Captured by Jasinda Wilder

  He levels a look at me.

  "And, trust me, Reagan, you do not want me in your house. I don't want to be there, and you wouldn't want me there." He goes quiet for a moment. "Maybe that came out wrong. It's not that I don't want to be in your house, or around you. It's not that, it's just...."

  "I get it. As much as anyone can, I get what you're saying. It's okay."

  He widens his eyes, blinks, and shakes his head. "Can't believe how fucked up that little bit of beer made me. Guess it was a bad idea."

  He stretches, shifts, and the jeans ride low on his waist, bare a hint of the "V" of muscle, curls of body hair. I can't look away. I should, but I can't. Guilt assails me. I shouldn't be looking at Derek like that. At anyone, but especially him, especially when he's so fragile, emotionally and psychologically. Not fragile -- that's not the right word. Unstable, maybe. Raw, healing. Wounds to the body heal faster than those within.

  I rip my gaze away, stare at the floor between my feet. "Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?"

  "I'll be fine. Just need some sleep."

  The moon is a high bright sliver, shedding silver light on the grass. There's a lamp suspended from the power line stretching between the house and the barn, casting a broad circle of orange light on the gravel drive. I stop beneath it, stare back at the open barn door, at the faint glow of the lantern. My work boots crunch in the gravel, and the only sound is crickets, a few frogs somewhere far away. An owl hoots. The streetlight buzzes.

  I don't want to go in. I don't want to talk to Ida. I don't want to crawl into my empty bed.

  I do, though. Ida can tell I'm not in the mood for conversation, so she bids me a brief farewell and waits for Hank on the front porch. I strip off my sweat-stiff clothes, pull on a long T-shirt over my bare skin. As soon as my eyes close, I'm seized by a visual memory of Derek stretching, the hint of places on his body I have no business thinking about.

  Yet, I do. I wonder. And when I finally fall asleep, I dream.

  CHAPTER 8

  DEREK

  The world spins. Eyes closed, eyes open, it makes no difference. I plant one foot on the floor, and the spinning lessens a little. Eyes open is better, though. Not because it helps the spinning, but because every time I close my eyes, I see her. The black T-shirt lifted up to wipe the sweat off her face revealing a tight red sports bra, the tan, muscular stomach. Hipbones above low-rise jeans.

  She's a tiny thing. Barely five-five, maybe a buck-twenty soaking wet. Packs a hell of a lot of curve on her tiny frame, though, and I shouldn't be thinking about her like this. Shouldn't. Can't. It's so wrong, on so many levels.

  She's Tom's widow.

  But no matter how forcefully I remind myself, I still can't get that vision of her out of my head. Red Reebok sports bra, plump and stretched. Taut stomach flexing as she moves.

  When she touched my shoulder, I nearly lost it.

  No one has touched me since I've been back Stateside. I can't handle it. The last time a physical therapist tried to grab my leg to test my flexibility, he ended up with a broken nose. They learned after that to leave me the fuck alone. Tell me what they want me to do, but keep their damned hands off me. Hands bring pain. Touch means ache and agony. Touch flashes me back to being chained to a metal chair, a fist wrapped around my ring finger, bending it slowly and inexorably backward until it snaps. Touch flashes me back to hands shoving my face against the wall, a dull razor being dragged across my dry scalp, stuttering and slicing.

  When Reagan touched me, I don't think she had any clue how close I came to lashing out with my elbow. Her touch was lightning. Sudden, and striking me with instant heat. Her fingertips only, on the round part of my shoulder, a gentle, hesitant touch. And then she pressed her body up against mine, held me up somehow, and carried me to the stall. It shouldn't have been possible, but that woman is strong. And all I could smell was citrus shampoo in her hair, the sweat on her body.

  Fuck.

  Eventually sleep comes, but I have a dream. A different one this time. Not the cave or the splinters or the beatings or Tom dying, but a dream about Reagan. The image of her lifting her shirt. Only in the dream, she peels it off and steps toward me, her hair loose.

  And then I wake up.

  I fall back asleep and have the same dream.

