Page 70 of Heston
So London left them and put herself through college. Why not? She’d excelled in academics and athletics despite their criticism, lack of support, and name-calling. She’d accepted their low opinion of her because she knew, deep inside, she’d never seen the world the way they did. She was a glass half-full person. Always had been.
Not anymore. Her parents were right. She had no business thinking she’d ever make a difference in the world. She wasn’t strong or smart or clever enough. Some guys had glass jaws, she had a glass skull. She couldn’t fight, didn’t match most guys in weight, strength, or skill. Couldn’t take a punch. She hadn’t survived FBI training, sucked at being a forest service LEO. She was a fraud.
“You okay?” Heston asked, his arm around her, despite her edging closer to the window.
“I’m fine,” she lied. Then, because he knew her too well, she added, “Just sore and tired. I want a long hot shower and aspirin. And sleep.”
“No sleep for a while, London,” Eric said from the driver’s seat. “You’re definitely concussed. We’re taking you to the hospital, and we won’t leave your side until we’re sure you’re okay. If you do fall asleep, we’ll be there to wake you every half hour.”
Well, damn.“I don’t want to go to a hospital. I just want to go home. I’ll be okay, promise.”
Like it or not, Heston released his seatbelt and gathered her back under his arm. “Sorry, but you need a thorough examination, X-rays, maybe an MRI or two. You already threw up twice. That’s a definite indicator.”
“I know, but…” London let her next argument hang. There was no choice. To get Heston off her back, she needed to be seen by a doctor. Her headwaskilling her. He might be right.
She used to be happy there under his arm. She used to be safe. But safety was just another illusion. There was no such thing. It was as big a lie as she was.
What weighed heaviest on her mind now, was how she’d treated Heston years ago. After just one fight, one simple misspeak on his part, on the day he’d seen two of his men die, she’d run off like a spoiled brat. Why? Because her itty-bitty feelings got hurt. She’d bailed on the man she’d loved. Like a cold-hearted bitch, she’d hopped a jetliner to the East coast and left him. She hadn’t even said goodbye. Or written a letter to explain. Or called to tell him where she went, that she was okay, or why she’d left. No, she’d treated him like he was trash.
Just like her parents treated her. A painful sob caught in her throat at that cold truth. Her chest hurt, but this pain came from her heart, not her ribs. She was no different than her mother. As far back as London could recall, her mother had never hugged her or kissed her boo-boos when she was little. She’d never had a no-kidding talk about girl things. Womanly things. Not about her changing body when she’d started her period. Not abouther breasts when they’d grown from an embarrassing C to a double D—at twelve. Girls were mean at that age. Boys were meaner. Luckily London’s gym teacher encouraged her to sign up for track. She’d also taught London about sports bras and deodorant, about tampons and the differences between men and boys. More than anything, Mrs. Summers had cared for London.
But London had only cared about herself. And now Heston had proven—with his life—how much he loved her, while all she’d proven was she was a fraud. A thoughtless, headstrong, foolish fraud.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Awareness came to her like a slow-moving tide in the middle of a dark moonless night. Cautiously. Stealthily. For every inch it advanced, it reeled backward a thousand footsteps before it began the tediously slow process forward again. Teasing with a sunrise of promise, then drowning that promise in darkness and fog. So much fog. Over and over, the tide rolled in and then retreated. So many futile attempts to rejoin the land of the living.
She wanted to run, to escape the endless surge and retreat. At least to wake up. To remember. No sooner thought, than the tide ebbed away from the promise of clarity again, extinguishing her power of reasoning and dashing her spirit. Dousing hope with wave after wave of endless nothingness.
Until…
“Sweetheart?”
That voice. That one word was powerful. It stopped the tide in its tracks. It meant something. It was more than an endearment. It was a promise. A vow. A pledge of forever. Of family and safety and security. Of warmth and strength. Of sizzling warmth and absolute strength. Of… someone.
With a deep breath, the fire in her lungs at last dissipated. She could breathe.
The throbbing noise in her head stilled. She could hear herself think.
Her brain hadn’t failed her after all. Better, a delicious scent teased her nose, daring her to inhale more. It spoke to her of tall cedar trees, smoky campfires, and children’s laughter—of all the absolutes that used to be her universe. Of a man. A single man. Her man. Of his willingness to fight for her, to die for her. He’dtaught her how to fight. He’d saved her, showed her how to save herself. And she had. Could do it again.
Just not right now.
Fighting lethargy and a dizzying loss of equilibrium, she dared open her eyes. She wasn’t blind after all. The cold, damp world around her wasn’t the shore, but a hospital room. Its walls and edges blurred and shimmered, came in and went out of focus. The lighting overhead dimmed, offering instant relief. Her pupils widened ever so slightly, as they eased her brain into her new normal.
There he was. The most magnificent male in the world, standing beside her bed. Alex towered like a stalwart redwood above her. Not over her. His eyes were closed. He was obviously in prayer. His head was bowed. His forehead was creased with worry. His lips were thin, as if he didn’t like the answer he’d received.
There was no dominance in her man. Not over her, at least. But she did see lines across his forehead, and a skosh of fear crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her hand was gently held between both of his, as if she were fragile. Which she was, since the hand he held was bandaged down past her wrist and—ouch—a twinge of pain stabbed at her shoulder. That arm just might be fragile, too.
Not like she’d pull her hand back. No way. The pain in her shoulder was nothing compared to the loss she’d feel once he let go. Come to think of it, her chest felt as if it were tightly wrapped. Had she broken a rib? My goodness, what else?
Her man was the fiercest warrior, but also, the gentlest lover and father. He commanded legions with great courage, yet he gave his heart tenderly and absolutely. He served to please. The steadying scent of him reassured her. He was her Alex, and she was his Kelsey. They had five children together, three angels, Abby, Jackie, and Tommy. Two noisy, very much alive,mischievous scamps who filled their home with spilled milk, empty candy wrappers, life, and laughter. Lexie and Bradley.
Kelsey smiled. They needed to stop calling him Baby Bradley. One of these days, he’d be a man like his father, and he wouldn’t appreciate that handle.
Her chest heaved with gratitude. When the tiny movement caught Alex’s attention, she found herself bathed in the purest, deepest, bluest sunshine.
“Kelsey?”
