Every Last Secret Page 2

  If I’m honest with myself, I’d seen little evidence of any emotion during the wedding and reception. Seems to me that most women are either happy or sad at weddings, the event triggering reflections on the state of their own love life. Maddy wore a face like she was sitting at the final table of a million-dollar poker tournament with a winning hand.

  Inscrutable.

  “Delia and Kenneth met when they were both paramedics in Boston,” she tells me. Gripping the glass of mint water with two hands, she lifts it to her lips and takes another sip, water sloshing from the tension running through her arms.

  I lean across the table and take the glass from her. What I want to do is pull her across the table and onto my lap. It doesn’t matter how much Madigan has iced me out. Something hit me hard in the chest the very first time I saw her.

  I've been stupid about the woman ever since.

  “Tell me what you need,” I say, my tone gentle but with the firmness of a command.

  Sucking her lips inward, she drops her head.

  “I thought moving Delia and Caiden out here would help,” she whispers. “I’ve always had a good rapport with him.”

  My shoulders tense up a little more. Caiden is probably a kid. Probably her sister’s kid. Even if he is an unrelated adult male, I have no right to wonder just how good the rapport with him is.

  “Caiden?” I ask, the syllables coming out clipped despite my best attempt otherwise.

  “My nephew,” she answers. “He is really taking the loss hard. More than Delia can handle.”

  Her face screws tight then smooths some with an uneasy smile.

  “More than we can handle,” she amends.

  “What are we talking about here?” I keep the question vague and open. It’s not that I’m incurious about the boy. But Maddy showing up on my doorstep, presumably to ask my help or advice, has me all shades of perplexed.

  Emerson.

  The name of my twin—and her boss—resurfaces in my thoughts. From everything I have seen and heard, she is faultless at her job. Eager, dedicated, never complains about how long the hours might be or how much mud or other muck she has to crawl through.

  With Emerson for a partner, Maddy has no choice but to be like that. My brother is a law enforcement machine. There probably isn't a thing or a person he will let get in the way of his rising up the ranks at the FBI. It doesn't help that he's closing in fast on his personal deadline of being the special agent in charge of a field office by age thirty.

  I don't mean Emerson is going to push the competition in front of a bus or anything. But, with me and my other brothers, three new sisters-in-law and the rest of our relatives looking after Mama and my niece, he doesn't have to worry about family obligations.

  That kind of attitude could be toxic for the people who work under him. Especially for someone like Maddy, who is already too serious and matter-of-fact.

  “You’re worried about work,” I venture when my last question receives no reply. “About my baby brother’s potential reaction to you needing time off, maybe?”

  She shakes her head, her face caving in. “I’m worried about Caiden.”

  I don’t mean to huff or snort, but I do. Then I stand and skirt the table to kneel next to her. Carefully lifting Maddy's hands, I draw them toward my chest.

  “Madigan, I don’t understand why you’re here. I want to help you, but you’re not letting me know what you need from me.”

  I shut my mouth before I embarrass myself. Like saying that, no matter what she asks, I will do it.

  “My phone,” she answers.

  After a second’s confusion, I release her hands. She digs into the small purse that matches the pale blue flowers on her dress. From its shallow depths, she pulls out the device and navigates to a picture.

  A brawny male dressed in combat fatigues holds a redheaded boy in his arms. The kid is maybe six. Despite the big grin on the man’s face, the boy doesn’t smile. But his cheek is plastered against the soldier’s.

  “He’s twelve now,” Maddy says as she returns the phone to her purse. Twisting in the chair, she locks her topaz gaze on me.

  My heart does that thing again—forgetting to beat because she is actually making eye contact with me.

  “I thought…if you have some free time…you could hang out with him?”

  I don’t need so much as a second to think it through. If I’m spending time with the kid, it has to mean I'm spending some of it around Maddy. That she is the first thing that pops into my mind makes me a selfish ass, but even a selfish ass can contribute.

  “Got nothing but time,” I tell her.