  I manage to sleep till just past dawn, and then the dream drives me out of the barn. I don't bother with a shirt, since the day is already warm. Plus, it's the only shirt I've got with me. I uncap the paint can, gather the rollers and brushes, hike up the ladder. Roll, dip, roll, dip. Gray turns to pink, then orange, and I finish one side of the barn with the first coat. The old wood is porous and thirsty, so it'll take several coats. I start on the other side, get a third of the way done, and run out of paint. Descending the ladder, I find Reagan waiting for me, holding out a plate full of food. French toast, fried eggs, sausage. The woman can cook.

  When I finish eating, I glance at her. "I ran out of red paint. I'll need several more gallons to finish the barn. Some white for the house. Unless you want the house a different color. It's so faded and peeled away that at this point it can be any color you want."

  Reagan tilts her head. "I hadn't thought about that," she says. "Maybe a dark green?"

  I shrug. "Sure. Green it is." I hand back her stoneware plate, the fork rattling across the surface. "I'll wash up and head into town."

  I angle toward the back of the barn, where the old red well pump is located. This is where I've been washing myself.

  "Oh, my god," Reagan says, surprise and consternation in her voice. "I'm a horrible person."

  I stop and turn back. "The hell you talking about?"

  "You've been using the pump all this time, haven't you? You've been here a week, and you haven't had a proper shower." She glances at my jeans. "And you don't have any extra clothes, do you? God, I can't believe myself."

  I shift from foot to foot. "Wasn't sure where I was going except here, so I didn't bring anything. Don't have anything to bring anyway. I'm cool."

  "It's not cool," she says. "Come inside and take a shower." I hesitate, and she moves behind me, shoves at me. "Get."

  I get, if only to get away from the fire and uncomfortable intensity of her presence. She follows me up onto the porch, moves past me, and opens the screen door, which slams behind me. I have trouble moving past the foyer. There's a formal sitting room to the right, a stairway directly opposite the front door, a small den with hardwood floors overlaid by a thick rug, a couch under a window on one wall, a TV on the opposite wall. A doorway leads to the kitchen, and I can see it's painted yellow with white tile on the floor. White cabinets. Twenty-year-old appliances. There's a round four-person brown wood table, set with clear glass salt and pepper shakers, Tabasco sauce, and A-1 sauce.

  My nerves come back. The cause of my problem is sitting on the couch, drowsy, staring at the TV. Towheaded, with eyes exactly like Tom's, wide and brown and deep. He's damned adorable. Gotta be around three by now. Clutching a plastic cup with cartoon characters of some kind on the side, a bright red sippy lid. The TV blares, and I can see little mermaid creatures with huge heads singing a song about going outside.

  He's the lie I told...or didn't tell, more like.

  When Reagan asked me about the letter and if Tom had known about his kid, I freaked. I couldn't answer. Reagan deserves the truth, and I'm not sure I'm man enough to give it to her.

  "Derek?" Her voice is quiet, right beside me. "He's just a little boy. He's not gonna--I don't know. You act like you're--" Clearly, she's hedging around the issue. Doesn't want to say right out that a three-year-old won't hurt me, that I'm acting scared of a kid. She kneels down. "Tommy? Can you come say hi?"

  The little boy slides forward off the couch in a weird, slinky maneuver. He toddles over, clutching the cup under his arm, then stares up at me. "Hi." He points at the TV. "Guppies."

  I look at the TV. "Guppies?"

  He puts the cup to his mouth, takes a long drink, making
a whining, gurgling noise from the lid. "Bubb' Guppies."

  I turn to Reagan for translation. The corner of her mouth is curled up in a smirk. "The show he's watching. It's called Bubble Guppies."

  "They don't look like guppies. They look like big-headed mermaids."

  She snickers. "I know. It doesn't always make any sense, but he loves it." She points at the TV. "Take a look."

  Now the little mer-kids are singing about going camping. There's a fire, made of bubbles. All underwater. They're swimming around, sort of, but clearly the show has set the laws of physics aside.

  "Weird," I say.

  The kid is just staring at me. He puts his cup down on the floor, raises his arms over his head. "Up."

  I take him by the hands, my big mitts engulfing his tiny little fingers. I lift him up, set him down. Reagan laughs again. "No, you big dolt. He means pick him up. Like, hold him."

