Pride Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz
hair and smiling face, guilt pinged in her heart. She’d taken his father from him. He’d missed out on what fathers and sons did together, those manly rituals a woman could never hope to understand. J.J., Jill’s ex, was a good father to Jeff, but he’d never wanted to include Brendan in their father-and-son times.
Every instinct sharpened and honed by grief shouted that allowing Dom to stay was a mistake. Another vivid reminder that her son was growing up without a father. But her arrogance had already cost her the man she loved. She couldn’t risk her sister’s life because of pride. For Jill, she’d endure the torture. “The guest room is off the living room. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”
Chapter Four
In the darkest hour before dawn, Dom followed Luci to the back door of the old Victorian house. A single light out on the front porch made a soft halo appear to shimmer around it.
She walked across the packed dirt with an economy and efficiency of movement he’d often admired. He matched her stride with the ease of familiarity even six years of absence couldn’t erase, wishing she’d lean on him as she once had. Her tall and lanky body paired his at the hip, shoulder and head. He’d always liked that she was equal to him like that, eye to eye, heart to heart. Her ramrod posture betrayed her inbred country club etiquette and the military-like training Special Operations Groups endured.
She pushed open the back door, and the squeak of spring on the outer screen reminded him of home. He needed to call his parents and touch base. The anniversary of Nate’s death was creeping around the corner. Losing their eldest son so tragically had aged both his parents prematurely. They seemed to grow more brittle with each passing year.
Luci turned and held the door for him, the scent of her herbal soap a balm to his tired senses. Her narrow face was set and unreadable, except for the wariness and emotional exhaustion in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. He must seem like the omen from hell, appearing out of the blue like that and bringing out all the demons she’d tried so hard to beat back.
“I can sleep in the barn,” he said, hand on the cold doorknob. If he could redo that day seven years ago—but no, he had to live with his mistakes. The least he could do was to make his presence here as painless as possible for Luci.
“What would the neighbors say?” She crooked one half of her mouth, bitterness rolling off her tongue so softly it took a moment before its acid burned.
She stepped out of her green rubber clogs and brushed by him before heading out toward the deeper recesses of her home.
“Forget the sheets,” he said, letting the unexpected longing the accidental graze sparked in him settle. “It’s too late for sleep.”
She hesitated, turned around and, at the white Formica counter, flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. It gurgled and hissed, then dripped, counting the seconds stretching between them. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her hard-gained peace, but if he was right, then the rage that drove Swanson’s obsession to ruin divorced women was escalating and what happened to Laynie McDaniels could happen to Jill. Dom would do everything he could to save Luci from losing her sister the way he’d lost his brother—the way they’d both lost Cole.
Under her skin, pale with fatigue, was a classic bone structure. Even etched with the weight of years of grieving, her features evoked an unyielding strength of character. Luci was a survivor, but even survivors needed support now and then.
He swallowed the ache of emotion he’d fought at Cole’s funeral, at Brendan’s birth and most days since Luci had made him promise to steer clear. He’d fought the pull Luci had on him and stayed away—more as an act of penance than an ethical duty.
“Do you want to talk now or later?” he asked, leaning against the door and mirroring her crossed arms and crossed ankles. There was no way to soften all the little darts he’d have to throw her way in the next few days.
She plucked two mugs from a doorless cupboard. She placed them on the counter and held on to them, as if to anchor herself, while the coffee continued to drip into the pot. “Like I said, this is a working farm. In a bit, I’ll have goats to milk and feed.”
“I can help.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I want to.”
“I don’t.”
She’d talked herself through pain before. But Luci had refused to talk about Cole and his death. Still did.
Doing what they’d done, they’d known the risks going in and accepted them. Luci’s living death, that was something else.
He wanted to take her in his arms, as he’d done so often while she was grieving Cole, lay her head against his heart and let the vibrations of her voice seep into his blood and into his bones.
If he’d—No, stick to Jill. Forget the rest.
“Talk to me about Jill,” Dom said as Luci poured the fragrant brew into the mugs.
“Don’t you have everything you need in your files?”
She handed him a mug and, like a glutton for punishment, he reached for the coffee he didn’t want, deliberately skimming his fingers against hers, letting the brief contact sigh inside him.
“I have the black and white. I need the gray.”
“You always did have a way with words.” She leaned her trim rear against the counter once more, closed her eyes, shutting him out as if even looking at him was too painful to bear, and sipped. “Ask your questions. I’ll try to answer.”
“Does Jill have life insurance?”
“I would imagine she does, but I don’t know.”
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