  As sedate as Maddy usually is, I expect a relieved smile, maybe a little murmur of “thank you.” Instead, a small cry escapes her cherry lips as she throws her arms around my neck and nearly strangles me with gratitude.

  I pat awkwardly at her back, harder than I should, until she pulls away and wipes at a few stray tears.

  “Thank you.” She rubs roughly at her face as new tears threaten. “Do you think you could start tomorrow…at the ranch? Animals fascinate him and Kenneth would take Caiden out on the four wheelers when his unit wasn’t deployed.”

  “Of course,” I answer, shoulders buzzing at all the spots where she touched me. “Whenever and whatever you need.”

  Nodding, Maddy draws her bottom lip in, her teeth denting the plump flesh. Doesn't matter that she's upset, the little gesture is sexy as hell to me, especially with the scent of her skin still clinging to my nose.

  “Something more you need to tell me?” I ask.

  She drops her gaze and chews more vigorously at her lips before she answers.

  “Caiden might act like you don’t exist when you meet him…no matter how many times you meet him, really.”

  Throughout most of this awkward conversation, I have, more or less, maintained a straight face. Now, at the mention of the kid possibly ignoring me, I can't stop my right brow from quirking up because Caiden is starting to sound a lot like his aunt Maddy.

  “Why is that?” I ask, forcing my brow down to an innocuous position.

  Damn me if she doesn't run her lip between her teeth again, the flesh growing bright red and shiny from the abuse as she hesitates to answer.

  “He was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome in preschool.” Hands starting to shake, she winds them around her purse. “It’s always been little steps forward, big steps back, like when his father was deployed and since…since the funeral.”

  "Good to know," I say, covering her hands and giving them a firm squeeze. “You don’t have to worry about me running off because the boy doesn’t seem to take a shine to me.”

  “Thank you,” she scratches out, freeing her hands and throwing them around my neck.

  With a pinch of shame, knowing how I feel about the woman and that she is clinging to me for entirely different reasons, I hug her back just as hard, eyes shut as I slowly breathe in the fragrance of her yielding flesh.

  It won't be long, I figure, before we are back to being strangers.

  2

  Maddy

  Stopping my sedan in front of the Turk family stables, I glance in the rearview mirror. A slight head tilt brings Caiden into the frame. The pre-teen is ensconced in the back seat, headphones on, gaze glued to his iPad. Every few seconds, he swipes at the screen, the moves he makes in the chess game executed almost as rapidly as the computer's.

  Next to me, my sister Delia shifts in her seat, body twisting to look at her son. From the moment we left the apartment we share on the outskirts of Billings until now, she has made at least a dozen attempts to get the boy to look up from the screen, especially when we passed animals out in the fields.

  He didn't look up once, just hunkered down at her attempts, his nose pushing as close to the tablet's screen as he could without actually touching it.

  “Are you sure about this?” Delia asks as I kill the engine. “I don’t want to put any strain on your relationship with these people.”


  I shove the key fob into the front pocket of my jeans without responding. More than anyone, Delia deserves an answer. My big sister has always looked out for me, giving me structure when our hippy parents would have allowed me to devolve into some kind of wild child building mud forts and talking to no one.

  But I don't want to admit I'm worried.

  Delia wraps her hand around my wrist, her grip tight. It is only because she is touching me that I realize I have been tugging at my earlobe since she asked her question.

  “You need to talk to me, little sister.”

  Relinquishing my ear, I let my hand go limp until Delia releases me. Another glance at the rearview mirror assures me that Caiden still has his earbuds in and his gaze locked on the device.

  He would stay like this for hours if we let him, even in the car, windows up. He wouldn’t move until his bladder started to tickle and erode his concentration.

  “They don’t know, do they?”

  I lift my right shoulder, not because it's the one closest to her but because it is always the right shoulder I lift at times like these.

  Delia snorts. “Half a shrug means you know but don’t want to answer.”

  Capturing my hand, she draws it to her chest. There is nothing light to her touch. She holds firm, just as she must hold firm with her son.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Delia coaxes. “Just tell them I chickened out, was embarrassed Caiden might go ballistic.”