  I don't want to. This kid is the reminder of my guilt. But he's leaning against my legs, arms extended upward, chanting, "Uppy, uppy, uppy."

  "I don't know how to hold a kid. Do I have to hold his head up or whatever?"

  Reagan snorts. "Oh, my god. He's three. He's not a baby. Just pick him up by the armpits. He'll do the rest."

  "Why?"

  This has her at a loss. "He wants to be picked up. I don't know. It makes him feel better, I guess."

  I lift Tommy up by the armpits, holding him at arm's length. He somehow manages to crawl across the empty space and cling to my torso, hugging my waist with his legs. His head lies against my shoulder. This is the most bizarre sensation I've ever felt. He's clinging to me like a monkey, his breathing going steady and deep. Some strange instinct has me tucking my arm under his butt to support him, and he goes limp within seconds. I just stand there, holding the kid, as he falls asleep. His arm flops loose, dangling at my chest.

  I turn in place and look at Reagan. "Now what?"

  She smiles, a strange, almost dreamy smile that I'm not sure how to interpret. "Just lay him on the couch."

  I hold the back of his head with one hand, my other arm beneath his knees. I lay him down on the couch on his back. He sprawls out, mouth open, snoring.

  The old woman -- Ida, I think her name is -- stands in the kitchen, flour on her hands, watching. Her surprised expression probably matches my own.

  Reagan heads up the stairs. "Come on -- I'll get you a towel."

  I follow her, staring at the stair treads rather than her ass, which is where my gaze wants to go. She leads me into the master bedroom. There's an antique queen bed with a metal wrought-iron frame, a five-drawer bureau on one wall, and a three-drawer bureau with a mirror on the other. I steadfastly refuse to think about the fact that I'm in her bedroom.

  Reagan darts ahead of me into the bathroom, yanking a white bra off the floor. "Shit. Sorry. No one's ever in here but me."

  She opens the lid of a wicker hamper, tosses the undergarment in. I catch a glimpse of panties, jeans with one leg inside out, and another bra -- the red one from last night -- twisted and inside out, along with T-shirts and balled-up white ankle socks. It's a strangely intimate thing, a woman's laundry. I look away, at the sink. That's not much better. Makeup, trays of powder and tubes of lipstick, a bunch of other stuff I can't identify. None of it looks as if it's been used in a long time. There's a curling iron, a blue brush with black bristles. Several hair ties in a pile at the corner of the sink, strands of long blonde hair still attached. There's a package of tampons on the floor by the toilet. Can't look there. Two damp towels hang over the railing of the shower curtain.

  This is, without a doubt, the most feminine space I've ever entered. I'm intensely uncomfortable, hyper-aware of Reagan beside me, smelling fresh and clean, and my thoughts jolt to the red sports bra, to the fact that she stripped it off and tossed it into the hamper. The bathroom still smells faintly of a recent shower, that vague damp smell that is equal parts steam and shampoo and something else indefinable, the smell of a bathroom after a shower.

  After an awkward moment, Reagan bends over at the sink, opens the cabinet beneath. There's that ass again, round and taut and facing me, a reminder that this is a beautiful woman and I'm in her bathroom, in her private space, and she's off limits. She straightens, hands me a thick rust-colored towel.

  "There's shampoo and soap in there, obviously." She points at the shower. "I'll see if I can find you some of--some clean clothes."

  "Thanks. I can wear these. It's fine."

  She pinches the denim over my thigh between her finger and thumb. "Don't be ridiculous. Those pants are caked with dirt." She visibly steels herself. "I've got a couple bins of Tom's clothes in the attic. They should fit."

  "You don't have to--"

  She shakes her head, cutting me off. Her voice is hard, brusque. "They're just clothes, Derek."

  She's gone then, and I wait until she's out of the master bedroom before nudging the bathroom door closed and stepping out of my jeans.

  The shower is glorious. High enough that I don't have to duck or do the limbo, a hard stream of hot water. The shampoo is a little girly-smelling, but whatever. I'm clean, and it's an amazing sensation. Showers at the hospital were short, usually either tepid or scalding, and the showerhead was so low I had to basically sit down to fit under it.

