Page 75 of Wild Card
It made me ache for a family of my own even more than usual.
It’s an ache that hasn’t left me today as I hop out of my single-engine air tanker. My boots hit the ground with a heavy thunk, and I feel it reverberate in my bones.
“Rousseau!” the local fire chief calls from near the hangar. “Great work out there. Again. We’ve got it from the ground now. You can go home to your family.”
A pang hits my throat, and I work to cover my flinch.
But then I think of Gwen. And yes, even Clyde. My strange, complicated, ragtag little family. Or at least the only people who will be there, waiting for me when I get back. Which is better than no one.
“You sure?” I approach him, removing my helmet and outstretching my arm to shake his hand. “I can stick around for a few more days.”
Our palms clap when they meet.
“Nah, we’ll keep the local guys on call. You go on and get back to British Columbia. Hopefully they won’t need you this year.”
I nod, my mouth twisting. It’s a nice sentiment, but it’s wishful thinking.
“You look tired. A little pale. You all right?” His brow furrows as he looks me over.
“Yeah, yeah. Just been a big few days,” I say, but the truth is, I don’t feel well. I feel monumentally tired.
So I don’t fight him on his decision to scale back on the aerial approach. I take the out and head back to Rose Hill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GWEN
The light snap of the front door shutting startles me from sleep. It’s not loud enough to be disruptive, but my body fires awake all the same. I sit straight up, heart pounding, and listen carefully.
A thud. Followed by footsteps.
I reach for my phone, knowing that I set the alarm system just like Bash showed me to when I first moved in. It says it was disarmed one minute ago, which can only mean one thing.
I tiptoe down the hallway and make my way to the stairs, taking them quietly just in case it isn’t Bash and I’m walking straight into my murderer’s trap.
But once I turn the corner and peek into the darkened kitchen, I see a frame I’d recognize anywhere.
Bash has his palms propped on the countertop and his head dropped like he’s catching his breath. He hasn’t even taken his boots off—something out of character because this man keeps a meticulous house.
“Bash?” I ask carefully.
He doesn’t lift his head. The only sign he hears me is the tensing of his broad shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were coming home.”
Now his shoulders drop, but he still doesn’t respond.
“You okay?” I ask, moving closer to him. Reaching for him. Letting my hand trail over the curve of his upper spine. “What’s wrong?”
I can just tell. Sure, usually he’s surly and ornery, but this is different.
“Just really not feeling well.”
My forehead scrunches, mind running through all the things that could be wrong so soon after donating an organ. “How’s your abdomen? Should we go to the hospital? I knew it was too soon?—”
“The surgery was laparoscopic, Gwen. I’m fine. I have a really bad headache, and I feel nauseous. I’m just tired.”
My fingers press into the divots between his vertebrae, working their way down until I hear him sigh.