  Saddened by the suggestion, I shake my head. Through the rearview mirror, I study Caiden. His hair is dark red like mine. With Delia's deep blond locks, people often think she is the boy's aunt, instead of his mom.

  “You would never be embarrassed by him,” I answer before cutting a side glance at Delia. “Or me. I won’t lie about that.”

  I expect further argument, or at least discussion, but Delia drops my hand.

  “There’s a super hot redhead walking toward the car,” she whispers.

  I catch the direction of her gaze and follow it, confirming that the redhead is Sutton Turk.

  “Is that him?” Delia asks. “Your boss’s twin?”

  I answer with a short, affirmative jerk of my chin, even though it is nearly impossible to think of Sutton and Emerson as twins. Not only do they not look very similar, but their personalities are like night and day.

  “Good Lord, the babies the two of you could make!” Delia chuckles, then laughs harder when I roll my eyes at her. “Guess it’s too late to bail now.”

  Taking a slow, deep breath, I watch as Sutton comes to a stop a few feet from my door. A fanciful notion of him opening the door and holding his hand out enters my head. Even if he did something so gallant, I would screw the gesture up, jerking my hand away because the touch he offered was too light, too dry, too "something."

  Releasing the breath, I open my door and step out. Delia mirrors my movements on the passenger side of the car. As usual, Caiden ignores what we are doing and continues swiping at the iPad's screen.

  Gesturing over the roof of my sedan, I point at my sister.

  "This is Delia," I say, not meeting Sutton's green gaze. "Delia, this is Sutton."

  At this moment, I am acutely aware that my sister is one hell of a blonde bombshell. She has a big, ready smile, mesmerizing deep gray eyes and curves that her husband eventually taught her to love—and how to work like a pro. So she has no problem coming around the car, hips swinging all tick-tock-six-o'clock until she stops and extends her hand for Sutton to take.

  For a few seconds, I go kind of deaf as they finish the introductions. I love Delia, but I don't want to hear her making easy conversation with Sutton. Anyone else, great. Better she does the talking than me.

  But not with Sutton.

  "Ken called him Sarge."

  I look up as I realize the conversation has moved to talk of Caiden. Delia has opened the door, but the boy is playing turtle.

  "Sarge, huh?" Sutton asks, his voice deepening but not losing its gentle tone.

  I walk around the car to join them as they make an attempt to coax Caiden from the vehicle. Delia has taken the earphones from the boy. He reflexively raises one shoulder and tilts his head until his ear touches it.

  "I could use a Sarge on my team," Sutton says, his tone almost absent in a contemplative way. "Need to take the quad runners out to the summer fields, check on the cows."

  The boy's stubborn shoulder relaxes a fraction, just enough for the response to be flexible.

  "Need a four-person team to do it, though," Sutton says then looks at me. "You want to be on my team, Agent Armstrong?"

  Even knowing what Sutton is doing and why he's talking to me, I get a gooey lump of stress in my throat.

  This is my default response to the man. Even when other women might have considered Sutton damaged goods after his injury, being in his presence has always captivated me. He's whip smart, but confident about it, never needing to show off. He's beautiful, too, in a masculine way. Strong jaw and chin, perfectly proportioned nose and ears, a piercing stare and full lips I want to feel all over my body.

  With all the mechanical work he does, his hands are as clever and strong as his mind. I have imagined over and over how adept they must be at pleasing a woman's body, stroking, pulling and pinching, a slow thrust inside…

  Coughing once, I manage to clear my mind and throat and answer at last.

  "Sounds like fun."

  "More fun than work," he agrees before turning to Delia. "You think you could help me out, Mrs. Mays? Just going to take the quad runners up and down some hills and count a few hundred head of cattle."

  "Counting," the boy whispers to himself. "2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17—"

  "I would love to," Delia answers, her reply stopping Caiden's recitation of prime numbers.