  I soak for a long time, until the water goes lukewarm.

  When I get out, there's a pile of jeans, T-shirts, socks, and boxer shorts on the bed. I put on the clothes, except the underwear. I'll be damned if I'll wear another man's underwear, no matter whose they were, or how clean.

  Just no. No way.

  When I head downstairs, I see that Reagan is writing a list. She doesn't look at me. "Ready? Let's go. I need some groceries from town anyway, so we can go together." She glances at Ida. "We need anything from town, Ida?"

  Ida shrugs. "Not that I can think of."

  "We'll be back as soon as possible."

  Ida ruffles Tommy's hair. "We'll be fine here, won't we, bub?"

  Tommy just smiles and goes back to his PB-and-J. Reagan kisses him on the top of the head, and then heads for the front door. She's avoiding my gaze now, and suddenly seems more uncomfortable around me than before. Maybe it's Tom's clothes. Or it might be something else entirely, something I can't begin to fathom.

  All I know is, I get a whiff of citrus shampoo and something vanilla as she sweeps past me on the way to the truck. The smell of her makes me dizzy in ways I don't dare examine.

  Off limits, Derek, I tell myself. Off limits.

  *

  REAGAN

  He's off limits, stupid woman, I berate myself. You can't think about him like that.

  He'd shut the door to the bathroom before getting in the shower, but he didn't realize that the door has a tendency to come unlatched and swing open a few inches. I only meant to put the clothes on the bed and leave again, but I was arrested by the glimpse of him I got through the partly open door. The shower curtain is clear plastic, hiding nothing, meant only to stop the water from spattering on the floor. For one brief moment, I got a look at all of him. He was facing me; eyes closed, head back, running his hands over his head to rinse off the shampoo. I couldn't swallow past the lump lodged in my throat, couldn't think and couldn't look away.

  Derek West is gorgeous. I can admit that much. The weight he lost and is slowly regaining only serves to heighten the angular beauty of his features. It's been so long since I've seen a man.

  Four years, I think. The last time I saw a naked man was the night before Tom shipped out for what would be his final tour. Since then, it's been just me, Tommy, and Hank and Ida. I waited for Tom, and then waited for news, for official word. And then when I got it, I mourned. Long, and deeply. I grieved for my dead husband. Keeping the farm going, staying out of debt, keeping food on the table and my son cared for takes everything I have, takes every spare moment of my life, and then some. Other men never even crossed my mind.

  And then Derek West shows up, and shakes my whole
world.

  His help is so gratefully appreciated; I've been running this farm by myself for a long, long time. I drive the tractor, bale the hay, plow the rows, plant, harvest, weed, spray. Fix fences and feed the horses, keep their hooves trimmed, and worm them and ride them--not as often as I'd like, but every once in a while--as well as mow the little patch of grass behind the house.

  I'm a strong, capable, independent woman. But that doesn't mean I don't want and appreciate the help of a man.

  I blush as I precede Derek to the pickup, trying my best and failing to erase the image of his naked body from my mind.

  Derek is a lot of man.

  Again I shake myself, forcing those thoughts from my mind. Think of my shopping list. Eggs. Bread. Milk. Juice. Cinnamon. Vanilla extract. Bacon. Sausage. Ground beef. Fresh veggies. Pasta.

  It doesn't help. He's in the passenger seat, smelling clean. I steal a glance. The skin around the back of his neck is still beaded with moisture. His hair is darker when it's wet, long enough now to curl at the edges. It sweeps across his forehead, blown by the wind coming in through the open window.

  His left hand rests on his thigh, on the dark-wash jeans. Those were Tom's favorite pair. They're just clothes, I tell myself. I glance at Derek's hand, at the crooked ring finger. "What happened to your finger?" I ask, by way of conversation.

  Okay, so that's a shitty opening gambit.

  Derek tenses, and I know I've asked a bad question. "It was...broken. A couple of times."

  I twist at the leather of the steering wheel. "Shit, Derek. I'm sorry." I can tell by his reaction that it's something that was done to him, something he doesn't want to talk about.

  He shrugs. "You couldn't know." He laughs sardonically. "Talking to me is kind of like walking though a minefield. You never know which step will cause an explosion."