest, though I noted her fingers weren’t quite as white as they had been when she accepted the gift from Alan. “I thought I was sweetcheeks.”

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