  "Still need a fourth person," Sutton says after taking a mock count of himself, me and Delia. He squats near the open door, his position a good arm's length from the boy but at a level that makes it harder for Caiden to avoid his gaze.

  "Sarge, you think this is something you could help me with? Taking the quad runners out, checking the count on the cows?"

  The boy slowly lifts his chin, drops it almost as slowly. Sutton doesn't need an interpreter to know Caiden has agreed.

  "Great," Sutton replies, his tone remaining level and friendly.

  A surge of emotion squeezes at my chest. I've seen the ex-soldier at least a dozen times around his niece Leah. His calm, easy going nature with the little girl was a big part of why I ran to him for help yesterday. I just wish I hadn't shown up on his doorstep a complete mental mess.

  I also wish I could be around him without a dozen dirty fantasies dizzying up my brain.

  "I've got some supplies packed," Sutton tells Caiden and Delia. "Anything you want to grab from your car?"

  Delia nods a split second before I hit the trunk release on my fob. An individual with Asperger Syndrome may tick a lot of diagnostic boxes, but there is a wide range of traits that may or may not be present. For Caiden, his Asperger's includes sensory processing issues. Many soft foods trigger his gag reflex. So Delia accommodates by packing things like banana chips instead of bananas, crispy apples instead of applesauce. Similarly, packaging that crinkles can become a nearly insurmountable distraction.

  Such considerations are especially important now. Behavior that had faded with Caiden year over year as Delia and Kenneth worked with therapists has returned with a fury since Kenneth's death.

  Delia pulls the backpack she prepared from the trunk and shrugs it on.

  "Quads are parked around the side," Sutton informs us.

  He leads the way, walking several feet ahead. Delia elbows me as we go. I glance at her in time to see her lips shaping an enthusiastic compliment.

  OMG—that ass!

  I scowl even though I don't understand why the expression twists my face. Not because Delia's a recent widow or because her twelve-year-old son is walking next to her. And not because Sutton might glance over his
shoulder and catch her in the act.

  Maybe because, as much as I appreciate the sight of Sutton Turk's muscled backside, I will never be the kind of woman who can nudge a friend, toss a wink, or enthusiastically mouth my appreciation. Even more unthinkable would be for me to say it out loud. When my mouth gets going, there's no telling where it will stop.

  We round the corner. Sutton waits by the all-terrain vehicles holding a youth-sized helmet.

  "Pulled out two quads for this expedition," he tells us. "Wasn't sure who is accustomed to driving them—other than Agent Armstrong, of course."

  Grinning, Delia takes the helmet from him. "If it's okay, Caiden can drive. I'll ride behind him. We've done this dozens of times. I nudge him with my legs if he gets headed in the wrong direction. "

  I'm smiling on the outside, but inside I'm howling. I should have anticipated such an arrangement. I guess I was hoping for Sutton to pull three quads out, one for him, one for Delia riding with Caiden, and one for me.

  "Looks like you've got my six," Sutton says, handing me a powder blue helmet.

  My smile dies a sudden death, but his attention has already shifted to handing Delia her helmet. He then takes a couple of minutes to eyeball the fit of Caiden's helmet and point out the quad runner's controls.

  "Everything clear, Sarge?" he asks the boy.

  Caiden responds with a thumbs up.

  Returning to the quad he'll be driving, Sutton swings one long leg over the seat. Settling into place, he puts his helmet on. When he's positioned, I mount the vehicle behind him. The rack behind me is loaded with an ice chest, leaving me no good place to put my hands.

  I wrap my arms around Sutton's waist, all my concentration focused on not squeezing him too hard. I must be doing okay because he doesn't grunt or wheeze.

  He starts the quad. Delia signals Caiden to do the same. As the heat of Sutton's body penetrates my shirt, my pulse quickens. My heart pounds harder. This is how my body responds every time I'm around the man—even the very first time.

  Usually, I have somewhere to run, some reason to turn my back on him. Now it is his back turned to me, my breasts pressing against the hard planes of muscles that have gotten bigger in the last year.