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“Hey,” Grant whispered, used to his sister’s emotions. Reaching out to her, he drew Val’s head to his chest. “I’m here. I’m whole. Don’t blame yourself, but, please, for the love of God, no more losers, all right,Val?”
He heard his father grumble in agreement. The problem was both he and his dad were guilty of spoiling Valerie. They’d nearly lost her to a drowning incident when she was five years old and Grant was fifteen. Both men had been with her at that time. She fell off a sailboat, got tangled in some fishing net, and nearly drowned. She had suffered a hypoxic brain injury because of it. This affected her neurological and motor skill function. It took years of therapy, but Val recovered fully with only the occasional tremor. Sometimes Grant wondered if her out-of-nowhere impulsive behavior and adrenaline rushes were side effects of that braininjury.
“What I want to know is whom we should be thanking for helping you,” his mom was ever gracious and skilled at changing the subject when it was calledfor.
Grant smiled, remembering Blaire, but he shook his head. “They’re private people and don’t want thepublicity.”
“They don’t want the ten-thousand-dollar reward?” The speaker was August “Gus” Lynch, his father’s political advisor. He stood at the doorway like a hawk assessing his prey. The tone in the man’s voice raised Grant’shackles.
“Doesn’t anyone find this suspicious?” Gus continued asking. “Or do they have a problem withpoliticians.”
“Gus, now is not the time or the place,” his fatherreprimanded.
Planting a kiss on Val’s forehead, Grant gently eased her away so he could sit up on the bed. He and his father’s right-hand man didn’t see eye-to-eye on many issues, which was why Grant stayed away from the senator’s politics when hecould.
“I believe the doctor said family only,” Grant said coolly. “Why are you here,Gus?”
Valerie tittered while his mother lookeddisconcerted.
“Your father’s communications director needs a statement from the family,” Gus replied even as redness crept up hisneck.
“Tell them I’m alive andwell.”
“They’ll want details of the past two and a half days. We need to know the name of yourrescuers.”
Blaire Callahan and Liam Watts, he thought, but the world and Gus weren’t getting theirnames.
“No,” Grant growled, turning to the senator. “The people who helped me want to remain anonymous. That’s the least I coulddo—”
“We’re missing an opportunity here, Senator,” Gus appealed to his father and, if his mother hadn’t been sitting on his right, he would have gotten off the bed and punched his dad’s advisor straight across thejaw.
“Opportunity? Fuck you, Lynch,” he snapped. “Get the fuck out of myroom.”
“Grant, language!” his mother admonished, but she glared atGus.
As for Grant, he was too pissed to care. He nearly died out there. The only reason he didn’t reiterate that point was because he didn’t want his sister to feel guilty all overagain.
“I mean it,” Grant said, looking at his father. “We’re not turning this into a media circus. This ends here. At the hospital. I walked through those doors and I’m alive. End ofstory.”
His father nodded and turned to his advisor. “You heard my son, Gus. You can communicate to the public that Grant is a bit battered but, otherwise, healthy. He’s recovering among family andfriends.”
Gus’ lips flattened, but he acknowledged the orders from his boss and left theroom.
Exhaling a sigh of relief, his mother began making plans for hishomecoming.
“We never had that Thanksgiving party. Some friends are staying past the holiday weekend,” his mother covered his hand. “There’s so much to be thankfulfor.”
Grant soaked in his family’s presence, and yet his thoughts kept drifting to the cabin. It seemed surreal … like a dream, a different world. All he knew was he needed to see Blaireagain.
4
Blaire
Iheardtires crunch on gravel and my heart skipped a beat. My eyes swept around the cabin and took in the assortment of flower arrangements covering every available surface. They started showing up a week after Grant left my care. The loss I felt as I watched those red taillights disappear, taking my injured guest away, was different from the times I had to let my healed creatures go. Grant hadn’t been with me for even three days, and yet I wanted to keep him. Liam blamed my Florence Nightingale syndrome, but the speed with which he wanted Grant out of our lives revealed that he sensed how my houseguest had affectedme.
The week before Christmas, Grant began sending food items. An Iberico ham, complete with a deluxe wooden ham holder, arrived on my doorstep one morning. I read the literature on the gift. It was made from those Spanish, acorn-fed black pigs. A leg of ham this size cost over a thousanddollars!
Footsteps echoed from the porch before three strong raps sounded on my door. This was Grant’s third attempt this week. I had ignored his previous visits, not wanting to open the door and get sucked into those slate blue pools of his eyesagain.
